Kimia waited near the entrance for someone to decide where a duchess was supposed to sit when she had come somewhere specifically to avoid being treated like one.
The staff solved this without discussion.
A waiter noticed her, noticed Vehm, noticed the indrel, noticed the two people who were obviously not guards if one had never seen guards before, and vanished toward the rear of the restaurant.
Vehm examined the room with the pleased expression of a man returning to a church whose theology consisted chiefly of remaining open after midnight.
Then Kimia saw Ghi'cha.
He stood behind the bar.
Of course he did.
The Patriarch of the Night appeared to be doing very little. This was probably intentional. Other people carried bottles, wiped glasses, shouted through the kitchen doors, took money, returned change, and transported plates between tables. Ghi'cha remained at the center of the activity with one elbow resting upon the polished wood and a long-stemmed pipe held between two claws.
Biteleaf smoke drifted from the bowl.
His suit was immaculate.
Black. White shirt. Dark red scarf.
No ornament except a watch chain disappearing into the waistcoat, and a small silver pin whose significance Kimia did not know.
His fur was a muted cream-yellow, almost the color of old paper beneath the amber lamps.
And there was the eye.
Kimia looked, then realized she was looking. She continued looking for half a second too long.
Ghi'cha had lost the right one years before.
How depended on which story one believed.
A knife. A pistol. A broken bottle. A motorized carriage accident. A woman. A man. A card game involving all of the above.
Vehm had once told Kimia that Ghi'cha himself changed the explanation depending on what he thought would make the person asking feel most foolish.
The replacement did not resemble an ordinary yinglet eye closely enough to be mistaken for one.
It sat within the socket as a mass of narrow, overlapping elements, almost like a tiny piece of whale baleen fitted into flesh. At the end of each strip rested something optical and faintly luminous. Dozens of minute cameras, perhaps hundreds, arranged together to approximate the function evolution had achieved with one wet sphere.
The cutting edge of some Val Salian medical giant. A marriage of optics, neurology, and miniaturized electronics, all of it compressed together into something that looked faintly marine.
When Ghi'cha turned his head, parts of the artificial eye adjusted independently.
Kimia watched that too.
One cluster focused, then another.
The motion made her head tighten.
Not fear.
Recognition of something that almost followed the rules.
Ghi'cha noticed her staring.
Naturally.
The artificial eye may have made it difficult not to notice things.
He removed the pipe from his mouth.
Kimia looked away.
Vehm saw.
“First time?”
“No.”
“You stared.”
“I know.”
“Everybody does.”
“I know.”
“Zhen after a while you stop.”
Kimia glanced back.
Vehm was right.
Ghi'cha had already ceased looking strange.
There was the suit. The pipe. The hands. The posture. The bartender asking him something. The way he answered without turning his head. The artificial eye became merely one more part of a person.
Bodies surrendered novelty through repetition. Perhaps minds did too.
A waiter approached.
“Your Grace.”
Kimia gave him a look.
The waiter recovered instantly.
“Miss.”
Better.
“Your table is ready.”
He led them deeper into the restaurant.
The guards separated naturally.
The human took a place several tables away with sightlines toward the entrance.
The yinglet moved toward the opposite side and sat alone near a wall, accepting a menu as though he had come entirely for dinner, blending in.
The indrel followed Kimia.
It could not melt into anything.
People moved around it. Chairs were adjusted. One patron looked up and then very deliberately resumed eating.
Kimia almost apologized to the room.
She did not.
Their table stood near a curtained window in a quieter section of the restaurant.
Clean cloth. Polished silver. Two lamps with amber shades.
Everything prepared without becoming ostentatious.
Kimia sat. Vehm sat opposite. The indrel took position behind her.
Click.
One of the nearby patrons looked over.
Kimia ignored him.
The waiter offered menus. Vehm accepted his, but didn't really look at it. Kimia did not.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Water.”
“Certainly.”
“And a small pitcher of Peshtulan vodka.”
Vehm lowered his menu.
Kimia continued.
“Pickled vegetables.”
“Of course.”
Vehm waited until the waiter had gone.
“Small?”
“Yes.”
“You disappoint me.”
“You were half drunk before noon.”
“A temporary setback.”
“You reeked of it.”
Vehm immediately acquiesced.
“Well.. yeah.”