The king was astute enough to have determined that oddly paternal streak from Orsa's ramblings, but he was a blank slate in so far as to permitting his opinions to show. Learning to school one's features into the unreadable had been far too easy for the usurper, even as early as his formative years, and now he was a master of the lie. If he disapproved, the vitamancer would not know of it until he wished him to. For now, Mendoza was content to listen, to observe the mannerisms as they calmed from the frenetic into something infinitely more refined. It was encouraging. If he could be trained to moderate his behaviour for such a mundane task, perhaps he might one day be trusted to do so at court, where to act himself would draw mockery and concern from the deadly circle of his current council.<br/><br/>"I'm sure there are some who would readily read into your easy dismissal of family and label it with some sort of deficiency of character, brain or soul," the King remarked, tone indicating neither concern nor displeasure. "But I can sympathise with an estrangement," he added, with a glitter to his eyes that spoke of humour, "and will not think ill of you for the lack of concern for their current status. Perhaps one day, when the squabbling neighbours have been satisfactorily subdued, and I've strength enough in my army's reach, Campona, or what was Campona, might fall within my sphere of influence. I would not say it beneath my ambition."<br/><br/>Estevan Mendoza's ambition was a vicious and far reaching thing. He was entirely too aware of the fact that the prime of a man's life was only so long, and that the majority of his accomplishments would be earned while he was still capable of action. One could not trust to prolonged good health in a world where plagues might wipe out half the population of each city, and where those same cities changed hands like coins in a gambling den, not from year to year, but month to month. Not all of his opponents would roll over and show him their bellies at the first show of force, and he had no intention of forming alliances with those other splintered kingdoms who would merely point their knives at his back when opportunity allowed.<br/><br/>He stabbed some anchovie neatly onto his fork, and considered the man's audacity at suggesting he share the name of his nation. Oh yes, it would spark protest from the underlings, but that<i>might</i>prove entertaining. He swallowed the salt-strong fish, and then wagged the fork at Orsa, tines first, as if to chide him. "Honours come were they are earned, vitamancer. Any man, native, foreign, high or low born might succeed under my rule - I do not discriminate because of his beginnings. But he must prove himself exemplary, and devote himself to Segovia's cause as ruthlessly as its king." The fork stabbed into the fish again, and Mendoza flashed one of those predatory smiles that came so naturally to his broad, handsome mouth. "Of course if it 'reeks' of the mainland to you, perhaps we should reduce your name rather than add to it. Something dour and ominous that will spread easily on the tongues of peasants. Something pretentious like 'The Puppetmaster'."<br/><br/>He did not intend for it to be taken seriously of course. If the common folk wished to label a man, it could not be fed to them from their betters. They took a certain satisfaction in dubbing the ruling class with unflattering appellations (he was sure he must have earned one or two of his own) and Orsa's would come in time.<i>If</i>, he lasted long enough to gain himself a reputation.<br/><br/>"You know," he remarked, non sequitur, "I'd half expected that you wouldn't actually eat anything. One comes to imagine that those with your pre-occupations live half-starved and with sinister appetites. Yet here you are at my table enjoying the local cuisine." Perhaps he was insinuating some of the old fables were true - that Orsa might have dined on the scraps of his work, or fixed his teeth in the throats of the local ladies like the legendary nosferatu.