When the first morning rays seeped through latticed windows, Merida sought out the regular ambassador of the Virtuous Republic.

She introduced herself with a formal bow. “Merida Karr, personal value 248, special ambassador.”

The grey-templed man returned her bow with polite correctness. When he stated his personal value as 251, she basked in the warm pleasure of being almost his equal. Seated on the opposite side of his desk, she levelled her gaze at his thin, long-tipped nose.

After an exchange of correct courtesies, she gave him the bundled messages from the Riverian government. He shoved them to the side, apparently in no hurry to read what had to be the first communications in several moons.

While she told him about the dormitory, he listened in silence with his arms against the edge of the desk, rotating his thumbs around each other. “Considering the delicate state of our diplomatic relations, I had hoped your presence would ease the tension rather than add to it.”

“What tension?” Nobody had mentioned any conflict during her briefing. Everyone had emphasised – possibly over-emphasised – the Virtuous Republic's generosity and the Queendom's gratitude.

“Given your status, I had assumed you to be prepared for the political situation.” His head shook in pointed disapproval. “The Consort requested to add the Most Virtuous President's daughter to his harem.”

“A Riverian as a concubine? Impossible.”

 Sweat beads formed between the old man's eyebrows. “He took the rejection as a personal slight. You will refrain from further rousing his disfavour.”

“You have no idea what the dormitory is like,” Merida insisted. “After two moons of this, my nerves will be too frazzled for magic.”

His thumbs rotated very slowly. The man had all the vigour of a tower slug. “I urge you to submit your accommodation requirements to the Virtues of Modesty and Discipline. Perhaps I may be of some other assistance?”

“Yes. Who is the person I met yesterday? Tall, female, about forty-five, dark-haired, decked in jewellery. She seemed important but didn't introduce herself.”

“Lady Teruma, the Consort's head-wife. Quislaki etiquette forbids introductions, of course.”

“Head-wife? She acted as if she had authority.”

“She's the most powerful woman in the Queendom.” He peered at his rotating thumbs as if the motion was worth studying. “Anything else?”

“Is it true there are djinns in Quislak?”

His face darkened as if she had dropped a shutter. “Never let such prejudiced ideas cross your lips, Special Ambassador! To suggest the presence of malevolent spirits in the Queendom is to insult our hosts with superstition.”

“I want to expand my knowledge.”

His brows drew together. “The study of djinns is prohibited in this country. Even talking about them is a punishable offence.”

“Prohibited by whom? By the Queen? Or by her Consort, the clown?”

His face reddened. “I will inform the Virtuous Government of your inadequacy and ask for you to be recalled. While you're still here, discipline yourself into keeping your mouth shut.”

Merida's mind whirled like turbulent water. If the old man complained, she would be stripped of the extra points on return, defeating her dreams of a high-value future. She could only hope that he was too lethargic to push himself into action. From now on, she would guard her tongue. Why was the study of djinns outlawed, and their mention prohibited? Governments restricted the flow of information only if they had something to hide.

She promised to discipline herself into uncritical silence.

On her return, the dormitory was empty and Merida savoured the blissful quietude. She helped herself to an orange from a tray of delicacies, and found it the most delicious fruit she had ever tasted: scented, juicy, honey-sweet, and full of exotic promise.

To make the most of the restful moment of solitude, Merida decided to lie down and read. But when she opened her box of scrolls, the treatise on djinns was missing.

“Special Ambassador!” a hard-faced woman in a green uniform called from the curtained door. “You're summoned to the Queen. At once.”

Tension tightened in Merida's stomach. Would she be accused of bringing subversive literature into the palace? She grabbed her accreditation papers and her government’s official gift. The necklace of tastefully square-cut garnets would surely make an impression in a country where people delighted in gaudy glass beads.

The guard opened the door to a fume-crowded chamber. Half a dozen braziers each churned out different-smelling clouds. Amidst the fog languished purple divans, tables with blue coral inlays, and cats on cushions of silver brocade. Hanging lamps furnished the light that the shuttered windows refused. Thick carpets swallowed every footstep.

The Queen sat so still, she might have been part of the divan, differing only in colour. Her tunic glittered in red and silver, drenched in jewels. She was the biggest person Merida had ever seen, with a faint silver aura of spirituality. The guard who had accompanied her bowed to the floor and withdrew.

“Your Luminous Resplendency,” Merida recited. “It is my privilege to represent, as special ambassador the Virtuous Republic of Riverland…”

The Queen yawned.

Merida hurried through the rest of the rehearsed speech. She had expected a beautiful female to reign in her consort’s harem, but this pasty face spoke of poor diet, lack of exercise, and decaying health.

The Queen’s splendid stiff dress hid the body, but the pudgy hands and the fleshy folds of her huge neck allowed a guess at the fat softness underneath. The gems embroidered on her gown were real. More than a dozen pendants dangled from her silver crown, white shimmering mother-of-pearl disks, each garnished in the centre with a slice of yellow amber which reminded Merida of fried eggs. She saw the foolishness of the gift. The Queen owned more jewellery than all the ladies of Riverland did together, and the necklace would never fit her neck.

