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Chapter Text

Returning to Solaara was easier than Kip Mdang expected. Far easier than his homeward journey, when he trekked through lawless lands on foot, paying his way with news of the disasters he had seen, and then sailed alone across all the width of the Wide Seas, passing through the wall of storms in his little boat, his Tui-tanata.

He had been driven by love for his family and fear for them, on that journey through the aftermath of the Fall of Astandalas, the greatest magical and physical disaster in history (to his knowledge, to the knowledge of the Keepers of the Imperial Archives). The bonds of Schooled Magic holding together an empire that spanned five worlds had snapped in a strange, endless moment, and the fabric of the worlds reverberated as they unravelled.

Kip - in his role as Cliopher Mdang, Imperial Bureaucrat - had been in his rooms in the Palace of the Stars in Astandalas the Golden, on the fabled Ysthar of the Magic, the heartlands of the old Empire. Astandalas was no more and the magic of Ysthar was so damaged that the Lord of that world had banished it more or less entirely. The Palace had, improbably, fallen right across the boundaries between worlds and landed (for reasons still poorly understood) on the little town of Solaara, on Zunidh, alongside the Necropolis of the Emperors.

Kip felt the perversity of chance in his personal ramifications from that outcome. Zunidh was his home world, but he had found himself on the other side of that world from his heart’s true home, the scattered and shining islands of the Wide Seas. The Emperor had fallen with his Empire and lay in a state like sleep in the Palace; the magic had failed and the fires gone out. Kip had not found himself able to leave, not where the hearth was cold and the government hanging by a thread. He had thrown himself into relighting the fire - into supporting Princess Indrogan, the only member of the Upper Secretariat who had both been in the Palace during the Fall and had stayed there afterwards to restore order.

Zunidh had not suffered such disintegration as Ysthar, but the world was hardly whole. Continents had fallen into the seas, new volcanoes flooded populated lands with lava. Time fractured and ran at different speeds from one land to the next. Across all the Wide Seas ships were turned back by a wall of storms, and all the letters he sent came back to him, undelivered.

The unreality of time weighed upon the Palace of Stars. A hundred years went past and he aged perhaps three or four in body, though the experience of pulling together the broken world left him feeling ancient in truth. All that endless century, government couriers went down from Solaara in a cautious chain, passing back observations, petitions, complaints, rumours and (where the time had stretched furthest) myth. And Cliopher Mdang sat in the gorgeously appointed rooms of the Minister in Chief of the world and collated the reports, weighing each specimen of destruction, each table of deaths, pulling out themes, drawing charts to show the patterns.

Each morning he sat with Princess Indrogan for half an hour and updated her on the latest understanding of the state of the world. She assigned him helpers, a team, and he set them to commissioning analysis and riding out with the couriers to collect first-hand accounts wherever possible. He would have liked to go himself, but the Princess wouldn’t hear of it: she brusquely demanded his presence every morning, and took him with her through the day to each meeting with her Ministries so that she could call on him for facts or context.

After the second time he found one of the junior secretariat crying over a report he began to insist on regular rest days for them, and rotation into less stressful assignments on a regular basis. It never occurred to him to take time off himself. Whenever he was not tallying disaster he was seeking word from the Wide Seas, writing letters to his family and sending them with anyone whose travels took them beyond the narrow re-established orderly zone around Solaara, hoping against hope.

In those days he remembered sometimes, ruefully, how much he would have given before the Fall to spend even one meeting a week working in the Minister in Chief’s Private Office. That was before he knew her, of course.

In the city and the Palace things stabilised. Week on week the couriers reached further. Cliopher noted that the time distortion seemed to be settling along the routes they travelled, as though exchanging news and mapping the world was somehow knitting back together a sense of presence. Princess Indrogran took this theory to the Ouranatha, the most senior of the magicians of the Empire-that-was. The Ouranatha advised the bureaucracy not to think too much about time, for fear of making things worse, but they also asked to be added to the circulation list for the couriers’ reports.

And then - after a hundred years - the Emperor awoke. The city celebrated.

And, at last, Cliopher Mdang came to the end of himself. There was nothing further that he could do in the Palace that the Minister in Chief's office could not do for her without him. Princess Indrogan was shaking up the Private Office, restructuring the government to support the Emperor in his new role as Lord Magus. The Ministries were being reformed. It seemed a natural moment to make a change.

The realm of good order, of consistent time, stretched a few hundred miles from Solaara in some directions, with gaps and exceptions where natural or magical features such as the Fens below the city hosted disorder closer to the Palace. Further away, all was chaos. The wall of storms still stretched around the Wide Seas. Circumnavigation had not been possible since the Fall. It had been a hundred years in Solaara; for the first time, Cliopher allowed himself to wonder how long it might have been for his family in Gorjo City.

He had, at long last, told Princess Indrogan that someone else could collate her reports. He withstood her anger, accepted that this was likely the end of any hope he had of being part of reshaping the government in the new world. Her evident disappointment in him was harder to bear.

