Gareth followed the nurse to a barren room. While she went to the old sink in the corner, its pipes banging and clanging as it ran, Gareth sat on the cold metal examining table. Swiftly, she cleaned his wounds, brought him a pillow, and passed him a small canvas bag. “Ice for the swelling. The doctor will be in soon; please lay back in the meantime.”

Gareth waited until she was gone to settle back and drape the ice over his swollen eye. Though the room was blessedly dim, it was too quiet — with the ice easing his pain, he had too much room to think. Strangely, his thoughts didn't go to the attack, or to his rescue: they went to his conversation with Moira. He'd just watched a man die, but all he could do was worry about his own future.

Someone knocked on the door. “Mr. Ranulf?” a woman's voice asked. Gareth started to push himself up as the doctor entered, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Please, relax. My name is Dr. Carthian. Can you tell me in your own words what happened tonight?”

Once Gareth explained, Dr. Carthian asked a series of questions about how Gareth was feeling, where he'd been hit, how much he could remember. His face, his stomach, the back of his head. He felt fine, aside from some aches and pains. He could remember his name, the date, his address. He still felt very dizzy.

“I don't think you're in shock. May I?” the doctor asked, hand near Gareth’s face but not touching. When Gareth nodded, she pressed her fingers to Gareth's forehead and stood for a long time with her eyes closed. “You have a cracked rib, a mild concussion, and swelling around your eye and nose. Fortunately, nothing worse.”

“You can tell all that from just a few questions?”

The doctor smiled pleasantly. “I’m rosanin.”

Gareth raised an eyebrow. Rosanin were rare — a class of individuals born with inexplicable abilities. Little was known about them. The religious claimed rosanin were blessed by the Guardians, and all the scientific advancements of the last century had yet to disprove that. Species, race, sex, family history — it seemed entirely random. It wasn't hereditary, and it wasn't testable. Rosanins' gifts varied from person to person. Some had knacks for gambling, others could always point north or see auras. As a child, Gareth had known a young man with an exceptional green thumb. He could plant anything and make it grow.

“Through touch, I can tell when a person's body is not as it should be. Many hospitals in big cities have someone like me on staff. It speeds the process, saves time and effort," the doctor explained. "Fortunately, Mr. Ranulf, you can treat your injuries at home. Rest, then reintroduce your normal activities slowly. Ice your nose and eye at least four times a day. I'd also suggest — once you've healed — introducing more exercise into your routine. I'm sensing some buildup in your arteries.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

"I imagine you must be in some pain. I'll give you medication, just know it might impair your motor functions for a few hours. It'll feel like being drunk,” the doctor said. "But I'll warn you, it smells awful." She retrieved a bottle from the locked cabinet and poured out a dose. “If you experience pain at home, laudanum should do the trick.”

Gareth almost hurled again at the smell, having to steel himself before draining the cup. Watching him cough, the Doctor winced sympathetically.

“I'll have the nurse bring you fresh ice. Would you prefer to wait here or in the foyer?”

“The foyer,” Gareth answered. The sooner he could get home, the better. Isobel must be worried. He returned to the waiting room on his own, relieved to find that Roman had indeed waited. The young man sat near the door, picking at his nails, and didn’t notice Gareth until he dropped into the seat next to him.

“Your face is clean!” was the first thing he said.

“Apparently the doctor needs to see the injury in order to assess it,” Gareth said dryly.

“Ah, clean him up and suddenly he’s a comedian. Good one, Mr. Ranulf. Why are you sitting?” he asked.

“A nurse is bringing me fresh ice,” Gareth said, pulling the current bag away from his eye and shaking it so Roman could hear the slosh of water.

“What'd they say?”

“I’ve been prescribed bedrest — and given medicine, thankfully.”

“Laudanum?”

Gareth shook his head.

“No?” Roman asked, studying Gareth. His face fell. “Tell me it wasn’t Carujan Oil. Clear liquid, thick and sticky? Smells and tastes like piss?”

“That sounds right,” Gareth said. His nose wrinkled at the memory. “Is that bad? She’s the doctor, Mr. Hallisey. I believe she knows best.”

“Sure, but she didn’t give much thought to the poor bastard stuck walking you home. Carrying you home, rather. They don't have a phone here, so we'll have to find a cab on Main Street. Are you concussed?”

“Mildly.”

“Well, we'll have to walk a few blocks — hopefully before that oil takes effect.”

Silence fell between them while they waited for the nurse. Gareth looked around and fidgeted with his clothes and eventually asked, “Where are you from? Your accent is northern, right?”

