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The banners of Ven'dara hang heavy in the late summer air, gold and deep crimson, snapping above the Cylinder of Wine.
It is the Festival of the First Pressing, and the great plaza before the Ubar's palace has become a sea of tunics, and laughter. Long trestle tables groan under skins and amphorae, and the scent of crushed ta-grapes, roast tarsk, and paga-spice rolls through the crowd. Musicians on the high steps play the kaissa-flutes, and free children dart between dancers with garlands.
Upon the dais, beneath a canopy of woven vines:
Ubar Ortossi stands broad-shouldered in a robe of dark blue trimmed with gold, a circlet of hammered copper upon his brow. He lifts a silver goblet high, and his voice booms across the plaza.
"To Ven'dara! To the vine, to the press, to the labor of honest hands! Let no cup stand empty this day!"
The crowd roars. He drinks deep, then pours the lees upon the stones in honor of the Priest-Kings.
To his right, seated with her tablets and styli laid neatly across her knees, is Scribe Lady Kyrielle. Her blue caste robes are immaculate despite the dust, her hair bound in the severe, elegant knot of the Scribes. She watches the Ubar with a shrewd, amused eye, already noting his proclamation for the city chronicles. A half-smile touches her lips as a drop of wine stains his sleeve.
"My Ubar is generous with both wine and his wardrobe today," she murmurs, just loud enough for those on the dais to hear.
To his left stands Physician Liz, in the green robes of the Physicians, the pin of her caste — a needle and vial — bright at her shoulder. Unlike many of the high ladies, she wears no veil, her sleeves rolled to the elbow from tending a fainting dancer moments before. She accepts a cup of watered wine from a serving slave and eyes the revelers with professional wariness.
"Generous, yes," Liz says dryly to Kyrielle. "And by nightfall my infirmary will be generous with fools who thought themselves as mighty as the Ubar in drink."
Ortossi laughs, a great rolling sound, and claps them both on the shoulder.
"Come! Scribe, put down your records for an hour. Physician, cease your gloomy prophecies. Taste the new vintage with me — the vineyard of Ven'dara has outdone itself."
A kneeling slave girl in a brief yellow tunic hurries forward, head bowed, offering a tray with three goblets of the first pressing — a wine so dark it is nearly black, smelling of sun and earth.
The Ubar takes his. He looks expectantly at Kyrielle and Liz.
The crowd below begins the Dance of the Vines, hands linked, weaving between the tables. The festival is fully begun.
The dark wine coats the silver rim. Ubar Ortossi closes his eyes for a breath, savoring the bite of tannin and summer sun, then lowers the goblet with a satisfied sigh.
"Let the Festival begin!"
His voice rolls like thunder off the palace stone.
Below, the plaza erupts.
Scribe Lady Kyrielle lifts her own goblet with practiced grace, though her eyes never quite leave her tablets. She takes a measured sip, lets the vintage sit on her tongue like a word to be weighed.
"A bold pressing," she pronounces, dipping her stylus. "Full-bodied. Arrogant, even. Much like its Ubar."
She makes a note, then — to the quiet surprise of those who know her — drains a little more than is strictly scribal.
Physician Liz is slower. She swirls the wine, holds it to the light, sniffs it as she would a tincture. Then she sips.
A pause. Then an approving nod.
"No lead in the glaze, no sour ferment. Clean," she says. "You may poison them with quantity, my Ubar, but not with quality. I approve — for now."
Ortossi throws back his head and laughs, wine sloshing.
At his signal, the great casks are broached. Slaves with wooden mallets knock out the spigots and ruby streams arc into waiting pitchers. The Dance of the Vines quickens, feet stamping dust into golden clouds. A troupe of jugglers takes the lower steps, tossing ta-grapes and catching them in their mouths.
Kyrielle leans toward Liz,
"Physician... tell me truly. How many headaches will you be curing by dawn?"
Liz watches a young warrior already attempting to drink from two goblets at once, and sighs with fond exasperation.
"All of them."
The Ubar raises his cup again toward the city he rules, eyes bright with wine and pride.
The Festival of Ven'dara has begun in earnes
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I apologize but where does it say the winery is for sale?