The late afternoon sun spread lazy rays over Old Varoonya, bringing an amber glow to turrets and balconies, to vaulted doors and mullioned windows. The sense of laughter and playfulness the extravagant buildings exuded was accentuated by a custom that had developed among the inhabitants to, at first, hang their washing on lines stretching across the street. At some point, the popularity of the visual effect seemed to have gone overboard, and people began hanging up all kinds of brightly colored cloth in all kinds of places above the city, never mind any need to wash or dry. So until today, the inner city of Varoonya was full of little flags and bright canopies, of sun-sails and ribbons, of sham signaling flags and (perhaps) secret love-messages disguised as ornamental cloth on a roof.

Even at the palace.

A flapping washing line waved in through the window of a large, sunlit office. Inside, a young scribe was scratching her head, dislodging a few bouncy curls.

"Shebbetin." She began to shuffle papers around on her shelf, pulling the lower drawers until she came up with a map which she spread out on the windowsill.

Her colleague walked up to her and began discussing the question of rural areas near the swamps, pointing out on the map how far apart settlements were and how difficult the roads, especially in the wet season. By the time the young woman was beginning to wrap her head around the various solutions suggested for that problem, and the drawbacks each of those also had, both scribes felt like going over to the parlor to continue the conversation over a nice cup of tea. They strolled off together, pushing the map back onto the shelf as they left.

*

"Pfff." In one of the oldest bureau offices, a small, woody box with the atmosphere of an attic, a gaunt man shoved the papers impatiently to the far side of his desk.

Here, he thought irritably, was another random act by someone who didn't know how things worked. Or who just wanted to be important.

Very likely it was, indeed, that there was a whole area in Yurvania that no one had ever noticed. Where the Transition had not taken place and people were suffering as in the feudal age.

If it were really so, surely in all the forty years since that historical turning point someone would have written a clever letter like this one, so the Council could take action?

No one except the author himself was going to believe that this was the first ever heroic attempt to bring a forgotten people into the light. Ridiculous. Surely, forgotten people did not exist. We would know about it if they did.

The scribe pulled up another report. Something reasonable, he hoped.

*

"That sounds serious."

Seated beneath an assembly of colorful guild emblems, the man in his long caftan looked as if he had stepped out of an oil painting entitled: 'The honorable palace scribes of Varoonya.' With poised dignity, he stretched out an arm to hand the papers over to his colleague. But she did not take them. She only nodded.

"Yes. It seems grave. And unusual. That's why I thought I'd give them to you."

This solicited a low, rumbling grunt. "Why to me? I am no more adept at this than you. I wouldn't know what to do in a complete absence of any structure, as he seems to be saying here. I can check on existing services, yes. Keep them running. Improve them, even. But beginning with nothing? In the middle of nowhere? I wouldn't know where to start."

His colleague nodded. "Let's pass it on to Lenoren, then. She can handle it, or play it to the Council as a whole."

*

Lenoren ran through the papers that had accumulated on her desk in her absence.

The minutes of the last Council assemblage.

The draft agenda for the Canopy gathering, plus comments from two other bureaus.

Something about the Mountains.

A letter signed by one hundred artificers concerning the role of the academy.

Lenoren began to skim through the Canopy agenda while biting into her lunch roll. She smeared the paper with oily fingers, making it worse as she tried to wipe it clean.

A head poked in through her door. "Coming? We're about to start."

"Hmm," Lenoren nodded, mouth full, and hurried out, leaving the papers on the growing stacks at her side table.

* * *

"And so the story ends!"

Pulan triumphantly clapped the book shut and whistled through her teeth. She had read out her whole text with perfectly correct pronunciation. Enim was impressed.

"You can say now all book with your head, yes?" Cahuan joked in improving Kokish. "You no must look book not one. Full storyteller you!"

"Yes, we know all story all book! Full! And write all slate board full book also!" Som was beaming just as proudly. She whirled around like a dancer, making all of her ribbons fly and the colors of her tunic blur.

In the Snuggery, communication in Kokish had always been fluent in the sense of enthusiastic. Increasingly, grammar was making its way into the conversation as well.

Enim absolutely had to get them a second book.

Even though he himself had not made as much use of the Vanian books there were. His writing skills were still deplorable, if they were at all. But his spoken Vanian had come back, better than ever and including grammar, so Enim was extremely pleased. He felt like himself again now when he spoke. Perhaps a little like his younger self, speaking to his parents. But even that flavor gradually disappeared as Enim eased more and more into his new reality, including this new old language.

In less than two moons, Enim had settled quite comfortably into his new surroundings. In the wake of Manaam's introductions to the mine owners of Shebbetin, Enim had not only become a member of their private pouch group, but also kept getting hired to tend to traptions in the mines, just as planned. Enim's presence at the Snuggery had also become a matter of routine, especially since he had moved into a little room just across the street.

Enim pulled up his legs and leaned back comfortably against the wall, taking a sip from the water bottle beside him. This was all beginning to feel like home.

Except that... there still was suffering and hardship all around.

Enim had made his peace with all the pain on condition that it was purely temporary. Soon to be rectified. Any moment now, the first of the healers would arrive, or at least the first scribes. Or, as an absolute minimum, a letter telling Enim that all of these were on their way. How long could it take for at least one person in at least one bureau to confirm receipt of his report?

But so far—nothing. Except children still sitting in work cabins. And miners losing their health.

* * *