Jin stood up.  "I got this far."

"So you did."  With visible reluctance, the consul handed the envelope over.  Jin stuffed it into his shirt once more, and lost no time in escaping.

I didn't understand any of that.  Jin looked back apprehensively as he passed out the iron gate once more.  But he was glad Miles-san seemed to have some friends.  Of a sort.

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

As soon as he'd seen Jin safely over the parapet, Miles retraced his steps to the basement cafeteria, careful to make no wrong turns.  He was apparently early for lunch, as only a few heads turned in suspicion to follow him.  It occurred to him that he was less conspicuous here in his tattered garb than if he'd been wearing his full-on Imperial Auditor grays, a suit so severe as to signal Serious Person Here anywhere in the Nexus regardless of the vagaries of local fashion.  Street Refugee Here was a much better choice for his current needs.

The scattering of tables was divided from the cooking area by a long serving counter, with metal cupboards above.  He made his way around it to find a sort of large electric samovar promising tea.  Next to the dispenser was a mismatched collection of mugs, with a hand-lettered sign over it, Wash your cup!  He couldn't quite tell if these were personally owned or up for grabs, which gave him a perfect opening for conversation with the woman, evidently Ako's replacement, who was stirring a ten-liter pot of soup.

He addressed her, "May I use one of these?"

She shrugged.  "Go ahead.  Wash it after, though."  She tapped her spoon on the pot rim and laid it aside.  "You new here?"

"Very new."

"Rules are, cook what you want, clean up after yourself, replace what you use, contribute money to the pantry when you can.  Sign up on the cleaning duty roster on the front of the fridge."

"Thanks.  Just tea for now . . ."  Miles took a sip.  It was stewed, cheap, bitter, and served his purposes as a prop in both senses.  "You been here long yourself?"

"I came with my grandmother.  It won't be much longer."

As he was figuring out how to lead her on to parse that, a familiar, querulous voice sounded from beyond the counter: "That soup ready yet?"  A tall, bent old man stooped to peer through the serving hatch.  Impressive white mustachios drooped down, framing his frown, and wriggled as he spoke.  Like an insect's palps, ah.

"Another half hour," the woman called back.  "Just go sit."

"I believe I've met him," Miles murmured to her.  "Name of Yani?"

"Yah, that's him."

Yani shuffled in to collect a mug of tea from the dispenser.  He scowled at Miles.

Miles returned a cheery smile.  "Good morning, Yani."