“I just want to understand, Cliopher,” she had said, “Once you have found your family, what do you intend to do for them in the Vangavaye-ve that you cannot do here?”

He had had no answer. He did not even know if they were there to be found. That was hardly the point, he had reflected. Astandalan aristocracy had odd notions of family.

He had stacked up his less movable belongings in the Palace store so that his rooms could be handed over to someone else. One of the privileges of service had long been rooms within the Palace walls. It seemed unlikely that he would return to claim his belongings, but the staff needed to support the governable third of Zunidh was far smaller than the ranked cohorts that upheld the glories of Astandalas.

He had left a note for Kiri, the most sensible of his junior secretaries, so that she could claim his belongings if he did not come back.

Many times on his journey Kip had been convinced he would vanish, another nameless casualty of the Fall. Captive, penniless, shipwrecked, lost, he had persevered to reach home.

He had found Gorjo City - the whole Vangavaye-ve - alive beyond hope, whole beyond any expectations - and they had found him broken.

What hurt most was that they did not understand and he could not explain, and so he was ashamed that his lack of explanations led to their confusion. He had thought over Princess Indrogan’s words, on his long journey, and had had some idea of saving the Vangavaye-ve, if it could be saved. There were tales he knew, the patterns and wisdom in the Lays, and there was his new-found expertise in scraping people together to pick up the pieces. There were his practical skills. He could have rebuilt a village, a city, a world after any disaster.

He had never thought about what he would do if it turned out that he was the one out of place. The one who needed help. He spoke to his family of the wreck of the world (as they had in the Palace) in tight, light, bare phrases. Jokes, even. As he had reported, daily, to the Princess. I experienced some difficulties in the Gray Mountains, to Princess Indrogan, would have been plain enough. Somehow he could not find the words to explain to his mother, to his great uncle Buru Tovo, that it meant I barely escaped with my life, many times over.

Home did not want him, not as he was now. His family wanted their old Kip back, undaunted, ready to move past his foolish dreams of serving the Emperor, full of the energy they once knew. Full of the fire.

They did not want a work in progress, a man who struggled to meet their eyes, a man who could not explain where he had come from nor where he was going. Ghilly, the woman he had once thought that he would marry, did not want him. There was no place for him in the Vangavaye-ve.

Perhaps that was because his long journey had stripped away the illusions. He had been daunted, shaken to his core, unmade by fear. He could barely meet their eyes.

He took to sitting on the docks, considering his future. He found a strange kind of relief in gossiping with the velioi sailors. They understood, when he gave them news of Nijan, what that meant for his travels. And then, suddenly, the offer of a berth. He saw the respect in the captain’s eyes when she asked him to accompany the ship, to share his recent knowledge of the Wide Seas.

On the one hand, the endless awkward shuffling round the family circle, no foothold, no future. On the other, the chance to keep moving until he found something better. He still had the right to the robes and dignities of a fifth degree secretary; no-one could take that from him, at least. He could swallow his pride, he could ask Princess Indrogan to take him back. She would make him squirm (she had thought him a fool to leave) but he had endured many and disparate humiliations since he last received one of the Princess’s notorious critiques, and he had nowhere else to go.

He took very little. His city clothes hung loosely on his frame but would look more at home on board a Solaaran ship than his grass skirt. The doubtful best wishes of his family, and their disappointment in turn. A light folder of writing materials (the captain would want a written report of his travels to supplement her own). It was not, alas, a proper writing case. Many of his former colleagues from wealthier backgrounds had or inherited sturdy boxes with ingenious hidden pockets and soft leather fittings for inks and inkstones and sand and all the scribal paraphernalia. He had once thought that he would buy one when he reached the Upper Secretariat (he had once thought that he would reach the Upper Secretariat in his late thirties, reckoning on two to three years a grade, in his ignorance and pride).

He paid for his berth, as agreed, in navigation and reckoning. The weather grew fierce, once or twice, but the wall of storms was breaking, as though each ship that forced passage weakened its power. The tall ship scudded under a couple of small topsails across the long, steel-coloured breakers, cutting white foam from their peaks, under a tight-pressing steel-coloured sky. Sometimes the wind shifted gaps into the towering clouds and let low shafts of dirty yellow grey light through at the start or the end of the day.

Then, one evening, the skies cleared. The stars returned. The watch below came up, one after another, alerted by the change in the ship’s motion. Kip tasted the air, felt the shift in the wind, the direction of the waves. He consulted with the captain and her navigator over their maps and instruments, and then stood staring at the stars while she went to give orders and susurration of news passed between the sailors. We’ve made it. We’re here, on the other side of the storms. On course for the New Sea, to approach Solaara by way of Woodlark and the Azilint, to complete the first circumnavigation of Zunidh since the Fall.

He turned to congratulate the navigator, a pale-skinned man with features that suggested he hailed from Amboloyo, and saw him gasp and point. Up above them a golden viau flashed across the skies. Then another, and another.

