Turn 107

    The Giff rubs his prodigious jowls for a moment. "Your service to your family does not mark you as an enemy of Bral or Three Trees, then?"
    "It's not about enemies and friends, it's about buying and selling. And trading. But to answer your question, we've nothing against Bral or Three Trees that I know of. We're interested in peace and profits for all -- and especially ourselves, of course -- which means we're against such things as piracy and pernicious activities like I'm afraid we're looking at right now."
    The First Officer nods. Coming from a race of professional mercenaries, he could understand and respect the neutral but honorable trade attitude the Zakharan espoused.
    Yestin sighs, clearly unused to, and uncomfortable with, this sort of public interrogation. He silently searches the crews' eyes for support, in the hopes that someone else will take up the questioning.
    Emmett pulls himself off the crate he's been using as a stool, walks calmly over to Ibn Fadil, looks him square in the eye as if judging his character for the first time...and then slugs him right in the jaw. Hard as it is, the half elf can tell that Emmett - who at one time Ibn Fadil has seen put his hand through the staves of a barrel - could have made it an awful lot harder.
    "That...is for lying to us. Pull that shit again, and it'll be worse." He takes a step back, the holds out his hand to help the half elf to his feet. "Now, what did you have in mind for the investigation? I think Victor's likely too stupid to be directly involved, but that makes him perfect fodder an arrogant transport."
    It takes a moment for the Zakharan to respond, as he has to check that his jaw still works. Hoping that this will be the last time he has to let someone get away with hitting him, he lets Emmett help him up.
    "That's what I was thinking about the Victor, myself," he finally says. "The only leads we've got are here on Rigol and back on Bral. We could follow the Victor and Hextorian connection here as far as it will go - which would mean a longer stay and probably getting involved in the business with Lord Durrell. Or we could go back to Bral and root around there. Or both, seeing as we're here already.
    "It's also possible, or even likely, that the Hextorians are also active in this capitol city. That's something we could look into when we get there. Other than that I don't know. I've never done anything like this before."
    "'Learn before, during and after you build.' I guess we'll make it up on the fly for now, and see how much the High King already has on Lord Durrell. Given what we've heard about this place, the file is probably a foot thick and growing." Emmett looks over the crew, and getting a look from Yestin, adopts a more commanding manner, "Ok, we're through here people, and this ship needs to get into shape before the guests come on board for the trip - clean to impress, because they'll be questioning Gerard no end once we get him there."
    As the meeting breaks up, he looks over at ibn Fadil. "Get Pham to take a look at that - Nyala'd hate to see you lose that tooth."
    * * *
    In the aftermath of the attack, a great deal is accomplished. Ibn Fadil in particular is very busy now that he longer needs to come up with excuses for being nosy. A somewhat dazed Mihal follows him around, nodding in appropriate places as his new mentor explains what he's doing--it's hard to say how much he's actually picking up, of course. Upon their return to Myrr, the half-elf asks the priests if he might take another look at Cenon's papers, but they tell him no more than they did before. His suggestion that they speak with Master Wiktor of the blacksmiths is noted.
    As far as the Stoat -- if he is still in town, no one seems to know where. Either he's burrowed into the deepest of holes following the loss of so many men, or he has left town entirely. In either case, it seems likely that his interest in the matter has been purely financial; at least, no one has ever known him to have an interest in anything but himself.
    Meanwhile, Lynden ensures that his charitable work will not be untended in his absence, however long it proves.
    Emmett, meanwhile, spends his time talking to the members of the artificers guild, doing his best to separate the innocent dupes from the guilty Hextorians. Sparing no sympathy for the Hextorians - whose masquerade under the cloak of his own gods auspices has obviously deeply offended him - he spends his time with the unwitting artificers, discussing the nature and tenets of Gond. When Inez asks him about this, he replies that the parts may still be salvageable, even if the machine was flawed. There are times when Emmett despairs that Cog is absorbing more than the distraught and distracted Myrrians (Indeed, the parrot has learned the tenet "Waste No Effort", but tends to repeat it at the most scatalogically inappropriate moments...), but he perseveres.
    The artificers are somewhat reluctant to talk to him; alarmed as they are by recent events and the possibility of further traitors in their midst, another foreigner talking about strange gods who seems to know perhaps too much about guild matters is not entirely welcome among them.
