Kimia rested her hands on the table.
The restaurant noise gathered around them without requiring participation.
Utensils. Conversation. A bottle opening. Someone laughing near the bar. Music came from somewhere unseen, stringed instruments and a reed instrument playing slowly enough that nobody needed to listen deliberately.
Kimia felt the first strange flicker of safety.
Not safety in any real sense.
Distance.
The palace was elsewhere. Her wardrobe was elsewhere. The whiteblood was elsewhere. Kilcane was elsewhere. The effort required to make a bad decision had increased.
The waiter returned.
Water first, then the vodka.
The pitcher was small, narrow-necked, and beaded immediately with condensation.
Two little glasses. A dish of pickled vegetables. Gourd. Radish. Mushrooms, and several other things Kimia did not recognize.
Vehm picked up a strip of pickled gourd. Kimia did the same.
They ate simultaneously.
The vinegar and salt made Kimia's jaw tighten.
Vehm nodded.
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
Then his eyes went to the pitcher.
He placed both hands around it.
For one second Kimia, genuinely believed he intended to drink from the spout.
“Vehm.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“Glass.”
“I was moving it.”
“Toward your face.”
“Zhat is where glasses also go.”
“Use one.”
Vehm sighed as if subjected to a great injustice.
He poured. One for Kimia. One for himself.
His was fuller.
Of course.
He set hers down before her, then immediately lifted his own and drank.
Not all.
Most.
Kimia watched.
Vehm's eyes narrowed slightly.
His ears flicked, then he exhaled.
“Civilization.”
Kimia took her glass.
The vodka smelled of almost nothing.
That was the warning.
She drank it in one movement.
Heat struck the mouth first, then the throat, then the stomach.
For one strange second, the sensation seemed to occur everywhere in her face at once, like being hit with a dull rubber mallet made of warmth.
Kimia closed one eye.
Vehm smiled.
“Good?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
She took water. A large swallow, then another.
Salt. Water. Food. She knew the arithmetic.
Alcohol did not become harmless because one prepared for it. It merely became less efficient at punishment.
The warmth spread. It joined what remained of the whiteblood.
Kimia could almost distinguish them.
Whiteblood was diffuse.
A fever left burning low.
The vodka was brighter and more immediate, a line drawn through the body and then erased into heat.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Not much.
Enough.
Vehm poured himself another.
Kimia placed one finger against the rim of her own empty glass when he moved toward it.
“Not yet.”
Vehm stopped.
“You're pacing.”
“Yes.”
“Coward.”
“Alive.”
“Technicality.”
Kimia drank more water.
The waiter returned later.
“Would you like to order?”
Kimia looked up.
“What is zhe special?”
“Gulluk soup.”
“What kind?”
“Slow-cooked gulluk, root vegetables, greens, mushroom, broth made with the bone. Served with herbs.”
Perfect. Simple. Warm. Nothing requiring interpretation.
“I’ll have zhat.”
Vehm closed his menu and put it down.
“Same.”
The waiter collected the menus.
Vehm poured again.
Kimia watched him.
“You're going to finish zhat yourself.”
“Zhen why did we order one pitcher?”
“Because I wanted some.”
“Zhat sounds like shared ownership.”
“Vehm.”
He stopped. His smile weakened into something more affectionate.
“Fine.”
He poured only his own.
Kimia looked toward the bar.
Ghi'cha was still there, now speaking to a human woman in an expensive coat. He leaned forward slightly while she talked. The artificial eye shifted across her face in tiny independent motions.
Biteleaf smoke rose.
Nothing hurried him.
Kimia wondered how many confessions had been made across that bar. How many debts. Affairs. Political indiscretions. Business arrangements. Threats disguised as jokes. Jokes mistaken for threats.
Ghi'cha probably knew enough about the Heart to destroy several governments and had apparently decided that selling dinner was less exhausting.
Vehm spoke.
“You're doing it again.”