Qanath wondered why he hadn’t pressed this point yesterday, when her father was still here and it would have been more convenient for everyone if he wished to chase her away.

Xar anKebbal held up one of his lion-paw hands, palm-out. “I don’t mean to discourage you. Just forewarn you: there will be setbacks. It won’t always come to you easily. There will be days when nothing I say makes sense, and you fail at every task I set, and the only thing that keeps you going is rock-headed cussedness and your desire to put me in my place.”

“I will try to remember that,” she said cautiously.

He chuckled, and she could feel his mirth through the floor. “It isn’t really the physical challenges. You’re old enough you can’t help resist the discipline.”

He stood, and she lurched back instinctively from his towering size.

As he walked past her, he said over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t worry. You won’t be the first green teenager I’ve tackled. And there is no way in any of Garba’s Seven Hundred Hells you could be more difficult than the last.”

Hefting a cylindrical bag as tall as her that stood on end, the fighting-master set it before her. “Hit,” he said simply, pointing at the bag.

“Um, how?”

“With your fists.”

She looked into his face and saw that he had no intention of elaborating. Tentatively, she made a fist and punched the bag. It wasn’t as hard as she had feared, but quite a lot harder than she’d hoped. She had her eyes peeled for signs of approval or distaste, but the Avatethura Master gave her neither. Just slung an arm casually across the top of the punching-bag and rested some of his weight.

“These brothers of yours,” he began, then interrupted himself, spinning an imperious finger. “Go on.” He waited until she had punched the bag again before continuing, “These brothers of yours, they were born to the same woman?”

“Yes,” she answered, although it came out mostly grunt.

“And your mother… what? Just expected all three of you to accept whatever she chose to give you?”

“I wouldn’t question the wisdom of a Senator,” she said around another grunt.

Xar anKebbal snorted loud enough to shake the walls. “Please, girl. You wouldn’t be here if that were true. If you don’t hate her, still, there’s a part of you that wants to punch her in the face. I would never have accepted you if I thought you’d pull the punch when that day came.”

She was silent for a minute, hitting the bag with one hand and then the other. “My opinion is, she never really thought about it. She was always fixated on her career, I don’t think she took the time to think how I conflicted with the parts of her life that actually matter.”

“Whatever her political commitments, she must support you financially?” It was a statement, but the intonation made it a question, ready to accept that her mother had skirted the laws about child-support. It almost made her wish it was true.

Fair was fair, though. “She sends home money quarterly to help cover our clothes and food.”

“But not for school?”

Qanath didn’t answer, saving her breath. Her shoulders ached already, and she concentrated on that, fixing her mind on the pain and reminding herself it was only going to get worse. It was proof she was on her way.

After a moment, Xar anKebbal let out another bone-rattling laugh. “You didn’t ask for her assistance, did you?”

She said nothing, watching the bag sink and rebound beneath her fists.

As if her pride delighted him, he chortled. “Ah, girl, I knew you’d fit right in. Didn’t ask her.” Tickled by the notion, he laughed some more, and it was a minute before he sobered. “I assume she knows.”

“She sent me her congratulations.”

“Ah.”

“And a frame for my diploma.”

“You were expecting an invitation to join her retinue.”

She scowled at the bag, imagining it was the heart of all those stupid snobs who didn’t think she was good enough to be one of them. And she hit it again. The Avatethura Master must feel her fury through the punching-bag, but he only grinned.

***

Havec sat on the patio. He was stretched out on a long wooden chair conducive to lounging, sheltered beneath a broad umbrella that shielded him from the sun. Someday, he promised himself, he was going to lay out in the sun until he burned to a crisp. None of these people had ever made him feel awkward or unwelcome among them because he was a foreigner; he felt at home in his own skin; he had no desire to hide himself; he liked the idea of standing out in a crowd.

It was being told he wasn’t allowed to get a tan that bothered him.

That girl appeared in his line of vision around the southwest edge of the house. She was jogging, moving at a decent pace there was no way she would be able to maintain. She can’t have been at it for more than a few minutes because he’d eaten lunch with Xar no more than half an hour ago, but already her face was drenched in sweat.

