We passed people in the garb of a dozen regions as we strolled, and the air was filled with the smells of cooking from open stalls, to satisfy a multitude of tastes. At various points in our career up the hill, we stopped for meat pies, yogurts; sweets. The stimuli were too overpowering for any but the most sated to ignore.

I noticed the lithe way she moved about obstacles. It wasn’t just gracefulness. It was more a state of beingpreparedness, I guess. Several times I noticed her glancing back in the direction from which we had come. I looked myself, but there was nothing unusual to see. Once, when a man stepped suddenly from a doorway we were approaching, I saw her hand flash toward the dagger at her belt, then drop away.

“There is so much activity, so much going on here…” she commented after a time.

“True. Begma is less busy, I take it?”

“Considerably.”

“Is it a pretty safe place to stroll about?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Do the women as well as the men take military training there?”

“Not ordinarily. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“I’ve had some training in armed and unarmed combat though,” she said.

“Why was that?” I asked.

“My father suggested it. Said it could come in hand for a relative of someone in his position. I thought he might be right. I think he really wanted a son.”

“Did your sister do it, too?”

“No; she wasn’t interested.”

“You planning on a diplomatic career?”

“No. You’re talking to the wrong sister.”