Following her interview with Afentis Hefione, Rasheeka was permitted once more her favorite pastime – studying. At first it seemed that the Minister of Trade had decided the slave – a mere emene – was incapable of learning anything as sophisticated as writing. But either Rasheeka misinterpreted the woman's attitude, or something changed her mind. Whatever the reason, Rasheeka has spent six hours a day, for the last three days, with a small study group of pubescent human girls and their adult mentor. The experience is far less comfortable than Rasheeka's lessons with her tutors, or even the instruction bar Ravid had given her. The teacher ignores the Khatta entirely, paying no attention to any questions Rasheeka has, or to the quality of her work, offering neither criticism nor compliments. Her focus, instead, is on her younger pupils, who handle their brushes and ink with a graceful deftness that Rasheeka cannot match.

The other pupils follow their teacher's lead in ignoring the Khatta, though occasionally they break their silence to cast curious looks at the slave, eyeing her as though she were new kind of slug – interesting, but also repulsive. The curriculum centers on writing, math, and history, and it's clear that the other students, already versed in the Laosian alphabet and word construction, have a sizeable advantage over Rasheeka. It took the feline the better part of the first morning just to puzzle out that the Laosians write from bottom to top, and right to left. They hold their brushes well over the page, without resting wrist or arm on anything as they work, and Rasheeka finds imitating that stance makes her arm ache and her fingers cramp – but using any other position not only invites further derision, but also would cause her to smudge the page as she worked.

Left to fend for herself with little relevant instruction, Rasheeka has nonetheless been able to piece together much of the alphabet. The character set is unfamiliar, and some of the sounds they represent do not directly correspond to sounds she is versed in, but Rasheeka's substantial training in a myriad of other languages helps her make sense of this one. At least Laosian writing has a phonic alphabet, and not one of pictograms like Aeztepan.

The evenings have been, if anything, harder than the day's instruction, as Afentis Hefione grills her each day after supper on various aspects of trade and the values of goods. As this area was never Rasheeka's specialty, the Khatta finds herself racking her brain to try to satisfy the woman's questions. Any lapse of understanding on her part – any little thing she may have been told once but cannot remember – seems to count as a mark against her intelligence. The Khatta finds herself desperately wishing to be seen, once again, as a person who can think and reason, as more than just a curiosity, a "talking animal."

It is morning on the third day since her instruction began – or, to be more accurate, since she was permitted to sit in the same study with those who are being taught. Rasheeka kneels at the back of the room, with her paper and ink stone on the floor. Today she does not even have a cushion or a table to work upon. The teacher speaks softly as she lectures the pupils on history. "In the hundred and fifteenth year afixi Theon, the third-born son of Theon Patrides, Theon Dikazos, passed away in his nineteenth year. His young wife was childless, and Theon Acteon tyr Mesos and Theon Endre tyr Anamesa met on the fifteenth of Kalierga to determine who should inherit their brother's lands."

Quietly the slave takes notes in the back of the room, carefully jotting down points that she thinks might be relevant to a test or especially important historically. It also gives her a chance to practice her skills with the brush, a method of writing she is sorely behind in and one used almost exclusively here in Laos Enosi as far as she has been able to tell. They do not, after all, tell her a great deal. Nor does she inquire anymore. After having been ignored for the last few days she has mostly abandoned trying to be a active participant in the classroom and has focused mainly on trying to puzzle out what if anything she is supposed to do.

"Dikazos Faedra syz Theon," the teacher continues, in her cool, droll voice, "said that her husband wished the lands to go to Theon Endre. However, she had no written record of his wishes, and Theon Acteon disputed the veracity and legality of her claim; he countered that by alepo tradition, the lands should go to the eldest. Theon Endre, naturally, supported the assertion of Dikazos Faedra syz Theon, and further contended that the line of Theon did not blindly follow traditions of human or alepo. 'A Theon,' tyr Anamesa said, 'may make his own rules.'"

