Year 614 PE
Space Station Telzee, Orbit 6A around Planet Geseret
"Hey, Kalev!" Ashlen called as he came into the cafeteria and got in the line for food. "How was the test on air filtration systems?"
"It sucked," Connor called back to his classmate, and nearby engineering students laughed.
"You mean, you blew it?" Ashlen replied, and that got groans.
As the line moved along, other students joined in the banter with even worse puns, laughing too hard at stupid jokes. The end of the term was only four days away, and all of them were busy with studying and short on sleep. Failing a written test could get you dropped from the program; failing a practical exam could get you—and others—killed. The vacuum of space took no prisoners.
So Connor had studied diligently for the written test on air filtration systems and had earned a perfect score. Tomorrow would come the hands-on test in the derelict ship tethered to the station. His work would need to be perfect there, too. He took the end-seat at a table for eight, his back to the bulkhead, and listened in as four senior-class members discussed their recent exam on vacuum welding. He would be studying that during the upcoming ninety-day term.
Then an Immortal walked in.
Connor swore silently but didn't let his expression change as he surveyed the room. He recognized everyone except the woman taking a place next to Ashlen in the food line. She looked to be about thirty years old, medium height, slender, tan skin, and straight dark hair cut short. Her bodysuit was green instead of the standard gray, and she'd covered the skintight fabric with a blue knee-length tunic that flowed with her as she moved.
Connor didn't recognize her from the chronicles, so she was either less than eighty years old or had escaped the Watchers' notice. The newcomer was also surveying the room, and Connor went back to looking at his food before she made eye contact with him.
He had hoped to get through school with no immortal contact, and if she were just traveling through, he could avoid her for a few days. But then Ashlen brought her to the table and introduced her as "Baranova Yanlei, a new student," and Connor knew he would need to introduce himself soon.
Connor listened but didn't contribute to the conversation at the table. As a newcomer, Yanlei got a lot of questions, which she answered easily. She'd been born in Sol's asteroid belt and gone to school at Luna Institute of Technology, where she'd studied astronavigation. It was a decent cover story, not that different from his own.
"You have any hobbies?" someone asked her.
"Painting. Climbing. Chess. Theater, and that introduced me to fencing."
Connor ignored the obvious bait. He waited until the meal was over and people were leaving before he asked her, "Want to play chess?"
"Sure," Yanlei agreed. "Your name's Kalev ni Dorni, right?"
"That's right." Connor got the pieces from the game cupboard then claimed a table for two in the corner. He was setting up the last of the pawns when she came over. "Red or black?" he offered, because the challenged got to choose.
For answer, she pushed the red queen's pawn two spaces forward then took that chair, and so the game began. Connor was more interested in learning about her than on winning the game, and so he tried some unusual gambits and staged different kinds of attacks. She played at a steady and thoughtful pace, save for one quick exchange that cost him a knight and a rook and her a queen, and she avoided most of his traps. The endgame looked to be tedious, so Connor resigned and gave her the win.
She looked at his fallen king for a few seconds. "Been a while since you played?"
"More than a few years," Connor allowed. "You?"
"More than a few," she echoed. "Feels like decades."
"Yeah," he agreed, wondering how old she was and who her teacher had been. From the speculative look on her face, she was probably wondering the same about him.
"Play again?" she suggested.
"I should study. I don't have the time for games." He met her gaze directly. "Of any kind."
She nodded slowly. "That sounds fine to me. I'm just here for the school." She looked up at the ceiling, where pipes of various hues and dimensions carried water, communications, power, and air, "And a space station is not a good place for lightning."
"True."
They gathered the chess pieces into the bag. As she dropped in the last rook, Yanlei said, "If you ever do have some time, I'd very much like to talk."
"About what?"
"History? Poetry?" Her smile slid from engaging to tremulous. "Anything? I've met only two of us I could talk to, and they both… They've been gone a while."
"Who were they?"
"My teacher, who was also my mother. And someone I tried to teach."
Her gaze had gone inward, remembering, and Connor recognized that mix of regret, grief, and loneliness. "We could talk sometime," he told her, because gathering intel on potential opponents was always a good idea. He picked up the bag of chess pieces. "But not for the next couple of days. I need to study."
Yanlei nodded. "See you around the station."
