Thunder rumbled in the high-arched throne room of Anetch Ghellte, the second-grandest palace in Cathan. Lightning arced and reflected off of the intricate gilding that decorated the walls, striking in time to the chorus’ song. This, of course, was the product of the singing itself: the entire choir was assembled of trained mage-singers, each with their own part in the performance. Deep baritones sang a hymn to give the echoing song perfect acoustics, while higher-pitched sopranos wove a frantic spell to punctuate the baritones’ notes with the aforementioned lightning strikes. A group of illusionists sang to produce an effect of being in a misty, temple-like forest, and a central section sang the loudest, in Sennyai, a traditional song glorifying the Senyatti countryside, all accompanied by a huge crescent-shaped string instrument which fairly dominated the room, operated by a number of musicians, each suspended by seats strung from the instrument, assigned their own section of the massive harp. It was absolute sycophancy, not to mention a fairly unimpressive display compared to times past, and Ganti Sutt, the grizzled old Sennyai ambassador in whose honor this was performed, was having none of it. Hated the Sennyatti countryside anyways, as any proper Sennyat did. Still, he thought, traditions must be kept. Beside Ganti, his accompanying apprentice sat plainly enraptured by the display. The boy was a nephew of somebody fairly important; the old man could not quite remember who. Some chief priest or other. Luckily, he had been brought along on the condition that he had no negotiating power whatsoever, wasn’t even allowed to speak, as this was too important a contract to have slanted in Cathan’s favor by easily-impressed youngsters.
	Retzen Ghellte didn’t appear to know this, judging by the smug look on his face as he gazed upon the boy. The regent sat in the usual place: an almost comically sized, centrally placed chair, lavishly decorated in red cloth and silver, and surrounded by guards. Rulers were all the same, thought Ganti. Give them a big room to sit in and they’re happy as a clam. Particularly a big room in a big palace named after them. The Sennyati wondered how long that had been so. The last time he’d been in Cathan, another man had been seated in another chair in the old capital. Judging by the Sennyat-style architecture, all giant carved wooden pillars and arching beams, the place was far older than anyone here, so it was highly unlikely that Ghellte had had it constructed himself. Ganti wondered what it had been named before Ghellte came into power. Probably best not to ask, considering the man wasn’t born into his position; Sutt wasn’t sure how exactly the man had acquired his post, but such subjects were often touchy. Besides, Cathan switched rulers so often it wasn’t even worth remembering.
	The song ended, and Sutt’s ears rung. The image of the glen faded to clearly reveal the court. It was arranged in a symmetrical layout, with the main chamber supporting a large dome, and smaller alcoves lining the sides. The dome was decorated with a large mural depicting Retzen and some lackeys fighting some enemy soldiers, who were wearing armor reminiscent of that used by Vulthi forces. The mural was bisected in composition, with the Cathanic group on one side and the Vulthis on the other, painted in darker coloring. This formed the gaiwe, the symbol of Shin, the religion purported by Sennyat. The paint on the Vulthis looked fresh, and given the palace’s proximity to the Sennyai border, it wasn’t unlikely the soldiers had been wearing Sennyatti gear previously. Ganti had been disappointed by this upon first entering the room, as the painting could have provided some information regarding the place pre-Ghellte. He already knew the man could pander.
	Ghellte jumped up from his seat. He was a tall man, somewhat stocky in proportion, with receding brown hair, pale skin and a smug look that never seemed to leave his face. He sported a small beard, and wore a colorful ceremonial robe.
“Estimable Lat-Sutt!” he said loudly, directed as much to the rest of the court as to Ganti, “We are honored that your people deem to deal with such lowly men as us!” He didn’t mean a word of it. Self-deprecation was a standard greeting in Cathanic diplomacy, though it had become such an archaic tradition that the delivery almost inevitably had an air of sarcasm to it. Ganti scoffed under his breath, then stood slowly with a small smile on his face, and bowed deeply, nudging his acolyte to do the same, then in a flat tone, said:
“Truly, you hold me in a light brighter than I can shine. I am deeply flattered in your graciousness in having me here.” His serious face managed to become even more so. “Now if we can move on with the honorifics, I believe we have a deal to work out.”
Retzen’s grin broadened. “But of course. Let us move into the signing room.” He waved a hand, and the room was suddenly a flurry of movement. The choir left the room as one; the players of the massive harp climbed down from their seats and helped attendants push it to the side of the room, where a large curtain was drawn over it. Numerous miscellaneous courtspeople scurried off to attend to their own matters. Four guards in shining red armor encircled Ghellte, and he, the Sennyatti, and a few scribes and other attendants walked along the length of the chamber, causing a rift in the tumultuous crowd. They reached a small door in the side of the room, leading to an alcove of sorts. The signing room was a much smaller chamber than the throne room, but was still sizeable, more of an office than anything. It was soberly decorated with a circular painting of the Cathanic landscape, a plaque with a pair of enormous Boar’s tusks over the door, a case filled with neatly arranged scrolls, and a table in the center. Ghellte sat at the table, facing the door. Two guards stood at either side of the door, and two stood parallel to them at Retzen’s flanks. The men from Sennyat sat across from Retzen, and then the scribes sat.
Retzen dropped the public face. He spoke now in a much gruffer tone.
“Sutt, you are intelligent and an honorable man. It is not a compliment, but a statement. I know this because you are old and alive, despite being a priest of Ela, and because you are not fat from corruption. So I will be straightforward with you. It is obvious that your country intends to move on the Riverlands within the next few Waves. You would not want massive amounts of gelgrain for eating, and somehow I cannot see devout Sennyai men crossing the cursed land to war with Vulð. So I will supply Sennyat with slings—for a good price, too!— and in return, I want a cut of the profits. Jewels from the Riverlands, and if and when you move on Nahaia, some of their treasures. If not, there is always the chance that someone else could glean Sennyat’s intentions and wouldn’t mind stocking up on grain themselves.”