Kip, again, came to the end of himself. He thought fiercely, as he shouldered his way back past the ship’s crew, that he should have expected this. He plunged down the hatch, almost falling, desperate to get away from their excited voices, from the laughter and exultation at the gleaming light show above.

All that long journey home he had learned and re-learned the lore of his people, singing the Lays that taught him the way. He had followed the ke’ea, the star paths where one sign followed another in sequence until the sun rose. But he had also been following something else, hadn’t he? His people located their islands, the homes of their heart, by the ke’e, the stars that anchored them. The fixed stars that would always without fail rise above that island at a certain time.

Kip had never had a ke’e. He had thought - he had imagined, once upon a time, that there was a bright future in the Ring with Ghilly by his side. But somehow that had not been enough, and she had known it was not enough for him and had told him so. And that was because his heart was divided, because there was another bright future that called to him, made up of his dreams to change the world, of his desire to take all his store of wisdom and insight and pour it out at the feet of the shining young Emperor.

His people had a saying, of those who sought something bright and fleeting and too far away. They said (his mother said) that he was chasing a viau, a light that dashed across the sky and vanished. Too fast and too far for mortals.

His berth was a crooked cabin curled in by the side of the ship, shared with the second lieutenant, airless and stinking of bilge water. He had grown accustomed to the smell and found the constrained horizon comforting. It felt like the right shape for his thoughts, the ship’s sides holding him in, the motion of the waves comforting as it bore him along.

Kip did not go back up to watch the viau fall, though he knew it for one of the most spectacular sights in the wide world of Zunidh. It would bring back too many memories. Basil and Dimiter, his cousins who had set out into the world with him, long lost. Ghilly and his other friends, Toucan and Bertie and Cora, who looked at him and saw - a ghost, a failure, a nobody. The gleaming figure of the Emperor, whose face in a small state portrait (serene, golden) had seemed to summon Kip, back in the days when the seat of government was Astandalas the Golden on the fabulously exotic Ysthar of the Magic. Kip had seen that shimmering man in person precisely once in all his time in the Service.

The future associated with Ghilly, that place in Gorjo City full of friends and family and laughter, that recognition as the tanà of his people - it had not been the ke’e he imagined. He had crossed the wide seas in a boat of his own hands’ making to find it and it was not there. Perhaps it was also a viau that he had been chasing. Perhaps that was why he felt so unreal in the Vangavaye-ve, why the spaces all seemed too large and the people too painfully distinct to look at.

The future associated with the Emperor was all he had left, though it was not (could not be) what he had once dreamed. If Princess Indrogan would take him back he could keep - pulling things together - working to make some small part of the machinery of government function for the whole of the wide world. It was a useful vision, he told himself, of honourable service. Perhaps one day he would get another chance to see the Sun-on-Earth, the light slanting through the clouds of the taboos, and the tangle of courtiers, and the foolishness of senior officials.

Over the creak of timbers he could still hear voices crying out in wonder at the heavens. Kip turned his face to the wooden wall that kept out the waves and waited for sleep.

It was a long time coming.

Chapter Text

The captain thanked Kip for his reports. Diffidently, she mentioned that she had an opening in the crew for a junior officer, a navigator with a head for figures, if he was interested. He was for one weak moment tempted. He was bone-weary. On board ship neither Solaara nor Gorjo City mattered. There was numbness akin to peace at the thought of sailing on indefinitely suspended between those two impossible halves of his life, never having to choose…

He would be like an untended ember in a lost firepot, suspended in sand and bundled in crockery and slowly going out. Diffidently, he refused.

As he walked up the docks it occurred to him that he had never really made the effort to get to know any of them properly. Months together going through the storms and he had never once asked after their families, or told them about his, or offered any advice unasked. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The Dwahaii, the broad brown river that curled round Solaara, was busy with ships and barges, bustle and noise. There were more people here than he remembered, more jetties and wharves and warehouses. At the corner of the main street he found a courier outpost. That was new, too. When he had left, the couriers in Solaara had only had one building, over near the Southern gate.

The couriers wore riding leathers and Princess Indrogan’s badge. The sign - a stylised horse - was one of a selection his deputy had presented.

Kip paused, standing back from the dust of the road, and watched as a pair of riders came in, leading their horses, people and animals moving slowly, wearily.

He remembered the council room where he sat in the corner, the glorious architecture and stifling heat, the endless conferences. Remembered the question of priorities when the government of five worlds had shrunk to the authority of the Palace of Stars, and they did not even know what world they were on. Remembered respectfully holding his pen, speaking up without looking the Princess in the eye, sliding the thought into the conversation: that they could not govern what they did not know, people who did not know them. That the priority after a disaster was reliable news. Remembered minuting the action to liaise with the guards, with the army, to secretariat that first committee for the courier service.

None of these road weary leather-clad couriers would ever know it, but he knew that he was responsible for their existence, for the conversations that led to decisions, for putting aside resources for recruitment, for the concept of moving out, making caches and establishing outposts, recruiting more ex-guards, and moving on.

