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covering his laugh. “Not what I meant. We need to talk in private. Besides.” And then something she had not expected to see: the rock face broke, and he smiled almost like a normal person would. “I want you to meet my family.”

 
    6
    Chel guided them to the camp’s edge. “Thank you,” Elayne said.
    The woman bowed. “Good luck.” She set her hand to her heart when Temoc passed; they all did, the watchers on the border.
    The crowds outside the camp were less respectful.
    Wardens at attention paralleled the dockworkers’ perimeter; Elayne and Temoc walked through their line, ignoring the poured-silver faces’ reflective stares. Behind the Wardens gathered a second crowd, better dressed and angrier than the people of Chakal Square. Suited men waved signs shop-printed with the logo of the Skittersill Chamber of Commerce. Press passes sprouted from reporters’ hatbands.
    A sign-bearer spat at Temoc’s feet. Temoc’s stride hitched and he turned toward the spitter, slow as an executioner raising his axe. The man bore Temoc’s gaze for a heartbeat, though it must have felt longer to him. His fingers twitched on his sign-haft, which was no larger around than Temoc’s thumb.
    Elayne saw Temoc fight a war with himself, and win.
    When he turned away the little man with the sign began to shout again, louder than his fellows.
    The pause had given reporters time to push through the crowd, pencils sharp, notebooks out. Elayne raised a hand to hail a cab. “Temoc?” A young woman with deep circles under her eyes shoved to the front of the journalist pack. “Gabby Jones, DL Times . A moment, please.”
    â€œWe have none to spare.”
    â€œWho’s your friend?”
    â€œAnother person who is leaving with me.”
    â€œAny comment on rumors the King in Red is reaching out to the Chakal Square camp?”
    Temoc shook his head.
    â€œAre you denying he’s reached out, or—”
    A cab tried to gallop past them. Elayne locked its wheels with a tine of Craft, and it skidded to a halt by the sidewalk. The horse shot her a reproachful glare, which she ignored. “He means, no comment.”
    â€œAnd you are?”
    â€œA concerned citizen. If you’ll excuse me.” She ushered Temoc into the carriage, followed, and slammed the door on the reporter. She released the cab’s wheels, and the horse surged down Bloodletter’s Street.
    â€œI need to learn the trick of that,” Temoc said. “Handling the press.”
    â€œYou did well, I thought. It’s not as hard as the other thing you did. Or didn’t do.”
    â€œWhen have I ever concerned myself with the ridicule of fools?”
    But he did not speak again as they galloped south into the Skittersill.
    Elayne opened the curtain to watch the city pass. She had worked on the Skittersill project from afar, and while she could plot their course on her mental map of the district, she did not recognize these shops and parks, the young claw-branched acacias or the hopscotch patterns children chalked on sidewalks.
    They stopped by a stone gate in a windowless plaster wall. She paid for the cab, waving off Temoc’s protest. Along the street only a few doors interrupted the smooth plaster. Old Quechal architecture presented a blank face to the world.
    Temoc opened the gate and led her down a brief dark tunnel into light, and paradise.
    Accustomed to a Dresediel Lex of arid brown—save for the manicured lawn of her hotel—Elayne stopped short, stunned by luxuriant green. The courtyard overflowed with flowering cactus and climbing vines. A table stood among the plants, set with a half-finished chess game. A three-stringed fiddle leaned in the shade near the front door. A boy sat cross-legged opposite the gate, playing solitaire.
    â€œWelcome,” Temoc said. The boy looked up from his game, and smiled a broad and shining smile. Elayne would have