“Here are my accreditation documents,” Merida said.

“That's nice. Put them on that table. Will you dance for rain?”

“Yes, your Luminous Resplendency. It's my privilege to...”

“That's nice. We need water.” The Queen nodded, making the fried eggs wobble. She held the necklace up against the sparse light of an oil lamp. “Nice.” She bared a doughy calf. “You may fasten it around my ankle. I look forward to the rain.”

Merida did as requested, and the Queen clapped her hands. A brown-liveried maid shuffled in, bearing a basket. After perusing its contents, the monarch selected an embroidered handkerchief. Merida thanked her, wondering what other gifts that basket contained. She suspected that the handkerchief was the one of the lowest value.

The Queen clapped her hands twice, and the hard-faced female guard reappeared to escort Merida away. She was dismissed from the royal presence.

*

Dizzy with bewilderment, Merida sought the fresh air of the palace gardens, and found a profusion of lush rose bushes, obviously well watered, though planted without apparent consideration of symmetry and style. Masses of pale pink blooms smothered sagging pergolas with their weight.

Tinkling jewellery heralded the arrival of the chief concubine who the day before had put the guard in his place. The yellow aura buzzing around her like a thousand bees showed an agile intellect. She smelled strongly of mint and citron oils. Merida had been raised to avoid encounters with low-value persons, but curiosity won.

Without greeting or formality, Teruma said, “I can't give you a guest apartment because the palace has none. Once the Fool's Plea celebrations are over, you may have a room. Shall we go for a walk? This path here is shady, and we can smell the roses.”

The soles of her sandals clacked on the slabs. She was really showing ankles and toes, just like the ethnologist had described. Calves even. Merida averted her gaze towards the flowers.

“We don't have value points here in Quislak, but I believe 248 is quite high. Amazing even,” Teruma said. “How did you earn them?”

A glow of satisfaction warmed Merida's heart. At last, someone appreciated her personal value and respected her for it. She explained willingly which factors contributed to an individual's value, such as parentage, family connections, marital status, virtuous living, occupations. “The values are not permanent. It's possible to lose points, and having low-value persons in the family brings deductions.”

“What are low-value persons?”

“Prisoners, lunatics, concu...” Merida checked herself. “Prisoners and lunatics. Some families go to great lengths to prevent that happening. They may even kill a relative condemned to prison, rather than take a drop in points. Divorce costs points, too. People go to great lengths to prevent a divorce in the family.”

When Merida had run to her parents’ tower to shelter from her husband’s violence, Mother secretly notified the man and invited him for the night. Then she sent her daughter under a pretext into the guest room, locked the door behind her, and ignored her night-long screams of terror and pain – an unforgettable lesson about how family loyalty mattered more than the individual. Fortunately, the next morning he had fallen from the tower roof in his drunken stupor.

None of these matters would ever be spoken outside the family, especially not to a person of low value, and Merida gave only general information. “Schools teach basic value reckoning, and high-ranking families regularly consult professional reckoners for complex calculations.”

“Remarkable.” Teruma rubbed an earring. “Your rain dance has been brought forward to tomorrow afternoon. Will this be a problem?”

Merida stopped walking. “That's out of the question. Our astrologers calculated that half moon fifty-five days from now is best, and Kirral confirmed the date.”

“He changed it to coincide with Fool's Plea Festival. Five thousand spectators from all over the Queendom are gathering in the arena.”

“An audience?” Merida cried, horrified. “Magic needs privacy! The agreement specifies there'll be no one present except the sixty-four musicians, four spiritual leaders, and four representatives of the Queen.”

“So you can't cope?”

Merida's head spun. She should have known that laypeople in a primitive society neither understood the importance of astrology nor appreciated the enormous energy a magician had to raise. They assumed that magic was easy, a matter of reciting a spell or two, of snapping the fingers, and rain falling on command.

“By the way, the palace orchestra won’t play,” Teruma added as casually as if discussing an entertainment programme. “Nor will the legion marching band.”

“Won’t play? The Consort promised!”

“They worry that the foreign magic could harm them.”

“Then he must order them.”

“It’s not good policy to force people in matters of religion or magic. We respect their fears and give them absolute freedom.”

“Then why the prohibition about djinns?” The forbidden word slipped out before Merida remembered to hold her tongue.

For a moment, Teruma went rigid, her face tightening into white hardness. Then her posture relaxed into snake-like suppleness again. “Let's walk some more. The point is we don't force people to do something that goes against their beliefs. How would you respond if Kirral commanded you to dance around that spell tree over there, or to slit a goat's throat in honour of the Mighty Ones?”

“That’s different,” Merida said. “Riverian magic is safe.”

“They don't think so.”

“I can’t work magic without music. Sixty-four court musicians were to have rehearsed the music I sent them.” Panic rose, but she was resolved to cope. “Maybe I can do without the flutes, but I need drummers for the rhythm. Sixteen at least.”

