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“You do not exist,” the figure informed Tahir, flicking a dismissive finger at him. The voice was almost mechanical, with that inescapably nasal upper-class accent. “Therefore I do not see you. Disappear before I assist you in doing so.”

Needing no further prompting, Tahir allowed Zetha one last horrified glance that said simultaneously I’m sorry/I can’t/I love you! before he bolted in the direction of the ‘car; there was nowhere else to go. To the helmed guards he might have been a dung-fly; they ignored him. He literally leapt over the front of the ‘car-there was no other way out of the alley-and was gone.

Hyperfocused, Zetha watched, at the same time assessing what was really happening here. The aristocrat was studying her as if she were a butterfly pinned to a dissection table, wings still fluttering. She drew herself up and studied him in return.

Weak-chinned, beady-eyed, the eyes half-hidden under a brow ridge so pronounced there was no telling their color. Whip-thin except for a lazy man’s paunch, studied in his gestures, and, from the cold smile playing at the corners of his downturned mouth, he knew exactly who she was and had been tracking her specifically.

Only one entity tracked the mongrels. Tal Shiar.

“Name,” he barked at her.

“As if you don’t already know,” she snapped back, thinking, Kill me and get it over with, whether it’s for robbing the apothecary or simply for breathing air that might otherwise go to a more deserving true Romulan, but you will not toy with me!

“Name,” he said again.

She sighed, as if it were a great imposition. She was shaking so hard she could barely stand. “Zetha. Nonperson. But you know that.”

“Do I?”

“Oh, aside from the common wisdom that we half-breeds don’t look Romulan enough, you’ve sought me out deliberately.” She jerked her chin toward a small device blinking and chittering on his belt. “You have my codes in that little comm unit you carry around as if it were just a wallet.”

“Do I?” The trace of a smile continued to play at the corners of his mouth.

“Of course,” Zetha said, smirking. “You positively reek of Tal Shiar.” Now that, she thought, was too far, regretting it the instant it was out of her mouth.

The blow came swiftly, a stinging slap across her cheek that knocked her to the ground. She scrambled to her feet without so much as touching her face. Her eyes were dry.

“I reek of Tal Shiar? What makes you say that?” he demanded.

“You mean aside from the ‘car and the guards and the marks against the fabric where you’ve removed your rank pips?” Zetha said brazenly.

She was feeling her teeth with her tongue to see if he’d chipped any; he hadn’t. She all but laughed aloud as he touched his collar absently, even though the other half of his brain knew he was wearing civilian clothes, not his uniform, and there were no marks. She was toying with him. The inquisitor was being inquisited. He liked this not at all.

“I’m joking. But your ilk wears his skin like a uniform. It’s the haughtiness. You look down your nose at people, you have that superior tone to your voice. You couldn’t hide that even if you stuttered like a colonial.”

He watched her silently for a protracted moment, his eyes narrowed. “My mentors said the same thing of me,” he said, then seemed to catch himself. “So noted. I will not make that mistake again. You have helped me become a stronger enemy. You should be afraid of me. Why aren’t you?”

Zetha shrugged. “When you’re told every day of your life that you don’t deserve to live, you find there’s very little to fear. If you’d wanted to kill me, you would have by now. Instead, you have some reason to keep me alive.”

“It’s not you I’m interested in,” he said indifferently. “There is an old woman in the N’emoth District. Some call her Godmother. I’m told she shelters the likes of you. Dozens of you. Teaches you to steal, trades in forged documents, illicit substances, even flesh peddling.”

“That’s not true!” Zetha shouted. Too late, she saw the trap. Foiled by a lifetime’s conditioning, she had assumed he wouldn’t be interested