In the following days they did see—and sense—each other, but Yanlei kept her distance, while Connor kept an eye on her and finished his exams. She had found more people to play chess with, and after the evening meal, people began gathering to watch the game and bet on the winner. Entertainment was sparse on the station, and novelty was welcome.
So when Yanlei got permission to install ropes and place grips on a wall in the hangar bay, climbing became a popular pastime. Connor added it to his exercise routine of running, lifting weights, and subdued sparring with the martial arts club that met in the gym every other day. Yanlei joined the club, too.
"I saw some wooden blades in the storage locker," she said to him one day. "Would you be willing to spar with me? I could really use the practice."
So could he. He preferred to avoid sparring with potential opponents, but no one else on the station could use a blade, and Connor hadn't fought a duel for more than half a century. Better to let one person learn some of your style in sparring than to go into a real fight unprepared. "Yes. Before breakfast?"
"See you then," she agreed, and early the next morning they met in the gym. "Should we lock the door?" she asked.
"Lock codes for public spaces are restricted to station crew," Connor told her, even though he did have the code. For his own survival, Connor had long ignored rules and regulations like that. "It's early," he reassured her, "and if someone does come in, we're just practicing stage-fighting, right?" A locked door, on the other hand, would raise uncomfortable questions and invite wild speculations.
"Right," she agreed with a grin of conspiratorial glee.
Connor found himself smiling in return, suddenly reminded of Richie, a young smart-ass Duncan had taken on as a student. Richie had come with Duncan to Connor's bachelor party and wedding in New York City, and as groomsmen, they had seen it as their duty to make Connor's honeymoon an epic succession of frustrating interruptions. Richie had been a good kid, a loyal friend, and a promising student. Dead at age twenty-three.
Connor blinked and caught the wooden blade that Yanlei tossed to him from across the room. He tried a few practice swings, while also watching as Yanlei unfastened the clasp at her neck to let her tunic fall from her shoulders. She caught it on its way down, then hung it on a hook on the wall.
He took the opportunity to examine her physique, still covered—and yet revealed—by the supple bodysuit. Everyone wore those, per safety regulations in case pressure suits were required in a hurry, but very few wore them so well. Yanlei had a lean build, but her shoulders, upper arms, and thighs carried sturdy muscle. She also had a magnificent ass.
His own tunic came to mid-thigh, and he belted it at the waist, so Connor kept the tunic on. After a few katas and some basic drills, they bowed to each other then began to spar. Her swordplay was like her chess game: steady and effective. Connor matched her style and speed.
"You had a good teacher," he said when they sat down on the weight benches to rest. Both of them were breathing hard.
"I was lucky," she said, massaging her wrists and then vigorously shaking her hands. "She started teaching me when I was seven, right after she adopted me."
"Mother and teacher both," Connor said with wonder and admiration, hoping to get Yanlei to talk.
"Teacher first, mother second. But yes, she was both to me." Yanlei's smile was rueful. "The lessons got harder as I got older."
"They needed to."
"I realize that now. Then…" She shrugged. "We argued a lot; I moved out."
"It happens."
"I know. But when I was twenty-eight, she disappeared. Next season, they found her body, but not her head. So, I found out who had killed her, made myself an immortal, and hunted him down." She was nodding to herself, remembering. Then she focused on Connor with a level and determined gaze. "He was my first."
Connor nodded, letting her know that he took her seriously. Which he did, because killing yourself before engaging in your first duel to the death required impressive courage and resolve. "Who was he?"
"He introduced himself as Linny Tolliver of the Tollivers of Virginia. He seemed to think that would impress me. Even spelled his name." She wrinkled her nose. "It had extra letters in it."
Probably Linnaugh Taliaferro, Connor thought. Nine hundred years ago during the American Revolution, he'd met a few Taliaferros from that state. They'd seemed inordinately proud of their lineage, their women, and their horses, not necessarily in that order.
"Did you know him?" Yanlei asked.
"No," Connor said. "But I've read about Virginia. It was a small country on Terra, in the North American continent."
"There are Virginias on Haven and Mars, too. Have you been to Terra?"
"I visited a couple of years ago." Enough conversation. Connor stood and stretched then gave the wooden sword a twirl. "Once more?"
They had almost finished their final bout when Linnea Hoskinen, the instructor for biosystems, came into the gym. She stopped at the door, and Connor and Yanlei stopped sparring. "I didn't know you two did fencing," Linnea said, coming into the room.
