“Not yet, but you will be. Come with me.” He stuck his pipe and the drugs in his vest pocket, threaded an arm through my elbow, and led me out of the room. Down the hall was another set of stairs, ancient stairs of crumbling stone which had once led to a third floor, but which now led to the makeshift roof. He led me out, guided me across the “safe spots,” and goaded me until I jumped down onto the platform he’d been on when I’d first arrived in the Square. Night had fallen properly by then. The only people in the Square were the Natives. It felt private. The night, like all desert nights, carried in it a crisp coldness. My coat had been confiscated at one checkpoint or another, and I sat in the dark with my ear aching and my teeth chattering. Sorcha laughed and told me to stay where I was. I told him I wasn’t going anywhere. He scaled the wall and hopped back down a few minutes later with his clockwork lamp, a spare jacket, and a violin. “Here. Wear this.” He turned the lamp on and inspected me once I’d pulled on the jacket. “You’d cut a figure in City clothes. You’re built like me. That fits you right well.” He plucked a string of the violin as if to tune it. “So, you run with Lor, do you?”

“I’m Mr. Villai’Muladah’s student,” I said.

“His name’s Lorcani.” He said it with a resigned disgust, like it was an argument with me he was already sick of having. “What’s he teaching you exactly?”

“How to manage the gifts.”

“Tink stuff.”

“Yes.”

He plucked a string. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “You know he’s like me, yeah? Nahsiyya. Mongrel through and through. He’s not Semadran proper.”

“I think he is,” I said. “He’s in the boroughs. He has a student. We’re picky; we turn people out. Maybe blood doesn’t matter as much as everyone thinks it does.”

Sorcha frowned and turned back to this violin. “I’m telling you, he’s not Semadran. So, what’s your story?”

“I don’t have a story.”

“Everyone’s got loads of stories. Why’d you come all the way out here? With Lor, I mean. Considering why he’s here.”