I'm not sure how I went this long without learning it, but it turns out that bathing is generally a communal activity in Fa'aun culture. Maari's magically heated bathtub is a rare luxury, and only as small as it is because making it any larger would be prohibitively expensive, even for her. Most Fa'aun bathe in communal bathhouses, with most of that time spent sitting around waiting for their fur to dry. In fact, their word for "gossip" literally translates to "naked conversation" in reference to the social experience of chatting idly with other bathers while drying off.

The Goa estate has their own private baths, but it's still an entire building—two, in fact. One of them is for men. It's a little embarrassing, but I just thought they had a huge bathroom because they're rich. In fact, Talla has been reserving time for me and just never actually mentioned it.

All of this to say that when Rara rushes us to the bathhouse to get cleaned up upon our arrival here, I am not ready for a small group of naked strangers to crowd around me asking if I'm okay and offering to help wash off all the blood.

As tempting as it is to ask for privacy, I don't want to disturb the people that are already here, and it's kinda nice having a bunch of concerned strangers fussing over me. I don't know, I guess after such a stressful event it's comforting to have so many gentle hands just trying to help.

I uh...may also be a little pent up, but I'm trying not to think about that.

"Oh, you poor thing—all these scars at such a young age..."

"So you do have fur! It's so thin, though."

"Well, not everywhere. Hah, it's cute the way she changes color like that."

All I can do is just try my best to relax and let them do their thing while I do my very best impression of a tomato. I don't blame them for being curious, and they have no context for why I'm so embarrassed about having my body hair scrutinized after a month without shaving. They mean well, at least, and I can think of worse experiences than being washed by a bunch of naked women.

Once we get cleaned up, we move to the drying area, which is kind of like a dry sauna—well ventilated and heated by an actual fire instead of mana stones. Not because of cost, but because the fire is actually more effective.

Here, at least, I'm finally granted a small concession to my modesty. Since I don't have any fur to dry and I'll just sit here shivering otherwise, Rara convinces one of the staff to bring me a blanket.

"Ahh," Rara sighs happily. "There's nothing like a nice bath after a stressful day."

"I can't believe you were attacked, Lady Tara," one of the other women huffs. "Just what is the world coming to?"

"Whoever is behind it will have a lot to answer to," another agrees. "I hope you don't think less of our city, Miss Maev—incidents like this are not normal, I assure you."

I smile politely and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "They are for me...I'm afraid this is probably all my fault."

"Don't say that," Rara admonishes me. "You are obviously the victim here."

"Who do you suppose is behind it, Lady Tara?" one of the other girls asks, no doubt fishing for gossip.

"I have no idea. I can't imagine anybody would want to target me, and our guest hasn't been here long enough to offend anybody."

"I did hear there was an incident with Lady Mira Shaa," someone comments.

"Mira makes her points in person," Rara spits with a surprising amount of vitriol. No love lost there, it seems. "As evidenced by the bruise on Allie's face. Besides, Maari calls her friend and it's not like Shaa to be so drastic."

"It's not like anybody," another woman adds.

"No," Rara agrees. "At least not so brazenly. Hopefully Tal and Sir Draga can get something useful out of the prisoner before we have to hand him over to the militia."

I've got mixed feelings about not being part of that interrogation. On one hand, I really want to know what the hell is going on. Who is after me, why, what they want—I've got no shortage of questions. On the other hand, if I had to choose between a stranger that hates me enough to try murdering me in the streets and strangers who are sympathetic enough to help me bathe...it's a no-brainer.

Talla will tell us whatever they find out anyway, and I trust her not to keep anything secret from me. Still, I feel antsy about letting myself get pulled around like this. I know I'm not the only one, either. Vi is practically chomping at the bit to start making some proactive moves and while Mags and Evie have been a bit quiet lately, I'm sure there are things they want to do as well.

I'm also a bit uncomfortable with how casually ostensibly private individuals can just take people prisoner. I understand that the line between noble citizens and state apparatus is uh...blurry, but it kinda weirds me out how Talla's family can just lock a guy up with the only consequence being "we have to deliver him to the proper authorities eventually."

Guh. Too much stuff to worry about. Between all the culture shock, being attacked on the streets for no reason, and just the constant general stress of being stranded in an unfamiliar world, I'm torn between the urge to get up and do something—anything—or just crawl into bed and sleep for a week.

The gossip shifts to the personal dramas of the women sitting with us, and I take the opportunity to just curl up under my blanket and relax for a bit. We'll be back to work soon, but I relish the chance to decompress a little.

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After we've finished drying off, the mansion staff bring me some fresh clothes.

"Wait, isn't this...?"

"Your old clothes," Rara confirms. "Plus a few articles I picked out to go with it. I took the liberty of having it all washed and mended for you, though the tailors are really curious about the blue-white material."

"Oh...[denim]?" I ask. "It's...just regular cloth, I think? I'm not sure how it's made."

"Well, I had to talk them out of cutting a patch out of it to study," she sighs. "You'd earn a lot of friends if you let us take a sample."

"I'll think about it," I hedge. "I've only got one."

The skinny jeans are less of a squeeze than I expect, confirming that I've lost weight since arriving in this world. Kind of a concerning amount of weight—I was pretty slim to begin with. Because of that, my belt is less decorative than usual, but the familiar form-hugging pants are a comfort I didn't know I needed.

