A blow of the freighter’s horn blared across the port. The port’s reaction was hesitant. Dark men and women in dirty overalls strewn about the piers finished cigarettes, screwed shut dented thermoses, and began heading to the private western berths. They did so slowly, showing not the least amount of haste to return to their stations even as the freighter was already emerging from the eastern sea gate. Only a few soldiers took notice, tall pale men, each of their necks surrounded by a wreath of sweat in the Empire’s beige uniform. But it wasn’t the ship they were interested in. With raised chins, they threw their most imposing glances at the slouching workers. All it did, if anything, was to slow them down even further.

Pen fanned her face and knelt down to inspect the vendor’s goods. He had arranged them on three matching turquoise carpets covering the ground around where he sat and waited. Clearly a man of many years and travels, he greeted her with nothing but a smile, and kept trimming his full graying beard hair by hair with a metal clipper. For a while, neither of them spoke. The shoppers crowding the stalls nearby filled the burning air with haggling and cursing, well aware that none of the vendors would ever dare speak back in kind.

She finally turned to the true item of her fancy: five rows of books fanned out in a half circle, bound in various kinds of coarse, fine, and weirdly shimmering materials. Most were in Tahori. The odd Gralinn cover was there—including the signature light blue of the Korhun Dag, should one of the soldiers decide to take a closer look—but there were also other languages, other letters. A book without title dressed in sheets of plaited straw caught her attention. When she turned it around, she found a familiar symbol stitched into the lower right corner in orange thread: a bird, from above, wings spread.

”I met a man from Helaban,” the vendor said. ”A hundred leagues he said he ran.”

Pen stared at his wrinkled, smiling face. He was waiting for her to respond. But although she remembered hearing the verse before, the ending escaped her.

He lowered his eyes, gently took the book from her with his leathery fingers, and opened it to the first page. There that bird was again, stamped into the thick yellow paper. ”I asked him why, then heard him cry: ’I am a man from Helaban!’”

”You’ve been there?”

”Sadly, no,” the vendor said. ”Sad not for the city, if the sayings are to be believed—but the Dhasyan library I do regret not having seen. Indeed, my books have traveled many times as much as me.” He put his open palms atop each other and bowed deeply. ”I am Aphun.”

”Umi,” Pen said, and returned his bow.

He signed her to continue browsing, and continued clipping his beard. As she tackled the upper two rows of books, Pen noted that the pair of beige boots behind her hadn’t turned, hadn’t moved at all. So far, so good.

She didn’t appreciate lying, but it was the lesser of two evils. Carrying her name these days, this day in particular, was a plague. It made those that heard it grow friendly tongues and anxious eyes, eyes that would follow her wherever she went. And they were following her. Not the soldiers, not Glane, not Rannek on one of their rare walks. For some reason, they feared her even more than them.

A second thunderous blow of the horn startled her, now coming from much closer. She turned to see a wall of rusted black metal move by above the heads of the crowd. Only Glane rose above the freighter, boots planted behind her still, a pale pillar against a sea of dark faces. She gazed as the wall rolled by behind the poles and sails of the public piers, and spotted three oil-stained dock workers sauntering through the crowd gobbling sandwiches and cracking jokes. Glane’s head turned to follow them.

”Today many people seem to take their time more than usual,” Aphun the vendor said, followed by a click of his clipper. ”No offense intended.”

”None taken,” she said. ”Just trying to match the air of your shoppe.”

”A guest that understands courtesy,” he said, less bowing than tilting this time. ”Should these books not fit your taste, I will gladly go in the back and fetch the good ones.”

That did intrigue her. ”The back?”

Aphun reached behind him, producing a pouch bulging with a multitude of shapes. From inside, he revealed three books to her, each in near-pristine condition. They truly were his pride, she could tell from the way he handed them over and watched her, reading her face as she read the covers.

