“I-I’m sure we can come to some kind of understanding.”

The man before Kyara ul-Lagrimar scrambled backward, slamming his back against the wall, shaking the tapestry hanging next to him. The scent of his fear was rancid, filling the room. The stench overpowered the savory aroma of the freshly roasted goat laid out on the table behind her. His whimpers drowned out the weeping of the woman cowering across the room.

Kyara judged the distance between them and determined the wife was far enough away to remain safe but only if Kyara stood very close to her target. Close enough to feel his sour breath on her skin.

Her stomach clenched at the thought; however, she forced herself forward, erasing the few paces between them. The finely woven rug swallowed the sound of her boots. Now added to the room’s collection of odors: the scent of piss. The dark stain spreading across the front of his trousers was proof enough that the fellow knew who she was and why she was here.

“W-we can negotiate. I’m sure there must be something you want.” Beads of sweat punctured his forehead, and the thick vein at his neck jumped with his rapid pulse. “I have money, enough grams to make you a wealthy woman. And jewels, trunks full of them. The finest s-silks.” He spread a shaking hand, pointing to the wealth on display in his home.

Delicate crystal and china graced the polished table, ornate tapestries hung from the walls, and electric lamps brightened the space. Kyara had noticed it all in one sweep of the room when she’d first burst in the front door, brushing past the weary maid. The house: three levels of sandstone within view of the glass castle, spoke for itself. This man—a payroller most would call him—had been very useful to the True Father for some time. And had been paid well for his trouble. But now his usefulness, and his trouble, were at an end.

“I am not here to negotiate with you.” Kyara’s voice was paper thin.

The man’s eyes widened. He spread his arms, attempting to press himself into the wall. Kyara didn’t move from her position a hairbreadth away. She didn’t need to touch him, but he didn’t know that.

“Whatever transgression His Majesty believes I’ve made, I will redress, threefold. I am but a simple man. A husband and father.” He waved a pudgy hand at the shaking woman in the corner. “I give tribute for all I collect, I pay on time and . . .” His pleas became a drone in her ears, mingling with those of a hundred other men who had begged for their lives over the years. Other men in other homes like this, flaunting their wealth while so many starved.

Rugs and tapestries and real glass in the windows. The enticing fragrance of meat, fresh vegetables, and butter tickled her nose. Some unidentifiable spice hung in the air. All this, while most of the city found ways to make their meager rations last far longer and feed more mouths than intended. And those in the Midcountry scraped by with even less.

Kyara’s mouth watered at the dinner she’d interrupted, but she never ate the food of the dead.