“Oh.” The same word, but an entirely different tone.

“Sorry.”

“Such is life,” the girl said serenely.

She seemed so nice, Qanath felt compelled to say, “If you do plan on passing that information on to anyone, please warn them to handle with care.”

Her companion had resumed ferrying buckets of hot water from the kettle in the rear and gave her an inquiring look.

“He’s complicated. To put it mildly. His temper is unpredictable, he thinks in zigzags, and I have the suspicion he never learned to flirt.”

“I’ve never seen a pretty man who wasn’t mad,” she replied, “I think it does something to their heads. Tell me if that’s too hot,” she added, gesturing to the tub.

The water was just right, so while the girl turned away to retrieve towels and toiletries from the cabinet opposite the bench, Qanath took off her shoes. She had her shirt unbuttoned by the time the girl turned back with a washcloth and soap. When she did, she let out a gasp.

Qanath looked down at herself, taking in the roughened ribs of scabbed tissue, still livid, the flesh slightly warm. “I kind of fell down a cliff.”

The girl handed her the toiletries, saying gaily, “That’s why I love the inn: I get all the stories and none of the pain.” She pointed over Qanath’s shoulder at a length of tasseled rope emerging from the wall. “If you need anything else, just you ring and I’ll come at once.” She left with a final smile, saying over her shoulder, “Although I’d rather have said that to him!”

Alone at last, she stripped off the rest of her clothes with haste. She had hoped to get into the tub swiftly in order to savor the heat for as long as she could, but washing herself turned out to be a chore. Her legs had escaped that adventure with nothing more than a few bruises thanks to her sturdy pants, but her chest and abdomen were webbed in injuries and the water was softening the scabs. She made herself slow down and go carefully, trying not to reopen any wounds; she was glad to have stopped bleeding and didn’t want to end up covered in scars.

By the time she got in the tub, the water was starting to cool, but she enjoyed sinking into its embrace anyway. It buoyed her aching muscles, making her aware of just how fatigued she was. She washed her hair, then scraped the water out of her eyes and rested the back of her head on the rim of the tub.

While she stared at the ceiling, she wondered again how this would play out. She had the suspicion that Havec himself wasn’t sure, not just what would happen, but what he hoped for. As for her, what she really would have liked was that he stay in his house where he belonged, inform the authorities of what had happened to Xar anKebbal so the Scolate could begin an inquest, then reopen the school. Even had he been persuadable, it was a bit late for that.

When the water began to cool, she climbed out. She dabbed at her belly cautiously before toweling off her arms and legs. Once she combed her hair and donned her change of clothes, she trouped up the stairs to dump the worn things back in their room.

It surprised her when she gained the common room to find that Havec had beaten her. She had pictured half the inn’s staff next door lacquering his toenails and rubbing his limbs down with silk. In children’s tales, when princes were kidnapped, it happened at a young age, and they were raised in ignorance of their origins, learning humility along the way. Havec had been stolen on the cusp of adulthood in order to be pampered by different people who also showered him in jewels. Now she came to realize she had no idea how he actually felt about the luxuries he’d been born into twice.

He was sitting in a corner at an otherwise-empty table, and wonder of wonders, he had ordered her a beer. When his eyes found her halfway across the room, he made a face. He jerked his chin at her as she pulled out a chair. “White may not have been the best choice.”

She glanced down and sighed: her faded linen shirt was spotted with blood. “It was the only choice. That or go on wearing the ripped one already covered in blood and dirt.”

He took a sip of his drink, nodding in commiseration. Soon, the matron arrived with their food. Qanath was deliriously happy he had ordered for her so as to minimize the wait, and both of them tucked in. Dinner was mutton, which came as no surprise, a hearty stew of barley and carrots, copiously flavored with wine. A convivial mood settled upon them, and they toasted one another several times.

While they ate, the room filled up, all the diners locals who must not know how to cook. There was no one under twenty, and she got the sense that this was the gathering hall, watering hole, and dining room for all the unattached folks in town. She was struck by how many of them had paler skin, the color of tea or even oak. No blue eyes or white hair save Havec, but there was obviously a history of movement across the border this far north.

She thought to wonder how often that movement was voluntary. The plot that saw Havec taken had originated in his own country, but her people had been eager to play along. Were there other kids like him out there, too unimportant to be saved? It was a hateful thought, not least because it made sense: foreigners had no papers. No official status. There would be no records left behind bearing witness to the fate of those who slipped between the cracks.

She swore a vow that, on the day she attained her seat on the Senate, she would begin an initiative to find out just how widespread the practice was. She would stir up outrage until the entire Empire was involved, as well it should be: they were better than this. What those people were doing made all of them less.

There was a great thump on their tabletop, rattling their plates, and she looked up. A youth their age loomed over them, bellicose fist on their table, a friend on either side. In the time it took to notice this, Qanath had already reassessed; the way they flanked the leader named them lackeys. She had detested his ilk as a child, she had detested his ilk as a student at the Collure, and it looked like she would go on detesting his ilk as an adult too. She held motionless, pinned between the desire to spit on his hand and the fear of what he might do if she did.

Havec had yet to look up from his supper, and his posture said he was bored. Provoked by his disinterest, the other youth thrust a finger at him. “Witch-boy, turn your evil eye away.”

A sour chuckle slipped from his lips, and still he kept his eyes on his meal. “I’m not looking at you already, you fucking asshat.”

“Barbarian scum with your ice-demon eyes, you’ll not talk to me like that.”

“Pointing is rude, didn’t anyone tell you?” This must have exhausted his store of diplomacy, because Qanath blinked and he had the other man’s finger in his fist. He stood up, set a hip on the edge of the table, and rolled, furling himself into his opponent’s embrace. There was a crack as he broke the man’s finger, then he rolled to the edge of the table, stepped gracefully to the floor, and hit the man in the chin with the heel of his free hand.

