Arthur ran like the boy of years long past, and like that boy he was headed for a bright and innocent adventure.

A taleweaver, here in Verd. Verd deserved weeks worth of exploration, even a month or two, but that time had passed and he had seen most of it by now and a longing to find more of his kind had grown steadily.

They had only planned to stay here for a short time—one day as Harbend promised the very night when they arrived. Such an easy promise, and such a difficult one to keep. Politics, demands, business and duty had all conspired to keep them both in one place. And the lure of the Inn, he admitted. To Weave, to shine on the scene again. He was at his best while performing, had known he held an almost magical grip of his audience even back on Earth. Such irony. His magic had helped bring true magic to the world, to all inhabited worlds in the solar system. Now when he was part of that magic it seemed he was bringing humanity here, those who didn't already live here.

He took a shortcut along Visitor's alley, crossed Tranda place, with its animated statue of the long dead hero crouching in a corner and then leaping atop the fountain that dominated the square. Arthur ducked under one of the few trees in this part of the capital and slowed down when he reached Larild boulevard. A few more short-cuts and he would be on Artist's street as so many times before.

That was, he realized an exceedingly stupid decision. He had seen men at labour here a few days earlier and yesterday evening not one but five shuttles had streaked down from the west on their way to the launch port.

"Exchange", a sign yelled at him in standard English. "Turn good FEMs to better gold. All major currencies accepted. No exchange rate older than a standard week."

He winced. This was his doing, indirectly. Less than a year earlier he had forced Federation partnership on the merchant houses. Of course someone was bound to do the same with the money traders.

The holo blared the same message in perfect De Vhatic, promising untold riches to anyone bold enough to trade with outworlders on their own markets.

The written message he only recognized—Gring's magic had helped him to fluency in spoken De Vhatic. Letters were mostly beyond him.

A line of coaches waited outside the exchange office, the second reason he should have avoided this way. Whereas the local population only stared at one tall outworlder among others, either not recognizing him or simply too polite to harass a visiting taleweaver, Federation citizens had no such compulsions. One second they had been busy buying silver and copper shields, then one of them noticed him on the street. A moment of consternation was replaced by certainty and she scrambled to her feet and rushed out of the office.

He hardly had time to switch on his most professional smile before the rest had joined her frantically searching for notepads, organic clothing or whatever else was sure to hold an autograph permanently.

"Yes, I'm Arthur Wallman. No, I'm not doing another Otherworld Disclosed. Yes, Otherworld has magic. No, they're not barbarians."

Holo cams buzzed around him, not the horribly expensive ones he had lived with for over twenty years, but still of a type most of his viewers couldn't pay with a years salary.

"I have moved here permanently. Of course I like living here, otherwise I would have taken the next shuttle home. No I don't mind you taking holos." One would think they'd ask that question before releasing the cams. "I hope you'll have as pleasant stay here a I have." That would exclude being shot at, being held prisoner and almost sentenced to death. "No, I have nothing to do with New Sweden migrating here." What the bloody hell! That's over five million people! "Yes, the presence of Valhall will make travelling here safer." No wonder we only got rumours The best medical services and holo casting equipment in known space. They must have jammed every transmission on their way in. The people at Gatekeeper must be livid. "Well, Otherworld isn't Federation space so citizens of all sovereign nations have as much right to come here as we." And that includes every nut brain with an issue. "No, I haven't signed a contract with Red News for an installation, much less a full season of shows. No, I didn't get any shares. They bought Wallman Newscasting for cash and royalties." I have to get out of here. Find Ken Leiter, find a good horse, find a bad excuse and find a way out of Verd. "Well, I can't promise anything. I've planned some extensive travelling Verd is more a comfortable base than my permanent home." Red News bloodhounds. They're too damn good. I trained those dogs myself before I sold. They'll hunt me down to make sure I get as much of those royalties as humanly possible. Damn! I'm the one hunting for news.

