Ana was dead. While she lived, a strong and firm presence guiding the Faith, Sergei hadn't been willing to move the way he contemplated moving now. But with her dead, with the far weaker and uncertain Kenne elected to the Archigos' throne, with Kraljiki Audric so ill and frail and young . . .

Everything had changed.

"Good," Sergei said, returning Karl's smile warmly. "This has been hard for all of us, but especially for you, my good friend. Now, let's have some of this tea before it gets cold, and nibble on the biscuits. I'll bet you haven't eaten for a few days, from the look of you. Haven't Varina and Mika been watching after you . . . ?"

That evening, a turn of the gla.s.s after the wind-horns sounded Third Call, Sergei sat with the new Archigos Kenne on the viewing balcony of the temple on the South Bank, watching the daily Ceremony of the Light. For two centuries and more now, the teni of the Concenzia Faith had come from the temple in the evening and-with the gift of the Ilmodo-set ablaze the lamps that banished night from the city. For all his life, Sergei had witnessed the daily rite. The gilded, crystal-globed teni-lamps were placed at five-stride intervals along the grand Avi a'Parete, the wide ring boulevard encircling the oldest sections of the city. Until late into the night, the lamps hurled their challenge to the moon and stars, proclaiming Nessantico's greatness.

To Sergei, this was the ceremony that defined Nessantico to the populace. This was the ceremony that proclaimed Cenzi's support of the Kralji and of the Concenzia Faith, a ceremony that had existed unchanged for generations-until Archigos Ana's time. Now it meant less, when there were people walking the street who could produce light themselves: without calling on Cenzi, without the training of a teni. Ana's acceptance of the Numetodo heresy had lessened the Faith, in Sergei's opinion, and had forced the people's view of it to change.

Change. Sergei disliked change. Change meant instability, and instability meant conflict.

Change meant that everything must be reevaluated. Ana . . . Sergei had never been particularly close to the woman, but in his role as Commandant of the Garde Civile, then as Regent, he had certainly worked in tandem with her. Whatever her personal faults, she had been strong and Sergei admired strength. It was only her presence on the Archigos' throne that had kept Justi's reign as Kraljiki from being a complete catastrophe. For that alone, he would always be grateful to her memory.

But now Kenne was Archigos. Sergei genuinely liked Kenne as a person. He enjoyed the man's company and his friendship. But Kenne would not be the Archigos that Ana had been. Could not be, for he lacked the steel inside. Sergei understood why the Concord A'Teni chose him-because none of the other a'teni wanted the t.i.tle, the responsibility, or the conflicts that came with the Archigos' throne and staff, and they especially feared it now. Kenne was no one's enemy, and, most especially, Kenne was old. Kenne was frail. He would not hold Cenzi's staff for many years . . . and maybe when he died, it would be a less turbulent time.

The Concord had acted out of their own self-preservation, and so the Concord had given the Faith a poor Archigos.

Sergei wondered if Kenne would ever forgive him for what that meant.

The two men stood as the light-teni emerged in their long processional line from the great main doors directly below them. Sergei could hear the sonorous melody of the choir finishing the evening devotions in the temple's main chapel, the sound echoing plaintively throughout the square as the doors opened. The sun had just set, though the clouded western sky was still a furious swirl of reds and oranges. In the glow, the teni turned and gave their Archigos the sign of Cenzi, and Kenne blessed them with the same sign.

The e-teni-all of them looking impossibly young to Sergei's eyes, all of them solemn with the weight of their duty-bowed as one to the Archigos, green robes swaying like a field of gra.s.s in the wind, before turning again to cross the vast courtyard before the temple. The usual crowds had gathered to watch the ceremony, though the crowds were less thick in recent years than they had been in the time of Kraljica Marguerite, when the Holdings had been one and visitors flocked to Nessantico from all points of the compa.s.s. In recent years, there were far fewer visitors from the east and south, from Firenzcia or the Magyars, from Sesemora or Miscoli. With the war in the h.e.l.lins across the Strettosei, many of the young men were gone and families traveled less. Though the courtyard of the Old Temple was full of onlookers, the Garde Kralji had no trouble making room for the light-teni; Sergei could see the paving-cobbles between them. The teni reached the Avi and split into two lines, spreading out east and west along the Avi and going to the nearest lamps, set on either side of the gated entrance to the Archigos' Temples.