"Stage fighting," Yanlei explained with an exuberantly cheerful smile, while Connor put the blades back in the storage locker. "I did theater in school, and we had to learn it for some Shakespeare plays."
"Are you an actor, too?" Linnea asked Connor.
All immortals were. He gave her a smile that mixed self-effacement and embarrassment then shrugged. "Just a hobby for me."
Three nine-days later, just before their class started, Ashlen sat down next to Connor. "So… you and Yanlei…?"
"Me and Yanlei what?" Connor asked.
"She likes you."
Maybe. Maybe not. Immortals were tricky that way.
"And you like her."
He did. Or, rather, he liked what he'd seen so far. Yanlei was intelligent, physically fit, and attractive. She was helpful and easy-going with the other students, and her wit was amusingly sharp without being cruel. But though he enjoyed the conversations, the chess games, and the sparring, he also knew that everything she had told him might be a lie.
She might be a psychopath, setting him up for a kill. She might be bait, luring him to a trap. She might be working for the Prize, gathering intel on him until they met on a planet someday. And even if she were telling the truth, being intimate with another immortal could be … complicated.
Ashlen, however, was direct. "Are you and Yanlei bedpartners?"
When he'd started this school, Connor had decided to avoid entanglements. He didn't have time for romance, and sex-friendships usually mutated into something more. He didn't want the inevitable drama of those. As for Yanlei… Connor knew damned well that while mortal relationships might end in tears, immortal ones could end in blood. So he told Ashlen, "We're just friends."
But two nights later, Connor dreamed of Yanlei, an erotic fantasy of entwined limbs, slick wet heat, and soft and gasping moans. He exercised alone for the next few days, and he avoided her at meals. But he couldn't ignore the sensation of her nearness several times a day, and he couldn't escape the scent of her.
And he couldn't stop the dreams. Just in case someone was mind-fucking with him, he checked and then reset his mind-shields, using the techniques he and Cassandra had developed while working with the Quickening, but the dreams still occurred. Not every night, and not always of Yanlei, but at least every few days his dreams suffused him with lust and longing, and those feelings lingered through his waking hours.
Even though his body was that of a teenager, Connor refused to be ruled by his physical desires. He'd been a sailor, and he'd lived without a partner for decades, so he had plenty of practice in that discipline. Though half a century without any sex at all was a record for him.
The term was more than half-over, and soon he would earn his space-tech certificate and could leave Yanlei behind. Until then… he had school to keep him busy, and except for the sparring, he didn't need to spend any time with her. So he didn't.
Yanlei noticed, of course. After he'd declined her offer of a chess game three times in a row, she asked, "What's going on?"
"Classes," Connor said, taking the last bite of his breakfast. "I told you: no time for games."
"Or conversations?"
He shrugged and stacked his dishes on a tray. "Have to study."
Connor still went to martial arts club and met her for sparring every other morning, but he didn't hang around to chat and he stopped going to the climbing wall. Nor did he sit at the same table as Yanlei in the dining hall. After five days of that, she greeted him one morning with: "You've been avoiding me."
That wasn't a question, so Connor didn't bother to respond.
"Why?" she demanded.
Confessing his lust to Yanlei would most definitely not push her away, but making her dislike him would. Connor abandoned charm and went straight to obnoxious. "You're boring." Her laughter held disbelief and hurt, but when she looked in his face and saw only impatient disdain, her expression shifted to anger.
She looked him up and down, shook her head, told him, "You're an ass," then turned on her heel and walked away.
Mission accomplished.
Except he dreamed of Yanlei that night, all tender passion and gentle touches, while her hair traced silken caresses upon his bare skin, and he cupped her breasts in his hands.
Connor woke, fully aroused and completely alone. He stared into the dimness of his tiny cubicle, empty and boring and lonely as hell.
Four days later at the end of the martial arts session (during which Connor and Yanlei had ignored each other), another student said, "I heard you two know how to use swords. Can I watch?" and others echoed the request.
Connor would have said no, but Yanlei (without looking at him) replied, "Sure, we could do a demonstration." Then she did look at Connor, a challenge in her eyes. Everyone else was looking at him, too.
