Their destination was the stew stall, it was the same as it has always been. The heavyset woman was the same. The morning ritual was the same.
While a bit boring, Bruce noticed himself finding a small comfort in the sameness of it. Xiltra's ordinary systems were, at this point, one of his stable frames. He could count on the stew being ready. He could count on the woman's small nod. He could count on the eight-point price. In a realm where the political layer was rearranging itself around him and the historical pattern of his case was death or exile, the small predictable transactions of ordinary life were a kind of anchor.
He ate slowly.
He watched the square.
