“Please, sit,” he told them, and sat as well. He was a portly man on the threshold of old age. One eye wandered as if bedeviled by an interior vision it didn’t appreciate. His skin was the color of fine whisky. “We hope you have been made comfortable. Or comfortable enough.”

The maunts nodded. Their approach had been greeted without apparent alarm, and they’d been welcomed respectfully.

“Very good, very good,” he said. “Even in these uncongenial times, with the Emperor cudgeling us heathen into conversion through the force of his holy mace, we pride ourselves on clinging to our customs. Charity to visitors ranks high among our traditions.

My name is Shem Ottokos.”

“Lord Ottokos, you speak very well,” ventured Sister Doctor.

“For a Scrow, you mean,” he said, taking no offense. “I had a university degree at Shiz, back in the days when there was more collegiality at college. I studied the languages, ancient and modern.”

“You had a notion to be a translator?”

“My notions are insignificant. I am the chief interpreter for her Highness now. I assume you have ventured into our tribal lands to gain an audience with the Princess?” Though the maunts believed the native land of the Scrow to be significantly farther west, on the other side of the Great Kells, theirs wasn’t to quibble. “Yes,” said Sister Doctor.

“We have work to complete. We are investigating the cause and agency of the recent spate of scrapings. If it would suit the Princess to grant us an audience, we should be able to clear up our concerns and be on our way almost at once. Is the Princess up to seeing us?”

Without answering, he stood and flicked both his hands, which the maunts took to mean:Come . They followed him from his tent and toward the royal pavilion in the center of the camp.

“She has not been well for more years than anyone can remember,” said Lord Ottokos as they walked. “She has little energy for idle chat and I will not bother to translate anything that would upset her. I would suggest you contain your remarks to ten minutes, no more.

When I get up to leave, so shall you.”

“We might have brought tribute…,” murmured Sister Apothecaire.

“Sister!”said Sister Doctor sharply. “We are maunts of the House of Saint Glinda! We do not bring tribute to a foreign princess!”

“I meant a cake, or a witty novel,” she explained unhappily.

“She has no need of cakes or novels,” said Lord Ottokos. “Meaning no disrespect to our Princess, I would recommend that you breathe through your mouths. It is not considered impertinent to hold your sleeve in front of your nose. Try not to gag, though; it upsets her Highness.”

The maunts exchanged glances.