    * * *
     Yestin goes through the stores, noting that they are very low on supplies and looking for something that would make a fit gift to the king for their arrival. The silk, possibly--they don't seem to have anything even vaguely like it here. weapons and armor, of course. Or some of the glassware that has spent the long journey packed away in straw-padded casks?
    Consulted on the question, ibn Fadil wonders if weapons or armor is a good idea. "It might be construed as suggesting a military alliance," he observes thoughtfully. "I don't think we want to accidentally commit Three Trees to anything quite so serious. The silk, definitely. And the glassware is a good idea, I think."
    Emmett rubs his chin. "Something they haven't got, and something they want. Metal is good - they already know that offworlders can and do provide it, and we can offer the High King a way to break his main opponent's monopoly on weapons technology." He glances over at Ibn Fadil "two or three of the ingots we have might be a good compromise."
    "I don't know about the glassware. They have a lot of craftsmen, so they won't want to pay shipping for something they can make locally. Plus, I've shipped glass before - it's fragile and the hamsters kept breaking it." He looks thoughtful again "Unless we've got something in stock that's a lot better than what they have here? He can start thinking about how he'll put one over on us by getting his people to duplicate the process, so he'll feel smart while we really don't want to move anything that fussy. If we do have really good detailed glass we can go with that as a present for him the man and the steel as a present for him the king... "
    Yestin nods at Emmett's assessment. In truth, it had not occurred to him to use the gift as an example of the kinds of goods that would be available should the King deign to open trade to Three Trees. Such subtleties often lay beyond the Giff's grasp, no doubt one of the reasons he struggles so with his poetry.
    "I think we can find an impressive enough piece of glassware. Their own works are not without their beauty, but somewhat provincial in sophistication."
    They settle on the silk, a beautiful ewer of swirled red and amber, and a crate of the iron ingots.
    During the short journey, ibn Fadil matter-of-factly continues carrying out the same everyday tasks he had been doing before. Alais, meanwhile, experiments with his silver and amber circlet, testing it exhaustively to see what benefits it might confer. Its aura is faint, but it seems to be some sort of divination spell. Curious, he leaves it on while he goes about his morning, and eventually finds that wearing it, a certain text he bought on their last visit to Bral and has rather laboriously been reading comes quite easily now.
    Then he goes to join the conversation in the galley, where the others are questioning Gerard about what they can expect to find in Narain.
    "The greatest of cities," Gerard tells them with pride. "Anything in the world that you want, you can find it there. Nowhere will you find more people, or finer, nowhere such markets and festivals." Ever since the high kings ceased wandering and settled there, all the world has come to them, and they have spent freely on their own city. Between the mountains and the river, the city is relatively sheltered from Rigol's weather, and the lands around it are some of the most productive in the world.
    There is King Roald himself, a young and martially keen, it seems. Queen Natalia, it is asserted, is the most beautiful woman in the world. There are any number of important lords who reside at court, and very wise wizards as well, and even dwarves, ambassadors from the Deep King during this time of uneasy peace. Gerard doesn't know much specific about these people, of course -- he is a humble navigator thrust into this position quite unexpectedly -- but he's a good source of gossip. Everyone seems to know there is some sort of resolution looming with Lord Durrell, perhaps this very year.
    Alais relentlessly grills the guide on the history of the city, with special attention given to any plagues or natural disasters, and gets an earful in return. The Great Fire of 117. The Year of the Dragon, 199, when several of the great beasts attacked the city and were defeated by eight champions called by the gods to fight them in their very lairs, one of them the heir to the throne, who did not return, and whose brothers fought one another for the crown. The Summerless Year in 203 when thousands starved and the Winterless Year ten years later, when plagues swept across the earth, the rivers dried up and stars fell from heaven to strike down towers.
    Emmett eventually rescues Gerard by offering the magus an opportunity to examine his new-won ring. "I'm pretty sure the sucker's magical, but I have no idea how. Care to give it a look?" The half man prepares himself for the usual Alais conversation, doing his level best this time to follow what the young genius says about the nature of the enchantment.
    Its magical aura is faint, and though the wizard says that it carries some sort of altering effect, he is unable to determine its purpose.
