“Honestly, I have never known another person named Kile, but that’s not to say you’re wrong,” Farilane admitted as she led them under the archway of a bridge they would eventually cross when they got up to that street. “But didn’t you mention living in West Echo recently? Out on the southern tip? Isn’t that right?”

“I don’t recall.”

“You don’t recall saying it or living there? Because I distinctly remember the words coming out of your mouth. It happened during that foolish boast about working with Orintine Fallon.” She waved a finger in the air. “No, not working with, you made it sound as if you had dictated to him. Isn’t that, right?”

“I feel you are remembering our conversation a bit differently than I.”

“But you did recently live in West Echo?”

“As you mentioned, reading and writing are illegal in the empire. I went where I could find work.”

“West Echo.”

“Possibly.”

“Was it a little village named Tur?” She stepped to the side of the street, out of the flow, turned to grin at him, then focused on his pack. “Are there feathers in that bag?”

Kile frowned. “There are spicy cured beef strips made by a maternal sadist in this bag and a bottle of wine apparently from an eastern vineyard.”

“Uh-huh.” She continued to stare. “And is that all that’s in there?”

“If you don’t believe me, please look for yourself.” He held out the sack.

Farilane looked at it. She almost took it, then shook her head. “No thank you.”

“So you believe me?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but as we are on our way to shatter one romantic fantasy, I think I’ll hang on to the idea that you are a god in disguise. You know, just in case things go sour, I become depressed, and my heart needs a reason to keep beating.”

“You’re making fun of me now.”

“I am,” she said and reentered the flow.