The building was imposing: eight pillars crowned the entrance; big blocks of marble lined the wall against which an elaborately carved gate had been set. A guard stood watch, and his grave countenance didn’t even change when Ophelia showed him the token, although he let them in. As they walked through she couldn’t help but admire the figures painstakingly set in wood to guard their entry. Some tale was told in the panels that made up the gates themselves, one that she didn’t recognise but that seemed to involve a warrior and some sort of mythological creature.

They were led through a patio tiled in red marble. Palm trees and exotic papyrus reed painted in green exuberance the place; the austere sandy cream of the walls had been partly engulfed by pink jasmine climbers, engulfing them all in a sweet, beautiful scent. It was all immaculate, a stark contrast to the rest of the city.

Around them servants buzzed around; they all seemed to be carrying something, going somewhere. It made Ophelia wonder how they managed to keep the tiles from warping under the weight of their feet. They looked like little white ants, going around in stark, simple white robes; their heads were all either shaven or tied back in a neat braided hairstyle.

The main hall was behind a triple row of pillars. Unlike the ones in the entrance, which were an austere white, these had been decorated in gold leaf and bright colours. No walls separated the outside from the interior; the only two distinctions lay in the single step they had to take before the first row of columns and the elaborate carpet that covered the entire floor of the hall. It was of an exotic red, patterned in leaves and more jasmine flowers.

In the middle of the hall a space had been put together for receiving guests. It was a circle of pillows and throws, all as elaborate as the carpet below them. Enormous wisterias hung from the pillars and had been arranged so as to hover the space, adding some whimsical enchantment to the grand decor of the place. Ophelia looked at them in wonder; it looked almost like a waterfall had been stopped in time, forever a deep blue over their heads.

“In my first time in the far east,” a familiar voice said, “I lodged in a poet’s house. He had a garden full of wisterias, and he would sit down under their shade every afternoon during the spring to compose his poetry. We would sit together, drink tea and talk about the different ways one could describe the flowers in his native language.”

Hyperion had come to greet them, dressed in a set of loose silk robes. She looked even more radiant than the previous day, platinum hair contrasting beautifully against the silky blue of the flowers and the intense, deep reds of the floor. Despite wearing no shoes she was just as tall as Phobos, if not a bit more. With the two of them standing close Ophelia could not help but think of her as ephemeral, delicate: Phobos’ muscled body dwarfed her, somehow.

“Are they difficult to grow, the wisterias?” Ophelia asked. Hyperion came to stand beside her and reached out to the vines to pluck a flower, which she then put behind the other woman’s ear as an accessory.

“Perhaps; these ones I took from the poet’s garden after he died from consumption,” Hyperion motioned towards Phobos and Aristides, who had remained a step behind her. The former was eyeing them curiously, the latter seemed more guarded, waiting for introductions to happen. “These must be your companions, then.”

Ophelia realised then that they were speaking in Drusi, the language of the Chaldeans. She gave their names, the fake ones, as an answer; that made the two men perk up.

“Pleased to meet you, Phrygians. My name is Hyperion; he’s Eon, my assistant. Let’s make ourselves comfortable and discuss your business over some chai.”

They all settled under the hanging flowers. Eon made some gestures to some of the servants who had been hanging back, listening in to their conversation. Stillness turned into motion as the white-clad men and women descended on them with fine porcelain tea sets and trays full of delicacies. Exotic fruits were laid in front of them; figs, dates, oranges, mandarins and pomegranates were arranged like flowers around the copper trays, more an offering than a snack.

A servant left a pot of tea in front of Ophelia; out of habit, she opened the top to check how long the brew had before it would be ready. She leaned in when she noticed it was a green tea; she smiled pleasantly when she smelt the strong scent of jasmine.

“It seems like you’re familiar with chai, my lady,” Hyperion commented. Behind her, Eon’s scowl deepened. Ophelia turned towards Phobos and Aristides, not aware that she’d committed a faux-pas. Both of them were shooting her surprised and wary glances as well; they hadn’t touched the pots that had been left in front of them, or had even given indication they had noticed them at all.

“I missed it,” she could’ve lied and feigned ignorance, but something in Hyperion’s sharp eyes told her that she wouldn’t have succeeded. “I haven’t had this kind very often, or this fragrant, I don’t think.”

“Oh? And what kind are you used to?”

“Uhm… earl grey?” Ophelia said, reverting back to English. Her ears found it a bit shocking to hear that common language in that strange setting; it felt almost like she was breaking a spell.

“Er-grei,” Hyperion repeated thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such chai. What does it taste like?”

“Well, it’s black chai but it tastes a bit like a bitter orange? It also has a nice scent.”

“Fascinating. I hope the lady will brew it for me sometime,” Hyperion smiled at her, but Ophelia felt like she was being made fun of. To ignore the awkwardness, she poured herself some tea. The cups had no handle, like Japanese or Chinese sets she’d seen before, so she grabbed them by the rim very carefully, and took some sips.

“What is this beverage?” Phobos asked her, intrigued by her smiling face. The taste was deep, rich; it had the strong accent of the jasmine flowers, without it overpowering the underlying sweetness of the green tea.

“Try it!” she said, and motioned for him to pour it. His first reaction was very mild; he took another sip, and then another, and started to warm up to it. Aristides followed; unlike Phobos, he seemed immediately taken by the taste.

“I’m glad it is to the liking of the Phrygian palate,” Hyperion said pleasantly. “I find that sharing chai in pleasant company helps create pleasant discussions.”

“Indeed,” Aristides said with a nod. “You honour Chaldean hospitality with your actions, my lady.”

Hyperion smiled. “This is the Chaldean way of doing business; we leave our gifts on the table, along with our truth. Have you ever heard of that expression?”

