The man standing above the woman glanced over at Anavha. He was lean and angular, strong, square jaw, dark stubble, shadows under the eyes. His hair was tangled, short at his shoulders, auburn-brown. Anavha saw the stringy mass of a black wig on the floor. The light of the lanterns rippled along the length of his muscular body: wide shoulders, powerful forearms, a chest too broad to have ever worn a girdle, a torso so firm Anavha imagined he could throw fruit at it and watch it bounce off without any perceivable disturbance of flesh. Men in the mardanas did not look like that. Anavha most certainly did not look like that. The man could have been a creature from another world.

The man’s gaze caught Anavha’s, held him. The man let go of the silken cord. The woman’s body slumped. The man stalked toward Anavha, took his arm. Jerked him into the room. He kicked the door closed.

“Whose are you?” the man said softly, a deep voice rendered all the more ominous by the hushed tone.

“Syre Zezili,” Anavha said quickly. “I won’t… I don’t… Zezili’s coming for me, she–”

“What are you to her?”

“Her husband,” Anavha said.

The man released him. Anavha fell to the floor. The man began to dress, covering – bit by bit – his fantastic body, the sort of body only seen on Saiduan statues lining old roads in Daorian, their faces and genitals defaced. He wore straight-legged trousers and an embroidered tunic – women’s clothes.

“I’ll go,” Anavha said. He made to stand, but the man, dressed now, crossed to him in three long strides and gripped his arm again.

“You’ll stay,” the man said.

“I won’t say anything, please… Zezili will come for me. She knows I’m here. You don’t want Syre Zezili Hasaria after you!”

The man cuffed him.

Pain burst across Anavha’s face. Black spots blotted his vision.

The man crouched in front of Anavha. He took him by the collar of his coat and leaned into him. He smelled of sex and himself, a sharp, bitter scent like the inside of an empty wine barrel. His skin was the bronze-brown of a Tordinian, his eyes a gray wash.

“You’re going to be silent,” the man said.

Anavha opened his mouth. “What will you–” but the man had the silk cord in his other hand. He stuffed a kerchief into Anavha’s mouth and knotted the cord around his head. The cord was so long that he could twist it around Anavha’s hands. The man pulled the cord taut and knotted it well. Anavha’s fingers were numb. His mouth hurt.

The man opened the window. A blast of cold air stirred the room. He hauled Anavha to the window.