The Tabbaqeran’s head snapped up and he staggered back, bumping into one of his friends and taking both of them down. The other henchman took a swing at him, and he kneed the fellow in the hip, struck him once with each fist. Next time the henchman tried to hit him, Havec grabbed his arm, yanked him off balance, kicked his ankles, and when he stumbled, shoved him onto the heap with his friends.

Then he dusted his hands off theatrically for the benefit of the roomful of people who had watched this. Saying nothing, he returned to their table and righted his chair. He had only just sat in it when the ringleader came back for more. Havec stood again, grabbed his chair by the back, and hit the man with it. When he staggered, shouting in pain, Havec hit him again. The fellow took a swing at him and Havec stepped around it, then kicked him in the middle, knocking him back down.

Qanath unfroze, leaping to her feet, sending her chair clattering. She had to intervene before he killed someone. The innkeeper came running forward too, shouting for calm, doubtless fearing the same thing: they had reached the climax of the fight where an obvious victor emerged, and the victim of the bully had prevailed. Having attempted to end it once with minimal violence, he would now lose all self-control and hit them until someone pulled him off. In the midst of the panic, Havec stood motionless, looking at them quizzically.

There was a moment of confusion while everyone in the room struggled with it. Havec was the one who finally broke the tableau, turning away with a shrug. Retrieving his fallen chair, he set it back behind his bowl of half-eaten stew and sat. Qanath found herself sharing a look with the innkeeper, both of them at a loss.

Eventually he turned to the bruised men on the floor, prodding them with one foot. “Come along, you young fools. Get yourselves cleaned up and get on home. And mind yourselves better in future. You cause trouble like this in my place again, I’ll make sure your mothers hear of it.”

With a few last sullen looks, the three vanquished bullies picked themselves up and vanished out the door. As it closed behind them, a wind of murmurs sprang up from all corners. Qanath righted her own chair and resumed her seat, acutely conscious of the stares.

The innkeeper returned to their table momentarily, setting down two more beers. “On the house. You have my thanks for making that as fast and neat as possible.”

“Is there some kind of problem?” Havec’s lowered voice his only concession to tact. His tone was waspish, gaze sharp.

“Just… funny stories this last year.”

“Stories?”

The man’s eyes darted side-to-side, and Qanath couldn’t tell if it was the watchful eyes of the patrons of his establishment that frightened him or the darkness outside. “That something ain’t right,” he said flatly. He left them with that cheerful ambiguity.

Misconceptions and Lies

From the moment they left the village, they began to climb. The only time they weren’t scrambling upward was in those fleeting moments when they must descend the inverse slope of one hill in order to reach the next. The temperature plummeted, and it was as if they were climbing, not out of Tabbaqera, but out of spring. They left the wildflowers behind first, then the warmth of the sun, then the newly-budded trees.

They had taken the time to buy coats in that village. Time well spent: neither of them were prepared for the harshness of the weather. Qanath had passed her entire life in the temperate climes of the eastern coast and Havec had been away from home long enough his constitution had adapted to southern warmth. He couldn’t even remember whether the temperature was normal for this season or whether it was as hellish as it felt.

If the weather was unfamiliar, the same couldn’t be said of the smell. The sharpness of pine resin, the tang of thin air, the errant whiff of distant wood smoke, all of it was achingly evocative. The border couldn’t be far.

It was only a day later that they came over the crest of the latest hill around midmorning to find a substantial town at their feet. The road led straight to it, and it looked like a bustling place. There was no wall or military redoubt, but it could only possibly be the border-outpost. The houses didn’t fit the mold he had seen elsewhere in Tabbaqera, made of timber rather than brick, but they were gaily painted and had freshly-planted flower boxes hanging at the windows. At the top of the far slope, the forest resumed, a visual statement that here, civilization ended. That would be his homeland up there, but even Havec found it shocking how emphatic the delineation was.

He thought to glance at the girl and found her grimly resolved. It struck him that this was the point when he had anticipated she would realize nothing useful could come of following him and turn back. Just the thought made his stomach twist, and he examined the sensation, wondering when he came to fall in love with this girl. He had never had a friend in all his life; maybe if he had, it wouldn’t have come as such a shock.

“You’re coming?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange to his ears, high and tight.

“Duh,” she replied.

For a moment, he was tempted to bluff. But if friendship meant anything, it must mean not lying to your friend about yourself. He let himself let out a sigh, loud enough she could hear it. Then he stepped back into the shelter of the trees without a word. Keeping to the edge of the forest, he moved back from the ridgeline and began to cut west, wanting away from that valley full of watching eyes.

They spoke only once, when the girl asked, “Do you know where you’re going? With any specificity?”

“Not really.” If she had a problem with that, she chose not to air it.

It took them more than an hour to circumvent the valley where lay that border town. Havec went slowly, straining his senses for the first sign of other people every step along the way. It wasn’t clear where the border lay, whether through the center of the town, just beyond it, or over the crest of the next hill. He could practically feel Qanath’s yearning to quit the forest and return to the road, but he had no idea what would happen if they attempted to cross over at the checkpoint. This close, he couldn’t bear for something to go wrong.

At some stage, they had to have passed into his homeland, and taking the goofy hat off, he handed it to Qanath. From here on out, she was the weirdo who wouldn’t be able to blend in. Tabbaqerans were more than a little darker than his people, there was no way they were passing her off as a Moritian with a tan. His people didn’t produce brown eyes or amazing dark-red hair. She didn’t speak their language, either, but by the time someone got close enough to notice that, they would already have realized what she was. Probably many Tabbis had never so much as heard the name of his country, but the reverse wasn’t true: everyone in the world knew the Empire and would be able to recognize its citizens.