Rara helps me pick out a sarong and shawl to match with my old outfit. Off-white and light brown, respectively, more or less matching the colors.

"Are these really necessary?" I ask. "Where I'm from, the shirt and [jeans] are a complete outfit. Simple, but complete."

"Not that I don't approve of showing off your shoulders," she says, shrugging her own bare shoulders for emphasis, "but those form-fitting clothes make you look naked. The half-skirt fixes your profile to something more dignified. As for the cape, I just think it looks cute on you."

"It is a bit like the cloak I was wearing when I met your sister," I muse. "Actually, what happened to that thing?"

She grimaces. "I was sorely tempted to have it destroyed, but it should be back in your room with the rest of your laundry. Please, please don't wear it anymore, though."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Aside from the fact that it's torn to frick and completely ratty?" she huffs. "It's beggar's fleece—woven from Fa'aun fur. Not even the poorest clanless wears that anymore. They haven't for like a hundred years. It stands out to anyone who recognizes it—in a very bad way."

"Alright, I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for the clothes, Rara."

"No problem! I've got plenty of stuff I can lend you, and if you want we can even have the tailors take your measurements to make some properly fitted stuff. I had to scrounge those up from some old children's clothes."

Well that's embarrassing, but I just need to get used to the fact that I'm tiny by Fa'aun standards. Pretty small by human standards too, frankly.

"I'll have to take you up on that later."

* * *

"Nothing," Draga declares grimly, dusting off his hands.

Tamara Goa Baanu allows herself a small frown. She knows that Draga is a talented man for his class—she had him very thoroughly vetted when her daughter joined his team, after all—but it's hard not to be disappointed.

"My daughter was attacked on the streets, Sir Ranger," she insists. "Surely you can do better than that."

The estate dungeon is a seldom used building. Little more than a set of slightly reinforced holding cells tucked away in an unseen corner that can be kept under guard if necessary. Once, it was used to punish family members for acting against clan interests, but that was well before even her time.

The ranger grunts noncommittally—far too comfortable in the presence of his betters, likely owing to Talla's laissez-faire attitude.

"He refuses to speak. Not so much as a word," the man sighs. "I can't confirm or deny whether he's related to the ones that attacked us in Sagaasi. I'm leaning towards no, however."

"Why is that?"

"They were disorganized. Uncoordinated. Possibly multiple groups working together—there was evidence of friendly fire on their side. Loose-lipped as well. They gave away a lot by calling Maev a demon, and when captured one of them insinuated that they had allies waiting nearby."

"And this one is different?"

Draga nods. "First of all, they were all armed with alchemical weapons. The assailants in Sagaasi had more modern weapons, but only a few between them."

"While these ones had older and cheaper weapons. I see." Tamara ponders the situation while pacing, her hoofsteps echoing in the empty antechamber of her private prison. "The same kind you confiscated from would-be rebels on the frontier?"

"...you're not supposed to know about that," Draga grumbles.

She gives him a condescending glare and he sighs.

"Yes. If you know that much, then I assume you also know that they come from a smuggling operation that was abandoned after the war ended."

"Indeed. Rebels, then," Tamara observes. "Perhaps my daughter really was the target."

"Or someone wanted us to think so," Draga counters. "I don't like how neatly it all lines up. It feels strangely curated."

"What makes you say that?"

"Call it a soldier's intuition," he replies with a shrug. "The attack in Sagaasi felt real. It was messy. There were signs of a plan, but when their plan fell apart they panicked. This one is too clean—the evidence connecting them to rebels is too straightforward. And the man in that cell isn't panicking. I think he expected to be caught or killed."

"That's not much to go on," Tamara sighs. "And if this is some sort of false flag, then who is behind it? What are they after? It seems a bit elaborate if their goal is the dungeon borne."

"I'm not sure," he admits. "Honestly, she's the only piece that doesn't fit. It's almost as if...no, I shouldn't speculate."

"Oh please," Tamara scoffs, rolling her eyes. "You've done nothing but speculate for this entire conversation. Don't stop now."

The ranger grimaces, but knows better than to disobey her. "I don't like to deal in counterfactuals, but consider how things might have gone without Maev."

She frowns. Draga seems ready to spell it out for her, but she doesn't need him to. In another world, Kiera's expedition goes according to routine. On her way back, she is waylaid by bandits, hopeless rebels woefully outmatched by the strength of her escort. Kiera, less merciful than Talla, puts the children to the sword—perhaps the entire village.

Perhaps they still find evidence of the smuggled arms, or perhaps they don't. Either way, a connection is drawn between smuggled alchemical weapons and the rebels. After her return, another noble house is struck by a rebel attack—this time right in the heart of the city. Investigations confirm that the weapons used are the same as those confiscated in the frontier.

Tamara can even envision herself taking Lady Gaa's side, enraged by the attacks against their daughters and calling for these rebels to be rooted out and crushed at any cost. A short-sighted initiative that would cause far more harm than good, but Tamara knows better than to assume herself above emotional reasoning.

As Draga says, it does fit together a touch too neatly. And if there is indeed someone pulling the strings, guiding them towards that outcome, then there can only be one goal behind it.

"Sir Draga, if what you say is true, then I believe somebody is trying to start a war."

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