The remainder of that disastrous Kyriaki passed in a blur for Rasheeka. She remembers the overwhelming sense of helplessness, of being too weak to even be much use in helping other surviving victims to safety. She remembers an emene with both legs and an arm blasted from his torso, yet somehow, horribly, still alive, and whimpering until the archon drew his short sword and ended the maimed man's suffering. Almost as appalling was seeing what the emene did to the dead. When some grew bold enough to brave the Hearth, they were desperate to drag out the dead as well as the still-living. As the fires spread from the mostly-empty lot of the Hearth to the surrounding buildings, and the living were forced to retreat from the carnage, the emene butchered their dead, cutting off heads as if taking grisly trophies, and carrying them away with them.

Several times, vulpines or humans were on the verge of arresting or battling the emene, mistaking the bloody condition of the felines, and the severed heads they bore, for signs of murderers. Archon Mefuno overrode them with sharp commands: "Stand down!" and "Leave them be – stop the fire!" But the tension and anger was thicker than smoke. The emene spoke in guttural whispers and glared at the Laosians as if to accuse them of the destruction, and the Laosian suspicion of the strange ways and actions of the emene was even more obvious.

Rasheeka cannot remember the dawn, or leaving the firefighters, but at some point near dawn, she must have fallen into a doze.

In her dreams, she stands before a bonfire, half-collapsed onto itself, burning down. The night sky above is clear, dotted by the stars. The stars outside the Procession are in the wrong places, from her memories of astronomy, yet in the dream, they feel familiar. She is a man, a warrior, a fighter for the Neyemen of Neyn Morkio. She – no, he – points to the sky above. "The Great Wurm ascends," he says.

Beside him, another feline nods. The other is young, and dressed as a shaman, with two entomo in one ear, and one in the third. With the certainty of dreams, she knows him for Neyn Yejsk, though on waking she would realize he looked nothing like the yejsk she had known. "It is a good omen," Neyn Yejsk says.

The warrior grunts. "Is it good enough?" He is worried about his people, in tents and nestled in blankets on the gritty, dry land that sprawls around him, about the enemy they face in the morning. In the back of his mind, mortal fear claws at him, but he tries to focus his attention on other things.

The yejsk shrugs. They stand, shoulder to shoulder, and gaze at the stars. The warrior touches his entomo. "Jskatri," he says, quietly. In the dream, the syllables ring like the answers to a hundred questions. Rasheeka feels a wave of understanding inside her. "She has been good to me."

"It is a good line," Neyn Yejsk says.

"If I fall … " The question goes unspoken.

"Your children will live on." Neyn Yejsk reaches out to touch the entomo in the warrior's ear. "Of that, you may be sure."

The warrior nods. He looks from the stars to the fire. "It is enough."

Rasheeka wakes, disoriented, in one of the narrow beds. The beds all around her are filled with burn victims in varying stages of severity. A handful of attendants move along the narrow walkways left free in the crowded room. There is a strange hush in the air, like the quiet of death, and even the whimpering and crying of the injured is not enough to pierce it.

Rasheeka wakes, blinking in the light, wondering where she has been and where she is now. She has the strangest sense of being uncertain of her own identity as she adjusts to the warm air and stifling silence. Among these thoughts, these strange memories, there was a time when she wasn't a slave, when she lived in a glorious palace in the heart of a distant land, when everything was right in the world and she wanted for naught. But even then there were clouds, looming, and then she realizes they came. They washed everything away. She remembers now that she is a slave – a slave in a foreign land, after a storm. Another storm. But this one is different; this storm came because of her. The world comes in to focus all at once, and Rasheeka sits up with a terrible start and a gnawing terror in her chest that makes her heart pump and blood run cold.

The revelation that came in the dream – that feeling of understanding – fades with consciousness. Whatever "Jskatri" meant while she slept, her sudden recognition of her place and her plight drives it from her, reinforcing her alienation. One of the attendants looks at Rasheeka after the girl's abrupt motion. Gradually, the Khatta becomes aware of the state of her body – every muscle aching from the exercise of the day before. Patches of skin – over her right forearm, along her tail, over her left foreleg – are swathed in bandages, but beneath those they feel rubbed raw, fiery and aching.

