Rasheeka's concerns that there would be no food to eat on Kyriaki proved to be groundless, as the dining hall staff set out loaves of mopono for the Astikos servants and slaves to take with them for the morrow. Mopono prove to be inch-thick brown rectangles, cracker-hard on the outside, but filled with a lumpy green-yellow paste that tastes nutty, and, like much Laosian food, heavily spiced and with a faint bitter aftertaste. They seem to be quite durable, as long as they are left unbroken.

However, the slaves, full from having gorged at dinner the night before in anticipation of a fast, have little appetite for additional food even the next morning, and their mopono remain stowed in tidy cloth packages. Not long after dawn they gather outside the dining room – outside, because the doors prove to be locked. After brief consideration of the various possibilities, they adjourn to the kitchen. The kitchen doors stand open, with a few people wandering in and out, but nothing compared to the heavy traffic they witnessed on their first day.

Rasheeka and the other foreign slaves annex a corner distant from the main doors. They gather around Rasheeka in imitation of a Laosian classroom: the Savanites and Rhians kneeling, or cross-legged, on sitting mats fetched from a storage closet, Rasheeka on a wooden stool, in lieu of a proper chair. The sole exception is one of the Rhians, Donnally, who stands, leaning against the wall – he doesn't care for the Laosian habit of sitting on the floor, and considers the stools too fragile for his weight.

Having never actually taught before, Rasheeka finds the experience of a group of people all watching her expectantly a bit unnerving. She fidgets on her chair as she mulls over the details of the lesson, checking in her mind everything she wanted to teach for the day and remembering to avoid going into words and phrases not likely to be employed by a Laosian taskmaster – at least not for this first lesson. Once she summons up the courage to begin, she clears her throat, something her own tutors often did when they wanted her attention, and then begins. The lesson starts with simple words: "you", "me" "come" and "here" and the like.

Her "students" listen attentively enough, with Ronan and Donnally repeating the words when Rasheeka pauses to let them. The experience of trying to teach spoken language to the Savanites, however, is significantly more intimidating. Lacking vocal chords, they are unable to repeat the lesson – and, mostly illiterate, they are unable to write it down, either. How much do they understand? What will they remember – and how much good will it do them?

Lacking verbal responses from the majority of her class the Khatta girl has decided to judge by the lowest common denominator, and by the looks on peoples' faces. Her reviews thus center around inquiring of Ronan and Donnally to see how well they understand, followed by a glance around in search of confused looking faces. Questions are answered as they come, with each given due consideration and response.

The first few words go fastest, but after the better part of an hour, the attention of her audience has started to flag. Shock-of-Light and First-Breath, surprisingly, are the most determined and inquisitive, with Shock even trying to communicate a question on inflection – a hard concept for her to get across, when she cannot reproduce the inflection in question and has to rely on Rasheeka to guess at the sound she means. Winter-Stars's attention, by contrast, wanders quickly, with the Savanite shifting in place, and watching every time someone new enters or leaves the kitchen.

Though empty of its usual array of cooks and servants, and most of the fires in its ovens and stoves extinguished, a couple remain lit. Every now and again, someone will enter, most often boiling water for a pot of tea, occasionally to cook something a little more complex. No one, Rasheeka notices, lights any new fires. Most of the passersby take no interest in the slaves' class, but she catches a couple of people glancing surreptitiously their way.

Rasheeka continues to teach despite the waning attention of the majority of her students. She thinks if just one of them manages to remember most of this and use it to their advantage then she has succeeded, and beyond that given another of their number the ability to understand their masters, if only at the most basic level. With wandering eyes presenting a distraction both from within her group and from without in the form of the curious visitors, the slave teacher adds in questions and reviews. She'll present a word she had spoken earlier, then select a random student to speak or sign the meaning of what she just said.

Forcing even the inattentive to respond drags their attention back to her, though Winter-Stars is woefully bad at remembering the meanings of even recently described words. "Cup?" she signs, after Rasheeka asks her the meaning of the Laosian word for "bring."

Frowning at her friend's answer, Rasheeka explains the difference between "cup" and "bring", citing such things as sounds and length that Winter-Stars might come to understand the composition of Laosians words a bit better. As her lesson continues, Rasheeka turns her head to regard those who watch her from a distance, hoping they are merely curious, fearing they'll interfere, and uncertain if she's not breaking any sort of custom by teaching today.