The teacher pauses, and the whole class stops to dutifully note down this quote.

The "emene" curiously looks up during this pause, but then catches on, and scribes notes to remind herself of this in later study.

The teacher continues, detailing political gambits made by first one brother, then the other, along with the dates that each maneuver occurred on. Rasheeka hasn't figured out the Laosian calendar yet, making the dates even more meaningless than normal. Eventually, the teacher gets to the point where the two brothers formally declare war, and then she begins to list off the dates and locations of various battles – presumably important ones, though the woman doesn't say why. She has a remarkable gift for turning what might otherwise be a fascinating story of a blood feud into a dry and sleep-inducing recitation of names and numbers.

Rasheeka's whiskers twitch and for a brief moment she feels something she hasn't felt for a long time – a sense of superiority in learning. Her teachers were at least a bit more interesting. She wonders if that might be a side effect of the Tizhan manner of speaking, to make matters grander and more beautiful than necessary – or perhaps need to be. The feeling is quickly quashed when she snaps from her recollection of more interesting tutors and remembers where she is. She quickens her writing to make up for the notes she missed.

Some of the girls fidget in their places, but no one says anything. For the most part, they keep their brushes poised over paper, copying down the dates and names as they are listed off. A susurration by the door interrupts the tedium, as someone pushes it quietly open, but does not enter. The instructor doesn't pause in her lecture. "After the Battle of the Seventh Stair, the armies of both brothers had been sorely weakened, particularly those of Theon Endre tyr Anamesa, and after eight years of war, the land was impoverished. At this time, Neyemen raiders attacked Mesos and Notios, and Theon Acteon was prevented from pressing his advantage as he turned his men south to aid his people. Theon Endre, however, did not take advantage of his brother's sudden distress. Instead, he took his men west to reinforce the borders of Laos Enosi."

Neyemen raiders. Afentis Hefione greeted or referred to me as "neyemen", and I am "emene" … The feline jots a new note high up on the page, far from her other notes. Here she writes a brief conjecture on the meaning of "neyemen", attributing it "foreign feline" and "plantigrade feline" as well as a few other supposed meanings. She also adds near it a brief remark about the Theons and the titles connected to them, supposing that might be the royal line and syz may be the female form of tyr, amongst other notes. She only vaguely notices that the door opened, briefly giving it the attention of one of her ears which swivels to track the noise.

"While Theon Acteon fought, on Ilios 31 of 123, in the battle of a thousand wounds against the Neyemen, Theon Endre fought just two myzirime away, also against Neyemen, to protect the farmlands of Archigos." The woman doesn't appear any more interested in their new visitor than she has been in Rasheeka, and continues her lecture unabated. "They both scored remarkable victories against the prodotis, and they pressed their attack, driving the Neyemen not merely back to their own lands, but beyond. The brothers forged an alliance against their common foe. When they had cleansed the mountains of Neyemen, they sat to the table of peace once again to talk. This time, they drafted the Treaty of the Blood of Theon, and it would ensure peace for our land for the next eighty years. The terms of the treaty – "

The teacher's next couple of words are lost as the newcomer clears his throat audibly.

The emene blinks at the sudden break in the lesson, and after quickly finishing up the word she was writing she lifts her head just enough that she might turn her eyes to find the face of the disturbance.

The intruder is a young male vulpine, simply dressed like she is. He wears a hoop earring in his left ear. Rasheeka has seen that style of earring on more than a few people in her time here, though curiously, the ornament is never seen on anyone who is not humbly attired. "Your pardon, Afentis Miona," the newcomer says, his voice low and soft while the teacher glares at him, "but I was sent by Steward Rasmus to collect the Neyemen slave. She is entokomo today."

"Take her and go," the afentis answers curtly.

"Entokomo?" wonders Rasheeka as she sets her brush carefully down so that the wet tip hangs over the pool of ink, then rises. She glances uncertainly between the servant and the Afentis before bowing deeply to her teacher, turning back again to the servant and nodding to him.

