The Laughing Mercat
An oceangoing vessel with an improbably over-endowed, smiling, figurehead, this ship is built for cargo, not passengers, with a generous hold and only a few small cabins for the most important members of the crew. Even the deck is crowded, with stacks of boxes with wooden slats, some of them containing livestock, and a pen where several Drokars stir, listless from the long voyage. The stench of the animals is bad even in the fresh air, but it's even worse in the slave hold below.

In the waters off the eastern coast of Apagorevo, the Tizhan merchant vessel bobs, slowing as her sailors haul in her sails, and the twin Laosian warships slip alongside, one to port and one starboard, sleek galleys whose sails are supplemented by oars. Rows of spring-loaded ballistae, cranked back and armed, line the sides of the warships with silent menace.

Captain Ledyr rests his hands on the rail of his ship, the wind ruffling his short dark fur, the picture of composed indifference. Next to him, his merchant partner, Wahed Lamaan bin Shaab, clutches at a telescope nervously, rotating it for focus as he squints through to watch the ship to their portside close. By now, the other vessel is close enough that even Rasheeka can make out the people on board: vulpine and human forms in a curious uniform – or perhaps, armor – composed of small, precisely jointed pieces of chitin, laid together to form overlapping plates that cover the torso and upper thighs. They wear helmets of similar look, though larger sections of chitin are used for them. The chitin is polished and gleams dark green, with white accents and designs worked into the intricate pattern.

Ledyr lifts his hands from the rail, and lays the palm of the right over the back of the left, holding them together a few inches before his left shoulder. He makes eye contact with a vulpine aboard the other ship, a fox clad in a more elaborate version of the same uniform, and wearing over it a thigh-length vest belted at the waist. After a moment, that person echoes Ledyr's gesture, and both men bow their heads in a nod. The vulpine counterpart drops his arms to his sides first, and shouts something to the captain.

It takes Rasheeka a moment to parse the strange words, and by the time she does, bar Ravid is already translating them. "He says, 'Stranger, you come to a land that holds no love for your kind, but bearing our device on your mast. What reason do you give for us to spare your worthless lives?'" Wahed makes a squeaking mewl, and clutches his face, while the Eeee shuffles his feet. "'s what we expected, really."

The Khattan merchant shakes his head, wailing, "How did I ever let myself be talked into this madness? Greedy fool!" He glares at Captain Ledyr, though whether his words are meant for the Gallisian or for himself isn't clear.

The Doberman nods solemnly to bar Ravid, ignoring his partner. He inhales, then answers the fox in loud, firm Laosian, carefully enunciating each word. "For that tyr Sychi once spared my life before, and I return to these shores only to thank him, and offer gifts to him and his people to show that even a stranger may express his gratitude." When he finishes, Ledyr's gaze darts to the Eeee. "Please tell me I didn't muck that up," he mutters in Gallisian.

Rasheeka, daunted by the heavily armed warships, keeps away from the railing for now, standing behind her masters, in dead silence. She only occasionally shifts as her dirty and uncomfortable rough spun tunic and leggings supply her with yet another unpleasant itch; it's the same outfit she had been given for the whole trip, and the rags reek of the cargo hold even in open air.

"You did well," the bat murmurs in reply to Ledyr.

The vulpine on the other ship stares at The Laughing Mercat through the narrow eye slit of his helm. Beside him, another warrior leans in to murmur to him, and the fox captain shakes his head, replying. "What are they saying?" Wahed laments, clawing at the ship's rail.

"Be easy, my friend," Ledyr says in Standard, patting the feline on the back. "They won't give us extra marks for fretting. And tyr Sychi wants this trade. He knows he stands to gain more from us alive than dead."

"But do they know that?" The merchant points to where some of the soldiers on the other ship stand, adjusting the aim of their ballistae.

Bar Ravid's large ears tilt towards the enemy craft, straining to catch the conversation between the two soldiers. He taps the handle of his cane lightly with two fingers, his mouth set in a thin line.

The slave's ears swivel forward as she comes to mirror the bat, trying hard to hear what the exotically dressed vulpine soldiers are whispering. Again the thoughts of what is to be gained and lost here swirl in the feline's mind like leaves caught in the wind. Though certainly not wanting to die here should the soldiers not believe the captain, a man whose learning she sometimes finds herself doubtful of, she cannot find much to be gained by a positive exchange. Much like leaves, Rasheeka's fate is not hers to control any longer and fortune is for her masters to enjoy. She knows this. Her family used to own slaves, once.

"My ears aren't what they used to be," bar Ravid says mournfully, in Eeee. "Wish I could hear what they're saying."

Rather to her surprise, Rasheeka finds her hearing surpasses the elderly bat's, as she catches snippets of the conversation on the warship. "They fly the sigil of the tyr. We were told to watch for a foreigner's ship bearing his flag. Surely…" the second man is saying.

"Foreigners, infidels, prodotis," the vulpine says. Rasheeka doesn't recognize the last word, but even from this distance she can tell it has the sting of an epithet. "It is blasphemy to allow such people on our shores."

"Masters, sirs? I, may my humble words not draw ire by daring to interrupt the most worthy silence, but masters, sirs, I believe I heard what the soldiers were saying," says Rasheeka meekly after she takes a step forward behind Captain Ledyr that he and his partner might hear her better.

Wahed turns to her, and snaps out, "Did you? Out with it, then! What's the delay?"

Blinking and stumbling back at the sudden snap, Rasheeka's ears splay out to the sides in fright even as she bows deeply. She begins by stuttering but pauses, then quickly recites what she heard as she is able with flowery additions tacked on as she praises the merchant out of habit.

"Loverly," Ledyr growls, his composure faltering. "I would luck into being met by a captain with an axe to grind."

Wahed gives a despairing cry, burying his face in his hands.

At that moment, the vulpine calls out, "What proof do you offer that you are the ones to whom our dynatos tyr gave his flag? How do we know that this is not some trick?"

The Eeee blinks a few times at the other's words, too startled to translate even when Ledyr nudges him. "Well? What did he say? Come on, man!"