    Lynden listens in, trying to stay out of the crew's way. No seasickness; aside from the occasional buffet from the wind, the ship's motion is very smooth.
    He may try to stay out of the way, but he finds it difficult to avoid the inquisitive ibn Fadil, who tries to both put him at his ease and get him to talk about his god, and his work as a priest in Myrr.
    Lynden swallows nervously but does his best to satisfy ibn Fadil's curiosity describing how he was called to follow Garek when a glorious stag led him to Bendek's care and how his days are now filled with Garek's wishes. "You may have witnessed that the women of my world are not free to enjoy the same liberties as men." He seems overly serious as he justifies his work. "I do not believe this should be so. A woman should be able to make decisions and not just about those that affect herself. Don't you agree?" He pauses to give his listener time to respond, wondering if the ship's women had as much liberty as it appeared.
    "I think it is foolish to think otherwise; but there are many fools in the universe." "So I work as best I can to help them avoid the worst of a woman's misfortunes" Lynden looks away for a moment as if reviewing his own memories before adding, "They have as much to offer as many a man..."
    "What does 'the worst' include, in Myrr?" is the answering query.
    "Violence against women is not questioned and protection comes only from the status of the man she is deemed to belong to. A lifetime of near slavery from which death is the only release," is the terse reply.
    Sensing that he has touched a nerve (though he cannot help but wonder what kind of nerve - guilt, perhaps?), ibn Fadil drops that subject and before long the conversation, since his interest in the gods, law, and ethics keep bringing it up again. His questions suggest that he is a rather well-educated person.
    * * *
    Like the other Rigolians, Gerard has little idea what to make of the women and so tends to ignore them. Inez has given up on this planet, its stupid people and their politics, and is sulking in her cabin once the ship is on its way. Nyala has been quiet and watchful as usual, observing the crew's reactions to ibn Fadil's revelation and keeping her own thoughts, as usual, to herself. More patient and tolerant than Inez, she is also looking forward to leaving this place for somewhere more congenial (and warmer), but currently more curious about what they will find in the capital.
    Emmett does his best to soothe Inez' mood, but he's really not great at it. There's only so much time he can say "They're backwoods hicks. Just ignore it. The Capitol will be better," before it stops having any real effect. He does start to feel her out on other things she might like to do with her time: his current obsessions of studying clockwork and sketching out new weapons designs don't do much for her, and it's been made obvious that she's not much into his religion, but surely something can be found to occupy her for the weeks or months they'll have to stay on Rigol to finish the deal and try to find Val and Hiro.
    "This is worse than being in space. You're never around, there's nothing to do, I've been cooped up on this damn ship for *weeks* with *her* and now the captain's missing and...." It goes on like that for a while. She's been a sailor for years, she can keep her hands occupied with knotwork or carving or throwing things for Cog to fetch when there isn't work to be done; the root of the problem seems to be the lack of people to interact with. She can't even work up a proper rivalry with Nyala--whose patience with the ordeal only intensifies her own frustration--since engaging in that sort of thing would be entirely beneath the elf.
    "Actually, it's only been a week, but I understand how it could feel longer...it's as if some obscene force were keeping us there..." Emmett turns his head and stares into the middle distance for a second before continuing. "In any case, I promise you that once we get to the Capitol we'll tell the locals that you two are able to get out and walk around. You might have to deal with a minder or two, but if the High King is going to deal with the outside world he's gonna have to get used to women being people. You, my dear, have just volunteered to be an example. So wear pants, drink ale and scandalize the hell out of local society.
    "We might even engage in some public affection, which might well make Gerard's head explode."
    "Really?" She seems a bit uncertain about this. "I thought you guys didn't want us making waves."
    "There's waves and there's waves. We can't go too far overboard, but...well, this place shouldn't be the sticks, and I don't think any of us want you two going crazy and crushing some hick local's head with a gaff hook. That'd probably make a worse impression than you being seen walking around." Emmett shrugs. "We'll need to straddle a line where they realize that we're different from them and if they want the benefits of trade they'll have to accept that - we have a little edge there because the High King does need trade from us of he's going to keep up with Victor and Durrell - without going so far that we get them to break off contact. Obviously all of our future ships here will be all male crews, but for this one they'll have to give us some leeway."
