Her jailers number three: the peer Rodrigo, and his myrmidons Dieste and Arnu. The master is condescending and obviously vain, but polite and not as stupid as he initially appeared. The latter two—a polished Teniroz of about thirty, and a burly middle-aged man in surprisingly plain attire—have as yet said little, and so she cannot take their measure.

  The turned creature Fernande remains in his compartment to one side; the doorway between his compartment and the rest of the car is large enough for him to come through, if he ducks, but at present he is content to sit on the floor, watching them talk. There is a curtain on the doorway, drawn back, but with a large ring attached to its side at head-height which the beast might grasp with his mouth to draw it to for privacy. His behavior suggests that he is as calm and reliable as his brother suggests, and so she elects to ignore him, for now.

  The clock on the wall—one of the car’s many extravagances, for a bespoke contrivance to be used only on occasion—tells her they have seven and a half hours until their arrival in Pasavana, at which point she will supposedly be set free. This promise, even if it is kept, does not much assure her, as it will likely be followed in short order by the invasion and effective annexation of the Free City by Republican forces. At which point they will all in essence be prisoners alike, until the Union invades in turn. Should none of that happen—should they act in good faith, and merely retreat once they have inflicted their punitive strike on Eyanna Vogh—they will still have made Pasavana an accessory to their war, inviting Vogh to escalate from minor raids on the upland mines to, for all Toania knows, direct assault on the city itself. Vogh is capricious, bordering on insane, and unlikely to overlook even compelled collaboration with her enemies. Disaster, it seems, is inevitable, and the final proven failure of a policy that has kept the Free City free for fifteen years.

  As Toania recalls, she was not quite fourteen when she lost patience with the College’s admissions policy. She escalated from talking the matter over with her classmates, to writing impassioned essays, to fiery speeches in class. She had actually written her first letters to various city newspapers—including the Obelisk—clearly laying out the hideous irrationality of restricting college entry to the Tenirozzia.

  It was contrary to morality; she knew for a fact that “common” children—a slur which technically included her own half-siblings—were every bit as capable of academic brilliance as the titled. It was contrary to the original goals of the College, which Aianto Fessantine founded to uplift and educate the sons of miners and factory workers. It was contrary to the principles of the Free City, which was built on the strength of those same workers, and promised, perhaps more than any other Siocene state, to make men strong by making them free not just from external compulsion but from arbitrary limitations based on race, class, religion, sex, or status.

  All of it was quite well done, for the work of a child. Certainly a number of her peers were won over, despite being no less children of privilege than herself and often rather more so. Her professors praised the strength and polish of her essays, and gently redirected classes around her speeches, until she proposed a general strike of all students.

  Then Professor Tarwall took her aside to explain the errors in her thinking. For whom, he asked, was the College named?

  Queen Dupinia, of course.

  And how accomplished, skilled, and so on was Queen Dupinia?

  Offhand, Toania could not recall reading of a single thing the Queen wrote, said, or did. Or even the years of her reign.

  For good reason, said Professor Tarwall. Queen Dupinia was a reactionary imbecile who opposed every single liberalizing reform of her day, and spent a great deal of time and money sponsoring writers to parrot her beliefs in the papers, or trying to persuade her husband to shut down the new Citizens’ Assembly by force. Thankfully, she failed in the end. But it was Aianto Fessantine’s misfortune to live while she was queen, so he named his new college for her as a signal that it would not be fostering radical thought. That, combined with assiduous diplomacy and a few moderately expensive gifts, allowed the College to avoid censorship in its earliest years, even while other, more established institutes of learning were closed by decree.

  So, inquired Professor Tarwall: could Toania think of a reason why the recently-declared Free City, caught between the so-called Republic (the violent tools of aristocracy and privilege) and the Union (puppets of Rafadian interests), might wish to spend its limited income gathering together the scions of wealthy families from across the peninsula? Why, instead of educating the sons and daughters of miners and factory workers—who could still earn a good living in the ever-expanding mines and factories—they took young people who were already well-positioned to wield influence, and inoculated them, like young cattle, against the diseases of hereditary right, blind deference to custom, and unquestioned conventional thinking?

