Mezos did not answer immediately.
That, Noah thought, was usually a bad sign.
On the other end of the line, the silence held for just long enough to suggest that Mezos was either exercising admirable restraint or selecting, with unusual care, which part of this situation offended him most.
Then he said, very evenly, "And this is a problem because?"
Noah stared at the comm in open disbelief. "Because we are in the middle of an active diplomatic arrival."
"Yes."
"The route was agreed upon."
"So I was told."
"There is an official reception waiting."
"You are talking about a diplomatic visit of Agaron's Crown Prince. There usually is."
"And Arik wants to get off the train in the middle of Alexandria because he saw a night market."
A pause.
Then, with quiet and unmistakable interest, Mezos asked, "The one in the eastern commercial district?"
Noah closed his eyes.
Arik, who had been listening with the air of a man receiving confirmation that the world was beginning to make sense again, folded one hand behind his back and looked out the window as if he had personally arranged this victory.
"Noah," Mezos said, "describe the power distribution."
"This is not the point."
"It is exactly the point. Describe it."
Noah made a noise of deep spiritual fatigue and looked back toward the market, as if being forced to participate in Arik's curiosity was a special circle of professional damnation. "It's extensive. Full avenue closure, spillover into adjoining streets, portable performance wards, food stalls, lighting strings, temporary heating clusters, vendor power feeds, decorative screens, and whatever else Wrohan thinks qualifies as festive credibility."
"Any signs of grid instability?"
"From inside a moving train?" Noah asked. "No, Mezos, shockingly, I have not yet performed a full systems audit through the glass."
"Pity," Mezos said with a tsk.
That was not, Noah thought grimly, the voice of a man preparing to back him up.
Arik's mouth shifted again, the smallest indication of amusement. "You called the wrong person."
"I am beginning," Noah said through his teeth, "to understand that."
Mezos, meanwhile, had turned away from the line for a moment. In the background came the faint layered noise of a station corridor, boots on polished flooring, a clipped exchange in the Wrohan dialect, and a burst of static from a security feed. Then Mezos's voice returned, cooler now, more focused.
"Stay where you are for sixty seconds."
Noah's brows drew together. "Mezos, we are in a moving train. How am I supposed to stay in one place?"
There was a beat.
Then Mezos said, with the patience of a man already disappointed in the quality of resistance he was being offered, "Emotionally, Noah. Do try to keep up."
Arik looked away before the shift at the corner of his mouth could become visible enough to count as encouragement.
Noah, unfortunately, noticed anyway. "Don't you dare look pleased."
"I'm not," Arik said, trying his best to look serene.
"You are internally."
"That sounds like speculation."
"It sounds," Noah muttered, "like pattern recognition."
On the other end of the line, Mezos seemed to have decided that their collective capacity for nonsense had already exceeded his tolerance for the hour. "If the prince is still intent on getting off before platform arrival, then I'm changing the escort."
That cut cleanly through the exchange.
Noah straightened. "What do you mean by changing the escort?"
"I mean," Mezos said, "that I have just had the distinct displeasure of reviewing Wrohan's station arrangements in person, and they have managed, within twelve minutes, to annoy me."
Arik's attention snapped to Mezos's voice.
That was not a small statement.
Mezos was not simple to annoy. He was methodical, disciplined, and in possession of a self-control that made other people seem emotionally decorative by comparison. For Mezos to be annoyed, there had to be either a tremendous amount of stupidity involved or an equally tremendous amount of lying.
Knowing Wrohan, Arik considered both likely.
Noah heard it too. His tone changed at once. "What happened?"
Mezos exhaled once, quietly. "The official route map they submitted does not match the live station layering. One corridor has been reassigned without notice. Two of their internal officers contradicted each other within four minutes. And a man with the rank of deputy security liaison just tried to explain to me that a blind spot beside the receiving platform is architectural."
Noah went still. "He said that to you."
"Yes."
"And survived."
"For now."
Arik's fingers brushed the owl brooch at his collar again, almost absentmindedly, and then his mouth curved in a cold smile.
"Do they realize," Arik asked softly, his eyes still on the market below, on the bright waste of ether and the glittering lie of Alexandria at night, "that the security is in place for them, not me?"
Noah felt his spine go rigid because that smile never meant anything good.
Across the comm line, even Mezos went quiet for half a beat.
Arik's gaze remained fixed on the city below, on the rows of canopies, the layered lantern light, and the vulgar shine of a kingdom spending ether like a drunk noble with stolen money. The market glittered. Alexandria glittered. Wrohan, as always, had dressed waste in spectacle and expected the rest of the world to call it prosperity.
His thumb tapped once against the edge of the brooch.
"They really don't," Arik murmured, more to himself than to either of them. "How fascinating."
Noah swallowed, suddenly and fiercely aware of the neat white line of Arik's collar, the red-eyed owl pinned there like some self-important joke, and the utter stillness in his posture.
"Arik," Noah said, careful now, his voice lower than before, "let's not make this a philosophical exercise in comparative lethality."
"Noah," Arik said softly, "let's not insult each other by pretending I came to Wrohan to be lenient. I came to burn this fucking country down." His smile widened, but his gold eyes remained cold. "Politely, of course."