The young fox leads her back out of the scholars' section, and she is surprised to see that three of her fellow slaves from The Laughing Mercat are waiting in the hall – Stands-Straight, Shock-of-Light and Winter-Stars. They fall into line with the fox at a gesture from him, and he leads all of them deeper into the maze-like Astikos, while Shock signs, "Where are we going, Rasheeka? What are they doing with us?"

"I do not know. The vulpine said I was entokomo today – and I think we all are," answers Rasheeka quickly. She stares at Shock-of-Light for a moment, her expression sobering. She begins to sign something else, but pauses and thinks better of it, signing instead, "It is something to do with a measure of time. The Captain was instructed to do several types of offerings on certain days. This might be similar."

That wasn't really what Rasheeka wanted to say. She wanted to say "thank you" and apologize for leaving, though it wasn't her fault she had to go. Still she wanted to say it. Just say it. But here in line it is hard to bow, and as always a call for information is an easy distraction to the feline. Especially when what she needs to say is hard – she never thought she'd want to say such a thing to a Savanite, but everything is different, now.

"We're to be offered? As what?" Winter-Stars signs, looking alarmed. "They're not going to hurt us, are they? We were just filling the lamps!"

Rasheeka blinks, then signs "No no no," which is no more than a quick and somewhat frantic wave of her hands. "I do not think we will be hurt – well … I do not know, truly. But that wouldn't make any sense to hurt us now when they taught us so much. I just think it has to do with ceremony and auspicious time." The Khatta offers what she hopes to be a reassuring smile to Winter-Stars. That wasn't what she wanted to say, either … But it's so hard to say it, especially when she keeps having questions to answer.

Shock flicks her whiskers at Winter-Stars' alarm, and slaps one of the other Savanite's wrists in a typical "shush" gesture. But even so, Shock cannot hide her own concern as she signs, "Maybe you could ask the fox what this – what 'entokomo' means, Rasheeka." She ducks her head to avoid bumping against one of the lamps as they make their way along the corridor, trying to keep her attention on both their path and the Khatta's signs.

Nodding slightly and looking none too brave about it, the little feline scoots forward in line to ask. Being the only one who can truly speak the language of the Laos has made Rasheeka step forward when she otherwise wouldn't be inclined to, and this is one of those times. This "entokomo" makes her nervous as well; even more than that, she fears interrupting the fox – but not enough to not do it. "May I intrude upon your silence, benevolent one, and dare to make an inquiry?" she asks hesitantly, and she cannot help but note her Laosian is getting better.

The fox man twists his head around to blink at Rasheeka, his ears flicking back at the feline's praise. "What did you want to know?" he asks her in return. His voice sounds wary, and his eyes search her face, as if he were trying to figure out if she was mocking him. His pace slows while he watches her.

Rasheeka bows just slightly as the fox seems inclined to answer. She asks, "I am curious as to what 'entokomo' is, and humbly beg your pardon for my ignorance in the matter."

"Meh," the fox says, blinking. He resumes his pace. "You don't know? It means you get one of these," he says, gesturing to his earring. Now that he's called her attention to it, Rasheeka finds that the object isn't quite what she expected. It's dark brown, and made of something smooth and seamless. If there's a clasp or a hinge for it, it's cunningly hidden. It's also fairly thick – perhaps a quarter of an inch – all the way around, even where it goes through his ear.

An earring. Rasheeka is reminded of her dislike of such things, of jewelry in general. Her mother in the years after her father died often heaped such items on her: gaudy and heavy trinkets, some of which were annoyingly cumbersome. She thinks it wasn't until then that she really started to dislike them. And now it seems she'll get a new trinket – the only similarity between now and then being the lack of choice in the matter. "Has it meaning, may I ask?" inquires the feline further.

