Inevitably, he also had to tend to the krynn and the borman. Unfortunately, by then it was only the borman who remained at the table. Yu approached with a mug of water, put it down, took six steps back, paused, took one forward again, and then forced himself to ask, “Do you know what the krynn wants?”
The borman looked down at him, with his massive, lumpen head and his dumb, buried, beady eyes. “No.”
Yu stared back.
The borman added, in that gravelled weight of a voice, “Thank you.”
Yu still stared. This was so stupid. Even he knew – with zero friends and close to no voluntary exposure to any social gatherings whatsoever – that you looked after the people you were with. Even if you had no idea about their preferences and did not dare to order for them, you should at least say something sensible like, Please bring him water for now, he’ll choose later. Anything but this blank, bovine uselessness.
“I have Dundinway,” Yu said. “There is also mikkin juice, and three types of Sulfa, and Sharran Vey.”
His feathers bristled. The last one had slipped out of nowhere. His eyes darted toward the fireplace cluster, then back again. “I mean, I can bring you Dundinway. Or something else. Do you want Dundinway?”
“Yes, I take. Thank you,” the borman said.
So Yu brought that for the krynn and the borman.
Every time he slipped through the doors – to fetch bowls, to return mugs, to collect plates – he tried to shut out the sight of the surgery door. And he tried not to imagine the shaman alone with the selder, and not to invent what the fireplace people murmured when his back was turned, and not to infer how the guards intended to get rid of him — how and when.
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