Enet suppressed a sigh and sat; then she gestured for them to do the same. She clapped once. ‘Refreshments for my guests, and arrange clean clothes for them. And some cloths so that they may remove the worst of the mud,’ she added. They’d removed their sandals in the entrance, but their feet appeared just as filthy and there were already marks on her mats.

Tayan grimaced and looked down. ‘The Wet is heavy already, is it not?’ he asked. ‘I apologise for the mess we have made. We were, ah, unaware we would be meeting you immediately upon our arrival or we would have ensured we were more presentable. Thank you,’ he added to the slave handing him the square of cotton. He scrubbed at the mud coating his feet and legs, then used a clean corner to squeeze the water from his hair. It was long, coming halfway down his back, threaded with strings of dyed-blue bird bones and painted clay beads. His kilt was patterned with blue squares, as was his sleeveless tunic. Four long, pale scars marred the side of his left leg; that would have been a nasty injury.

‘Would you like to bathe?’ she asked before they were settled and was gratified to see them both recoil.

‘Thank you, no. Unless that is a requirement of your society? We do not wish to cause offence and this is only our first meeting.’

Enet met Betsu’s eyes and an understanding as to the nature of these meetings passed between them.

‘You cause no offence,’ the Great Octave said softly.

The shaman retrieved his bag and knelt opposite Enet. Betsu joined them, impassive, as he began to lay out items on the low table between them. One of Enet’s guards shifted away from the wall and she raised her hand to still them, curious. There was a small clay jar, tightly stoppered, a series of well-carved statues, and a soft deerskin pouch. ‘Do you have a bowl and grinding stone for us to prepare the magic?’ he asked.

‘The … magic?’ Enet asked. The man indicated the vial and the pouch. ‘Oh yes, your frog-magic. It is true you lick them? Is there one in there?’ She leant forward and prodded the pouch with a long fingernail; it was disappointingly soft.

The shaman coughed. ‘See how we already learn about each other?’ he said with forced cheer. ‘When we journey to the realm of the ancestors, or to speak with Malel, our goddess, or those spirits not yet reborn, the path is arduous, and to speak with the dead is a difficult task. Our magic eases that passage. Does your song-magic require the same?’

‘It does not.’

The Toko waited for more, but Enet was silent. Her estate slave knelt behind the peace-weavers, alert to her smallest gesture or requirement. It clearly made the pair nervous to have his silent presence behind them.