The first one already intrigued her. ’The Myths & Tales of Tahor’, its title, all but disappeared underneath the hugely lettered name of Coloi Halretan. The book she had seen, and read, but never this particular edition with the bold font choice. ”May I?” Pen asked. When Aphun gave his blessing, she opened the book, and failed to suppress a giggle. The first page was consumed entirely by a portrait of Halretan musing behind his desk.

A commotion behind her caused Pen to turn. Workers shoved their way through the crowd with more urgency than the ones before, driven by sharp foreign words coming from the east. Before long, two pale soldiers under the army’s black beret entered the scene shouting threats and raising fingers. She looked up to find Glane’s square chin nodding at them.

The second book was of no interest to her. Not because she wouldn’t enjoy it—’Bramu of Ultis’ was a hard book to track down, and among her favorites. The story had a sadder ring to it now, but when she was eight, Pen had spent nights awake devouring page after page, the traces of which forever stained the paper in father’s volume. Aphun’s copy was far cleaner and had a golden coloring to the edges of each page, yet still, she felt no need to ever replace that book. After glancing at the golden-framed pages for a while out of courtesy, she moved on to the last one.

It was smaller than the others, olive, and quite thin. Some fibers at the edge of the cover had gotten loose, but were cut off to not stick out into the air; she wondered if Aphun had used his clipper. There were two small imprints in the center, so small and dark as to almost hide from the reader’s gaze: ’Plants’, by E.B. Luen. Pen furrowed her brow. Proudly, Aphun began stroking his immaculate beard.

”This one you might not know,” he said.

”I should, though,” Pen muttered. ”Luen only wrote three books, didn’t he?”

”This is the very first edition of the first one. Before he was urged to fancy up both text and title, lest his contract be terminated.” He reached over and scrolled through the pages. Every other one was filled with sketches, of trees, fruits, vines, most of whom she didn’t recognize. ”It became his style. Yet I’m told he originally didn’t like to write any more than necessary.”

”That’s because he wasn’t any good at it.” They weren’t her words, but father’s; he’d always been a fan exclusively of the author’s artwork. ”Luen was a painter.”

Aphun nodded his head slowly. ”How true, young Umi.”

Pen browsed through the sketches. They were unmistakably Luen’s—stems and petals void of color or embellishments, yet expressive through the delicately inked shadows. Short explanations of the plants’ habitat filled the spaces between the sketches, mere notes compared to the exhaustive paragraphs in father’s edition. It was a rare find.

A conversation was struck up not far from them. Casual Gralinn words went back and forth, some by Glane, most by two other voices. Soldiers. Their tone was biting, and their comments aimed at his sky-blue beret; clearly, they were poking fun at him for being a member of the City Guard. He either didn’t realize or didn’t care. Glancing down to the ground, Pen saw his boots behind her pointing away still. She turned back toward the book and pretended to focus on the sketches again. Meanwhile, her hand slowly folded up the fan, put it into her satchel, and took out her wallet.

Aphun intertwined his fingers and smiled. ”Nothing would please me more than to know this book found an appreciative owner. I will make you a fair—”

”Five hundred toreks for the book and your silence,” Pen said, quietly.

”My...” Aphun’s smile froze, and faded just a bit. He studied her calmly. Then, his hand made an innocuous gesture pointing at Glane’s boots. ”Are you in trouble?”

She folded up the bills in her hand and put them between the pages of the ’Myths & Tales of Tahor’. Careful to make no sudden or loud movements, she put it atop ’Bramu of Ultis’ and offered both books to the old vendor. ”Not if you help me.”

His face refused to abandon the same mild benevolence he had welcomed her with. She could see his mind though, racing behind those deep green eyes. His clipper had stopped clipping and now just hung there in the air between them. Whatever conclusions he drew from seeing a soldier as colossal as Glane keep tabs on a little Tahori girl, she prayed to the gods they’d sway him to help. To accept.

