‘You can not put down a reverse tile on another reverse tile no matter how many players there are!’ Tab argued. ‘Vrod?’ she appealed to the troll marine who was leaning against the wall nearby.

He considered for a moment. Finally he growled, ‘If anyone tried to put a reverse tile on mine I'd rip his arms off.’

‘There! See? Who's going to disagree with that?’ Tab exulted.

Amelia scratched her head, trying to find a compromise. ‘Maybe we could use the noreversetile rules just for these games?’

‘Fine,’ Philmon grumbled, crossing his arms. He stared out into the square where groups of children trained under the instruction of a magician or a guard. Tab followed his gaze and smiled when the Quartermaster, Dorissa, began jumping rope while children chanted, ‘Linky, binky, dinky, dye. Poke a needle in my eye…’

The magician who had been scribing for their meeting yawned. Tab blushed. Everyone else was pitching in and here she was arguing over such a tiny thing. There wasn't time for that.

‘Verris said he wants to see as many games as possible. How about we set up two divisions, Philmon's rules and Vrod's rules?’ she suggested. ‘We might have to draw the line at ripping off arms though.’

Philmon smiled gratefully. ‘Sounds good. All right, let's move on to flugey.’

The three bent their heads together over the city map, nutting out the best venue, choosing referees and timekeepers. The scribe reached for another sheet of parchment.

Before long Captain Kel was ferrying over his crew of sky-traders in groups of ten. They brought baskets of pastries and fruits with them, and caskets of purple gems. Soon everyone in the city was tossing a gem in one hand and munching on a pie with the other.

A sky-trader named Chak brought the three games organisers a basket of cakes.

‘Mmm!’ Amelia licked her fingers. ‘So sweet!’

‘Here,’ Chak handed them each a purple jewel.

‘What are these anyway?’ Philmon asked.

‘They're Loraskian mood stones,’ Chak replied.

‘I thought mood stones were supposed to change colour,’ Amelia said, holding it up to her eye.

‘It would if you were Loraskian,’ Chak told her. ‘But to us they're about as useful as…’

‘Hixasic measuring irons?’ Philmon guessed.

‘You got it!’ Chak giggled. ‘Pretty though.’

Tab reached for another slab of cake. ‘Thanks.’

‘You're welcome,’ Chak said and she glided out the door, offering her basket of goodies to people as she passed by.

The sky-traders took to the training enthusiastically. The innkeepers brought their tables out into the streets, or made up trestles with crates and old boards. Inspired Quentarans used the mood stones for baubles, and soon games were breaking out on the steps of buildings or in the alleys.

The city was ringing with the sound of laughter and cheers, thundering feet and the thwack of hooey balls.

Verris came into the anteroom to check on the progress of the organising committee. He leaned against the doorframe watching the barely ordered hubbub in the square.

‘What do you think, Vrod?’ he asked the troll, who was still propped against the wall just outside.

‘Sneakiest way of moving in an army I ever seen,’ Vrod grunted.

Tab looked up, alarmed. The sky-traders seemed so friendly, and the council so keen to trade that she had automatically taken them at their word. No wonder Verris had handed over the negotiations and the organising to others! Lord Verris wanted to keep his hands free to take care of a much bigger problem.

She looked around the square and saw that around every entrance to the Archon's Palace one of Verris's guards seemed to lounge, and a whole phalanx apparently engaged in betting on flugey stood just outside the Hub. Not one of them had taken a mood stone or eaten a sky-trader's snack.

In the middle of the square Verris's right-hand man Borges sent one of the marines some sort of complicated hand signal. She saw the marine nod in reply and then he headed off down the alleyway.

One look at her friends’ faces told Tab that they hadn't seen this possibility either. Philmon wiped the cake crumbs off the table thoughtfully.

Then Tab noticed something else. That sly trickster Fontagu Wizroth III lurked in an alley beside the Halls of Justice, absently rubbing one of the purple jewels against his cheek.

What's he up to? Tab wondered.

Tab had never been to a formal Quentaran feast before. There were six round tables seating ten or twelve, each with a huge cooking pot sunk into the middle of it, warmed underneath by a box full of hot coals.

‘What a good idea! It will keep our toes warm,’ Philmon said, rubbing his hands together. The bluestone walls made the palace's formal dining hall quite cold.

Tab straightened the sleeve of the dress Dorissa had lent to her. Dorissa had tucked it into folds with pins so that it fitted better, and some of them stuck into Tab's ribs if she slouched. It crossed Tab's mind that Dorissa might have done it on purpose so that Tab would sit like a lady. She squirmed under the fabric, realising that this is what she would feel like every day if she had been the daughter of a princess.

Tab stared at her dining card blankly. Storm, guessing that the three youngsters were not familiar with formal customs, ushered the three of them into a corner.

‘There is a course for every day of the week,’ she explained. ‘Root vegetables for Bursday, spices for Leshday, meat for Emmerday, fish for Gramday, leaf vegetables for Imbleday, cheese for Highday. As the night goes on the food in the urn will mingle together and become more soft and flavoursome.’

‘So hang back on the early courses,’ Amelia said.

Storm nodded. ‘The guests toss the raw food into the pot in order of the most important person to the least important.’

‘How do I know who is more important than me?’ Tab asked.

‘That's easy,’ Storm said. ‘You will always be the least important person at the table.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Tab reddened and her friends giggled.

‘Once the pot comes to the boil, you take the metal serving tongs in front of you and place a few items from the pot onto the plate of the person on your right. Then you take the wooden eating tongs and eat what has been placed on your plate.’

‘If you don't like the person you're sitting next to, you could give them a plate full of algoon root,’ Philmon joked.

‘That would be frowned upon,’ Storm told him.

Tab was starting to get lost. She decided that she would just copy what all the others did. ‘What is this number?’ Tab asked looking at her card.

‘This is your next table number. After each course you will move to your next table. The waiters will pass you a warm towel to wipe your hands and your table number for the next course.’

‘It sounds very complicated,’ Tab observed.

Storm smiled. ‘It has been this way for generations. All the guests eat from every urn. Nobody knows where they are going to sit next. The waiters look for signs of potions or powders on your hands when they wipe them after each course. It reduces the chances of people being poisoned. Also everyone gets an equal opportunity to talk to the Archon, or whoever happens to be making the decisions at the time.’

‘That makes sense,’ Amelia replied.

‘And the food gets better as the night goes on,’ Tab added. She had been paying attention to that part.

‘So nobody stuffs themselves like a pig,’ Philmon said.

‘So that a level of decorum is maintained,’ Storm corrected.

‘What about the course for Lowday?’ Amelia asked.

‘After the Highday course is served, the broth is drained from the urns. Each guest takes a bowl out to the steps where the palace guard will have assembled a group of the poorest citizens from lower Quentaris.’