“You were going to,” I answer.
His mouth tightens. I hold his gaze. The terrible thing about surviving around leaders is that eventually you learn the sound of being chosen before anyone says your name.
Rosalind’s gaze moves between me and the Cavern Zmaj. Thoughtful and quick. I hate that most of all. What right does she have to a say in my decisions? Newcomer. Outsider. She brought these problems to us. She can go.
Adran studies me with the same expression he uses on ration slates, weighing what can be spent and what cannot. Virn is still. Syin’s eyes are narrowed, but not at me. At the Cavern Zmaj.
That’s interesting. Dangerous, probably. It’s been my experience that everything interesting is dangerous.
“You know the eastern approaches,” the Cavern Zmaj says.
His voice is low, rough-edged, and far too calm for a room choking on the possibility of worms and war. I hate that too. He has no right to be this calm. This matter of fact.
“I know them from the City side,” I say. “Not from the inside of a zemlja’s mouth.”
A few people shift, but no one laughs. Apparently humor is another thing that dies in council chambers.
“You know where the old sinklines are,” he says.
“So do the route maps.”
“Maps don’t feel heat through stone.”
My throat tightens because he’s right. Because he shouldn’t know enough about me to be right. I force my gaze away from him, toward Adran. Safer. Familiar betrayal instead of unfamiliar pressure.
“I’m a lower-route runner,” I say. “I deliver rations. I guide fever cases. I’m not a scout.”
“You are more than that,” Adran says.
Heat flashes up the back of my neck. There it is. The kind of compliment leaders use when they’re about to turn a person into a tool.
“No,” I say. “I’m exactly that. That’s the point.”
“Sera,” Marut says.
I ignore him, which is probably stupid, but definitely satisfying.
“I know corridors,” I say. “Collapsed storage chambers. Inner shade paths. Cistern access. Which lower walls hold night-cool air. Which upper passages still breathe hot after second dim. I know the City because the City is where I keep people alive.”
The Cavern Zmaj’s gaze does not move from me. Not once.
“I don’t follow zemlja,” I say.
“No,” he says. “I do.”
The words settle hard. Simple. Implacable. Like a stone dropped down a dark shaft and never heard hitting bottom.
“What is your name?” Rosalind asks, leaning forward.
The Cavern Zmaj finally looks away. The air changes when he does. I hate that I notice.
“Kavor,” he says.
Kavor. Fits. Hard consonants. Deep center. It sounds like a cave mouth, or something under stone.
“Kavor,” Rosalind says, as if setting the name carefully on the table. “You believe there’s a reachable source?”
“No.”