Beyond the ache comes another kind of wound with the realization of the events of the day before, realization that renews the memory that so much of this – the pain of these people, the pain of the Laos, her own pain now – is her doing. In her willful desire to be accepted and find a sort of family in Laos Enosi, she ignored Archon Mefuno's warnings and proceeded to the Hearth despite threats against her. She didn't want to be afraid, she didn't want to give up the family she felt she was beginning to realize. The assassins threatened that, made hiding necessary, made being alone and helpless all the more real. And in the end the assassins took away that chance of family, too, all for a chance to kill her. Her stomach turns, and she feels like she wants to retch, both at her own foolishness, and all it has cost everyone. She lurches over, holding her stomach, clenching her jaw, and feeling her burns anew.

She notices, as she leans to the side of the bed, that a clay pot for just such a purpose has been placed there – and already used, by someone. Her nose twitches, and it strikes her that the overly strong, sweet smell is trying to cover another odor, even less pleasant. The attendant who looked at her, a vulpine male of indeterminate age, maneuvers among the beds to join Rasheeka, while his fellows continue their work.

After adding to the contents of the clay jar, Rasheeka feels her stomach relent, though her emotions cling to her like the fire that had singed her skin. She stares with a numb and unfocused face at the floor several feet from the jar she had just made use of. The sickening feel of it all clashes with the fear that eats at her, at making her veer from physically ill, to emotionally devastated, or both in a way that makes her squeeze her head with a hand and wish she had never been born. When the fox nears her she makes no move to look at him, instead focusing on nothing, trying for the moment to keep herself from falling to pieces.

The vulpine places a cool hand on her forehead, and the other on one shoulder. "Lie back," he urges, gently pushing her to lie against the mat again. "You're safe now."

Rasheeka does so, if only because she hasn't the strength to resist, and any gentle voice is a comfort now. She watches the vulpine above her, almost dreading what expression he may wear. Though his voice was gentle she expects blame, a scowl – the disaster did not just effect the Neyemen. She determines that it must have hurt the Laos Enosi as well. The exact numbers and reasons she determinedly avoids to think about, however. There is something very terrible in those numbers.

The fox's face seems a careful mask of neutrality and mild concern, crafted to conceal whatever feelings he might harbor. He takes a flask of water from his side, and fills a cup, then holds it to her lips. "Here, drink," he says, in the same gentle, reassuring voice.

The slave studies the man with vague disbelief, guilt driving her to determine that he should glare at her, that he should show her unkindness. Still, despite such troubling desire, she desperately wants to be comforted. The pain is great, and though it conflicts, she is in a way glad someone is here. Anyone. She accepts the cup with a trembling hand, and she brings it to her lips. The cool water is refreshing, even if she cannot manage to avoid spilling some of it.

The fox waits, patiently, while she finishes it. Once she starts drinking, the Khatta realizes just how parched she is. The inside of her mouth and nose feel raw and scraped from the smoke of the day before. Once she is done with the first cup, he refills the glass, then takes the used pot from beside her bed and walks away.

A pair of armored men flank the bank of windows, one to either side, their attention on the world without, as the attendants continue in their ministrations. In the hallway outside, Rasheeka catches the sound of a commotion, a few words uttered in Laosian. The door slides open, and a familiar spotted form slips inside. Winter-Stars bites her lip as her eyes search the room.

Immediately Rasheeka's mind recalls the memory of Winter-Stars's desire to accompany her to the Hearth. For a moment the slave emene wonders if her friend's appearance is no more than wishful thinking, an apparition created by a parched body and a delirious mind. But then she remembers Winter-Stars's ailment the morning previous, and she finds a bit of hope in knowing her friend is still alive. She moves to raise her hand and draw Winter-Stars's attention to her but in an instant she fear reminds her of what had come to be because of her, and being surrounded by Neyemen, she lowers her hand and swallows hard. The idea that the people who once might have been a foster family might now hate her is a raw pill to swallow.

Either the motion gets her attention, despite the abrupt stifling of it, or Winter-Stars's search of the room finally lets her spot the Khatta. Whichever is the case, the cheetah darts to Rasheeka's side, setting a tray laden with food on the floor to free her hands to sign. "Rasheeka! There you are! Oh, we've been so worried about you – we heard that everyone had died, all the Khattas. We saw the fire! The tyr sent everyone out to help fight it, and I saw some Khattas while I was out there so I knew they weren't all dead, but there were – " She pauses and swallows. " – these… severed … heads. I thought maybe someone was killing Khattas. Oh! I'm so glad you're okay!"

