Rasheeka kneels on a cushion before her low writing desk, holding a long, feathery quill in her right hand. A sheet of parchment rests on the table before her, and a number of crumpled pages are in a basket at her side. Laying open at her left elbow is a heavy, leather-bound book, the pages engraved with spidery writing. The young Khatta studies the page intently, pausing with her quill over the ink bottle.

A shadow falls over her from the doorway, as a Savanite slave enters the room, offering her a submissive bow.

The young Khatta shows no reaction to the Savanite's entrance right away, intent as she is on her studies. This particular variant of a modern language is especially fascinating to Rasheeka, old as it is, and it has occupied much of her focus during the day – focus desired elsewhere by her mother. She has tried to escape the fitting as long as possible, for she loathes these parties her mother is inclined to hold. It sometimes seems to Rasheeka that the parties have replaced her father's memory in her mother's mind, for she rarely speaks of him – only these parties of hers, halls of people Rasheeka doesn't know, and none of them ever want to talk about anything interesting. Her nose wrinkles as she marks the page accidentally, applying too much pressure as the distasteful idea of the party distracts her, and so she reaches for another piece of parchment only to realize she has company. "Is it mother again?" she inquires of the slave whose name she can't remember. There are so many of them now that she forgets, and they all look so similar.

The nameless cheetah bows, subservient, and signs, "Yes," once she has the young mistress's attention. "Her most august ladyship, may her house be ever splendid and welcoming, bids that the wise young lady, whose knowledge and education is rivaled by none, come down to be fitted." Like all the Savanites slaves, her efforts at imitating Himaatian speech are crude.

Rasheeka frowns momentarily. The slave's lack of appropriate flattery could easily be mistaken for outright rudeness or insolence, as lowly as her own station is relative to Rasheeka's – but it seems that Savanites simply lack the intelligence and language for proper speech, from what Rasheeka has been taught. She studies the slave a moment as she ponders a book she read just recently on the matter of Savanites and their history as detailed by a leading Nagai scholar. Apparently they were incapable of speech at all until the Nagai taught them, rather like Creens she decides, and one cannot blame a Creen for poor language skills. She decides she may wish to review that book later. For now, she thinks that keeping Mother waiting any longer will only infuriate her. With a resigned sigh, she lays her quill down and rouses herself from her ponderings and rises to her feet. "Tell Mother that I am coming, and that I apologize profusely for the delay," she says.

The Savanite bows again, nodding her head in acquiescence. She shuffles backwards through the doorway as she departs, soon disappearing down the steps outside Rasheeka's room.

Whiskers twitch and Rasheeka sighs again. She glances from her studies to the door and thinks once more how she truly despises these parties, and then she starts for the door.

After descending a half-flight of stairs to a lower landing, and following a path through an open courtyard, Rasheeka enters House Al-Esayi's main hall. Her mother reclines on a pile of cushions, watching as slaves model different dress robes before her. "Ah! There you are, my dear delinquent daughter!" she says on spotting Rasheeka, smiling even as she delivers the rebuke. "We have been waiting ages! And now it is in my mind, perhaps that robe is not right for you. It is too yellow; it does not do justice to your lovely fur. Nafree has suggested it be re-done, with an overrobe in blue and gold and an underrobe of white. Wouldn't that be lovely, dear?"

Nafree, her mother's tailor, a thin older Kattha with a tendency to stoop from having spent so much time bowing, smiles and nods at Lady Al-Esayi's suggestion.

"Your ideas are inspiration from Logos's own brow, mother," agrees Rasheeka reflexively. As much as she hates having new robes fashioned in what almost feels constant, and the parties that spawn these "necessities," Rasheeka does not argue with her mother. She has found it is best to avoid her if she has a disagreement – and since father died that has increasingly become the case – but never argue with what Mother wishes to do. Mother is exceedingly defensive of her plans, and Rasheeka fears expressing any criticism.

"Ah, my dutiful child." Her mother beams. "We'll have that yellow gown fitted to you, anyway, just in case you can't finish the other in time, Nafree." She gestures to the tailor. "Do begin, dear friend," she tells him. In turn, the tailor bobs, and motions to one of his slaves. Alert and waiting for the request, she steps forward, bowing to Rasheeka, holding in her arms the now-offending robe, and waiting for the Khatta to adjourn to an adjoining room, where she will help her change into it.

