“Any kilcane?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You don't get to say good. You smelled like a distillery at noon.”
Vehm looked offended.
“A modest distillery.”
Kimia turned toward the window.
The motorized carriage crossed a broad avenue.
Vehm leaned back.
“So. Ghi'cha.”
“Yes.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Drinking?”
“Probably.”
“Running away?”
Kimia looked at him.
Vehm's expression had become serious.
Only slightly.
Enough.
“Some,” she said.
Vehm nodded.
“Better to run somewhere wizh chairs.”
“Zhat your philosophy?”
“One of zhem.”
Kimia looked back outside.
They passed beneath an illuminated sign advertising electrical appliances from Dinnlan. Beyond it, a cinema marquee, then a row of restaurants.
People everywhere.
Not court. Not council. Not history.
People eating because hunger found them, or drinking because they were thirsty, sad, celebrating, or unable to think of anything better.
Vehm spoke again.
“Do you know why Ghi'cha calls himself Patriarch of zhe Night?”
“He doesn't.”
“No?”
“Other people call him zhat.”
“Zhat sounds like what someone who calls himself Patriarch of zhe Night would say.”
Kimia smiled.
The motorized carriage turned.
Ghi'cha's occupied the lower floor of an old stone building whose upper stories leaned slightly over the street. From the outside, it looked respectable.
That was part of its success.
A polished dark sign above the entrance bore only the name.
GHI'CHA
No promises. No illustrations.
Warm yellow light glowed through tall windows veiled by curtains.
A doorman stood outside wearing a plain black coat.
People entered.
Humans. Yinglets. One baxxid whose body required a side entrance designed for the purpose. A pair of well-dressed women left laughing too loudly.
Nothing suggested vice. Nothing needed to.
Ghi'cha was a businessman.
A successful one.
He served good food. Good drinks. Kept his rooms clean. Paid his staff. Maintained relationships with the police, the Tradehouses, musicians, importers, cooks, local officials, and people whose professions did not belong in ledgers.
Peshtul called him the Patriarch of the Night because Peshtul liked titles and because Ghi'cha had outlived enough scandals to become an institution.
His restaurant belonged to the respectable evening.
Later, slowly, it became something else.
Not a den.
Not precisely.
A refuge for people who preferred darkness because darkness reduced the number of expectations.
Kimia stepped out. The human guard followed, then Vehm, then the yinglet guard, and the indrel last.
The doorman saw Kimia and immediately understood that the night had acquired complexity.
He bowed.
“Your Grace.”
“Evening.”
Vehm removed his hat.
“Tell zhe Patriarch his favorite sinner has returned.”
The doorman looked at him. He was not amused, plainly so.
“Fuck off.”
Vehm seemed wounded, but pushed the retort aside.
Kimia walked inside.
Warmth. Food. Tobacco. Biteleaf. Alcohol of all sorts. Coffee. Tea. Music somewhere deeper in the building. Conversation.
No palace corridors. No portraits. No cabinet key. No whiteblood waiting ten minutes away.
Kimia stopped just beyond the entrance.
For the first time since morning, she felt she had gone somewhere rather than merely moved between obligations.
Vehm came beside her.
“Better?”
Kimia looked over the room.
People sat beneath amber lamps. Glasses reflected light.
A waiter carried a tray of shellfish past, another carried a tray of baked tubers with roasted vegetables and roasted tiplod.
Somewhere someone laughed.
The indrel stood behind her.
The guards melted into the edges of the establishment.
Kimia felt the remaining whiteblood warmth inside herself.
Not gone. Not commanding.
Vehm waited.
“Yes,” she said.
For the moment, it was true.