The first of the light-teni went to the lamps. They stood underneath the shimmering globe of cut gla.s.s, looking up into the evening sky as if they glimpsed Cenzi watching them, and they spoke a single word and gestured from chest to lamp, closed fist to open hand.

The lamps erupted with brilliant yellow light.

Sergei applauded with Kenne. Yet . . .

That single word to release the spell: that was a change, too; a nod to the Numetodo, who could quickly release their spells. It was another of the changes Ana had wrought. "I miss the old ways sometimes, Archigos," Sergei said to Kenne. "The long chanting, the sequence of gestures, the way the effort visibly wearied your teni . . . The Numetodo way of using the Ilmodo makes it look too easy. There was . . ." He sighed as the two men sat again. ". . . a mystery to it then, a sense of labor and love and ritual that's vanished. I'm not sure that Ana made the right decision when she allowed the teni to start using the Numetodo methods to light our streets."

He saw Kenne nod. "I understand," Kenne answered. "Part of me agrees with you, Sergei; there was a feeling to the old rituals that's gone now. But the Numetodo proved their worth against Hirzg Jan, and Ana could hardly renounce them afterward, could she?" Sergei heard him give a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "We're old men, Sergei. We want things to be the way they used to be, back when we were young. When the world was right and Marguerite was going to sit on the Sun Throne forever."

Yes. I want that more than you'd believe. Sergei scratched at the side of the nose where the glue irritated his skin; a few flecks of the resin flaked off under his fingernail. "There's nothing wrong with that. Things were good then, with Kraljica Marguerite and Dhosti wearing the Archigos' robes. There was no better time for the Holdings or for the Faith. We lived in a perfect time and we didn't even know it."

"Yes, we did. I agree." Kenne sighed with the memory.

The gilded doors to the temple behind them opened and an older u'teni emerged: Sergei recognized him: Petros cu'Magnaio, Kenne's a.s.sistant. The man had lived with Kenne since his time with Archigos Dhosti. Kenne nodded to cu'Magnaio with a smile as he set down a tray of fruit and tea between the two of them. It never bothered Sergei that Kenne was afflicted with what was euphemistically called "Gardai's Disease." There was some truth, after all, to the appellation: when away for years on a campaign, soldiers sometimes took comfort where they could find it, with those who were around them. "It will be getting chilly with the sunset," cu'Magnaio said. "I thought the two of you might like hot tea."

Kenne's hand hovered above cu'Magnaio's but didn't quite touch him-Sergei knew that would have been different if he had not been there. "Thank you, Petros. We won't be long here, but I appreciate it."

Cu'Magnaio bowed and gave the sign of Cenzi to them. "I'll make sure that you're not disturbed while you're talking. Archigos, Regent. . . ." He left them, closing the balcony doors behind him.

"He's a good man," Sergei said. "You've been lucky with him."

Kenne nodded, gazing fondly toward the doors where Petros had gone. Then he shook himself as if remembering something. "Speaking of those who have sat on the Sun Throne, Sergei, I'm sorry the Kraljiki couldn't join us this evening. How is Audric feeling?"

Sergei lifted a shoulder. Below, the light-teni moved out from the temple to lamps further down the Avi, the crowds walking with them, murmuring. The doves fluttered down from the domes of the Temple and the rooftops of the buildings in the complex to peck at the vacated stones of the plaza for leavings. "He's not good." He glanced back over his shoulder; the doors remained closed but he still lowered his voice. "Have you had any luck finding another teni with healing skills?"

Kenne sighed. "That has always been among the rarest of gifts, and since the Divolonte specifically condemns its use . . . well, it's been difficult. But I have hopes. Petros is making judicious inquiries for me. We'll find someone." He paused, glanced at the fruit on the plate between them and selected a piece. Kenne had long, delicate hands, but the flesh wrapping his bones was wrinkled and thin, and Sergei could see the tremor as the Archigos lifted a slice of sweetrind to his lips and sucked at it. We can't afford weakness in both the Kraljiki and the Archigos, not if we hope to survive.

"Sergei, we need to consider what happens if the boy dies," Kenne continued, almost as if he'd heard Sergei's thoughts. "Justi's offspring . . ." He frowned and set the sweetrind back on the plate. "Too sour," he said. "Justi's children have never been known for their longevity."

The teni moved along the Avi and out of sight. The crowds in the square of the temple began to disperse; the sound of the choir ended in a lingering, ethereal chord. "I hope that Cenzi doesn't make us face that choice," Sergei said carefully. "But it's what everyone's wondering, isn't it?"