"Yes. It means you're a slave," the vulpine answers without flinching. "All the slaves in Laos Enosi have them."

Rasheeka offers the fox another slight bow and a "many thanks" before she ducks back in line to report what she learned. Trying to get the matter explained before they arrive, she wastes no time in signing about it to the others. " … and so it seems like a collar."

"Oh, is that all?" Winter-Stars looks almost faint with relief.

Stands-Straight stares at the earring the fox slave wears, while Shock-of-Light only gives a short nod and a signed, "Thanks," before turning her eyes to the ground.

Seeing Shock-of-Light bow her head, Rasheeka steps forward and carefully reaches over to tap her shoulder. She lifts her other hand to wave at Stands-Straight and Winter-Stars too so she can quietly get their attention as well.

Shock blinks and frowns at Rasheeka, while Stands-Straight snaps out of his reverie. Winter signs, "Yes, Rasheeka?"

Rasheeka drops back to the end of the line when she sees the eyes of the others on her, and when she sees the eyes of the fox are elsewhere, she stops to drop in to a deep bow. "Thank you for helping me," she signs quickly, wary of stopping for too long.

Shock flicks her ears and looks away, while Winter smiles at Rasheeka and pats her back. "Don't worry about it! I'm glad they gave you a different job so you don't have to fill lamps like us anymore!"

Stands-Straight seconds the other Savanite. "And so we don't have to cover for you," he adds, wiggling his ears.

The Khatta rises and matches pace with Winter-Stars, the Savanite's hand on her shoulder reminding her she mustn't delay too long. She smiles worriedly. "I am sorry you have to fill lamps," she confesses, "and that I had to leave and not tell you. Steward Rasmus would not allow me to talk to you before I was brought to the Afentis. I was worried you would be punished."

"No, we were fine. Fussy-face was rattled for the whole rest of the day and hardly did anything to us except distribute new oil sacks," Winter answers. "I don't mind filling lamps. It's inside work, it's easy, and I don't have to be watching myself all the time. I've had lots worse jobs."

Shock watches the conversation, her expression difficult to read. Then she signs, "You're welcome, Rasheeka. Thank you for asking the fox slave about 'entokomo.' And for translating for us."

Rasheeka blinks, looking for a moment startled by Shock-of-Light's signs. Unwillingly to draw any more attention to how unusual the signs are, and certainly not wanting to make Shock-of-Light any more uncomfortable than Rasheeka suspects her to be, the Khatta slave quickly bows slightly to hide her reaction. When she rises she tries to look quite nonchalant about the matter. "I am happy to translate for you," she signs, glancing to the others, "and to have met you all. I do not think I could have endured without your help." And the Khatta thinks it wasn't so hard to say after all.

The four exchange no more words as they follow the fox, though their eyes often stray to his left ear and the hoop dangling from it. Stands-Straight's nervousness is palpable in his hesitant steps. At last, they reach a small antechamber that has a strong, spicy-sweet odor to it. The vulpine leaves them for a moment, stepping through an arched doorway blocked by a thick curtain made of overlapping flaps of fabric and dense strings of beads. Smoke wafts into the antechamber, along with another surge of the odd smell, as he disappears into the area beyond. Then he re-emerges. "The yejsk is ready," he says, and Rasheeka notices that the strange word he uses doesn't sound like a Laosian one. The vulpine gestures to Rasheeka. "Here, you go first. You can show the others there's nothing to be afraid of. It doesn't hurt at all."

After casting an uneasy glance to her fellow slaves showing that no, she is hardly feeling courageous about this first at all, Rasheeka offers the fox a timid nod and walks towards the curtain. Her unease grows as does the smell, and she can feel the unpleasant pain of butterflies beginning to flit about in her stomach.

The vulpine offers Rasheeka a little encouraging nod as he ushers her through the heavy curtains, of fabric and beads, and then she is in the room beyond.