  Toania could, when it was put so baldly, but being thirteen made certain obligatory noises about unfairness. Professor Tarwall directed her to a map, citing figures on the known military strength of the two great powers, in comparison to Pasavana’s modest militia. How many battles would be won, or prevented, by greater fairness in college admissions?

  At that she was forced to abandon the fight, but for some time she was bitter, in a typically adolescent way, at the thought that her life was only a tool in a political game. Later, as she came to appreciate the unique beauty of her coal-grimed, smoke-clouded home, she turned her thinking on its head. She was among a fortunate few, chosen from an unsettled and unhappy country, and gifted (at no cost) with a precious treasure of knowledge, to be Pasavana’s ambassadors to the world. By graduation she felt both grateful and indebted—feelings she took seriously enough to take on work at the city’s leading newspaper, so that she could set about her duties at once.

  Toania cannot possibly escape while the train is in motion, or send any kind of message. It would do no good if she did. She cannot use her foreknowledge of events to come. But she has, once more, been gifted with an opportunity, an access to influence. For the next seven and a half hours, she will have the ear of a peer of the convention—a peer who obviously finds her attractive. If he is only one of seven in his delegation, still he has more power than she will ever wield herself. She is not certain how to use that limited power, but she would be a terrible fool, to let it go to waste.

  “I understand what you are telling me, Miss Lenlaia,” he says with labored patience. “I promise I will tell Lord Delisarmo and the Convention what you have said. It strikes me as potentially quite useful, and of course I respect why you do not want Pasavana to become involved in our war. Nonetheless, the undeveloped land in the east of Siocaea is useless for our purposes in the near term. There are no railroads, and we cannot go by sea against the will of the Union; we would have to arrange for a march of several weeks before reaching the Garba River, with all manner of logistical difficulties along the way. We would be dependent on local guides, and any highland spies along our route would have us at their mercy. Compromised supply lines could starve the entire expedition.”

  “That is fair. But are you quite certain that such drastic action is called for in the first place, Lord Femerrini? You have said yourself that you don’t know anything about the strange technology or power which bested your defenses at Tefeia.”

  “They bested us by surprise, and still suffered substantial loss in the field. We will learn better how they did so, by forcing them to engage us with that same power, on a ground of our choosing, instead of waiting for them.”

  “That ground being my home?”

  “Of course not. Even if we were so monstrous as to deliberately fight among civilians, large urban areas are wretched places to make war. I have been forced to, multiple times, but I do not intend to do so again if I can help it. We propose to strike at the headwaters of the Mandra, as deep inside Syoshen Vukh as can be arranged.”

  “Very well. Let us say you must strike through the Mandra now, for whatever military reason. I am not a military expert, and I don’t expect you to cancel this mission against the orders of your Convention.” He sags with relief. “What if the situation to your east were not so stable as you expected? It seems to me that Eyanna Vogh has a large frontier there, which she must be in the habit of neglecting, after … how long?”

  “She has had effective control of her current borders for approximately six years,” he answers, his affect freshly weary. “Why is it that the situation there is ‘not stable,’ Miss Lenlaia? We have had problems enough without provoking the Protectorate. War with the turned is not much more pleasant than war in cities.” He glances to his brother, still placid in his stall. “For one thing, it is nearly impossible to predict any individual enemy’s abilities or behavior.”

  “I have just come from the Protectorate, my lord. It is very nearly common knowledge there that Abbess Noor is growing senile. Soon it will be clear that she cannot control her territory.”

  “Yes, there have been rumors to that effect for the past two years, Miss Lenlaia. They are pervasive and widespread enough for me to feel no compunctions about confirming that I have heard them. I cannot speak to their veracity.”