Suddenly, Aphun looked up. Pen didn’t dare to turn around, just watched him study the crowd. He took the two books from her and put them back in his pouch. His voice spoke gentler now, too, like dried leaves rustling in the wind. ”Go when I tell you so,” he said. ”The stalls to your right will give you cover, they lead to the crossing. Don’t stop talking.”

He was right. ”What marvelous books you sell, Aphun.” The longer Glane could hear her voice within the crowd, the longer it would take him to sense her absence. ”Wish I could take home all of them. But this one will have to do, for now, anyways.” If he didn’t sense it the instant she fled. He was nothing if not attentive. ”I’ll make sure to come back with more money and a bigger bag.” She put E.B. Luen’s book in her satchel and glanced at the stall to her right. There was a small corridor between its back and the wall separating the vendor’s from the fisher’s market. Two steps away, that was all. ”You’re here regularly, I hope. Glad to have made your acquaintance.” She angled her feet towards the gap. ”Thank you kindly for your hos—”

”Go,” Aphun whispered.

Pen darted off, her steps scraping softly on the pavement. After entering the corridor between the stalls and the stone wall, she threw one last glance back. Only Aphun’s back sitting amidst his shoppe. She took a breath, turned, and rushed past the backs of two wooden stalls, three, four, her left hand pushing forward on the hot stone. Her mind eased with every step before all of a sudden, a voice called out above the crowd speaking Gralinn.

»Pick it up, you lazy asses!«

Pen stopped, and only then noticed her heartbeat banging in her ears. The voice wasn’t Glane’s—it must’ve been one of the soldiers he was talking to. Still, that meant he knew. Cold sweat spread across her skin. She forced herself to move on squeezing through the back catalogue of a poultry stand, cages covered with rags whose feathery inhabitants cackled and cooed as she passed by. The scene she had left behind meanwhile grew louder and more diverse—now there was Tahori being shouted back.

”We’re doing our jobs, aren’t we?” a woman asked.

”No one’s telling you how to lock up folks!” a wise man added.

»What are they saying, Vessim?« The same soldier now seemed to address a comrade. »TELL ME, gods’ nation!«

Pen’s escape led across two precipitous gaps between stalls, exposing her. Nobody in the crowd gave her more than a cautious glance—to them, she was either a child mid-play or a small-time thief. Nonetheless, she ran in a panic waiting for Glane to manifest out of thin air any second. The moment he decided to employ his Curse, she would be found. Her only hope was that he wouldn’t risk being seen. A small risk for a man all but invisible.

Yet step after step, nothing happened. A weird sense of pride overcame her. Every breath away from him and the guards was a hard-fought victory. There were no illusions about a true escape, knowing that she would be caught long before the sunset, but he would at least have to work for it. As her heart grew less anxious, Pen spotted the port authority’s post looming at the end of the pathway, its shadow promising cover. She couldn’t believe she had made it. The old man had been right, for she knew what laid behind that tower: the crossing to the berths and the fisher’s market. There, she could build up some distance.

»You better do as [...] to regret it!« the soldier bellowed once more far behind. His voice was barely distinguishable from the bubbling chatter of the crowd. Pen rushed past the last stalls and arrived at the post, a two-story tower of stone overseeing the center of both markets. She welcomed the coolness of its shadow on her skin. Crouching underneath the eastern window, she stared down the narrow corridor she had just hurried through. As she pulled forth her bandana and wrapped it around her head, she could have sworn to see the turquoise of Aphun’s carpets further back, void of their owner. But it was too far to see clearly. Tying the knot, she stood up.

They only know your name, not your face, Pen told herself as the crowd embraced her. It was hard to not shove her way through, run directly around the corner of the post, and bolt, but she suppressed the urge. Soon, a stream of workers carried her onto the crossing, chatting about a certain loudmouth soldier. Pen let them pass beside her as she made a left turn onto the incline to the other market. She could already smell the fish.

