"This is him." the Chronurian gestured ahead of them, to a small camp.

The Historian cocked an eyebrow as he approached the campfire. At the fire sat an old bald Tenzanese man, humming to himself as he grilled a fish between two branches. The old man looked up, and grinned.

"Ahhh!" He rose, and bowed. "Now this is a rare honor, Historian."

The Historian stopped, regarding the old man seriously. "You've fooled my watcher, Great Storyteller. Is the disguise for his benefit?" The Histoiran did not look to see his servant's reaction.

The old man gestured to his fire. "I had a reckoning I might see you, after my last message. Please, have a seat and join me in some fresh grilled salmon. I caught it myself, just this morning!"

The Historian sat down, calculating a few possibilities on what the Storyteller Divine's game could be.

The Storyteller went on. "Have you perchance come to hear a tale?" he sliced off a bit of fish, wincing as it burned his thumb. He sucked on the injury for a moment. "Or perhaps to honor me with one? I have yet to hear you speak personally on your experiences with the Messiah of Hope."

The Historian accepted the slice of fish that was offered to him. "I came to ask you to tell me of the Newsfinder General."

The Storyteller stopped abruptly for precisely 0.348 seconds. He regarded the Historian slyly through a narrow gaze and a playful smirk. He nodded. "Oh, I knew this would come up. But!" He held up one finger. "We are bound by Law. What do you offer me?"

The Historian sighed, knowing where this was going. "You're acting like a Broker, Storyteller. This is beneath you."

"Nonetheless, I would be honored if you would indulge me some tales of your mortal life in the Age of Legends, Historian."

The Father of Time sighed. "Very well. The Cannons."

"A common story. Everyone knows it."

"The final fight with the Many-Eyed God."

"Also known."

The Historian sighed. "Then ask what you really want."

The Storyteller grinned and leaned in. "The Apotheosis."

The Historian recoiled in distaste. "That, sir, is not the subject of tales."

"What was it like?" the Storyteller whispered. "Did it hurt at all?"

The Historian stared at him in disbelief.

"Was it like sex? Death?" He arched one eyebrow. "Both?"

The Father of Time looked away in disgust. At length, he said, "Neither."

The Teller of Tales smiled.

"It was like...going to sleep, and...waking up in an intense dream of home." He glared at the Old Griot. "No doubt you will embellish it properly? For story?"

"I will treat the subject respectully, Keeper of the Histories." He bowed. "And now--" He threw a handful of powder on the fire. It flared up, illuminating his smirking face. "The meeting the Chronurians could not attend."

---

The Megalithic Goddess sat down across from the young female Dwonnic. The Listener's face was all business. Her eyes sharp, her expression intent. Even though her client was Divine, this was still the Listener's domain, and her expression prevented ever forgetting it. She looked Tamballa in the eye. "Guise is my best data gatherer. He has a network from one edge of Shem to the other of people who owe him his life. I cannot spare him."

"I understand, Listener," the Weigher of Sides advanced her next strategy. "I appeal to your sense of Justice. We are on the same side."

"Facts and information are on no one's side."

"And yet you do not deal with evil."

"I don't deal with the Webweaver or agents of his prophet." The Listener pinned the Divine Basajaun with her gaze. "I can't give you Guise."

The Mother of Equality pressed forward on the only logical path, "Can you spare anyone who could do this for me?"

The Listener sighed, standing up. She paced over to a painting of a debonair man in a wide brimmed hat, studying it for a moment. "I can give you Guerrin, his apprentice." She turned to face the goddess. "He's got the talent, and almost has the skill."

The Brownstone Mother nodded, relieved to have a foothold. "Name your price."

The Listener glared. "If I do, there will be no haggling. No other Divine but my own has one of my agents in their court."

"Of course," she nodded once slowly in concession.

"Three conditions." St. Theresa watched the deity for her response.

---

The Storyteller smiled at the Father of Time, fixing him with steely Tenzanese eyes.

The Prophet of Time and the God of History realized that he had stopped talking, and squinted. "What were the conditions?"

The Storyteller's smile widened somewhat.

The Divine Windkin sighed, sitting back. "You don't know either."

The Tarcene God chuckled. "The Listener prizes her privacy, Lord of the Winds of Time."

"Indeed she does," the former Apostle thought. "The first two are trivial. One was a favor to be called in later, the true currency of divines."

"So we might expect."

"The second was Listener agents inside Brownstone. That arrangement would be mutally beneficial since they are of such simmilar...intents."

"It would make a great story, would it not?"

"But the third..." The Historian sat back, trying to ignore the piercing stare and maddening smirk of his colleague. "The third..."

He wracked his brains, filtering through every memory and scrap of history he possessed, which was monumental. His watchers had known the Listener when she was a mere mortal information broker in Galdun. They had recorded her affair with the Jack of Hearts, her birth, her conception on the Night of Nights, her flight to Merukis, her hiding from the Wild Hunt, her aid of the Runners...

What she valued more than anything was secrets, but what secrets could this new goddess have given her?

The Lord of the Brown Pillar squinted. "Wait. If you weren't at the meeting, how do you know there were three conditions?"

The Lord of the Russet Mantle shrugged. "There always are three in these stories."

The Historian studied him for exactly 6.37 more moments as the Storyteller cut off another bite of salmon and masticated it slowly. The Father of Time said, "I see no logic to there being a third condition."

"Really?" He swallowed. "I can imagine many."

"Name some."

"Divine aid for her agents. Confirmation of information in dispute. A Gift."

The Ancient One thought about that.

And then, he saw it.

"No." The Father of Time nodded. "Access to you."

The Teller feigned surprise, but his smirk was still there. "Me?"

"Why do you take such an interest in the Megalithic Court?"

"Because." the Storyteller beamed. "One of my favorite creations is now her Consort. I think of her as something of a daughter-in-law."

"And her broker." The realization fell into place. "He's a story-teller. The Image Man specializes in telling the legend, not the fact." The realization opened like a flood gate. "You have your hand in her Court."

"And why would I do that," the Russet Lord leaned back, a satisfied look on his face.

The Counter of Seconds laughed. "Because of what the Listener said. Facts and data are on no one's side. But stories--"

"--are always on the side of the protagonist." the Spinner of Yarns grinned. He stood up with a grunt. "The Newsfinder General is a data acquisition specialist from the Order of St. Therersa, History's Own. He serves the Brownstone Goddess as his title implies: by bringing her information." He began to sprinkle suppressant on the flames. "Here endeth the tale. Happy endings to you."

The Historian watched him walk off into the distance, now wondering what tale the old man was concocting, and if he had inadvertently become a character in it.