Only the bar itself looked like it was built to last, a ring-shaped counter of polished stone with all the barrels and bottles tucked safely inside it. Three uniformed bartenders circled, filling orders, and decithaler coins clattered and slid across the stone. Gyre joined the loose queue, quietly satisfied at the horrified, pitying looks he got out of the corner of his eye. This scar really is one of my better efforts.

When he reached the bar, he found himself facing a boy no older than fourteen. The lad said something Gyre didn’t catch—he had the rolling, grating accent of the mountains, unsoftened by standard Republican pronunciation. Seeing Gyre’s scar, he raised his eyebrows quizzically. Gyre cleared his throat.

Here goes nothing.

“I would like,” he said, “a bottle of the Katre ’49.”

The boy blinked. “’Scuse me?”

“The Katre ’49,” Gyre repeated, raising his voice.

“What the fuck is a Katre ’49?” the boy said.

One of his companions behind the bar, an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard, leaned in with a growl. “This look like the kind of place that keeps a bottle for fifty fucking years?”

“It’s still my order.” Gyre drummed his fingers on the bar top and glanced around. “Katre ’49.”

“Well then, of course, m’lord,” the older bartender said, putting on an obnoxious Republican accent. “Would that be the north or west side of the vineyard you’d be wanting? And would you care to sample the cherry-crusted sparrow penis?” He barked a laugh, and the boy snickered. “Order a real drink, or piss off.”

Maybe it’s a test. Gyre’s finger tapped a little harder, and he took a deep breath. “I think—” he began.

He got no further, because someone grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him, and kissed him hard. This was so unexpected that it took Gyre a moment to react. He got the impression of a young woman, pressed against him by the crowd, her lips soft against his. His hand went to his back, where a knife was hidden under his coat.

“This is my man,” she announced, pulling away from him and turning to face the crowd. “And he’s a hundred times better than you Auxie scum.”

Gyre blinked.

*

There was a long, dangerous silence.

It gave Gyre the chance to size things up, at least. First there was the girl at his side. She was his age or a little younger, dressed in dark pants and a tailcoat, with a scavenger’s leather jacket thrown over the top making a decidedly odd ensemble. Nearly his height, she was long and lean, with only the slightest of curves. Her hair, a brilliant teal, was cut short in wild spikes.