The next morning, he's ordered by Stark to come along as he leaves for today's business. Apparently, the man needs someone to carry some things for him.
"Bring that, that, and those," he points at the rolled-up blueprints and the projecting gadget.
And then they're off, Loki loaded with Stark's cumbersome items. He hasn't been outside the guest chambers since he was brought there on Stark's wishes, and it feels nice to be outside. He was starting to feel rather constricted in there.
After a few turns and twists along meandering corridors and long hallways, Stark having already learnt his way around the castle, Loki realizes where they're heading. The court hall, where important deals are finalized to give them the official royal stamp of approval.
So he was right in yesterday's hunch that the deal was about to close, then.
The hall is already full when they enter. Important people dressed in the formal garments of court officials and learned scholars are mingling or standing together in clustered groups, talking among themselves. From the walls hang giant banners with the crest of Vanaheim and the standard of the ruling king to remind the parties that the deals agreed to here have the endorsement of the Crown and will also be enforced by it, if necessary.
On the table in the middle of the room are several books bound by thick leather covers. Even from a distance Loki can see that they are old, the edges of the paper yellowed with age, but they have clearly been well cared for, precious as they are. He recognizes them well. Magic books.
He has to clench his hands tightly to keep them from twitching, lest someone decides to interpret it as an obscure form of rebellion. What wouldn't he once have given to be allowed to leaf through even one such book at his leisure?
Of course, they'd be useless to him now, the arcane secrets held between those leather covers of no practical consequence to him in his current magic-less state. Reading them would only be a painful experience, having all that knowledge at his fingertips and yet being impotent to make use of it.
Still, he can't help but feel a twinge of bitter jealousy at Stark who will soon have these tomes in his possession. And he will be able to make use of their contents too, even if not in the same ways that Loki would once have been able to. Of course, the ancient texts will be written in Vanir runes which Stark can't read, the Allspeak only rendering spoken words intelligible, but Loki has no doubt that the man will be able to make that disembodied voice in his service translate them into his Midgardian tongue.
The head negotiator, recognizable by his gold-lined white robes and red stole, its long gryphon-embroidered ends hanging down his chest, hurries over to greet Stark profusely.
"Lord Stark, I wish you welcome! May prosperity and success follow you and your kin." He follows the formal greeting with a sweeping bow which Stark returns. It looks smooth and practiced. Loki can't help but wonder if Thor has helped him to perfect that in preparations of his visit; he knows that Midgardians don't bow to each other in greeting, regardless of any differences in status.
"Head negotiator Brynhjalf. I'm honoured to be here in these halls."
Yes, someone has definitely been giving Stark instructions.
"No, we are honoured to be graced with your presence among us." Brynhjalf, his beard as white as his robes and half as long, gestures towards the table where Loki has discreetly placed Stark's things before retreating to kneel along the wall, well out of the way of the proceedings. "Despite the long history of this court hall and the many agreements settled upon here, only rarely have we seen such marvellous items on display as you have brought."
Yes, the deal is, for all intents and purposes, already done, if the head negotiator is tipping his hand like that. What is to take place here is merely the formalities, to give the official approval of the Crown and lend the deal the royal glory and lustre that it deserves.
"Well, to be honest, your books are pretty darn impressive too. For all the rain forests we Midgardians have turned into paper pulp, nothing like that ever came out of any of our printing presses."
Stark is slipping back to his usual informal speech, but Brynhjalf doesn't really notice. The official seems a bit flustered, which is understandable. As the head negotiator, he has a highly trusted position with the authority to make binding deals on behalf of the Crown and will be the one held personally responsible for the outcome of a trade of this magnitude of importance. If all goes well, he can expect his standing in the court to increase significantly. If not, he might well find someone else bearing the title of head negotiator tomorrow.
"I am glad our offerings are pleasing to you, My Lord." The benevolent smile following that statement makes Brynhjalf's already wrinkled face resemble a shrivelled prune.
"But now," the man exclaims, voice raised as he addresses the entire auditorium, "let us proceed to finalize our dealings, to the satisfaction and benefit of both involved parties."
The scattered conversations die down as everyone turns their attention the Brynhjalf, the leader of the ceremony.
"Lord Stark has come bearing great treasures from Midgard." He indicates the papers and the projector, none of which looks like they would fit Brynhjalf's description with their mundane, undecorated exteriors. "The designs of powerful defensive weapons, modified to fit the specific conditions of our realm, the likes of which have never before been seen on Vanaheim." He makes a pause for dramatic effect. "Behold!"
And Stark turns on the gadget in his hand, its display suddenly projecting a life-size image of one of his suits, rotating slowly in the air.
There are shocked gasps from several people. Some must have seen this display in previous sessions, though; they are the ones who stand around smiling smugly, no doubt enjoying their comrades' stunned disbelief while remembering their own initial reactions.
Stark discreetly swipes at the screen, and the suit swiftly goes into fighting mode, hidden weapons springing forth from beneath the armour plates. It moves as stealthily as any trained warrior, rolling, jumping, and twisting in all dimensions as it fights invisible enemies. Brynhjalf accompanies the display with a detailed enumeration of all the suit can do, all its impressive powers and capabilities. Loki only listens half-heartedly; it's not on this side of the bargain his interests lie. When the show is over, the suit goes still and the floating image changes into a detailed blueprint, showcasing the inner and outer workings of the suit.