    "I don't want to see you going nuts here, Inez. Yeah, we need to open a route, and you're a pro enough to realize that and take your lumps for it. But you're going to have to figure out what level of lumps you can tolerate, and we'll just get the locals the tolerate the rest..."
    And that, at last, seems to mollify her a bit, though there's a speculative look her eye.
    * * *
    Awaiting them on the ground are a half dozen armed and armored soldiers, and it's something of a shock to see all that metal in one place. One of them steps forward and gives a brisk little bow, and he's clearly very well trained because he's not the least bit discomfited by any of this. "Welcome to Narain and to His Majesty's court, and may the gods' blessings attend you while you remain. Which of you is Captain Valarin?"
    Yestin remains nervous about his new status as current senior officer, but refuses to let these strangers see it. It would not be proper protocol to let such a weakness show. The Giff draws himself up to full military erectness and speaks with as authoritarian a voice as he can muster.
    "Our thanks for the courteous welcome. Captain Valarin was unable to make the journey. In Myrr, he went to the aid of one of the High King's subjects who was being abducted by ruffians and has not been seen since, though, knowing his warrior's mettle, we have little doubt that he will return to us shortly in safety and victory." Yestin wasn't sure how his more intrigue-inclined shipmates would favor his explanation, but the Giff generally prefers honest dealings whenever possible.
    "I am Yestin, First Officer of The Distraction, currently in command." At this mention of command, Yestin felt the sudden flush of blue-black coloring his impressive jowls, and hoped that these warriors would not recognize it for the blush that it is.
     "Your arrival has been prepared for, if you will be so good as to follow me. I am Sergeant Andras, and my men will assist with anything you wish to bring with you. *All* of you," he adds, glancing at the ship. Maybe it isn't training so much as plain old natural arrogance.
    Emmett gives the Sergeant a big old smile. Andras responds with haughty indifference.
    Yestin suppresses a frown. He was not entirely comfortable with leaving the ship entirely unmanned and, therefore, unprotected. Still, he had learned something of the laws of hospitality governing Rigol during his brief comradeship with the guards of Myrr; should anything happen to their vessel or its stores while they are under his protection, the High King would be responsible and many heads would roll. It put his mind somewhat more at ease. That the High King himself might have unwholesome motives doesn't even occur to the honor-minded Giff.
    "Thank you, Sergeant. We would be pleased to be accept the *hospitality and protection* of His Most Royal Majesty, the High King. Our Chief of Security will direct your men." Yestin tries to match the arrogant self-assured tone of the sergeant, aided by his deep rumbling voice, to make it clear that he will brook no argument regarding the ship's security. He glances between ibn Fadil and Emmett, letting the two men decide between themselves who will take up the task of setting the watch and subtly cautioning the King's men against trespass and pilfering.
    Ibn Fadil doesn't appear to notice the glance; he is busy studying the soldiers and the watching bystanders.
    Emmett is already stepping forward, quickly assessing the command structure as best he can so he doesn't accidentally order around the wrong person. He's also eyeing for the second in command types who might be more free with their information: Emmett comes well equipped with life experience for locating those who might be willing to buy him a drink and gripe about the soldier's lot.
    None of these are good candidates, at least not right now; they act like men who are very aware of being watched, and their movements are crisp and professional. They follow his directions without hesitating in unloading the materials the visitors are bringing in with them, and though they do look around curiously at the ship their curiosity is admirably restrained.
    The visitors are led inside. Gerard parts ways with them, probably to be debriefed. Tesfaye's little castle is downright cozy compared to this stone labyrinth; they pass down halls and up stairs and are eventually shown into a comfortable little suite, with four small chambers arrayed around a central room. The windows look down into hexagonal courtyards. Fires of pleasant-smelling wood are burning cheerfully, and a keen-looking young man in livery is poised near the door.
    "In the morning, His Majesty will see you. My orders are to see that you are refreshed and comfortable between now and then," he says with a very low bow. "If anything is lacking, you have only to request. This rope," he indicates the pull near the door, "will summon a servant at any time. Food and drink are being prepared now. Is there anything else I may bring your lordships?"
    "Is there any chance of a bath?" ibn Fadil inquires hopefully. "Of course. I will have the materials brought to your room at once."
    Yestin grins, doubting that there is a tub suitable to his own dimensions anywhere about, even in this impressive (for a groundling edifice) castle.
