The house was some petty First Family’s place from back in the Caliphate days. Building into the hill helped cool the house, and so did the constantly running water pumped through the latticed walls of the compound’s interior. There was a central courtyard that everything else wrapped around, and on the side, a long, sloping yard with a ten-foot mud-brick wall topped in friendly poisoned needles.

Nyx bided her time in the living quarters downstairs. She faced a wide, tiled fireplace etched in fanciful geometric designs inlaid with gold. Most of the floor was bare stone, but there were carpets in every room—clean ones.

The housekeeper entered. “I have a meal prepared, if it would please you,” she said. “When you are clean and rested, Ambassador sa Aldred would like to see you.”

“Thanks,” Nyx said. She followed after the housekeeper and had a seat in the warm little kitchen. She asked for liquor, but the housekeeper said they had none. Mercia didn’t permit it. Nyx ate a late supper of curried locust rotis. As she ate, she watched where everybody ended up. The magician didn’t live at the house. She made nice with the housekeeper and said goodbye for the evening. When Nyx’s supper was done, the housekeeper dismissed the additional servant, as well, leaving just the housekeeper, Mercia, and the two bodyguards Mercia had brought with her to Druce still in the house.

The housekeeper led Nyx to the bathhouse downstairs to get washed up. They had clean clothes ready. She dressed. Everything was soft. Organic. Expensive.

When she was ready, the housekeeper took her upstairs. They followed a large, winding stairway made of burnished bug secretions. The housekeeper gestured to a door just across the hall, and Nyx went through the soft arch of the doorway. The bedroom was long and thin, running along the whole north side of the house. The room was dominated by a stone slab where a mattress draped in red and white held court. Mercia was unpacking her case on the bed. A giant tapestry above the bed was spun up in a dozen colors; a swirling Ras Tiegan garden surrounding a broken forest bathed in blood.

“That’s subtle, isn’t it?” Nyx said, nodding to the tapestry.

“My mother’s,” Mercia said. “I suppose she thought there wouldn’t be any Nasheenians in here. She forgot about the servants of course.”

As Nyx moved closer to her, she noted that Mercia had bathed and changed as well, even combed out her hair.

“Saw you don’t have any filters in the house. What is this, the year 1200?” Nyx said.

“I’ve never had need of it.” Mercia tucked a loose curl of dark hair behind one ear. She truly was unremarkable in nearly every way. Nyx had to admit she had a soft spot for plain folks. There was something to be said for finding beauty in the rough.