“I know enough, dear Brandish. I would say it’s similar to a filibuster, but with an expectation of ask and answer, to suggest you can hold your position with reason despite an onslaught of criticism or condemnation.”

I looked again through the window at Miss Militia. Natalie stood at the position at the circle’s edge, hands clasped behind her back, eyes visibly wide even from a great distance.

“Whatever it is, we’re in a precarious position,” my dad said. “A lot of good, innocent lives hang in the balance here. It’s frustrating.”

“I’d say what she’s doing is closer to defending a PhD,” my mom said. “Against a biased room. I suspect Shin has already decided their conclusion. It’s smart for Miss Militia to take this stance, because it forces them to justify theirs. She’s been here for a long time, mediating when she wasn’t elsewhere killing monsters or handling crises, she’s figured out how to play this game.”

“Agreed on every count,” Marquis said.

My mom gave him a dark look.

“Mom,” I said, in part to pull her away from any interaction with Marquis that would end in bone spears and laser axes. I kept my voice casual. “Should we talk war stories?”

“I’m sure yours are better than mine,” she said. I saw her eyebrows draw closer together. “Why?”

“You were drawing on the window. It got me thinking.”

I saw her nod, not her usual nod, and I saw her smile a bit. I was pretty sure she got my meaning.

But the smile changed. She reached up and touched my hair at the back of my head, smoothing it down with her hand. “Battle stories could be misinterpreted by our hosts. They’re very fond of metaphors and proverbs, and might draw the wrong conclusions.”

“Of course,” I said. My attempt to have my mom give me some idea of what they needed help with wouldn’t work.

“I’m sure you’re eager to share some with me,” she said. “We shouldn’t part ways without catching up.”

“Absolutely,” I said. I met her serious look with one of my own. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“More or less okay,” she said.

I gave her a one-armed hug, and leaned in closer, wanting to exchange a whispered or muttered word, anything to shed more light on what she’d tried to communicate to me.

The guard with the gun was close enough I couldn’t be sure about getting away with it.

At the same time, though, my mom had her arm at my shoulder. Her finger tapped.

Then again: tap tap tap.

And again: a thump with three fingers striking the ornamentation at the shoulder of my coat at once. A tap. Another thump, a tap.