Chapter twelve
Golden zhantil-masks“Bratch, you rasts, bratch!” called a silly foppishly dressed fellow who must be the overseer of the servers. We ignored him. We marched on in stately procession, carrying the viands high to conceal the golden zhantil-masks.
Strom Murgon sat in state in this banqueting hall of Korfseyrie. The chamber bore none of the marks of long disuse of the other parts of the fortress. Tapestries glowed upon the stone walls. The beams above were carved and gilded. The tables in the form of a horseshoe carried fine yellow napery, and silver and gold vessels, and banked vases of flowers. Incense hung in the air, which stank worse than we did from the sewers. Murgon’s cronies sat about the tables, facing inward to the hollow center. Among them lolled many painted girls