»No!« a voice cried out in Gralinn. »You don’t see!«

It wasn’t a native speaker; a Tahori accent ran in the man’s voice. An older voice. An ill-boding thought crept up on her. As the crowd softly pushed her onward, Pen bounced up on her toes trying to catch another word to prove her wrong.

And then she knew. »Lennyn!«, Aphun screamed, once, twice, over and over. The first Gralinn word her people had learned, a plea that married apology and promise. But to Tahori, it was more than a word—it was a reflex. One reserved for the most dire of circumstances. What in Helaban had happened to the old vendor?

Never mind. He had accepted the deal. Taken her money. More than that, he had given her his go-ahead. Now caught in the midst of a group of tourists heading up toward the fisher’s market, Pen’s mind raced arguing over Aphun’s fate. With the tower post, the trouble and shouting soon disappeared behind the corner. She had every reason to seek peace, just one moment of true solitude on this day. Wouldn’t that be the least the gods could allow her?

She let her eyes wander across the crowd and found her likeness in the people. Dark skin and hair, noses curved like hers, green eyes wherever she turned. She didn’t need to hide, or disguise herself, not here. Pen suddenly felt stupid for wearing the bandana, and took it off. They were one and the same. A sea of people trying to get by just like her.

A deception. There was a difference between Aphun and her, between everyone and her. Despite her skin, her nose, her eyes, she didn’t live the life of a Tahori. She couldn’t. Hers was a life of no consequences, no real ones, whereas any of their days could end in prison or worse. There was no decision to be made, least for someone carrying her name.

She turned hard on her heel and began pushing against the tourists. Their ranks proved hard to penetrate, but she fought on until an outfit of Moryan sailors took her in walking briskly back toward the crossing. There, they turned left, forcing her to shove her way through the center to get to the tower. Sweaty shirts and sarifs rubbed against her arms, her back, her face, until she felt just short of retching. Then, her hand touched something smooth, and hot, and she looked up to find the port authority rising above.

Pen circled the tower and reentered the corridor behind the stalls. Rushing back, she picked up more pleas coming from multiple voices, yet found the corridor empty as before. Whatever the nature of the soldiers’ quarrel with Aphun was, it would surely have alerted him to her absence. So where was he?

Wrapped up in thought, Pen failed to slow her step when the alley stopped, and burst out onto the clearing. The scrapes of her sandals cut into a tense silence. A scuffle had scattered jewelry and paperweights all over the pavement, and the pouch laid on the ground next to its piled-up contents. Aphun, kneeling before a soldier amidst the ruins of his shoppe with his hands cuffed, slowly turned his head. Pen’s stare around the clearing was met by the soldier in charge as well as a circle of about a dozen bystanders. He adjusted his black beret and raised his finger at her.

»What on vohl makes you think you can just run around the back alleys, little brat?« the soldier yelled. »Scram before you get the cell, too.«

»On what grounds?« Pen asked in her best Gralinn.

»Oh, she speaks the tongue! How about that?« He tugged at the shoulder of a fellow soldier, toting a smirk, but then turned back with a suspecting look on his face. »Hold on... that was you just then, sitting here, was it not? That was your babysitter—hey Vessim, where did that big dunce go?«

Good question. »We don’t need him,” she said. ”I can speak for myself.«

»You can, can’t you... What are you, some ambassador’s kid?« A wry smile played around his lips. »Never mind, tell you what, little girl: get this traitor to tell me the truth about the contraband, and perhaps I’ll ignore you talking to us in that tone.«

»Contraband?« She looked at Aphun, then back at the soldier. »He sells books and trinkets, sir.«

»Lennyn!« Aphun blurted out.

»Doesn’t look like a trinket to me.« The soldier lifted his hand and, to the dismay of the old vendor, threw an item on the pavement with a resounding metallic clank.

