The shock of the circumstances surrounding her transfer of ownership left Rasheeka disoriented and numb for the remainder of that day. Afterwards, she would never be able clearly to reconstruct what had happened, or what was said to her, during the time between Wahed's death and Winter-Stars helping her make up a pallet. All the foreign slaves – the Rhians, Savanites, and Rasheeka – were finally stowed in the kitchen by Rasmus, and given mats and blankets on which to sleep. Rasheeka lay on hers for a long time, staring at the strange ceiling, before she finally slipped into a sleep troubled by nightmares.

"I'm sorry!" mews Rasheeka, disoriented and half-awake. He is the unknown human, and he is Wahed, both at once in a way that can only be in that strange time between sleep and wakefulness. Slowly the figure resolves, as does her situation – and she knows that she is far away, and Wahed is truly dead. She stares at the human as she lifts herself up with a hand, the other clasping the blanket she had been given to her chest.

The man snorts. "Get up and make yourself presentable. Dynatos tyr requires your presence." He plucks the lantern from the floor, straightening from his crouch to stand while he waits for her.

Rasheeka stares a moment more in a sleepy stupor. The concepts form slowly, as does her reaction, but she does begin to move and get ready. Pieces of recollection filter in amongst more mundane thoughts as "I need to find my tunic," and "Do I have time to braid my hair?" People are foremost amongst these snippets of the past, and standing in the center of them all is Tyr Sychi, and he in turn flanked by the captain and the dead trader. Her things are gathered and she dresses, having not thought to remove her under-robes and thus made this quick time to prepare easier, and she stands mostly finished before the man after a time. "Honorable sir, great citizen of the province of Sychi, is there time that I might braid my hair?" she asks in Laosian, and as she does she realizes she truly lacks compliments for these people. They are as foreign in her mind, as much as if they dwelt upon the other planets.

The man looks at her like she had grown a second head. "Comb your hair, slave," he says, brusquely, "and we will go."

Bowing, Rasheeka accepts the curt answer and turns away to work with her hair – and so that the man might not see her reaction. Time has caused her to remember the circumstances of her being here, and she cannot help but wonder if the tyr has called her for dark reasons, if perhaps he had changed his mind on the matter of her execution. That she would not be given time to proper prepare to meet a high official further punctuates the fear, and only the reminder that these people and their customs may not be like her own keeps that fear in check. Finally she finishes combing her hair, tucks away the comb, and turns to bow again. "May Abaddon forgive my slowness, and Ashtoreth my appearance – I am ready, sir, whose patience is as deep as the seas and as calm as untouched water."

The man only grunts in reply, turning and walking quickly away, so that the Khatta has to hurry to keep up. About halfway there, he has a change of heart about his earlier decision, and orders Rasheeka to braid her hair, while he waits, fidgeting restlessly. He wears simple garb with the badge of the tyr embroidered on the right shoulder, much like many of the servants Rasheeka hazily recalls seeing.

Rasheeka forms her hair braids by threes, normally. The process is neither quick nor particularly easy, and before her slavery she had servants assist her with the braiding, though now she must do it entirely herself. For this reason and by virtue of simply not caring Rasheeka had left her hair mostly free during the voyage. Now, Rasheeka decides on a simple single braid, drawing thick gathered strand over strand until she secures it with ribbon. Finished, she turns back and awaits the man she thinks must be some form of servant.

Her escort, looking more anxious from the delay, leads her up four flights of stairs. At the top of the fourth landing stand a pair of guards, and he bows low before them. "I have brought the interpreter, by the wish of dynatos tyr."

One of the guards nods. "You may go," he tells the man, who bows again before departing. The guard steps through the door behind him, leaving Rasheeka standing alone with his silent, armored companion.

Knowing not what else to do, Rasheeka folds her hands together beneath her robes, leaving only her wrist and a small portion of her arm visible. Under the sleeves she fidgets, fretting, wondering what she should do and why she was called here – wondering how far she is from home.