Aristides shook his head. “It is a very old saying,” Hyperion repeated it in Drusi, hands lightly playing with the cup in her hands. “And it means that before two merchants strike a deal, they should be honest with each other. And so, I’d like to ask you, what do you want to leave on this table?”

The two Phrygian men shared a look between them. “It may be customary for Chaldeans to allow their women to discuss trade,” Phobos said, “but I am curious, as in Phrygia such matters are left for men to resolve.”

“And what are you curious about, Phrygian?” Eon spoke curtly.

“If we should wait for the master of this house to be present.”

Hyperion left her cup on the tray and leveraged a single amused look at the prince. With an arched eyebrow, she seemed to be mocking him. She slowly slid one hand across her chest under the edge of the tunics, and then pulled it to the side. Underneath there were no curves; soft and delicate skin it may be, but it was undoubtedly the body of a man.

“Lucky are your stars, the master of the house is here,” Hyperion said.

Phobos’ face reddened and he abruptly left his unfinished cup on the floor with a brusque motion. It was as if the water had turned into poison; clearly, the gesture seemed to have disturbed him greatly. Aristides was not much better; although by temperament he was on the calmer side, he was still an old warrior, and such tricks, as he perceived them, were not easy for him to digest.

Hyperion seemed to be detachedly amused at the two men’s reactions, but he showed more interest in Ophelia’s expression. The woman, virtue of the society she’d come from, was more surprised than disgusted; she thought that his height should’ve perhaps sparked a question or two. “I can see you had a different idea of me as well, lady,” he said.

“You make a very beautiful woman,” Ophelia said with a timid smile. “I’m sure you’re aware of it.”

That seemed to stroke his ego. “I am; as I’m sure you know yourself, men do tend to be more forthcoming towards women when their beauty is something they want to take for themselves. One learns all sorts of interesting things this way.”

“What a strange way for a merchant,” Phobos commented with disgust. “Is it really worth sacrificing your pride as a man for it?”

“Is it worse than murdering your fellow countrymen in cold blood, mercenary?”

The sharp tone put Phobos’ guard up. “Do you dare accuse me when the Magistrate saw no reason to?”

All niceties were dropped. The shrewd Chaldean merchant emerged from within the beautiful shell it was encased in; tension filled the air. “The Magistrate is no fool and neither am I, mercenary. He simply knows that there is no merit in a public accusation when there are so many unknowns. Regardless of what the records will write, we know you were behind the murders.”

“But you know all this,” he continued. “You came to seek from me safe passage, so you can leave this town before they decide to come for you.”

“Name your price.”

Hyperion chuckled, and his eyes wandered over to Ophelia. “I’ll take the woman, then.”

Phobos’ shoulders tensed—Aristides put a hand over his arm to calm him down. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question, my lord. We can’t sell what we don’t own.”

The merchant shrugged then, and put his hands up in an innocent gesture. “How unlucky for you then; you have nothing I want.”

“We can pay you handsomely.”

Hyperion looked around, and up to the silky wisterias above them. “A river does not want for water, old man.”

Phobos stood up abruptly. “It seems like there’s no point in wasting your time any further,” he said, cold fury simmering in his eyes. Aristides took a hesitant look at the merchant’s placid face, saw that he had no intention of stopping the other man, and followed the lead of his prince. Ophelia figured out she may as well copy them.

“I see that I’ve upset you, mercenary; you have no patience for me,” Hyperion mocked him. “But should lady Iceni allow me the grace of sharing a meal with me, it’ll certainly put me in the mood to listen to your request once more tomorrow.”

“No pride and no shame,” Phobos spat, and this time Aristides had to restrain him. “What are you playing at, coveting someone else’s wife?”

“Wait, wait,” Ophelia decided to intervene to defuse the situation. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way,” she turned to Hyperion, who was snickering. “Or did you?”

“Oh, I meant a simple meal. I covet only lady Iceni’s talents.”

“What do you mean?”

“The gift of multiple tongues is golden for a merchant, but sadly I’m limited in my ability to learn new ones,” Hyperion explained. “You would be an excellent mediator; I want to convince you to come work for me.”

Phobos swore. “I don’t believe you for a second, you degenerate.”

“That’s irrelevant; it’s up to her to believe me or not.”

Ophelia bit her lip. It was obvious that Hyperion was getting a kick out of provoking the exiled prince, how much of his offer was part of it she didn’t know. She figured that perhaps, it would not hurt to go along with him; it’d earn Phobos and Aristides a second chance, and worse comes to worse, she could escape using her abilities.

It certainly made it easier to be so bold when one could command strange powers; back in her world, the situation would’ve crept her out.

“I’ll stay for today, as long as you grant them another chance to speak tomorrow.”

Hyperion bowed his head with a small smile. Phobos stepped towards her, grabbing her gently by her arms.

“Forget it, he’s just playing games,” he said. “You don’t need to do this for us; we’ll find some other way.”

When he noticed she wouldn’t heed his advice, he leaned in to whisper, “I don’t know about your world, but in this one, a woman staying in a stranger’s house is a call for disaster. Please don’t do anything you’ll regret tomorrow.”

“In any world it’s the same,” she whispered back. “But in this one I am more than capable of fighting off anyone who wants to force me to do what I don’t want to do.”

“You don’t know; it’s not about power… there are all sorts of ways to get around people who can’t easily be tamed.”

Ophelia shook Phobos’ hands off her with a pointed look. “I can take care of myself.”

Aristides seemed to sense that his protege’s stubbornness was starting to brew conflict, and he stepped in to separate the two. “Let’s go; we’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, putting a hand on the prince’s shoulder to draw him back. “It’ll be fine.”

Ophelia reassured both of them with a smile; after a few more protests, they were escorted back to the entrance. The two hosts and the woman watched them go; the servants around them rushed to clean up after them.