Ianthe was not certain that he would be given the same treatment. Though he was hesitant to cast quick judgments, other people, certainly, and most especially in Iracot, the City of Thrones, were not. She was a Knight, a member of the elite, the sentinels of the hallowed God-Queen. And what was he, in her eyes? A stranger. An undesirable. Though well hidden, he saw the way she had regarded him, saw her reluctance, averseness, even as she herself was derelict here. Not that it mattered much. Not that any of it mattered. The lot of them could be consigned to perdition, and I would not even bat an eye. He was in Iracot out of an unfortunate necessity, and the sooner his business was settled, the sooner he would have the opportunity to depart for more agreeable regions. He would do what he must, concede to more turbulent wills, feign ignorance, go under assumed names and disguised faces; but he would never allow himself to be an object of derision again. Not in this life or the next.
But it was of no consequence. She was a Knight; ostensibly he would never encounter her again. He smiled as she cast aside her scruples and took a seat across from him. Ianthe's cover had worked, as he'd expected. He had had a friend once, when he'd lived in Sharakzah, who had been a jeweler. An oaf of a man, but gentle hearted, and with a propensity to be loose of tongue when in his cups. Though he had preferred to regale Ianthe with bawdies and tales of his wild youth (how he had had the time to learn the art of jeweling while fending off chimeras and the unrequited affections of the Mad Countess L'Agbél, Ianthe could never imagine), the man had from time to time slipped mention of his trade. Luckily, Ianthe had had his ears open. "Of course, of course, you shall know all, lady Knight, if you so desire," he began, wetting his lips with a small sip of wine; then, with a hint of cynicism that he assumed would pass unnoticed, "And, fascinating though the art of jeweling might be, the more pertinent art of conversation should first be observed! Might you have a name, my lady Knight?" With a courteous bow of his head, he said, "I am Ianthe al-D'éon Omar, of the Tchat'e people of the Glassdust Waste--a pitiless people and place, I assure you, which is precisely why I am not among the either of them." He chuckled warmly, and awaited her answer with a nibble of bread dipped in oil.