Outside of the inn, a bright sunny day was in full swing. Inside, a late evening painted the sky above the arena with blues and purples, and in the west, a splash of brilliant pink diluted with gold gently smoldered into night. I had recorded a spectacular Texas sunset and was now projecting it on the ceiling. The air was pleasantly warm. A simulated evening breeze fanned the delegates in their seating sections.

At the south side of the arena, an enormous stone doorway opened to a short passage leading to the portal glowing with pale green light. I stood just inside of it, out of view. Gaston waited next to me. He’d chosen another space musketeer outfit, this one a deep hunter green, and he topped it off with a brimmed hat with a ridiculously fluffy black feather.

At the north end, directly opposite the doorway, a stone crag thrust from the bottom of the arena. It had two small seating sections on each side and a stone staircase that led all the way to the top, crowned with a stone throne. Behind the throne, eleven enormous banners, each representing the remaining delegations, hung from seemingly empty air, stirring gently in the breeze. There was a spot for the twelfth banner, between the second and third banners from the right, but it was obviously missing.

Between the throne and the doorway, in the center of the arena, the raised stage waited. I had lifted it a bit higher and added some fog for atmosphere. Dark mist swirled along the bottom of the arena, sliding around the stone stage, lapping at the walls of the delegations’ sections, and flowing to the throne crag and back, like a turbulent sea. Occasionally tiny motes of golden light emerged from the mist and floated up slowly until they melted into the evening air.

It was as if the throne crag and the stage had risen from a bottomless chasm shrouded with mist. But the mist was barely three feet deep. I had bought it from Cookie, and he gave me a slight discount, which made his followers clutch their metaphorical pearls. It was still not cheap, but worth it. Orata had asked for "maximum drama." No innkeeper would shy away from that challenge. We lived for this stuff.

The arena hummed. The last delegation had been seated fifteen minutes ago, and they were getting antsy.

There was some minor commotion in the observers’ section. I pulled a screen up to take a closer look. Two of Cookie’s helpers dashed about, pretending to spar with two long daggers. Dagorkun looked like someone stomped on his foot, but he had to endure it, so he just let all the pain go to his face. Next to him Karat smiled and clapped her hands.