"There are the ca'Ludovici twins, Sigourney or Donatien. They're, what . . ." Kenne's thin lips pursed in concentration. ". . . second cousins once removed from Audric and first cousins to Justi, since Marguerite was their great-great aunt. They're already of age and more, which is good. Donatien, particularly, has distinguished himself in the h.e.l.lin Wars, even if things haven't been going well of late, and he's married to a ca'Sibelli, a solid Nessantican family-we could call him back from the h.e.l.lins. Sigourney might be the better choice, though. She still carries the ca'Ludovici surname, of course: that certainly has incredible weight here, and she's made her presence felt on the Council of Ca'. The two of them have the closest lineage claim, I believe, and I'm certain the Council of Ca' would sustain either of their claims to take the Sun Throne."

Sergei was unsurprised to find that the Archigos' thoughts were so closely paralleling his own; he suspected this was the case throughout both the Holdings and the Coalition. He paused, wondering whether he should say more. It would be interesting, perhaps, to see how Kenne would react. "Allesandra ca'Vorl can claim the same lineage and the same relationship through her matarh," Sergei answered, as if idly musing. "For that matter, so could the new Hirzg Fynn. They're also second cousins to Marguerite-with a claim to the throne equal to Sigourney or Donatien."

In the fierce light of the teni-lamps, Kenne's eyebrows clambered up the ridges of his forehead. "You're not seriously suggesting . . ."

The volatile tone was the reaction he'd expected, and Sergei grinned quickly to make it seem that the words were only a jest. "Hardly," Sergei told him. "Just pointing out how Allesandra might respond. Certainly Sigourney or Donatien would be good choices, as you suggest, though perhaps we need Donatien to remain as commandant in the h.e.l.lins. However, Audric's not dead, and I'd prefer that he stay that way. But if the worst would happen . . . You're right; we should be considering the succession. The Holdings are already broken, thanks to Justi's incompetence, and we can't afford to have what is left shatter further." He paused. He deliberately narrowed his eyes and stroked his chin, as if the thought had just now occurred to him. "But . . . Perhaps a compromise could be worked between the Holdings and the Coalition if the worst happened, Kenne. A ca'Vorl to take the Sun Throne, but the Concenzia Faith ruled by you, not Semini ca'Cellibrecca." There. See what he makes of the offer.

"You'd have Ana's murderers seated on the Sun Throne?" The horror in the man's voice was palpable.

Sergei sniffed-a loud sound, whistling through the metal nostrils of his false nose. "You're making the same accusation as Amba.s.sador ca'Vliomani. As of the moment, it's unfounded."

"Who else would have done this to Ana, Sergei? We know it wasn't the Numetodo-she was their ally."

Sergei didn't push the point any further. He already knew what he needed to know. "That's something my people are trying to determine. And we will." The sunset fire no longer burned in the western sky. The stars were competing against the colder flames of the teni-lamps, and the evening chill was settling around the city. Sergei shivered and rose from his chair. His knee joints cracked and protested at the movement; he grunted with the effort. Sergei could still feel the ache in his muscles and the lingering bruises from when he'd flung himself over Audric in the temple.

Old men, indeed . . .

Petros must have been watching (and undoubtedly listening, as well) through the cracks of the temple doors; as soon as Sergei stood the doors opened and an e'teni attendant hurried to him with his overcloak. He could see Petros standing in the gloom of the corridor beyond. "I should be checking on Audric, Archigos," Sergei said as he shrugged on the woolen folds. "If you find someone with the skills we were discussing, please bring him or her to the palais immediately."

"I'll stop by myself in a turn of the gla.s.s or so," Kenne said. "Petros will have my supper ready now, but I'll come afterward. To see what I can do."

"Thank you, Archigos," Sergei told him. "I will see you then, perhaps."

As he walked away from the temple, he wondered whether his message had reached Brezno yet, and what reception it might have found.

Allesandra ca'Vorl.

"YOUR BOY'S SHOT was as good as any I could make," Fynn declared.

Allesandra doubted that. Jan might not have the bulk and power of Fynn's muscular frame. He might not be able to wield the heavy weight of water-hardened steel someone like Fynn could manage with ease, but the boy could ride like no one else and he had an eye with an arrow that very few could match. Allesandra was certain that neither Fynn nor anyone else there could have hit, much less brought down, the stag from the back of a galloping horse.