Pen picked up the item and blew the dust off it. Atop an ell-wide wooden square, two blocks of carefully colored metal and ivory held five thin rods in even columns, each carrying about two fingers width of a larger rod that slid up and down the thin one quite smoothly. Inside one of the blocks, a compartment missing its lid held two tiny mallets attached by duct tape. Traces of rust had collected at some of the edges, but other than that, the craftsmanship was decent. She looked up at the soldier. »Sir, these are chimes.«

»Who gives a damn about the damn thing’s purpose—it’s Kuuth.« That word the crowd did understand, and it gasped, which visibly pleased him. »I recognize those letters. The law is clear.«

Pen studied the five finely carved letters on the smaller block opposite the compartment. She had only seen a few Kuuth letters in her life, and none of them were among these five. They were unmistakably southern, though; each one looked like a weapon you would keep pointed away from yourself at all times.

”I swear,” Aphun said, ”the man I bought it from assured me his father had fashioned it himself!”

Pen flicked her fingernail against one of the rods, and it promptly sung a high-pitched note that lingered until she touched the metal. The soldier grunted disapprovingly. His type was nothing new to her. His face was still soft, a boy’s face, making what he considered an imposing stare resemble more of a childish pout. Even his uniform looked untouched by dirt, unbleached by the sun, un-filled by his tight chest. Aphun only made things worse by cowering before a goja like him. »I’m sorry, sir,« she said, »but the law concerns contraband, not letters. This man is innocent.«

The amusement in the soldier’s eyes faded. »You should think twice before lecturing a sergeant of God’s Army about the law.«

»People in the south have been around the Kuuth language for centuries. This instrument is Tahori, I ensure you.«

»The south?« He spat on the ground. »If you’re telling me that this thing hails from Union country, you’re neither doing yourself nor the old geezer a service. Terrorists and cutthroats, that’s all that grows down there. Get lost, kid. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.« He stepped up to her and put out his hand. »Hand over the evidence.«

Pen stayed calm, but obeyed his order. Nothing about his behavior was unheard of, yet looking closely at his eyes, she couldn’t deny that there was a tingling in the back of her neck. A shiver spreading across the skin of her arms. For only an instant, she found herself wondering yet again where Glane was, and hated herself for doing so. The soldier handed the chimes to his comrade and yanked Aphun to his feet, but the old vendor immediately toppled over crying out in pain. The crowd surged up in that moment, some gasping, others outright booing, one woman even screaming a Tahori curse.

Just then, Pen realized that she wasn’t alone at all.

She stepped toward the piles of sand pushed to the side of the pavement by the shoppers’ feet and kicked them over. The chimes hadn’t been with her for long, but one of the symbols she remembered clearly. It was simple. Four strokes of her fan later, she rose up again, content with her work. It wasn’t a Luen, but clear to see. Clearly Kuuth.

After getting the old vendor to stand up, the soldier eyed her, then her artwork. With furrowed brows, he left Aphun behind and walked over to her side. His mouth was slightly agape.

»Does this make the ground Kuuth? Or the entire country? Gods forbid the planet?« Pen asked.

»I...« He was baffled, just kept staring at the strange spiky letter on the ground. But then, he looked up. The crowd had utterly silenced and united in staring at the soldier. Most of the faces looked nervous, and just as baffled as his.

»Nobody needs to go to prison,« Pen said in her calmest voice. »This is all a simple misunderstanding.«

Slowly, his hand sunk from the rifle to his side. He turned toward Aphun and the other soldier. There was a resolve to his eyes. »Private Vessim, the radio.« Private Vessim threw the device to his superior. He turned toward Pen and, before she could even speak out, grabbed her arm tightly, twisting the skin. She cried out and so did the crowd. »All bayside forces,« the soldier spoke into the radio, »request support with two arrests at the dock market. Possible riot.«

A yank of her arm threw Pen to the ground. Holding the burning skin, she tried to push herself away from him, slipping on the turquoise carpet. Fear seized her when he took his rifle back in his hands, pointing it at the ground still, but with a pale finger spread beside the trigger. She’d heard the stories, but in Koeiji, on this day...