  It is good to have Sister Far’s secret corroborated, much less good to have it scorned as useless. “But … if they are true?”

  “If they are true, we will face a new problem in the future. The Republic has sufficient difficulties for the present. In any case, the seven of us have no authority to abandon our task, nor to open negotiations with Hygaara or Tal Tem Noor.” In his face she sees no further hope for her current approach. She leaves off rather than annoy him to no purpose, and he says nothing more.

  Silence reigns inside the car. Dieste takes a folded newspaper from his pocket. Arnu busies himself with a pipe. Lord Femerrini, after a last wary look in her direction, rises from his chair to go and speak softly with his brother. Toania can only sit in place, mulling over strategies for her next offensive. Plainly, the direct assault did not work, and the clock on the wall will not pause for her convenience. Scarcely seven hours remain.

  Toania considers a conversation with one of the two retainers, but decides against it. Dieste is intent on his paper, and something about Arnu’s bland expression and sidelong glances suggests latent hostility to her, if not to the press in general. She will not win the master by starting a fight with the man.

  She gives the brothers a full five minutes to relax and lower their guard. While those minutes pass, she allows herself to fidget, and to look about the car, so that restlessness and boredom might excuse her for imposing her company on them. After a minute and a half she rises to stare out the window; unfortunately, they are passing through some of the most featureless farmland imaginable. At least they are moving through it at a very respectable speed—she understands too well his point about the miseries of travel in the East.

  They did return her notebook and her other papers, after confirming they held no state secrets. She leafs through her notes now, though she has had more than enough time to review everything. She finished writing up the ridiculous “interview” the day before yesterday. What would Hygaara expect her to do in the present situation? Impossible to say, without firm knowledge of the Wild Range’s foreign policy. She doesn’t know if they would desire an alliance with the Republic.

  Lord Femerrini has drawn one of the chairs over to his brother’s stall, and they are perusing their own newspaper together, Fernande’s head resting on the peer’s shoulder and following his finger as he reads the news aloud. Five minutes was perhaps too long, then; it will be rude to interrupt. Instead she wanders over, sits down on the closest chair around the table, and watches them with frank interest. She thinks she recognizes the masthead of the Albatross, a moderate weekly out of Hausan. After perhaps thirty seconds the lord breaks off his announcement of recent Union trade agreements. “Is there something I could help you with, Miss Lenlaia?”

  “Please, continue,” she says with a smile. “I was only thinking what a charming tableau you and your brother make, and wishing I had a photographer with me.” It is intended as a harmless compliment, but Lord Femerrini at once closes his paper and stuffs it into his pocket, his face cold. “Pardon me, did I say something—“ He rises and strides past her to the far end of the car, gesturing in passing with one hand for her to follow.

  “Please understand,” he says very quietly as she joins him, “that I am committed to the institution of a free and unfettered press, and that I abhor both threats and violence against ladies. Even so, I cannot and will not countenance the subjection of my only remaining kin to public ridicule and shame. Even the slightest hint of such a thing would be offensive in the extreme. Do you understand me?”

  Both his frame and his voice are shaking. What on earth has she done? “Perfectly, but I had no intention—“

  “Should my brother be made a spectacle for the public, I tell you now that I cannot be answerable in advance for my own actions. I might, for example, in my distress, announce myself to your publisher with a naked sword, and make any further such insolence impossible. It would be an act to deplore, and I would regret it forever for reasons having nothing to do with my current mission, but I simply cannot anticipate where wrath and desperation might lead me.”

  “Lord Femerrini, please, I—“

  “Failing that, I can certainly tell you that any insult to my brother—or to my late fiancee—would at the very least forfeit all my sympathy for you or any project you propose, and earn your newspaper an implacable enemy at the Convention. Am I understood?”

