“Yes, lord,” she says, nodding once, like she’s back in the scholam and getting scolded for running in the hallways. This is— surreal. No more so than anything else that has happened to her, but it still gives her that uneasy feeling. She’s riding the line by looking at him when she speaks and trying not to veer outright into studying his face for what the sculptors got wrong.

“There are components to the behavior and culture of the locals that would suggest anywhere else that the population was severely compromised,” she ventures. Beta trusts she does not need to list examples. “But I have found no evidence of unclean ritual or profane worship.”

She sounds frustrated, but it fades as he mentions the title of the book, and nods again.

“My master has been prolific since his confinement.”