It was kind of weird to him that she should seem to be so soft; based on the story she told Xar when she arrived here all of two days ago, he had imagined her a hardened individual, grown up in poverty and toughened by it. Breaking rocks all day or digging up turnips or whatever it was poor people did. She was in terrible shape, though.

She was also an initiate in the ways of sorcery, although he had yet to see her do anything. So far as he knew, there was a Collure in every major city, and she would have begun her studies at the tender age of twelve. He could picture rows of children in neat uniforms clutching their books to their chests, lined up in orderly fashion to be trained to cast spells. He didn’t know nearly as much as he could about this country given how long he’d been here, but he had noticed from the first how matter-of-fact Tabbaqerans were about the most extraordinary things.

A door slid open, his visitor announced by the soothing scent of lavender. Borne upon the uncanny sixth sense that attuned her to his moods, Etheg had come. She carried a blue-glazed pottery cup, which she handed over along with a spoon. She had brought him a healthy dollop of yoghurt covered in diced jicama and a drizzle of honey. Although he wasn’t hungry, he took it with a word of thanks.

While he ate his snack, she stood beside him, brushing his hair back from his face and neatening the curls, the touch of her wrinkled hands as ephemeral as a moth. Havec didn’t protest; he had once hated the servants and raged against them, but that was years ago. That girl went by again, visibly struggling. He saw her see him this time and raised his yoghurt in salute.

She had yet to make it back around the northern edge of the house by the time he finished his treat. When he passed the cup and spoon back to Etheg, she gave him a meaningful look, so he stood and followed her back inside. These people were complicit, and it wasn’t as if they didn’t have a choice. They cared about him, though. Took care of him. Nursed him through sickness and fed him in health. If they certainly didn’t want what was best for him, still they wanted for him to be happy, and he’d run out of energy to fight against their affection. Xar consumed all the animus he could muster, like a sinkhole of hatred.

The old woman took him to the kitchen, where Yob had just gotten back from market. The counters were completely hidden beneath heaps of produce, as if he had cleaned the market out. Yob was busy in the middle of it, rummaging through the pantries with his back to the door, but said immediately, “There you are! I need your help.”

Havec was wearing his bells today; you didn’t need to see him to know when he approached. Etheg turned away and ghosted back down the hall, mission complete. “Eating all this?” he suggested. “I’m not sixteen anymore, I’m not sure I can.”

The man stooped and snatched something off the floor. With the words, “In due time,” he handed Havec a footstool.

He accepted it, asking, “What do you need me to get down?”

“The big pan.”

He took the stepping stool to the other side of the room and set it on the floor. Climbing up, he opened one pantry and stretched. On the tallest shelf, he could just reach the pan in question and scooted it to the outermost edge of the shelf. While he walked it on his fingertips off the shelf, he asked, “What are you doing? Did you mistake that one skinny girl for twelve big men?”

Yob chuckled but didn’t respond for the length of a minute filled with the gurgling rush of running water. After he turned off the tap, he said, “It’s time to do some pickling, the pantries are getting bare.”

The pan inched into the void on his fingertips and finally tipped forward off the shelf, where he caught it in both hands. It was deep and broad, big enough to bathe a baby in, made of iron. It was cumbersome even for him, and he watched his feet carefully as he stepped down onto the floor. He carried it over to the counter where Yob indicated and set it on the one cleared patch next to a large paper-wrapped parcel that was giving off the clean, sweet scent of freshly-butchered meat.

While he arranged the heavy pan where the cook wanted it, the man added, “I said to myself, You’re gonna have all them pickling spices out already, what would make that boy happier…”

“Than corned beef?” Havec suggested eagerly.

He chuckled again. “Aye.”

The cut of meat looked gigantic, and he took a moment to savor the anticipation; he would be eating it for weeks. Big slabs of it with barley or sliced thin on flatbread with radishes.

It wasn’t ready yet, though, and he let himself be chased out of the kitchen. The servants often asked for his assistance because all of them were getting on in years, but asking for a favor wasn’t the same thing as asking him to contribute. He wasn’t one of the people who waited on the house’s master, he was one of the waited-upon, and he wondered yet again, as he had been doing incessantly since she took up residence here, how Xar meant to explain him. Had he been a proper bonded, he would be doing chores whenever Xar didn’t want him. He would have a keep he was required to earn. She must know that better than he did, and at a certain point, she was going to start asking questions.