The crowd became louder and louder. Private Vessim clasped his rifle as he stood back-to-back with his superior. »Lennyn«, Pen heard the old vendor mumble, over and over again, bowed over on his knees next to her.

»Are you sure about this?« private Vessim asked over his shoulder.

»Hand me your cuffs, man! I need you to control the situation until I have detained both suspects.«

When he threw the metal rings down to her, Pen realized that her body wouldn’t respond. She was frozen. »I... You’re making a mistake,« she stammered.

He stepped closer, so close that his head blocked out the noon sun drowning his face in shadow. His rifle was pointing not only at the ground, but the ‘Y’ of the cramped legs in between. Vessim yelled at the old vendor to silence, but in vain. Pen could only stare up at the soldier as her breaths became short.

And she knew it was her fault.

»Do you know what day it is, sergeant Khron?« The voice had appeared as suddenly as its owner, accompanied by a light gust of air. Glane was standing to the right of his fellow soldiers looking down at them with his thin pink lips and white mustache in a straight line.

Seargent Khron and private Vessim flinched to the side. The crowd reacted much the same, gasping, one man shrieking like his soul had left him. Only Pen let out a sigh of relief. May the gods or Rannek lock her in the house for eternity—she longed for nothing more than father’s study in that moment, safe from Khron, from all the world, alone with her books.

»Gods!« Sergeant Khron turned to Glane and dug his finger into his broad chest. »You forget your place, private. Where have you been?«

»Today is a day of mourning.« Glane’s voice was calm as his hand softly moved his superior’s finger out of the way. »The Empire’s hand is iron, therefore these people are not allowed a holiday. In turn, they do their work at a slower pace. A mournful pace. It is important to them.«

»Let them mourn on their own time,« the sergeant snarled at him. He flicked Glane’s sky-blue beret. »The City Guard would do better tending to its own duties—this criminal just withheld evidence to a terrorist crime! She’s your responsibility, is she not?«

Glane looked at Pen with pain in his eyes. He would treasure this moment afterward, her on the ground, helpless, his saving entrance. And he was right. She did need him. That fact stung a thousand times more than the twisted skin of her arm.

Glane turned back to the sergeant. »Do you know what it is they’re mourning?«

»Do I look like I care?« The sergeant kicked the handcuffs over to him. »You go ahead and apprehend her, you insolent—«

»This city’s most beloved son, doctor Faroe Kyetana.«

»The murderer?« A look of anger and disbelief grabbed hold of sergeant Khron’s face. »He is a vile creature, private, deserving no holiday and no mourning. You bring shame on the great nation of Grale by even suggesting we accommodate the Tahori’s misguided affection! Dozens of our soldiers have been kidnapped, tortured, killed in that man’s name!«

»True.« Glane lowered his voice. »And you just assaulted his only child.«

That did give the sergeant pause. He looked at her, then Glane, then the crowd. The resolve in his eyes had waned, if only a bit. But his finger remained straight beside the trigger. Meanwhile the people had not calmed down at all, some throwing pebbles into the circle that landed not far from the soldiers’ boots.

Pen slowly regained control of her limbs and sat up on the ground beside Aphun. The old vendor had stopped apologizing and was now staring at her. He’d heard her name. She lowered her eyes unable to look back. Books and trinkets were scattered all around them. ’Bramu of Ultis’ was sitting face-down on the dirty pavement. She picked it up, wiped off the pages against her sleeve, and handed it to him. A while passed before his shivering hands took the book from her. He never looked down, not once.

A different noise rose above the murmur and shouting, engines roaring somewhere by the eastern end of the market, followed by tire screeches and orders in Gralinn shooting through the air. With worried eyes, Pen saw the sergeant straighten his back and look up at Glane with replenished vigor. In the crowd behind him, some workers had raised fists. What a cunning move he’d pulled by calling in a riot. If the reinforcements respected his rank, which they undoubtedly would, the crowd could object and become unruly. His choice of words could well turn into reality.