  It would be very hard to mistake his meaning; though his voice has not risen much above a whisper, over the course of his warning he has leaned slightly farther in with every sentence, so that now his face is some six inches away and she is pressed back against the table. The two retainers have left their seats to watch them from a wary distance. Toania is not quite sure of the first babbling words out of her mouth—something to the effect that she was not even aware that he ever had a fiancee—but eventually it all resolves into an assurance that she found the sight of the two of them genuinely affecting and never intended to publish anything the slightest bit derogatory. By the time the last unsteady words leave her lips, more or less under her control, the lord has retreated to a more proper distance, and is looking appropriately bashful for his outburst.

  “… really, I can’t say that it’s something our readers could ever have imagined, a family remaining so close in spite of the Blemish, and I only thought it might make for an interesting new perspective on an old situation. Nothing more,” she finishes.

  “Yes. Well.” He swallows, and looks away. “I would still greatly prefer that you make no mention of him whatever; you have no control over what your rivals publish, and I would as soon that you did not give them any hint of his existence, if the larger world has so far failed to notice.”

  “Of course. You have my word.”

  “For what that is worth,” he mutters, then seems to regret it. His eyes flicker over her shoulder; she turns her head to follow, and sees the giant figure of Fernande halfway down the car, trying to squeeze past the chairs without knocking them over. His plumage is raised in alarm, making him seem still larger than usual.

  “He is beautiful,” she offers, honestly enough. If the poor creature had not been a man once, she would have no cause to pity him.

  “He always was,” answers Lord Femerrini. He brushes past her to embrace his brother tenderly and murmur soothing words; Fernande breaks away with a bobbing bow to all four of the car’s occupants, then retreats to his compartment. The peer takes a step after him, then turns back to offer her a fragment of a smile. It is all the apology she will get.

  The initiative is hers, and she takes it. “Do you suppose it would be acceptable, if I were present for your negotiations with the Lord Mayor and his staff?”

  The question appears to take him back to himself. “I have no objection, personally, but I am only one of seven, and I cannot speak for your city’s officials.” He sits down heavily. “If you are told not to be present, will you honor that restriction?”

  Toania starts to retort, then sees he is teasing. She tries not to be annoyed; he has at last emerged from behind his mask of formality. “I cannot commit to any specific course of action in advance, my lord.” She smooths her skirts before sitting down in the chair next to his, which fortuitously happens to be slightly too close. “A journalist’s methods are closely guarded secrets, you know.” She leans in slightly, but keeps her expression and tone polite and decorous—let him make of that what he will.

  “I suppose that is fair.” He looks about the car for a fresh topic of conversation. “Do you have a family of your own, Miss Lenlaia?”

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  “I live alone at present; I only graduated from Queen Dupinia’s College two years ago, and I have been so busy pursuing my career that I’ve had no time to think of anything else. I would like to marry eventually, I suppose.” She extends her legs under the table such that they almost, but not quite, touch his, a journalistic method with which she has had abundant practice. Mercilessly she looks him in the eye, silently daring him to mention it. It was Papa who encouraged her to make a trial of the Academy’s theater, not long after her talk with Professor Tarwall. If she was chosen to play a part, he wrote, it would be best for her to play it well. He was right; the practical experience in control and awareness of her face and body has proven useful time and again.

  But it wouldn’t do to push the act too far. “As for blood relations, I was admitted to the College’s youth academy at the age of eleven, and remained there until I graduated the College proper, eight years later. I still correspond with my family—but little more.”

  “It sounds a lonely life,” he comments, his face and voice too carefully neutral. Good.

  “On the contrary, I am constantly having all sorts of interesting conversations with all sorts of interesting people. All I lack is firm commitments to any one person—which I can forego, for the time being, at the age of twenty-one.” He grins—is he patronizing her? She hardly cares. This would be a bad time to look at the clock, but she imagines six and a half hours remain.