“Good ear. I grew up in Troas.”

That fit into the little Gareth knew about Roman, with his mother’s Troasian mythology and his darker features. They neared the end of a bright summer, and while Gareth’s skin had tanned beyond its usual pasty white, Roman’s was still several shades darker. The only reason Gareth hadn’t guessed Troas sooner was because of the way Roman’s accent had diluted, like he’d been away from home for a long time. “I had a tutor from Troas,” he said.

The nurse arrived, replacing Gareth’s melted bag, and when Gareth finally stood to go, the world spun around him. He grabbed Roman’s shoulder for support, Roman giving him an amused look and gestureing grandly toward the doors. “After you.”

The movement tickled at something in Gareth's memory. He mused over it as they left the hospital, but it finally clicked on the next block. “Wait!” he cried.

Faster than Gareth had ever seen anyone move, Roman twirled to face him, his sword appearing in his hand between one moment and the next. He looked around, alert, then frowned. “Gareth, what?”

“It's you! I know who you are!”

Roman's expression darkened, and he took a step toward Gareth. Suddenly, he was like a different person, a predator instead of a savior. Gareth nearly staggered under the weight of his gaze, of those black eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. Had he been in his right mind, it would have felled him. It would have terrified him. A chill raced up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, but under the medicine's influence, he only let out a nervous giggle.

The sound seemed to snap Roman out of whatever he'd fallen into. He blinked, then rolled his eyes, his sword disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He grabbed Gareth's arm and dragged him the rest of the way across the street.

"I thought there was trouble," he scolded.

“Sorry,” Gareth said, dazed.

“Don't apologize. Well?”

“Well what?”

“You said you know me. Who exactly do you think I am?”

“We’ve met, sort of,” Gareth said, following Roman’s lead when Roman turned down a dark side street. He didn’t even question it, which worried a distant, sober part of his mind, but he was mostly focused on walking on ground that wouldn’t stay still. “This morning, actually. You convinced me to stop for a play. Do you remember?”

Roman thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers and laughed. “You’re the Egil scholar!”

“That’s me,” Gareth said proudly. “I didn't recognize you without your hat.”

Roman laughed again. Even through his mind’s haze, Gareth envied the joy in it. “You have an excuse; I don't. I should’ve recognized you sooner.”

“It's because I was painted red.”

Roman bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Maybe. Please walk faster, Gareth. Call it a hunch, but I think the medicine's kicking in.”

Gareth blinked up at the purple sky as he walked, putting one foot in front of the other. They turned onto Main Street as a carriage rattled past, its side lanterns making Gareth squint and avert his eyes. Beside him, Roman raised a hand to flag it down, but it sped past. Maybe the blood on Gareth's clothing stopped it. “Remarkably fast, this stuff. And strong. I hardly feel a thing,” he said. Suddenly remembering the thread of their earlier conversation, he asked, “Are you one of the Webhon Players?”

Roman looked back at Gareth, trying and failing to hide his amusement. “I’m an honorary player, I suppose. I help with the opening in exchange for a place in their camp.”

“I thought your opening was beautiful.”

“Maybe you should stop talking for a while, Gareth,” Roman suggested.

“Okay.” As they walked, Gareth had to rely on Roman more and more for balance. They hadn’t made it another block before he started complaining. “How far away are we? My boots are getting dirty.”

Roman glanced at Gareth’s shoes. “Gareth, those boots were doomed the minute you set foot in Greysdale.”

“Set foot.” Gareth laughed. “I get it. So? How long to Kramer Street?”

“It’s ten minutes from here, but at the rate we’re going, forty.”

Gareth kicked a loose stone. To his credit, Roman managed to keep a straight face, even after looking over and seeing Gareth’s rather undignified pout. He asked, “What brought you to Greysdale, anyway? It’s not the sort of place I’d expect to find an upstanding gentleman.”

“Wasn’t intentional. I just don’t know the city, even after all my visits.”

“Visits? You’re not from around here?”

“No, I live in Adriat. Just outside of it.”

“You came to visit your sister,” Roman guessed. “For the conferences?”

Gareth nodded, then paused to look in the window of a ladies’ hat shop. He balked at how big some of them were. How did the ladies not fall over with those on their heads? When Roman stifled a laugh, Gareth realized he’d said it out loud. He covered his mouth with a hand.

“Atiuh help me,” Roman muttered, though he was still smiling. “How’d you get so lost?”

