Then:
Someone.
Kimia looked.
At first she thought human.
Only because scale and posture supplied the nearest category.
The man was enormous.
Not merely tall. Built.
His proportions carried something human enough to create familiarity and enough else to make familiarity collapse under inspection.
Brown skin. Scales on various spots on his arms and feet. Long, pointed ears that were not as large as a yinglet's, but close. A tail visible behind the formal uniform. Long black hair. Eyes with red pupils.
And a horn. One. Rising from the forehead.
A real anatomical structure emerging through carefully arranged hair.
Not ceremonial. Not attached.
Kimia stared, and took note of another detail that took a moment to register: the nails on his thumbs and halluces were exceedingly long.
Everyone knew the stories, or knew that there were stories.
Centuries after the first encounters, nobody had established an official public name for whatever people this man represented.
Mountain elf.
That was one name.
Possibly an insult. Possibly a mistranslation. Possibly a deliberate lie preserved through bureaucracy because nobody with authority had corrected it.
The beings had appeared around the Heart's mountainous interior and the Val Salian Passage in old accounts.
Massive. Bipedal. Vaguely elf-like according to observers who had needed a category quickly. Strong enough that old reports compared them with baxxids.
The horn always appeared.
Everything beyond this dissolved into contradiction.
Yet there one sat.
Real.
Wearing House Ivenmoth red and gold.
Not as curiosity.
Representative.
Authority.
He occupied a position close to the seat reserved for Ieronim Val Salia himself.
Kimia looked away.
Then back.
The man's elaborate uniform fit anatomy no standard tailor had expected to accommodate.
The House emblem sat across the chest.
Red. Gold. Ivenmoth.
He spoke quietly to a baxxid official.
His voice was low enough that Kimia could not hear.
Nothing about the conversation suggested anyone found his presence extraordinary.
This interested her more than the horn.
An unidentified people had apparently spent long enough near the center of power to become boring to everyone who actually mattered.
History again.
The strange becoming administrative.
Kimia forced herself not to stare.
She looked down at her hands.
Hands.
Good. Red fur. Pads. Claws. The tiny scratch from the study, almost completely healed.
She opened and closed her hands for a moment.
Real.
She thought of Vehm.
Hotel.
Probably drinking by now.
Perhaps sleeping. Perhaps making the promised creditor list.
The thought warmed her, then became dangerous because warmth made her want whiteblood.
No.
Not here.
She looked at the stitching on her sleeve.
One line.
Then another.
Gold thread passing through quilted red-brown fabric.
Regular spacing.
Tiny diagonal crossings.
Each stitch made by a person or machine.
Perhaps both.
She followed them.
One. Two. Three.
The room continued.
Someone from Dinnlan laughed.
A chair scraped.
The televox screen changed, with bold, green text appearing on it.
SESSION COMMENCEMENT: 09:00
Kimia checked the pocket watch.
Eight fifty-four.
Six minutes.
She put it away and looked at the stitching on her kaftan again.
One. Two. Three.
Her breathing slowed.
Somebody beside her began discussing rail tariffs.
Kimia did not listen.
Five minutes.
The great hall slowly filled.
Empty places disappeared.
House Ivenmoth staff moved through the central aisles.
Documents distributed. Translation systems tested.
The giant near Ieronim's seat remained.
Kimia looked at him again.
He had folded his hands. His horn caught light from lights on the ceiling.
She looked away.
Four minutes.
The televox screen changed again.
House Ivenmoth emblem.
A muted chime sounded through the hall.
Conversation diminished by degrees.
Not silence.
Then almost.
Kimia felt her stomach tighten.
There.
The actor.
She straightened.
Shoulders. Ears. Face. Hands still.
The duchess assembled.