She went on with more dangerous material. I wonder if we could discuss navy politics again, and the mutability of government … If Aminata hated her, she could bring the letter to Navy Censorate right away, and then Baru would know, without ever having to ask her, that Aminata never wanted to see her again.

Find me at the return address. We simply must catch up. I have a remarkable wound to show you.

Regards,

Your sword thief

Baru signed, blew, and sealed. Iraji was watching her very curiously. “I’ve got to tell you,” Baru said, heavily, “the last man who took my letters died of plague. Do you have any strange diseases I ought to know about?”

Iraji’s bright eyes went suddenly dim: his lids half-shut, his hands loosening. “No,” he said, thickly. “I’m going to bring you some books you might find interesting. Back in a moment.”

A peculiar reaction. Well, she was alone now. Baru closed her eyes against Muire Lo’s guilty ghost. One secretary, and now another. She so rarely spent Falcrest lives. Somehow she kept tangling with the provincials.…

She should decrypt Purity Cartone’s message now, and get at that ledger of secrets.

She set the envelope down, picked up a letter opener, and—

*   *   *

HU had been so beautiful on that last night. So fierce. Look: she was raising Cattlson’s banner in her mailed fists. She was standing on the Henge Hill with her hair in the wind. The Coyotes were setting off fireworks, and the light came down through the tent cloth, on her broad and naked shoulders, down her broken nose, as they lay together between passions, and Baru reached for her.

*   *   *

“MY lady?”

How strange, Baru thought. I do believe I’ve been sitting here staring at the letter opener for quite a while.

She commanded her hand to move. Her hand replied that it could, but why should it bother? Opening this envelope would just lead to pain.

Stupid hand. She ought to be glad it would hurt. Pain was an ally. Pain was true. If something made you feel like death, then you had to believe in it. It couldn’t be a fantasy you’d invented to protect yourself. Comfort was a lie. Pain was the truth.

Pick up your fucking hand and open the letter.

Nothing happened.

Everything felt far away, and yet very beautiful: a keening, edged beauty, like a distant iceberg under moonlight. The coffee beans, and the pot of fresh ink, and her own still hand. All of them swaddled by a layer of invisible wool like the ruff of a winter coat. Perhaps she could just sit here a moment. It was warm and dark, and she was surrounded by books.

“My lady!” Iraji cried.

Baru thought about answering for a few seconds, and then, finally, said, “Yes?”

“You were absent. And your right hand was moving.”