Vehm and Kimia remained at Ghi’cha’s until the night began losing its shape.

Nothing dramatic marked the change.

The restaurant remained warm. People continued entering. Ghi’cha remained behind the bar with his pipe and impossible eye. Music continued somewhere deeper in the building. Glasses accumulated and disappeared. The night merely reached the point at which one could no longer pretend that time had stopped because the lamps were pleasant.

Kimia noticed it first in Vehm.

He had become quiet.

Not contemplative.

Loose.

His elbows remained on the table, but his head occasionally drifted downward before he remembered where it belonged. His eyes followed movement in the room with a slight delay. When someone laughed, one ear turned toward the sound several seconds before the other.

Kimia watched him for perhaps a minute.

Vehm noticed.

“What?”

“Nozhing.”

“You are staring.”

“You've had too much.”

He considered this observation with immense seriousness.

“Yes.”

“You're sloshed.”

Vehm struggled to put a coherent sentence together, but summoned enough will to do so.

“Zhat is.. generally what happens if one.. continues drinking.”

“You're finished.”

“I had already finished.”

Kimia looked toward the empty pitcher.

“Good.”

Vehm leaned back.

The chair moved unexpectedly beneath him and he corrected with one hand against the table.

Kimia raised two fingers toward a waiter. The waiter arrived immediately.

“Cheque, please.”

Vehm looked wounded.

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“Night has.. barely become interesting.”

“You are falling asleep while sitting upright.”

“I am meditating.”

“No.”

“A drunken contemplative puh.. pra.. practice.”

“No.”

Vehm folded his hands.

“Your hostility toward spirituality disappoints.. me.”

Kimia looked at the waiter.

“Include zheir meals too.”

She indicated the two personal guards.

The human guard had eaten something involving roast poultry and rice while maintaining a civilian expression. The yinglet had consumed enough fried shellfish that Kimia suspected he had exploited the assignment with professional skill.

The waiter nodded.

“Of course.”

The indrel had eaten nothing in public.

Kimia had no idea whether this was etiquette, anatomy, or preference.

She had never asked.

The cheque arrived several minutes later on a narrow tray.

Kimia looked at the total.

Reasonable.

Ghi’cha charged enough that nobody came accidentally and not enough that those who belonged there felt cheated.

She reached into the inner pocket of her kaftan.

Chequebook. Pen.

The act of writing steadied her.

Date. Amount. Establishment. Signature.

Kimia’s hand remained precise.

She tore the cheque free along the perforation and placed it on the tray.

The waiter looked at it, then at her.

“Thank you.”

“Zhank Ghi’cha for dinner.”

“He will be pleased.”

From across the room, Ghi’cha’s artificial eye shifted in their direction.

Kimia wondered whether he could read the cheque from where he stood.

Probably not.

Perhaps.

She decided not to test it.

Getting out of the chair presented no difficulty. She stood slowly and waited for balance to declare itself. The alcohol sat warmly beneath her ribs, but she had spent the evening acting as Vehm’s copilot rather than passenger. The whiteblood had receded into a residual softness. The floor remained where expected.

Good.

Vehm stood next.

This was less successful.

He pushed himself upright, took one step, and misjudged the distance between his foot and the chair leg while nearly stepping on his own tail with his other foot. His hip caught the edge. His hand shot outward and caught the back of the chair before the rest of him could follow.

He froze.

Kimia watched. Vehm looked at her.

“Zhat was.. deliberate.”

“Of course.”

“I was testing.. zhe furniture.”

“Passed?”

“Barely.”

Kimia turned toward the indrel.

“Pick him up.”

Vehm’s ears rose. The indrel’s head tilted.

“Carefully,” Kimia added.

A pause. Then the soldier moved.