“So you’re not going to tell me.” Sharrow nodded.

“My dear lady,” the machine said, continuing to trundle after her. “Without saying so in so many words… correct.”

“Right.”

“May I take it that you do wish my services?”

“Thanks, but I don’t really need any help when it comes to looking after myself.”

“Well,” the machine chimed, with what sounded like amusement in its voice, “you did hire an escort unit the last time you visited the city of Arkosseur, and you do have a contract with a commercial army concern to guard your dwelling house on Jorve.”

She glanced back at the machine. “Well, aren’t we well informed.”

“Thank you; I like to think so.”

“So what’s my favourite colour?”

“Ultraviolet, you once told one of your tutors.”

She stopped; so did the machine. She turned and looked up at the beachcomber’s battered casing. She shook her head. “Shit, even I’d forgotten I said that.” She looked down at the glass beach. “Ultraviolet, eh? Huh, so I did.” She shrugged. “That’s almost witty.”

She turned and walked on, the beachcomber at her heel. “You seem to know me better than I do myself, machine,” she said. “Anything else about me you think I should know? I mean, just in case I’ve forgotten.”

“Your name is Sharrow.”

“No, I rarely forget that.”

“-of the first house of Dascen Major, Golterian. You were born in 9965, in house Tzant, on the estate of the same name, since sold along with most of the rest of the Dascen Major fortune following the settlement required by the World Court after the dismemberment of your grandfather Gorko’s unhappily illegal-commercial network, rumoured to be the greatest of its day.”

“We’ve always thought big, as a family. Especially when it comes to disasters.”

“Following the unfortunate death of your mother-”

“Murder, I think, is the technical term.” She slowed her pace and clasped her hands behind her back.