Rasheeka looks between the men as she awaits the translation as well. Certainly she heard the words and knows their meaning herself, but she thinks that it is best she not interrupt the elderly translator – kind as he is, she would very much hate to gain displeasure by speaking that which is his to say unbidden.

After another few moments, Pesach gets out, "They want more … um … proof. He's asking how he'd know that we didn't steal the flag from someone."

Ledyr says, "What?! Vhai take it! We've got the flag! Blast them, Sychi didn't give us anything else! Pesach, what in Dagh's name else can we give them?"

As the conversation on the other ship continues while her masters and their translator fret, Rasheeka begins to fidget nervously with her hands. Her eavesdropping has provided her with valuable information, information she knows she should relay, but for a moment she considers not doing so – both because she fears interrupting again, and from the nudging of a sad piece of her who might like to see the ships come to battle. The latter though is quickly snuffed out as Rasheeka draws herself away from such negative thoughts, grim as the situation may be for her, and she says while bowing, "Masters, sirs, honorable skilled traders, this one would humbly offer – may Primus find me unworthy if I am mistaken – but this one believes the fearsome soldiers who do speak unaware of ears listening do wish the designs of the dynatos tyr's mask, amongst other knowledge."

"Oh – is it knowledge they want?" Captain Ledyr frowns. "Pesach, tell them who you are, and who I am, and what we know about them. Let's see if that will make them believe."

"I am Pesach bar Ravid," the Eeee cries out in his high-pitched Laosian, stepping forward and unfurling his wings to draw attention to himself. "I am he who lived for thirty years among the people of Laos Enosi, who learned your language and served under the Kyrios Hali of the Ocean. I spoke for this man, Captain Ledyr – " Here, he gestures to the Doberman. " – when he was stranded upon your shores and tyr Sychi spared his life, as Kyrios Hali spared mine. I, my humble self, have been in the presence of tyr Sychi; I have seen the mask of princes, a golden fox's face with chains inset by precious stones."

Rasheeka steps back again, drawing herself out of visual notice now that she has said what she needed to say. A quiet breath of relief almost escapes her only to be caught in her throat as she realizes bar Ravid speaks in an accent far removed from the soldier's own, as if he spoke a different dialect of the language, or else he spoke the language poorly. Given how unfriendly the natives have been already, the slave looks from the bat to the distant ship with apprehension as she sees how they react to his introduction.

The human talking to the leader on the warship takes a step back at Pesach's proclamation, and laughs. "There, Abydos. Exactly what you asked for." Whether he finds the bat's accent a nuisance or not, he makes no comment on it.

The fox doesn't answer his companion. He calls in answer, "We will escort you to the docks. A tenday you will spend in the Katharsi House, and await the pleasure of the dynatos tyr." Even in the shout, the soldier's sourness is evident. "I so command thee, in the name of tyr Sychi."

The captain looks ready to crow with delight, but Pesach interrupts him, hissing, "Kneel! Kneel like I told you, it's the command of the prince!" The bat demonstrates himself, dropping to his knees and bending forward at the waist, head bowed, palms resting flat on the deck before him.

Rasheeka finishes the sigh she only half started a moment ago, releasing the breath and the nervousness that clung to it as she hears the ships will not come to battle. The relief is short lived, however, as the Eeee directs the captain to kneel. The nervousness that had for a moment returns, surpassing its former intensity and becoming fear as she realizes she isn't sure if she should kneel as well. Quickly she glances around, look to the crew, and to the bat for instruction.

Ledyr makes a little noise in his throat, and he hauls on the robe of the merchant's tunic, motioning downwards to his crew, too, as he drops to mimic the bat's position. Under his breath, the captain grumbles, "Vhai-eaten kowtowing barbarian savages," but he keeps his head down.

The rest of the crew is slower to respond, but they do so, rather less gracefully than their betters. The vulpine surveys the ship, head turning as he looks from one end of the vessel to the other.

Rasheeka drops down to mirror the bat's kneeling as well, ears splayed, face wrinkled as the stress of the exchange takes its toll on the slave's nerves.

"Diabaino," the fox declares, which Rasheeka recalls from Pesach's lesson as being a word with no equivalent in Khattan. It is used when a master or leader wishes to tell his servant that an action performed is acceptable, and can also include the dismissal, or putting at ease, of the servant, depending on the context. In this case, the soldier turns away, and first his warship, then the other, haul at their oars to turn their ships about and escort The Laughing Mercat to harbor.

"I think we can get up now," Pesach whispers to the others, in Eeee, having forgotten that only Rasheeka speaks that language.

Slowly Rasheeka draws herself up off the ground, eyes cast down, hand gripping her chest as she breathes quickly. Reading about foreign cultures in books, safe in her room that is now lost to her, was much safer – and far easier on her nerves. She'd have been just fine with leaving such adventure to others, but she reminds herself much to her dismay those others happen to own her.

---

Meleti
The buildings of this coastal city are mostly three to four stories tall, each story smaller than the last, with a roof that overhangs the lower, leaving each level ringed by its own outdoor balcony, or landing. Large glazed windows feature prominently in most of the buildings, and the balconies often have glass doors that open onto them. Plant life and greenery also abound, with small trees and even gardens growing on the landings and rooftops. Expertly jointed stones without mortar are the most common form of construction material, while the roofs are tiled with small curved sections of ceramic. Wood, too, is in evidence, frequently coated by a hard sealing lacquer. Very little metal is in evidence in any of the houses. The streets are broad and paved with flat stones, jointed as the buildings are, without mortar.

In ten days at Meleti, Rasheeka has seen nothing of the city except what is visible through the windows of Katharsi House. Surrounded by a high stone wall, the house, built in the tiered fashion like the others of Meleti, is sizable and occupied by no one but the people of The Laughing Mercat. Pesach explained to them that "Katharsi Houses" are sort of a cross between an inn and a holding cell – the large cities of Laos Enosi all have one, and they are used when travelers unknown to the natives of the city come. By tradition, such travelers must stay for ten days at the Katharsi House to "purify" themselves, before they are fit to meet or speak with any of the natives.