    Having avoided any difficulties on the Distraction by sleeping on the deck Lynden begins to feel threatened as the chambers were allocated. How he could he justify taking a chamber to himself when they were so many? Worse what would he risk if he did not? "I have no wish to seem rude but I require privacy for my prayers." He addresses himself to Yestin, "So I will not be able to share a chamber I'm afraid. "
    This earns him a curious look from ibn Fadil. "Why are you staying with us to begin with?" he inquires, as politely as such a question can possibly be asked.
    "He's... our religious watchdog." Emmett says happily, the mental edit a barely noticeable hiccup. The half man had already dropped his bags and gone to check out the window, looking to see how much of a security concern it might pose.
    "Why?" Lynden is startled. His eyes widen slightly at Emmett's comment but he answers ibn Fadil nonetheless. "I was directed to accompany you by my master. Believe me it was not my choice." He looks from ibn Fadil back to Yestin as he adds, "I can summon a servant and request different accommodation if you prefer." Recognizing that not only his privacy was likely to be compromised.
    Yestin shrugs. "It is not a question of our preferences, but your own. As sailors, we are well used to close quarters, but if you are uncomfortable performing your religious rites among offworlders, we will take no offense."
    In truth, Yestin is mostly indifferent to the matter of religion himself and never fully understood the human obsession with it. He acknowledges the existence and power of the Gods -- may as well to deny the very air we breathe as soon as deny the Gods -- but, in true Giff fashion, he prefers to put his faith in smoke-powder and steel. Still, those in the throes of religious ecstasy often create notable if thematically heavy-handed poetry and art, so there was something to be said for religion after all.
    Emmett turns back, shuttering the window so Cog doesn't cause trouble. "Hey, 'he says, addressing the young page, "Is there a church or something inside the castle where the good brother could get quartered?" He looks back to Lynden. "I promise not to proselytize for any offworld gods when you aren't around to watch.
    "And can we get some wine, please?"
    The young man bows low. "Of course. Regarding the accommodations, I will see what shall be done."
    A slight flush can be seen rising on the young priest's face. Caught between Bendek's requirement for him to observe the crew and his desire for privacy he is well aware that he is being teased by the half-man.
    Emmett looks at the room and bed situation, trying to figure out who'd getting quartered where. He also gives Inez a look with raised eyebrows, saying "see, I told you things would be better in the city."
    She shrugs back, as if not yet convinced.
    When the servant returns with quite a lot of wine and word that baths will be available momentarily, he bows to Lynden and says that he is welcome to stay among the priests in the temple attached to the palace if he would feel more comfortable there.
    The Zakharan finds Michal looking out a window at the courtyard and seizes the chance to speak with him privately. He has not explained anything to the young man; it's clear, though, that the disappearance of ibn Fadil's mannerisms and their replacement with a sort of quiet competence and complete attention to business has puzzled him at least as much as the education the foreigner seems determined to give him.
    "So, what do you think, Michal? Will you stay here in Narain or go along with us?"
    He shrugs, seeming relaxed now that they're off the ship. "I just got here, I don't know." Ibn Fadil of course has noticed the way he's been eyeing their surroundings, but he's probably smart enough not to try to snag anything.
    "No questions? Ideas? Concerns?"
    "Lots. Do you think we'll get a chance to look around the city?"
    "I should think so, once we've been introduced. We'll probably be escorted, though."
    He shrugs as if to comment on the likely utility of that. "So, do I get to find out what the big secret is? The whole trip here seems like everybody's been acting a little weird."
    "At last, a real question!" ibn Fadil says lightly. "Back in Myrr we found out that the followers of that evil god we mentioned before were not only active here, but responsible for all those murders. And, worse, they probably got to this sphere by working with or through a large company, like our own, that has a lot of money and a lot of ships floating around. We're rather worried about that."
    He stops there, with an almost challenging look, waiting for another question.
    The young man looks startled. "There are more of you?"
    "More foreigners in this sphere? I forgot you didn't know - sorry. We came here because we know another company was already trading here and wanted to find out what was worth the trouble of coming out to the back of beyond to get. We still don't have the answer to that one, unfortunately. What we've found out is that the other company has been trading with this Lord Durrell and seems to have brought this cult to your planet.