An old, stooped Khattan man, with beige-brown fur not unlike her own, stands by the shelves, running his fingers over the ceramic jars lovingly. He selects one, then turns to regard her. In his right ear, he has two earrings, like the fox's except that they are swirled with a dark rainbow of colors. In his left, he wears a simple white earring in a descending spiral. More prominent than the earrings, however, is a half-hoop that goes from the top of his cheek, just below his eye, to connect just above his jawbone. He smiles broadly at Rasheeka, the expression making the fur of his face crinkle. "Ysjara meerkia omavari," he says.

Having no idea at all what the man is saying, which isn't nearly as disturbing as the half hoop the man wears, Rasheeka offers a very shaky bow and needs force herself to look away. It is much harder to force the idea of a thousand unpleasant and painful earring combinations she might receive and she finds herself dwelling on various combinations as she waits for what may come.

The Khatta's big smile dims, but does not vanish when Rasheeka doesn't answer him. "Ah. I taking you for one of my kind, but you stranger. Yemenos, being you?" he asks, his Laosian strongly accented.

Fearing a slow answer might invite something horrid like a nose ring or similar, Rasheeka stutters quickly, "No, I d-do not think so. I am from Tizhar, the city of T-Tizban."

"Ahhhh. You stranger indeed," the yejsk replies. "I knowing not this place. Being far away. And yet you coming to me now." He strokes his fingers over the jar in his hand. "The union being good, I thinking, yes." He nods, then continues, "You kneeling now, before the fire. Not being afraid, stranger, I not hurting you," the yejsk tells her, gesturing to a place before the small, strong-smelling flame in the circle of stones on the floor.

Rasheeka blinks at the strange speech and for a moment looks at the man, considering, as if trying to place his origin. She finds she isn't sure, and that she can ponder the matter later – for now she still worries over delaying him. So she scoots over to where she was directed to be, kneels, and then looks up to watch the man curiously.

He puts the slender jar, still stopped, on the flagstones beside Rasheeka, and takes a roll of leather out of a pouch at his side. He uncurls it, revealing a number of curious implements – vaguely reminiscent of a tinker's toolkit, but less identifiable – nestled into loops of leather. The yejsk draws out a wooden-handles scalpel with a blade of black glass. "You facing the fire," he tells her. "Not being afraid. Saying, 'ymvara emeerka mooria.'" He smiles encouragingly at her again, putting his free hand to her cheek to turn her back to the fire.

She looks at the fire, but she is afraid. "Ymvara emeerka mooria." The Khatta girl wonders what the words mean, puzzling over them. Some sort of tribal prayer from his land she guesses, or perhaps it means "I am not afraid." Then again, it may mean "Here I am a slave getting an earring." The second idea makes her tremble in a little laugh, though she opts to believe her first guess; that one is a great deal more comforting.

"You being very still. I shaving little fur from your ear. I not cutting you," the Khattan assures her. He steadies her head with his left hand, which is surprisingly gentle. "Orimia comjasa orimvika," the Khattan half-chants, half-sings. Rasheeka can feel something cool touch her ear.

Willing herself to be stock-still, more because she fears being cut than any sudden bravery, Rasheeka again finds herself pondering the man's words. Orimia comjasa orimvika. She finds herself beginning to ease, and that she rather likes listening.

The Khattan continues his song-chant with more words, meaningless to Rasheeka. His voice is deep and mellow, though with a rough burr to it from age. It's not like any song she's ever heard before, and her music teacher would have criticized him for being off key – yet, there is a certain soothing quality to it. In moments, he has trimmed a circle from the outside of her ear, and then from the inside. He brings his chant to a close, then says, "Seeing I not hurting you?" He leans over and to one side so she can see him smile, then straightens up. "Yes, you being good. I telling you this."

Rasheeka finds herself smiling back. He isn't unlike some of her old tutors in his manner, though she suspects his origins are as far removed from those old literati as a cloud from the grass.

