Not her.
Or perhaps her.
That was the problem with the Akalosi philosopher. Once one started partitioning the self into voices, habits, roles, compulsions and observers, it became difficult to determine which internal speaker possessed jurisdiction.
The demons had opinions about jurisdiction.
They wanted a drink. Whiteblood. Kilcane. Something.
Kimia walked beside Tarkhe in silence.
The indrel followed.
Tarkhe looked at her once.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're watching.”
“I am walking.”
“You can do both.”
“Yes.”
Kimia stopped near the junction leading toward her chambers.
“I’m going to change.”
Tarkhe looked at the kaftan.
“You're already dressed.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you changing into?”
Kimia had not planned for this question.
“Nozhing. I mean-”
She stopped. Tarkhe waited.
Kimia corrected herself.
“I want to be alone for a bit.”
The physician's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
There. Suspicion. Not enough to become accusation.
“Why?”
“Because I just spoke into 'zhree voxcameras about my entire region and I would like ten minutes where nobody looks at me.”
This was true.
Tarkhe accepted it because it was true.
“Ten?”
“Somezhing like that.”
The indrel's head turned toward Kimia.
She looked at it.
“You too.”
Click.
Neither of them moved.
Kimia sighed.
“I am not about to leap out a window.”
Tarkhe said: “That was not my first concern.”
“Good.”
“It was perhaps the fifth.”
Kimia stared.
Tarkhe allowed her a small victory by looking away.
“Fine.”
She went to her chambers and shut the door.
Locked it.
Silence.
There.
The feeling changed immediately.
The palace had gone away. The Herald. Tarkhe. Kalgkur. The cameras. Everything.
Kimia stood with her back against the door.
Reward.
The word returned.
She closed her eyes.
“No whiteblood.”
Saying it aloud made it sound like a rule.
Rules sometimes helped.
Kimia crossed to the wardrobe.
She knew exactly where the vials were.
Her hand found them quickly.
Glass.
Two. Three.
Whiteblood.
She brought one forward.
Looked at it.
No. Not that.
Whiteblood required too much surrender.
Too much heat. Too much mess. Too much disappearance.
She pushed the vials back into the corner.
Her hand remained inside the wardrobe.
Farther.
Behind folded cloth.
Another container. Plastic.
She found the bottle.
Kilcane.
Kimia withdrew it.
The label belonged to a legal commercial product.
Nothing clandestine. Nothing marked with skulls. Nothing that announced ruin.
Concentrated kilcane tablets were regulated, taxed, and sold through ordinary shops under restrictions strict enough to reassure lawmakers and loose enough to ensure almost anyone determined could obtain them.
In culinary quantities, kilcane was a stimulant seasoning.
A pinch in stew. A shaving over roast meat. A bitter-spiced kick that warmed the head for an hour and then departed.
Condensed into tablets, the relationship became more theoretical.
Kimia opened the bottle.
Small tablets clicked against one another.
She tipped one into her palm.
Brownish pink.
Unimpressive.
It looked like something prescribed for indigestion.
She immediately closed the bottle.