A few minutes later, the first guard returns. "You may enter," he tells her, holding the door open.

On the gilded chair sits the unmistakable figure of the tyr, wearing his golden mask. He has changed clothes since Rasheeka saw him earlier, to ones of lighter, more supple material, with less ornamentation. He rests with the same air of statue-like composure as she enters. A vulpine man sits in the chair at his left hand, and a human man on his right. Four guards stand, motionless and attentive, along the walls behind the half-circle of chairs.

As Rasheeka enters the room, she is immediately caught by the eerie darkness and the intimidating figure of the tyr made ominous by the looming shadows. At first she stands, stunned and concealing great terror, but quickly she remembers herself by a sense of self-preservation if not by will and bows deeply, removing her hands from her sleeves and clasping them together before herself. She does not say anything, knowing not what might be appropriate, fearing what might be a slight.

"Approach," the tyr instructs her.

As bidden, the slave girl does so, walking forward hesitantly. She lifts her head enough to allow her to see where she's going but no more. This allows her to see the tyr from the waist down at best – and truly, she does not wish to gaze in to that indifferent shadowed mask.

The fox and the human flanking him watch the slave as she obeys. The vulpine looks vaguely familiar to Rasheeka, but she has seen so many strangers this day that she scarcely knows what to make of anyone, and it's not as if her usual posture allows her much opportunity to study faces. The fox looks at her with compassion, but the human's face shows naked contempt. "Prodotis," he snarls angrily, rising, as she comes within a few feet of the throne. "Do you not know the proper way to approach dynatos tyr?"

Rasheeka mewls in way of apology, unable to formulate something more appropriate, having forgotten how to approach the tyr in the stress of the day. She blinks as she concentrates a moment, steps back and tries to judge her distance and modify it to that which is similar to her position the other day, and then quickly looks down as she genuflects. Trying to remember how it is done without remembering the events previous is difficult, though Rasheeka tries to not think on them too greatly regardless. Not here, not now.

The man taps his foot against the floor as he watches her, still standing himself. He starts to take a step toward her, but is interrupted by another voice.

"Dalus, be seated," the tyr says, and grudgingly, the man obeys. The masked prince regards Rasheeka through eyes of black glass. "Rise," he tells her. "Sit on the cushion." With the long, pale fingers of one hand, he gestures to the single cushion near the foot of his throne. He still wears the gold, diamond-studded bracers on each forearm.

"Y-y-yes, dynatos tyr," says the slave reflexively. Her usual compliment-laden speech is abandoned as she remembers the old Eeee's instruction to avoid such lengthy things. And even if she chose to use them, she does not know the etiquette of this man beyond what she was taught to address him on behalf of the partners, a exchange that was not supposed to be extended. As she considers this she locates the cushion, walks to it, then kneels, letting the length of her robes gather in neat piles around her. Her hands are folded in her lap, and there she sits, head bowed and waiting.

The tyr's mask follows her as she settles. "Interpreter, tell me your name."

"Ra-Rasheeka, dynatos tyr," answers the girl nervously. "M-my name is Rasheeka. Al-Elsayi Rasheeka bint Ashquar."

"You have too long a name for a slave." Though the remark is abrupt, the tyr's tone sounds faintly amused, unlike the neutral voice he employed in his earlier commands. "Rasheeka will do. Rasheeka, does Enrique Ledyr read in his native tongue? This … Gah-lee-zee-un?"

Dipping her head in a nod, Rasheeka says, "Y-yes dynatos tyr, I observed Captain Ledyr writing in his log book."

"And do you write in this language?" The tyr remains still, his hands resting motionless on the carved dragons' heads of the chair's arms.

Even though she long ago learned to read and write Gallisian, the slave needs think on it before she can answer. Such is the distraction her nervousness provides that she cannot recall that which is second nature to her. "Y-yes, dynatos tyr."

