Page 67 of Last of Her Name

I wonder when I became the sort of person who expects a fight at every turn. Riyan said we would be safe here, but his nervousness is makingmenervous. Little about our welcoming party actually sayswelcome, and I remember all the worst stories I’ve heard about the tensors. My head spins a little.

Remembering what he told us about the moon’s lower O2levels, I raise the mask to my face and take a few deep breaths. My head settles and the panic in my chest eases somewhat, but I still watch the waiting tensors with apprehension.

“Riyan Ayedi,” says a tall, thin tensor with milky skin stretched over an elongated bone structure.

“Jorian,” replies Riyan. His eyes flicker over the others.

“You presume much, boy, by returning here.”

“This is still my home.”

Jorian scowls and turns to whisper with the others. We all exchange looks, and I can see Mara and Pol are as worried as I am. I glance back at theValentina; we could be inside the ship and out of here altogether in a matter of seconds, if this goes badly.

But then Jorian turns back to us, his face smug. “Riyan Ayedi, you are charged with larceny, desertion, and dereliction of duty. Do you accept these charges?”

Alarm splinters through me, and I turn to stare at Riyan.

He swallows but doesn’t look surprised. “I accept them.”

“This was a bad idea,” Pol whispers in my ear.

“You will be tried in five days’ time,” Jorian says to Riyan. “Until then, you’re not to leave the city.”

Riyan bows his head. “So be it. I only ask for asylum for my companions. This one needs to be taken to Damai for healing.” He gestures at Pol.

“A lawbreaker cannot claim asylum for anyone,” Jorian replies.

“I have not been proven a lawbreaker yet, have I?” returns Riyan coolly, and in the look he gives the man, I sense a long and turbulent history between them. “I’ve only been charged.”

Jorian looks ready to argue again, but the woman on his left puts a hand on his arm. His lips tighten, but he waves a hand. “Bring them, then, but they’ll have to be cleared through quarantine first.”

The tensors turn, making space for us to pass through. As we do, I grab Riyan’s sleeve and whisper, “You knew this would happen, didn’t you? Why would you come back here if you knew they would put you on trial?”

“Because you will be safe here.” He pauses, then adds softly, “In my people’s tradition, when someone saves your life, they become blood to you. Pol is my brother, and you are my sister. What I would do for any of my family, I would do for you.”

He walks on, leaving me to follow with Mara. I stare at his back, until the tensors surround us and he blends in with the rest.

An hour later, Mara and I find ourselves in a small room, clutching our oxygen tanks and staring at a single wide bed. Beside it is a wood nightstand, a shaggy hide rug that I can only assume is from one of the frost bison Riyan told us about, and a tiny, narrow window that looks east. Like all the walls I’ve seen so far in Tyrrha, these are all slightly angled, following the slope of the pyramid’s outer walls.

The tensor who brought us here is a stone-faced woman with a shaven and tattooed head. She separated us from Pol and Riyan in order to unceremoniously strip us, push us into showers, then poke and scan us until she was sure we weren’t carrying contagious diseases or Committee spying equipment. Now she stands in the doorway, her suspicious gaze making the back of my neck prickle.

“Um,” I say. “Is this the only bed?”

“On Diamin,” says the woman coolly, “sleeping is a communal arrangement. But we thought you might want privacy, being offworlders. Perhaps you would be more comfortable in a proper sleeping chamber, with fifty other girls?”

I quail at the challenge in her gaze.

“No, uh, this is great. Right, Mara?”

“Cozy,” Mara says, rolling her eyes and breathing from her oxygen mask.

The tensor woman sniffs and steps into the corridor outside. She icily informs us dinner will be served in one hour. Then she shuts the door, which is made of white wood and opens on hinges, thank the stars. Half the doors in this city, it seems, can only be opened by tessellating.

“I’ll take the floor,” I say.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sleep on the bed—it’s huge. Unless you snore.”

“No. Doyou?”