Ganti kept a straight face. Frankly, he was surprised he wasn’t being offered a bribe. Most dignitaries, and rulers in particular, opened with them. It was almost standard procedure; the diplomat got very tired of rejecting them. Meanwhile, he’d have to inform his superiors of this implied blackmail when he got back; dealings with Cathan had gotten somewhat tiresome now that Ghellte was in charge. He somehow managed both to be a sycophant and a nuisance. Maybe they’d do something about it. Maybe that was what the gelgrain was for.
“Very well,” he said, “Let us hash out the details.”


* * *

	Maj sat in the grass outside of Foelni in the shade of a solitary tree, chewing pensively on a grilled sprig of gelgrain, roasted on Ket’s pikeblade. It didn’t taste amazing, but it was edible, and it wasn’t cooked meat, the thought of which still made his stomach churn. Sarca, sitting atop the tree, appeared to have no problem with the idea of meat; he tore at a sheet of dried jerky formerly stored in a pouch on his saddle, which sat beside Maj on the ground. Hutan grimaced and shifted slightly as crumbs fell from above. He peered at the wall of the town. It was impressive. Not city impressive, but more than a town this size ought to be sporting. It appeared to be made of geltrees, the massive relatives of the grain these people subsisted themselves on, all lashed together, each trunk dried into a defensive form, with their tops arching over the outside of the wall to prevent anyone climbing in. Hutan wondered whether Sarca could do it, but before he came to a satisfying conclusion, the gate of the town opened and a number of men emerged, then walked towards Hutan. One was very fat, wearing a skirt that ended at the knees and a large, gaudy scarf wrapped around the upper body, and every other visible surface covered in silver chains and colorful jewelry. He strode confidently, appearing to head the group. A melodious jingling emanated from his movements. Behind him was a similarly dressed couple, albeit with less jewelry, and with numerous small sacks strung about their shoulders. Following this trio were two lawkeepers with mail armor, short swords and slings, and Ket, dressed simply in the same coarse brown robe he'd had before. The lawkeepers glanced nervously at the large primate perched in the tree.
	Hutan stood up and did his best to look respectfully confident. The fat man pointed at him and said something in Cathanic. Ket said something—Hutan caught “Sennya-ai” in his words—and the fat man said, in Sennyai this time, “Who are you?”
	“My name is Maj Hutan. I am just a traveler, passing through your country.”
	“A Kjeshi man, dressed in Sennyat clothing and armor, speaking Sennyai. Passing through my land with a mount equipped for war. Before we get to this creature I’m hearing about, and your involvement with that, I want to know what you are doing in my country in the first place.”
	Hutan glanced at Sarca, and supposed that three javelins and a sabre certainly didn’t speak to peaceful intentions. He looked back at the man. “I was a soldier, just out of training in the Sennyati Army. I was with my squad out on the field, when they abandoned me on the frontier, saying that I was cursed and would only bring ill fortune to the squad. I wandered, somewhat lost, until I found this man”—he gestured at Ket—“helped him, and accompanied him to this town.”
	The fat man glared at him, thought for a moment. “They abandoned you, with a mount, weapons and rations to last you a trip across the border? Explain yourself.”
	Hutan’s heart began to beat faster. He kept his composure. “They left me with nothing but the armor I wore, and I managed to make my way back to the camp. When I got there, it was the dead of night. I snuck in thanks to the watchman being a friend of mine. He predicted that the next incident would likely be murder. I agreed, and he looked the other way while I gathered supplies and struck for Ata’s light.”
	“Why Ata’s light?”
	“We were near the border of Sennyat and Cathan. I figured Vulð would be a good place to start over; I’ve heard nobody cares where you’re from there, only that you can work. That’s also why I brought the weaponry; many say it is a treacherous journey to a treacherous place.”
		The man considered for a long while. The other men exchanged quick looks that spoke of uncertainty. Hutan was beginning to wonder if he should call Sarca and make a run of it when the fat one smiled and said,”Well, Latt-Hutan, any man who steals from a Sennyat is a friend of mine, and any friend of mine is a friend of the town. However, we have only cleared one half of this tale, the second being the head of the gnarled beast which lies there. I am not a terribly superstitious man; I do not believe in curses, but I know of the things the Learned can do, and your people had quite a few of those, and schools to learn the art itself. How am I to know you did not simply conjure this beast?”
	Hutan pulled his sleeve loose from his bracer, displaying heavy bruising and scratches on his upper arm. “Why would I conjure a thing which serves only to attack me?”
	“Spells have been known to go awry.” An understatement, this.
	“And I wouldn’t know how to make them go awry or otherwise. The schools you speak of were destroyed when I was just a child of three waves.”
	This appeared to satisfy and surprise the man; his eyebrows rose. “A difficult life it must have been, for a man without a country.” He said something in Cathanic to his group, gestured to Hutan to follow. They walked back to the gate. “You may stay, for now. We will stable your ape, and give you a place to sleep. I am going to send men to try to recover the rest of the creature, the raferc, as old man Ket says. You will stay until they return, in case you are an illusionist of some sort. When that is confirmed, I will send word to the nobles at the capital. Let them send men to search the rest of the forest, and leave mine at home, hey?” He gave one powerful laugh, then held out his hand.
	“I don’t believe I properly introduced myself. My name is Derisc Foelni; this is my town.”