Kip remembered thinking about the journeys of his Ancestors, spreading the fire of civilisation across the Wide Seas, remembered how he had used every trick he knew to make sure that the policy documents included preparations for every eventuality.

And here, now, the courier chapters were spreading news and connections and belonging back across the fractured time zones and peoples of Zunidh.

This was something that had only happened in this way, at this time, because he, Cliopher Mdang, mid-level bureaucrat, had suggested it.

The ke’ea of the Wide Sea Islanders, were made up of many stars to follow in sequence for each night of the voyage. You had to know where you were to start, and where you wanted to go. He had no ke’ea for his viau (for either of them, for making a home in Gorjo City or for serving the Emperor), but - perhaps - here was the start of a ke’ea that led to a better government for the world.

He recalled that Princess Indrogan’s Private Office had a saying for that moment when a difficult task was at last accomplished: “what’s next?”

The new arrivals finished exchanging banter with the pair of couriers at the gate and led their tired horses into the stable yard. Kip settled his folder, went up to the desk, introduced himself as Cliopher Sayo Mdang, and asked for the news.

The couriers on duty were happy enough to have someone to talk with, and introduced themselves as Sayu Taajo (short, wiry) and Sayo Ardle (long dark hair twisted into a thick queue). Neither quite had the local Solaaran colouring that had been almost universal in this sleepy provincial town after the Fall, but both had local accents. Cliopher felt the usual disconcerting twist in his mind as he remembered that it had, in fact, been a hundred years since the Palace arrived next to the Necropolis. Plenty of time for Solaara to double in size, and double again, as the Lady Magus and then the Last Emperor took it as their capital for the work of restoring Zunidh.

Some of that growth might have been driven by new economic opportunities, but Cliopher knew - vividly - how unsafe much of the rest of the world had become. Solaara had become a refuge.

The news was - neutral. In subjective Solaaran time it seemed his trip had taken about four years. The timeslips appeared to be easing, or at least growing more predictable, across the span of the runners’ network. Government messages were getting through, now, and so were messengers, though Clopher was the first person either Taajo or Ardle had met who had come all the way across the Wide Seas and both were eager for his tales.

When Cliopher said that the Vangavaye-ve was largely untouched by the catastrophe, Taajo turned away, their shoulders shaking. Ardle explained that Taajo’s sister had married an islander shortly before the Fall, and they had taken up the courier role to get a chance to get close to news.

“I kept imagining the worst,” they said “fire, destruction, plague…”

Cliopher felt helpless. “I do not know whether your sister is alive, but - there have been no disasters. Gorjo City is - undamaged.”

“It - it means the world to hear that, Sayo Madon,” said Taajo. Their face was shining so that Cliopher hardly winced at the mispronunciation of his name, a familiar if irritating feature of his conversations in the Palace.

Ardle passed on more Solaaran gossip while Taajo stepped back into the office to take a moment. The gossip was - mixed. The cult of the Last Emperor was spreading, now that the Emperor had awoken. The Ouranatha had published several books, encouraging people to carry out the rituals and keep the ceremonies to add their gifts of will and magic to the great work of imperial reconstruction. This was being met with a cold reception in some parts of the world, as leaders who had taken office since the Fall had their own ideas about how people should be spending their time, energy, and magic, but it couldn’t be denied that the Emperor was a marvel and a vision of hope for Zunidh.

The Ouranatha had appointed one or more of their number to travel and investigate the magical disturbances. There was the usual uncertainty over whether it was always the same person behind the silver mask, though Ardle had heard that it was specifically the high priest Solaris, an Astandalan star sign Cliopher had no way to parse, having never studied Imperial astronomy. Ardle had, it turned out, actually met the priest in person in Xiputl (a province that maintained a surprising level of order and structure thanks to the dedication of its Princess). For a member of the Ouranatha the priest had proved surprisingly ready to talk to the courier bringing his dispatches, and he had been charming and enthusiastic about the whole thing, and all in all Ardle had started chanting for the Emperor of an evening because it helped to have someone to believe in.

When he said that he was reporting back to the Palace the couriers immediately adopted him. Taajo suggested they walk up together with the dispatches so he could point out the new sights of the city. Cliopher found himself accepting, comfortable taking help from these people who understood what it meant to travel across Zunidh. He marvelled that it was so easy to talk to them about the loss and desolation they had seen. Perhaps that lack of shared understanding of the Fall was why he found it so hard to accept help from his family, who pitied him.

As they strolled up the crowded streets, past the new rows of shops and box-like houses and muddy just-planted gardens, Cliopher found himself wondering what the Last Emperor himself thought about the Ouranatha’s co-option of his image. It must be uncomfortable, becoming something to believe in.

—

Princess Indrogan was, as expected, forthright. She had found fifteen minutes for him at two day’s notice, which Cliopher hoped was a good sign. She did not look pleased to see him, nor did she offer refreshments, but she did wave him into a seat.