  She sketches out his life as she learns it, one small detail or anecdote at a time: born at his family’s estate on Cafrelon, forced to leave at age nine in the unrest of ‘68. Father and most cousins dead in the ill-starred effort to bring the Union to heel ten years ago; mother’s sister still resides in the Republic, but they are estranged. His few remaining distant relations are Tenirozzia sworn to other peers, or married off, or emigrated. Mother dead of something like pneumonia in 378; unnamed fiancee (who was also a third cousin) more recently dead of an unspecified cause. Younger brother touched by the Blemish around the same time.

  It is an impressive run of catastrophes. She can see how he might be less aggressive than the typical “orphan,” who has not lost so much to war already. Or how he might be so fanatically protective of what little he has left. She would be disposed to pity him, were he not en route to ruin her home.

  There is little she can feed him of her own life in return; such details as she is free to tell him (aside from Mama’s appendicitis) make her sound quite fantastically fortunate by comparison. She does manage—very carefully, over the course of another hour’s conversation—to tell him of her adolescent struggle against privilege. To his credit, he takes her point at once, and remains calm.

  “I can see how our government would trouble you in the Free City,” he says. “You have seen the second rotunda in Rosehall?”

  “Briefly. It’s beginning to look rather forlorn, if you don’t mind my saying so. Even routine cleaning can’t disguise the look of a place which has gone disused so long.”

  “His Majesty has pledged, multiple times, that the Citizens’ Assembly will be restored—“

  “Just as soon as the rest of the country submits to his rule? You do see how such an offer would be viewed, don’t you?” She is careful to keep any hint of accusation out of her voice.

  “Of course.” He looks thoughtful for a long moment. “Perhaps it is like the situation at your college. We do not have the luxury of an … egalitarian solution. Not yet.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” The question comes out too sharp, and she bites her lip. But he smiles.

  “You know how Lord Murregamua established order, after the Ravening? He was able to take control because he had a retinue in place, men he trusted and who trusted him in turn. Not everyone had quite so many, but enough did for the system to spread across the south.”

  “I don’t intend to disparage your Speaker’s accomplishments, but how many years have passed since that first seizure of power?”

  “Thirty-six. Few of them peaceful, with many challenges along the way. Please, listen to me. His crucial advantage was not that he had armed men, but that those armed men had a reason to obey him, beyond the promise of spoils or protection. Three centuries of tradition lay behind it.”

  “And our democracy is younger? Is that your argument?”

  “It is, but no. That, as I see it, is not the central problem. I have never lived in a true democracy; it seems a difficult and complicated thing to arrange. You must agree on so many people per representative, and arrange fair votes and have them accepted even by the men who lose. And then the representatives must agree in a short enough time for action to be taken. His Majesty has problems enough keeping the Convention in order.”

  “Yes, I saw. So, how much more time must pass before you judge things settled enough for the people of the Republic to have a say in their government? Every year creates a longer precedent for your oligarchy. We maintain a democracy in Pasavana, while caught between you and the Union, and facing regular raids by Eyanna Vogh. And a much smaller army to resist her with.”

  “Very true, Miss Lenlaia. But—you know the structure of our military, do you not?”

  She has no idea. “Remind me.”

  “Each peer maintains his own retinue from the revenue of his lands—chiefly dragoons, who ride to battle and fight dismounted. Our true infantry is conscripted for brief terms, and expected mostly to guard their own towns. They are numerous, but lightly trained and so unreliable; we are not yet so wealthy as to equip and train a large standing army, so we create a relatively small, well-equipped mobile force which can move quickly to defend any point. In times of trouble, we are still defended almost entirely by peers and their retainers, mounting and riding to battle on a moment’s notice. Which they do because it is our custom and our duty as servants of the Convention. Like your college, we give power to those who will keep us safe.”

  “And now you are offering to extend that safety to Pasavana.”

  “Yes. We will prove our sincerity with our blood, if you like. Because we have pledged to.”

  “I don’t deny your sincerity, Lord Femerrini, but as a Pasavanan I can’t help feeling that I would rather take my chances with our accustomed independence.”