"Of course, it's quite an honor for us to even be allowed in the Katharsi House," Pesach adds. "They're for travelers from other parts of Laos Enosi, mainly. Until Kyrios Hali allowed me to stay in his, I don't think there'd been a recorded instance of someone from outside Apagorevo being permitted inside one."

The crew grumbles and resents the interment, and Ledyr ends up clubbing a pair of truant sailors trying to escape from the confines of the courtyard. "Are you mad? These people aren't going to slap you in the brig for a couple of days – they'll kill you, and us too, probably! Do you think you bunch of kittens are going to blend into a city of foxes and humans? Get it through your heads or I will kill you myself the next time I catch you at it!"

Though the sailors still grouse – "What's the use of being on land if you can't walk around freely any road?" – they obey. As confinement goes, however, it is infinitely more pleasant than the stinking, crowded ship. The overhanging roofs make the rooms dim despite the large windows, but the furnishings are all low to the ground, giving the chambers a pleasantly airy feeling. The thick walls insulate them against the chill air, and the house has some strange form of heating, involving steam, as far as Rasheeka can tell, for the rooms have no fireplaces, but are comfortable nonetheless.

Everyone is bathed, most of them several times, in one of the house's two enclosed bathing rooms. Water actually runs into the rooms via pipes, with separate taps for either hot or cold, making the place feel luxurious indeed. On the tenth day, Rasheeka's masters return to her the clothes they bought her in – much finer and cleaner than the tunic she had before, even after she put it through multiple scrubbings. "Go bathe yourself again," Captain Ledyr tells her in the morning. "We may need you at noon."

Bathing Chamber
A tiled room with a sunken pool large enough to accommodate a half-dozen people comfortably. On one end are the ceramic taps, which control the flow of hot and cold water into the pool. The floor has a few flat reed mats for bathers to stand or even lie upon while they dry off, as well as a pair of stands for towels and clothing.

The Khattan slave, the only one of her species by her own calculation, enters the bathing chamber with her fine clothes hugged tightly in her arms. Besides her glasses, the clothing is the only thing she has left to remind herself of home. At one time they would have been clothing unremarkable from any other gathering of robes and vests in her wardrobe, but now they are called her "fine clothes", worn for "special occasions" as if her clothes had exceeded her own worth. She frowns at the idea as she meanders over to the side of the bath and places them carefully upon the ground where they will not get wet.

After Rasheeka has started the water running, steam soon fills the room, fogging the glass of the long mirror against one wall. As she tests the waters of the filling tub with her fingers, she hears the door open. A pair of young female Savanites walk in, signing to each other, bundles of clothes tucked beneath their arms.

Rasheeka looks up as the others enter the bathing chamber and she frowns briefly. A lifetime ago Savanite slaves might have entered just as they are now, though it would be her bath water they would be carrying, or perhaps her clothes. It hasn't been easy for the once noble to come to terms with being on the same social scale as the other cats, and given this unease she has avoided speaking with them as much as possible and kept much to herself. She settles herself to sit by the edge of the pool, her attention brought back to the water she had almost forgotten about, and lowers her legs in to the water as she shifts her gaze to stare thoughtfully in to the stirring liquid.

Shock-of-light, a woman with a broad white ruff over her throat and chest, ignores Rasheeka, just as the former noble does she. But Winter-stars, younger than her companion, offers the feline a friendly greeting. "Hello, Rasheeka!" she signs, bending to make sure the Khattan can see the words. She uses the sign for Rasheeka's name that one of her tutors had given her, in another life: "Studious Shy One."

Despite her feelings on the matter Rasheeka finds herself smiling anyway, just a touch, at the friendly greeting. In the strange city, with her life as it is, happiness no matter what the size or shape is a rare commodity – one the trading vessel does not deal in. The non-Savanite girl lifts her wet hand and returns in sign, "Greetings, Winter-stars." She includes no praise or flourish, and the sign for "greeting" is a more formal version of the sign for "hello".

"Do you know what's going to happen next? Shock overheard one of the sailors saying we're not going to be sold here – but gifted. To the king! Do you think that's so? Did the captain tell you?" Winter-stars signs back. She doesn't seem the least bit put out by either Rasheeka's formality, or the coolness of her greeting.

The other spotted cat draws off her tunic, kicks away her sandals, and hops into the pool, not even bothering to test the temperature of the half-filled tub first. She splashes water over herself, slicking down her fur and hair.

The smile fades as quickly as it came, and Rasheeka finds herself wanting to return her gaze to the water though the necessary attention needed to "speak" and "listen" to sign continues to drag her attention back. "I know not," she signs. The splash causes Rasheeka to look up blinking, quickly to Winter-stars as the informal manner of the older Savanite makes her distinctly ill at ease. She frowns, and adds in sign, "Dagh or Kasaris," a phrase meant to mean the choice of two equally unpleasant outcomes, or more simply, "What does it matter?"

"I'd just like to know. Wouldn't you? This place scares me. I mean, the peninsula does. Not this house. I like this house, actually. Especially the bathing rooms. Do you think they all treat their slaves so well? There's so much room here! I've never had a room to myself before!" Winter-stars signs excitedly. The other Savanite gives a loud snort and splashes water at Winter-stars.

Rasheeka lets her legs dangle in the water, stirring up eddies with her toes. After a moment she looks up again and signs, "I have read little of this place. It is a mystery to me. Logos's empty shelf is in Kasaris's shadows." The final sentence is another saying, this one meaning amongst other uses, "What one does not know is frightening."

"I thought you knew everything, Rasheeka," the Savanite signs.

Shock-of-Light wades over, the tub three-quarters full now, and covering the Khatta's ankles as she sits on the edge. "You are a silly girl," Shock signs to the other Savanite. "Doesn't matter what they've planned for us to her, anyway. She'll stay with the Captain. They won't be selling her or giving her away."

It is, perhaps, a better fate than Rasheeka had imagined if only because it is one she knows. Translating for a ship, it's not so bad at all. Not so bad, she thinks, and tries to make the best of it, trying to believe that's true. She stares at the older Savanite's hand for a moment, looking somber. She raises her hand and begins to sign a response but pauses and frowns a bit deeper, letting her hand fall as she turns her eyes to the water again.