Cliopher sat, acutely aware of the hum of the Private Office on the other side of the door. Acutely aware that the clothes he was wearing, while medium-smart for Gorjo City, were old and poorly fitting and not at all in the right colours for a fifth degree secretary. He had at least managed to find a bathhouse and a barber, so he was not actually a disgrace. Just... shabby.

Princess Indrogran was wearing the splendid silk robes of the Upper Secretariat, with that cerise and blush-peach trim that he remembered as her family colours. She had set her desk in front of a glorious fireplace, one of the many no longer needed now that the Palace stood in equatorial Solaara instead of temperate Astandalas the Golden. Somebody had filled it with delicate sprays of glass flowers in red and gold and white, which fanned out on either side of her chair, drawing the eye like a throne. He did not think that was an accident.

The Princess herself was not so much short as concentrated. She kept her dark hair mid-length and neatly pinned up, wore minimal but very slightly glossy make-up, and only used one kind of plain lacquer on her nails. Like most of the high aristocracy she made none of these choices by accident: she gave the impression of dressing in reasonable haste in simple materials, as though her appearance was a matter of maintenance rather than display, but every aspect from the robes to the lacquer was exquisitely expensive.

She tapped one of those silver-lacquered nails on some papers on her desk and Cliopher recognised, without shock, his own hand. It was his contribution to the account of their circumnavigation and the state of the Vangavaye-ve.

“Concise and comprehensive report as always, Cliopher,” said the Princess. “Why are you here?”

He found he had no spirit for flattery, or even for a preamble. “My lady, I am seeking a place to return to the Imperial Service.”

“I presumed as much,” the Princess folded her hands together on the desk. “I have no openings in my Private Office at this time.”

“You know the value of my work, my lady,” he said, “I - my family are well, and I have returned. There is more - more I can contribute here. If there is need.” He had no heart to make his case further.

Princess Indrogan regarded him in silence for a subjectively long moment. “You understand that progress has been slow,” she said. “As the Service revives there is not always the appetite for unity you experienced in the early days after the Fall. I have spent most of my political capital wrangling to have General Ravillon agree that the authority of the army sit the Emperor where it belongs, and winning support for the reconstruction of the mundial and provincial Ministries under me as Minister in Chief. The Ouranatha have most helpfully intervened to support the authority of the Emperor and the revitalisation of the Service. As you know, alas, my own gift of magic is a minor one, and Lady Jivane provided a magical perspective directly in her role as Lady Magus. The priest wizards have most kindly offered their assistance in many aspects of our work so that we do not need to make similar demands of the Last Emperor. Including,” she tapped the report again, “appointments.”

Cliopher nodded, feeling a prickle of unease as he parsed her worry about losing control of the magical governance of the world.

“Bluntly, I will need to justify myself to them and to the Princes. Which means that I can’t put someone who went haring off across the world on a personal quest - in the middle of reconstructing the government - back into my private office.”

Cliopher nodded and felt blank. He could hear the anger in her voice. He had not realised that he had misstepped quite so badly, when he resigned. There was a kind of sick emptiness in his heart but, underneath the emotion, his rational mind did not stop analysing the formal courtly phrasings. The Princess hardly owed him this explanation, not through such anger and disappointment. She would not be offering it if she did not have something in mind.

“I have no defence,” he said, because she waited to hear what he had to say. He had long since learned not to try to steer any conversation with Princess Indrogan. If you wanted to persuade her with a new idea you either presented it in a committee room where she could adopt it as her own, or you put it into a report. She always did read the reports; she terrified most of the Office with her blunt commentary but Cliopher had always admired the toughness and reach of her mind.

“Very well,” she said. “I will give your name to the Master of Offices, with my recommendation. Get some bloody robes, will you?”

Dismissed with a slip of paper for the Master of Offices, Cliopher mused on the aspects of Princess Indrogan that he would prefer not to imitate, chief amongst them her tendency to treat all of her staff as pawns in elaborate political games, or as cogs in her machine, whichever seemed most likely to achieve her aims. Abstracted, he almost walked into his former junior secretary Kiri Kalikiri in the outer office. She squeaked, dropped some papers, and grabbed both his forearms in the Astandalan greeting.

“Cliopher, sir, you’re back! You’re alive!”

“Kiri, how good to see you." He gripped her arms, feeling his face stretch into a smile for the first time in... a long time. "You’ve been promoted,” he added, as she stepped back and he took in her robes. “Congratulations!”

“Never mind me, how about your family? Are they…?”

“Alive, and well, the whole Vangavaye-ve,” he assured her, proud of how level his tone was. Kiri must have noticed something nevertheless, because she put a hand on his arm and gave him a searching look.

“Let me know when you get settled,” was all she said, “we can talk over my problem cases.”

“Ah, I won’t be settling back in here,” Cliopher said, flourishing his slip. “The Minister’s sending me back to the pool. But I would very much enjoy catching up.”

Kiri looked almost as though she was inclined to drag him back into Princess Indrogan’s office and argue the point. He would have done the same for her, once, but today he was shamefully relieved when instead she gave him a gentle pat on the arm and let him go.

