Kimia looked at him.

“Fine.”

Kalgkur's eyes moved over her.

“You are tense.”

“I am always tense.”

“More.”

Kimia pulled out a chair.

“I've got an interview with zhe Ivenmozh Herald in several hours.”

Kalgkur waited.

“Zhey're filming it.”

Another pause.

“Ah.”

“Probably broadcast all over zhe Heart.”

Kalgkur lowered his head slightly.

“Ah.”

“Zhat is not helping.”

“I am thinking.”

“Zhink faster.”

One of his forelimbs shifted over the papers.

“I imagine they will have prepared questions.”

“Yes.”

“Then the difficulty is limited.”

“No.”

Kalgkur looked at her.

Kimia said it plainly.

“I have no idea how I'm going to act in front of millions.”

That stopped him.

Not for long.

But enough.

“Well, Miss Kimia.”

His humanoid speech arrived slowly.

“That is… definitely a concern.”

Kimia stared.

Kalgkur corrected course.

“Perhaps frame it differently.”

“How?”

“You are not speaking to millions.”

“Yes I am.”

“No.”

“Zhey will be watching.”

“Later.”

Kimia said nothing.

Kalgkur continued.

“When you speak, there will be perhaps four people in front of you.”

“Six.”

“Six, then.”

“Cameras.”

“Objects.”

“Recording objects.”

“Yes.”

“Zhat will then show what I say to millions.”

“Yes.”

Kimia folded her arms.

“You have merely delayed zhe problem.”

“I have reduced it.”

She considered that.

Kalgkur went on.

“Speak to zhe person asking zhe question.”

Not the camera. Not the future audience.

The person.

Kimia rolled it around.

That might work.

Perhaps.

The idea did something useful inside her.

She took hold of it.

“What do you think zhey'll ask?”

Kalgkur looked toward the papers, then back.

“Peshtul.”

“Obviously.”

“How it differs from zhe Passage.”

“Yes.”

“What House Chityala does.”

“Yes.”

“History.”

Kimia grimaced.

“Probably.”

“Identity.”

She looked at him.

“Zhat sounds dangerous.”

“All identity is dangerous if someone asks enough questions.”

“Helpful.”

Kalgkur's mouthparts shifted faintly.

Amusement.

“They may ask what makes Peshtul distinct.”

Kimia leaned back.

That one she knew.

Not as an answer.

As a thousand answers competing for one mouth.

Peshtul was old. Cold. Hard.

It had been governed by hetmans, knyazs, merchant councils, and local arrangements whose names changed according to the century.

Yinglet enclaves had arrived there generations after generations ago and become something different from the enclaves elsewhere.

Humans became different too.

Baxxids adapted to it.

The land did not produce one people.

It forced several peoples to learn roughly the same lessons.

Cold. Distance. Poor harvests. War. Isolation.

A habit of looking after those one considered one's own because nobody farther away was coming.

Peshtul possessed tragedy in excessive supply.

It also possessed memory long enough to make tragedy into manners.

Kimia said: “A hard place.”

Kalgkur nodded.

“Too simple.”

“Yes.”

“A place zhat looks after its own.”

“Better.”

“Also too simple.”

“Yes.”

Kimia stared at him.

“You're enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“What would you say?”

Kalgkur paused.