"I am not silly! And how do you know?" Winter-stars asks, making a face at the other.

"Because she speaks the language of the captain, and the merchant, and even this place and their funny old bat. She is useful to them, too useful for them to sell here. They want her to replace that old bat. How many more voyages would he be good for, anyway?" Shock says, her signs brusque and practical. "She knows many languages – she is not some silly Savanite who barely understands her own finger-wiggling."

Rasheeka catches the exchange reflected in the pool, and her she blinks, ears twitching as she squints to make out the signs distorted in the waves. After a few jumbled words she looks up again and watches the two "speak" more carefully, and when it is done she lifts a hand and signs, "It is my wish you are happy." The sentiment is offered somewhat lamely as the Khatta girl finds herself uncertain of the proper sentiment, if one can even suggest another slave could be happy, and the words too haughty – the words of a noble wishing her slave well. The mistake is caught too late for her to change it, however, so she adds quickly, "Be well," which also isn't quite right in her mind.

Winter-stars wiggles her ears at Rasheeka. "Oh, I hope you are happy, too!" she tells her, heartfelt. "I'll miss you if you're not coming with us!"

Shock rolls her eyes with an exaggerated lift of her chin, then pointedly turns away, dunking her face in the now-filled tub.

And much to her own surprise Rasheeka finds that she will, indeed, miss Winter-stars as well when she thinks on their matter of the separation. Feeling a need to express this, and wishing to be more friendly, Rasheeka offers, "I do often speak with Savanites. My House … " She smiles again as she signs more, and finds as she does so having someone to talk to – anyone to talk to – is more of a relief than she knew. "… House Al-Elsayi had many slaves. We did not speak. You are very nice."

"So are you. Don't pay Shock-of-Light any mind, Rasheeka. She's bitter because she was free once, too. Like you. You'd think that would make her understand, but it just makes her angrier, I think," Winter-stars signs back. She smiles and wiggles her ears a little, though she doesn't seem to think anything is funny. Then her eyes go wide. "We'd better get in the tub! We won't have time to dry off properly if we take too long!" The Savanite strips hastily out of her clothing. By now Shock is through washing her hair and is scrubbing at the fur on one leg.

Watching the other girl hurry in to the tub for a moment before she follows suit, Rasheeka finds her apprehension at the whole affair eased somewhat by the friendly Winter-stars. After a moment Rasheeka has removed her thrice-scrubbed rough spun and set them neatly down before she sinks in to the pool and settles in to a corner where she begins to wash. In between cleaning she signs, "Our presence here will be written in Logos's books. None have come in nigh-uncountable holidays." She pauses to recall, then adds, "Twelve-hundred turns of the season."

Shock catches the signs, and her ears wiggle. "Yes. 'Merchant Wahed Laaman and Captain Ledyr chart new territory, presenting a barbarian king with gifts of iron, slaves, and spices.' That'll be our entry. One of the gifts."

"But it's still nice to think – we're doing something no one's ever done before!" Winter-stars enthuses. "At least, not in a really long time."

Rasheeka looks between the two Savanites for a moment, and adds, "A page in Logos's book is better than a page in Dagh's." She lowers her hands and scoops up some water, then splashes it over her face. "It is a wise thing you say." And to Rasheeka the idea that she'll be part of history, if only a sentence or a footnote, is more comforting than the sight of shore. Keeping that in mind she continues to wash and this time her smile lasts.

---

When the appointed hour comes, a representative of Sychi meets with Rasheeka's master. The slave recognizes, with some apprehension, his voice as that of the vulpine from the ship. He introduces himself this time, as Archon Abydos Steno, and is not much friendlier for the ten intervening days. But he delivers his message in level tones: the captain and the merchant are to present themselves and their gifts before tyr Sychi this afternoon. The archon himself will accompany them, with his men. The implication – that the strangers cannot be trusted without an escort – is clear to Rasheeka.

Ledyr and Wahed thank the archon politely regardless, then prepare to leave. Most of the crew is left behind at Kathartsi House; only the slaves, Pesach, and the two partners leave, bringing all of the Drokars with them, as well as some of the other livestock and a selection of goods from the ship.

They arrange the procession of their people with great care. The two partners lead them, riding matched Drokars, while Pesach and Rasheeka walk alongside them, to either side. In a double row behind each come the slaves – two male Savanites on one side, two females on the other, and then the pair of Rhians at the rear. They all wear simple togas of white linen, belted at the waist with dyed-green leather.

Behind the Rhians come two open wagons, driven by Savanites and drawn by the remaining Drokars from the ship. They are piled high with elaborately carved chests, tall ornamented urns, and iron-bound casks. Two of the chests are cast from steel, and the use of metal – there and in the fixtures on the wagons – draws the eye and attention of passersbys. Flanking them on all sides are soldiers of the archon – a dozen in all, not counting their leader – clad in their armor and marching, stiff-backed, eyes forward, indifferent to the spectacle they present. Abydos Steno rides before the merchants, on a wardrokar wearing barding of similar make to his own armor.

As they make their slow way down the city's main promenade, Rasheeka reflects on the oddness of the place. It goes deeper than just the curious architecture, or the funny-looking people with their unfamiliar clothes. She starts to realize why, as they continue – it's the silence in the streets. Not an absolute silence – there are quite a few people around, and they talk to each other in normal tones. But the booths, street vendors, and hawkers of Tizhar and the Himaat are wholly absent. No one shouts out their wares on the sidewalks or bellows a command across a crowded city street. Indeed, even the buildings on either side have no signs upon them to make obvious whether they are homes or shops – only by peering through the windows and seeing arrayed goods or gatherings around many tables can Rasheeka tell that these are businesses.

Even as crowds start to gather to watch them, the city feels neither loud or crowded, the way one would on an ordinary day in Rasheeka's hometown. The people do not call out to the foreigners, or even shout to one another, confining their conversation to hushed murmurings.

Rasheeka had often spent her time deep in reading, imagining places far away and the people who dwelt within them. She had read of Nagai, the once-capitol of the Nagai Empire (and still capitol if one was to believe the loyalist reports she had read), Babel with its unlikely towers and frightening reputation, and many other places beside. The difference in reading of them and being here is a stark as light is to total shadow. She did not think it would be like her home, but still the pervasive strangeness strikes her regardless. And more so she cannot help be feel she is far away, that truly, home is not here.

