“He speaks Semadran! I kept trying to tell you that, but you just keep on and on!” I said.

She looked at Dor. “You speak Semadran?”

“A bit, yes.”

The irritation went out of her. She took a piece of flatbread and scooped up some hummus. “Huh. Look at that. Where did you learn it?”

“In Vilahna.”

“He came with Vathorem,” I said.

“Ah.” She looked like she was going to ask, pry about his gifts like I had already done, but she swallowed down her questions. “Why did you learn it?”

“People smarter than myself thought it would be useful for me to know it,” he said. He reached across the table. “Shaliondor,” he said.

And something came alive in Shayat. She took his hand and did not let it go. “Shaliondor? Shaliondor da Where?”

“Da Alama.”

“You came here with the queen’s right hand?”

“I did, yes,” he said. There was surprise in his voice, a hint of wariness. He tried, and failed, to reclaim his hand.

Shayat held it tight and pulled him slightly farther across the table. “Are you the heir, Shaliondor da Alama? Are you Rethnali’s successor?”

His eyebrows shot up. He glanced at me, then back at her. “I…am. Yes, I am.”

“You are?” I could not believe I asked it. My hand flew to my mouth.

“He is,” Shayat said. She let go of his hand. “If you plan to trade in a country it makes sense to stay informed, yes?” She switched to Athenorkos. “Mr. da Alama, I have many, many questions for you. About trade. About routes. About, uh…” She searched for the word, her fingers dancing in the air as if to pluck it out of the ether. She grinned. “About prices.”

* * *

Vathorem and Dor stayed with us a week. I spent as much of that week at Parvi’s shop as I could, partly because Shayat demanded final lessons before I left, and partly because with four of us in a bachelor’s apartment there was no room to breathe. Dor almost always came with me to Shayat’s. When I came home from the classes, I usually found him sitting on the landing, alone, watching the borough. He had an air of remoteness around him, of separateness, that I lacked. There were times when he spoke, when I caught sight of the way he carried himself, that I could not shake the feeling that he belonged there in Rabatha more than I did. Those thoughts drove me into quietness; they whipped my fears into a frenzy. It is not so surprising, then, that Shayat seemed to lose interest in me. The final lessons were really lessons with Dor while I watched and ruminated and chewed my fingernails down to ragged edges.