It has been, let's see -- jumped off the ship in the evening, stole the cutter in the evening but not the

  evening, now it's past midday -- approximately one million years since I had any sleep, and now that I'm not actually in mortal peril the weight of that time lands on me all at once. I ask Theo to track Mercy down before she starts cutting her way through tents to find me, then stagger after a helpful soul who leads me to some kind of bed. The sight of soft sheets is the last thing I remember for quite some time.

  I'm awoken a few hours later by what might be music. Exhaustion still coats the back of my eyeballs with sand, but the nap has at least taken the edge off. When I try to sit up, every bruised and sore muscle in my body makes itself known and it's all I can do to curl up and moan for a while.

  "Protect?" Mercy says somewhere nearby. "Kal! Protect!"

  "I'm okay," I mutter, not okay. I would give just about anything for --

  There's another sealed skin by my bedside. Hardly daring to hope, I reach for it and take a sip. Rockwater explodes on my parched tongue. I down the whole thing in moments and lie back with a sigh as it does its work, soothing the pain until I can move my limbs again. Then, cautiously, I sit up.

  "Kal!" Mercy says.

  "You learned my name. Well done!"

  "Murder!" she agrees.

  I turn to congratulate her, then stop. It's not Mercy sitting there, it's a young woman, who --

  There's a brief pause as my brain sorts itself out.

  The thing about clothes is that they add context. Mercy has been naked the whole time I've known her, and combined with her limited anatomical correctness it always made her feel , somehow. Now, though, Theo's family have washed her and put her in a green silk sundress, and she abruptly registers as , a pretty young girl with huge eyes and a broad smile. I get a mess of conflicting emotions all at once, retroactive embarrassment for all the time she spent unclothed around me, a shock of sympathetic pain and distress at the sight of her missing forearm, a frisson of strangeness at her lack of hair. Her bald scalp never seemed odd before, but now it stands out. I wonder if it bothers her.

  "You look very nice," I tell her, once I have command of my tongue. "Try not to ruin the dress right away, all right?"

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  "Murder?" She plucks curiously at the neckline. "Murder."

  By the fading light in the sky, it's getting on toward evening. I roll out of bed, still taking it easy on my battered limbs, and manage to get to my feet.

  "I think I'm supposed to go to a party," I tell Mercy.

  "Protect?"

  "You can come too. Don't murder anyone."

  "Murder, no," she says, with a nod.

  "We'll make a poet of you yet," I tell her. "Come on."

  ***

  Apparently I got dressed at some point, because I'm wearing a plain silk shirt and trousers. Silk is ubiquitous here -- in the City it's considered lower-class, but out in the desert these people rely on their bugs for everything. The older folks wear colorful robes, while the young favor more practical garb like what I've been given. When we emerge from the tent there's a great deal of bustle, all pointed toward the center of the camp. The music, too, seems to be coming from that direction.

  Here a big clear space has been converted to an open-air feasting ground, laid with silk carpets, pillows, and small chitin tables. Most of the clan seems to have gathered already, and in the very center three huge bull roaches are spitted over an open fire, roasting in their shells. Small baskets of food are circulating, too. Someone comes over to offer me one, and I do a double-take when I realize it's Quarter. He's trimmed and tamed the mad tangle of his hair, so he now looks like a man with a beard rather than a beard with a man.

  "Want one?" he says. "Candied somethin' or other. Legs, I think."

  I take one of the thin stalks and hand the basket off to a passerby. It's crunchy and sweet.

  "They're treating you well, I take it?" I ask.

  "Aye, can't complain. I keep lookin' over my shoulder, 'cause who's heard of friendly Sinisters? But this lot seems all right."

  I nod agreement. Back in the City common wisdom is that the whole Sinister side of the world is mad, apart from the few outposts of civilization under the protection of Earth-as-in-Heaven. This is, clearly, a bit of a simplistic view. Obviously not can be a cannibal, otherwise you'd eventually run out of people to eat.

  "Have ye seen Raz?" Quarter asks. "They told me he was around somewhere, but I can't spot him."

  I shake my head. "I'll keep a lookout."

  "And yer girl here cleans up nice. A pleasure t' make yer acquaintance proper, Miss Mercy."

  "Murder!" Mercy chirps.

  "And t' ye, I'm sure." He lowers his voice. "Have ye thought about our next move?"

  "Next move?"

  "Aye. These folk are kind an' all, but I wouldn't want t' trespass too far on their generosity, like. I'd see if we can parley rescuin' their princess into some repairs an' a hold full of supplies. Then we can go where we like."

  "Where exactly do you intend to go?"

  He scratches the back of his neck. "Not rightly sure. That's why I'm askin' ye, like. Plannin' was never my strength."

  Twelve defend. This is the downside of taking charge. If it works, people expect you to be in charge. To , a state of being I have steadfastly avoided throughout my life. This definitely feels like a tomorrow problem.

  I should probably talk to my skull.

  "I'm thinking about it," I tell him, tapping the side of my head. "You know. Cogitating."

  "Cogitatin'," Quarter repeats, impressed. "Right enough."