"Then you will write a message in this tongue, Rasheeka, from myself to Enrique Ledyr." He flicks one hand to the side, and a moment later, one of the guards sets a low writing table down before the Khatta, then lays a thin brush, a shallow cup of water, and a small finger-long block of black material resting in the carved round indentation of a small block of stone on top of it.

Last, the guard adds a sheaf of thin pages to the top of the table. The eyes of the three seated men remain upon her.

Again the slave bows her head, and she reaches for the brush only to hesitate when she truly sees it. Her hand hovers in the air over it, and then she frowns deeply and shakes her head. "A thousand most humble pardons, dynatos tyr, but I do not know the use of these items," she explains softly.

"Lying slave!" Dalus explodes, turning to his prince. "Dynatos tyr, did I not say this was a waste of time? The girl says she can write and then in the next breath admits she does not know how!"

Rasheeka's eyes widen and she finds herself looking up. Her mouth parts as a protest dies on her lips, leaving her just staring and shaking her head slowly.

The tyr raises a hand, palm out, to the man, and he subsides. "Rasheeka," tyr Sychi says, his tone tired and exasperated, "with what implements are you accustomed to writing?"

" … and don't tell me chisels and stone tablets, or this shall be a very long night indeed," Sychi murmurs, so quietly that if Rasheeka's hearing were less keen she probably would not have heard it at all – and even so she wonders if she might have imagined it.

The tyr's words, his understanding of her difficulty, eases the girl. She resumes looking down and fidgets uneasily. "A quill and ink, dynatos tyr, Chronotopian pencils … I, I can write in images as well, b-but that might require the p-proper blo-" Realizing she's rambling now, the slave draws quiet, imagining the tyr does not really want to learn how she wrote in such scholarly and ancient languages as those that wrote in symbols.

The tyr regards her for a moment. "Rasmus, show the slave how to use the brush and ink. Iason, locate some charcoals." The fox rises from his chair with a murmur of assent, while one of the guards nods and goes to the main doors. Dalus sits in his seat, looking mortally offended by virtually everything, and drumming his fingers in agitation against the chair.

At the command, Rasheeka lifts her head enough to watch the men move, looking specifically for Rasmus in case he needs her to move when he comes closer. Other faces, the tyr and Dalus especially, are avoided.

Rasmus crouches next to the girl, and takes the black block in one hand, and the cup of water in the other. He pours a little water into the flat indentation in the stone block, then grinds the black stick against the submerged portion of the stone. The water soon turns dark, a little of the black material dissolving into it. "Ink," he tells the girl, offering her the hard stick of dried ink.

Rasheeka looks over at her instructor for a moment and smiles faintly. Something in the process of learning had always made her happy, and she feels a pang of the once greater pleasure as the man shows her how Laosian writing inks are created. The stick is accepted and she repeats the process for just a moment, then bows her head and repeats, "Ink."

Once he's sure she understands this part, the vulpine takes the brush in his right hand, and smoothes a sheet of the fine paper before him. He dips the brush into the ink, then moves it over the sheet, with swift, sure strokes, forming characters in an unfamiliar alphabet. His writing is neat and precise, all on the same plane, though the paper is unruled. When he reaches the end of a line, he dips the brush into the ink again, then continues for another few words. He then offers the brush to Rasheeka. "Will you be able to write with it?"

While the demonstration goes on, Dalus has gone from simply drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair to tapping one foot against the floor, too. He radiates discontent.

"I will try." Once she has the brush in hand, Rasheeka attempts a few strokes, her unfamiliarity with the method making them appear clumsy and crude beside the man's own practiced hand. She bites her lip in a look of concentration as she attempts actual characters, cycling through a few languages she thinks would work well with the style. The strange characters stand out against each other and the man's own letters, and after reviewing her work Rasheeka nods a little. "I think I can write with this."