Rasheeka bows to her mother before turning and quietly departing for the adjoining room.

The slave carefully helps her change, attentive to the care of both her old garments, and the new robe, which has not yet been hemmed and is a little too loose around the arms. After Rasheeka has finished putting it on, the Savanite tucks stray hairs back into place among her braids, then gives the girl a moment to survey herself in the full-length mirror provided on an adjustable stand.

The robe is splendid by all accounts. It is well-adorned, made from materials Rasheeka knows to be exotic, obvious in the care the creator took to assure it is an item of quality … and undoubtedly expensive. And it is not the first of its like, for her mother has had many such robes fashioned in the time since father died. Rasheeka wonders if so many are really necessary; they have plenty enough as it is. But it seems to make mother happy so she supposes it serves a purpose. Mother can be quite irate when she is denied, after all.

The slave stands patiently by the door until Rasheeka is ready to leave, then opens it for her, letting the Khatta precede her outside. In the capacious hall, her mother lets out a gasp on seeing her daughter. "Oh! It will not do at all! Whatever must you have been thinking, to choose such a thing! Really, Nafree, you see what comes from asking one's offspring for their opinion on anything! Though I suppose if I wanted to know about some dead king or ancient tongue, dear Rasheeka could advise me on that. But this robe! No, you must re-do it as we discussed. Come, show me the swatches against her face, let us see how the other colors suit her."

Rasheeka's whiskers twitch. She chose this color, she thinks, not but a ten day ago and then simply because it was the first color she liked out of all those offered her. She had no deep attachment to the color besides a mild approval of it, and that born not from true interest in the potential robe but rather an earnest desire to have the fitting end so she might return to her reading, Rasheeka finds mild annoyance in seeing her plan backfire. Even when she does put real consideration into such things, it always seems like mother isn't happy with them, and there's always more fittings. And more parties. She watches her mother curiously, vaguely hoping she really will decide not to ask her opinion again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rasheeka notices one of the tailor's slaves give a quiet sigh, but Nafree himself looks entirely pleased at the thought of creating another robe on short notice, and likely charging extra for the short notice. A Savanite dutifully holds a pretty swatch of blue zolk, streaked with silver, beside Rasheeka's face, and her mother claps her hands together in approval. "Ah, this will be just the thing to snare you a fine husband, Rasheeka!" In moments, Nafree and his slaves seem all around her, cutting and pinning to show her mother how the new robe will look.

A fine husband … a luminous mind who would carry me away from here, considers Rasheeka as the slaves descend upon her. A scholar, a wise prince, a writer of note. She lets herself slip in to daydreaming, the bustle of Nafree's assistants lost amongst the girl's ponderings.

A few people walk amongst the rows of books, quietly surveying the titles, but most of the room's occupants are seated upon the cushions around the chair. Enthroned on the chair is a middle-aged human woman – Afentis Hefione. She speaks to the dozen or so women gathered about her, all of whom gaze at her with rapt attention. Hefione has a pleasant and harmonious voice, at one with her round, relaxed countenance. In between short speeches, she pauses for queries from her pupils. They put forth their questions, shy and hesitant, and Hefione gives each inquiry due consideration before responding.

Steward Rasmus left Rasheeka just inside the door to the chamber, after pointing out the afentis to her. "She'll be with you in good time," he told her. "When Afentis Hefione is ready to see you, give her this. She'll know what to do with you." He handed her a slender, sealed scroll of paper and departed.

Since then, Rasheeka has had little to do but reflect, and wonder if this is how her slaves had felt, standing and waiting for however long it took her to get around to noticing their existence. She frets over Shock of Light and Winter-Stars; despite her request, the steward did not allow her time to contact them before leading her off here, though he did inform Ria Rena that he was taking her elsewhere. The vixen started off with a tirade against her, citing her laziness and disobedience, but Rasmus didn't seem to pay any attention at all, cutting off the other fox before she'd gotten very far. The steward seemed preoccupied throughout the time they spent together, as he shepherded her from Rena's storage room to here, at the Chamber of Scholars.