For the first couple of hours, no one has stayed in the kitchen to watch for long, especially not once Rasheeka focuses on them. But as the morning wears on, and even First-Breath stifles a yawn and stretches, one young man with sun-browned skin pours himself a cup of tea from a pot, still filled from the last comer. He regards the teaching circle for a few minutes, with dark, steady eyes, then walks deliberately toward the slaves.

When the slave Khatta eventually realizes the young man is approaching them she pauses her lesson and turns to regard him attentively. As she does she tries to make a guess at his rank, searching him for signs of an entomo that she might know how best to greet him.

The man wears no entomo, and he walks like a warrior, not a servant, with his chin high and his bearing erect. He wears his hair combed back into a braid that starts high on his head and dangles down his back, similar to the fashion of the guards and armed men she has seen. Most telling, however, is the sword sheathed at his waist. "You," he says to Rasheeka, and the intonation of even the single word is not promising. "What are you doing?"

As the man she can only suspect is a guard arrives Rasheeka rises to greet him, and to his question she responds with a bow and answer of, "I am teaching the Laosian speech to this group of my own accord, 'O most glorious warrior."

The young man glances over the other slaves disdainfully for a moment, before returning his attention to Rasheeka. "Why?"

"Because it is both a boon to slave and master that they know," answers Rasheeka carefully.

After another searching examination of the slaves, during which Winter-Stars squirms uncomfortably, the Laosian's sour expression does not clear. Finally, he says, "Diabaino," then pivots on his heel and walks away.

Again Rasheeka bows to the man even if he does not face her. When he has moved sufficiently far away for the Khatta's comfort she rises and reseats herself. "It is nothing, we may continue," she explains to her pupils once seated, repeating the message in Khattan and Rephidim Standard so that all my understand. After that the lesson continues almost as it had, save for the nervous feeling that any moment the guard might return and ask that they clear out.

Despite the Khatta's efforts to move on, Shock-of-Light drags her back. "I recognized 'you'," she signs. "What else did he say? What was that last word – phrase? – he used?"

"Diabaino?" The teacher considers the question silently for a moment, musing over how best to explain the meaning – something she is only moderately certain of herself. So she settles for simply answering with, "It means to continue, or alternately, 'you are dismissed,' depending on the context." She also gives Shock-of-Light a smile, glad to see someone so eager to learn – especially from such a surprising source as Shock.

"Yes. That one. I think I've heard that one before, a bunch of times," Shock signs, looking thoughtful.

Ronan repeats, carefully, "Dee-ah-bi-ee-noh," then grins, ruefully. "Not think we need say that much."

Rasheeka inclines her head to Shock's sign, and then turns her smile to Ronan. "Yes," she tells them, "our masters use it quite often." Her whiskers twitch and she screws up her face as she realizes something, adding, "Which I should have thought of. Well, only Primus sees ahead."

Before Rasheeka can resume the lesson, Shock interjects, "What else did he say? He seemed angry. Did he think we were doing something wrong?"

Interrupted as she moves to resume teaching again, Rasheeka offers to Shock-of-Light's second question, "He is as many Laosian are – disdainful of us and our practices. I do not think he is very different from any other we might meet doing any other task that might draw eyes to us, we prodotis."

"And what does that word mean?" First-Breath asks, wrinkling her nose up, as if anticipating she won't like the answer.

Biting her lip, Rasheeka considers. Prodotis is a word often used to describe foreigners, but she has a feeling it means more than simply "foreigner". It always seemed to her it carried much more meaning than that, such that it might also be a religious description akin to "pagan", possibly meaning more besides. Offhand she can attribute any number of logical other potential meanings as well. For this simple lesson she tries to offer but a simple explanation, for now, until she and her students learn more. "I believe that means 'foreigner,' though I'm not really certain. It seems to carry much more meaning than that."

That answer is met by wry smiles, and nods of agreement from Shock, First-Breath, and Softwalker. Winter-Stars, meanwhile, is braiding a lock of her hair, her expression dreamy and distant.

Once Rasheeka has made certain there are no more unexpected questions waiting to leap out and derail her lesson, she begins where she left off. This time she includes the terms prodotis and diabaino as well, given her classes' interest in them. The lesson continues to include more and more simple words though at this point Rasheeka decides against moving on to simple phrases. This will be a lot of work, she realizes as she pauses to let the newest word be practiced by her students who still pay attention. But at least it's helping some of them, and I really do owe them this.

By noon, the "class" has decided, unanimously, to adjourn.

