The border between Monolith and the small state of Shinai was a narrow strip of scorched earth—fifty meters covered with fine gravel. Not a blade of grass, not a bush. On both sides—watchtowers with magical searchlights that turned the border into a solid wall of light at night.

  The goats, of course, knew nothing about any of this.

  Lelya arrived at the border settlement at dawn. She was met by the local governor—a worried man with red eyes from lack of sleep—who laid out the problem: a shepherd named Shilo from Shinai had chased after a stray goat, crossed the neutral strip, and was now being held by Monolith's border guards. Shinai was demanding the return of their citizen. Monolith was demanding compensation for the border violation.

  "And the goat?" Lelya asked.

  "Ran back," the governor sighed.

  "So there are no casualties?"

  "Well... Monolith's honor?"

  Lelya rubbed the bridge of her nose. Three hours on the road to deal with a goat and wounded honor.

  "Where is the shepherd?"

  ***

  Shilo turned out to be a skinny old man of about seventy—for an ordinary human, not a mage. He sat in a temporary holding cell at the border post, melancholically chewing bread.

  "It's my goat," he announced to Lelya instead of a greeting. "Best goat in the area. Buckets of milk."

  "I don't doubt it," Lelya sat on the bench opposite the bars. "Tell me what happened."

  The story was simple to the point of idiocy. The goat, possessing, according to Shilo, "a temperament worse than a mother-in-law's," had bolted across the border chasing a tuft of grass she thought she'd spotted on the other side. Shilo ran after her, not thinking about the towers and searchlights. He was tackled within thirty seconds.

  "How old are you?" Lelya asked.

  "Seventy-three."

  "And in seventy-three years you've never heard that crossing the border is forbidden?"

  Shilo shrugged.

  "I've heard. But it's my goat."

  Lelya stood up and left the cell. At the door, the Shinai representative was waiting—a middle-aged woman with a hard gaze, dressed in a dark green official dress.

  "Isstari," she introduced herself. "Assistant to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. We demand the immediate release of our citizen."

  "On what grounds?"

  "He committed no crime. Pursuit of one's own property does not constitute a border violation under article fourteen of the neutral strip agreement."

  Lelya mentally ran through the agreement's text. Article fourteen—exceptions for emergency circumstances. A vague formulation that could be interpreted any way you liked.

  "A goat is not an emergency circumstance," she said.

  "For a shepherd—quite possibly."

  ***

  In truth, the people of Shinai were remarkable. Thanks to mages and the books of ancient races, all modern states and peoples more or less understood where they came from, where their historical homeland was, and who their ancestors were. But not the people of Shinai. Indeed, the books contain not a single mention of this people until several thousand years ago, when a numerous tribe calling themselves the ShinaI came to the walls of Monolith. According to their claims, they were the first humans, created by Elle far to the south. For centuries they were mocked and disliked for this idea; many found it irritating, since the books asserted that Elle created one tribe of humans, from which different families later separated and formed nations. The ShinaI created their own small, successful state under Monolith's walls and continued to believe in their primordial creation.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Lelya's negotiations with Isstari stretched throughout the day. Isstari proved tenacious as a bulldog—she returned again and again to article fourteen, pulling out precedents from a century ago. Lelya parried, citing more recent amendments. By evening, both had gone hoarse.

  "Listen," Lelya finally set aside the papers. "We both understand this is ridiculous. An old man chased after a goat. No malicious intent, no damage. But if I release him just like that, tomorrow every shepherd from both sides will come running, and the border will turn into a thoroughfare."

  Isstari was silent for a moment.

  "What do you propose?"

  "A fine. Symbolic—say, the cost of the goat. Shilo pays it, goes home, and tells his neighbors that crossing the border costs you three skins. Everyone's happy."

  "We don't acknowledge his guilt."

  "And you don't have to. A fine for an administrative violation isn't an admission of guilt. Just... an inconvenience."

  Isstari drummed her fingers on the table.

  "The cost of a goat—how much is that?"

  "No idea. You're local, you'd know better."

  For the first time all day, Isstari smiled—barely noticeable, just the corners of her lips.

  "A good goat costs about as much as dinner at a decent restaurant."

  "Then how about dinner instead of a fine? Do you know any decent restaurants around here?"

  "Deal," Isstari sighed with relief. "You can call me Is."

