Jareen awoke in the middle of the night as she intended. Her long service to the Departing had trained her to wake when she desired. She set her bare feet on the floor as quietly as she could. At the small side table, she lit the coconut oil lamp with steel and tinder, hating the grating sound of the strikes. It occurred to her that she should have left it lit, but that might also have been suspicious. Removing the lamp's upper globe, she exposed the wick, flooding the small room with light.

She tried to stay quiet, but she also knew it was likely that Glentel would hear her, anyway. How anyone could watch both day and night, she did not know, but there was something about the grimness of his visage that assured her he was ever on guard. The smell of the heated herbs would no doubt rouse him. If he came in the room, she would simply explain she had awoken feeling ill and was preparing herself a tonic.

Her mortar, pestle, dishes, and pans for preparing tinctures were lost when the House of Lira burned, but she could manage something with dishes she'd taken from the dining room after excusing herself to finish her evening meal alone in her room. She had wrapped one of the bowls in a spare silk robe and broken it before sleeping, and now she set up the fragments alongside an an unbroken bowl and set to work with the herbs she had collected from the garden during Tirlav's visit. Whoever had grown the garden was no doubt a veteran of the Mingling, for a number of the herbs growing in the hanging pots were uncommon, but used for treating wounds and pain in the Mingling, or so the herbalist in Shéna had told her. Hormil did not strike her as a gardener, at least not now. Perhaps this place had long been used by servants of the Synod.

She ground and mixed and cut with the glass fragments. She charred the outer membrane of the tlna over the flame. There was no way she could be as precise as she normally would, but she had no choice. With the Vien sensitivity to tinctures, it would not take a great dose to accomplish her end. Using the flame, she brought water to a boil, but it took a long time to slowly warm the glass so that it would not shatter, and even then she was nervous. The water boiled at last and she was able to mix in her herbs. It took nearly two hours for the tincture to reduce over the low heat. The bowl was blackened with soot from the flame, and the tips of her fingers were sore and burnt. She just hoped it was enough. After cleaning up, she went back to sleep.

***

The next morning, Jareen arrived in the dining room early, followed by Glentel. Hormil already sat cross-legged on his cushions, a cup before him. Often, he slept there rather than returning to his room at the far end of the hall.

"You are early," he said drowsily. "The servants have not yet arrived."

"I will wait," she said, sitting. She held the cup of wine she'd brought from her bedroom, swirling the wine idly. She spent so much time in her own room that she often took small pitchers of wine or water with her. "The babe gives me a fierce hunger."

Hormil narrowed his eyes and glanced at her belly and then away. He said nothing.

Was that the first he knew, or was it the awkwardness of having it spoken aloud? She was showing now, there was no doubt, and while the Vien robes were loose, the silk draped over her belly. After a time, she heard footsteps approaching the door to the house. She rose, still holding her cup, and stepped into the hall. Two vienu entered, familiar servants who regularly brought their food and drink. They expertly balanced dishes and pitchers.

"Let me help you," Jareen said, reaching up and taking a full pitcher of wine from atop one of the vienu's heads. "I am thirsty." The vienu squinted but remained quiet. Glentel had stepped into the doorway to watch. Coir emerged in the hallway and came trotting toward them.

"Jareen!" he said in Vienwé. "I found the paper you wanted!" He waved the page in the air. Glentel watched the man's approach while stepping aside to let the two servants move past into the dining room. Jareen stepped to follow behind the servants even as she poured her cup of wine into the pitcher. She set the pitcher in the middle of the table. Hormil reached for it and poured himself a glass, taking a long drink. The servants set the dishes in the accustomed places and left. Jareen and Coir reclined while Glentel sat upright in his usual place, his legs folded beneath him.

"We bask in Findel's embrace," Hormil said, and the meal began.

"Liel Hormil, if you would," Jareen said, motioning to the pitcher. He leaned forward and passed it to her across the table. She poured herself a fresh cup and passed the pitcher to Coir who did likewise. In turn, Coir passed the pitcher to Glentel. Jareen paid close attention to her caramelized melon as Glentel poured. The servants had brought more pitchers of wine with them, and the small rain catcher outside was full of water, but the additional pitchers were set aside until the first was emptied. It was polite Vien manner to pass one pitcher at a time, to show that the best was always shared.

"I have to say," Coir said. "I do miss a bit of salt on my food."

"Salt?" Hormil asked. "You put salt on food?"

"Yes of course."

"Salt, as in the mineral? From the sea?"

"Yes. It enhances flavor."

Hormil made a face and drank again.

"I knew humans had vile culinary practices, but I did not know this."

"We have quite a broad taste."

"So do the beasts in the Mingling," Hormil said with a smirk. "Eat anything. I once knew a plume who would stake a dead quth along the edge of a clearing and lie in wait for the Suckers to come for the meat. The more the corpse rotted, the less the beasts could resist. It was an effective way to hunt them."

Jareen grimaced at the tale. Hormil turned to Glentel.