The severed heads. That was a memory Rasheeka would have preferred to leave for later – never feeling about perfect in her current state of health. Her studious mind offers a few suggestions for her to ponder, quite unbidden, but she ignores such aimless and disturbing thoughts. Right now she is just glad to see Winter-Stars, and for the moment that's all that matters. Not knowing how to say what she wants to say, and feeling sick and disoriented, she only offers a very dry sounding, "I'm glad to see you, too."

"You are okay, aren't you?" Winter-Stars continues, anxiously.

Rasheeka tries to smile, solely for Winter-Stars's benefit, but even her lips feel chapped and crackly. Rasheeka herself feels horrible, with no desire to smile ever again. The attempt to ease the Savanite's fears is something the slave emene finds she is incapable of maintaining, even for a moment. Her will crumbles and her smile fades, leaving Rasheeka with a numb and terrified expression she is unable to hide. She wants to cry. She doesn't answer.

The Savanite reaches out to pat Rasheeka's shoulder, hesitantly, then abruptly leans forward and hugs her. Winter-Stars embraces the Khatta tightly for a moment, but then eases, fearful of hurting her. She rubs her cheek against Rasheeka's, her throat vibrating in a comforting purr.

The singed slave mewls when hugged. Her body is sore, but mainly it is the emotion that makes her cry out. Though her attempts to hide how she had been feeling was a weak thing, she had been trying, and with the comfort that is Winter-Stars here now she breaks down and begins to sob uncontrollably. She hadn't cried much until now, though the fact the emotion was agonizingly there could not be questioned; she just could not manage the tears at the time. Such was the shock, she could not cry. As if in a haze she had felt only an empty numbness that kept the flood of tears away. Now here, recovering, with the adrenaline gone and all the remains is to think about what has been done, the tears flood to her eyes.

Winter-Stars strokes the feline's brown hair, frizzy from the heat of the fire, and rocks Rasheeka in her arms. She doesn't try to sign anything, simply holding her while she cries.

It seems like a long time until the tears leave her, but eventually Rasheeka's wracking sobs relent into soft tears, and those into silence. With the tears having left her and her face feeling warm and wet, quite at odds with her dry and burnt body, Rasheeka sits in silence beside her friend. A long time ago the idea of going to a Savanite for comfort might have struck Rasheeka as laughable, and now in her misery it means the world to her. She thinks she was a fool back then, too.

One of the attendants comes to take the food Winter-Stars had brought in with her, dispersing it amongst the patients who are awake, but not disturbing the two felines. The Savanite crouches on her haunches next to the raised mat, atypically somber. Finally, she signs, "I'm sorry about your friends, Rasheeka."

Rasheeka avoids looking at her friend's face. The guilt of what she brought about haunts her with an iron grip. When her friend signs her condolences, Rasheeka isn't sure what to say, uncertain how to convey her feelings, uncertain if she understands her own feelings at all. The only thing she is certain of is that she's hurting and tired, and all that has happened feels like a weight that threatens to crush her if she ponders it too much. So she offers something else, dodging the subject; "I had a dream," she signs slowly with tight-feeling hands.

Winter-Stars blinks a couple of times, cocking her head to one side. "What about?" she signs after a moment's confusion.

The change of subject matter provides a welcome distraction. "I was someone else," explains Rasheeka. "I think I was a man. There was … There was a fire." She shudders. When she ponders what else there was to say about the dream she remembers Neyn Yejsk, or who she thinks might have been an oddity created by a tired mind. He didn't look like the Neyn Yejsk she knew. She supposes he might have been younger. Thinking about Neyn Yejsk causes the Khatta to begin to tremble again even as she desperately tries to stave off memories that threaten to crush her. Neyn Yejsk is part of the terrible number – the very worst part of the number. Quickly she wracks her brain to remember something else from her dream. "I was a warrior," she signs quickly, almost desperately. "There was a battle. It was going to happen soon."

"I've never seen people fight before. Not like in a war," Winter-Stars signs, more to have something to say than anything else. Her eyes are on Rasheeka's hands, watching for the rest.

"Neither have I. I've only read about it. That's what I did a lot. Read. All the time. It's not like what you read in books." "It" is left unspoken, but for Rasheeka "it" is all she has experienced since she became a slave. The books never much prepared her for any of this. "When I was the warrior, I was worried about my children."

The Savanite's ears wiggle at the thought of Rasheeka having children. At the Savanite's amusement, the Khatta finds herself thinking that "children" wasn't the right word, or not the right concept, for what the yejsk said at the end of the dream. But then, she can't think what else it could be.