"My head hurts!" Winter-Stars complains. "I've never tried to remember so much before."

"You're not trying to remember it, now," Shock grouses back, to Winter's vehement denials.

"I am so! I just wish I could … you know … practice. How did you ever learn Rephidim Standard, Shock?"

"I started by paying attention." Shock reaches over to whap her friend lightly, while the other Savanite cringes away. The weather outside is cool, but pleasant compared to the previous frosty days, and the Savanites plan to go out to the Astikos' second-tier "courtyard" to enjoy the fresh air. Winter has been badgering Shock and Knocker about teaching the others some kind of game, "Hunter's Race", but they have not committed to doing so. "It takes a lot of space and who knows what the Laosians would think? Let's not press our luck."

Rasheeka, meanwhile, has decided to look for the yejsk again.

When Rasheeka reaches the yejsk's room, she finds the door to the antechamber locked. The pungent smoky smell she remembers from a few days ago still hangs in the air, but it has dispersed a good deal, suggesting the fire has been extinguished. Rasheeka wanders far from the small chamber, looking for someone who might know the whereabouts of the old shaman, but almost every door is closed, or leads to an empty room, and no one else seems to be wandering the corridors at this time of day. Finally, she notices a door standing ajar, and peeks inside. The room beyond is cozy and sunlit – suggesting she must be farther than she realized from the yejsk's chamber nearer the center of the great pyramid. A red-brown fox in rough clothing nestles on a couch, his brushy tail curled around him, nose almost touching the pages of the book he is reading.

Upon entering the room, Rasheeka drops in to a bow, something that was almost second nature before she ever became a slave. "A thousand pardons that I am disturbing your reading, respected master," she greets the fox, hoping he won't be too upset by the disturbance.

The fox yelps, jerking his head from the book and whipping his face around to look at her. "Who are you?" he snaps out, removing the glasses from the end of his nose to fix his gaze upon her.

"I am Rasheeka," she answers, bowing lower. "And I fear I have trod very far in my search for the Neyemen Ysjek. I mean only to humbly ask if you, studious master, have perhaps seen him: he is old, with many entomo, and he is much like me. But I am ever ready to leave you to your book at your slightest word and disturb you no more with my lowly presence."

"Ra-see-kah?" he repeats, making a face at the strange name. "Feh, him? He goes to the skimos, almost every Kyriaki," the fox answers, turning his graying muzzle back to his book. Skimos is a word Pesach mentioned to her – a dangerous part of any Laosian city, as he described it, where thieves and murderers live, and respectable people do not go.

"A thousand thanks to you, most benevolent one!" calls out Rasheeka as she steps out of the room, still bowing. Back in the corridor she decides that she still does want to find the yejsk, but also determines she isn't brave enough to walk in to an area composed of thieves and murderers alone. The slave very much doubts her skill with language would dazzle anyone enough to not rob or kill her. Thus she decides to return and see if one of the Rhians will come with her – or, failing that, one of the male Savanites.

She finds her fellow slaves gathered on the spacious courtyard, mounted in the back of the Astikos's and on the second floor. A bed of green moss covers much of the roof-turned-courtyard, with slanting tiles and stairs leading down to the ground. Little wind stirs the leaves of potted trees in a carefully asymmetrical arrangement, but the air is still a little cold. Quite a few Laosians are gathered here, as well – many engaged in various kinds of unfamiliar games, some merely walking about and talking, a few reading or drawing. Donally stands by himself, while Ronan is watching Laosians involved in what might be a game, or perhaps a brawl with rules of etiquette. The Savanites are sunning themselves, with Shock, First, and Winter in a tight circle, braiding each other's hair.

Feeling that time isn't on her side and that talking to all her friends now might make it impossible to find the yejsk later, Rasheeka heads immediately towards Ronan to get his attention. "Ronan?" She bows slightly. "Can I ask you something?"

The big equine turns his head to her. "Yes?"

"Ronan, I am going to the Skimos. It is … " The little feline rises and as she speaks she fiddles with her hands. "Well, it's a bad place … like the Darkside of Rephidim. I was wondering if you, and maybe Donnally too, could come with me?"

"Darkside?" The Rhian sounds puzzled, and alarmed. "Why you want go to bad place?"

"I need to find Neyemen Ysjek," answers Rasheeka. Quickly, having something of a paranoid recollection of one Tizhan merchant and his missing head the feline corrects by adding, "Well, I want to find him."