Rasmus nods to her, and bows to his lord. Tyr Sychi says, "Diabaino," and the vulpine seats himself once more.

Rasheeka attempts a few more strokes on the already marked piece of practice paper, familiarizing herself with the way the brush works and the marks different amounts of pressure and angle create. With her free hand she adjusts her glasses, settling them against her nose a few times as she reviews her work. A satisfied smile crosses her face, shadowed in the dim light as she keeps her head bowed.

The tyr draws in a breath and releases it slowly. "Rasheeka, this is what you are to write, in the tongue of the foreigners: Enrique Ledyr. Your partner disgraced your name when he cost himself his life. You must atone for his crimes, for you were responsible for bringing him here."

As the girl writes with a brush the tyr's words in Gallisian, she thinks on their meaning. It is not unheard of that one can be blamed for another's actions in certain contexts, but this context Rasheeka cannot help but find odd. She has read of lands where foreigners have been met with such suspicion but this time it is she who looks out from inside rather than the reverse. And she cannot help but feel for the captain who had never truly treated her that badly.

The human's incessant drumming picks up in tempo, and Sychi breaks off to look at him. "Dalus. Be still." The man freezes, then straightens his fingers deliberately, and leans back in his chair.

Continuing to Rasheeka, the tyr dictates, "You must spend another tenday at the Katharsi House. Should anyone come to the gates of the house, you must refuse to see them, for your shame is too great.

"At the end of that tenday, you will go to the house of spirits, and there you must offer two metrisi of grain, one of fruit, an emetrisi of wine, and a hundredth metrisi of gold to the spirits, in penance for your actions."

The message is copied dutifully, if not with perfect style. Rasheeka simply does not have the practice with the brush to create more than a utilitarian message, the aesthetics simple and uncomplicated so that the message might remain clear. As she reaches them, Rasheeka puzzles over the terms of "metrisi" and "emetrisi," believing them to be forms of material and liquid measure respectively. She does not, however, think that the captain will understand them any more than she does. Her hope is that the elderly bat who used to teach her languages might.

The tyr waits for her to finish writing what he has said so far, then continues. "The priests will offer you absolution. You must say you are unworthy of it. They will perform the rite of athos upon you. Submit to it.

"Last, you must bring to my hall gifts in equal weight to those you brought before. You will be asked if you wish to see me. You must say you are unworthy. You will not see me again. You must leave the gifts at the foot of the pyramid and return to the Katharsi House.

"There, you will wait another tenday. At the end of the tenth day, you will be free to come and go as you please. You may trade with any merchants in Meleti, and you may leave Apagorevo at your leisure. Your crew, like you, will be free to come and go as they please, as long as none of you violate any laws of the city. The laws of the Laos Enosi will apply to you and yours, just as they apply to the Laos. Ignorance will not excuse criminal actions.

"This is the will of the Laos Enosi," The tyr finishes. He looks first to his left, then his right. Rasmus smiles a little, while Dalus crosses his arms over his chest.

The copying continues unbroken, though the slave has much to think about. She cannot help but wonder if Captain Ledyr will be allowed to return to Tizhar to gather all these items – and if he would return at all if he were allowed to leave. Though not a fortune, it is a great deal the tyr demands, she thinks. And as she continues to listen and write she realizes he won't be allowed to leave until this absolution is achieved. The slave frowns at the idea, fearing for the captain, uncertain if he can meet all of the demands without the merchant or a return to Tizhar.

"Will that be clear to him, Rasheeka?" the tyr asks her.

The answer is not given immediately. Instead, Rasheeka lifts the piece of parchment and reviews it for a moment. She feels the need to lie, to tell him it's perfectly fine out of fear of his displeasure – then she recalls how the tyr deals with lies, and decides that the truth is better. "N-no, dynatos tyr, I d-do not – don't believe he will understand the terms athos … " Here, she reviews the document. "… metrisi and emetrisi."