Rasheeka lets her hands fall and resumes her silence. She feels a bit better for having had her cry and having been able to speak to her friend. It gives her strength enough to touch on the memories of what happened and what may happen because of it, and a very real danger occurs to her she hadn't thought of before. Hesitantly she begins to sign, "You should stay away from me." She is still unable to look her friend in the eye.

"What?" The Savanite almost topples backwards in surprise. "Why?" Even her fingers wilt with hurt.

Rasheeka bites her lip. Her friend's surprise stings her, for she hadn't expected such a wounded reaction. She had assumed she would just understand. Didn't she see? After all that had happened, she wonders how anyone would risk themselves being around her – or how she could risk anyone by being around them. No, she won't endanger her friends. The idea that she could lose Winter-Stars too threatens to bring her to tears again, though the idea she may need to give up her friends' company is also a poison to her heart. "It's dangerous," she signs vehemently. "I don't want you to die too!"

The Savanite's fingers tremble, then she shakes her head. "Oh! Don't be silly! It's just bad luck – these things – I mean – nothing like that could happen again. Not to you. Surely you can't think that!" She reaches out to pat Rasheeka's hand, smiling at her.

Rasheeka shakes her head quickly. She leans back to free herself room to sign again. "NO." The word, were it spoken, would be heavy with the apprehension that comes from expecting her friend to be hurt, to know she's trying to drive Winter-Stars away for their own safety. "It's not bad luck. You have to stay away. I don't … I don't want to get you killed too. … don't want to see you anymore. There may be lessons, but no more." Rasheeka swallows, but her expression turns adamant.

The Savanite reaches for Rasheeka's hand again, tugging before releasing it to sign, "Don't – don't be that way, Rasheeka," she signs, half-pleading. "I know you don't mean it. You're just upset. It'll get better. There are guards everywhere, now." She gestures to the window and the men watching out of it. "Shock says the tyr is going to find out what happened. He was down by the fire, too, when we were all trying to put it out. I know they'll find out. You'll see. It'll be all right."

With Winter-Star's pleading, Rasheeka can't muster the energy to push her away anymore. Even if being around her is dangerous, Rasheeka still finds she needs someone around now. Especially now. She isn't even sure she could handle it all on her own, if she pushed everyone away. "Dynatos tyr was there?" she inquires, more interested for the moment in finding out what happened. Her adamant expression softens, and her brow narrows in tired concern.

Relieved by her friend's change of heart, Winter-Stars nods. "Yes. You could see his gold mask in glow from the fire. I didn't get a good look at what he was doing – but it was on his orders that we all came out to help. The whole Astikos, practically. Even on Kyriaki! Shock thinks that's unusual for them, but I don't know. Do you know they have these things, long tubes, that shoot water out? I bet the whole city would have burned down without those! It was amazing. It must be something like the way the taps in the kitchens and the bathing rooms work; I don't know. Is it magic, do you think? Shock says it isn't."

At "the whole city" Rasheeka mewls, sounding guilty. She continues to listen until her friend finishes then signs, "The whole city? Winter-Stars, you're exaggerating? You are, aren't you? Was dynatos tyr upset? No, of course he was upset. That's stupid. And no, I don't think they're magical. At least I have never seen a mage here. No magic at all."

"It might as well be magic. No, it's better than magic, because it helps me all the time. I hated carrying water from the well and now I never have to! That's more than a mage ever did for me." She wiggles her ears in amusement. Rasheeka's consternation over her other comments gets to her, however, and she adds, "You're right, you're right, I don't know what I'm talking about. The city is mostly stone anyway. Stone doesn't burn. Everyone was upset, though. Orders coming from everywhere and we didn't understand a tenth of them, but we got through all right. 'Dig here' or 'carry that there' isn't too hard to understand."

Though Winter-Stars downplays her suggestion that the entire city may have burned down, Rasheeka still finds the news highly uncomfortable. It spurs her mind to consider the reality, to analyze what did happen – and by that she remembers how flimsy the structures in the Skimos were. "What was the damage like?" Her eyes narrow. "Was Archon Dalus there?"

"Archon Dalus?" Winter-Stars shakes her head. "I don't know who he is. I don't know any of the archons by name … or face. He's not that one fox, is he? The steward one?"

"No. That's Steward Rasmus. Archon Dalus is the large human who doesn't like foreigners. I hate him," explains Rasheeka with angry gestures. "I think he did this. I'll never forgive him. Never."

"An archon did this? Why – how do you know?" Winter-Stars looks confused, then she adds, "You should tell the tyr!"

