“Low Loom Column is my complete name outside the country.”

“What country?”

“My country.”

“Mm,” he says. “What is it inside?”

“I can’t say it here. I’m not inside.”

Jil Punkinflake gets up and tugs the ladder from his vest. A large death’s-head moth, clinging to his lapel like a boutanier, opens and closes its wings meditatively. We sit down together on a piano bench by the wall. I explain my problem, how I come to be here.

“An exemption?” he asks.

“A narrator’s exemption; they’ll give it to you if you’ve already done your obligatory service, or trained for something.”

“So you get out of it if you’re a veteran?”

“No, I mean you go into the army when you come of age and serve a year, war or peace. It’s a standing army.”

“That’s what you did, Low?”

“No, I took medical training. The Sodality in town made me an award of the fees, because my marks were good in school.”

“But what possible good is it to the army training you if you can use that to get an exemption?”

“I imagine they reckon on being able to entice you to stay, having you right there. And there’s always the chance war will break out during your training period—there’s always one going on somewhere—then they can enlist you for a full tour without discounting your training time.”

“And just to whom are you assigned, Low?”

I have to check the ticket to be certain.

Jil Punkinflake’s head tilts back as though he’d just been lightly buffeted on the chin. “Makemin’s unit is understaffed. Half his troops have deserted already. Why don’t you run? Your chances are good.”

“I was seen by an Edek,” I say with a sheepish smile and toss of the hands.

“An Edek saw you?” he asks sharply.

“Yes.”

He shakes his head.

Twilight shows violet fire in the sky as we make our way to the dormitories. Skulls hang in net bags from the street lights, which are not lit.

One of the students grabs my arm and points, and the other students are watching in rapt attention as a hearse rattles by in the square terraced below this one. The horses are large and burly, with glistening curried hides and quivering tails painstakingly bundled atop their buttocks. Their plumed heads bend in the same direction at the same time, their dishevilled manes seem especially wildly to contrast with their otherwise impeccable grooming. A hatless man in a plain black suit is driving them. I crane my neck to see inside, but the windows are curtained. A veiled black wreath adorns the back. My comrades sigh and coo to themselves over it, and sagaciously evaluate the style of the brass fittings, the magnificent lacquering of the wood.

“It’s built low,” the one who took my arm says, “because the coffin rides in a compartment above the passengers. Isn’t that dreamy?”