"Excellent!" Seregil laughed, tossing him a napkin. "Whenever you present yourself as an inland noble on his first visit to the coast, do it just that way. I've never yet seen anyone get through their first urchin without smashing it to bits. Now, if you were in some local tavern, posing as a workman or farmer in for market day, you'd do it like this."
Picking an urchin out of the dish with a light, sure touch, Seregil cracked it against the edge of the table and pulled back the fragments of shell to expose the contents.
"These grey bits here are the body. You don't eat that," he explained, scraping them out with a finger. With them came a conical ring of white fragments that looked like tiny carved birds. "And those are the teeth. It's the yellow parts you're after, the roe."
Plucking out several slender, gelatinous lobes, Seregil ate them with apparent relish.
"I got them at the docks early this morning," Cilia told him. "I made the fisherman give me a bucket of seawater and kept them down the well all day."
"Lovely flavor!" Seregil tossed the emptied shell into the fire behind him. Wiping his hands and lips with a
napkin, he said, "Those are tavern manners and they'll serve well anywhere outside the Noble Quarter, provided you want to be taken for a common sort. However, we are dining in Silvermoon Street, as you recall, and here they will not do at all. Observe.
"First, the hanging sleeves of a formal robe are pushed—never rolled—halfway back to the elbow, no farther. You may place your left elbow on the table, never the right, although it's generally acceptable to rest your wrist on the edge. Food is handled with the thumb and first two fingers of each hand; fold the others under, like so. Good. Now pick up the urchin with your left hand, handling it lightly, and hold it so you can see the mouth. Now, crack the shell with a single sharp stroke of your knife. Once it's open, clean out the waste with the tip of your knife, then use your spoon to scoop out the roe. The empty shell goes on your plate. Never speak with a full mouth. If anyone addresses you, simply curve a finger in front of your lips and finish what's in your mouth before answering."
Alec managed to puncture himself badly on the spines before he mastered the art of handling the things, and his fingers kept cramping from being held back so unnaturally. The roe, when he finally managed to extract a few intact lobes, had an unpleasantly viscous texture in his mouth and it's salty sweet flavor was revolting. Relying heavily on the pale, oak-flavored wine, he managed to get two down before his stomach rebelled.
Grimacing, he pushed his plate away.
"These are awful! I've found better eating under rotten logs."
"You don't care for them?" Seregil deftly split his fourth urchin. "We'll have to cultivate your tastes, I'm afraid. In Rhнminee, just about anything that comes out of the sea is considered a delicacy. Perhaps you'll find this next course more to your liking." He motioned to Cilia. "Have you ever tried octopus?"
As the weeks passed, Seregil remained frustrated by Alec's poor progress at swordplay. The situation finally came to a head during one of their morning sessions a month or so after their arrival.
"Keep your left side back backslash was he chided for the fifth time in half an hour, giving the offending shoulder a sharp poke with his wooden blade.
"Stepping forward like that after you block gives your opponent twice the target. Your enemy has only to do this—"
Seregil slapped Alec's blade smartly aside and feigned a cut across the boy's belly. "And there you are, holding your guts in your hands!"
Alec silently positioned himself again, but Seregil could see the tension in his stance. The boy turned his next feint clumsily, then brought his shoulder around again as he tried a counterattack.
Before he could stop himself, Seregil parried and gave him a sharp tap across the neck. "You're dead again."
"Sorry," Alec mumbled, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.
Seregil cursed himself silently. In all the time he'd known him, this was the first time he'd seen the boy look defeated. Fighting down his own impatience, he tried again. "It's not natural to you yet, that's all. Try imagining how you'd hold yourself pulling a bow."
"You hold the bow with your left hand and draw with your right," Alec corrected. "That puts your right shoulder back."
"Oh, yes. Well, let's hope that you end up better at swordplay than I ever did at archery. Now, once again."
Alec managed to parry an overhead swing but followed it with another unsuccessful counter.
Seregil's wooden blade caught him hard at the base of the throat and drew a few drops of blood.
"By the—Oh, damn!" Breaking his batten in two over his knee, Seregil tossed the pieces aside and inspected the jagged scratch on the boy's neck.
"Sorry," Alec repeated, staring over Seregil's shoulder, toned again."
"I'm not angry with you. As for that—"
He motioned toward the fragments of the batten. "That's just to break the bad luck. Cursed be the weapon that tastes the blood of a friend. Let's have a look at the rest of the damage."
Alec tugged the sweat-soaked jerkin off over his head and Seregil inspected the bruises scattered darkly over his chest, arms, and ribs.
"That's what I thought. Illior's Fingers, we're doing something wrong! You've caught on to everything else so quickly."
"I don't know," Alec sighed, dropping into a chair. "I guess I'm hopeless as a swordsman."
"Don't say that," Seregil chided. "Clean yourself up while I fetch lunch. I've an idea or two how we can help you."
Seregil returned from the kitchen with a steaming platter of tiny roasted birds stuffed with cheese and currants and some darkly mottled mushrooms that looked vile and smelled delicious.
"Clear a spot, will you?" he puffed, resting the heavy tray on the corner of the dining table.
"Thank the Maker, something that lived on dry land," Alec exclaimed hungrily, pushing books and rolls of parchment aside; Thryis had served another variety of raw shellfish the night before and he'd gone to bed hungry.
He had thrown on a clean shirt while Seregil was gone, neglecting in his haste to tuck it in or do up the lacings. The linen swirled loosely around his lean hips as he hurried to fetch cups from a shelf. His fair hair, properly trimmed at last, shone when he passed through a patch of sunlight.
Seregil caught himself staring and hastily turned his attention to the food.
"This isn't going to be another lesson in manners, is it?" Alec asked, eyeing the array of eating utensils suspiciously as he reached for one of the tiny birds.
Seregil rapped him smartly over the knuckles with a spoon. "Yes it is. Now watch."
"Why is all the food in Skala so hard to eat?"
Alec groaned as Seregil demonstrated the tricky business of eating the tiny auroles without lifting them from the plate or disturbing the bones.
"I admit I've had Thryis make us some of the more difficult dishes, but if you master those, the rest will be simple," Seregil assured him with a grin. "You mustn't underestimate the importance of such customs. Say you've managed to gain admittance to some lord's house by posing as the son of an old comrade he knew in the wars. You've studied the battles, you know the names of all the pertinent generals, your accent is correct, and you're dressed perfectly. The minute you reach out of turn into the common platter, or spear a fried eel with your knife, you're under suspicion. Or imagine you're trying to pass yourself off as a sailor down in the Lower City. If you mistakenly call for a wine that would cost a month's wages, or eat your joint with fingers folded daintily back, it's highly likely you'll next be seen floating face down in the harbor."