But it seemed best to simply nod, give Fynn a false smile, and agree. It was safest, but conceding the falsehood still hurt when her pride in her son made her want to object. She stored it with the other hurts and insults Fynn and her vatarh had given her over the years. The pile in her mind was already mountainous. "Indeed, Brother. He's been taught well in Magyaria. Pauli was famous for his horseback archery when he was young; it would seem that Jan has acquired that ability from his vatarh."

"It was lucky I was there to take the final shot, though, or the stag would have escaped."

Allesandra smiled again, though she knew it was neither luck nor fortune, only Jan demonstrating that he knew better than to entirely eclipse the presence of the Hirzg. A political move, as adroit as any she might have made.

The two of them were walking along the eastern balcony of the Stag Fall Palais-as private as one could be within the estate. Gardai stood at stiff attention where the balcony turned to the north and south, their stoic avoidance of the Hirzg and A'Hirzg obvious as they stared outward; from the windows left open to catch the evening breeze, they could hear the murmuring of the guests at the table they'd just left. Allesandra could pick out Jan's voice as he laughed at something Semini said.

She looked eastward, toward the evening mist rising in its soft, slow tide from the valleys toward the steep slopes in which the palais was nestled. The tops of the evergreens below them were wrapped in strands of white cloud, though the wind-scoured and treeless peaks above remained swaddled in sun that sparked from the granite cliffs and the clinging s...o...b..nks. Somewhere hidden in the mist below, a waterfall burbled and sang.

"It's truly beautiful here," Allesandra said. "I never realized that when I was here as a girl. Great-Vatarh Karin picked a perfect location: gorgeous, and perfectly defensible. No army could ever take Stag Fall if it were well-defended."

Fynn nodded, though he didn't seem to be looking at the landscape. Instead, he was fiddling with the brocaded cuff of his sleeve. "I asked you to walk with me so we could speak alone, Sister," he said.

"I thought as much. We ca'Vorls rarely do anything without ulterior motives, do we?" she said. A quick smile played with her lips. "What did you want to say to me, little brother?"

He grinned-briefly-at that, the thick scar on his cheek twitching with the motion. "You never knew me when I was little."

"There was good reason for that." Yes, that hurt was at the very heart of the mountain inside, the seed from which it had all grown. . . .

"Or a bad one. I didn't understand then, Allesandra, why Vatarh left you in Nessantico for so long. After he finally told me about you, I always wondered why Vatarh let my sister languish in another country, one he so obviously hated."

"Do you understand now?" she asked, then continued before he could respond. "Because I still don't. I always waited for him to apologize to me, or to explain. But he never would. And now . . ."

"I don't want to be your enemy, Allesandra."

"Are we enemies, Fynn?"

"That's what I'm asking you. I would like to know."

Allesandra waited before answering. The marble railing of the balcony was damp under her hand, the swirls of pale blue in the milky stone varnished by dew. "Are you thinking that if our positions were reversed, that if I'd been named Hirzgin by Vatarh, then you would consider me your enemy?" she asked carefully.

He made a face, his hand sweeping through the cool air as if he were swiping at an annoying insect. "So many words . . ." He sighed loudly and she could hear his irritation in it. "You make speeches that slip in my ears and make my own words twist their meanings, Allesandra. I've never been someone able to fence with words and speeches-it's not one of my skills. It wasn't one of Vatarh's either. Vatarh always said exactly what he thought: no more, no less, and what he didn't want someone to know, he didn't say at all. I asked you a simple enough question, Allesandra: are you my enemy? Please do me the courtesy of giving me a plain, unadorned answer."

"No," she answered firmly, and then shook her head. "Fynn, only an idiot would answer you with anything other than 'No, we're not enemies.' You know that, too, despite your protestations. You may be many things, but you're not that simple, and I'm not that foolish to fall into so obvious a trap. What's the real question you're asking?"

Fynn gave an exasperated huff, slapping his hand on the railing. She could feel the impact of his hand shivering the rail. "There . . . There are people . . ." He stopped, taking a long audible breath. When he released it, she could see it cloud before his face. He touched the plain golden band that encircled his head. "Vatarh told me before he died that there were whispers among the chevarittai and the higher teni of the Faith. Some of them opposed his naming of me as the A'Hirzg. They don't like my temper, or they say I'm too . . . stupid." He spat out the word, as if it tasted sour on his tongue. "Some of them wanted you to have that t.i.tle, or wanted someone else entirely to take the band of the Hirzgai."