"Did you run into any near the Meadow?" he asked. "They're more of a problem in the deeper woods."

"We saw them while riding to the Meadows, Liel." Glentel raised his cup and drank. He squinted and glanced at the cup, holding the wine in his mouth.

"Do you remember how the wine tastes in the Mingling?" Hormil asked him.

Glentel looked at Hormil and swallowed.

"Yes, Liel."

"Awful stuff, that. Turned in a day. There's nothing like a fresh fine kiwi-wine." The Vien often served fresh wines early in the day. Though the Vienwé tongue did not distinguish between wine and juice, it was more common to drink fermented wines in the evenings. Yet despite his mention of a fresh wine, the servants often brought Hormil fermented wines in the morning as well, so Jareen hoped the presence of an evening wine would not be too suspicious.

Hormil nodded and stared across the table at the far wall, appearing lost in memory.

"I hadn't thought to ask," Coir said, "but do the Vien age wines?"

"Age them?" Hormil asked.

Jareen smirked. Coir had used the Vienwé agricultural word that meant to grow over time. The term did not properly translate the Noshian idea of storing wine over many years to try to improve its quality. Besides that, he mis-toned the word, making it sound more like a word used to describe a new-born vaela foal.

"I think he means to ask if we season it over time," she said, using a more appropriate term.

"Yes," Coir confirmed. She knew for a fact that he already had the answer to that question.

"There is nothing better to the taste than a fresh-squeezed mango wine," Hormil said. "Though one aged a hundred years in mahogany has its charms, and other uses besides."

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"I see," Coir said.

Glentel took another sip of his wine.

For a little while, they ate in silence. Jareen tried not to watch Hormil's and Glentel's eyes growing heavy, their movements sluggish. Hormil leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, his hand resting at the base of his cup, his fingers barely touching the glass. Glentel jerked awake for a moment, eyes wide, staring about as if startled, but in his growing stupor he took another drink, as if it would revive him. A few moments later, his forehead slammed against the polished table.

"That will bruise," Coir muttered.

She feared that the dose was too strong and may prove fatal, but then, Glentel intended to kill her babe. She could risk his death. Hormil had drunk more of it, and for him she felt a pang of guilt, but no doubt he would have obeyed the Synod's orders as well.

Jareen rose from the table.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"I am."

"Let us get our things."

Hormil cleared his throat and looked up.

"What did you use?" he asked.

Jareen and Coir froze, staring at the commander. Hormil's gloved hand drifted to the hilt of the long knife that he always wore at his side. "What herb, I mean. It was tlna, wasn't it? Mixed with something else, though. I've been taking tlna mixed in wine for four hundred years. Why do you think it's growing out there?"

Pushing against his thigh, Hormil rose. Though he did not wear armor, he was wearing the long silk tunic commonly worn by the riders under their mail. He lifted the tunic, showing the raised white and purple ridges of a horrific wound that looked like it had taken a chunk out of his flank, leaving a hollow there. "One of the panthers," he said, lowering his tunic. "And that's just one of my wounds. I can hardly take a step without pain. It would take a much larger dose to do for me."

He moved around the side of the table to where Glentel lay. The vien had started to snore. Gently, Hormil lifted him up and leaned him back atop the cushions. He grasped Glentel's wrist, feeling for a pulse.

"It is dangerous for those unaccustomed."

"I know," Jareen said.

"We are already dead," Hormil muttered, standing straight again.

"Did you know the whole time?" Coir asked. He and Jareen had not moved.

Hormil grimaced, stepping past them to the arched doorway.

"It has a flavor. Yet if one does not look at a thought, sometimes it is possible to let it slip by. It takes practice."

Jareen didn't understand what he meant, but she did understand that he had moved to block them.

"Please," she said. "They are going to kill my babe."

"They were all babes once," Hormil said. "Every vien in every company. All babes."

"And how many more will you send?" Coir asked. "One? Ten thousand?"

"Please," Jareen said, her hands on her belly. After this failed attempt, she was not likely to get another chance. She knew that she could not overpower Hormil, but if it came to it, she would fight. She had never experienced feelings like those that had grown in her—the certainty that she would do anything for another person, someone she had never seen or spoken to, but felt within her. She had gone from being alone to being a mother. "Please," she said again.

"I don't know if I can," Hormil answered.

"Please try," Coir asked.

"The edge is so close. There are so many fractures. The weight is terrible." He shook his head.

"I believe you," Coir said.

"Help us," Jareen pleaded.

Hormil smiled.

"I don't know if I can."

"Did you care about them?" Coir asked. "About the companies you sent east. Did you care?"

"Yes. About every single one. I wanted to help them more. They stopped me. I wanted to help more." Hormil raised his gloved hands to his face.

"Help us," Jareen begged again.

"I don't know if I can and live."

"You told me that you are already dead," Coir said.

"The Synod. . ."

"Did they care about your companies?" Coir asked.

Hormil was startled by the question. He gritted his teeth.

"Let the Synod be damned!" He doubled over, as if someone had struck a blow to his gut.

