"Sasha! Come in."

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Liz."

"Course not. Come, sit. What tea do you drink?"

"What are you having?"

"Green. Got some new stuff at the store yesterday."

"Ooh, I'll have that."

"Sure thing."

"Did I ever tell you that story about my cousin?"

"I don't think so."

"Alright, so, I've got this cousin, Daniil. We call him Danik. Lives in Holm-ir-"

"Ice, milk, water?"

"Just hot, please."

"I've got a regular fire-breather in the office, I see."

"Ha! I've been on the pálinka for so long, don't even feel it."

"You really should stop drinking that shit. Radio says the Health Ministry announced it might cause liver damage."

"Ah, to hell with my liver. After a week with these fucking people, a mug is all I need."

"Gromkova?"

"You know it. Fucking Shumkin, too. What a prick."

"You were saying about your cousin?"

"Right. Danik lives in Holm-ir. Dentist or some shit."

"Lives in the nice parts?"

"For sure. Nice fucking apartment. Pretty sofas, samovar, everything."

"Sounds pretty fucking sweet."

"Yeah, man is set for life. Works maybe four hours a day."

"Lucky bastard."

"But one day, for some goddamn reason, he decides to take a stroll, wants to go see if the rest of the city has anything good."

"I stand corrected. Crazy bastard."

"Eh, it's not that bad. You ever been to the bad parts of Holm-ir?"

"No, all my family lives closer to Arabah."

"Steppe family?"
"Yeah."

"You'll have to take me some time."

"You've got to go in the spring. Goes from cool to warm, but not fucking flaming like the summer. Like I said, spring is pretty nice."

"Must be. Up in Sinovya-Sever, it warms up in spring, to just forty below zero by May, you see."

"Sounds unbearable."

"You eventually get used to your snot freezing solid the moment you step out. But Holm-ir is different. It's warmer; more people outside. Cops make sure outsides of buildings are presentable."

"Then how do you know what part is the bad part?"

"It smells the best."

"The bad part smells best?"

"Yeah. Smells like fruit and fresh bread, since they're distilling pálinka, rakija."

"Sounds great."

"Smell's the only good part. Go in the wrong alley, get mugged."

"Did Danik get mugged?"

"No, story's more interesting than that. Danik's walking along through the bad parts of town, right? And he sees what looks like an ordinary tea store, but with fantastic fucking prices. I'm talking a brick of honest-to-God black loose-leaf for three rubles."

"I'd kill for those prices."

"How much was this one?"

"It was ten rubles a pound."

"Not bad."

"Yeah, but I keep up buying this shit and I'm stuck in this hellhole until I'm eighty."

"It's good tea."

"Thanks."

"Danik obviously goes into the store. Who wouldn't? He looks around, sees tons of teas. Hibiscus, black, cherry-flavored, even fancy shit like souchong. But, try as he might, he can't find any green tea. There's no fucking green tea."

"No green tea?"

"That's what he thought. He keeps looking. Shopkeeper comes up, big bald stocky dude with a mustache and a grey apron and a greasy rag he's wiping his hands with, and asks what's up."

"Like Captain Vrungel as a shopkeep?"

"You read minds? That's exactly how Danik described him."

"All stocky men with mustaches look like fucking Captain Vrungel."

"Fair enough. Anyway, Danik asks the guy 'do you guys have green?' The shopkeep immediately grabs Danik by the shoulder and drags him through some hidey-hole in the middle of the tea bricks."

"He didn't notice a doorway-sized hole in the tea earlier?"

"Must have been jerking off to the prices."

"To be fair, I would too. But go on."

"Now Danik is sitting on some rickety fucking wooden chair in this dark, empty warehouse. This shopkeep guy goes off somewhere and comes back with a little wooden bottle. Maybe a quart or so. Opaque, so he can't see what's in it. Also with a couple more big fucking guys. These ones have clubs and shit."

"He must have been pissing himself."

"He's never said so, but I'm sure he was. But then the shopkeeper pours him a little glass of it, for tasting. And it's toxic green."

"Absinthe?"

"Yeah. So Danik realizes where he's gotten himself and tries to get out of it. 'Fellas, I'm not trying to buy your stuff.' But that only angers them, because if he's not buying, he could rat them out."