  “And if independence is not an option? If you are forced to choose between association with us, or the Union, or Eyanna Vogh? If you will pardon the indelicacy, nothing prevents her from doing much the same to the Free City that she did to Tefeia.”

  “I’m sure the Lord Mayor is asking himself much the same question. If you must know … if I were given no other alternative … I suppose I would prefer the Union.” Better to be honest. He would surely guess as much.

  “As a fellow democracy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” He frowns. She is tempted to ask him flatly if he honestly believes that Tenirozzia like themselves are really innately superior or more qualified to rule. She is still trying to formulate the perfect phrasing when someone knocks on the door at the end of the car. Dieste opens it, and announces Lord Izal Ahrante BeYanchillo as though it were a ball. Toania thinks her polite expression only wavers a little, and she is pleased to see that her minder looks mildly annoyed himself.

  “Izal,” he says, pushing himself erect. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, Rodrigo,” says the dapper young man as he emerges from the door with hat in hand. Less naturally attractive than his friend, he has elected to maintain an aggressively large and curled mustache; the braid which marks him as a peer is unusually long, its light brown set off with black ribbons edged in gold. “As we don’t all have lovely young ladies to talk to, the ride’s a touch dull, so Ferriz is doing a bit of a luncheon. Naturally, you’d be the best host, as the fellow with the longest table. If you’re amenable? Your guest is welcome to stay, of course.” He says the last words with a sly smile, a silent comment on their sitting together with so many other chairs to spare. Toania decides she does not like him.

  “I was just starting to think about lunch myself, as it happens,” says Lord Femerrini. “Miss Lenlaia?”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you, Lord Ahrante.” He bows, and carries his ponderous smirk out of the car with visible effort.

  He returns in short order, followed by five other lords, their chief retainers, and two men hoisting a significant portion of a dead cow between them. The latter is swiftly delivered to Fernande, who draws his curtain with his teeth and disappears to dine in his own fashion. Toania soon forgets him as an army of servants bring in extra chairs, small tables, plates cutlery, and so forth. Soon she is trapped, a beleaguered island of femininity in a sea of lounging, scratching, swaggering, boasting men.

  The ‘bit of a luncheon’ is five full courses, starting with small plates of hors d’oeuvres which bounce from hand to hand in the suddenly crowded car. The soup which follows is a chowder of mixed seafood, classic Pasavanan fare, not-quite-passably done by her tastes—she has had a bowl of much the same concoction an average of three times a month for the last decade, and notices overcooked shellfish and inadequate seasoning in the same way a jeweler sees flaws in a stone. The men seem to enjoy it, except for Lord Tereo who reacts as though he has been presented with an entire octopus, whose tentacles he is now expected to sever and eat with knife and fork. The penalty, she supposes, of a childhood spent far from the coast. She smiles with every spoonful for his benefit.

  Predictably, the peers about her ask pointed questions about their mission, her opinion thereof, her city’s experience with Eyanna Vogh … she answers all as politely and carefully as she can, but the noise and the heat of the car are soon stifling. She is nearly full by the time the salad is done, and takes only a bit of the bacon-wrapped venison that constitutes the main course. After her first glass she declines the wine, and Lord Femerrini indulges with moderation beside her; his friends are less restrained, and soon babbling loudly. Could she get any one of them apart by himself, she is sure she could extract any number of quotes he would regret later. Under the circumstances, she can only hold fast and endure to the end.

  The dessert is again small plates, little cakes and glasses of liqueur and coffee passed about promiscuously. She nurses a small fruit tart, focusing intently on its flavor to the exclusion of the talk, which has become entirely too free. As the last bite disappears into her mouth something brushes against her leg, and she flinches—but it is only someone’s hound, on the hunt for scraps beneath the table. The beefy manservant Arnu regales his fellows with a tale involving poachers and highwaymen; his master debates the chance of invasion along this road or that. There is not quite enough air inside the car.

