We walked deeper and deeper into the City. The East Gate spits you out into the Qin Quarter. It is a strange place for someone born and bred in the Empire. The City is a populous place built on a small square of land; the buildings are solid stone and built tall, story upon story upon story. The streets are narrow. In the Empire, cities sprawl. The buildings are predominantly adobe and rarely more than one story. Only the most important and official buildings are made of stone. The streets are wide with plenty of space for carts and rickshaws. The Qin are a people who like open space. We Semadrans in our ghettos pile on top of each other, struggle through thin alleyways, but the Qin take up as much room as they can. But there in the City, they are penned in like a herd of livestock.

We walked fast, heads down. If it makes sense, the Qin in the City are somehow more Qin than those in the Empire. I think it’s to do with them being outnumbered and not quite as in charge of things as they’d like to be. They are more religious and more vocal about it. Every third building had an Eye of the Exalted, intricately worked in silver, bolted above the doorway. Everyone’s hair reached their elbows. The hoods of their robes were universally pulled up. As we passed through, whispers crowded us. Nahsiyya, impure, ghalio, tinker—whatever they had to say was said. Abira’s face grew redder and redder as we walked on. Dirva had her by the elbow in a grip tight as a vice. I think he was reading her, because every time she started to turn or open her mouth, he told her under his breath to keep walking.