"Woman. Yes," Vyarin muttered. He remembered it now. The way they are said in Apura are so different from each other, the words for man and woman. The poetry of this land must be difficult indeed. The mysterious lady led him to a somewhat private corner of the ballroom, at least as private as such a crowded and active space could be, and led him through the steps of the march. It wasn't easy, that much could be said, but eventually certain patterns began to click. It was like a puzzle of sorts, in a certain manner of speaking. The steps had to fit in with the music. His host, fortunately, was an able teacher. Although, were this to continue, he ought to have the decency to learn her name, which to his shame he had forgotten to ask.

She was making a motion with her hands, in the lull of the music. Vyarin nodded, the mime appearing very familiar. It was a sort of pulling motion, perhaps like pulling dough into strips for traditional Yevtiaka? No, he had seen the bakers of the city work the dough every year on the Yevtiaka Festival, and it certainly didn't look much like that. It reminded him more of something else. "Longbowman!" he finally concluded, exclaiming in Prozdy, a bit louder than he would have liked. It was a near-perfect imitation of the famed longbowmen of Oloyeva, straight-backed and intimidating they were in their heavy armour. "Longbowman?" Is that what she was looking for? "Bow? Arrow? Archery?" He didn't know what word she was looking for, precisely. He switched to his limited Apura, trying to explain himself. "Is looking the same to . . ." Archers, he wanted to say archers. "Man of Oloyeva. He make the . . . err . . ." He copied her bow mime, making a whistle in imitation of the sound of an arrow whizzing away. "Oloyeva is land of father-brother. Brother-father? Father of me, brother of he." His uncle is what he meant to say. "Oloyeva make the . . . many. Many of many!" He did the bow mime again for effect.