Vyarin stopped mid-step, one foot awkwardly hanging in the air. Eventually, gravity got the better of him, and he stumbled sideways into a table with a thump and the clattering of jumping plates. One of them, laden with fine delicacies, hung precariously off its edge. Vyarin took a few steps back from the table, as if it were a lit bombard, only to tap into another one behind him, fortunately far more gently. Were anyone even to sneeze at that table . . . He cleared his throat and turned to meet the sudden voice at his side.

The voice belonged to a slender woman, whose skin was the colour of earth. Vyarin had never met anyone like that before. He must admit now to himself that his world was rather small before he left home. He didn't catch all of her Apura-speak, but he did recognize his own name. She knew him before he knew her. Perhaps she had studied the guests who are to be hosted here? Certainly more than he had thought to study his hosts, at the very least. After a few seconds of piecing together his thoughts, he responded.

"Yes. Is good," he replied in his broken Apura-tongue. "You . . . and I, to be like . . . them?" He pointed at the dancing crowd. "Is very apol-" No, that didn't sound right. 'Apologies' was the other one. ". . . Thank. For you. To help." First thing he will do when the fete ends is to reread all of his texts and dictionaries. Something ought to stick by tomorrow.