After what seems like an hour of walking, Rasheeka lifts her head to blink at the mirage unfolding before her. A pyramid higher and wider than any of the others they had seen earlier rises before them, with long, shallow steps cut to form a great staircase jutting out from the front, sloping up to an entrance at the highest level, some six floors above the ground. Abstract frescoed designs alternate with carved vines, leaves, and flowers in ornamenting the building, and live greenery grows at each level of the platform, adding to the artful appearance. The walls are of polished granite, smooth and dark gray, and the windows all covered by sheer curtains that screen the interior from view.

"Morpheus does mimic Ashtoreth," whispers the slave Khatta in surprise as she looks upon the building. She has never seen its like, and only read about such structures while exploring the literary works on the great pyramids of Nagai. Quickly she covers her mouth and bows her head again, reddening at the sudden if quiet outburst, splaying her ears to the side and hoping no one overheard her.

No one pays the young slave any heed as the partners halt their Drokars when they reach the base of the great pyramid, staring up at it. Even Ledyr looks daunted. After a brief consultation, they arrange the slaves – except for Rasheeka – to carry various items. The pair of Rhians are given a steel chest to carry between them, and a pair of male Savanites, a cask. Each of the four remaining Savanites takes a single urn. The rest is left at the foot of the steps. Wahed keeps glancing back to his Drokars and wagons as Ledyr starts to lead the procession up the steps.

Finally, Ledyr seizes the Khatta by the arm and pulls him along. "Dagh's left cheek, Wahed! We're at the steps of the king's palace! We've got an escort of armed men! No one is going to walk off with our stuff in broad daylight – especially when it's all gifts for the king."

The merchant brushes irritably at his sleeve, trying to yank his arm back. "I know, I know," he grouses, striding up the steps beside his partner. Pesach gives a little shrug to Rasheeka, and falls into his place beside and just behind them.

The merchant's apprehension causes Rasheeka to giggle quietly. When the Eeee shrugs at her she bows to him, ostensibly to acknowledge his authority but more immediately to hide her reaction. As she rises she notices the others walking up the stairs and hurries along after them all stepping in just behind the Eeee with head bowed.

Hall of the Tyr
Unlike the small upper levels on most of the pyramids of Meleti, this one is long and grand. On either wall spreads detailed and almost eerily realistic murals, depicting what might be the view from the top of a mountain, giving the impression that the hall rests on a natural peak, rather than a man-made height. The sensation of being outdoors is further enhanced by the slanted glass ceiling, from which sunlight pours in to illuminate the hall. The tile mosaic of the floor takes the motif one further, showing a mountain side where the perspective falls away to either side, as if seen from a vantage actually above the ground, so that now the viewer is flying.

The great hall contains no furnishings save one: a massive, dramatically carved throne. The arms spread out into dragon wings, the back rises up as the tail of the dragon, and the head splays forward against the ground, serving as foot rest. The whole is painted, startlingly lifelike, with each individual scale picked out carefully in shades of white and gold.

Lining either side of the hall leading to the throne are more armed guardsmen – a score of vulpines on the left, and score of humans on the right. Seated on the throne is a figure as motionless as a statue. He wears boots of white leather with cuffs folded up just above the knee, and scrollwork of gold embroidered up and down the sides. Leggings show the same colors reversed. The loose sleeves of a white shirt are bound into gold bracers over each forearm, inset with diamonds. A long, open, sleeveless coat of gold, heavily embroidered and similarly adorned by precious stones, drapes down to his ankles. Hair of a blond so pale it is almost white is arrayed carefully over his shoulders and down his chest, mixing with the chains – set with more diamonds – that attach to a gold mask of a fox's head that covers most of his face. Only his lower jaw and his hands are visible. His skin is furless, and a golden tan.

The archon who escorted them goes before them into the hall. He genuflects before the figure on the dragon-throne. "Dynatos tyr," he says, "At your command, I have brought these unworthy foreigners."

The figure speaks, and Wahed gives a little start, as if surprised to see that he is a living man and not a statue after all. "Diabaino. They may approach me, and speak." He lifts one hand, and beckons to the men waiting by the door.

"We go forward now," Pesach whispers in Gallisian. Ledyr nods, and, taking Wahed's arm to move the Khatta along, advances. As the foreigners enter the hall, their native escort peels off to the left and the right, taking positions behind the evenly spaced rows of the tyr's guard on either side of the room.

Archon Abydos Steno rises, bowing to his lord, and moves to stand on the tyr's left, between and a little behind the two guards nearest the throne on that side.

From where she stood, head bowed, Rasheeka rises and begins to follow along. Immediately she is taken aback by the wonders of the room, and finds its grandness most certainly overwhelming, as much as her part in it scares her. Unlike before she has been instructed to translate directly, and she sorely wishes she had had better chance to practice – more time, more instruction. Apprehension becomes worry, and the slave girl can feel her heart begin to race as a lump catches in her throat.

When the two men reach a spot about eight feet from the dragon's head, they stop to genuflect before the tyr. As a ripple, Pesach and the slaves behind them genuflect, too – the slaves making quick shift to set down their various burdens first.

Like the rest, Rasheeka genuflects in turn just as she was bidden to do. The motion is a minor relief, it gives her a chance to swallow as she dips, though her worry continues to build as the time of her translation grows near.

"Rise," the enthroned man says. Rasheeka notices that the tyr's accent is closer to that of the archon's than her Eeee tutor's.

Rasheeka visibly pales when she realizes she's supposed to translate the king's words. At first she tries to speak, and though her mouth moves no words escape her. Her ears flatten to the sides of her head and she tries again, beginning with "D-d-" before she pauses, inhales, and forces clear and slow, "Dynatos tyr … bids you to rise, most este- … Masters," the tyr's words translated to Rephidim Standard as she was instructed to do.

The two merchants rise, and the rest of the gathering slowly mimics them. Ledyr gives a little head bob to the tyr reflexively, as if he felt like the genuflection bit simply doesn't quite cover it.