Arthur signed as he spoke. He radiated benevolence and gratitude and interest in the questions he faced. It was part of who he was with a camera in his face. Shouting to them to leave him alone never occurred to him, and it was with a mixed feeling of satisfaction and irritation he bowed away from the admiring crowd knowing for certain that he had just added a few lines to the legend of Arthur Wallman.

He hurried away. Now he was followed by stares from several locals who couldn't help noticing the attraction he'd drawn from his own.

Ken Leiter. Arthur needed that meeting as much as Ken wanted it. The balance of need had just shifted unfavourably, but it couldn't be helped. Ken had offered to become his mentor, like the man had anything to teach Wallman, the miracle in newscasting, but that mentorship had included travels, and Arthur would accept most anything that provided him with a reason to get him out of Verd.

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Red News was bad news. Not Federation. They'd put exactly the swing to the story he'd hoped when he fled here. Now he had no reason to hate any longer. The Terran Federation was not a choir of angels exactly, but the restraint they'd shown for over a decade proved they had respected Otherworld's need for a slow and gradual exposure to the rest of humanity. He had forced their hand and he didn't intend to increase the damage by becoming part of whatever political games were played between the independent states and the federation.

***

Ken lit up when Arthur entered. Any meeting with a fellow taleweaver was an occasion worth celebrating, but this one not only had stories from Earth. He came from Earth. Ken had searched. For half a millennium he had travelled the corners of the world in hopes of finding someone who knew about the home he'd lost. To find him in Verd of all places. All ways lead to Verd, indeed. That phrase, or at least one similar, had been ancient when he woke up here in the middle of the nightmare he'd taken years to accept as home. Seven hundred years. How many back home? He shrugged the thought away and greeted Arthur.

"Welcome. Your food should be here in moments."

Arthur gave him a look of disdain.

"But you already knew that," Ken continued as if he hadn't noticed. A pity he's such an arrogant prick.

"I've decided to accept you as my teacher, in as much as you have anything but history to teach me."

"And you've Woven for how long?" Ken stifled a yearning to slap some sense into the boy. Looks thirty, can't be much older. So full of himself.

"Half a year, here." Arthur smirked. "Two decades as a newscaster back home," he added.

Another of the words with a maddening similarity. Newscaster, some strange mix of journalist and media mogul. They had tried to strike up a conversation on his way to The Tree. English was nothing like what it had been. A smattering staccato with so many Arabic and Chinese additions it was almost impossible to understand. They had switched to De Vhatic before agreeing to meet here today.

The memory made him laugh. Ironic enough that he'd grown up with English as the lingua franca. To see De Vhatic take the position was hilarious in extreme.

"That would still leave me with a few years more experience, I believe." But he's well over forty then. Need to learn how to evaluate their age.

"You were in commercial casting? Never seen you."

You probably wouldn't. "No, I taught history at university before coming here," Ken answered instead.

"Academy drone. Should have guessed. Reading instead of experiencing, teaching instead of living, yes I know your kind."

The little shit! "Manners apart I think we should be able to come to some kind of agreement." Kick his arse all the way to Chen, but dammit, I've waited so long for news I'll take a piece of swollen head to get it. "We've both to benefit from one, wouldn't you think?"

Arthur shrugged. "Not in faci dress, at least."

What's his problem? Hates uniforms, that is certain. Some kind of takeover at home? I have to know. "I haven't been in a uniform for a long time. Promise you I have no plans changing that."

The relief on Arthur's face was frightening. "And we travel?"

"We have to." Ken grinned. "The experiencing and living part, you know."

"I guess."

Damn, a lemon would be sweeter.

"Oh bloody hell. I apologize. You can't help your background any more than I can mine. Has to be something you can teach me."

And if that is a sincere apology I don't want to know what he considers an insult. "I'm sure we will come up with something. Day after tomorrow?"

"Day after tomorrow," Arthur confirmed. "South gate?"

Ken agreed and they shook hands. He marvelled. Shaking hands. He hadn't met anyone who took that gesture for granted since he arrived here seven hundred years earlier.