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He returned a few minutes later, bringing a middle-aged man in his wake. “This is Oshet, Serenity,” said Csevet, as triumphant as a retriever presenting his master with a dead duck. “He is one of your gardeners. He came to the Untheileneise Court with the ambassador five years ago, and his service was presented to your imperial father because of his gift for rose-growing.”
He had a beautiful voice, a tenor as clear as spring water, and he spoke the words of the cleansing and releasing as if he meant them.
She looked as if she’d just been bitten by a cushion.
“Veklevezhek,” Min Vechin said. “It is a goblin word, and it means to decide what to do about a prisoner by staking him below the tideline while you argue.”
