The Age of Undeath

5. What a party - Jimothy

She had put him. On the rejects. Table.

No matter how Clémence fawned and smiled about how honoured she'd be if the Captain stayed, or that she would be an improper host if she didn't feed the gladiator, and that she thought Trill would just love to talk to different people, they were a collection of rejected guests deliberately thrown together so no one else had to be seen with the foreigner, the elf Captain, the weird birdman, and the world-famous Demon Jim.

Jim ground his teeth between every bite, the barley and venison soup too thin to chew. He took more than his fair share of the honey and garlic snails, and no one disagreed when Trill asked for the entire centrepiece bowl of spinach, sweet grass and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts. Trill refused to look at the gladiator and the Captain made stilted small talk that died with every breath. It was well rumoured that Trill hated violence – disapproved of the war, as if he had any place to judge – so Jim had no doubt that seating him beside the gladiator was intended to fray Trill's nerves.

The only highlight was one of the servants assigned to their table. The same elf he had seen in the foyer with emerald green eyes and silky brown hair he wanted to reach out and touch.

"Thank you so much. What is your name?" Trill asked her, so sickeningly polite Jim almost buried his nose in his soup. Fake. Try-hard. Hypocrite. That was the truth of someone like Trill.

But the young woman averted her gaze and bowed. She set down the platters as quickly as possible, spilling a drop of the Captain's soup onto the table cloth, and hurried off.

"Is this normal?" the gladiator asked. "To have a trial at a party?"

The Captain leant heavily on the table, forearms cocooning her soup. "No," she said, scooping another mouthful.

"I beg to differ," said Jim. "There's always some kind of battle – one of wits, songs between bards, distinguishing pleasantries from insults."

Trill peered down his beak at him. "I think she means the physical kind."

"I think he knows that," said the warrior woman, then muttered something that sounded distinctly irritable.

"Was that Escarian?" Trill looked at her properly for the first time, perhaps taking in her bundled curls of hair and chiselled features – lovely lips and long lashes, Jim noted. Her thick brows shot up, surprise transforming her face into something rather attractive.

"Sha ve Esca, Mesra?" she said.

"Yego, ez fanya," he replied.

They were off. For someone so opposed to violence, Trill certainly didn't seem to mind talking to her now. Whatever they were saying seemed to make the woman relax, her words spilling forth in a stream of unintelligible noise.

Jim met the Captain's gaze and he lifted his wine in a private toast to her; a small, insolent tilt of the glass. "Cheers." What a great party, he tried to add with only a taught smile and refused to look at any of them.

When the exquisite elf returned with their main course, Trill addressed her in Elvish, "Tell me, what is your name? I'm Trill." Once again, she avoided making eye contact, deposited the contents of the huge platter and rushed off without a word. "Oh," said Trill, finally acknowledging his plate, sinking smaller with disappointment.

Despite the shoddy seating arrangements, Jim had to admit they were being served a treat. Saliva tingled his tongue as he breathed in the scent of boar cuttings glazed in mustard and rosemary, served with goby fish from the rapids. When he cracked open the hard clay it had been baked in, the white flesh inside was flaky, soft and succulent.