Rasheeka glances towards the door, half expecting Archon Dalus to come bursting in an accuse her at that very moment. "I don't know for certain, but he has always hated me. He hates everyone who's not from Laos Enosi. It was his fault I was brought to trial, and he wouldn't care if the Neyemen were hurt. It'd probably make him happy. I don't know why dynatos tyr even listens to him. He's not even a good archon; his argument was stupid. But dynatos tyr wouldn't listen to me. And it's just a feeling but I think he did it. I'm sure that man at the Hearth was a professional," Rasheeka elaborates in sign.

Winter-Stars mouths a long "Oh" this revelation. "The one who had us arrested – now I see. I don't like him, either," she agrees, nodding several times. She wasn't there for the trial, but Rasheeka explained much of it afterwards to her fellow slaves.

"I read that in Babel you must offer a considerable amount of coinage to hire professional assassins. It is true elsewhere, too, such as with the defunct Assassins' Guild. Archon Dalus would have those resources, he's a aide to the tyr. He must have them. And he has a reason." The Khatta's fingers tense in anger for a moment, then she relents, dropping back in to the hammock. "Ow," she mewls. She rolls over on her side, facing her friend. "Can we talk later? Somewhere safe. I'm glad you came, but, I don't think I can sign anymore. My hand hurts."

"I'm sorry!" Winter-Stars signs in answer, contrite. "I'll tell the others you're all right. They'll be glad to know it! And I'll come back to see you soon. I should get back to work anyway. There's lots to do. So much they hardly have time to keep track of us if we're not doing it, if that makes any sense. Get better, Rasheeka!" She stands, backing away and waving.

Rasheeka waves back, if lamely. She gives her friend another weak smile before the Savanite departs.

Rasheeka slips back into a doze after her Savanite friend's departure. She dreams of a man she cannot see, who is whispering into her left ear, either so quietly she cannot make out the words, or in a language she does not understand. She feels as though whatever he's saying is terribly important, and she keeps twisting around to try to see him, hoping to hear him better that way. But no matter how she spins, he is always just to the left of her, whispering. When she wakes, it is still early morning by the light, and her ear itches where the entomo is attached.

Half-awake and with her eyes closed, Rasheeka absently reaches for her ear and scratches a little. She blinks awake, startled by her memories. The shock isn't so very terrible as it had been the last time she awoke, but it is still enough to make her worry all over again. To distract herself from that worry she ponders the matter of her odd dreams as she stares at the ceiling.

The entomo feels hard against her fingers, its shell smooth and rigid, not the still-soft casing she remembers from the last time. As she's contemplating this fact and the dreams, a pair of guards enter the room. They speak with one of the attendants, and her sharp ear catches their inquiry: "Where is the prodotis emene, the one from across the sea?"

Rasheeka knew they would come eventually. She didn't think it would take the tyr long to discover her presence at the Hearth, and then he would summon her and demand an explanation. Though even if she saw it coming it still makes her afraid. The guilt of the matter, however, reminds her of all that happened because she chose to go to the Hearth. Resigned to her fate she sits up and awaits the coming of the guards.

The attendant points her out to them, and one walks over to her. "Make yourself presentable, slave," she tells her, in a neutral voice, neither accusing nor inviting.

"Making herself presentable" is a little more involved than she had expected – the clothes she wore to the Hearth are filthy, scorched, and tattered now. The guards escort her back to her room, where she has another set of clothes. Unlike when she was arrested, the two vulpines treat her politely – at least as politely as anyone treats a slave. Finally, they bring her along a path she recognizes, as she ascends the final staircase: this is where she was brought when she translated the tyr's words into a letter for Captain Ledyr.

Expecting the throne room, Rasheeka is glad to see she is being brought to the more private chamber of the tyr. Twice at the throne room her life had been threatened, and she cannot recall a single pleasant visit. Beyond that, the array of guards and courtiers in the throne room always made her nervous. She thinks it will be somewhat easier to explain to the tyr now, though she remains in dread of having to explain the truth.

Once again, at the top of the stairs, she and the guards are met by another pair of guards, and one of those enters the tyr's chamber alone to announce them. This time, however, Archon Mefuno comes out with him. He looks, Rasheeka thinks, more disreputable every time she sees him. His hands and face must have been washed since the fire, because they are no longer coated in dirt, soot, and sweat. But his clothes are smoke-stained and his braid is frizzing down its length, and his face is so haggard she suspects he has not slept. "You can go," he tells the guards who came with her, then beckons to her.

