“No,” he said, and swallowed slowly. “No one’s in command of Ormsment’s ships except Ormsment. Who, by the way, submitted eleven requests for your assassination.”

Baru held, as a principle, the impossibility of escape from trained killers once they had you cornered. You could not count on luck against soldiers: you had to be out of their way before they moved. “Should we flee?”

“Yes. Definitely. Only—we’d miss this important dinner. So—”

“If we were ready to flee at the very first sign of attack—”

“—and we lingered just long enough to learn what His Glistenings and His Smugness wanted from us—”

Baru giggled. Apparitor stared at her. “Sorry,” she said. “Glistenings. It’s funny. He does sort of … glisten.”

“Don’t think this means I don’t hate you,” he said.

*   *   *

“I’VE been putting off your armament out of spite,” he said. “I suppose you should have these now. Behold. A cryptarch’s weapons.”

His crew was moving cargo out to Helbride, and he’d made her come down to the yard to choose what she wanted to keep and what could stay. “Just a few,” he cautioned her.

Baru goggled. “A few?” Silken leisure jackets, stiff high-collared sherwani, sheer many-layered robes and chemises to advertise the body’s form, a needle-narrow black waistcoat-suit, sporting wear with integral corsetry, heavy Grendlake denims, formal bathing costumes for occasions when one must be rakishly and confidently immodest, gloves in white and pale pink and deep gray and black, gowns of various daring and prudishness, an arsenal of formidable boots and finely cobbled shoes, huge arrays of Oriati khangas with prints that ranged from dour to parrot plumage, jewelry masculine and feminine and even lamine, scarves of wool and chiffon, a jeweled tooth-brace, leathers, jodhpurs, bracelets for the arm and the thigh, several codpieces of masculine profile, metal horns so a woman could piss while standing, a set of Devi-naga squadron caftans, dozens of plain work-tunics in black and white, pleated skirts, a navy formal uniform without insignia, a strophium with structure and padding to flatter the breasts, a strophium to bind breasts flat, finger-thimbles, a cloak made of a dead silver wolf. Thousands of hours of expert labor, and all of it, so far as she could see, tailored to her measurements.

“They’re magnificent,” she protested. “I’m not qualified! You pick. You’re always dressed like a fine dandy.”

“Sailors are intrinsically fashionable,” he sniffed. “Choose! Just pretend the outfits are dukes and duchesses who adore you, and thereby eliminate them one by one. Oh, blast”—he snapped his fingers—“but that would leave you nude, wouldn’t it?”

“Ass.”

She made her choices, favoring the practical, and the occasional instrument of intimidation. The pissing horns were a clever idea; she never wanted another infection from squatting in the woods.

She expected Apparitor’s taunts with every choice, but he was pensive, pacing. “Do you know anything?” he asked.