The tyr's mask faces Captain Ledyr first. The eyes of the mask are filled by a black stone that conceals the wearer's own. At first glance, Rasheeka cannot tell if the tyr would even be able to see out. "Enrique Ledyr," he says, and the Doberman's ears perk reflexively at hearing his name. "I am pleased to see you again. Tell me who your companion is."

Having risen in time with the others, Rasheeka stands nervously beside her masters, hands clasped in front of herself and shaking slightly, body tilted in a reflexive touch of a bow. She keeps her eyes at the tyr's feet, though his face remains within her field of vision. She translates his command with more ease than his first, though her words are still slow and somewhat shaky.

"My partner is Wahed Lamaan bin Shaab, a merchant of Tizhar, who has graciously agreed to help me repay, in some small measure, the enormous debt I owe to you, dynatos tyr." Ledyr looks back at the prince as he answers, lapsing into Gallisian, as that is the tongue most familiar to him.

Translation grows easier, and as the slave Khatta relaxes in to the role of translator she finds her expertise with languages allows her to perform the duty in a way that begins to feel natural. In a strange way it reminds her of her lessons at home when she would be given a word and be told to translate it several ways. She translates the tyr's words more quickly now, and the nervous edge begins to fade.

The tyr repeats the unfamiliar syllables of the merchant's name, turning his head to regard the Khatta man. Wahed's ears twitch at the sound of his name, strongly accented by Laosian sounds. "What induced you to help Enrique Ledyr, Merchant of Tizhar?"

Rasheeka's eyes take on a focusing intensity as she begins to concentrate more and worry less. She does see the fabulously garbed king upon his throne, but she tries to not think of him – to think of him reminds here of where she is and what she is doing, and then the lump in her throat threatens to return. No, she thinks of his voice, and of her master's voice, and tries to keep her attentions there. Her translations continue to become progressively more smooth except for a pause now and again as she puzzles over a word she is uncertain of.

Wahed looks nervous at this question, his tail tip twitching. His face wars between admitting the unpalatable truth – greed and a hunger for new markets – and risking a blatant lie. He settles for something in the middle, replying, "Dynatos tyr, none of my land has visited yours in living memory. I could not resist the lure of a chance to see shores long forbidden to my people."

Rasheeka bites her lip as she puzzles out how to translate the merchant's sentiment and meaning properly. The words themselves worry her, she finds herself wondering how the tyr will react to them. Regardless she translates them as best she can and avoids embellishments for the simple answer.

Tyr Sychi's tenor voice has a soothing, harmonious quality to it, which helps Rasheeka relax when she focuses upon it. It compliments Ledyr's deeper tones well. By contrast, the Khattan merchant speaks with a nasally whine that mars the elegant dynamics of the other two. "It pleases me to render those shores forbidden no longer, to those who come with peaceful intentions and generous minds," the tyr answers. "There is much to be gained, on all sides, from increased contact, provided it is of the correct kind."

As she listens and translates tyr Sychi's words in her own mind the slave girl finds relief that she conveyed the meaning correctly, and that the merchant's words did not offend. She cannot help but also find the tyr's voice a joy to listen to once she filters all other distractions out, and thinks it compares closely to music. Along with Captain Ledyr's voice it reminds her of a certain kind of music, that of harmonious sung words – opera, she recalls it to be. Conversely the merchant's own voice is a bad chord, and she thinks that he does not belong speaking here when her world is momentarily nothing but voices. The translation is made easily, and her nervousness abandons her.

The Doberman wags his tail. "Dynatos tyr speaks with great wisdom," he says. "If it would please the dynatos tyr, allow me the pleasure of revealing the gifts your humble servant has brought, in tribute to your bountiful greatness and the generosity you showed me, when last I saw these shores."

The Gallee's words are of a quality very familiar to Rasheeka – it's a kind of compliment-laden speech, and that she knows quite well. The translation is made simple for it and the feline has little difficulty relaying that sort of message.

"Diabaino," the tyr answers, inclining his head slightly.

The word lacks a simple translation, and though it is unique and easy to remember the slave Khatta worries the others have yet to understand it. She tilts her head slightly and glances to her masters to see if they understood.

Ledyr darts his gaze to Rasheeka, raising an eyebrow when no translation is forthcoming. He glances to Pesach, who whispers, "Go ahead."

Rasheeka gives her masters an apologetic look, bows deeply to them, then turns and resumes as she was.

Relieved, the Doberman steps to one side, gesturing to the slaves to bring forward their burdens. One by one, and then in pairs, the slaves bring forward their goods: an urn of sweet dried pala fruits, one of olive oil, one of dried spices, and one – much to Rasheeka's surprise – full of white pearls. That catches the tyr's attention, and he gestures for one of his men to go to the opened urn and return to him with a handful of the precious stones, while Ledyr gives a little more information on the nature and decorative uses of pearls.

As the items are brought forward, Rasheeka moves unobtrusively out of the way to stand, bowed as she had been before, a few steps further out to her side of the room. There she watches the goings-on carefully, looking for potential points where she might need to translate and doing so when the time comes. Now that the attention is off the four of them and on to the gifts she is able to ease all the more for it.

The male Savanites bring forward a cask of wine, and then the Rhians bring the last long chest, of steel, to the tyr. Ledyr opens it himself, revealing rows of swords, laid side by side in their scabbards. He picks one from the box, appears to consider drawing it for a half-second until he remembers he's in the presence of a paranoid king with fifty-odd armed guards. Instead, he lays it on his arm, hilt toward the tyr, and says, "Steel, dynatos tyr."

Although uncertain at first, Rasheeka remembers there is indeed a word for steel, and once she is certain she translates the small sentence without further delay.

Again, one of the two guards standing to either side of the throne advances to take the sword, and offers it to his lord. Without rising, the tyr unsheathes the blade, the motion swift and easy, as of one familiar with such weapons. He holds it in his right hand, glancing down the blade, then carefully testing the sharpness of the edge. Then, he rises. Something about the guards – as if they had all drawn a collective breath, though none move – makes Rasheeka think them surprised. Tyr Sychi steps away from the throne, standing to one side of the great dragon's head. The large hall and measured distance left between him and his guests gives the man ample room to test the weapon. He moves through a series of practiced swings so graceful and easy they might be the steps of a dance. The unexpected maneuvers come as such a surprise that Rasheeka almost doesn't notice another remarkable revelation: the tyr has a fox's tail, long and bushy, with white-gold fur just a few shades darker than his hair.

