“Study won’t be enough.” Phosyne crowds up against Voyne, half so she can speak softly, and half because she feels exposed. Her room would be a far better venue for this conversation, but she wants a promise now. Something more than Voyne’s determination, before Treila arrived, or her tears, after Treila left. A promise that Phosyne is not making the wrong choice.

“No.” Voyne studies her face in the dim light. Mulls something over, behind her shadowed eyes. “My sword—the Lady took it from me. That is a place to start. And the water. Everyone must drink water, and soon; the day’s heat will only grow.”

“Unless they mean to kill us all.” Phosyne smiles. It’s a little hysterical. “In this heat, if they can keep the feast going—”

“They’ve already stopped the feast.”

“For tonight. But if they don’t give out water to everybody, I don’t think they’ll know to ask, anymore. Two days, then, at most. Right?”

“Surely thirst can punch through their intoxication.”

Phosyne says nothing. Waits for Ser Voyne to understand the obvious.

Her shoulders sag a few seconds later. “We can’t assume that,” she says.

“No, we can’t. We don’t even know what they want.” Except obedience, from Voyne, and—what, from Phosyne?

Attention?

The Lady had addressed her like a pet, but not exclusively (not like the king does); there was an eagerness to be seen. To be listened to. And She had allowed Phosyne to dig in her heels and refuse Ser Voyne, up until a point. It had amused Her.

She had wanted to know more about the water. What else might She like to know?

“The water is a good place to start,” Phosyne says, rubbing at her brow. She leans against the curved stone wall, inches away from the breadth of Voyne’s body. She feels sheltered there. Hidden. “It serves two purposes. It keeps everybody alive a little longer, and it might loosen the hold on them, like it did on you. But how can we distribute it? There are too many mouths, and the Lady will see the change, I am sure of it.”

“And we do not have unlimited stores,” Voyne murmurs. Her brain is engaged now. She leans in to Phosyne, conspiratorially, even curves her body slightly around Phosyne as if to hide her. “But we can hope for rain.”

“It’s not just water, though. It must be purified. By my hand.” She considers. “Or by my powder, as it may be. Perhaps we start from the powder, not the water.”

“Perhaps.” Voyne gazes down at her with something very like hope, then pulls away, shaking herself. “This is no place to discuss strategy.”

“No,” Phosyne agrees. Thinks to say lead on, but stops herself shy. No more commands, no matter how innocently meant; she must be more cautious.

They begin to climb once more.