Kit nodded, trying to stave off a wave of bitterness. Such a pointless activity—now—after such an event. The last thing she felt like doing was going into the city and soliciting more donations. Though Del had seemed quite hopeful about the possibilities here. It was an unlikely joint venture between an indigo capitalist and a gulden cook, and it was designed to attract wealthy patrons of all the major races. The food was supposed to be fabulous, and the clientele had already included everyone from Ariana Bayless to the richest guldmen in the city. Del thought it was possible that the restaurant owners would be willing to donate their leftover food every day to the charity bank, an idea that had seemed meritorious to Kit when she heard of it. But now …

“Of course. Today? There is such turmoil here—”

Del shrugged again. “And what is it you can do about such turmoil? In the city, I think, they do not notice that the ghetto women are suffering. Unless we tell them. You said you would tell them.”

“I’ll tell them,” Kit said on a sigh. “I’ll be back sometime today.”

*   *   *

So she was, fairly soon, back on the Centrifuge, going three-quarters of the way around the city to the North Zero gate. The express trolley to the Complex took her close to her destination, but she still had a walk ahead of her to the restaurant. Not a bad thing. She needed a bit of brisk exercise to clear her mind of its sudden black depression.

Though it was hard to walk as quickly as she would like; the streets were far more crowded than usual. Chay, she thought, as she noted all the extra security forces on every corner. The police and the gawkers. It’ll take me forever just to cross the street.

But eventually, pushing through tourists and guards, she made her way to the restaurant. It was chic, small, decorated with a mix of Higher Hundred heraldry and gulden craftwork. Even at this morning hour, the aromas seeping out from the kitchen were varied and delicious. Kit stopped the first employee she saw and asked to be taken to an owner.

“You have a complaint?” the young woman asked. She was lowcaste blueskin but well-educated, Kit thought; she seemed both deferential and confident.

“Not at all. A request. I work for a charity, and we were hoping to interest your owners in our work.”

“I’ll see if Dort is available.”

Dort. The curt one-syllable name nearly always indicated a gulden; the hard final consonant usually signalled a male. Not always, of course, Chay being the most famous example. Not to mention Kit, she thought wryly. But of course only her father called her Kit. And Jex. And the other gulden. To the blueskins, she was Kitrini. Only rarely would Sereva or her other family members call her by any other name.