The dining hall in the compound was not the Sunrise Embassy's ceremonial central hall. It was smaller, low-ceilinged, lit by lamps that burned something that smelled faintly of pine resin and old stone. A long table of dark wood, low to the ground in the eastern style. Cushions instead of chairs.
Ashe had not been exaggerating about the cook.
Whatever was in the iron pot at the center of the table had been cooking for long enough that the smell had been reaching Vane's room for the past hour, which he suspected was intentional — the eastern tradition's approach to hospitality apparently included making sure the guests had been hungry for a while before they sat down. It was something braised with mountain herbs and a spice that hit the back of the throat and made the mana channels warm from the inside, which was either a culinary choice or a practical one for people who trained at altitude.
