Enki takes a deep breath, as though he doesn’t notice a thing. Some look at Enki, others at one another or the doorways.
Nostrils flair, discreet coughs echo through the chamber. Everyone in the audience shuffles uncomfortably. My last present from the verde must have gone through. Sometimes, when we see one come in, the blocos will set up in the terraces and play until the rain drives us inside.” He pauses here, as though considering his next words, though I can tell he’s just savoring the moment. “In the verde,” says Enki, as serious as I’ve ever seen him, “we love the storms. Enki gives them quite a bit more than that.
“The summer king customarily delivers a brief poem or statement before he convenes the special sessions.
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