“Not unless you’re on the list,” she’s told.

“Can I speak to Mr. Khoriak, then?”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s a member of Constantine’s suite.” One of his guards. “I’ll see.”

Aiah waits for ten minutes, hoping that Khoriak wasn’t killed in the fighting. “This is Khoriak.”

Relief pours through Aiah, relieving tension she hadn’t realized she’d possessed.

“Khoriak, this is Aiah. Aiah from Jaspeer. You remember?” “Of course.”

Of course. Idiot. It had only been a few days since she’d seen him.

“I’m in Caraqui. Hotel Oceanic. I would like to see the Metropolitan Constantine, but I can’t seem to reach him.” “I’ll tell him.”

Half an hour later, she’s on Constantine’s private launch. Fast work. She’s been in Caraqui less than two hours.

TRIUMVIR PARQ CALLS FOR DAY OF PRAYER

DALAVANS TO FAST ON FRIDAY

The launch seems to have been liberated from the Keremaths or their supporters: the hull is a shiny black polymer composite with silver trim—not chrome but actual silver, kept bright by the endless polishing of the crew, or perhaps through some hermetic process.

There is a deep whine as the boat accelerates, hydrogen burning through its turbines. It clearly has a lot of power to spare.

The captain is a black-skinned Cheloki, a newcomer. He drives the boat well but doesn’t know the territory: he constantly refers to the map pinned to the chart table next to the wheel. There is a soldier who places a fine white wine and a basket of sandwiches atop the table on the fantail. He is clearly uncomfortable in the role of servant—less than a week ago he was probably in combat—but he’s gracious enough, all things considered. Aiah realizes she hasn’t eaten since second shift yesterday, and she tries not to bolt the sandwiches.