Chapter Text

Princess Indrogan’s Private Office was admirably located, only one floor down from the great Tower where she herself often attended on the Last Emperor as the Chief of his Ministers and official head of the government.

Leaving his audience with the Princess, Cliopher was feeling unexpectedly taut and strained, and wanted nothing more than to sit and have a quiet moment, but the glorious corridors of the Palace of the Stars were far too public for that.

Without his official robes he was again aware that his clothes were, by Solaaran standards, shabby. He walked slowly, forcing himself to note the architecture, the high ceilings, the sinuous carvings that shaped one after the other of the symbols of the ten thousand great families of Astandalas. The mosaics, on the floors and occasionally tracing up and across the walls, each designed by an artist at the peak of their powers, each symbolising a different blessing that the Emperor bestowed upon his people.

Several floors down he found himself turning, not towards the central halls where the Master of Offices gave audiences, but out to the terraces where the skies opened up above the Palace gardens and there was both greenery and the space to breathe. He was trembling.

It was a little disconcerting to find, as he stood there, that he had had enough pride left to be humiliated all over again. Surely, he thought bitterly, at some point he would run out of hopes to be dashed. He reminded himself that he had not really expected Princess Indrogan to welcome him back with open arms, that she had no reason to give him so much as the time of day, much less her support in seeking an appointment.

He still ached with it, but after a few moments he found that the new sorrow had slipped down to sit with the motley collection of griefs and frustrations that he already carried. He stood a moment longer, leaning on a wall, watching the sun glint off the slivers of water between the brighter green of the notorious Solamen Fens. He had often thought that the politics of the Palace could be as deceptive as the Fens, and as deadly unfamiliar to an Islander used to the open seas.

At the next bell the guard approached and politely moved him on. Feeling cautious, instead of heading directly back into the Palace, Cliopher first went down into the town in search of a tailor he used to frequent. The woman had long since moved on, but her neighbour directed him to a new street where a whole range of fabric, haberdashery, tailoring and miscellaneous clothing shops had opened up in the past two years, at least three of which specialised in different kinds and grades of court and service uniform.

Cliopher found it easier to shop for clothes if he thought of his uniform as armour for a special kind of campaign, after the model of Princess Indrogan’s: underlying garments that were plain but good quality of their kind, signifying substance, and a fifth degree secretary’s robes of classic but distinguished cut and fabric. Though a campaign implied a strategic objective, which he surely did not have.

As he let himself be measured, the back of his mind was busy with Princess Indrogan’s hints. The Ouranatha were seriously crowding her. That was new, and bold, but then when he had left the Emperor had only recently awoken. Lady Jivane had worked with the Ouranatha but she had not herself been a priest of the Imperial cult, and she had held them at arm’s length from the actual workings of the government. The Emperor, naturally, was the core of his own cult and his assumption of the role of Lord Magus must have empowered both the courtiers and the priest-wizards. Princess Indrogan had, under Lady Jivane, been embroiled in a long slow wrestle with the Army for precedence in world councils; it must be frustrating to win the toss and then at once find the ground shifting under her feet.

What worried him was the suggestion that the Ouranatha, or their flunkies, had some hand in Service appointments. That was a deep encroachment, indicating that Princess Indrogan had lost control of the Master of Offices who nominally reported to her as Minister in Chief.

Cliopher was not, therefore, taken entirely by surprise the next morning when, during nearly two hours spent waiting with a handful of other candidates for reassignment on a long bench, he realised that those who slipped a thicker envelope to the Master of Office’s appointments secretary were being moved to the head of the queue.

In Lady Jivane’s time the Master of Offices had been filled by an old army quartermaster, the Cavalier an Gavinor, a bewhiskered fellow with the shining bald head and expansive tastes of the senior aristocracy, and the booming voice and bluff manner of a sergeant-major. Gavinor would never have taken a bribe, what, and moreover would have raked the unfortunate chap who tried it over the coals for several bells and then dismissed them from the Service.

The name of the new Master was Lord Meriloe. Cliopher had never come across him before, but it did not bode well that the most junior members of his office were comfortable taking bribes in the open.

In person, Lord Meriloe was tall, slim and grandiose. His skin was mid-brown and his narrow nose and grey eyes suggested some Alinoran or Amboloyan ancestry, though his head was also shaved in the fashion of the high aristocracy. His robes, whilst technically correct for his office, were resplendent with jewelled buttons and little flares and flourishes.

He stood behind his desk with his legs and arms akimbo and read through Princess Indrogan’s note once, quickly, before tossing it into a basket that presumably served as a waste paper bin. It gave Cliopher a slight pang to see his lifeline so mishandled, but he found that he was confident enough in Princess Indrogan’s integrity not to let the moment phase him.

Lord Meriloe did not sit down, nor gesture for Cliopher to be seated, but he did make a courteous little bow with the careful head tilt to indicate friendliness to a senior subordinate. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Sayo Madon?”