Whatever the afentis is teaching features too many obscure words for Rasheeka to understand her subject matter – it seems to be some point of mathematical theory. She stands by the doorway, and the group is placed near the windows at the opposite end; the distance between them doesn't help matters, though Rasheeka's keen hearing offsets most of that disadvantage. Finally, the afentis rises, and gestures to her audience. They follow suit, bowing and murmuring thanks to her. Most head for various exits at that point, though a few remain behind to talk with the afentis.

Rasheeka notices as they leave that all the students, like the afentis herself, are human women. Most of the pupils seem young, around Rasheeka's age, and they are all dressed far differently from her – in fact, quite unlike most of the Laosians she has seen so far. The Khatta finds herself trying to remember how many human women she has seen in this strange land so far. Human men are common enough in her recollections, as are foxes of both genders, but she finds she cannot place the face of a single human female.

Her thoughts shift from subject to subject and back again, and moments-old ponderings resurface as the draw of the afentis's speech is lost. Rasheeka's current musings bring her back to her home and the slaves that once filled it, even as she mirrors them, her bowing much as theirs as she steps back from the exit to make room for the students. She wonders if they too think her an annoyance, a "talented animal" taught to speak by some greater master – and remembering the reaction of the vixen servant but yesterday, she fears that is quite likely the case.

A couple of the young women wrinkle their noses as they pass the Khatta. One whispers to her companion, "What is that doing in here?" and the other gives her a shrug in answer. The rest of them merely ignore Rasheeka, no more aware or interested in her than in the carpet beneath their feet or the pillars that support the roof.

The afentis offers a kindly smile to the last of her pupils to leave, and the young woman bows several times as she backs away, a look of worshipful gratitude on her face. Finally, she withdraws, and Afentis Hefione turns to one of the low bookshelves in the center of the room, leafing through a heavy volume set on a stand.

As the students pass by her, Rasheeka tries to put them and their remarks from her mind, instead turning her thoughts to Winter-Stars and Shock-of-Light. Oh, how guilty they make her feel! She had never known a Savanite, she thinks now, had never truly understood them – nor does she now. But she knows enough now to know that she, and those books, were at the very least partially wrong. And to think all that Winter-Stars has done for her, when contempt would have been well-deserved. It feels worse when she considers that it will seem like she has abandoned the Savanites, to have taken their help and left them to whatever punishment may come. She feels sorry, she feels guilty, and she hopes that there will be a time to make amends. When the guilty thoughts fade, the students have left and Rasheeka finds herself mostly alone with the afentis. As much to make herself known as to escape her guilt, she quietly walks towards the woman so that she might drop in to a bow within her sight and make herself known.

Closer to the woman, Rasheeka can see the silver hairs threaded among the black of the woman's coiled braids. Fine wrinkles in her skin etch thin dark lines on the light brown of her face. The look on the Laosian's face is one of contentment and concentration – until she notices the slave. Her whole countenance hardens perceptibly as she lifts her head to regard Rasheeka. "Neyemen." The word doesn't mean anything to the feline. "What are you doing in here?"

"It is the dutiful Steward Rasmus's will that I am here, and that I present this to the wise Afentis Hefione," answers Rasheeka quietly in Laosian, cutting short her usual compliments in light of the afentis's annoyance. She rises partially to hold the sealed scroll between her outstretched hands, eyes down as she does so, then bows again and offers it to the woman.

The woman wrinkles her nose distastefully, but reaches out to accept the document. She breaks the seal and unrolls the document, reading silently for a moment. At length, she gives a weary sigh, then looks to Rasheeka again. "So. You are this … Rah-see-kah." She speaks the foreign word as if it tasted bad.

Knowing not what else to say and finding herself increasingly uncomfortable under the woman's scrutiny Rasheeka offers a timid "Yes, Afentis Hefione."

"Ah, my tyr," the woman murmurs under her breath. She shakes her head. "I imagine we had best get this over with. Come with me, emene," she tells the girl. The last word sounds similar to the first the woman had used, but still not like anything Pesach taught her.

"As you wish, Afentis Hefione." Rasheeka looks up just enough to watch the woman's feet so that she might see when she moves and prepares to follow her when she does so.

