Eshe escorted the next one in. When Nyx looked up, she saw a tall, lean man fill her doorway. That in itself was not remarkable. But his face was. He might not yet have been thirty—hard to tell. He had the aspect of a good boy made old by war. His skin was puckered with wind-scoured creases—fine lines at the edges of his eyes, his mouth. Unlike the ravaged bodies she’d been processing all day, he was whole. She saw the tail end of some broad scar peeking up from his collar, but that was it. His eyes were hazel-gray—shifty, she thought—set in a dour, handsome face with a strong jaw. His dark hair was sun-kissed a deep brown, dusty, and unkempt—it just brushed the nape of his neck. Nice hair, for a war vet. Most shaved it clean or had it all burned off.

If Mercia was attractive for her plainness, this man was remarkable for his beauty—particularly in a place where smooth skin and supple limbs didn’t last long.

“Have a seat,” Nyx said.

He hesitated, one hand on the back of the chair. She figured out the reason for the hesitation, or thought she did. “No need to salute,” she said. “I haven’t served in a long time.”

He bowed his head slightly as he sat, like some Tirhani businessman. “I am Ahmed al Kaidan.” His voice was soft, but she caught the hint of a speech impediment; gentle slurring that turned the end of his words to mush.

“Did you have a rank?” she asked.

He passed a token to her. A black scarab in tailored resin. “I’ve been told I can bleed on this, and it will verify my service,” he said.

Nyx had seen a few of these tokens from other hopefuls. Some new thing the government was doing to help discharged boys find jobs without a lot of paperwork.

“Important stuff first,” she said. “You know Chenjan?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

He immediately switched languages, and said something mostly unintelligible in Chenjan. All she could make out was “prisoners” and “desert.”

Nyx shook her head. “That’s fine.”

“I worked interrogation,” he said, in Nasheenian. The tone he said it in was flat, the way he would have said, “I worked in bakkie repair.” That explained the soft tone, and unmarred face. He was intel.

“You speak enough, then.”

“Enough.” Same flat tone. His gaze, too, was unemotional. A man used to putting on faces.

“Good with any other languages?”

“I know Khairian. Training camps were up there. We all picked up some.”

“You have a knack?”

“I can tell Tirhani from Chenjan. Order food in Ras Tieg, Heidia, and Mhoria. I learn quickly.”

“Lot of translating in my line of work. Anything else?”

“I also know Drucian,” he said, grudgingly.

“Where you learn that?”

“From Drucians,” he said.