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cup his zhena had made was smashed and gone forever . .
.
    "Sometimes," Cory said softly, "old is
better."
    The teapot blurred. She blinked, sniffed
defiantly, and poured. He came to her side, picked up both cups,
and carried them to the table. She turned, watching the slender
back. New clothes were all very well, but the boy was still as thin
as a stick.
    "Hungry?" she asked. He glanced over his
shoulder.
    "I have eaten," he murmured, and pulled out
a chair. "Please, Zhena Trelu, sit. There is something I must say
to you, and some questions I should ask."
    "Well, then." She sat. From the blanket by
the corner of the stove came a long, heart-rending groan. Cory
laughed, and sat across from her. He raised his cup solemnly, and
took a sip. Zhena Trelu watched him, giving her own tea a chance to
cool–and suddenly gasped.
    "The scar's gone," she blurted, forgetting
her manners in the excitement of finally putting her finger on that
elusive difference.
    Cory bowed his head gravely. "The scar is
gone," he agreed. "I was . . . brought to a physician."
    Hah , thought the old lady, lifting her cup for a cautious sip.
She'd heard of skin grafting for burn victims; likely there was
something similar for scars. New-fangled and expensive treatment,
regardless. Well, maybe the hero money had paid for it. And none of
that, judging from the level, patient look he was giving her, was
what he wanted to talk to her about.
    "All right," she said grumpily. "Out with
it, if you've got something to say."
    "You are well-guarded here," Cory began
slowly. "That is good."
    She opened her mouth, then
closed it. Let the boy talk,
Estra .
    "It is good because there are some . . .
people. Some people who are here, maybe, only because I– we–were
here. It is possible that these people will wish to question those
who gave us shelter. Who gave us friendship." He paused to sip some
tea, then gave her a serious look.
    "These people–they are not very careful.
Sometimes, they hurt people, break things, when they ask
questions." He tipped his head, apparently waiting for her to say
something.
    Zhena Trelu drank tea and reminded herself
that, while Cory had always been a little odd, that had been due to
his foreign ways. He wasn't crazy, or dangerous. Or at least, he
hadn't been.
    "I ask, Zhena Trelu," Cory murmured,
apparently taking her silence for understanding. "Are there
strangers in town? Who have perhaps come to Gylles for no apparent
purpose, who have been–"
    "There's Zhena Sandoval and her brother,"
she interrupted him. "Haven't talked to 'em myself, but–they'd fit
your description. Both of 'em got more questions than a
three-year-old, from what I've heard."
    "Ah," Cory said softly. "And their questions
are?"
    She shrugged. "You'll want to see Athna
Brigsbee for the complete rundown. She's talked with the boy–Bar, I
think the name is. From what she told me, he was all over the map,
wanting to know about the Winterfair and the music competition,
Hakan Meltz and I forget whatall. Athna said she might've thought
he was a reporter maybe out of Laxaco City, but turns out he didn't
know anything about the invasion, or the King making half the town
into Heroes."
    Cory frowned slightly. "It is possible . . .
I cannot be certain unless I speak to the zhena or her brother,
myself."
    Zhena Trelu considered him. "Are you going
to do that? I thought you said they were dangerous."
    He gave her a slight smile. "Bravo, Zhena
Trelu," he murmured.
    She glared. "What's that supposed to
mean?"
    He moved his shoulders, his smile more
pronounced. "I said these people were . . . not careful. You make
the leap to dangerous. Yes. These people are dangerous. The care
you gave to us puts you in danger." He paused to finish his tea,
and set the cup gently on the table.
    "Another question, Zhena Trelu?"
    "Why not?" she asked rhetorically. "There's
plenty of tea in the pot."
    That got her another smile. "The last one, I
promise. Then I let you go to bed."
    Behind them,