“They know what is at stake. They’re afraid. Schultz, too. That’s why they’re joking.”

“They’re joking because they just followed you into a horde of angry Canim and walked back out again in one piece,” she replied. “The battle energy had to go somewhere.”

Tavi grinned. “True.”

She tilted her head. “I’m curious. What did you accomplish, other than arranging a duel with one of the more dangerous beings we have encountered?”

“I started a conversation,” Tavi said.

Kitai eyed him for a moment, then said, “They are right. It is annoying when you do that.”

Tavi sighed. “It’ll work, or it won’t. Talking about it can’t help.”

She shook her head. “And your other plan. Will it work? Will we get there in time?”

Tavi stopped walking and regarded her. “I think there’s a chance. A good chance.” He turned to her, bowed formally, and asked, “Ambassador, would you do me the pleasure of joining me for a late dinner this evening?”

Kitai arched a white eyebrow. A slow smile spread over her lips. “Dinner?”

“It is the way things are properly done,” he said. “You might wear your new gown.”

“Gown?”

“I had it delivered to your tent while you were gone. I think it’s lovely. Tribune Cymnea assures me it is elegant and tasteful.”

Both her eyebrows lifted now. “In all of this, amidst everything you are doing, you made time to get me a gift.”

“Obviously,” Tavi said.

Kitai’s mouth curved up into another slow smile. She turned and sauntered away, hips swaying a little more than was necessary. She paused to say, “There is hope for you yet, Aleran.” Then she continued on her way.

Tavi frowned after her. “Kitai? So... you’re coming to dinner?”

She didn’t answer, except to laugh and keep walking.

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 10

Amara suppressed an irrationally intense urge to have Cirrus choke off Senator Valerius’s supply of air. She supposed she didn’t absolutely need to choke him. Not fatally, anyway. She might be satisfied enough with merely watching him turn purple and collapse—but the man was so detestable that she scarcely trusted herself. So instead of murder, or a pleasant near murder, she folded her hands calmly into her lap and forced herself to remain calm.

Bernard leaned over, and murmured, “If I asked you politely, do you think you could strangle that smug idiot from all the way up here?”

She tried to suppress the giggle that surged up out of her belly at his words but was only partly successful. She covered her hand with her mouth but nonetheless earned a number of irritated glances from those in the amphitheater’s audience.

“Tonight’s script is for a tragedy,” Bernard scolded her quietly, leaning close to put a restraining hand on her arm. “Not a comedy. Contain yourself before you upset the audience.”