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. Three musicians were playing, off to my right. The
dining table was to my left, near the big window in the south wall,
providing a glorious view across the town below. It was still snowing
lightly, casting a spectral veil over the entire bright prospect.
Llewella approached quickly.
"You've kept everybody waiting," she whispered. "Where's the girl?"
"Coral?"
"Who else?"
"I'm not sure where she's gotten off to," I said. "We parted company a
couple of hours ago."
"Well, is she coming or isn't she?"
"I'm not sure."
"We can't keep things waiting any longer," she said. "And now the
seating arrangement's screwed. What did you do, wear her out?"
"Llewella. . . ."
She muttered something I didn't understand in some lisping Rebman
dialect. Just as well, probably. She fumed away then and moved off toward
Vialle.
"You in a heap of trouble, boy," Bill commented at my side. "Let's hit
the bar while she's reassigning places."
But the wine steward was already approaching with a couple of drinks on
a tray.
"Bayle's Best," he observed as we took them.
I sipped and saw that he was right, which heartened me a bit.
"I don't recognize all of these people," Bill said. "Who's that fellow
with the red sash, over by Vialle?"
"That's Orkuz, the Begman prime minister," I told him, "and the rather
attractive lady in the yellow-and-red dress who's talking to Martin is his
daughter Nayda
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