"Lord Stark has the original blueprints here," – he gestures as Stark rolls out one of his paper blueprints – "and his image projector furthermore contains the recent modifications done according to our asked-for specifications. He will let us keep the projector, but since its powers are limited in time, he advises that the royal surveyors copy the design down onto paper."
Of course, the projector runs on electricity, a Midgardian invention that fulfils many of the functions that magic does in the other realms. Loki knows that electricity can be stored in a device like that, apart from its source, but not indefinitely so.
"You have now seen for yourself what Lord Stark has to offer, and why Vanaheim is willing to part with some of its most highly prized knowledge in turn, knowledge that is very rarely given to outsiders."
Now they're getting to the interesting part of the deal, and Loki's attention is snapping back from where it's been straying.
Brynhjalf picks up the topmost book from the pile, the bound leather creaking slightly at his touch. "In exchange for these designs, Vanaheim offers some of its most treasured writings on magic and the cosmic forces. The books you see here have all been written by Vanaheim's most brilliant and educated minds, of magic users famous across the realms, both for their powers and for their wisdom."
Scribes have no doubt already copied down the texts contained within those ancient tomes so it's not like Vanaheim will be literally parting with any of its knowledge, but the fact that they're willing to share it at all speaks volumes of how highly they prize Stark's technology. Vanaheim, like all realms, jealously guards its magic secrets from outsiders; Loki has bitter and frustrating experiences of that from his own magic-using days.
And then the head negotiator starts to list the titles of the books on offer. It's quite an impressive one, and Loki listens with a little stab in his innards for each title read out. The Principles of Elemental Magic by Garm the Wise. All five volumes on spell-casting written by Embla of Ravnaby. Then comes Matter and Chaos. A Treaty On the Space Between the Realms. Magic of the Ancients.
Loki is familiar with several of the titles, but has only read excerpts from a few. Each book is held up and presented, its pages briefly leafed through as if to prove that the books are real and not props with empty pages.
Several of the officials in the audience make impressed little gasps at some of the titles, though Loki doubts that they have heard of them before; they're merely putting on a show to make themselves look learned and knowledgeable in front of their peers. As if they have a clue about the worth of the items or rarity of their contents.
He wonders how aware Stark truly is of the value of what he's getting. Any sorcerer in Asgard would have killed to get his hands on such books. Of course, Midgard is not Asgard and Stark is not a sorcerer, but still.
He watches as the last book is put down on the table, its contents having received their share of praise. Brynhjalf nods slightly, as if to acknowledge to himself that all that should be said has been said, before turning to Stark.
"As I understand it, you do not require any assistance from our scholars with the interpretation of the Vanir runes?"
"I appreciate the offer, but that won't be necessary. I have a… translator working for me back home who will be able to help out with that."
Like Loki thought; the voice in Stark's ceiling will take care of what the Allspeak cannot.
"Very well. Then, on behalf of King Sturli, rightful and benevolent ruler of Vanaheim, I, Brynhjalf, son of Arnvall, head negotiator at the Royal Court, accept the terms as laid out in these sacred halls today." He pauses briefly, gaze gliding over the assembly as if to ascertain that they have all heard and understood. There are no written contracts, no signatures to be put anywhere; such mundane things are for transactions agreed upon by common merchants and the like. The gravity and significance that these halls lend an agreement is enough to make it inviolable. It is the same in Asgard – whereas business deals supported by written contracts signed by both parties are frequently and squabblingly brought to the court arbitrators for settlement, verbal agreements made in the court hall are never contested.
"Lord Stark, do you accept the terms as laid out in these sacred halls today?"
And with Stark's affirmative response to that, the deal will be binding.
All eyes turning to Stark, the man draws himself up to his full height – which, admittedly, is not all that impressive, but still with the poise of someone who is used to being at the centre of attention.
"Well, actually, there is one more thing that I want."
And with that, the hall goes deathly silent in an instant. Brynhjalf's mouth hangs slightly open and several people twitch uncomfortably, casting nervous sideway glances among themselves at this unexpected turn of events, worrying that the coveted trade is about to slip from their fingers.
And they're right to be worried, of course. If something is brought up this late when the deal is all but closed, it's bound to be something valuable that's being asked for. Something that the party in question could not have asked for earlier in the negotiation without being immediately denied. Perhaps something more than what even the head negotiator has the authority to offer.
But of course, Stark is shrewd, a businessman to the core. He knows full well that he is less likely to be denied at this point.
Brynhjalf fiddles nervously with the frays of his stole for a few seconds, adjusting its already symmetric ends, but then quickly collects himself.
"Well, then, what more is it that you desire?"
Stark turns to point, and Loki blinks in confusion as he realizes that the finger is suddenly pointing in his direction.
"I want him as well."
End note: Well, at least neither Loki nor the Vanir saw that one coming, even if everyone else did. ;)