"These people, these Lah-awss Ey-noh-see, they thinking, 'Lah-awss having great learning.' They thinking, 'Neyemen knowing nothing.' But the Lah-awss, they knowing nothing. I not giving you 'entomo, mark of slave'. I giving you eyntzomo, yskar orimia. Eyntzomo, spirit of the warrior. Spirit of the wise man. Spirit of power. I giving you power. I giving you knowledge. You knowing that. Knowing that these Lah-awws, they knowing nothing." He takes out another instrument from his leather roll, and puts a little drop of cool oil on the inside and outside of the shaved circle on Rasheeka's ear, then rubs it in gently with his fingers.

Rasheeka watches the man as he says all this, her expression going from curiosity to wonder. She has read all about the native cultures of various lands, and that includes a few tribes scattered here and there. It's one thing, she thinks, to read about the spiritual beliefs of such-and-such Savanite tribe from so-and-so; it's quite another thing to be involved and a part of such tribal customs. To her surprise she finds herself ashamed, as well. She recalls reading about these cultures and thinking them savages, nothing more than a curiosity and ultimately unimportant – almost like a group of "smart animals". And now, here in Laos Enosi, she is the slave and the savage. It suddenly makes her feel especially grateful for all those who helped her here, and she sorely wishes she had something to give back to the man. All she can offer however is a heartfelt, "Many thanks to you, I am grateful," for she has nothing else to give.

The shaman smiles again, and she can hear it in his voice, though his words are firm. "You saying it with me, now. Eyntzomo, yskar orimia." The yejsk chant-sings the syllables, unfamiliar to Rasheeka. "Orimia sejsk eyntzomo, ymvara emeerka mooria … " He has put his tools away, and reaches for the jar next to her as he chants, repeating the same collection of words over and over again.

"Ey- … Eyntzomo, yskar orimia," repeats the slave girl. She starts off hesitantly at first, the language unfamiliar on her tongue, but soon her courage grows and her words become more sure. And more like his chant-singing. In a way, she thinks it fun. "Orimia sejsk eyntzomo, ymvara emeerka mooria … "

The yejsk squats next to her, nodding and letting her carry the chant alone as she gets used to it. He cracks open the wax seal around the top of the jar. Under the wax is a layer of fabric that he pulls away, too, then he takes a pair of leather gloves from his pouch and puts them on. With the gloves on, he tips the jar, carefully, until what looks like a green-brown stick slides halfway out. He grasps the stick by the middle, avoiding touching the ends. "Ahhhh, eyntzomo," he murmurs. He puts the empty jar down and shows the object to her. It must be pliable; it looks a bit limp between his fingers.

Peering at it as she continues the chant on her own, Rasheeka puzzles over what it might be. She glances from it to the jar, noting the seal, then suddenly her eyes widen and she asks in a mix of wonder and fear, "It- it … it's alive, isn't it?" She blinks at her outburst and quickly offers an apologetic smile, then to show she's still strong she begins her chanting again and smiles a little more for it.

He stands, the same big smile on his face again. "Of course it being alive. It being eyntzomo. You chanting, now. Being important." He resumes the chant in the same unfamiliar tongue, but different words. Abruptly, she feels something cool and sharp touch her ear. Then there's a sudden warmth in her ear, starting from the shaved circle and spreading outwards. She feels the tug of a new weight hanging near the base, and a not-unpleasant tingling sensation.

Rasheeka blinks a few times as she feels the creature attach to her ear. Her fingers wiggle in nervous anticipation. She doesn't quite know what to expect. But still she chants anyway, louder and with more courage than she had before.

The yejsk continues his song-chant in time with her for another couple of minutes, stronger at first, then slowing and quieting. He pats Rasheeka's shoulder, the touch gentle and supportive.

She smiles when the man pats her arm, and looks up to try to watch his work. As he begins to lower his chanting so does she, drawing to an end when he does. It's a song she'll remember, she thinks, for she has the uneasy feeling she's probably going to be afraid again.