  “They’ll have nothing to do with us,” declares Ferriz from four seats down the table. “They make a tidy profit selling to both sides. In a good place now, won’t risk that by throwing in their lot with us, Dük or no Dük.” His vaunted ties with the Free City appear to consist mostly of his importing coal and spare parts for his district’s agricultural processing concern.

  “Will Dük give them a choice, that’s what I wonder.” says Tereo. “We barely fought him off ourselves.”

  “On short notice, with no warning,” snaps Lord Avino Barani, eager to defend the honor of his warriors.

  “How much warning would he give them?” retorts Tereo, undaunted. Beside him the seasoned misanthrope Moare Penintello sneers at the question, but says nothing.

  Izal Ahrante has other concerns. “How long, d’you suppose, until we get monsters of our own?”

  “Do you really want that?” says old Lord Rasallo in his weak voice. “To replace men with … demons cooked up from blood and disease? Can such a thing even happen?”

  “What if we have no choice?” says Ahrante. “What did the Boghen say, when our fathers drew up cannon on their beaches? How long did they keep charging with spears, do you suppose, to avoid replacing men’s strength with fire and contraptions?” His eyes dart about the table, taking in their reactions to every word, and settle on her at the end.

  “You think the Blemish is our future,” says Penintello with contempt.

  “It certainly changed our past. Are we really done with it? Is it done with us? Will it ever be? Can you honestly believe that—any of you?” Ahrante looks her directly in the eye, then flicks his gaze casually down the rest of her. Something about that glance, that devouring eye, says he would take her and despoil her without a thought, and his sharp-toothed smile would not change the entire time.

  Her stomach turns at the thought, and she pushes herself away from the table. At once every man in reach drops his bravado to inquire after her well-being. The abrupt change does not comfort her; she thrusts their proffered hands aside with her own, forces a way through the crowd to the door. She can feel herself shaking, but everything will be better if she can only breathe fresher air.

  It is late afternoon, and their train’s passage is mildly disturbing a herd of brown cattle in an adjoining field. The wind is strong, and the smoke from the engine reminds her of Pasavana. Toania leans against the railing as she takes several deep breaths. This is real. Not the mass of braggarts and vultures in men’s form behind her. There is too much of the world for men like them to take entirely.

  All the same, the open air is not her place anymore. Hygaara is far away now, but he will expect results, and she has duties to her current home as well. If she has the power to keep any of it safe, she likewise has the responsibility. Whatever can be done, must be. She will allow herself a few more moments’ weakness, to steady her nerves, and then she will return to that fetid car with a definite plan. Given some days to work, she might find a way to turn them against each other, and destroy the whole mission. She could see hints of weakness in that mass of malignity, fault lines in their new assembly of entitled warrior-aristocrats. But she has no time—

  The door slides open behind her. She doesn’t turn to look. “I am sorry,” says Lord Femerrini’s voice. “You can see that we have much to learn, where diplomacy is concerned.”

  “Yes,” is all she says back.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Lenlaia, to make you more comfortable?”

  Now she does turn to look. He is standing so far away to allow her room that his back is pressed against the door, unnaturally straight and stiff. Probably smudging his fine red coat with soot. She tries to smile. “Nothing comes to mind. You realize, don’t you, that we have lived in fear of invasion for fifteen years?”

  “Yes. But you are not the only ones afraid. If my friends do not show it, it is because they fear to fear. If we are stronger, we also face deadlier foes.”

  “You really don’t,” she corrects him. “Not when they would consume us entirely to get to you. It is only a question of which of us is the ends, and which the means. That is no comfort.”

  “I suppose not.” He grimaces. “It might be better if we discussed something else.”

  “It might,” she agrees. “But what else is there to speak of, Lord Femerrini? The weather, perhaps?” She points at the sky. “It is slightly cloudy. It might rain by and by. What of it?”