    "Which," he says slowly, "makes sense, in a way, if the cult is in control of the mission..." He frowns slightly, thinking it through. Surely a company with legitimate goals would pay its respects to the High King, unless whatever they're trading for is in Durrell's control, or unless they'd rather foment rebellion, unrest, and chaos...
    Mihal looks appropriately shocked and solemn at this revelation. "Lord Durrell? Do you think he's one of them?"
    "We won't know for sure until we ask him. If we *do* stay to ask him," he adds judiciously, since that's not certain yet. "Now, can I ask you to do something for me?"
    Mihal gives him a questioning look.
    "Think of it as a sort of test. Go tell that helpful young man by the door that you've really been taken on as a servant, and I want you to find a couple of seamstresses who might be able to come up with something for the ladies in our party to wear tomorrow. Be helpful, and get him or someone he suggests to take you around the castle looking. The best possible outcome," he adds with a certain humor, "would be for you to come back with the queen's own dressmaker. I don't know what the worst would be, but I certainly don't want to see it. And I'll want you to tell me everything you've observed about the castle, how it's laid out, and the status of the people whose servants you'll be talking to. And of the servants, too.
    "What do you say?"
    He raises an eyebrow, gives a good imitation of a servant's bow. "I hear and obey."
    When he returns over an hour later, he has a stout woman in tow. She is clothed entirely in black, wearing a veil over her face.
    "Celina is one of the seamstresses here," Mihal introduces her. The woman curtseys deeply, unspeaking. "She is very well spoken of."
    * * *
    Later that day, as the swift Rigolian nightfall conquers the land again, there is a knock on the door.
    "Lord Fynn to see your lordships," a servant announced. It takes a moment to place the name - the king's chancellor.
    Ibn Fadil glances between the nervous Yestin and the still-silent Emmett. "Ah, we'll be very pleased to see him," he says.
    Standing to receive the chancellor Lynden wonders apprehensively what his Lordship's visit signifies. A simple courtesy call? A lesson in etiquette or something else entirely?
    Ibn Fadil, in contrast, seems keenly interested in the visit, and steps forward to be at the front of the group.
    The door is open; limping footfalls approach. Fynn is old, with thin white hair. He is slightly stooped and walks with the aid of a stick, thanks perhaps to some ancient injury that renders his right leg almost useless. A scar passes down his cheek on that side as well. His eyes are brown, bright in the seamed face, and very shrewd. He is bundled in blue robes, heavily embroidered with gold thread, and around his neck is the symbol of his office, a black iron chain with a silver key.
    "Good evening, travelers from far and near," he greets them quietly. His eyes pass over the group, and there is no doubt that he is carefully observing everything about them. "I beg your pardon for intruding so upon your rest, but as you know, you will present yourselves to the king in the morning. I thought you might have questions you wish to ask, and I would also like to hear from you what has brought you all here." Of course Tesfaye sent a report of some kind.
    Emmett offers one of their chairs to the aging man. "One of the joys of our ship of travel is that is more tiring to the spirit than the body, and talking helps cure that fatigue. And what brought us here was an honest desire for trade."
    Yestin smiles, hoping the Chancellor, unfamiliar with Giffish facial expressions, will recognize it for what it is. He is grateful that Emmett chose to answer first; the subtleties of negotiation and intrigue often lay out of reach of his understanding.
    Wondering if Emmett's 'honest' remark was directed at himself, ibn Fadil gives the Chancellor a bow of respect for his age and station. "We are honored to meet you, my lord." Then he watches to see what the man will make of the odd contrasts among them, and tries to figure out what he really wants.
    "May we get you a drink? There's still some..." Emmett looks at the bottle he'd ordered earlier, "Well, a little bit of wine left."
    Of course it would be rude to refuse. "Thank you, again." He settles back in the chair with his cup. "Honest trade, you say? Well, that is an honorable task. It would appear that you have done the realm some service in the meantime. I am curious how this came to pass."
    "I believe," ibn Fadil says, "that the leaders of this cult thought we knew or would guess something about their activities in Myrr. As a result they made several attempts to kill us, and perhaps put their treasonous plan into motion sooner than they intended. Thus they brought their own doom upon themselves, since we actually knew nothing but started paying attention after assorted assaults, an attempt to burn a building down, and the like."