Rasheeka bows to the Archon as she always has. The motion has provided a way for her to hide her face in unpleasant circumstances where she'd rather not let anyone see her fear. This is such a time, and even when she rises Rasheeka cannot manage to look Archon Mefuno in the face. She walks in at his behest, her gaze cast to the floor.

The archon leads her through the empty private audience chamber she met the tyr in once before, and from there, into a side room.

The tyr stands by the window, his back to them as they enter. He is dressed more simply than she has ever seen him, in an unadorned shirt and leggings. Only his gileko – the long, sleeveless jacket – sports embroidery. His gold hair is tightly braided down his back. His thick-furred tail twitches from side to side, revealing a spot of soot on one end. "Dynatos tyr," Mefuno begins. The tyr turns around. He is not wearing his mask.

"Rasheeka." He is not human, nor vulpine, nor quite like anything she has heard or seen of in this world. His skin is golden-bronze, lighter than that of the other humans of Apagorevo, and his nose longer and narrower. Carved cheekbones give his face a feminine cast that is muted by a strong jaw line. But his ears… They are long, curved, and pointed like a fox's, but rise from the side of his head like a human's, going upwards, covered in short golden fuzz. His eyes are black, as black and unreadable as the glass eyes of his mask when he looks at her. "Sit."

Rasheeka looks up as she is called to move. Her intentions were simply to locate the cushion and do as she is told but she is caught by unexpected sight of the tyr without his mask. She has never seen him without his mask, and she would think that very few people ever have either. The surprise registers clearly on the small Khatta's face, her eyes wide and her muzzle parted. She does, however, seem to realize what she's doing rather quickly and after a very deep bow (that further hides her surprise) the slave scurries further in to the room and genuflects before lowering herself to her knees, her head to the floor as she had done before.

Mefuno flinches when the tyr turns to face them. "Dynatos tyr… ," he begins.

"Don't," the tyr interrupts him. His eyes are on Rasheeka, following her movements. "Tell me what happened."

From where she lies kneeling and bowed to the floor the slave hesitates as she begins to speak, the apprehension that answering may well doom her clear in her mind. Lying, however, is not an option. To lie to a tyr is death; she has seen this before. Waiting too long to speak may well make things worse than they already are. Beyond this, Rasheeka feels guilty. It is that single emotion that drives her to answer despite her fear. If saying the truth could even touch upon amends then that is what she will do – even if the truth kills her. "D-dynatos t-tyr, an assassin destroyed the Hearth. D-destroyed it because, because I w-was there. It is my fault," she stammers, her voice an almost inaudible whisper.

What happens next, happens so quickly that Rasheeka's bleary-edged mind can hardly process it. She is yanked from her kneeling position by the front of her sakaki, and hauled upwards, face to face with the tyr, who holds her with his fists clenched in the fabric. "Prodotis," he snarls, "What have you brought on my country? What are you trying to do?"

Rasheeka suddenly screams as she's dragged to her feet and manhandled up by the tyr. Such a show of sheer force was the last thing she expected from him, despite the anger she had feared she would meet. Something so inelegant as hauling her up by her clothes seemed as far removed from the tyr as the worn clothing of the Skimos dwellers is from the tyr's usual impeccable grab – and this terrifies her more than anything. At first she can only mouth the words of her response, such is her fright, though she manages to squeak, "Nothing! D-d-dynatos tyr, I never – never wanted … didn't … I just- I … " Her ears flatten back against her head and she cowers as she is held, shrinking away from the infuriated ruler.

Mefuno twitches, at the sudden move from the tyr, at the scream from the girl, but he stands by the closed door of the room. As fearless as he was in the face of a burning skjesk and an assassin, he does not move to face the tyr now. Tyr Sychi's black eyes bore into Rasheeka, his jaw clenched tight, his muscles tense. He inhales, and tosses the girl into a chair nearby, releasing her. "You. Will. Explain. Yourself," he says, voice tightly controlled, seething with anger.

Rasheeka thuds in to the chair she is dropped in to. She can feel her burns chafe as she lands, raw painful stretches of singed skin from the fire. And though these do hurt she is far more worried about what the tyr will do to her in his furious state. She curls her knees to her chest, arms hugging them tightly to her. "Archon Mefuno, he – he said I shouldn't go – and I shouldn't have! I know, I know, I'm so sorry! I never wanted to kill anyone, I- I just wanted to b-belong! Somewhere, anywhere. Somewhere where I wasn't a prodotis. They were so nice- … n-nice to me. Oh Primus, I'm sorry!" Rasheeka stammers. As she finishes she can feel her face wet with new tears, her vision made blurry as the recollection of what she had done is spoken true.

