“Yes, these two fucking gat szich neath castrated shit fucks”—Apparitor jabbed his chopsticks at the two other men—“are smug in the certainty that the navy won’t touch them! Too much navy money depends on too many parliamins under their control, which, they assure me, is very good protection against crossbows and fire.”

“It’s your job to control the navy,” Farrier said, helping himself to a candied flower and a bowl of nihari with sheep brain. “If the man you put in place can’t do that, it’s hardly our fault.”

“The old witch admirals don’t respect a young explorer,” Apparitor snapped, “I told you that when we selected him—”

Hesychast made a soft sound in his throat. Apparitor shut up like he’d been poked with a hot brand.

The eugenicist said, “Lindon’s purpose is to provoke the Merit Admirals. Just as Baru’s was to provoke Aurdwynn. Whether he survives is up to you.”

A moment of taut silence. Then Apparitor reached across the table to crack a clam open with his hands. “Did you know,” he said to Baru, “that traditionally this meal is a presentation of hostages? When I had my first dinner they brought Lindon in with an envelope. It was his indictment for traffic with foreign royalty. It’s still on deferment, pending trial. Clever, hm?”

“Very,” Baru agreed, and she felt a shiver of nameless not-quite-grief, a bittersweet acknowledgment of what might have been. Imagine Tain Hu here among them. Suffering in muzzled silence. Looking for her chance to kill one of them, or more, before they shot her dead.

*   *   *

FARRIER and Hesychast began a strange ritual. Hesychast poured two flutes of deep red wine. Farrier produced a vial of white powder. “Ready?”

Hesychast covered his eyes. “I’m ready.”

Swiftly Farrier unscrewed the vial, passed his hand over both glasses, and deposited the powder into Hesychast’s flute. He cuffed the vial away. “Open your eyes. Choose the safe glass.”

For an instant Hesychast watched Farrier. Then, suddenly, his attention was on Baru; she tried to stiffen herself but it was too late—he winked at her.

He took the flute closer to Farrier and drained it.

Farrier drank the poisoned cup. “Gack. Waste of good wine!”

“I win,” Hesychast said. “Where do we stand now? Eleven and eight, your favor?”

“It’s salt, only salt,” Farrier assured Baru. “But I trust the game is obvious?”

“It’s called the poisoner’s dilemma,” Hesychast said. “How do you make a decision when your decision depends on someone else’s choice? And when he’s modifying his choices based on his own predictions of yours? This is the basis of the theory of yomi, which is the art of knowing your opponent’s choice before they do.”

“Oh, enough foreplay,” Apparitor snapped. “I want to know what you’re going to inflict on the rest of us.”