Anthē looked at her cutlery.

She was immediately daunted. There were three kinds of fork, two kinds of knife, two kinds of spoon, and one odd cross between a spoon and a fork. Which was she meant to start with? She decided to watch what everyone else did. A waiter came and placed a bowl of soup in front of her. “Thank you,” she said. She looked around nervously. She had Tromo to her left, at the head of the table, a fat, jolly-looking man opposite her who was currently talking to Zantheus, diagonally across from her, and–

“Do start my dear, it takes them an absolute age to serve everyone on the table.” These words had been spoken by the man to her right, who turned out to be thin and sickly-looking, with the obligatory beard, though it was shorter and better trimmed than most. When he saw Anthē looking worriedly at her spoons, he said “Is there some problem with your meal?”

“The big one!” called Kathegetes from across the table, coming to her rescue. “Start on the outside, and work your way in!”

Anthē gratefully picked up the bigger of her two spoons and said “Thank you, Kathegetes.” She began to sip the piping hot tomato soup as the man to her right tried to engage her in conversation.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Professor Empaiktes Huperdidaskalos, Master of Progressive Thought.”

“I’m just Anthē.”

“Of Ir, no less,” said Empaiktes. Anthē already disliked him. Something in his demeanour unsettled her. “Tell me, what is it like living in that uncivilised country?”

“What do you mean?” asked Anthē. What sort of a question was that?

“It’s a perfectly intelligible question. I’m merely interested. You must have been very glad to get away from such a barbaric place.”

“Oh, well—”

“Wine, m’lady?” another waiter interrupted her.

“Oh…yes please,” said Anthē, giving him her glass. It had been a long time since she had drunk any wine. She felt as though she would need some to get through this evening.

Over on the other side of the table, Zantheus was being engaged in his own very demanding and thorough conversation by Kathegetes and, once Tromo’s muteness had been explained to him –“Is it somatic or psychological?” – the rather chubby man to his right, Professor Paideutes. They were currently questioning him on the training methods of the Aythian Order. Zantheus was telling them about his regime.

“...then, after the mid-day meal, we spend an hour in silent contemplation…”

“Remarkable!” said Professor Paideutes. He and Kathegetes kept on making comments like “Remarkable!”, “Fascinating!”, “Intriguing!” and sometimes, when he said something they found particularly interesting, “The mind boggles!” It was very irritating. They were asking him question after question, often butting in before he had finished his answer to the previous question. He had to keep turning his head backwards and forwards to talk to them.

“What do you contemplate?” asked Kathegetes.

“Usually the Articles, or Mount Awmeer, or—”

“Ah yes, Mount Awmeer again,” said Paideutes. “The obsession of the Aythian Knights. You believe Enlightenment can be found at the top of it, correct?”

“Yes, Enlightenment can only be attained at the summit of Mount Aw-”

“And your title,” said Kathegetes, “‘Champion of Awmeer’, to what does that refer?”

Zantheus hesitated. Then he said “I have climbed Mount Awmeer.”

“Oh?” said Paideutes merrily. “So are we to believe then that we are sitting in the presence of an Enlightened One?”

Zantheus was deeply distressed by this question. He thought about what to say. “Yes. No. I do not know. When...when...I got to the mountaintop, events did not take place as I...expected…” he finished lamely, surprised that he had not been interrupted.

“The mind boggles!” said Paideutes. He perceived that he had touched upon a sore area, but intellectual inquisitiveness got the better of him. “My dear fellow, you must allow my colleagues and I to interview you in the proper setting. We would find it a most stimulating enterprise.”

“My friends and I are only here for one night. We must continue with our journey tomorrow.”

“We could do it tomorrow!” said Kathegetes, keen to support Paideutes.

Zantheus knew these men well enough already to know that they were not going to give up. He supposed he could let them ‘interview’ him, as after all they had been given free room and board by the Academy. Reluctantly, he acquiesced, telling them he would stay tomorrow and agreeing to give a ‘lecture’ in the morning so that the Faculty of the Academy could find out more about him.

“Splendid!” said Paideutes, bubbling with excitement at the prospect. “We can hold it in the main theatre. I am sure the turnout will be excellent.”

As Kathegetes resumed the flow of questions, Zantheus glanced over at Tromo. The boy was eating happily in silence; he had already finished his soup and was now attending to some bread.

Tromo was doing a very good job of eavesdropping on two conversations at once, listening to Anthē being subtly mocked by Empaiktes and to Zantheus being forced to tell his life-story at the same time. But his eyes were on neither of these people. They were staring straight ahead, down the length of the High Table. There at the other end, opposite him, sat Leukos. He ate clumsily with his left hand as usual, now and again spilling droplets of soup back into the bowl or onto the table-cloth. His right arm was writing away busily as it always did, though on this occasion he appeared to be resting his manuscript on his knee rather than on the table. Apparently the Philosophers were not interested in anything he might have to say. He sat just as silent as Tromo, speaking to no-one. At that moment Leukos raised his own gaze. Across the noisy, busy room, their eyes met for a moment. Cutlery clanged and mouths slurped and pompous voices listed achievements, but in that moment the two of them were still, locked in secret fellowship while the world clamoured all around them. And then it passed.