  “There is no one else present. I will not take offense if you call me Rodrigo.”

  “That would be friendly behavior. Do you really think I want you as a friend?”

  “No. But I do not want to be your enemy. We have enemies enough, and I wish you no harm.”

  She almost laughs at the stiff words. “Lord Rodrigo, then?”

  “It will do, Miss … ?”

  “Toania,” she allows. She might pretend that this sad counterfeit congeniality will make him easier to exploit, but really she hasn’t the energy. She already knows she is inadequate to face all her troubles. Tomorrow she will be stronger. For now, it is simply pleasant to act as if she has a friend. And it may be that she has chanced into the custody of the least bad aristocratic parasite on the train. For the next … oh, it hardly matters how many hours remain.

  “What sorts of story do you usually report on, Miss Toania? I don’t believe I have ever read your Obelisk.”

  “I tend to handle foreign news, of all sorts—though not usually politics. I only happened to be in the capital at an opportune time.” Belatedly she wonders if she will be allowed inside the Republic again—it would be a hellish inconvenience if not. Now seems a poor time to ask. “Art and culture, matters of general interest. I enjoy seeing the world, and learning more about life and customs elsewhere.” And, incidentally, expanding the Free City’s influence.

  “It sounds as though you would have much to teach me. I hardly even remember Encelise anymore.”

  “What exactly do you do, Lord Rodrigo, between sessions of your Convention?”

  He looks faintly embarrassed. “I am the nominal patron and governor of the town of Banleria—a sort of sinecure. The lives of orphan peers are not especially inspiring, I’m afraid.”

  “And what do they do, in Banleria?”

  “Ask me to intervene in their legal disputes.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I mean apart from you. They must have entertainments, special customs or traditions.”

  “… I believe they have a sort of festival in autumn, after the harvest.”

  “At which you are rarely present?”

  “In practice, I spend much of my time on special missions for the Convention as well. I must fulfill my obligations through service, as I lack land of my own.”

  “Even so, you surely must spend some amount of time at home, relaxing.”

  “As little as I can. How often are you at home, Miss Toania?”

  “Rarely, but I like to think that I know something about the city, and how the people there live.”

  “You have spent ten years there,” he protests. “I have lived in Banleria for portions of two.”

  “And didn’t trouble to learn anything about it?”

  “I know everything I need to about its industries, taxes, defenses, the country for twenty miles in every direction, and whom to speak with about every kind of problem,” he says haughtily. “My duties do not involve attending festivals.”

  “You would do better at them if you did, I think. It doesn’t sound as though you properly know your own charges.”

  She can tell she has gone too far; his lips are pursed, and he seems on the verge of a blistering retort. But he takes a deep breath, and spreads his hands. “You may be right. With all that has … happened to me, I have been reluctant to get involved in the lives of others. But you are different?” He juts out his chin. “I challenge you to prove it.”

  “Oh?”

  “If I am to speak well and convincingly to your leaders, I must understand your city better. And you plainly want a source with the government of the Republic. So, once we arrive—as soon as I have free time—you should show me something of the Free City’s customs. Teach me what I need to learn in Banleria.”

  “Ha. Do you really think I have nothing better to do with my time?”

  “Yes, I do. You live alone. You said you report on primarily foreign material. Unless you plan to leave the Free City during our mission—which must be the single most important foreign story to cover, at present—when we are not in active session with your city’s government, I don’t believe you could use your time any better. Show me an opera, if you like, or the Lord Mayor’s private menagerie. I hardly care.”

  She studies his face: truculent, irritable, but honest. Possibly this is only a convoluted road to her bed, or a way to try and influence her coverage. She feels certain he is interested in both. Whichever it is, she is confident in her defenses, and he is directly offering to continue contact with her. Why not? “Very well. Once I have put my affairs in order at home, I will call on you … Lord Rodrigo.”

  Toania extends her hand, and they shake.