    "Indeed my Lord," Lynden adds from his position at the rear of the group, "the scoundrels made an attempt against Lord Tesfaye's life having turned his own dear son against him. These good people were able to intervene before the consequences became too dire."
    "And I am to understand that you know something of the god these men follow?" He does not seem to be looking at any of them in particular when he says it, but of course Pham feels singled out.
    "My Lord, I fear that you have been misinformed." He thinks carefully trying to find words that offer no slight. "It is true that I have spent some time in their company these last few days but other events have prevented anything more than briefly snatched conversation. I hope to rectify that omission now that we are more at leisure and to introduce them to our own beliefs." Inwardly Lynden hopes that his words will deflect Lord Fynn's attention away from himself and onto other matters.
    "Out in the wider universe," ibn Fadil says, making a mental note to watch Lynden even more closely, "this deity is well known in a general way, as a source of dissension and conflict for its own sake. All civilized beings oppose his works; until recently, I knew of no exception to the rule that his followers ought to be rooted out wherever they can be found." He pauses to let Pham speak up for himself, if he is going to do that.
    "That is, alas, not always the case," Pham says slowly. "There are always those who do not believe there harm there, or who believe they can profit from it...." He shakes himself a bit. "But I can tell you somewhat of this god, my lord, if you so wish."
    Fynn waves a gracious hand. "We will have time to discuss many things while you are here. I did not wish to impose upon your evening when you are so newly arrived and no doubt weary, but only desired to give you welcome to our city. I hope your time will prove profitable."
    And with a few more polite words he is gone. Such a brief visit it seems he did not intend to get much information out of them; perhaps he only wished to see them. And what, they all wonder, did he see....
    * * *
    More servants appear early the following morning. They bring food and drink--simple, but finer in quality than they found in Myrr--and when the visitors have eaten, washed, and dressed, and gotten their gifts for the king sorted out, the keen-looking youth (his name is Daniel) leads them through the maze. There is an almost audible energy in the air, the sense that a great deal is happening all the time, of hundreds of people doing important things.
    At last with a bow Daniel leaves them in what must be an antechamber to the throne room, a long, low room hung with tapestries. The focus is a pair of high bronze doors. A tall, thin man in the royal livery speaks briefly with each of them and makes sure he has their names and rank correct, and before anyone knows it they are being announced.
    The throne room is vast, walls leaping upwards to meet in a vaulted ceiling more than thirty feet overhead, with many narrow windows set in the stone, so they walk through bars of light and shadow. There are several dozen people congregated at the far end, and voices and footsteps echo from the walls and the bare floor once the herald has finished fishes. Banners and other trophies of vanquished enemies line the walls, and Emmett wonders if the Tesfayes' predecessor in Myrr is among them.
    The throne is high, gilded, and appropriately impressive, as is the man sitting on it. King Roald is tall and broad even for a Rigolian, and in contrast to many of those around him he is a young man, with an air of barely restrained energy. He wears an iron crown set with dozens of gems of all colors, and a mammoth broadsword leans against one arm of the throne. He looks keenly interested as the visitors approach. There is a much smaller decorated chair beside his; bundled in copious furs against the chill of the hall, the queen looks bored, perfect lips set in an expression of discontent.
    Around them are clustered the notable people of the court. All but one of them are armed, which is startling and presumably a sign of their status, and several of them stand out from the others. One of them is Lord Fynn, leaning on an ebony cane as he stands near the throne. The unarmed one is a very fat man who appears to be dressed entirely in gold and carries rather than leans upon an elaborately decorated staff that appears to be a single, massive piece of ivory. The third (and fourth and fifth), and something of a shock, is a dwarf, or rather a trio of dwarves--the ambassador and his assistants, most likely.
    "Be welcome to our lands, travelers from afar," the king greets them, "and you as well, Brother," he adds for Lynden's sake. "May the gods bless your journeys in the future. We are pleased to see you here in our capital, where we may thank you in person for the services you rendered us in Myrr; but for your timely intervention, we understand that we would have lost a worthy man. And furthermore, we understand that you are here in hopes of opening permanent relations that would be beneficial, of course, to all."
    It isn't really a question, but he does pause to see if anyone is going to say anything. Many eyes are watching very closely.
    

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