Hefione leads the way up to the upper tier, then out through an archway on the east side. She stops at the first door in the following corridor, pushing it open. Inside is a large room, furnished with more bookshelves, a low table at the center of the room, and a chest full of small drawers. The low table has a smooth, highly polished top, and on either side of it are flat embroidered cushions. Hefione walks around to the far side and sits, folding her legs beneath her. She gestures to a cushion on the other side. "Sit."

As directed, Rasheeka sits herself as she had done before the tyr a few days ago. She lowers herself to kneel on a cushion, legs tucked beneath her, and rests her hands clasped together in her lap. Given how much bowing she does, she finds it easier just to leave her hands ready for the gesture. She also cannot help but wonder what will be required of her now. Given the room and the general construction of this tier of the Astikos, she can only think it might be a test of her knowledge – something she had been expecting for some time – hoping for, even, that it might give her a chance to prove she is more than a "smart animal."

Folding her hands before her on the table, Hefione waits a few moments after Rasheeka has obeyed before she begins. "Emene, I am Afentis Hefione, Minister of Trade for Sychi." She quirks one corner of her mouth. "I do not imagine that means anything to you. Nedevyr to keep to what you may understand," she continues, employing another unfamiliar word. "It is the will of dynatos tyr that Sychi open itself to trade with lands like your own. It is the belief of dynatos tyr that you have information which will be useful to us in this respect." The woman glances at the slave, skepticism of this last plainly marked in her face.

At this, the slave simply bows her head.

"I will, in accordance with the tyr's wishes, be preparing a report for him on this subject. He has asked that I make use of your … services … in so doing." Her jaw sets. "So. Rah-see-kah. What can you tell me of the relative values of the goods the prodotis have brought to our shores – both as gifts for my lord, and goods solely for trade?"

Rasheeka blinks at the question, for she has never before been questioned on matters of trade goods and their relations to trade abroad – and most certainly not when dealing with such an exotic culture as the Laos. She bites her lip soon after the initial surprise, tilts her head, and remains silent for a moment more as she ponders on the matter of the goods she remembers the captain brought. Finally she looks up, nods once, and says, "The metals and the weaponry fashioned from them are of value; however, it is the saying of many traders beyond the shores of Laos Enosi that one should not be paid in iron shekels, for not long ago a gateway was opened to the worlds of the gods and much iron was returned from those lands beyond the stars. Therefore the swords and the metal they are made from is of moderate value, less so than it once was during the time of trade with Laos Enosi long ago. The gold remains valuable and is rare as it was then. The pearls too retain value, though I am unaware of exact market figures. I do not remember the rest of the gifts and trade goods of the brave captain and would humbly request a list if it pleases you, Afentis Hefione."

"A gateway. To the worlds of gods. And from there, your people acquire iron?" Hefione confirms this information slowly, and with undisguised contempt. "A list. Of course."

Rasheeka's ears wilt a bit at the obvious contempt, but she elaborates despite the disbelief, "Within the Forbidden Zone of Himaat – controlled ostensibly by Rephidim Temple, though more realistically by the Emir of the Khattan Emirate and the Kampfzengruppe from beyond the gateway – is the Gateway Tower, a structure of indeterminate age and construction which allows travel between these 'worlds' and contact with those who dwell there. It is said the world of Abaddon has metal that is to them as commonplace as clay might be to … t-to, myself, Afentis Hefione."

Quickly, Rasheeka adds, "It is iron that is commonplace. I have not heard of other metals being so plentiful upon this place."

"I – " Hefione pauses, and for a moment, the look of distaste that has occupied her face ever since she first looked at Rasheeka is displaced. She was in the middle of sorting through a stack of papers on one ends of the table, but she stops to listen to the slave instead. "Tell me more. This 'Forbidden Zone' of which you speak – you do not refer to same place that is to the north of Apagorevo, do you?" Pesach had given her a translation for "Forbidden Zone," since the peninsula possessed one, but he hadn't specified if it was a generic or specific place name at the time.

"No I do not, Afentis Hefione," answers the slave. "The Forbidden Zone of the Himaat is located within the Himaat region, northeast of Abu Dhabi the capitol of the Khattan Emirate. It is on the continent of Ai. It would be far to the west of the Apagorevo Peninsula, where Laos Enosi is located. I can only think that the Forbidden Zone you refer to is north of our location, east of the Wandering Roams – the reason Laos Enosi may not be approached by land."