  ***

  Shilo was released the next morning. He paid a fine—the equivalent of two goats, which Lelya had insisted on after Isstari let slip over dinner that this goat really was "the best goat in the area" and worth twice as much as usual.

  "You're cheating," Isstari said when they parted.

  "I'm negotiating," Lelya corrected. "Those are different things."

  "Different?"

  "Well... almost."

  Lelya didn't suspect that this goat incident would give her a loyal friend for decades to come.

  On the way back, Lelya thought about how two months ago she had been writing a term paper on international law. Theory. Abstractions. Articles and paragraphs. And now she was bargaining over a goat and having dinner with someone she had considered an adversary that morning.

  It was strange.

  And it was fun.

  Radimir summoned her to his office three days after her return.

  Lelya expected a new assignment—another dispute, more negotiations. Instead, the Minister pointed to a chair and was silent for a long time, gazing out the window at the evening city.

  "Do you know how many years I've held this post?" he finally asked.

  "Almost ninety," Lelya answered. She had read his dossier.

  "Eighty-seven. Before me, the Minister was Dragomir."

  Lelya knew that name—from the Academy textbooks. Dragomir, one of Monolith's greatest diplomats. The man who concluded the Great Trade Pact and prevented three wars with Citadel.

  "He was killed," she said.

  "He was killed." Radimir turned to her. There was something in his eyes she hadn't noticed before—an old, faded pain. "Citadel fanatics. Officially—a terrorist attack. A group of radicals acting independently."

  "And unofficially?"

  Radimir walked to the cabinet with folders, pulled out one—old, yellowed—and placed it before Lelya.

  "Unofficially, we suspected it was a contract killing. The trail led to the Citadel government. But we couldn't prove it." He sat across from her. "Witnesses stayed silent or disappeared. Documents went missing. In the end, the case was closed as terrorism. The guilty—those who were caught—were executed. The rest vanished."

  ***

  Lelya opened the folder. Protocols, reports, photographs from the murder scene. She turned the pages, feeling nausea rising in her throat. Seven shots. A public execution outside a theater.

  "Why are you showing me this?"

  "Because you're talented." Radimir said it simply, without grandeur. "Einar saw it. Zhinai felt it. Varvara... Varvara is watching. She's always watching."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. I just want you to understand what you're getting into." He drummed his fingers on the table—a nervous habit Lelya was beginning to recognize. "Dragomir was the best of us. Smarter than me. More eloquent. He believed words were stronger than weapons. He wasn't killed in battle. He was killed from ambush—and we couldn't prove anything."

  Lelya closed the folder.

  "The moral of this story?"

  "No moral. Just a fact." Radimir stood. "Sooner or later, someone will try to stop you. Not necessarily kill you—though that's possible too. Sometimes it's enough to break you. Intimidate you. Make you back down."

  "Are you trying to scare me?"

  "I'm trying to prepare you."

  He pushed the folder toward her.

  "Take it. Study it. Memorize the methods—ours and theirs. The mistakes we made. And don't repeat them."

  ***

  Lelya took the folder. It was heavier than it looked.

  "Radimir..." she hesitated. "Did you know him? Dragomir?"

  He didn't answer right away. He walked to the window and stood with his back to her for several seconds, gazing at the lights of the evening city.

  "He was my teacher," he said at last. "He brought me into the Ministry when I was eighty. Taught me everything I know. I was there when he was killed. Five meters away. I heard the shots."

  Lelya was silent. What could you say?

  "I was wounded in the shoulder," Radimir continued. "A minor wound, healed in a week. But I still didn't make it in time. No one did. Seven bullets—and it was over."

  He turned. His face was calm, almost serene. But his eyes gave him away.

  "Go."

  ***

  Lelya walked down the Alnar corridor, pressing the folder with materials on Dragomir's murder to her chest. Three months ago she had been a student. A month ago—an assistant. Now the Minister was telling her about political assassinations and preparing her for something she didn't want to think about yet.

  At the elevator, she ran into Roslava.

  "Radimir gave you the Dragomir file?" Roslava asked without preamble.

  "How do you..."

  "He gives that folder to everyone he believes in." She looked at Lelya with her dark, attentive eyes. "Consider it a compliment. Or a warning. Or both."

  The elevator doors opened. Roslava stepped inside.