Hao refused a gun. Claimed she hadn’t fired anything since basic training, and been crud at it even then. She did accept a wardvest, and a pair of too-small warded gloves I’d been imbuing and had laying on my work table. They didn't do much, but at least they'd give her some protection. And the wardvest used ballistic armor plates to hold the wards.

  I didn’t offer her a blade. I’m particular about my blades. She took her crowbar instead and shoved a short knife from her toolbox into a back pocket.

  We walked back the way we’d come in the loader, through the ridiculously large mine tunnel. Our boots stirred the dust and gray pebbles among thousands of other boot prints. I couldn’t help but think that some of those would have been made by Baylen’s friends carrying the hatchling in the bedding they’d taken from my bunk.

  I hoped they’d gotten hernias.

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  We passed the entrance to the inn, a friendly, orange glow shining through the glass pane in the middle of the door. It mixed badly with the cold, harsh light in the tunnel.

  “How long?” I said. My words echoed faintly from the stone walls.

  “Ten minutes,” Hao said.

  “Is it always this dead?” I said.

  “It’s the bottom of the cycle,” she said. “Most people are asleep.”

  Come to think of it, she looked somewhat worse for wear, with dark smudges beneath her eyes. I probably did, too. I’d been awake for a day before I landed, and another half or more since. My mind was growing fuzzy, sleep fighting the bottle of cold, triple strength tea I kept for emergencies. The tea had left a bitter taste that cut through all the sugar I’d put in it.

  “And Third-son Tell will be awake?” I said.

  “He should be,” Hao answered. “He and his friends like to drink late.”

  “Let’s hope they’re drunk,” I said. “It will make talking to them easier.”

  “Or harder. Drunk men get angry fast.”

  “But they fight poorly,” I said, tapping my foil.

  Hao shook her head, but didn’t say anything.