"He in bad place?" Ronan ruffles his mane. "We help you find," he decides, and goes to enlist Donnally to the cause.

Rasheeka follows along. "Thank you, very much," she says, heartfelt. "I'm not sure where he might be, so we should ask along the way. Well, I should ask. You can practice what you learned and tell me." The Khatta smiles.

After considerable more inquiry, which sorely taxes Rasheeka's sense of propriety – as she feels obliged to interrupt one person after another – she finally obtains directions to the yejsk's probably current whereabouts. The Neyemen gather on Kyriaki at a place called the Hearth. It's located in the skimos of Meleti, as that's where most of the free emene in Meleti live.

The presence of the two large Rhians, who easily dwarf most Laosians, reassures Rasheeka a great deal as she passes through the streets of Meleti. The side streets leading into the skimos are narrower, and populated by a rougher breed of Laosian than the main thoroughfare she took to arrive at the Astikos, less than ten days ago.

Apart from the loitering riffraff, the town seems ghostly in its silence, with all the businesses closed. Occasionally, they see groups of children playing games in the street, and some people gathered on stoops, talking, but few adults who are moving from place to place, and almost no Khattas. It takes them almost an hour to reach their destination, on the outskirts of Meleti.

On the street outside the roofless tent, a few Khattas sit, chattering away in what sounds like the same dialect the yejsk spoke to Rasheeka in.

"This must be it," remarks Rasheeka to her Rhian friends. With Ronan and Donnally around she really does feel a lot safer, and also a bit silly. After all, she's shorter than most Laosians and the two Rhians towers over most of them, making little Rasheeka feel like a very small child beside them. "Neyemen Ysjek is probably inside somewhere. Do you both mind if we go in?"

Ronan translates that for Donnally. Ronan looks hesitant, but Donnally pats his shoulder, and the other Rhian shrugs. "Go in," he says, gesturing for the Khatta to lead while they follow her. As the three approach the tent, the emene outside look up – and up – at the Rhians. "Sysij ki omavari?" one man says to them.

Every time she hears a language she doesn't know, Rasheeka can't help but feel a little surprised. Back when she still lived in a mansion, she didn't believe there were many languages she'd ever use that she didn't already know. And now, as a slave, she finds there are all too many. She points to the door. "Neyemen Ysjek?" she answers the question with a question.

"Yejsken jsko," the other feline replies, sounding nonplussed. He points to the Rhians. "Vskiko?"

"Um," offers Rasheeka lamely as she tries to think. She points to the two Rhians, then herself, and forces a smile to try and show she thinks they're okay.

"I don't think she speaks meyevsk," one of the Khattas says to the speaker, then she turns to look at Rasheeka, "do you? Where're you from, and who're your friends, child?"

The feline takes note of the strange language of these people who look so much like her. The young feline turns to the Khatta woman who she understands and nods slightly, bowing, then gestures to her friends in turn. "This is Ronan, and this is Donnally, and, no, most observant one, I do not speak… I am from Tizhar, far away across the continent."

The woman smiles at them. "Far away, that could I guess. You've come here now, looking for a yejsk? But you are slaves, yes?"

Rasheeka returns the smile and finds herself glad to have been lucky enough to find a Neyemen who speaks Laosian. "Yes, we are slaves," answers Rasheeka. It strikes her then that admitting she's a slave doesn't sting nearly as much as it used to, almost as if it had become as common as "a thousand thanks." This thought disturbs her, however, wondering when she became so accustomed to the label. "I am looking for the ysjek who serves in the Astikos and gives slaves their entomo."

"Yejsk," the woman repeats, firmly. "Not ysjek. Yejsk. You're looking for Yejsk Neyn Vskir, then. He's inside. What do you think of your eyntzomo?" the woman asks, using the same word for the animal that the yejsk had.

Shaking off the annoyed feeling she gets whenever she fails to realize something linguistic, the girl answers, "Yes Yejsk." Almost unconsciously she reaches up and runs a finger along her eyntzomo. "I like it. Yejsk said it was power and knowledge, but, I think it was the way he said it that made me appreciate it. I'm not sure I would have otherwise," admits the foreign Khatta girl sheepishly.

The woman exchanges glances with her fellows. They have a short conversation in meyevsk, then the woman nods to the three slaves. "You may go in," she tells her.

Rasheeka offers the woman a bow. "Many thanks to you, kind woman." And with that she turns and heads inside.

