“So, you haven’t seen anyone with that description?” Ghrasia asked the matronly woman on the steps of her gill-topped home. Best Ghrasia could figure, the house was actually a tirajista-trained mushroom, very old.

“I’d remember a stranger like that with yellow eyes, missing three teeth,” the woman said. “I’ll remember your faces a good long time, too, and they aren’t half so colorful.”

“I’m sure,” Ghrasia said.

“You don’t look the way I imagined,” the woman said, and Ghrasia regretted introducing herself with her full name. Sometimes, it opened more doors. But on occasion, it did get her into trouble. “Thought you’d be taller. And have larger arms.”

“I hear that a lot,” Ghrasia said.

“I expect so.”

“Thank you for your time,” Ghrasia said.

“Feed this boy something,” the matron said. “He looks too thin.”

“I’ll do that,” Ghrasia said.

Once they were clear of the house, Halimey snickered. “Feed me, Mother!”

“Call me that again and I’ll fix you up a proper mud pie,” she said. He could have been hers, though. He wasn’t more than eighteen or nineteen.

“Delicious!”

“Next one’s two miles farther on,” Ghrasia said. “You want a rest?”

Halimey glanced up at the sky. The suns were winding down toward the horizon. “If we’re going to finish one more before dark, we better press on.”

“Then hurry on, now.”

Halimey hopped after her. Ghrasia was tired, but knowing they only had one more house for the day gave her the extra bit of energy she needed to push forward.

“Why is it you don’t dance?” Halimey said. He fished around in his pocket for one of his scorch pods and threw it off into the brush. It made a loud popping sound.

“What?”

“They have dancing at the council house every night,” Halimey said. “Everyone goes. Clan Raona is happy to host us.”

Ghrasia had her own impression of just how happy Clan Raona was to have them. The local militia had spent much of its time since their arrival running around, curbing spurious storefronts, like the ones selling tax-free liquor and at least one illegal butcher shop, whose existence alone made Ghrasia’s stomach lurch. It took four days to assure them she was more interested in the sparrow buyers than in collecting taxes. Tax collection was not the business of the Liona militia.

“You can dance for both of us,” Ghrasia said.

“Was it some terrible accident?” Halimey said. He tossed another pod. Another pop.

“What?”

“Was it because you were dancing and some bear attacked you? Or did you fall into a wine barrel while doing a Garika jig? My sister once–”

Ghrasia laughed.

“Ah,” Halimey said. “You see? You do laugh.”

“I laugh a lot when I’m not tracking assassins, Halimey. I’ll leave the talking to you, then.”