"And what are the properties of the Forbidden Zone located in this … Hee-maht region?" Hefione asks, watching Rasheeka.

Rasheeka thinks on that, too, her face gaining a look of focus as she mentally sorts though details she recalls from various writings on the subject. She begins to answer slowly as it comes to her, saying, "It is a storm, of which the Gateway Tower is to be considered its eye," and later, "It may not be approached by air, as airships would be torn asunder by wind as terrible as Abaddon's fury. This is common to many Forbidden Zones." More pausing, and she finishes with, "There is a town – Gateway Town, I believe – located around the Gateway Tower, where travelers and powers gather to use the gateway. There is also a covered road from beyond the Forbidden Zone leading to its interior that the Gateway Tower might be approached in safety. The remainder of Gateway Town is at the end of this pathway outside the Forbidden Zone and beyond the storm. It is here that the airships land.".

For a moment, the human looks like she's about to ask something else, but she only says, "Interesting." She taps her fingers against her cheek. "Indeed." She finishes the search she had abandoned earlier through the papers, and brings forth a single sheet. "There." She turns the page around and lays it before Rasheeka. Elegant black characters of an unfamiliar alphabet lace across the page, in rows of varying lengths, filling roughly the bottom half of the sheet.

Turning her attention to the document, Rasheeka puzzles over the letters, immediately recognizing that she does not know the alphabet shown to her. She squints, determined to try and piece the language together by power of her understanding of Laosian and other languages in hopes there might be a similarity, but finally gives up. She looks and pushes her glasses back up her nose with a hand, then shakes her head. "I do not know this alphabet, Afentis Hefione," she admits, "but I would gladly learn it." A language she does not know is as much an annoyance as a challenge, and she would, indeed, be glad to learn it.

"You do not know how to read. Of course." The afentis sighs, turning the page back around. "This is the inventory of those items gifted to dynatos tyr by your former masters. I will read them for you. Please pay careful attention."

Rasheeka is about to respond to the matter of her being unable to read, but instead only says, "Yes, of c-course, Afentis Hefione."

The woman reads off the items, including what Rasheeka would guess are the quantities given, often in unfamiliar Laosian measurements. "Two hundred steel swords, poorly fashioned but of good metal. A steel chest, two and a quarter sirime by one and a third sireme. Fifty-five metrisi of dried fruits, unknown type. Twenty-two emetrisi of oil, unknown type but allegedly edible. Nine metrisi each of two types of hot, flavorful spices. One-fifth metrisi of white gemstones, soft, called 'pyryls.'" The recitation goes on to list wine, Drokars, fuff'nars, Creens, two Rhian slaves, six "spotted emene" slaves, and one "emene" slave.

So I am in the Laosian language a "emene", ponders Rasheeka curiously. She files that thought away for later consideration and mentally reviews the list, then offers her estimations. "The Laosian method of measurement is not known to me, Afentis Hefione – I cannot judge by it. I can comment upon the items I am familiar with. I have reviewed the swords and metals and my review remains unchanged. The steel chest is similarly valued. The fruit is dried pala fruit, a rare fruit difficult to grow outside its native climate – it is a delicacy, Afentis Hefione. The oil is olive oil; it is edible, and it is used in cooking. The spices are perhaps kyootcumber; the plant itself is common and grows anywhere. The gemstones are pearls, formed deep beneath the shifting waves in the mouths of clams – they are valuable gems, often used in necklaces in 'strings' of them. The wine I know not without close examination. The riding beasts are Drokars, prized riding animals; their value depends on their quality. The small animals, fuff'nars, are pets of the wealthy, as are the birds. The sla- … " Her review pauses here, as she finds it very difficult to place value upon the heads of herself and her friends. She merely finishes with, "I know not the value of slaves, Afentis Hefione."

Hefione wrinkles her nose. "I see I will have to try to explain certain concepts to you if you are to be of any use in this endeavor. Dynatos tyr wishes to know what these things are worth, relative to one another, and to our own goods." She rises. "I will show you what quantities our units of measurement represent."

Rasheeka lifts her hands and bows where she is seated. "May Logos's way be clear to me," says the little feline. "As you wish."