The fragrance of the smoke is almost as strong inside the tent as it was when the slaves received their entomo, though the scent is different. More overwhelming, still, is the sheer number of emene. The muffled cascade of voices turns into a dull roar, making the room remind Rasheeka vaguely of a street bazaar, in volume and energy. Several emene are gathered about the bonfire, thumping rhythmically on flat drums. Almost every emene wears a single entomo, most in the left ear, like Rasheeka, though a few elsewhere. Here and there are men wearing two or three, and Rasheeka notices one man in particular, who has what looks like a great furry loop growing out of the side of his face, in addition to an entomo earring, and what looks like a half-fur-covered entomo dangling from his right ear. The yejsk she knows, however, she does not spot at once.

"I don't see him. We should look around," Rasheeka tells her friends. Trying to be discreet (which is made rather hard by having two Rhians along when wandering in a all-feline group) the girl keeps along the edges of the gigantic tent, looking here and there for the man she remembers. Occasionally she finds her eyes drawn to someone she does not know and despite the strangeness of their way Rasheeka feels a bit more at home when surrounded by people that look like her – though still she has the gnawing feeling she doesn't belong, however they may look.

The emene cast curious glances her way – but on reflection, their looks are reserved more for the Rhians than herself. The two equines look no more at home here than they have anywhere else in Laos Enosi. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking on Rasheeka's part, or that she can more easily distinguish emotions on the faces of Khattas, but the emene seem friendlier than the other Laosians have been. The cold overtones and disdainful looks she has grown used to from the Laosians are absent amidst the smoke and dancing flames of this tent.

"Meerkia omavari!" a familiar voice sends, and Rasheeka turns to see the unmistakable figure of the yejsk she knows approaching. "Knowing you! Ah, and you, and you." He bestows a big smile on the two Rhians, who can't help but smile back. "Taking good care of eyntzomo, you being, yes, good," he continues, bobbing his head approvingly.

Despite looking startled by the sudden greeting, the girl returns the smile readily, glad to see that she has found Yejsk and that she seems to be welcome here. She offers the old shaman a deep bow. "I came here to find you. Ronan and Donnally came with me because I feared the reputation of the area," she tells the old Neyemen. "But I think it is the Laosians being disdainful of all which isn't like them."

"Ah, no one liking being different," the yejsk says philosophically. "But Lah-ohws, liking less than anyone. Being glad you coming. Surprising, you bringing strange friends."

"Oh, well, Ronan and Donnally came with the shipment of slaves from Tizhar. That's how we met. Donnally doesn't understand Laosian or any language I know, but I've been teaching him along with the others," Rasheeka explains. As she relates what she has been doing, she finds herself surprised at the ease in which she does it. The old shaman is easy to talk to, like she has known him a long time, and here she doesn't feel so uneasy about talking at length about simple matters. In this tent she feels a world away from the Astikos. "You, you don't mind I brought them? Or that I came here? I wasn't sure I could, or should."

"You having eyntzomo, you belonging with us. Them, too. Being funny, way you getting it, ah, but – you belonging here. Coming earlier next time, not missing yejskisk, ah?" the shaman says, nodding and smiling at her.

Fascinated, Rasheeka asks, "Yejskisk?"

The shaman nods again. "Being big – " he pauses, gesturing with his hands as if in explanation, where Laosian words fail him. " – ritual, being word, maybe? Being important, chanting to spirits and eyntzomo. Seeing it, you understanding then. Coming earlier, at quarter-turn." He pauses, then adds, "Halfway between first and second bell."

Rasheeka nods to that. "If I can, I will come earlier," she promises. "May I bring my friends again? Winter-Stars, Shock-of-Light, and the others? I think they would very much appreciate a place away from the Astikos."

"Ah, they coming, too, being good." The yejsk's broad smile doesn't waver as he nods. "I introducing you now, you meeting everyone, being good? You not being stranger, not now." He reaches to take Rasheeka's arm, patting her hand in a grandfatherly way.

Uncertainly, Rasheeka lets her arm be taken, feeling strange at the show of friendliness that seems to come without reserve. She had never imagined that there could be people in Laos Enosi who would gladly welcome her amongst them with smiles on their faces, and she cannot help but wonder where the scowls are in all this – where the disapproval, the uttering of "prodotis" hides. It is not that she is unthankful, for her emotion is quite the opposite, and as she follows the yejsk she finds that soon her apprehension fades as she becomes eager to meet the warm smiling Neyemen.