The tyr watches her, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, tail lashing from one side to the other. "Dynatos tyr," Mefuno begins again, venturing forward a step, "I think you're scaring her."

Tyr Sychi turns his gaze onto the archon, and the man takes a step back. "I know you're scaring me," Mefuno half-mumbles. The corner of the tyr's mouth twitches in an involuntary smile. Emboldened, the archon continues, "Dynatos tyr, it's my fault. I should never have allowed her to go, not after two attempts on her life – it was Kyriaki, but that's no excuse. This clearly qualified – "

"Enough." The tyr glares at Mefuno, and the human quiets instantly. Tyr Sychi turns to Rasheeka. "Rasheeka. Did you plant the device which set off this explosion?" His voice has changed back to the neutral timbre she is accustomed to from him.

Rasheeka blinks, stunned. For a moment she glances between the tyr and the archon, whiskers twitching, before she answers. "No! No." She looks away, absently rubbing her shoulders as she thinks about that ill-fated day. "Why- … why would you- … why, why would you ask that? It's cruel. No, dynatos tyr. I didn't- … would never … "

"'No' will suffice, Rasheeka," the tyr interrupts. "Did you know that someone would be destroying the Hearth during the service yesterday?" he continues.

"N-no – well, yes, and… " The feline looks up for a moment. "… and no. Dynatos tyr. It is complicated, and I do not wish to be vague."

Tyr Sychi struggles to keep his composure, and wins. "Then be precise. In what way did you know?"

Rasheeka bows her head, the action made something of a cringe. "I d-did not know when I went to the Hearth. It was only d-during the arrival of the others I noticed something suspicious – but it was so, so paranoid. So subtle. It was wood. A person brought wood, and d-did not stay like the others. I thought it faintly odd, but I did not know it was trap! I would have said something! It was only when it was placed did- d-did it … " The end result is left unspoken, the feline being unable to say the words.

The golden-haired man glances to his archon, who gives a little shrug. The tyr returns his attention to Rasheeka. "A man brought in wood for the bonfire. Did you recognize him?"

"N-no, dynatos tyr, he or she was well-covered," Rasheeka answers.

"Do you know anyone who would do such a thing?" the tyr continues. He starts pacing, his cloth-clad feet making little noise on the carpet.

Rasheeka bites her lip, then offers hesitantly, "N-not for certain."

"Whom do you suspect, and on what grounds?" The tyr stops pacing to watch her with his strange, black eyes.

The slave glances back to the tyr but when she sees those weird eyes of the man whose species she cannot name staring back at her she looks away again. "Archon D-dalus. He has hated me since my arrival, b-because I – I am a connection to the world beyond Apagorevo – because I can facilitate external trade and bring outsiders here. He is the only one I know who has a reason to kill me, and suspected p-power to employ professional assassins. It is clear he despises prodotis, I d-do not think he would care if he killed the Neyemen to kill me," she answers.

The tyr takes two quick strides to cross the room and stand before her. For a moment, she thinks he is going to hit her, but he holds his hands at his sides, then steps back. Mefuno makes a sound through his nose, and the tyr looks at him. The archon shrugs. "She's got a point, dynatos tyr."

The tyr scowls. "And do you have anything more than his hatred on which to base your suspicion?" he asks, looking at Rasheeka.

Cringing back in her chair Rasheeka begins to explain, slowly emerging from her retreat against the backrest. "Archon D-dalus's attempt t-to have me executed was – was, well, dynatos tyr, it was stupid. That strikes me as odd. I thought about it, dynatos tyr, and d-did not think it was incompetence. How then would he become an aide? It sounded – sounded, desperate. As if he is afraid. Afraid I will bring what he despises to Laos Enosi. And they would come. Many of them. I am nothing now but a translator and a source of information about outside matters. And I am the only one here I have seen. T-that would be why I am targeted. And Archon D-Dalus has repeatedly spoken against me, and sought my removal or destruction."

Tyr Sychi looks at Mefuno again, but this time the archon says nothing. The tyr crosses his arms over his chest, jaw muscles working. "Enough. He is an archon. You will speak of him with respect, emene, whatever he may think of you."

Rasheeka bows her head again in a half-cringe, whispering, "Yes, dynatos tyr."

He paces again, his face closing in like the mask he normally wears. "Why did you think this man – this person – carrying the log was suspicious? What was it about him?"