His persona at the school was a standard-issue engineer: good with numbers, mostly amiable, and rather dull. He could have pleaded schoolwork or made some other excuse, but some would wonder why he had refused, people would keep on asking, and Yanlei would keep on pushing. Might as well get it over with. "Sure," Connor agreed, getting to his feet. "A demonstration." While Yanlei got the wooden blades from the cabinet, people moved some of the floor mats, and the audience spread out along the walls.
"A kata?" Connor suggested, and he and Yanlei went through the fluid motions side by side while she kept up a verbal description of their movements. Then they faced each other, bowed, and did a slow-motion paired routine, taking turns attacking and defending, while again Yanlei explained the different moves.
"Quicker this time, but only one move," Yanlei announced, and Connor and Yanlei traversed the length of the room, repeating a basic thrust and parry over and over again. When they stopped, their audience clapped politely, and Yanlei told them, "For the finale, we'll show you some real sword work."
When she turned back to Connor, he warned her quietly, "No advertising."
Her lazy smile belied the coolness of her gaze. "Just keep up with me." Then she attacked, a flurry of moves fierce enough to make him back up as he countered her stokes. He stayed on the defensive, and she followed him across the room. Before his back was to the wall, Connor pivoted and kept moving away, then lowered his blade and bowed very briefly to her, and then to the watching crowd. He was done with her little show.
Everyone applauded, more enthusiastically this time, but Yanlei's smile was brittle as she bowed to them. She didn't bow to him. Connor deflected all conversation, pleading an exam the next day, and went directly to his room, leaving Yanlei with her fans.
He showered then studied for a few hours. He fell asleep easily, but he dreamed of Yanlei yet again, and this time passion flared fierce and brutal, with grips tight enough to leave bruises on naked skin, and kisses that tasted of blood.
When he woke, he turned on the light. His room looked just as empty and boring and lonely as it did in dimness. The station's sleep cycle was only half over, but Connor dressed then went running through empty half-lit hallways. After a few miles, he went to the exercise room, looking for something to hit.
He found Yanlei.
At the far end of the room, just at the edge of his sensing range, she was jumping rope. Her hands were weaving a complex pattern and her feet were keeping time in a steady rhythm that didn't falter even when she glanced his way. Her hair moved, too, the ends of it just long enough to slide back and forth along her jawline, silken strands caressing soft skin.
Connor went to the punching bag in the other corner and began to pummel it with his fists. The percussion—her feet and his hands— fell into a syncopation, and they moved together to the driving beats. She stopped first; Connor kept on hitting while she retrieved the wooden blades. Then she slammed the locker door.
He stopped punching then steadied the bag with both hands.
She tossed a blade to him, and he snagged it out of the air. She moved to the center of the room, bowed to him, and waited. As he moved to meet her, Connor tucked the wooden blade under his arm and massaged his hands. They still felt numb, and both he and Yanlei were a bit out of breath, so as usual he suggested, "A kata?"
She shrugged, seeming bored even though she'd been the one to initiate this session, but started in on the familiar moves, and he joined her. When they had finished, she asked, "Ready?"
He nodded, turning to bow to her as they usually did before a bout, but she was already attacking: fast, aggressive, and serious. He countered, staying defensive, but he could tell was not a sparring session; this was a fight. She didn't look angry, but she was definitely intense. Her blade moved in a blur, seeking vulnerable spots: an elbow, a wrist, a knee. She was more fluid than before, faster and more combative. She'd been holding back all these weeks.
So had he.
Connor switched from defending to attacking. She stood her ground at first, but step by step he forced her back, until she moved back and away then tried to circle around him. Connor simply turned to keep her in his sight, the wooden blade held tip down.
Yanlei stopped abruptly and straightened. Now she looked angry. "Let me guess: I'm boring you."
He wasn't bored; she fought well, and he needed the practice. He liked watching her move, the shift of muscles under her suit, the rise and fall of her breasts when she was breathing hard. He liked the way the tip of her tongue slid along her lower lip.
He wanted to pull her close and bury his face in the nape of her neck, to breathe in the scent of her and to taste the sweat-salt on her, and to feel her hair glide against his skin. He wanted her in his bed. Or right here on the floor.
But what he wanted wouldn't be wise: not for him and not for her. So Connor just shrugged and once again showed her an expression of impatient disdain.
She dropped the wooden blade on the floor and walked out of the room. Connor returned to the punching bag.