Sergeant Khron raised his finger once more. »As a terrorist crime, we’ll let the general judge their offense.« He scoffed. »You’ll suffer the brunt of this, not me, babysitter.«

Now the line between Glane’s lips began bending upward at its ends, softly at first. »I hold the title of a guard in God’s Army, yes. Sworn to protect the young miss from danger.« He leaned in, forcing Khron to bend his neck. »But in truth, I am a tool.«

»A truth indeed,« the sergeant said, chuckling.

»You misunderstand,« Glane said as he raised his arm. »I am a tool of justice.« Pen did not like the sound of that. Of all days, did he have to choose this one to go mad with valor? With a turn of the wrist, Glane made sergeant Khron step back and raise his weapon half the way up. Private Vessim too stared in shock, distancing himself from the scarred skin where once, on the inside of Glane’s wrist, the Third Order’s mark had sat. »Should your assault not be punished by the general, I will gladly employ myself to make you repent.«

»You will stand down, or I will shoot!« Panic ripped open the eyes of the sergeant. He pressed the butt of the rifle against his chest while pointing the muzzle at Glane’s. »Gifted or not, you’re wearing the uniform of a soldier of the Gralinn Empire. ACT LIKE IT!«

Fists rose toward the sky all around them. Glane lifted his hand and sent his beret sailing to the ground, receiving applause from the crowd. Every sense Pen had was telling her to run, but she knew that even a wink of the rifle in her direction would result in Glane drawing his blade. As neither of the two men showed any sign of backing down, time came to a standstill. And then, suddenly, the people silenced.

»This lunacy stops now,« a voice called out from within the crowd. For a moment, Pen was convinced she had imagined it. But then it spoke again. »Kirhonen, put your beret back on. That’s not how a man of the City Guard resigns.« She was utterly confused. It didn’t make sense for Wellan to be here. As Head of the Guard, he was to accompany Rannek everywhere, around the clock. And Rannek never went to the market. Pen rose to her knees and peered around Glane and the soldier. From the rows of merchants, dock workers, and market goers, Wellan’s damp white braid emerged, dancing his sweaty collar as he led a squadron of soldiers into the circle. »What is behind all this ruckus?«

»He hurt miss Penroe,« Glane said loudly.

»Sir,« the sergeant said as he stepped forward. »We found this man in possession of terrorist goods. The girl disobeyed our orders, and even drew a forbidden letter on the ground—a Kuuth letter! Of course, I immediately called—«

»There are no forbidden letters, sergeant Khron,« Wellan said, and stepped past him. The market remained in a tense silence as he pulled both Pen and Aphun to their feet and stood tall between them and sergeant Khron. »Now, about these terrorist goods?« Sergeant Khron glared at private Vessim, who pulled out the contraband so fast it nearly flew from his hands.

The silence lingered, broken only by the cries of gulls and the horns of distant ships, while Wellan inspected the item carefully, its wooden base, the rods, the compartment, turning it in his hands and studying the letters. He would decide in her favor, Pen was sure of it. Though she had also been sure that sergeant Khron didn’t pose a threat.

She watched Wellan purse his lips in discomfort. Not his usual discomfort, the restless, professional kind, always worrying about Rannek’s safety. A hint of shame lay in his eyes.

Wellan turned not to Glane or the sergeant, but the crowd, and cleared his throat. ”Behold,” he announced in his best Tahori, ”the instrument of death!” When he held up the metal chimes, the crowd ogled the pale, white-haired man with confusion. But then, voice after voice started snorting, laughing viciously. Rocks stopped flying, and instead, her people flung mocking fingers at sergeant Khron.

Khron stumbled backwards as if he had been hit, Vessim suddenly missing from his side. When Wellan nodded, his men understood instantly. Two on each side, they closed in on the sergeant.