The meal went on to progress through a further four courses: a fish course, the main course of roast chicken, a chocolate cake for dessert, and finally a cheese course. The Philosophers knew how to look after themselves. Accustomed to their haphazard diet of mainly rice and whatever odd bits they had happened to find or dig out of their packs on that particular day, the travellers found themselves overwhelmed by the amount of food on offer. The only one of them who was able to finish all of every course was Zantheus, who wolfed down everything that was put in front of him in between replying to Kathegetes’ and Paideutes’ unending questions. This was the sort of service he had used to get at the Sanctuary, though not in such a grand and refined setting and with such luxury. He was grateful for it, to the extent that he found he was even able to put up with the Philosophers’ gruelling interrogation.

Anthē got on less well. It was clear to her that Empaiktes looked down on her. Their conversation alternated between periods of awkward silence and Empaiktes half-heartedly trying to say something to her, which Anthē wished he wouldn’t do seeing as he would only make some snide comment about whatever she said in response. Zantheus watched helplessly as she imbibed more and more wine during the course of the evening. He wished that the Philosophers next to him would relent for a moment so that he could rescue her from her predicament. But they refused to do so, and in any case the table was too wide for proper conversations to take place across it when everyone in the room was talking. He could only observe powerlessly as little by little her speech became more slurred, she started to rock in her chair, and she grew less and less tolerant towards Empaiktes’ cutting remarks. He had never tasted alcohol himself, and he had refused the waiters’ offers, but he had been taught enough about the vices he was supposed to eschew as a Paragon to understand what was happening.

When the last course was finished and people started to stand up to leave, he thanked his dining companions for the pleasure of their company, cutting off Kathegetes mid-question, and rushed round the table to Anthē’s side. He was just in time. She was just herself in the process of standing up, or attempting to stand up, while saying “Good evening to you ‘sir’, it has been a most enlightening conversation,” to Empaiktes in a very sarcastic tone. Zantheus had to catch her to prevent her from falling over, but he concealed this, making it look like he was taking her arm in arm. “Oh, Zantheus, I didn’t know you cared!” she said in a much too loud voice, redirecting her attention towards him. She span round to embrace Zantheus, knocking her glass of wine right into the Empaiktes’ lap, almost as if she had planned it. Empaiktes was furious. A few Philosophers looked over.

Zantheus knew he had to get her out quickly. “Come Tromo,” he said “it is getting late. We should retire.” He steered Anthē to the door, nodding to the nearby Philosophers as he left the room. Kathegetes looked concerned.

In the corridor, Anthē suddenly became hostile, pushing Zantheus away. “Hey, you can’t make me go where you want!” she said. “What if I want to talk to the Phli... the Pho... the Phisopholers?”

“You are not in a fit state to converse with them,” said Zantheus with acute sobriety.

Anthē was horrified by this statement. “You’re ashamed of me! I’m going back in there!” she said, just to spite him.

Zantheus took her by the arm again. “No you are not. You are going to bed.” He began walking her back to their rooms, Tromo in his wake. Naturally she protested against this too, whacking Zantheus uselessly with her free arm.

“No! I want to stay and talk to the Philophosers!” she wailed.

She had appeared so beautiful to him at the start of the evening, thought Zantheus, but now her beauty was disfigured. Her hair, which had been so elegant and tidy, got untidier with each of her violent efforts to wrench herself free of Zantheus, tangled locks leaking out of the neat bun. After what felt like an age of walking, during which Zantheus was desperately hoping that no-one would hear Anthē’s wailing, they came to her room. He let her in and let go of her.

At once she fell to the floor. She was not hurt, on the contrary she went into a fit of giggles, somehow finding it hysterical that she had ended up horizontal on the carpet of her new room.

“Come on, Anthē,” said Zantheus. He picked her up and carried her over to the bed, placing her down on it gently.

“Oh, thank you, Zantheus,” she said, and giggled again. When Zantheus made to move away, she held on to him. “Come to bed, Zantheus,” she crooned enticingly. “Come to bed with me.”

Zantheus jumped back at once. He had never been in this situation before. He was suddenly very nervous. To his horror he found that part of him wanted to do what she was inviting him to do. But at the same time he was afraid, afraid of discovering what that meant, afraid of going against the Articles, afraid of acting dishonourably. As Anthē lay there on the bed, chest rising and falling in excitement, figure accentuated by her stunning white dress, hair splayed seductively over her forehead, he was confused. He had grown to like this woman during his time with her, to see a side of her he had not expected was there, but now all of that was put to one side as she lay there drunkenly beckoning to him, denying herself her feminine dignity. He was almost certain that Anthē would not be saying the same things had she not just consumed an inordinate amount of wine.

As if guessing his thoughts, Anthē said “Oh, Zantheus, poor noble Zantheus. You’ve probably never even done it before. Well, don’t waste yourself on me then. I’m sure you can find someone much better than me.”

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Zantheus said. “Go to sleep.” He and Tromo and left the room.

Zantheus retired that night in a highly agitated frame of mind. He slept on the floor out of habit and nostalgia, preferring it to his four-poster bed.