He didn't try to bother to go back to bed that morning; he was anything but sleepy. That night, after a full day of classes and hours of studying, Yanlei appeared in his dreams yet again. Connor took a cold shower that morning, and he left the temperature setting there. Becoming lovers with opponents was a bad idea.
Making unnecessary enemies was also a bad idea.
So, eight days later, when all his exams were finished and he had only one night left on station, he waited for her in the cafeteria and then got in the food line behind her. "I'd like to talk."
She didn't even glance at him. "I wouldn't want to bore you."
"Yanlei—"
"And I don't need you boring me."
He moved to stand beside her in line. She turned her head, looked him over from head to foot with her own impatient disdain, and ordered: "Go away."
Connor stayed where he was. "You don't bore me."
"I don't care."
She obviously did. "I'm sorry," he told her.
Her eyebrows lifted, either in surprise or skepticism, but she asked, "Sorry for what?"
Sorry for the lie, for the necessary mistrust, for hurting her… and sorry that she would likely be dead in a decade or two.
"Sorry for what?" she repeated impatiently. "For lying? For being an ass?"
"Both," Connor admitted. "I'm sorry I lied. And I'm sorry I was an ass." As they moved forward in line, he stepped closer to her, just a little. "You don't bore me," he repeated, looking into her eyes. "The opposite, actually."
"What—" She took a deep breath and held it, staring back at him with narrowed eyes, then finally demanded: "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
During nearly two centuries of marriage, Connor had learned the value of merging an honest apology with the awkward embarrassment of a little boy. "Yes," he said, looking at his feet and then, head still hanging, up at her beseechingly.
Her irritation slid, just for an instant, into exasperation. Then she announced abruptly, "I'm hungry." Yanlei turned her back on him and went to get her meal from the food dispensers.
Connor got a cup of coffee and walked beside her to the dining area. "I'd like to explain."
"Fine," she bit out, and she led the way to the same secluded table where they'd played their first game of chess. She sat in the the same chair. "Explain."
"I've been avoiding you," he told her, "because you distract me."
"Even though we agreed not to fight, you were still worried I would attack you?"
"Not that kind of distraction," he confessed then met her gaze straight on, allowing himself—finally—the luxury of simply looking at her, the dark eyes under curling lashes, the oval face framed by the black silk of her hair. He'd dreamed of kissing a path from the tiny mole high on her right cheek down to the faint scar on her lower lip. He'd dreamed of her hands tangled in his hair, of the firm warmth of her thighs, of the scent and touch and taste of her.
She pushed her chair back with a muttered oath in a language he didn't know. "You mean sex."
Connor shrugged helplessly, admitting her power over him and giving her the win.
She glared at him. "You're an idiot as well as an ass."
He knew better than to argue that point. Connor let her anger flood over him, acknowledging it as his due. Finally, when she was ready to hear it, he said yet again, "I'm sorry," and this time, she accepted his apology with a nod.
"I thought you were angry with me," she said. "Or that I'd done something wrong."
"No."
"But why didn't you just tell me? All this time, we could have—" She stopped, for Connor was shaking his head.
"It's complicated," he said.
Her nose wrinkled in adorable confusion. "How? You want me, and I've certainly thought about you. It's just sex."
"No, Yanlei, it's not. Not for us." She should not be that naive. "We're Immortals."
"And Immortals can't be friends?" She leaned closer and added softly, "Or lovers?"
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "They can," he allowed slowly. "But—"
"But we can't trust each other. Right?"
Connor nodded.
She looked away at that, her gaze flitting from place to place, like an insect trapped inside a dome, finally coming to rest on her eating utensils: fork and spoon and knife. She ran her thumb along the cutting edge. "Have you killed any of your lovers?"
"No." Not permanently. He had killed Cassandra, his first immortal lover, and he had wanted to take her head. Her searing betrayal had made him wary, so, unlike Duncan, Connor had been highly selective in choosing partners, and (again unlike Duncan) he'd never had reason to behead any of them.
"How about your friends?" Yanlei asked.
"Some," he admitted.
Yanlei lifted her head to look him over again, not disdainful now, but cautious and judgmental. "So you do find time for that Game."
"So should you," he told her bluntly. "If you want to survive."
She blinked, suddenly looking very young and very vulnerable, but then she blinked again, and all expression was wiped away. She ate silently; Connor sipped his coffee. When her meal was gone, she pushed the tray to the side, typed on her tablet for a moment, then announced, "I just reserved a double room for tonight." She leaned forward, her eyes intent on his. "And I sent you the access code."