Captain Ledyr swallows a couple of times, watching the man practice, and the merchant unconsciously takes a step back. Tyr Sychi finishes by sheathing the blade, as smoothly as he drew it. He shakes his head, and for an instant, Rasheeka glimpses – something – through the dark stones of the mask, and she realizes they are translucent, not opaque. "Steel is wasted on your sword smiths," the tyr says. He gives the sword back to a guard, who returns it to the box.

Rasheeka's mind, prone to study and studious pursuits, begins flipping through its figurative pages, recalling more literal works she has read on the various species of Sinai. Fnerfs, Keiltyn, Foxes – none of their descriptions fit the tyr, and only "Exile," she thinks would encompass a man with a fox tail – a label she would not dare speak, and one she is not even certain of. She has read scientific reports from various Nagai and Chronotopian journals mentioning the oddities present in surface nations, but she doesn't think they ever extended this far. Before she allows herself to gape, Rasheeka quickly ducks her head and bites her lip, peering at the man with shaded eyes. Such is her surprise at his nature, and then his words, that it takes her a moment to gather herself and translate.

"But I will not judge the gift-giver by the lack of afentis. The sentiment is no less generous, and the metal no less precious, for that," the tyr adds. The two partners, who had visibly wilted when Rasheeka translated the first words, perk up when she translates this.

Tyr Sychi reseats himself, threading his tail easily through the gap between the wings and the tail of the dragon-throne. The perfect arrangement of his hair, however, has been decidedly marred by the brief exercise.

Captain Ledyr regains his composure enough to continue. "We have brought Drokars of our land for you, dynatos tyr, and other exotic animals we hope will provide some interest for you, and other gifts which await your leisure at the foot of your palace."

"And these slaves," Wahed interjects hastily, speaking Khattan. "The Savanites – the spotted felines are mute and bred to slavery, most useful for keeping secrets, while the tall Rhians are strong and sturdy at physical labor."

Deciding to remain where she is, and thus where she can best hide any further reaction to the strange ruler, Rasheeka translates from where she has been. As she goes through the words she cannot help but remember the energetic Winter-stars, so that when she reaches the word "Savanite" she hesitates for a moment. The slave girl is the only one besides the old bat who really talked to her, and her loss rubs a wound inside her that had not yet healed. Her expression grows sad, though her visage is kept mostly hidden by her bow.

Tyr Sychi nods. The mask turns from Ledyr to Wahed, then back again, as Ledyr murmurs, "I forgot the slaves! Were you telling him about the slaves?" and the Khatta nods.

For the first time, the tyr turns his attention to Rasheeka. "Enrique Ledyr," he asks, "what language do you speak?"

When Rasheeka feels the tyr's eyes upon her she shrinks noticeably, clasping her hands together tighter and bowing more deeply. She repeats the tyr's question in Rephidim Standard.

Ledyr blinks. "Gallisian, sir," he answers, forgetting himself.

The quick reply is translated verbatim by the feline slave.

The tyr nods. "And you, merchant of Tizhar? You do not speak this – Gah-lee-shahn-er, am I correct?"

Wahed darts a glance to the translating girl. His hands fidget, clasping and unclasping. "Khattan, dynatos tyr. And Rephidim Standard."

Rasheeka doesn't seem to notice that any further attention given her with her eyes to the floor as they are. She translates quickly, feeling the pressure as well as the eyes of the mask.

Sychi's eyes rest on Rasheeka. "And when you translate for them, you speak a third language, Interpreter?" he inquires, his voice mild and pleasant.

The slave begins to translate the question until she realizes it is meant for her. This causes her to pause with a sudden startled mew, and she dips lower for a moment before rising and answering in her own words, "Y-yes, dynatos tyr, the language of 'Rephidim Standard.'"

A nod of acknowledgment. "You have offered me rich gifts today, Enrique Ledyr, but such that, as you say, cannot repay the debt you owe." The golden mask watches the Khattan girl as the tyr speaks. "Yet you have in your possession but one thing more that I would value above all else."

The translator repeats the tyr's words in Rephidim Standard, just as she says she does. Her tail flicks uneasily behind her as she feels and hears that the tyr is still looking at her rather than sees.

"I don't like the sound of this," the merchant mutters under his breath.

Ledyr hushes him. "Ask him what that is, Rasheeka. Politely."

Rasheeka thinks on the translation for a moment, having been asked to put it in her own words rather than relay a sentence directly. The extra request that she be polite about it need not be said, the girl not having considered any other form of question and finally she decides on "Dynatos tyr, my masters ask what that might be." For a moment she considers adding Tizhan-style compliments as well, but decides against it as she remembers the elderly bat's instruction.

"You." The tyr lifts one hand from the arm of his lap. Sunlight gleams off the bracer on his forearm, making the diamonds studded into it glitter, as he gestures, unmistakably, to Rasheeka.

"M-" The translator's automatic and almost instinctive relay of the tyr's message is broken off as she consider the single word answer – a word that carries more weight and meaning than the whole of her translations thus far combined. Her surprise is such that she mews again, reaching up to cover her mouth as her eyes wide. The translation is left unfinished.

"Her? He can't have her," Wahed snaps, blinking. Given the single word and the accompanying motion, he doesn't bother waiting for the completed translation. "Look, we've given him quite a lot already – "

"Wahed, let's not be hasty here," Ledyr intercedes, offering a hand to stall the merchant.

"No! Rasheeka – ah – tell him we would be more than happy to gift you to him, but it is not in our power to do so, for you are a free woman," the Khattan merchant orders, forcefully.

Rasheeka rises at the sudden and direct request for her to lie. Were it any other lie she may well have spoken it without hesitation, but those words and that lie are too much. She is not free, the whole voyage and the days after have reminded her she is not free, and she looks up to stare at her Khattan master in disbelieving accusatory stare.