“It’s Mdang,” said Cliopher, automatically but mildly, returning the bow but not deepening it further than to barely acknowledge the fact of Lord Meriloe’s senior rank.

“Madon, just so,” repeated Lord Mariloe, with a smile as gracious as if he had already done Cliopher a great favour. “Her righteousness must be out of sorts with you, to send you down here so abruptly. Alas! We have only just finished the great reassignment of Secretaries across the new Ministries and I am mortified to say that I have very little going at the moment for such a distinguished young man as yourself. The only man in the Imperial Service from Vonyabe! Let us sit together, you and I, and discuss the opportunities.”

“The Vangavaye-ve,” said Cliopher, with greater emphasis. He had long since stopped trying to force anybody to accept the correct pronunciation of his own name, but the correct pronunciation of the Vangavaye-ve was the line he had long ago chosen to hold. He readied his hands so that when Lord Meriloe began again with “the Vonyabe, just so,” he was prepared to interrupt again with both the correct pronunciation and the formal gestures indicating an insult.

“Well, whatever you call the place,” was the closest to a concession Lord Meriloe would make. His manner cooled further as it became clear that Cliopher was not going to offer and special trade in aloha cloth, or golden pearls, or any less exotic bribe, or even have the decency to beg for a place.

Cliopher, with exquisite politeness, described his former role in Princess Indrogan’s Office, the kind of work that he had found came most easily to hand in the past, the fact that he had experience both in Health and in Trade.

“My dear Sayo Mdang, I really am most extremely sorry but I have so few openings at the fifth level at the moment.”

“I am sorry to hear that your position has become so extraordinarily difficult,” said Cliopher, “it must be a great trial to you. As, however, I do not intend to bribe you or any member of your office, I would greatly appreciate it if we can move on to the opportunities that might or might not be available based on my attested skills and experience.”

Meriloe spluttered. Cliopher gave him a couple of beats to recover his composure and then added, “if, alas, you have nothing else for me to do I am bound to return to Princess Indrogan and provide her with a full outline of the situation, so that she can determine how best to support you in future.”

It was a hollow threat, in that Princess Indrogan would hardly gainsay the Master of Offices on behalf of one penniless secretary who had already drawn her ire. It was a substantial threat, in that Cliopher had nothing to lose, and Princess Indrogan could at a stroke cut away half of Lord Meriloe’s authority and much of his income by instituting some kind of audit to discover the extent of the corruption in his office.

He thought, absently, about the amount of power that one cunning man with authority over appointments could amass if he were willing to take bribes and build up a store of favours-to-be-returned. Princess Indrogan, pushed to take action, would certainly be able to replace Lord Meriloe, but it would leave her further weakened in the face of whatever was going on with the Ouranatha. The Ouranatha most likely had a stake in a man who had put himself so openly on the market, but unless he had some kind of hold on them they would most likely let the Minister in Chief act and simply buy Meriloe’s successor in turn.

Considering the character of someone whose chosen life path was to sit at the centre of a web and extort junior bureaucrats, Cliopher did not expect Meriloe to open himself to even a small risk of challenge, not when the easier course of action was simply to do his job badly.

“Come back tomorrow, then,” was all Meriloe said, and that with little grace, but Cliopher knew he had won - something. It would be something nobody else wanted, but it would be at least nominally appropriate to his grade.

It would be better than a berth in a ship to nowhere in particular.

The next day Meriloe’s clerk Hassia, smirking, gave Cliopher a chit for a set of rooms in the smallest, darkest corridor at the least fashionable end of the Palace - and a letter of appointment as undersecretary for the Palace pages and messenger service. Reporting to Saya Nila the Head Page, who reported to Meriloe himself.

Clutching his slips of paper, Cliopher felt unaccountably better. It was, to put it mildly, not a fashionable appointment, but it was an opening. More than that, it was a new kind of role for him. Freed from the burden of expecting to advance through the ranks, accepting the loss of his deepest dreams of meeting the Emperor and changing the world, he found that he could still be interested in novelty.

His new rooms were small and cramped, the window high up on the wall and showing only a sliver of sky between outbuildings, but the space was cool and clean and private. The location, right at the farthest extent of the least fashionable of the starfish-shaped Palace's wings, was no doubt intended as an insult. Cliopher, who had walked halfway around Zunidh to get home, allowed himself to feel a little smug.

It was comforting to step out of the brightly lit splendour of the Palace corridors and into this quiet space, and finally to be alone as he could never be in the Mdang household, as he had not been on the ship or in the hostel down by the docks.

To his surprise, when he tried the unlocked door of his old room he found that the contents were untouched. The Palace was severely understaffed and empty, he supposed. He found a friendly porter, tracked down some boxes, and transferred his life in the Palace. He was struck by how little he had left; his work for Princess Indrogan had eaten every hour of the day. There were a couple of old comfortable pieces of furniture, a scuffed desk, a good candle lantern for late nights going over the reports. The basket he used for his handful of efela, familiar, dusty, and small. He had not wanted to risk them on the road; he had only taken the efela ko, the first efela which he wore at all times, day and night.

