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his eye. “I do not think I shall be back here,”
    he said.
    “Hercule—”
    “I am loyal to you. I will die to protect you, and I will root out your enemies and crush them. But I cannot bear to be your lover anymore. It wounds too deep.”
    Adrienne felt only the faintest of catches in her throat when she replied, “As you wish.”
    When he was gone, she turned back to the window, and the scene outside seemed inexplicably blurred, as if she, too, were weeping. She knew that could not be true, for in all her years in Saint Petersburg she had never wept. She had used every last tear she had when her son was stolen.
    And so she banished thoughts of Hercule d’Argenson; and in the fog of light and shadow, she saw instead the image of Nicolas. She wondered how she dared hope again. It seemed a dangerous thing to do—to feel, to hope. To love.
    Tomorrow she would learn what she could of China.
    An hour or so later her eyelids finally drooped shut, but she could not have been long asleep when her djinni servants awoke her. She sat up in bed, the EMPIRE OF UNREASON
    alarm still buzzing in her skull.
    In the distance she heard the faint reports of gunfire. And there was someone in her room.
    3.
    Flint Shouting
    “Tell me again about all of the bee-yoo-tee-ful women we’re goin‘’t‘ see out here in Witchy-taw country,” Tug demanded, shading his eyes with one massive hand, staring off mournfully at the distant horizon. It was distant, too, the gently undulating terrain and scattered, dwarfish trees doing little to shorten the vastness of the world.
    Behind him, one of the horses snorted, and Tug’s mount tossed its head. Red Shoes ran his gaze over the lot. Of their original ten beasts, eight remained, but they didn’t look well. They needed a long rest.
    “We need fresh mounts,” Red Shoes observed.
    “Id’n that what I just said?” Tug grunted. “How far to the Witchity-taw villages?”
    “I’m not sure,” Red Shoes told him. “I’m not certain this is Wichita country.”
    “Y‘ mean y’r lost?” Tug asked incredulously. “How can an In’yun get lost?”
    “How can a sailor get lost at sea, Tug? Water is the same, yes?”

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    Tug screwed his face into a scowl. “It han’t comparable.”
    “Of course it is. I have never been west of the Great Water Road before. Why should I know my way around?”
    “You seem awful certain about where we’re goin‘, seein’ you’ve never been here.”
    “Going, yes. I have a sort of arrow pointing in my head. It’s where we are that I’m not so certain of.”
    “We han’t nowhere, is where,” Tug grumbled. Then he shrugged. “Kind o‘
    fetchin’, though. Does remind me o‘ the sea, after all.”
    “You miss sailing?”
    “Not a damn bit. Miserable life, the sea. Half the men I’ve known died o‘
    scurvy,”t’ other half o‘ brawlin’ f ‘r rum,“t’ other half from the pox. I’ve gone and lived twice as long as any pirate ever, I think. Nah, I complain, but I’d rather be out here in the In’yun country. Or wherever we are.” He slapped Red Shoes on the back so hard the Choctaw felt as if he might cough up a rib. “ ‘S
    long as you find me a woman somewhere.”
    They continued on, through land that looked much the same.
    The next day, about midday, they heard someone singing. Curious, they cautiously followed the sound, finally cresting the edge of a small gorge to see a man lying at the bottom of it, naked, staked out spread-eagle. He stopped singing when he saw them.
    “ Nakidiwa! Nakidiwa !” he shouted.
    Red Shoes didn’t know the language, so he didn’t answer. Instead, he gazed carefully around. “Watch out, Tug,” he whispered. “Whoever did this to him might still be near.”
    “Igetcha, Cap’n.”

    EMPIRE OF UNREASON
    “Eespanolee? ” the fellow shouted. “Fa-lenchee? Enka-lisha? Artompa o? ”
    Red Shoes raised his brows in surprise. That last was in Choctaw, or maybe Mobilian, the trade