"Tell him!" The Khattan bristles at her insubordination, striding towards her. "What are you waiting for?"

The Doberman turns to follow his movements, glancing apprehensively to the armed men around them, and the tyr, waiting behind his emotionless golden mask. "Ah, Wahed … "

"I-t-t-t … it-t-t's … " protests the Khattan girl meekly as the feline master talks towards her. His approach causes her to back away out of fear, and she too looks between the others as she draws back. The memory of her dead father returns to her, and her mother who committed suicide to avoid slavery this slavery – and in turn condemned Rasheeka to it. The words are so simple, she would just have to say them and Wahed would relent, but she can't draw herself to do so. It's more than a lie to her, yet she is terrified of Wahed.

"You worthless insolent little – this is just a plot – you're trying to trick us – !" Wahed aims a vicious backhanded slap at her face. Ledyr springs forward, trying to catch the feline's arm before the blow lands, but misses.

Rasheeka is the daughter of a noble house, she lifted books, not swords. She had never until recently performed any great physical actions, nor is she a fighter. As such, does not even think to dodge the blow, surprised as she is someone would strike at her at all. She barely has time to open her mouth in a soundless "mew" before she is struck – after that she finds herself falling, stumbling half a step over her robes and crumbling to her knees where she catches herself from falling further with a hand. Her other hand reaches for her now arching cheek as she stares up at Wahed, shaking.

As one, fifty-three swords flash from their sheaths at the blow. In the blink of an eye, the fox-tailed man has crossed the space between them, and interposed himself between slave and Khattan master. A naked steel blade glitters in his right hand, held at eye level with the shorter merchant, who abruptly realizes the deadly peril he is in. "Interpreter," the tyr says, and his voice still holds that pleasant, musical quality Rasheeka noticed about it earlier. "Tell me what this man said to you, and tell me why you did not translate it earlier."

Captain Ledyr says, "Rasheeka, please tell him that you are his, that I am very sorry for all of this and that I would be really, really, really grateful if he would just please not kill Wahed because the man is truly useful to us."

The interpreter mouths the words, unable to speak them immediately, shaken as she is by the request and the following blow. As she looks between the tyr, the merchant master, and the captain, she slowly gathers herself and answers in a voice made unsteady by pain and tears that threaten to form. "It-t … " she begins, her words slow as she tries to speak without stuttering, " … it … dynatos tyr, it was a lie. A lie, m-may Primus f-f-forgive my mistake, b-but a lie I could not speak. Bu- … but most honorable Captain Ledyr, Master Ledyr, asks that Master Wahed's life be spared."

"It is death to lie to a tyr," Sychi says, his voice flat, with a hard edge on it.

Rasheeka's expression darkens, and she dips her head as she cradles her bruised face. "I-in my land, Dynatos tyr, it is d-death for a slave to disobey their master," she says. A pause, and she adds, "Fortunatis's gift. We m-must both die. The lie would not have b-been known if I obeyed. I-t-t is my folly."

Pesach translates the tyr's words for the benefit of the captain, who covers his face with one hand. "O sweet Dagh," Ledyr says, "You damned fool, Wahed … ah … tell him … " The captain gathers himself. "Dynatos tyr, the merchant of Tizhar did not lie to you, for the slave prevented him from doing so when she refused to interpret for him. He is … he's a scruddy stupid man, dynatos tyr, but it will be really, very, difficult for me to get any other merchants out here if I don't bring him back in one piece." For his part, Wahed has frozen in place with fear, staring at the blade of the sword, held inches from his eyes.

The slave girl remains where she fell. Sore and faced with not only the ire of her masters but also execution for her insolence she finds herself numbed by more than wounds. All that had lead to this point streaks through her mind, blunting her will, making the worst of it lose its sting. She says nothing, leaving the translation to Pesach.

The tyr's blade wavers as Pesach relays the captain's words. He lowers it, holding it straight out to his side. Then he exhales deeply – and, with a swift, sweeping motion, brings the blade around and cleaves Wahed's head from his shoulders. The feline does not even have time to protest. Blood fountains from his neck as his body collapses to the ground, spraying the room and everyone in it with red. "It is death to lie to a tyr," Sychi repeats. He looks directly at the stricken captain behind the dead merchant, his clothes soaked in blood. "I understand, Enrique Ledyr. But I will not open my shores to liars and criminals. If this is the sort of man available in the wider world, then I know now why Apagorevo has always been closed to it. This audience is over. Leave now."

Ledyr opens and closes his mouth a few times while Pesach translates, then he simply genuflects, as does the Eeee. They withdraw without another word, leaving behind the gifts, the body, the slaves – and Rasheeka.

Rasheeka twitches when the man is decapitated, hearing rather than seeing the awful event until the blood fountains over her and the body collapses within her sight. She stares even as her master withdraws, and when she finally does turn to watch him she sees the captain leave her behind, and it is too much. The slave girl breaks in to open sobbing, her hand sliding to cover her eyes and the horror beyond as she waits for the blade to find her next.

The tyr holds out his bloody sword, while one of his men steps forward with a cloak to wipe it off. Shaking his head, he dispatches another to bring servants to clean the mess. He re-sheathes his sword, then turns to see the girl still crying on the floor. "Interpreter, happily, you are in my country, not I in yours." His voice sounds weary. "Here, we do not kill a man, woman, or slave for refusing to lie." A half dozen servants boil into the room, using an entrance behind the throne. They carry mops and buckets. The tyr gestures to one of the guards standing to the left of his throne when the foreigners had arrived. "See to the disposition of my new acquisitions, Rasmus." The man bows deeply to him, and the tyr departs, his coat flapping behind him, as a pair of servants scurry after, trying to clean the blood from his clothes as he goes.

Long after the tyr had left her to the care of the servants Rasheeka had not stopped crying, she had heard the words but had not truly believed them until such time and manner of events had passed as to assure her she was not destined to join the merchant in execution. Blinking and red eyed she found herself staring at what she thought might be a hand maiden, and there nearby was Winter-stars shaken but alive and smiling – and by that smile she knew that she had been spared.