"Did Vatarh tell you who was doing the whispering? Where did it come from?" Allesandra asked. She had to ask the question. She shivered a little, hoping he hadn't noticed. "Did Vatarh tell you who had said this?"

But Fynn only shook his head. "No. No names. Just . . . that there were those who would oppose me. If I find them . . ." He took a long breath in through his nose, and his face went hard. "I will take them down." He looked directly at her. "I don't care who they are, and I don't care who I have to hurt."

She faced away from him so he could not see her face, looking at the fog drifting among the pines just below. Good. Because I know some of them, and they know me. . . . "You can't punish rumors, Fynn," she said. "You can't put chains around gossip and imprison it, any more than you can capture the mists."

"I don't think Vatarh was deceived by mists."

"Then what do you want of me, little brother?"

That was what he'd wanted her to ask. She could see it in his face, in the dimming light of the sky. "At the Besteigung," he began, then stopped to put his hand atop hers on the railing. It did not feel like an affectionate gesture. "You're the one that everyone looks to. You're the one who could have been Hirzgin had Vatarh not changed his mind. The ca'-and-cu' still like you, and many of them think that Vatarh did wrong by you. The rumors always circulate around you, Allesandra. You. I want to stop them; I want them to have no reason at all to exist. So-at the Besteigung-I want you, and Pauli and Jan also, to take a formal oath of loyalty to the throne. In public, so everyone will hear you say the words."

They would only be words, she wanted to tell him, with as much meaning as my saying now "No, Fynn, I'm not your enemy," Words and oaths mean nothing: to know that, all you need do is look at history . . . But she smiled at him gently and patted his hand. Perhaps he really was that simple, that naive? "Of course we'll do that," she told him. "I know my place. I know where I should be, and I know where I want to be in the future."

Fynn nodded. His hand moved away from hers. "Good," he said, and the relief sang a high note in his voice. "Then we will expect that." We . . . She heard the royal plural in his voice, all unconscious, and it made her lips press tightly together. "I like your son," he said unexpectedly. "He's a bright one-like you, Allesandra. I'd hate to think he was involved in any plots against me, but if he was, or if his family was . . ." His face tightened again. "The air's chilly and damp out here, Allesandra. I'm going inside." Fynn left her, returning to the warmth of the palais' common room. Allesandra stood at the railing for several more minutes before following him, watching until the mists were nearly level with her and the world below had vanished into gloom and cloud.

She thought of being Hirzgin, and it came to her that the High Seat in Brezno would never have satisfied her, even if it had been hers. It was a hard realization, but she knew now that it was in Nessantico that she'd been most happy, that she'd felt most at home.

"I know my place, Brother," she whispered into the hush of the fog. "I do. And I will have it."

Nico Morel.

NICO HEARD TALIS SPEAKING in the other room, even though Matarh had gone to the square to get bread.

Matarh had kissed him and told him to nap for a bit, saying that she'd be back before supper. But he hadn't been able to sleep, not with the sounds of the people in the street just outside the shutters of his window, not with the sun peeking through the cracks between the boards. He was too old for naps now anyway. Those were for children, and he was becoming a young man. Matarh had told him that, too.

Nico threw the covers aside and padded softly across the room. He leaned forward just enough that he could see past the edge of the scarred, warped door that never closed tightly-making sure he didn't touch it, since he knew the hinges would screech a rusty alarm. Through the crack between door and jamb, he could see Talis. He was bent over the table that Matarh used to prepare meals. A shallow bowl was sitting on the table, and Nico squinted in an effort to see it better: incised animals danced along the rim, and the bowl had the same hue as the weathered bronze statue of Henri VI in Oldtown Square. Matarh didn't have a metal bowl, at least none that Nico had ever noticed; the animals carved into it were strange, too: a bird with a head like a snake's; a scaled lizard with a long snout full of snarled teeth. Talis poured water from Matarh's pitcher into the bowl, then untied a leather pouch from his belt and shook a reddish, fine powder onto his palm. He dusted the powder into the water as if he were salting food. He gestured with his hand over the bowl as if smoothing something away, then spoke words in the strange language that he sometimes spoke when he was dreaming at night, cuddled with Nico's matarh in their bed.