"You being good to him, now," the yejsk instructs. "You not bathing, or getting eyntzomo wet, for three days. Then you taking good long bath, scrub good. You taking this," he presses a vial of liquid into her hand, "and putting it on eyntzomo every day for two weeks, just a drop. Making eyntzomo nice color for you, when shell hardens. Now, you having any questions?"

Now that she seems free to move, Rasheeka twists around to face the man more easily. She has the most demanding urge to reach up and touch the creature now attached to her ear, though she decides that's likely not wise just yet. She also finds that she's not afraid of it at all – that it's really quite interesting, whatever the people of Laos Enosi thinks it means. To this man it's special, and she tries to think of that way too. Power. Knowledge. A warrior spirit. Along with a certain pride, she has questions, most certainly, and asks for starters, "A thousand pardons if I offend, but may I ask where you are from?"

"I being Neyemen Yejsk, of Neyn Morkio. My people living across the mountains to the west and south, far from here," the old Khatta answers proudly. "But not so far as you, girl of Teez-an."

Rasheeka nods a bit, and she can feel the living earring jostle as she does. Neyemen? Of Neyn? the slave girl thinks, then tilts her head and asks, "The Neyemen are people as you and I are, that look like us? From Apagorevo? The Afentis spoke of Neyemen raiders, and she called me 'emene,' but I'm not sure if it's a general term or simply derived from local peoples."

"Ahhhhh. Neyemen, they like you and I, yes, but you not Neyemen. Neyemen warriors, herders, wanderers. Neyemen from the south, across the mountains. Yemenos like us, but farmers, live to north, across mountains. Emene, folk look like us, like Neyemen, like Yemenos. Stupid Lah-awss, not caring about differences, thinking 'Yemenos and Neyemen and you, all same.' But we being very different. Yes?" The yejsk explains, with a lopsided smile.

There's a rustling at the curtain, and the fox slave who led Rasheeka there pokes his head in. He coughs, though whether from the smoke or to get their attention, she can't be sure. He says, "Yejsk? Are you ready for the next one?"

The Khatta finds the grin infectious and soon she's grinning as well. "The Laos Enosi don't kno- … " She cuts herself off belatedly at the intrusion, then quickly glances back to the door. Her smile wavers and she finds she rather wishes she could stay and talk to the yejsk longer.

"Ahhhhh. Lah-awwss, always being in hurry. Being ready for next in moment," the yejsk answers, and the fox nods and withdraws. The old Khatta pats Rasheeka's shoulder again. "Being safe, touching eyntzomo. Being good. Only not squeezing him, yes? Not while he young. I knowing you taking good care of him."

Rasheeka rises and turns to the man, and she nods in agreement. "Yes," she tells him as she holds the bottle together in her hands. "I'll take good care of him. Primus hear me." She offers another smile and steps back away, looking about to go when stops and turns back quickly. "Oh, this is important, I almost forgot. The 'spotted emene' that will come do not speak – none of them can. So they can't chant, or talk; it's not because they won't want to. And … many thanks to you. May Abaddon smile on your work."

"Not speaking?" The yejsk crinkles his face. "Ahhh, we managing, not worrying. The spirits watching over you now. Ancestors protecting us all." He touches each of his entomos in turn with one finger, starting with the left earring and ending with the cheek ring, then bows to her.

At first this all seemed very frightening, and now Rasheeka finds herself wishing she didn't have to go. She forgets for a moment that the earring from her ear marks her as a slave and can only think of it as a gift from a nice old shaman better than any book could tell. She mirrors his gesture, touching her young eyntzomo, then bows in the fashion of those from Tizban before she departs. And as she walks out she decides this is the first earring she has ever felt to be more than a meaningless trinket; despite its connotations amongst the Laos, she cannot help but feel thankful to the old man and his treasured gift.