“I was on my way back from a meeting and tried to walk.”

“A meeting?” Roman asked, watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye. Under different circumstances, Gareth might have noticed the sharp interest in the young man’s voice. “What kind of meeting?”

“I’m…not supposed to say.”

“Oh. Sure, I understand. I was just trying to keep some conversation going. It’s not like I have anyone to tell, though,” Roman said, watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye, earnestness dripping from every word, “If you did want to talk about it. No offense, but you seem like you've got something on your mind.” Gareth worried at his lower lip. Sensing weakness, Roman continued. “It’s something to do with Unity, right? And the visiting prince?”

“Yes,” Gareth admitted. Roman’s dark eyes made him itch, just beneath the skin. “I…overheard something I shouldn't have, this morning. Unity’s sending a diplomatic team to Orean to negotiate the return of a hostage. I’ve been to Orean a few times, so Moira wants me on the team. That’s what the meeting was about.”

Roman’s eyes widened. “Diplomatic?” he said, tasting the word like he’d never heard it before. “Unity? You’re sure they said 'diplomatic'? It's just not Unity's style.”

“And how would you know?” Gareth asked on reflex, sounding very much like his father. He could hear the condescension and hated himself for it, just a little.

Roman blinked, expression shuttering. Whatever sharpness Gareth had seen behind his eyes disappeared, like a sheathed knife — hidden, but no less dangerous. “I guess I wouldn’t.”

“Sorry,” Gareth said.

“No need to apologize, Mr. Ranulf,” Roman said stiffly. Changing the subject, he asked, “Was that your wife and daughter with you today?”

“Yes. Isobel and Ofelia. Isobel’s the most beautiful woman in the world, Roman. You should see her! You should come up and see her! Then you’ll know.”

“I already saw her,” Roman pointed out. “This morning, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Gareth sighed. “She’s pregnant right now. I really don’t want to leave her.”

Roman tugged Gareth on again. “I’m sure it’s no great comfort, but it sounds like Unity has things well in hand. Hopefully it’ll be a short trip. And Orean is beautiful in the fall.”

“Have you been?” Gareth asked.

“Several times.”

“You should be on the team, then, instead of me. You’re much charminger than I, and you can fight, and you’ve been to Orean.”

“You think I’m charming, Gareth? I’m flattered.”

“Would you go, if we could swap? Would you join the team? Hypo-hyperothetically.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Roman half-laughed. He looked up at the sky, weighing his answer. “Because I don’t work with Unity, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want to work with me.”

“Why not?”

Roman turned his considering look on Gareth. “I don’t trust them. Sorry if that’s too blunt for you. I don’t trust them to treat Orean fairly, and I don't trust their motives, so keep an eye on them for me.” Roman sighed. “I would've leapt at this sort of opportunity, once, when I was young. I did, in fact. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me put it this way: you always lose something of yourself on these kinds of journeys, and who I am is all I have anymore. I really wish you the best, Gareth; you seem like a nice guy. Hold onto that and don't let anyone take it from you.”

“You talk older than you look,” Gareth observed, the most cogent thought he could form at the moment.

“I’m fairly sure that doesn’t make sense.”

“It does.”

Roman smiled and shook his head. “If you insist. Do you recognize where we are?”

Gareth looked around. Past the slight blur, he recognized the lights and sights of Kramer Street. “Oh!”

“Should I help you to your room, or can you handle it from here?”

“I can handle it. Thank you, Mr. Hallisey. I said I’d pay you—”

“Don’t worry about it, just promise you’ll be more careful next time you wander around at night. Good luck with your trip, Mr. Ranulf.”

With that, Roman was gone, strolling down the street and out of Gareth’s life. Gareth lingered outside his flat, letting the crisp air slowly peel back the medicine’s haze. He didn’t want to be so out of it when he explained what happened to Isobel, so he stood and watched the— few, given the late hour— people pass by on the street.

He noticed the trio of orinians that were staying across the hall from him as they returned to the hotel. One of them, a girl with curly blonde hair, met Gareth's eye from across the street. Her smile fell — Gareth could only imagine how he must look — and hurried after her friends.

“Kieran! Íde!” she called, catching up to them just as the hotel doors swung shut, blocking them from view. Gareth worried at his bottom lip, watching the doors long after the orinians disappeared. Unbidden, Roman’s earlier words came to mind. I don’t trust Unity to treat the orinians fairly. It echoed the prince's threats, the hints of ulterior motives. Gareth hoped they were both wrong. They must be wrong.