Sychi does not respond immediately. "A metrisi is – " he starts, then looks to the fox, " – two thirds of one of the urns he brought, Rasmus?"

The vulpine answers, "Three fifths, dynatos tyr. An emetrisi is a three-eights the size of one of the casks. More or less."

Rasheeka raises her head to watch the men exchange ideas on the description of measurement, lowering it momentarily so that she can add this explanation to the message before returning her gaze to the two men as she feels an explanation of athos might be forthcoming.

"Athos… Pesach may be able to explain that to Enrique Ledyr, and if not, it will be clear when the priests do it. It is tedious and time-consuming, but neither difficult nor dangerous," the tyr says, more to himself than to Rasheeka.

A simple explanation of athos is added, and then Rasheeka puzzles over her writing for a moment more before she nods a little. "Dynatos tyr, by the grace and blessing of the gods of knowledge and wisdom, I believe the letter will serve," she tells the tyr, and for a moment she forgets her nervousness as she focuses on her work.

Dalus growls, "'Will serve!' Impudent slave!" and glares at her. Even Rasmus quirks one of his ears, but if the tyr finds anything to take issue with, the mask conceals it.

Sychi's voice, when he speaks, is even and melodious still. "Copy the letter over neatly, Rasheeka."

Rasheeka's ears splay at the outburst, having not considered her words to be offensive. Surely, she thinks, the work is neither graceful nor particularly noteworthy – and she can't claim it's perfect, not to the tyr. Her protests are left unspoken, and she simply nods and stammers, "Y-yes dynatos tyr" as she draws another piece of parchment and begins copying the work – this time with better, more practiced strokes of the brush.

When the fresh copy has finished drying – which it does quickly, as the ink from the powder stick doesn't appear to stay wet for long – the tyr says, "Diabaino," to her, in evident dismissal. He holds out his hand, and one of the guards steps to him, presenting him with the letter and an elaborately worked ivory scroll case. The tyr removes the stopper from the case, then coils the paper around a thin pouch of black velvet, that Rasheeka's good night vision allows her to make out, though she's not sure where he produced it from. Maybe it was in the guard's hand? In any event, it is slid, with the letter, into the case, then sealed shut with hot wax, and the tyr's mark stamped into it.

There the foreign word is again, Diabaino, a word she has yet to fully understand. It often means dismissal, but it can also mean one's current action is acceptable depending on the contexts, contexts she has not wholly come to be able to differentiate between. With great uncertainty Rasheeka rises, bowing, waiting to see if anyone yells at her for misunderstanding.

Even Dalus doesn't rebuke her for preparing to depart, suggesting that she's got the right idea. Tyr Sychi instructs the guard, "Archon Abydos is to deliver this to Enrique Ledyr in the morning. It is an injunction to obey the customs of Laos Enosi." He rises after saying this. "Diabaino," he repeats, this time seemingly to the room, and the other two men rise with him, bowing deeply. The tyr inclines his head briefly in acknowledgement, then turns and walks to one of the doors leading to a side chamber.

The dismissal of the room is sufficient to ease Rasheeka's uncertainty, and without turning her back on him the canine starts away from the tyr until he no longer faces her, then she turns and walks slowly to exit the chamber, folding her arms together beneath her robes.

No one says anything more to her as she exits the room, the guards offering her no challenge. The slave is left on her own to make her way back to her pallet.

It's a curious thing to be left alone to go where she pleases, thinks Rasheeka. The pyramid is large when compared to the ship, and no one stops her as she makes her way back to the kitchen. But despite this openness she cannot help but feel it is binding. No chains rattle at her feet, nor guards or masters watching her every step, but still she feels them – the jingle just beyond hearing, rattles beyond sight. And she knows that this is but illusionary freedom. But it is also life, she remembers, and today's events at least passed moderately well. She breathes a sigh of relief in knowing that, and wonders what might next be expected of her.