Ōbhin pushed that thought aside. Nothing to do about it.
Outside, Miguil had the new coach and the wagon ready, two horses hitched to each. He lounged by the carriage of blue-dyed leather stretched over a frame. It had sturdy wheels banded in steel and wooden doors with open windows. It wasn’t as fine as the one lost during the riots, but serviceable.
Ōbhin doubted Dualayn cared.
Fingers, Smiles, Aduan, and Cerdyn filtered out in their armor. It was all chain, but a mismatched lot. Aduan’s looked ancient like he’d found it rotting away in the attic and scraped away what rust he could. It had pits in places, the chains heavier than the finer coat Ōbhin wore. Cerdyn’s hugged his bulk, looking too tight to wear. He adjusted his heavy belt from which hung his binder rod.
“Fingers,” Ōbhin said, nodding to the older guard.
Fingers’s brow tightened and marched over. “I don’t plan on crackin’ Cerdyn over the head for wot he said ‘bout me and my wife.”
Ōbhin swallowed his confusion. “I’m glad. Not why we’re talking. Anything happens to me, you’re in charge of the guard.”
“What could happen to you?” Fingers glanced down at the resonance blade. “You could cut through the city wall with that.”
“Just in case,” Ōbhin said, shrugging, his chainmail rattling.
Fingers’s brow furrowed. “Fine.” He stalked back over to the other guards, adjusting his belt.
“What was that about?” Avena asked. “He didn’t look happy.”
Ōbhin turned around and glanced down. “A shorter skirt?”
“Don’t say it out loud,” she said, her cheeks growing a brighter shade of pink, almost red. “I don’t want to trip. Just in case.”
He nodded.
“You’re not going to evade the question by staring at my ankles,” she said.
“You Lothonians are such prudes.” He smiled. “In Qoth, girls show off far more than their ankles.”
“I’ve heard,” she said, voice stiff. “Parading around half-naked, showing off their . . . their . . . You know what they show off.”
“But not their faces.” He stared at her features. Her delicate cheekbones, the pale skin blazing pink, her dainty nose. The younger version of himself had fantasized about seeing a woman’s bare face. After two years, the sight had lost most of its shock. Still, there was something enticing about witnessing what should be hidden.
“What?” she asked, her cheeks growing bright red.
“Nothing,” he said. “That’s what I was talking to Fingers about. Nothing important.”
*
Avena tugged at her skirt for the tenth time since the carriage left Dualayn’s estate. The old man was reading the primer again, his eyes moving as he followed the lines. Her ankles were exposed. A proper woman shouldn’t show any of her legs. Only her shoes should be visible.
It’s just my ankles, she thought in annoyance at her embarrassment. This isn’t any worse than wearing pants.
She was glad Dajouth hadn’t noticed. He would start babbling about the beauty of her ankles, praising the curve of the bone, the shape rising up beneath her skirt. She snorted, her cheeks aflame. They’d been burning ever since Ōbhin had stared at her features with such intensity.
Strange people. Cover their faces, but not the rest of their bodies? What sort of backward modesty is that?
Trying to distract herself, she stared out the window as they trundled through the Breezy Hills Slums. Angry and sullen looks glanced at them. None of the children that usually swept around the carriage appeared. She clutched her purse in her lap, coins ready to give out to the urchins.
Her heart stung as she saw one boy peering out of an alley at her. She remembered his face shining with hope. Not today. Did he lose his father in the riots? A brother? Avena didn’t know how many had died, but the guards had put it down with a heavy hand. Blows to the head meant to disable could prove fatal. Others were arrested and filled the gaols awaiting trials.
The guard at the city gate had been doubled. They glared at everyone entering save their carriage. They bowed their heads as they passed, keeping back those on feet from flowing into the city. Avena heard the angry mutters.
She squirmed. She had always felt safe in Kash. Now . . .
Even in the carriage with Ōbhin and the other guards in their armor, she worried. She rubbed at her skirt, feeling the binder rod. She swallowed her nerves and stared out of the window. Laborers worked to repair damaged buildings. Fires had gutted some, soot staining the exterior. Workers carried out charred rubble and piled it in carts. Glaziers replaced broken windows and limners painted the exteriors of buildings with fresh browns or dark blues or russet reds. No one she saw wore green or white, just the blue or had their fingers smeared in gray ash.
Most didn’t show their allegiance.
Before they reached the Temple of the Seven Colours and St. Jettay’s Square, a large group of poor women gathered. Many held the hands of small children, cradled babes to their breasts, or carried toddlers on their hips. They were receiving food from a soup kitchen run by several fathers, the lowest level of priest, under the watch of a man Avena knew.
“Refractor Charlis?” she asked, peering out the window.
Dualayn looked up. “What was that? Something about Refractor Charlis?”
“He’s feeding the poor,” she said. “He’s running a soup kitchen.”
“Oh, indeed,” Dualayn said. “Have Miguil stop. I must have words with the refractor.”
“Oh?” Avena asked.
“Yes, yes, I had a few ideas about using jewelchines and he does hold a