That would be one hell of a goodbye, and he no longer had the excuse of studying. Connor clung to his decision and didn't respond. But when she reached across the table to touch his hand, Connor didn't pull away, for 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' and he wanted them to stay on friendly terms. Her fingers lingered, caressing tendons and bones, and her thumb traced a delicate circle on the inside of his wrist, and the heat from that raced up his arm and down his spine.
He turned his hand so that their fingers could intertwine, and then he kept her hand still.
"We like each other," she said, "so it wouldn't be 'just' sex; we could be—"
"Both friends and bedpartners?" he cut in.
"Yes."
"Maybe. Someday. But I don't know you, and you don't know me. Not really. So we're not friends." Connor squeezed her hand then let go, even as he gave her an encouraging smile. "Not yet."
Her rueful smile held some hope. "Not yet."
Connor knew it might be never. But the possibility meant she wouldn't be eager to see him dead, and that could help him survive.
She stood, leaned over the table, and then kissed him, her lips warm against his, while he breathed in the scent and taste of her and his blood leapt high and hot with every beat of his heart. Connor gripped the edge of the seat to keep his hands from tangling in her hair and pulling her closer, and he held even more tightly to his resolve.
Yanlei straightened and smiled down at him, her eyes dark with temptation and promise, then then picked up the remains of her dinner and walked swiftly away.
Connor stayed at the table, breathing in a controlled and careful rhythm, his eyes closed and his hands wrapped around his cup, while the coffee in it slowly went cold.
Back in his room he finished packing, reviewed his travel plans for tomorrow, and reread the orientation package for his new job. The message Yanlei had sent him with the access code to the double room waited unread on his tablet. Connor sent the message to the delete bin.
Then he took it back out.
Then he deleted it again.
He took a shower, brushed his teeth, watched a short documentary about mining shiar crystals, then went to sleep.
He woke two hours later, with desire shuddering in his veins and the well-remembered taste of Yanlei on his lips. Connor undeleted the message again. This time, he opened it.
At 0819 the next morning, the shuttle docked at Space Station Telzee. Connor waited with fellow-graduates Ashlen and Yuki while four passengers from the planet below disembarked: a person with exquisitely coiffed hair and expensive rings, perhaps a merchant, an older man in a plain red tunic, and two black-robed women of the Sisterhood.
Both Yuki and Ashlen bowed their heads and murmured "Sisters," as the women glided by, and the older one lifted a hand in silent blessing.
While planetside two years ago, Connor had done some research, and he recognized her as Salmah, Tribune of the Healer Guild, one of the Council of Nine. Connor said nothing, but he did bow his head, just as the others had done. Her serenely expressionless gaze slid over him with no change as she and her companion went by.
Ashlen turned back to his display, adjusting it until it was more than half-filled with a sphere, all light gray except for the name and registration numbers in white and the painted symbol of a red ribbon. "Yuki, here's the Encarnación!" They peered at the enormous ship, which would soon be their new home.
"What ship are you on?" Ashlen asked Connor. "I can look for it."
"The Ursula," Connor told him, and soon the display showed a much smaller sphere.
"How many crew?" Yuki asked.
"Just four. It can go interstellar, but Asteria Corporation uses it mostly for intersystem trips."
"Asteria?" Yuki sounded impressed. "I hear the pay is good."
Connor grinned. "Very good." That was the primary reason he'd taken the job.
"Shuttle now boarding," came the call, and the three of them picked up their bags.
Ashlen was bouncing with eagerness. "Let's go!"
At 0858, Yanlei received a message from Instructor Linnea Hoskinen: "Please come to my office at 1130 today to give updates on your project." Yanlei sighed; she was not looking forward to that discussion. She finished her yoga routine, showered, dressed, and left the double room to go to the cafeteria for food.
At 1129 she pressed the access panel outside Instructor Hoskinen's room. The door opened at 1130, and Yanlei stepped inside. The wall desk had been reconfigured into a bench seat, but Yanlei stayed standing in the middle of the room, while the instructor stood by the door.
The woman seated on the bench wore black with a violet sash, and her lined face was framed by a violet veil.
Yanlei tucked her arms into the sleeves of her tunic and bowed her head. "Tribune Salmah."
"Sister Yanlei," the Tribune greeted her. "Report."