"He d-did not remain, dynatos tyr," answers the slave.

"You have said, Rasheeka, that these attempts to kill you are because you are not of Laos Enosi." He pauses to watch the Khatta. "Is there any other reason someone would try to kill you? What enemies did you have before you came to my land? Who were you?"

That was a question Rasheeka had been hoping to avoid answering for as long as possible. As a slave nobody, she at least could fit in with other slaves, but as a slave noble, she feels like a joke. Besides, that it hurts her to remember the family she had lost – easier to pretend now that she came from nowhere. But it would seem the time for her to hide her beginnings has expired, so she answers. "Al-Elsayi Rasheeka bint Ashquar. From the city of Tizban, dynatos tyr. Th-that is to say Rasheeka of – of the noble house Al-Elsayi, daughter of Ashquar. From the city of Tizban," she explains hesitantly, sounding uncomfortable at divulging her origins.

The tyr studies her after this answer, for a long, uncomfortable moment. "You are a kyrios?"

Rasheeka nods her head slowly. Her whiskers twitch as she adds, "A noble, yes, but my family is no more, dynatos tyr."

"What happened to them? How did you come to be a slave translating for Captain Ledyr?" The tyr is still watching her closely. She can't tell if he believes her or not.

"My father died when I was twelve, and the estate transferred to my mother. Mother … Mother did not take father's loss well. Our debts were badly managed, as Mother would often spend beyond her means. Beyond our means. Mother was never was good with the sciences as father was. I do not think she ever cared for them; she was – was simple, and lonely." The slave loosens her grip on her knees now, letting her legs stretch and hang above the floor as continues to explain, her eyes fixed upon her hands as she folds them in her lap and fidgets. "Eventually Mother attempted an investment and it failed. Mother did not endure the news well. She went to walk with Ariel. I became responsible for the debts of my father and mother, so I was and I could not. There was no money left. Our estate was seized and I was sold as a slave to pay some of our debt."

The tyr's eyes do not leave her face. "Prodotis," he murmurs. He turns, stalks across the floor, and sits in a chair. He steeples his long fingers, studying her. "Do you believe her, archon?" he asks, at last.

Mefuno shifts his position, where he leans against the frame of the closed door. "You mean, do I think she's a spy sent by the prodotis nations, with her to destroy Laos Enosi, with a troupe of false slaves feigning muteness?"

The tyr's gaze darts to the archon, and a half-smile forms on his face. "Something like that, yes."

Mefuno puts an arm behind his head. "If she's a spy, she's either a very, very good one, or an idiot. If she wanted to keep teaching the slaves Laosian from us, why do it in the kitchens, and admit what she was doing it to the first person who asked? If knowing our language was going to be such a benefit to them, why not teach them it before they were under our surveillance?" He scratches his head. "I can't even remember what else Dalus accused her of. 'Inciting Neyn Yejsk.' Yeah, by telling him someone was trying to kill her. And if she was involved in the explosion, it's plain suicidal for her to have been in the tent when it went off. She was almost on top of the bonfire – it's a miracle she wasn't killed. Maybe that's suspicious – but I still think a spy so clever she could fool all of us with this bad-spy act would be smart enough to do more damage than burning out the skimos. There's people – " At a sharp glance from the tyr, Mefuno breaks off, finishing instead, "Yeah. I guess I believe her."

Sychi curls his lip to one side, though whether amused or angry, Rasheeka cannot tell. He slips to his feet. "Sanuros. I want the people responsible found." The archon nods, dropping to kneel before his lord, with his right arm crossed before him, the knuckles of his fist resting on the ground, head bowed. "The people responsible. I do not want the blame pinned on the most convenient victim or likely suspect. I want the ones responsible. The person who ordered this atrocity. Not – " and he directs a sharp glance to first Rasheeka, then Mefuno, " – some fools who shout 'it's my fault' because they weren't gifted with the precognition to prevent it."

Beneath his beard, Mefuno flushes. "Yes, dynatos tyr."

Rasheeka reaches up and places her right hand on her chest as the tyr finishes explaining his orders to his archon. Given the prince's rage the slave girl was uncertain if she would live to leave these chambers, something that she seems to find occurring almost every time she comes before the tyr. Though threatened before, it had not been since her arrival in Laos Enosi she felt truly doomed. The second time had been a flimsy attempt to execute her at best. But this was, in a way, her fault, and the relief is as true as it was when she survived her first meeting with the golden-tailed man.