“I'll find someone who can drum.”

Amateurs, with only one day to rehearse! Things were getting worse. She needed a word with the ruler.

Teruma seemed to read her mind. “Don’t argue with Kirral. Keep out of his way as best you can during your stay.”

Merida frowned. “As a special ambassador of Riverland, I deserve to be treated with respect.”

“Sometimes it's wiser to use caution than to insist on rights.”

“Then I'll be diplomatic. I’m a politician’s daughter, and I’ve attended statecraft school.” Merida did not mention that she had majored in languages, not politics, and Mother often complained that in three years of statecraft training, Merida had failed to acquire diplomacy. “I’ll even play Siege with Kirral if that pleases him.”

Teruma coiled a lock of dark hair around her middle finger. “It may not be wise to attract the Consort's attention.”

“I'm not afraid!”

Teruma laughed softly. “I've delivered the warning. What you do with it is up to you. Good day, Merida.”

*

Consort Kirral beamed when she strode into his study. Today, his moustache cascaded in ringlets. “Ah, our special ambassador. Have you come to play Siege?”

“Highness. I’m giving a year of my life to bring rain to the people of Quislak. Don't I deserve the courtesy to be consulted about a schedule change?”

Kirral dug in his drawstring pouch for saltnuts. He chewed and spat them on the low table before Merida. “You have invited yourself for half a year at our expense and think you are giving us something?”

Merida was stunned. “But... the government...”

“Your government. Your most Virtuous government,” he intoned, spitting as he pronounced the word ‘virtuous’, “did not ask if we wanted you. They decreed that we should have you.”

“Didn't you request help because of the drought?”

He pushed his feet into his slippers and shuffled to the shelf-shrine in the corner. He blew dust from the heads of wooden idols, replenished the incense and rearranged the roses. With his back to Merida, he said, “I asked your Virtuous President to aid the starving people in my country. I asked for water engineers. I asked for grain. He promised to send both, but in the meantime would we please give hospitality to a magician who wanted to try out new spells in dry conditions.”

Sinking into the divan again, he let the slippers drop on the carpet and crossed his legs. “I agreed, because at that time I was engaged to your President’s daughter. Your Virtuous President broke the betrothal and gave the girl to the Darrian Emperor instead.” He snorted like a carthorse. “The marriage was off, the engineers and food supplies cancelled, but the magician was on her way and I was expected to house and feed her.”

To learn that she was nothing but an unwanted burden came as a shock. Something had gone terribly wrong, but even if the Riverian government was responsible for at least half of it, loyalty to her country would not let her speak that thought.

“I'll honour my part of the arrangement by bringing rain to your country.”

“Nonsense.” He pushed the slippers on his feet once more and stalked up and down the room, a curved dagger dangling obscenely between his legs. “We have had foreign conjurers queue at the bronze door, promising to bring rain. They begged to be allowed to try.” He raised his voice. “None of them had the impudence to demand six moon’s lodging at the palace.” He raised his voice even more. “In a private apartment! Plus a room for their servants! Plus assistance while they were nosing around. Ha!”

Merida wanted to throw a sharp retort at him. She was not a conjurer, but a member of the First Riverian School of Magic, with skills acknowledged even by her peers at home. She wanted appreciation, welcome, gratitude. “Highness, I can only imagine there must have been a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding? What an understatement.” He lifted a goddess figurine and clanked it back on the shelf. “Put on a good show. Entertain. That is all I want.” His eyes narrowed. “If your magic yields rain, you will find me very appreciative.”

*

In a secluded corner of the garden, Merida clenched her fists into tight balls. With insults and indignities hurled at her, she owed it to her nation to leave at once with her head raised high. But preserving her pride here would mean crawling back to Riverland, admitting failure.

Balanced on one foot, she performed The Stork routine which enhanced concentration, followed by The Thundercloud, a particularly empowering martial arts sequence she had only mastered two moons ago.

The great Helva Hein would not have allowed circumstances to defeat her. Therefore, Merida Karr would not either. Indeed, the challenges permitted Merida to prove herself. She had to make this rain dance work, had to make her mission a success. When she returned to Riverland, reporting the obstacles she had overcome, the government practically had to award her honour points for her services to the Republic.

Straightening her shoulders, she assessed the new situation. The energy values of the moon, the planets and the drums had changed, and she had to compensate for the lack.

She had four options – all bad. She could ask other magicians to link their power with hers, but the native shamans would not only be useless but throw her own magic off balance. A second choice was to draw energy from an audience, which was highly unethical. The third option was to increase the amount of fire used to call the element of water. Fire scared her nearly as much as sharp-toothed rodents. Sick fear swamped her even as she thought about being surrounded by large flames.

This left one option: to enter a higher level of trance. Third-level trances were sufficient for large-scale magic under favourable conditions. To rise to fourth level was dangerous, and only ever practised in the safe presence of other qualified magicians. She would be vulnerable during the act, and weakened for a long time afterwards. Merida resolved to risk it.