“This is the dwelling place of your an’laik’i,” Ronan said, watching Lizbet intently.
“Human families—Houses—aren’t divided by Path,” Cynara said. “There are people of most occupations in all sections of the city. The divisions are more… economic and cultural. One is born into a part of the city and usually remains there.”
“Not unlike Selection, except it occurs at birth.”
Neither way pleased Cynara. When she was gone from Dharma, she tended to forget how much poverty and ignorance had yet to be overcome. “No one should be Selected at birth or forced to walk the same Path her entire life.”
Ronan made no argument. Another kilometer of winding uphill road brought them to Second Gate and Middleton. The houses were farther apart, some almost large enough to belong in High Town. Gardens held their own trees and flower or vegetable gardens. Attire mimicked the fashions of the elite, but on a much more modest scale. The streets were cleaner, and the sea breeze swept away the odors of Low Town.
“Middleton,” Cynara offered. “This is the largest and busiest part of the city. Many from Low Town come here to work.”
“For other Houses and Lines,” Ronan said.
“It may seem confusing at first, but you’ll get used to it.” She noted the street signs, watching for one in particular.
“Humans are always fertile and recognize no boundaries of Path in mating,” Ronan said. “Is this why your city is so crowded?”
Lizbet made a choking sound. “Oh, there are boundaries,” Cynara said, willing the flush from her skin, “but they aren’t always obvious. A subject for some other occasion.”
He seemed content enough with that answer and returned to his observation. Cynara found the sign she was looking for and buzzed the driver, who pulled up at the nearest curb adjacent to a busy ale-house.
“We’ll get out here,” she said. “My uncle asked us to meet him at a pub a few blocks down this lane.” She paid the driver and followed Lizbet out of the cab, making sure that Ronan was behind them.
He stood on the cobbled sidewalk, every bit as alert as on previous occasions when he’d been prepared to initiate or fend off an attack. The relatively few midday pedestrians hardly glanced at him as they passed, saving their stares for the unveiled woman. Cynara moved closer to him.
“Are you all right, Ronan?”
“Your uncle lives here?”
“Oh, no. But he thought it best to meet us first on neutral ground where unwelcome observers aren’t likely to meddle.”
He looked at her in surprise. “You fear for my safety, Aho’Va?”
“That’s another thing… you should know that in Elsinore I am not a First. My family is of high rank, but I am far from the highest of D’Accorsos.”
‘Then you fear your own enemies,” Ronan said with dogged persistence. “Janek?”
The utter grimness of his face did not invite levity. “Not in the sense you mean. I’m not in any physical danger, and neither is Lizbet.”
Noises of drunken revelry in a masculine pitch drifted from the ale-house door. Lizbet glanced nervously down the lane. “Captain?”
“Let’s go.” Cynara took a step toward the street corner just as a man barreled out of the ale-house, followed by several more healthy and inebriated young bucks in brocade sleeves and fine seacow-skin breeches. One of them half carried a very pretty unveiled woman whose hair tumbled loose as she laughed.
Ronan stopped. “Are these males mating with this female?”
Poseidon. “This is not the time to discuss it, Ronan.”
“The woman is unveiled. Is she not adult?”
“She sells her body—her sex—to earn her living. It’s best not to interfere.”
Lizbet grabbed Ronan’s arm. “C’mon,” she said, lapsing into Low Town dialect.
Cynara had clear prescience of trouble even before she felt the hostility in Ronan’s mind. “A ne’lin who trades sex for food and shelter,” he said. “I have heard such things whispered among shaauri, but—”
“What have we here?” One of the men, the least drunk of the lot, drew himself up before Ronan and grinned. “Want a drink, stranger?”
Ronan’s nose wrinkled in obvious disgust, though he couldn’t understand Dharma’s primary language. “I am Ronan.”