The man had expressive eyebrows; one quirked now, cocking up as he examined me. He looked again at Andevai to identify what possible relation we might have, and nodded. “Supper is served in the supper room, maestra. Or must I also address you as Magister?”
“No. Thank you.”
His eyebrows lifted again before he recovered his composure. “I’ll send my niece to show you up when we’re done serving supper, but you’ll have to have your own people carry up your cases or what have you, as we’re shorthanded tonight what with the wedding of my wife’s cousin’s nephew in Londun. I would have shut up the inn and gone over the river myself for the wedding feast if not for—”
A trill of laughter—humanlike but not human—lilted out of the supper room.
The man nodded at me, pointedly not looking at Andevai. “Business is business, maestra. We serve any who pay with hard currency and comport themselves like decent folk. If you’re wanting a wash, there’s a trough out by the stable where you can fill a pitcher. There’ll be a basin up in the room to pour in and wash out of.”
“We will receive a tray of food in our private chamber,” said Andevai abruptly.
The man’s lips thinned. “As I said, Magister, tonight we haven’t the means for private service no matter what I might wish one way or another, for besides the lad out in the stables, it’s just me and my brother’s daughter. She’s tending the kitchen, and I’m running food into the supper room, and soon enough I’ll have customers here in the common room as well to pull drinks for, the usual locals with their music and talk.”
“Even if I were to eat in a public room, you can scarcely wish me to eat in your supper room, since I will extinguish your fire and then all your other customers will be cold.”
“Even if you sit at the very farthest table from the hearth, Magister? I just want to make clear I’ve nothing to be ashamed of in my inn. We’re a respectable establishment well known for our savory suppers, our excellent brew, and clean beds. Yet I’ll tell you truly, we’ve never had a cold mage set foot in this establishment, not a Housed mage, not once, just hedge mages and bards and jellies and such.”
“This corruption is absurd,” Andevai said with a glance at me, contempt trembling like unspoken words on his lips. Yet he would go on speaking. “Jelly is a substance congealed or, in its manner, frozen. A djeli”—he pronounced it more like “jay-lee”—“possesses the ability to channel, to weave, the essence that binds and underlies the universe. Like bards, they are the guardians of the ancient speech. I wish you people would use the word correctly to show proper respect.”