“Vathorem is a diplomat. It’s for his protection.” He switched from Qin to Vahnan. “They’re keeping an eye on him. The agent is going to escort us there, and then we’ll bring him back. You don’t have to go.”

“No, I’ll go,” I said. I smoothed out the front of my shirt. I took a breath. “I’ll go.”

The agent took us to the station house. The walk there was tense, and my heart scrabbled against my ribs like a trapped mouse. It was getting towards summer, and I sweated straight through my shirt. The agent led us into the upper reaches of the station house—a building a full four stories tall—into the office of the stationmaster. She was an old, hard-edged Qin woman. Her office was all polished wood and framed maps. An Eye was nailed above the west-facing window, and it glowed red in the failing light.

Across the desk from her sat two red elves. Vathorem was ancient, hardened and weathered like petrified wood. The other was as young as myself. They were both dressed plainly, in City-style clothes tailored less well than those I wore and constructed of wools and linens Parvi never would have touched. Vathorem cradled a teacup, peering into the Semadran black like he was looking for answers. As far as I could tell, he had no intention of drinking it. The young elf beside him watched everything around him. His black eyes drank in the furniture, the weave of Dirva’s shirt, the movement of the breeze through the window.

The agent held the door for Dirva and me as we walked in. The politeness of the gesture set me on edge. “They’ve come to collect the envoy, Stationmaster.”

Vathorem smiled into his teacup. The young one leaned forward in his chair, half-upright, waiting uncertainly for some sign of what to do next. The stationmaster waved her hand at us. “Blessings with you,” she said.

Vathorem stood, placed the still-full teacup on the stationmaster’s desk, right on a stack of papers she was reaching for. She scowled. He grinned. “Thank you for the hospitality,” he said. His High Qin was absolutely, startlingly perfect, but the way he spoke was purely Athenorkos. His voice had an underlying music to it that the Qin lack. “Come, Dor,” he said to the younger elf. “One last walk and we can rest our weary legs.”