"So it shall be. You may inform others that you are to meet the Quarass on matters of gods, but not that Reim has joined the negotiations. Will you be able to depart tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, your majesty."

The escort that comes to meet him the next day consists of a man and woman in ceremonial armor, and a third in a coat and sash, who introduces himself as a [Diplomat] to help Blai navigate Ger.

"I don't expect us to get in any trouble, but for things like etiquette and ceremonies, if you're trying to figure out polite responses to an invitation, or if you've inadvertently given offense, I'm at your service."

"Thank you. Within the scope of what we're definitely expecting to encounter, what do I need to know?"

They can get on the flying carpet while they talk. It looks inordinately expensive separate from the fact that it's magic, embroidered with beautiful patterns of color on the rim and with a semi-abstract depiction of a mountain above desert. It's fifteen feet by twenty feet, more than large enough to seat four comfortably.

"How to correctly refer to the Quarass, first of all—it's just 'Quarass', or 'Honored Quarass' or 'Great Quarass' or so on if you wish to particularly signal obeisance, although it is not conventionally used by her own subjects; I'd just leave it."

And he can describe some other particulars, when to bow, what to expect from the servants...

All very important to know and soothing to have enumerated.

When the flying carpet rises into the air, there's no sense of acceleration. It's as if the world is moving around them, not the opposite. And when it starts moving, and speeds up as it clears the top of the buildings, it's fast. The arid plains seem to glide past them; they must be moving more than a mile a minute. Yet there's barely any wind to be felt, only a gentle breeze.

Oh that's weird and makes him dizzy. He closes his eyes.

Then from the perspective of the narrative, he will be there very quickly! From his subjective perspective it takes slightly under two hours, though. Still, not a full day's travel by any means.

"We're coming up on Ger—the capital of Germina—but you don't have open your eyes if you don't want to."

He can peek real quick to get a look at it.

It's a fine city. Colorful, even from the air, and in the seconds as they descend it becomes clear it's the murals painted on the buildings, each a work of art trying to outdo the next—but art built to last, in bold strokes that weather sand and storm, and of hardy absorbent paints meant to be renewed or painted atop of through centuries.

There are signs of battle outside the walls, in blood and ash and steel, and the remnants of enemy camps. The city has held, though, and what lies inside the walls is whole. The populace that points and looks at the flying carpet looks hale, if not very hearty.

The location they're flying for is a large earthy structure marked by its structural grandeur but not material or ornamentation. It's painted, as well, with fine colours and precision, but in simple, iterative motifs, broken only in notable places by detailed murals by different styles and hands. It would not be an unreasonable guess that it is the palace, or the equivalent for this nation.

Okay, they like painting stuff here, good to know probably. Eyes closed again.

Because of the momentum-cancelling effect, it's not very obvious when they come to a stop, but he gets a tap on the shoulder and a, "We're here."

They alight near the end of a grand avenue before the palace(?). A guard comes up to confirm their identity, which the [Diplomat] handles with documents and a short exchange, then they can get going.

Follow follow follow.