"Hello, Director Debeauson," said
Bartolomey Hatsek in his rather uncertain Fleuroix. "Welcome to Tilhuitnah! You remember me from the talks earlier this week, yes? I think this time, at least, you'll find the location to be far more to your liking." He led the Fleuroix diplomat to his car, a
Zastava Fichko which had outlived six of its owners through the civil war with barely a scratch on it. Bartolomey thought that meant the car was lucky. The widow he'd bought it from disagreed.
As he drove out of the city, he pointed out its various sites. "That's the Yachese Parliament Hall. In safer times, you could watch them vote from a balcony. These days, you have to fake a press badge if you want to get in. Oh, to our left is Club Beta. Most of Izhitsa's best bands got their first break there. Well, I
say best. I
mean loudest."
Eventually, the city turned to plains, and the plains to woods as the car plodded up the Ayur River. They arrived at a clearing, where rows of grape vines grew for a modest distance before ending at the foot of a villa.
The villa as it appeared to the visitors. "Here we are!" said Bartolomey. "The Zhemislovtsy Summer House. Of course, since their deaths at the hands of the nationalists, the only thing it's good for is making wine." He coughed. "I hope the idea of meeting in a king's home doesn't offend your Republican sensibilities," he said, with all the care of someone who's practiced a sentence in front of a mirror a few times, trying to make it sound natural. "The High Lord is waiting inside." He took the Fleuroix diplomat inside and introduced him to a short, stocky man with glasses and a grim face. "Director Debeauson, you'll remember the High Lord,
Antek Dzhavid. Lord Dzhavid," he said, switching to Yachese, "you'll remember Director Alexandre Marc Michel Debeauson."