It made him think of the duvet on Daoud’s sturdy double bed, back in Rarom. And that, in turn, made him think of his cabin, which had never seen a cot through the crossing. It made him think of any number of things that could keep one warm in the winter, besides the ones he’d listed.

Shifting his weight, he put another several inches between the two of them.

Daoud retreated farther into his muffler. “And if you are not?”

“Sorry?” His discomfort had distracted him from the thread of conversation.

“If you are not prepared.”

Oh. He meant the weather, still. “Rotten miserable.”

The ship shuddered as it came to a full halt, leaving them stationary several stories above the docks. Aristide looked down on the milling hats and luggage carts, the clouded breath of hundreds rising with the steam from food carts and exhaust pipes. Abruptly, through the haze of stagnant water and diesel fumes, he caught the scent of fry oil and the salty tang of eel.

His stomach growled, and he thought about brown paper packets of barley fritters. About crispy cardamom rice balls, and hot chestnuts roasted over a coffee can grill fueled with shredded newspapers.

“I hope the hotel has a good kitchen,” he said. “And they can get something worthwhile to cook in it.”

“Do not raise your hopes too high. It has been bad weather for the farmers. A dry summer. And despite the efforts of West Cultham Rail Company, among others, the railroads are not as good as they were. Too many tracks blown, thanks to the Catwalk.”

“Ah well,” said Aristide. “I’ve eaten beans before.” Then, “West Cultham. Isn’t that—?”

“Jamila can tell you more,” said Daoud, suddenly brisk. “Chii bhale, or they will give our bags to someone else.”

Despite his worries, their bags were waiting on a cart with a porter in earmuffs standing attentively by. She helped them find a taxi, and Aristide tipped extravagantly. The tourist trade had likely flagged along with the rest of the economy.

“Hello there,” said Aristide, bundling himself and his mink into the backseat of the cab.

“Where are you headed?” asked the driver. Tatien, by his accent. A loyalist, probably, and a refugee now that his state had achieved an ill-fated independence from Gedda.

“Oh, what’s the name of the hotel?” Aristide asked, though he had it by memory. He didn’t like to sound too eager.

“Sykes House,” said Daoud. “At…” he consulted his datebook. “Coral and Whitney.”

The cabbie whistled low. “Nice piece of town. Even now.” As he pulled away from the bustling dockside curb, he said, “This is your first time in Amberlough?”

“Mine,” said Daoud. “Yes.”

“And you?” Aristide caught the flick of the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“In a while,” he said. “I haven’t been back for some years.”

“The war?” asked the cabbie.

“Its … antecedents. And you sound like you come from the east.”