Iaapa shook his head slowly. “We have had no visitors for months.”

Kaden’s stomach dropped. It was the news he had feared. There were a few possible ways to read Valyn’s failure to return, but by far the most plausible was the bleakest: the Flea had killed him. Killed him or taken him prisoner. Kaden thought back to the madness inside the ancient orphanage of Assare, to the smoke and the screaming, the confusion and desperation. Kaden himself had barely escaped, and he’d had the kenta. . . .

Grief welled within him, but he quelled it, let it drain away with his breath. Whether Valyn was alive or dead, grief would not help him, and there was no time for it.

“What do you know of the Ishien?” Kaden asked.

Iaapa raised his brows. “A little.”

“They will come here,” Kaden said. Even if Tan had told them nothing, they would look for Kaden among the monks that had raised him. “You can’t tell them I’m in the city.”

The fat monk raised two hands, as though to hold the treachery and scheming at bay.

“As you know, brother, the Shin do not deal in politics or secrets.”

“But we deal in silences,” Kaden replied, “and I am begging for your silence. They are not like us, not really, and they are dangerous.”

Iaapa frowned. “I have heard . . . stories.”

“They’re probably true,” Kaden said, glancing over his shoulder toward the door. “In fact, it might be best for you, for all of you, to leave here for a month, several months. To go somewhere more remote. Somewhere safe.”

“Safety,” Iaapa replied quietly, poking at his head with a wide finger, “is here.”

Kaden sucked an irritated breath between his teeth. He didn’t have time to argue with the man, to explain just how thoroughy the Aedolians had gutted Ashk’lan, how the Shin had burned just like other men when their buildings blazed around them. Even if he had the time, there was no reason to believe his argument would sway the monk. Fleeing harm, for the Shin, was as foolish as hoarding pleasure; both were paths leading only to disappointment.

He hesitated, then rose to his feet, bowing his head in respect.

“I thank you for your time,” he said quietly.

Iaapa remained seated, but he nodded in return.

That seemed to conclude the audience, but just as Kaden reached the door, the monk spoke once again.

“Your father came here often,” Iaapa said, “through the gate. Sometimes for just an hour, sometimes for a night, when he wanted rest from the weight of his other duties.”

Kaden stared as the monk smiled. “You are welcome, too, whenever you have need of rest.”