A light seemed to glow inside the bowl, illuminating Talis' face a sickly yellow-green. Talis stared into the glowing bowl, his mouth open, his head leaning closer and closer as if he were falling asleep, though his eyes were wide. Nico didn't know how long Talis stared into the bowl-far longer than the breath Nico tried to hold. As he watched, Nico thought he could feel a chill, as if the bowl were sending a winter's breath out from it, frigid enough that Nico shivered. The feeling became stronger, and the breath Nico drew in seemed to pull that cold inside with it, though somehow it felt almost hot inside him. It made him want to breathe it back out, like he could spit frozen fire.

In the other room, Talis' head nodded ever closer. When his face appeared to be about to touch the rim of the bowl, the glow vanished as suddenly as it had come, and Talis gasped as though drawing breath for the first time.

Nico gasped, too, involuntarily, as the cold and fire inside him vanished at the same moment. He started to pull his head back from the door, but Talis' voice stopped him. "Nico. Son."

He peered back in. Talis was staring at him, a smile creasing the lines of his olive face. There were more wrinkles there, lately, and Talis' hair was beginning to be salted with gray. He groaned when he stood up too fast and his joints sometimes creaked, even though Matarh said that Talis was the same age as her. "It's fine, Son. I'm not angry with you." Talis' accent seemed stronger than usual. He gestured to Nico, and Nico could see a smear of the red dust still on his palm. He sighed as if he were tired and needed to sleep. "Come here." Nico hesitated. "Don't worry; come here."

Nico pushed open the door-the hinge, as he knew it would, protesting loudly-and went to Talis. The man picked him up (yes, he grunted with the effort) and put him on a chair next to the table so he could see the bowl. "Nico, this is a special bowl I brought with me from the country where I used to live," he said. "See . . . there's water in it." He stirred the water with a fingertip. The water seemed entirely ordinary now.

"Is the bowl special because it can make water glow?" Nico asked.

Talis continued to smile, but the way his eyebrows lowered over his eyes made the smile look somehow wrong in his face. Nico could see his own face staring back from the brown-black pupils of Talis' eyes. There were deep folds at the corner of those eyes. "Ah, so you saw that, did you?"

Nico nodded. "Was that magic?" he asked. "I know you're not a teni because you never go to temple with Matarh and me. Are you a Numetodo?"

"No," he said. "I'm not a Numetodo, nor a teni of the Faith. What you saw wasn't magic, Nico. It was just the sunlight coming in the window and reflecting from the water in the bowl, that's all. I saw it, too-so bright it seemed like there was a tiny sun under the water. I liked the way it looked, and so I watched it for a while."

Nico nodded, but he remembered the red dust and the strange, gra.s.sy color of the light and the way it had bathed Talis' face, as if a hand of light were stroking him. He remember the cold fire. He didn't mention any of that, though. It seemed best not to, though he wasn't certain why.

"I love you, Nico," Talis continued. He knelt on the floor next to Nico's chair, so that their faces were the same height. His hands were on Nico's shoulders. "I love Serafina . . . your matarh . . . too. And the best thing she's ever given me, the thing that has made me the most happy, is you. Did you know that?"

Nico nodded again. Talis' fingers were tight around his arms, so tight he couldn't move. Talis' face was very near his, and he could smell the bacon and honeyed tea on the man's breath, and also a faint spiciness that he couldn't identify at all. "Good," Talis said. "Now listen, there's no need to mention the bowl or the sunlight to your matarh. I thought that one day I might give your matarh the bowl as a gift, and I want it to be a surprise, and you don't want to spoil that, do you?"

Nico shook his head at that, and Talis grinned widely, as if he'd told himself a joke inside that Nico hadn't heard. "Excellent," he said. "Now, let me finish washing the bowl-that's what I was starting to do when you saw me. That's why I put the water in it." Talis released Nico; Nico rubbed at his shoulders with his hands as Talis picked up the bowl, swirled the water inside it ostentatiously, then opened the window shutters to dump it into the flowered windowbox. Talis wiped the bowl with his linen bashta, and Nico heard the ring of metal. He watched as Talis put the bowl into the pack that he kept under the bed that he and Nico's matarh shared, then put the pack back underneath the straw-filled mattress.

"There," Talis said as he straightened again. "It'll be our little secret, eh, Nico?" He winked at Nico.

It would be their secret. Yes.

Nico liked secrets.