They crossed the beaten track between the wagons, past piles of crates and bundles wrapped in heavy cloth, until they came to a large tent set apart from the clamor of the dockside camp.
The inside was simple but inviting. A small table sat in the center, weighed down with a spread of food: a wedge of pale cheese, a stack of crusty bread still warm enough to scent the air, a platter of roasted meat glistening with fat, and a pitcher of dark, rich wine sweating in the coastal heat.
Varaku, without so much as a grunt of thanks, seated himself on the thick carpet beside the table, his bulk making the wooden supports of the tent seem to shudder. He tore into the food without ceremony, snapping a chunk of bread in half and shoveling it into his mouth before moving onto the meat, devouring it in great, tearing bites.