"Then help us!" Jareen cried.

Hormil grasped the sides of his head, his face contorting in pain. His arms shook, and a scream slowly rose from his belly, as if fighting its way up and out of his throat. His ripped his fists away with clumps of hair. He clawed at his arms, breathing hard. Spittle flecked from his mouth. He straightened and doubled over again, groaning and screaming in turn. Opening his mouth, he vomited onto the floor, a wine-colored splume. He dragged the gloves from his hands, and Jareen saw the pigmentations on his fingers. He clawed at himself, tearing his long tunic apart, and pulling its shreds from his scarred body as if the cloth was a prison.

He didn't stop, and soon he hunched before them naked. Jareen saw the frightful extent of his wounds, now joined by the streaked red marks where his fingernails had raked his arms and chest. Still screaming, eyes wide and white, he fled the room. They heard the door to the house open, and he was gone, howling down the curling stairway.

Coir and Jareen stood for a few moments in astounded silence. Glentel's light snores brought Jareen back to the urgency of the moment. Habit made her check; the vien's breathing was light and shallow, but it was steady.

"Hurry," she said, rushing out into the hall. In her room, she pinned up her hair and wrapped her head in a silken scarf of deep green. Anyone would remember an Insensitive if they saw one, and she hoped the scarf would hide her from casual glances despite the unusual fashion. Her satchel was already prepared, and she had only to grab it and flee. Coir appeared at the doorway to his room carrying his own bag stuffed full. At least his arms were not loaded with tenae, though she could see the impression of some through the cloth of the sack.

"Come," she said, slinging her satchel over her shoulder and heading down the hall. They had only accomplished the easiest part of the escape. Fleeing through the Embrace without capture might well be impossible. Outside, the spiraling stair turned around the great trunk of the eucalyptus, while to the left the hanging gardens rested in total stillness. She thought she could still hear Hormil's screams away to the east. Jareen started down the stairs, but as she began the first turn, Coir called her.

"Jareen, wait."

She turned. Coir was looking back at the house.

"What?"

"The roof is peaked."

"What?" she asked.

"The ceiling within was not peaked."

"We have no time for this!"

"What is above the ceiling?"

Jareen turned away.

"They'll expect us to run, not stay!" Coir hissed. That stopped her again. "What's above the ceiling?" he asked.

"Probably storage." Many of the upper houses had lower interior ceilings to make room for storage, so that fewer trips to the ground were needed. This was especially true of the older houses.

"How do we get in? I never saw an access."

"Maybe in the back, outside below the eaves."

Coir started around the side of the house. Jareen grabbed the bottom of her robe and followed.

"What's the point of not getting caught if we can't run?" she asked as she caught up.

"We can't outrrun them, but the longer we stay, the less they can anticipate us."

Along the garden side of the house, a narrow plank walkway extended toward the back. Coir headed down it, but as they neared the back corner, he hesitated. The wood there looked aged, weather stained, and damp. He slid his foot forward cautiously, but the plank sagged under his foot.

"Is there another way?"

"I don't think so," Jareen said. "This planking is probably a hundred years old. The house is older." The rope webbing didn't extend this far along the house, either. She crouched down and looked underneath the walkway. There were support arches about every three feet. She stepped past Coir and hopped the gap to land over the next arch. One more hop, and she was at the corner, where the planks felt firmer again.

"I must say," Coir muttered, deliberately looking forward rather than down, "I thought I would like your tree city more than I do."

Around the corner, an old ladder led to a hatch beneath the peak of the roof. Jareen grabbed a rung but Coir gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Let me climb first," he said. "To see if it's safe."

Jareen shrugged him off.

"You aren't built for climbing." She swung upward and found that the hatch was not hard to open. It was just wide enough to fit one of the larger casks of wine through, and she crawled inside. Coir followed. The attic was only three feet high at the peak. There were some dusty casks and crates laid out in a row to one side, but the floor was mostly full of stashes of nuts and animal droppings. It smelled musty. No doubt, the servants of the Synod had been seeing to Hormil's needs for years, bringing prepared food rather than storing supplies above. She wondered how long the liel commander had dwelt there.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked as Coir slid the hatch closed again. She didn't like not running. The prospect of waiting in that dark, damp attic was hard enough.

"I think the availability of good ideas is remarkably sparse at the moment," Coir answered.

"What if they think of this?"

"They think we are trying to escape. They will have expected us to flee."

"But won't they check?" She shouldn't have agreed to this. Maybe there was still time to run.

"Would you? Besides. A Liel Commander just ran naked and raving into the city. This might not be the most opportune moment for an Insensitive and a human to wander by. "

Jareen sighed. Coir tried to crawl further into the attic, but the floor beneath him creaked terribly.

"Find a spot and lay still," she said. "Anyone inside could hear us."

"How long will Glentel sleep, do you think?"

She hoped he would only sleep and nothing more.

"Hours."

They settled in, lying as comfortably as they could. There was little to do besides listen and think and second guess whether she should have fled and taken advantage of whatever head start she could.

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