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“Is the passport office where we're headed now?” Thea asked.
“Right now, we're going to stop somewhere to rest and eat. We will sleep here tonight. I need time to notify my contact in Ranor of our impending arrival.”
Which meant he'd be seeking a courier. For a single, fleeting moment, Thea considered sending a letter to her cousin. An apology for vanishing, for leaving her home and responsibilities behind. There would be garments due. Elia was a capable seamstress, but she was no Threadmancer, and the clientele expecting magic-imbued garments would not settle for less. There was not enough money in her store's till to reimburse every disappointed client. A problem Elia would have to solve alone.
“You're worried about something,” Gil said.
“My cousin. I've left her a large burden.”
“If she's as determined as you, I suspect she'll be fine.” He offered a slight smile.
The sewing basket bumped her knees. She hadn't realized she'd let it drop. “I'm not sure I'd describe myself that way.”
“Are you not? I know very few women who would trek halfway across a country with nothing but clean undergarments in their bag, on the way to start a new life in a completely foreign place when something outside their power goes wrong.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “I also have books.”
“Ah, how foolish of me. The fact you're accompanied by literature changes everything.” For a single instant, a sparkle lit his eyes through the illusion.
Her chest tightened. After so many days with him traveling under his new disguise, why should she wish to see the face she'd been so willing to help him cover?
“My lady, our destination.” He pushed open the door to an inn and motioned for her to enter.
Unlike Jaret's establishment when they'd visited, this one was busy. Travelers sat about numerous tables, drinking from dark wooden mugs and gesturing over wide maps. The reception counter was just inside the door, and a tired-looking man lounged against it.
“Meal or drinks?” the innkeeper asked.
Gil shut the door behind them, dulling the light. “A room, if you have it to spare. Two beds.”
The innkeeper frowned. “Two beds?”
Was that suspicious? Thea supposed they didn't look alike enough to claim relation. Perhaps two rooms would have been better, but she had no way to pay for her own.
Gil raised his brows and leaned against the counter to share a conspiratorial but optimistic whisper. “Do you think she'd let me get away with one?”
The man snorted. He scratched something into his ledger, marked a diagram on a wax slate, and reached for something beneath the counter. “Best hope she will, if the two of you are headed north.”
A sense of uneasiness washed through Thea's limbs, prickling like her magic. “What do you mean?”
“Problems in Samara. Surprised you haven't heard. Ranor's already caught wind of it. They don't want trouble, so they're only allowing citizens and their immediate family.” He gave Gil a strange look and raised both eyebrows. A hint?
“This is the first I've heard of this,” Gil lied smoothly. “Kentoria isn't staging another attack against Ranor?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “People have been headed north for weeks. Didn't know why before now. Ranor started turning them back after the news. But I've said enough. I don't care about your business, but she's obviously Kentorian. Best have all your paperwork ready when you head through, or they'll send her packing for home.” He slid a key across the counter, then pointed toward the stairs.
Gil took it with a frown. “Thank you. I suspect we'll be fine.”
Thea held her tongue until they'd climbed the stairs and passed safely out of earshot. “What's he talking about?”
“A problem,” he grumbled.
She leaned close as he unlocked their assigned door. “Why doesn't he think you're Kentorian? Your accent is the same as mine.”
“Because you gave me Ranorsh coloration, and I'm wearing Ranorsh boots.” This time, he entered the room first. It was dark, and he slid in with one hand on a dagger.
Thea hadn't even considered coloration when she stitched her illusions. “Boots are enough to convince someone you're from another country?”
He deemed the room safe, for he returned to the door to close it behind her. “They are when they're Ranorsh. Everyone knows Kentoria's leatherworkers are superior. We have more fields, more livestock, and therefore more practice with the material. But we first learned the skills from Ranorsh immigrants, and they're bitter that we surpassed them. People born and raised in Ranor refuse to wear anything but work by their own craftsmen.”
