Far from being a stranger to festivities, the temple's famed banquet halls radiated on this evening of the Du Ku'am's banquet, as it did millennia past. Ships stitched with distant winds and colorful sails drifted along the main river passageway, billowing as boastful peacocks against the incense-laden breeze. They were not only guests, as trailing behind them came wagons of goods, destined not for living hands, but for the Du Ku'am Gurkiim's tomb. Sincere and grand in equal measure: preserved fruits, porcelain chamber pots, regional specialties.
A great honor it would be—as Horsey said on a previous occasion—to have your item favored and nestled beside a Du Ku'am's urn. Only the most esteemed treasures earned their way to that resting place. The soul, delicate as a fog, could risk being hindered in its ascension in the caravan to some unseen realm should the tomb weigh as much as a sheep. That was merely a belief, however. One that Gurkiim himself did not subscribe to, for one thing he loathed above all was a tomb that showed none of the hallmarks of a seasoned, well-traveled tyrant.
Among the attendees who gathered outside were the Harlot brothers. Their costumes—tight-fitting ensembles of reed encrusted with tiny reflective beads—caught the light, an otherworldly effect, differentiating them from the crowd of guests passing behind. Big Harlot, the younger of the two, went to Little Harlot's side, a Viewing Glass on hand.
"What did you need to look at?" Big Harlot asked.
"Nothing important." Little Harlot took the piece of glass, holding it over his right eye as he peered at the other side of the temple, occupied by the templemen servicing the toad. The Domma Margijer. "It is always quiet there, is it not?"
No bright lights adorned the halls of the Margijer's side. There were only so few buildings there, capable of housing only her Ku'ams. Its gates remained shut year-round, its docks occupied by only temple-owned vessels. A devoid place, it was. Stuck in time. Stuck the way it was since decades past. Only the council of ministers, the handful who governed in place of the Du Ku'am, were permitted to move freely between its walls. Yet they, too, were graying as its temple did.
To serve as a Ku'am was a life sentence—an eternity spent in the temple's service. You come dressed in ceremony and leave only by death's invitation. The Margijer's temple was a purgatory of its own design. With little to see there, the two brothers instead watched the procession of ships docking below their side of the temple, the Architect's side.
The older Harlot, after scanning the river, leaned closer to Big Harlot. "They are here," he murmured, nodding toward the latest vessel that just arrived, adorned with crimson banners brandishing a symbol the shape of an oblong slashed vertically across. Behind the brothers, other dancers fussed as hens with their outfits, adjusting straps and sequins, their increasingly nervous energy heightened by the pressure of performing for the Du Ku'am Gurkiim and his famed guests.
Big Harlot's lips curled into a grin, his demeanor exuding the same charming allure as his older brother's, though tinged with a softer, inviting warmth. "No one is leaving disappointed tonight."
Little Harlot grinned back. "We shall see."
At the turn of the hall, Swinebroth trailed far behind Horsey, maneuvering and wrestling through the crowded corridor with growing difficulty. Many turned to cast a glance their way, interest piqued at the golden teeth poking out of Horsey's lips.
"Horsey, where are you?" Swinebroth's voice barely cut through the hum of the gathering.
"Keep up, boy!" came Horsey's barked reply, his long strides eating up the distance ahead of him.
Swinebroth stumbled forward, muttering apologies and curses in equal parts, until the inevitable collision: Horsey ran afoul of Ticklebones, who was flaunting a fresh necklace of feathers, each one dyed in some shades he nor Horsey could name.
"I see you went ahead with the teeth," said Ticklebones, calculating Horsey's appearance.
The old man bared his teeth, showing his full intention of wearing them all night for as long as he could.
Ticklebone's expression remained grave. "I heard what happened." He glanced among the faces waiting on his instruction, officials from other ministries. "It is all taken care of. You focus on giving this night your all."
"Whiskers says a lot of things," Horsey replied mildly, watching the officials take their leave. Swinebroth caught up by his side. For such a superstitious man, the boy grimaced at the sight of him wearing the golden teeth comfortably.
The old setikos shifted his stance towards the Her-Ku'am, and spoke low, "And the Du Ku'am Gurkiim?"
Ticklebones scowled. "Unhappy as ever. Du Ku'am Kor Dui, the one from Eloh Morica, do you recall?"
"Of course I do," replied Horsey, his mood darkening. "He drank the entire wine supply once." The recollection soured his mood further. The banquet has yet to even start.
"He wants to see him," Ticklebones whispered. "Textiles again, apparently."
Horsey let out a derisive snort. "Kor Dui is a sycophant in women's silk. No wonder Gurkiim's temper is wearing thin." He gestured with his head toward the glass walls beyond which private compartments glowed amber. "This banquet looks to be more trouble than it seems."
Swinebroth, who had been standing quietly beside them, glanced discreetly to his right, at the far end of the hall. There, hulking and grinning like an overgrown child, was Goatswhistle deep in conversation with a figure robed in exquisite, refined garments. The man's face was mostly obscured, but his sharp, dark eyes were like a cat's—acid green steel.
"There is the Brother Regent," Swinebroth whispered, tugging at Horsey's sleeve. Ticklebones followed his gaze, and was then startled into a polite escape without another word.
"Oh, you can spot the Regent with his dark robes, but you could not see me even if I was in front of you?" Horsey, in full lime silks and red ropes, asked under his breath.
While Swinebroth knew the Regent as Adan Umdohar, the rest of the world knew him as the successor, the future Du Ku'am of Gurkiim. He did not dress in the extremes, preferring instead to dress as a respectable man of his country. Still there was nobility to his shadow—dark, reserved, and cloaked in mystery. Next to him, Goatswhistle looked like a parrot. A jarring contrast, to say the least. Yet none in the Setikosi shared the Regent's rapport as Goatswhistle did—a fact that triumphed over any other mystery about either of the two.
After the Regent took his leave, Goatswhistle quickly bridged the gap between him and Horsey, his mischievous grin as wide as ever.
"The Maazati are on their way," he announced, "Guess what they brought for the Du Ku'am."