“I’m Arni Devret. How are you feeling today, Giddon? Recovered from the water?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Giddon said evenly, wondering if everyone in Ledra knew about his near-drowning escapade. I’m going to ask the Council to send me someplace new, he told Bitterblue. Some corner of the earth where no one’s heard of us. Or maybe I’ll go home. To my real home, I mean. King Randa has accused me of treason. If he catches me on my lands, he’ll execute me. Should I go home?

Then he was ashamed of himself for asking her that.

“You both look cold,” said Arni.

Giddon supposed he was cold. He wasn’t paying much attention to his body. When Arni ushered them inside, he numbly followed.

—

Arni Devret was, apparently, the owner of this bank. After asking a small man wearing glasses to bring them tea, he led them up a flight of stairs to what seemed to be his private office.

“I believe your wife was kind to me last night,” Giddon said.

“It was cruel for Minta Varana, or any of the Varanas, to expect you to sit through a formal dinner on such a day,” said Arni gravely, herding them past a desk the size of a bed, to a group of armchairs arranged before a fireplace. “Some of us were there for the sole purpose of policing their conversation.”

“Oh,” said Giddon. “I had no idea.”

“Scholars are opportunists,” said Arni. “Sit down, please. The Devrets have always been on the side of the Industrialists. My own wife is an elected Industry rep in Parliament; it’s the party of practicality and progress. Now, what can I do for you?”

“We wanted to meet with the Lienid envoy at the Keep,” said Giddon, “but we’ve already gotten trapped in one of your ambles. We were hoping you could direct us around the others.”

“Oh, dear,” said Arni, rising and striding away. After ruffling through the drawers of his desk, he came back with a small stack of cards.

“Keep one of these with you,” he said, passing half of the stack to Giddon and half to Hava. “Give one to everyone in your delegation. Show them to the guards anytime you find yourself at a crossroads where you’re not allowed to proceed.”

Studying one of the cards in his hands, Giddon read the heading “Amble Pass.” Under the heading, printed letters proclaimed: “The individual bearing this pass has an official function in this amble on behalf of the Bank of Flag Hill, a registered business.”

Giddon touched his fingers to the elaborate printed border on the card, the date of its expiration, and the raised seal that said “Ledra Magistry. Penalty for misuse.”

“Wouldn’t we be misusing this?” he asked. “We don’t have business with your bank.”