Among the stir of semi-permanent tents and rocky structures was a globular, red-and-purple-streaked monolith. To Ahmed’s eyes, it was as if something had been shat out of a giant roach as tall as the sky-high Wall whose shadow protected the inhabitants of the city. Like the Wall itself, the monolith had been carved by many hands until its interior was mostly hollow. Nyx led him to the lip of the monolith and started inside the cool corridors. Bioluminescent insects pulsed across the arched ceiling and ran in neat horizontal lines where the floor and walls met. Ahmed paused to examine them, and saw that they were set behind a transparent skein that protected them from the foot traffic—something a lot like the lacquered dragonfly wings that made up the windows.

He ran to catch up with Nyx. She was stepping into a steamy doorway. As he rounded into the doorway, he collided with a tall, reddish woman with a sea of dark hair that nearly touched her ankles. She was arguing with Nyx, and acknowledged him only long enough to push him away.

Ahmed stumbled against the far wall. He reached for a gun, then hesitated. The argument had drawn a crowd in the already packed tea house. The woman herself bore no weapon. She spat at Nyx in surprisingly good Nasheenian.

“She says you own her,” the red woman said. “If you own her, you answer for her crimes.”

“In my country, fucking’s not a crime,” Nyx said.

“What’s going on?” Ahmed said, pushing his way back to them.

Nyx met his look. “It seems our little Drucian has a more active life than we thought. She apparently fucked this woman’s girlfriend.”

“I have been insulted,” the woman said, “I challenge you to a circle.”

“Sorry, I don’t accept.”

“That is not done.”

“Well, I’m doing it. You speak Nasheenian, you should know that we don’t have the same rules you do.”

The woman drew a weapon—a serrated insect leg like the ones Ahmed had seen in the trader’s shop. She was over a head taller than Nyx, thinner and fitter, and at least two decades her junior. But Nyx didn’t blink.

“You’re in my place. You obey my rules,” the woman said.

“They aren’t strictly your rules, though, are they?” said another woman, in Nasheenian. Ahmed recognized her accent immediately. It was Chenjan. She sat at the nearest window, by the door. As she spoke, she stood and walked next to Nyx. She was a small woman, compared to all the rest. Her hair was bound in a turquoise turban, and she wore an amber robe made of the same jawed insects that many of the others in the tea house wore. Her complexion was as Chenjan as her accent. He had never seen a Chenjan woman without a burqua before.