Lin Page 6 I used to be a town magistrate, the guest says. My shoes would always be cleaned for me. I would need only lift my foot, and a servant would wipe, or even lick, if I commanded them to. Lick! She dares to look up at him, straining to see the face under the hat, but it remains resolutely hidden. Impudence, he hisses. You wonder why I don't ask you your name? Because your name means nothing. Zero importance. Do you know the current value of this town? How much each building is worth, how much it would fetch in a liquidation sale? No, she says. The man's body tenses, and she knows exactly what he is thinking: She dares speak! But her horrifying breach of etiquette seems to relax him. He crosses over to the dressing table on the opposite side of the room, sits before the mirror. The back of his bulbous hat stares at her. Less than nothing, that's how much, he says. The rebels don't want this town. The imperials don't want it. No strategic importance, no financial gain. I know these things because I used to be a magistrate. The current imperialists are idiots. They had no need of my services. Instead they throw their money into bigger tanks, bigger airplanes. Bigger things they can crash and destroy. No profit in it, none at all. Those glory-deluded bastards.