»Traitors, all of you!« Khron screamed, stumbling back further. »I was carrying out the law!« He bounced off Glane’s chest like he had walked into a wall. Before he could ever raise his rifle or bend his trigger finger, the other soldiers yanked back his arms and cuffed him. Vessim, standing by one of the stalls, offered up his hands without hesitation. Cuffs clicked shut around their wrists, and they were brought before Wellan.

»Listen to their ridicule,« Wellan said pointing at the laughing, booing circle. »You should be grateful that’s all you got.« He leaned in and whispered more words into Khron’s ear. The sergeant calmed down somewhat, but still kept objecting loudly as he was led away. The crowd opened up without haste following the day’s custom.

Silence returned. But it was of a different kind than before, less tense, and accompanied by stares and open mouths. All of them directed at her. If Aphun had heard her name, so had the crowd. Pen looked at Wellan, at Glane, but where one only shrugged, the other looked too touched to do anything. Slowly, hesitantly, she stepped into the center of the circle. With no better idea what to do, she simply put her palms atop each other and bowed.

The ring of people returned the greeting in unison, still silent. It warmed her heart and stung at the same time. Nowhere was there any fear in their eyes; instead, they looked sad, uncomfortable. She suddenly saw how it must be from their side: knowing father’s fate and wanting to help, but not knowing how. Of course they were silent. There was nothing to be said.

»Miss Penroe, we need to go. Now.« A strange urgency laid in Wellan’s voice, whispering in her ear.

»I don’t think we’re in danger,« Pen said.

»Not from them. There’s been an attack.«

That’s why he was here. It hardly came as a surprise that someone would abuse father’s sacrifice for their cause. But for Rannek to send Wellan, it must have been serious. She checked her satchel, her clothes for rips and tears, but found none.

She then turned toward Aphun. He was gathering his things on the ground with trembling hands and trying to straighten his carpets. »Give me one frag,« she said.

The old vendor didn’t acknowledge her at first, even when she knelt down and helped him restore order to his carpets. Perhaps he did fear her, but that he could not be blamed for. She had brought terror to his shoppe. People knelt beside them and helped as well. Before long, all trinkets, rings, chains, and books had been returned to his carpets, not in perfect order, but present nonetheless. There had even been coins added to his pouch, donations from the crowd. He bowed all around, visibly moved, and finally returned her view.

”I’m sorry,” Pen said.

”What for?” he asked. Suddenly, he started searching frantically for something. He found it between the pages of the ’Myths & Tales’, and held out five straightened torek bills. ”Please, the book is a gift.”

”True. It is my gift for father,” she said, smiling. ”And a proper gift needs to be bought first.”

”I... understand.” That made him smile, too. ”I’m honored.” They bode each other farewell with open palms. Pen left surrounded by a pale ring of guards, walking in Glane’s shadow. The people moved back respectfully, and bowed as she passed them by.

»Were were you, young miss?« Glane asked.

She took out her fan and spread it. »Browsing stalls while you were being a tool,” Pen said, trying to hide her embarrassment behind the fan’s leaves. She fell back and turned to Wellan. »What kind of attack?«

»Not here,« he said. »You don’t need to worry, he’s fine.«

’He’. »They attacked Rannek?« Pen whispered, sharply. »Where? I thought he stayed inside on father’s day.«

»Not here,« said Wellan.

And that was all he said. As the crowd grew more sparse and two jeeps came in sight ahead, Pen noticed the absence of dirty jumpsuits. Glancing back along the dock, she saw the freighter’s black wall lying secure in its lot, tied down and about to be boarded by footbridge. She wondered where the ship had come from. Where it’d go next. After she had entered the jeep, door held open by one of Wellan’s soldiers, she leaned her head against the window and stared at the distant metal monstrosity. Only nightmares placed her on ships; but her good dreams still did see Pen travel, farther than Tahor’s borders, much farther. Haphos, Spor. Helaban. No one would know her name there. No one would care.

Whether that was a good thing, she couldn’t say.