Evil for Evil by K. J. Parker

“A genuine one,” he added sternly, “not one that smudges as soon as
     he opens it.”
    “There might be one,” she said slowly. “I’d have to look. There’s loads of his old junk up in the roof. Maybe not a map, but
     there could be a journal. Bearings, number of days traveled, names of places and people. Better than a map, really.”
    Vaatzes dipped his head. “As you say.” He stood up. “If you happen to come across it, don’t throw it away.”
    She looked up at him, like a dog at table. “You’ll see about a contract?”
    “Straightaway.”
    She thought for a moment, then smiled. It wasn’t much, but it was the only smile she had. “Sorry if I came across as a bit
     distant,” she said. “But you’ve got to be careful.”
    “Of course. Thank you for the wine.”
    She looked at his cup. “You hardly touched it.”
    “I don’t drink.”
    He left her without looking round and closed the door behind him. As he walked up the hill, he tried to think about money.
     He didn’t have any, of course, and he had no way of getting any, except by asking for it. Were he to do so, assuming he asked
     the right people, he was sure he could have as much as he wanted; but that would be missing the point. Obviously Valens was
     the one man he couldn’t ask (later, of course; but not now); that still left him a wide range of choices. Better, though,
     if he could get money from somewhere else. Under other circumstances, that wouldn’t be a problem. But with time pressing …
    He stopped. He hadn’t seen her (hadn’t been expecting to see her, so hadn’t been on his guard) and now they were face to face,
     only a yard or so apart. She was coming out of a linen-draper’s shop, flanked on either side by a maid and an equerry. She’d
     seen him, and there was no chance of her not recognizing him, or taking him for someone else.
    “Hello,” she said.
    He couldn’t think what to say. For one thing, there was the horrendous business of protocol and the proper form of address.
     How do you reply to a greeting from the duchess of a duchy that no longer exists (but whose destruction has not been officially
     recognized by the regime whose hospitality you are enjoying)? There was probably a page and a half on the subject in one of
     Duke Valens’ comprehensive books of manners, but so far he hadn’t managed to stay awake long enough to get past the prefaces
     and dedications. Other protocols, too: how do you address the wife of a man you betrayed by telling him half the truth about
     his wife and his best friend? How do you respond to a friendly greeting from someone whose city gates you opened to the enemy?
     There was bound to be a proper formula, and if only he knew it there wouldn’t be any awkwardness or embarrassment at this
     meeting. As it was, he was going to have to figure something out for himself, from first principles.
    “Hello,” he replied, and bowed; a small, clumsy, comic nod, faulty in execution but clear enough in its meaning. Cheating,
     of course.
    “I haven’t seen you for a long time,” she said. “How are you settling in here?”
    He smiled. “It’s one of the advantages of being an exile,” he said. “Everywhere you go is strange to you, so getting used
     to somewhere new isn’t such a problem.”
    She frowned very slightly. There were people behind her in the shop, wanting to leave but too polite to push past her, her
     ladies-in-waiting and her armed guard. “In that case, it ought to be like that for me too, surely.”
    He shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “You’re not an exile, you’re a refugee.”
    “Same thing, surely.”
    “No.” Should he have qualified that, or toned it down? No, my lady? “There’s quite a difference. You left because your country
     was taken away from you. I left because my country wanted rid of me. I suppose it’s like the difference between a widow and
     someone whose husband leaves her for somebody else.” He shrugged.