Ossane invited the Regent to sit at her table on the fourth afternoon of the fair, and she did it so graciously that it would have been a discourtesy to refuse, and Idrin knew that she had made the invitation precisely because it would have been one.
The table stood under the striped awning at the head of the row, where the Assembly’s arms were worked into the valance in gold. It was a folding table of pale wood, very well made, with a cloth of blue linen spread over it and a silver tray in the centre holding a Lessaran tea-pot, two cups with saucers, and a small brass bell. The bell had been polished until it looked like a drop of water. Ossane touched it once with a fingertip, not to ring it, only to make sure it was still there, and then she poured the tea herself and handed him the cup with both hands, as a Lessaran lady hands a cup to a man she intends to bargain with.
“The water is from Sallowmere,” she said. “I had it brought in a cask. I know you do not trust the marsh.”
“I do not trust anything I cannot count.”
