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I gave her credit for! Of course you’re going, right?”
    “I couldn’t very well say no,” said Cham, flustered. Now he wished he had. But he had been confused by the girls and their oblique chatter which said one thing and hinted at something else entirely. They seemed to think there was something highly secretive about a conversation that took place in the open. Then the sudden eruption of the tall young man was upsetting. The intervention of the First Minister made it seem far more important than the casual conversation he had assumed it was. The whole situation made him very nervous.
    “You’ve never been with a girl, have you?” Triani remarked, inspecting a cube of black bread smeared with some orange substance.
    “Triani, it’s just a picnic.” Cham glanced across the hall but the girls ignored him. As the sugared fruit was carried from group to group, the Great Chief introduced Quetzelan, the Dream Weaver, the Teller of Tales. He was a tall man with long white hair over his shoulders. His nut-brown skin was stretched tightly over prominent cheek bones and bright, black eyes glittered from deep in his head. As he rose to speak, the crowded hall fell silent. He scooped up a handful of live coals from the fire in the center of the table and pressed it to the broad tip of his wooden staff. The Merculians gasped. Cham held his breath and clasped his own small hands together tightly, wincing in sympathy. But the regal old man showed no sign of pain. For what seemed like long minutes to the incredulous Merculians, he held the glowing coals against the wood, until a spiral of smoke began to rise from the staff. The smoke twisted and thickened, reaching out long bluish tendrils across the murky hall. Then he stretched out his hand so everyone could see the still glowing coal, and slowly closed his fingers around it. His fist gradually crushed the coal. As he opened his hand, sparks flew up like a stream of fireworks, causing the Merculians to burst into applause. When quiet again settled over the hall, he leaned on his carved staff and began to speak. His whole manner was in complete contrast to the lively, vivacious style of Benvolini, who had performed the night before. Surprisingly, after the opening pyrotechnics, Quetzelan stood completely motionless. No gestures. No change of facial expression. But it was his voice that was so unusual. Rich, dark, hypnotic, his voice drifted effortlessly through the smoke-filled hall. And as he spoke, it was almost as if another deeper shadow voice thrummed under every word. It was an odd, unsettling effect, like a muffled, barely discernable echo in the spell-bound room. When the old man had finished speaking, his voice faded away to silence in waves, like water lapping against the shore. Nobody moved. Only gradually did conversation start up again.
    “Interesting technique,” remarked Beny.
    “I prefer yours,” Eulio said, taking his hand.
    “Look at them,” said Triani, glancing around at the Abulonians. “They look like they just chewed a handful of buzzers or something. It wasn’t that great!”
    Cham looked around and nodded in agreement. Then he noticed Talassa-ran Zox. The Serpian was standing in the shadows, staring at Triani and the hatred in his eyes burned like acid. Cham shivered and put his arms around the dog’s neck.
    * * *
    Cham was having second thoughts about the picnic. For one thing, he had the feeling he might have misunderstood something about the invitation. For another, he didn’t like the looks of the neighborhood. According to the scanty information the Merculians had been provided with, it didn’t look the sort of place a well brought up Abulonian girl would come to by herself. Rough sheds and animal pens lined the narrow streets. One of the buildings opposite the stables had collapsed in on itself, its timbers charred and jagged. The animal smell of the stables hung over the place like fog. The great beasts inside were called ‘amaxes’