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Widpool, Waterfront Row: It�s night in Widpool. The windows of the upper floor room on the waterfront are open in the dolina heat. Etirumi sits up on his cot and pushes his glasses up to rub his eyes. The parchment he�d fallen asleep reading slides off his chest and onto the floor. Restlessly he rises, and a few steps carry him to the next room, where he has his scriptorium. Books are neatly and not so neatly stacked about, a show for customers and a balm to his own reading habits. The thought of Kasumi had come to mind suddenly.  Outside the window he can see the beer stand where she�d first talked about leaving home. Why had he thought of that? He turns his back from the window and seats himself at his desk. If he�s going to be awake, he may as well do some work. Glory of Stone and Water, Temple of Renewed Praise: Princess kneels beside the chilly bath and rings out her hair. It�s getting long, and caring for it is one more demand on her time. The only light beyond the moon coming in through the open archways of the novitiate courtyard is her oil lamp, flickering on the floor beside her.  Next to it is her knife, her constant companion since leaving Ameryswald. �Oh, lady, you�re still awake.� Princess looks up sharply, but it�s only one of her fellow novices, a fallen girl already one year in temple service. �Ranute hurries too fast for all our duties.  I�ll be in the dorms after I dry my hair, sister.� Despite the deferential title the other offered, her reply is friendly. Princess surreptitiously covers the little knife with her hand.  She�d reached for it when startled. When the other girl slithers away, she draws the small, well-worn blade and considers it. The lamp colors it with Neath�s warlike glow. There�s a nick near the snake-head handle, gouged from rough handling or striking something too hard for the blade. It�s deep, resisting many sharpenings over the years, and has been there ever since Princess inherited it from her mother. She considers her face in the shining blade, then smooths her scales and hair to prepare for bed. Dovenhead, Keyes Hall: The caretaker limps through the echoing corridors of the empty hall, making his final rounds of the night. It might already be dolina, but his aged, spare frame is chilled at the slightest cold now and the limp has gotten worse since last grota. He feels the weather in every scar, every knitted bone from his long years of campaigning. Even his face aches under his eyepatch. He passes the practice yard where the tools of his previous trade as arms master are still kept immaculate. The Constable�s daughter has long departed from the hall, gone to war like her father before her. She�d been the arms master�s last, best pupil. The dining hall holds another memory, of the girl carrying herself stiffly from her unfinished meal. He�d seen her go, knew she�d finally been told her father had fallen, and had tried to call to her, but she ignored him and returned to her room. The lessons had a chilly edge after that, a cold anger that burst into heated attack whenever he gave her an opening. Dygerzen rubs his stubbled face and realizes he�s been standing at the open door, staring at the empty table. Old, old and useless. The girl, a lady for years now, kept him on to make sure the hall didn�t go to ruin after her mother�s death. But she�d never come back, not after her new name, her new titles, her victories in the Gate War, not ever. The night, like most, passes slowly even after he retires to his room. Kaara, Anima Mill �Grandee�: �Manufactory Four!� announces the militiaman, checking off the entry on his tablet. His Khalqist counterpart responds only with a grunt, and while the Berylite nods before going back to sketching in the margin of his notebook. The Suzerainty representative has declined to attend the inspection. The Baltine soldier pulls his key from the pocket of his blue uniform coat by its lanyard and starts to unlock the door. The Khalqist does the same, fumbling with the unfamiliar lock. The Assemblage replaces their inspector so frequently the militiaman stopped bothering to learn their names. With a flourish the Berylite produces his key for the Jewel Cities� lock. The last fixture on the door doesn�t need a key: it hasn�t been locked since the last time the Suzerain�s inspector participated.  Inside the manufactory, the militiaman turns up the gaslights to illuminate the works. They�re left just as they were years ago when the treaty was signed. Gebbiform molds, gearing, handcarts full of the raw materials to turn out a yanta, he begins going down the list to demonstrate they�re all in order, untouched. The anima mill itself is at the center of the complex, cold and dark. �Crushed quartz, fine grade, full hopper,� the Baltine calls out officially, �clay, regal grade, full hopper. Bone meal, sample label:  �Theogony�, empty hopper�� He can see the Khalqist following on his own list. The man is new, after all, eager to be vigilant at his job.  The fellow from the Jewel Cities sensibly just daydreams through the inspections. �Wait,� the sunburnt westerner stops the other inspectors. �Where is the steel?  Where is the wood?  What is made here?� His suspicion is obvious under the heavy accent. �Custom models,� the militiaman sighs and tries to ignore his rumbling stomach. Dinner should have been hours ago. Inspections take forever when the Assemblage sends someone new. �But nothing is made here now, as you can see.� Manse of Withdrawal, Cloister: Elzbieta sits quietly next to the bed. The chair is too small for her, made for a snake�s narrow backside, but she�s used to discomfort. Lamina, she reflects, will be more sore than her when she wakes. The human sank uncomfortably into the crux of the bedframe and wall, her chin tucked to her ample chest. Her interest is reserved for the room�s other occupants however. One of the tylwyth, her tylwyth, is slumped over the foot of the bed. She�d made sure he wouldn�t slip to the floor, and now takes up his hand, measuring his fingers against her own. They�re pale against markotny shade, long, skilled, and strong, not meaty or brutish as she�s known in the past. They hardly seem to be a smith�s though it fills her with satisfaction to know he has that talent. Reaching over, she pushes the tail of his shroud away from his neck and brushes the even paler skin there. Soft golden hair pokes from under his helm, curling slightly at the hacked ends and she rubs it between her fingertips. She aches to kiss his throat and have his lips on hers in turn. Denial sweetens a reward, but to her mind, such is overlong already. The other tylwyth, Govannon�s sister, is in repose on the bed, her spidery fingers folded over the blanket covering her stomach. Elzbieta is of two minds on this one. She is overjoyed, of course, that Govannon has found her, that she seems well, that the man will not have to bear the sorrow of losing his only remaining blood-related family.  But things will change, and perhaps not for the better. The halcyon days of having Govannon to herself have passed, and without a consummation to reassure. Will the girl approve of her? If so, Elzbieta has years of hard-won experience as a surrogate mother. If Braith disapproves, the markotny well knows that blood is likely to win out over ties of mere affection. And when it does not, another sort of bitterness is everyone�s lot.  What will she do then, she wonders. Well, she has experience too in slipping away as unseen as unwanted. Elzbieta�s thoughts turn bleak, dark and cold as a forested mountainside until the warning cry goes up from outside the locked room. �Here they come!