“We’re standing here with our backs to the greatest library in the history of the world,” said Loaf.

“But they won’t let us inside so what do I care?” asked Umbo. The job done, he rearranged his clothing.

“Well, if you want to get inside, we can buy the kind of clothes that will gain us entry,” said Loaf. “But then we’ll have to live in a different part of town—the kind of place where the police and the government spies will notice us and keep track of us.”

“I thought the police would pay more attention to the poorest people.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where the criminals would be.”

“That’s where the beggars and cutpurses and such would be, yes, but what do the police care about them as long as there isn’t a riot? As long as they prey on peasants and workers and tradesmen, the police aren’t interested. But if you have money enough for finer clothes and high-toned lodgings, then you might be planning to cozen the rich or insinuate yourself into society or spy on the powerful or throw money around without necessarily making sure some of it goes into the pockets of the powerful. You matter, you see.”

“Then let’s stay out of the library. I’d rather remain invisible,” said Umbo.

“You’re getting closer and closer to being smart, the longer you stay with me.”

Loaf made it a point to gawk at the gardens and library buildings and to point things out to Umbo, without ever making the slightest attempt to enter the grounds or linger too long at any one spot. Then they moved away to the south, and soon from the noises and smells they could tell they were getting closer to the river, closer to the part of the city where they might blend in. On the way, they again passed a policeman, and again Loaf made it a point to go up to the man and ask a stupid question. “Was one of those fine white buildings the royal palace?”

This policeman actually smiled, though the smile was derisive and cheerless. “Library,” he said. “There are no royals now, in case you haven’t heard of the Revolution.”

“Oh,” said Umbo, in his best idiotic-privick voice. “Did the Council finally have them all killed?”

Loaf glared at him—and it wasn’t just part of his impatient-father act. “Are you going to waste this officer’s time with stupid questions?” he demanded. Then he cuffed Umbo across the head—a move they had actually practiced, so that Umbo knew to turn his head and duck mostly under the force of the blow while still making it look as if Loaf had hit him with some real force.

“Move along,” said the policeman.

Loaf dragged Umbo across the street and reentered the filthy, busy, noisy, lively, angry, happy part of Aressa Sessamo, the place where the real people lived.

They found a tavern that looked to be a likely place to have rooms to let—there’d be no charming boardinghouse on the outskirts of town like the one they found in O, because the outskirts of Aressa Sessamo were too far from the center of town. The tavern was no taller than any of the three-story rich houses they had just walked past, but it managed to jam five stories into the same height, each story jutting out a foot or two farther over the street than the floor below.

“Do you think it’ll be too flamboyant if I pay extra to get us a room on the third floor?”

Thinking of the stairs they’d have to climb, Umbo said, “Why not the second?”

“On the second story you can still smell the street.”

“Whatever you think is best,” said Umbo. “I’ve never been here before.”

The taverner was cheery, though he didn’t seem to care a rap when Loaf mentioned that he himself kept a tavern upriver. “Rivermen are riffraff,” said the taverner, “and I don’t let them in.”

“Good thing we’re not rivermen, then,” said Loaf. “I see enough of them upriver. We came into the city on foot.”

They made their price for a room two flights up, and paid extra for a bath. The taverner looked them up and down, and with a wry look said, “You’ll want two baths, or whoever takes the second dip will be bathing in mud.”

Loaf chuckled and agreed. “Your food smells good,” he said.

“After you bathe, I’ll let you into the dining room,” said the taverner, “since you’re a third-floor customer. Or if you want to eat now, the common room will take you, though some will grumble.”

“Well, son, what will it be?” asked Loaf.

“I’m right hungry, sir,” said Umbo.

“Common room then, for now,” said Loaf. “Tomorrow we’ll be dining room customers.”

“I’ll have the boy take your . . . bags up to your room.”

The “boy” turned out to be a twelve-year-old girl with an insolent look. Loaf tossed her a sheb, and she answered with a sneer. “If you think tipping so much gets you under my dress, you can think again.”

“I was hoping a sheb would get our bags up to our room safely, and you not minding too much how dirty they are from the road. But if you’d rather have half a luck instead of a queenface, I’ll be glad to trade.”

In reply she tucked the sheb into a pocket of her apron, hoisted both bags, and, holding them out from her body, began to trudge up the stairs.

Umbo followed his nose and ears to the crowded common room—it was early suppertime now, getting dark outside, and it was clear that this place had good enough food—or cheap enough—to draw more customers than were taking rooms at any given time. And it wasn’t a rough crowd—some of the tables had families with small children. Even the red-nosed drinkers didn’t seem particularly noisy or coarse, and the noise was cheerful rather than surly.

The food, when it came, had flavors Umbo wasn’t familiar with, but it was good and it was hearty and there was plenty of it.

“Aressa Sessamo isn’t much for architecture,” said Loaf, smacking his lips after a particularly spicy breaded fishball, “but it’s best in the wallfold for cookery.”

“I can see why this place is crowded,” said Umbo.

“In Aressa, the peasants eat like royals,” said Loaf.

Unfortunately, he said it rather loudly, and one of the drinkers overheard him. “The royals would do better to eat like peasants!” the man proclaimed.

Eyes turned—his tone was belligerent and that wasn’t something that anyone would welcome, it seemed.

Loaf merely smiled and said, “Well said, sir!”

“And now they’ve got that bastard boy pretending to be a royal,” the drunk said.

Umbo met Loaf’s gaze and smiled at him. Rigg was alive.

“What’s their plan, do you think?” the drunk was saying. “To have the royals back again, drafting our sons into the army and making more wars! To take the food out of our mouths and the taxes out of our pockets!”

Loaf smiled even more broadly—but Umbo recognized that smile as the start of a quarrel. He could even guess what Loaf was about to say: So you pay no taxes now? So the Revolutionary Council have no army?

But instead, Umbo heard a voice coming from under the table, and felt a hand on his knee. “Don’t say it!” said the voice in a harsh whisper.

Umbo hardly had time to look down before the speaker disappeared. But in the moment he had seen him, Umbo recognized himself—dressed exactly as he was right now, except the clothes were torn and he had a black eye and a swollen lip.

Umbo looked up at Loaf and saw that he had also received the message—indeed, the message had been directed at him. Loaf looked at Umbo in perplexity. “I was only going to say—”

Umbo made his eyes big and raised his open hands just a little from the table, trying to signal Loaf to say nothing. If some future beaten-up Umbo had felt the need to come back in time and tell Loaf to shut up, then Loaf would have to be six times stupid to go ahead and tell, out loud, what he had just been told not to say.

By now, though, the drunk had noticed Loaf’s hesitation. “Are you a friend to boy-royals then?” he asked. “You want to have a boy-king? Hagia the non-queen is all we need, for nostalgia’s sake. She does no harm, she has no ambition. But the boy! He’ll be in our pants pockets and under our skirts before he’s done!”