The hotel bathroom was too large. Everything in the suite was too large.
Pale tile. Chrome fixtures. A mirror spanning nearly the width of one wall. Heated towel rack. A bathtub capable of accommodating a human who had lost an argument with architecture.
Kimia set the case on a low bench.
Unlatched it.
Opened.
Clothes.
Most of them were selected by people who understood that attending the Diet required multiple costumes for multiple forms of seriousness.
Formal kaftans. A traveling coat. Undergarments. Night clothes. A dress she had no intention of wearing. A few ordinary things she had packed herself.
There.
A light gray windbreaker. Plain. Cheap enough in appearance to be invisible. Beige trousers. Red cable-knit toque.
Kimia lifted the toque.
Ear slits.
Good.
She stripped down to her underclothes.
The red-brown Diet kaftan went carefully onto a hanger, then she put on the trousers, windbreaker, and toque. She pulled her ears through the slits and adjusted them.
Kimia looked at herself in the mirror.
Different.
Not anonymous.
Nothing could make a noblewoman anonymous to someone who knew her face well.
But less obvious.
The elaborate silhouette of Peshtulan authority had disappeared.
No gold stitching. No House insignia. No formal collar.
Just a yinglet woman in plain clothes.
Female, obviously.
The hair on the end of her tail made that difficult to disguise even if she had wanted to, but nothing about her clothing asked anyone to bow.
Kimia turned slightly.
Someone could recognize her up close, perhaps.
The green eyes. The face.
Someone who had watched the Herald interview might know. Someone who saw only another person under streetlights probably would not.
Good enough.
She put her wallet into the windbreaker.
A little cash. Identification. Hotel card.
Kimia then looked toward the toiletries.
No.
Leave it.
That was part of the point.
She returned to the suite.
Vehm looked over.
His pencil stopped.
“Oh.”
Kimia returned the luggage case beside the others.
Vehm looked her up and down.
“Going somewhere?”
“Yeah.”
“Like zhat?”
“Zhat is usually how clozhes work.”
“You look ordinary.”
“Zhank you.”
“I meant it kindly.”
“I know.”
Vehm leaned back in the chair.
“Going out to see zhe Passage in person?”
“Yeah.”
Kimia pulled the jacket zipper halfway.
“You wanna come wizh?”
Vehm looked toward the vodka, then toward the bed, then at Kimia.
“No.”
He thought further.
“I’m played out for zhe day.”
“Zhat may be zhe first sensible thing you've said.”
“Treasure it.”
Kimia moved toward the door, then stopped.
A thought.
Not important.
Useful.
“Do you want anyzhing?”
Vehm looked mildly surprised.
“From outside?”
“Yes.”
He looked around the hotel room.
A phone sat on the nightstand.
Food trolley.
Bottles.
Room service menu.
“No.”
He pointed vaguely toward the telephone.
“Anyzhing I want is a phone call away.”
Kimia looked at it.
Luxury made errands obsolete.
That seemed vaguely unhealthy.
“Alright.”
She opened the door.
“I'll be back in a while.”
Vehm raised the pencil.
“I'll hold zhe fort.”
Kimia looked at the drawing.
“Poorly.”
“Still held.”
The guards occupied another suite two doors down.
Kimia knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Her human personal guard stood there in shirt sleeves.
Behind him the indrel occupied approximately a third of the room by itself.
Another guard slept on one of the beds.
Kimia said: “I’m going for a walk.”
The human looked at her clothes, then her face, then her clothes again.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He checked a clock sitting on a table in his suite.
“Your Grace-”
“Don't.”
He corrected himself.
“Kimia.”