"That's how the tea prices are so low?"

"Yeah, it's a front. They're selling practically no tea. Just looks tidy enough for the cops to leave them alone."

"How did he get out of it?"

"Well, to get caught with that shit would fucking kill his dental license. He can't buy it. But they're about to paint the fucking warehouse wall with his brains. So, he offers to this shopkeep and his boys that he'll do their dental work for free, then and there, if they let him go after."

"Did he really? He has his fucking dental gear on him?"

"He carries this little penknife that's good enough for the basics."

"Like a fucking Boy Scout."

"Danik was always like that. Pockets always full of trinkets when we were kids. Called it 'gear.' But that night, his wife, Masha, she calls me and she says 'Sasha, Danik has been gone two hours later than he said he would.' But then, right there on the phone, I hear the door open and fucking Danik come in."

"All in one piece?"

"Seems like it. That son of a bitch took the phone from Masha and tells me he now has customers in the bad neighborhoods."

"So he did their dental work and got out?"

"That's what he told me. Sat down each guy in turn on that same rickety fucking chair, got an apron and a small bowl of water, and got them all fixed up."

"Complete fucking madman."

"Yeah. Best part is, he became their dentist long-term after that."

"No shit? They pay him?"

"I don't know, but he's always got the best tea now."

"Maybe I should start doing administration for criminals. Would save me a fucking fortune on loose-leaf."

"Maybe. But every time I ask someone whether they've got green, that fucking story pops up in my mind."

"Now it'll pop up in my mind too. Don't go shopping for tea in the bad districts of Holm-ir, unless you're some fucking Boy Scout-dentist, I guess."

"Haha, yeah."

"Listen, Sasha, that's not what I've invited you for."

"Right, back to business."

"Have you read that Gromkova review of your Stareshan piece?"

"No, what about it?"

"She shits all over you, Professor."

"How?"

"Take a look."

"Thank you… 'Appears to have purposely been written inaccurately'? Shit. She really tore me a new one."

"Yeah. You're a great kid, but remember you're history faculty now. I know we poached you from the literature people, and I thought the story was great, but we have to be a bit more rigorous, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what do you have in the pipeline right now? I'm not saying you have to stop with the history-flavored fiction, but we need a bit more stuff that can be put in the journal."

"I wanted to go see that reenactment everyone's been talking about, up near Yar-ir. I promised Yana we could go this weekend."

"She's the little one?"

"Yeah, six."

"Pass on a hello, will you? To Zoya as well."

"Of course."

"So you'll review it?"

"More of a historical critique."

"I see…"

"I can write about Pereshan-era combat tactics."

"Good shit. That area has sort of fallen off since the drift towards the Stareshan era, it'll be good to have some more scholarship in that area, all us."

"Definitely."

"You have to understand, I don't want to tell you what to do. But fucking Gromkova wants this seat, and I just know she'll suffocate the department. If she kills your credibility, there's no way you become chair."

"I'm not sure I want to be chair."

"Sasha, do me a solid. At least until one of your students gets far enough to take over for you."

"That's got to be a few years, Liz."

"I fucking know. You think I wanted this position?"

"Damn, sorry. I didn't know you didn't want it."

"Borya used to have it, but he tired of it. It stopped him from spending all his time dissecting translations of the manuscripts."

"He always did like linguistics a bit more than history."

"He's a clever fucker. Asked me to take over maybe six years ago, just before you transferred. I'd much prefer field work, but it's either sitting in this office or having Gromkova's shitty-ass ideology all over the fucking journal and breathing the fuck down everyone's neck."

"So now it's me or her?"

"Pretty much."

"Should I be planning to get back at her?"

"No, the older faculty can tell what she's doing. The rest will mature. Don't stoop to her level."

"Got it. You're sure this is the only way?"

"Absolutely. You know, sure as hellfire, I wouldn't draw you from your work for so long without good reason."

"I suppose so. Want me to send you that reenactment review article before I publish?"

"Why?"

"It could be the start of your transition back to research. We drive up to the actual site sometime next week, see if we can see any markings from the battle."

"I would like that."

"Then it's a plan."

"Thank you, Sasha."

"Thank you, Liz. Say hi to Ana for me."

"Of course."