After the porter left Cliopher sat for some time, gripping his efela ko, holding the basket.

It was strange how that hundred years was a sort of blur in memory, from the first frantic stock-take, the memorial services, the shouting matches… the indisputable fact of the comatose Emperor. Endless disputes between Princess Indrogan, who favoured action, and Lady Jivane, who sometimes seemed to regard the Fall and the Palace as a regrettable irruption that would go away if she focused on magic-working hard enough.

He had not often been called into the room where the Minister in Chief and her Lady Magus wrangled it out, but he had worked in the anteroom and (the old privacy magics functioning unevenly after the Fall) he had heard the raised voices.

His physical life had become so small, but the horizons had seemed so enormous. The same route from his rooms to his desk, every morning, the same gut-wrenching exercise of reviewing the latest reports, of drawing together the charts and brief paragraphs that would give Princess Indrogan an accurate overview of how the world fared.

In the afternoon, meeting the couriers, or officials from different Ministries, or sometimes the scouts or the Ouranatha’s junior staff. Hearing their accounts, flat-voiced or angry or in a flurry of too-vivid description, of battlefields and starving towns, of strange sicknesses and the bizarre impacts of fractured time. Joining the dots between the unseasonal weather and the lack of harvests, the storms caused when the break of a valley became a break of centuries and the winds struggled to flow across the twist in time.

He had made no friends, save perhaps his colleagues. Every report he wrote was out of date by the following day. The surviving aristocracy and the reformed Ouranatha made common cause out of reconstructing the old ceremonies for the new location and orientation of the Palace, which at least gave everybody a routine to mark the days and the weeks.

He only left the building once or twice a week, to meet someone in an outer office, or to buy small necessities in town. He had noticed, sometimes, the dry season or the rainy season, by the smell of the air or the state of the vegetation. He had not noticed the years passing. There had been nothing to mark them, until the Emperor awoke. No achievements, no rewards, just the endless work turning the data into information and the information into narratives and the narratives into options for the decision-makers.

No wonder he had seemed so strange to his family in Gorjo City, for whom only a handful of years had passed since the Fall, to whom those years had been filled with small, common, and ordinary goods: the birth of children, the Islander festivals, steady advancement or minor changes in careers that impacted the world around them directly. Hardships and triumphs that could be encompassed by their community, instead of encompassing it.

He tucked the basket of efela away in the back of his wardrobe, and with it the question of whether there was anything worth remembering in that eerie timeless period after the Fall.

That evening, though, for the first time in a long time he sat down, set out inks and papers, and wrote to his cousin Basil in Alinor.

Chapter Text

The next morning Cliopher presented himself in the Administrative Office, just as the bell chimed, all correct and neat and ready for the day. His new boss, Saya Nila, was nowhere to be found. Lord Meriloe had left no instruction, so he asked instead for direction to the Pages’ Hall.

The pages themselves were scattered across the building, taking messages and providing minor services for the convenience of those luminaries of the Palace who ran the world. Cliopher had never before had reason to visit their central office, which was an impressively large octagonal room down in the basement below the centre of the Palace, directly below the Imperial Apartments and the rooms reserved for the Lords and Ladies of the Empire’s five worlds, so that all the most important messages could pass up the central dumbwaiter to the smaller sorting office dedicated to those illustrious beings.

The Hall itself included a receiving desk for messages, enormous towers of pigeon-holes most of which were inaccessible now that the magic that once rotated them was snarled, and stacks of miscellaneous paper that must have been building up in drifts for years. Its upper levels were shadowy mysteries unnervingly illuminated from time to time by fraying sparks or flickers of muddled mage-lights.

The only surfaces clear of paper were the countertops of a damp and messy kitchen area, which were cluttered with crockery instead. There was a small stove, cupboards, and a sink, all covered in a grimy patina of miscellaneous grease and stains.

Cliopher introduced himself to the pages at the desk. They were polite but distracted, each buried under a different mysterious task. “I’m sure Saya Nila will be here in a moment,” was the refrain, though it sounded more like a holding pattern than a prediction. Turning to the kitchen, he found a grandly enormous woman holding court by the kettle, pouring tea for her fellow pages as they filtered in and out. He introduced himself, briefly, aware of some tension in the way they all looked at his shiny robes and his neat kit.

In Astandalan days the pages had mostly been aspirants to the Service, though that had never been their official function. A year or two as a page was widely spoken of as the best way for an outsider to learn the necessary protocols and Palace skills, though that really only applied to the aspiring middle class. The scions of the nobility, naturally, seldom bothered with this theoretically valuable seasoning experience and sought or bought junior placements with family friends or relatives in the great offices of state.

Cliopher, in far away Gorjo City, had not even known of the custom of working as a page to learn the ropes. He had sometimes wondered how much of a difference that knowledge could have made; he could have applied before joining the Service, if he had known. The pages in Astandalas had generally been young, eager types, the sort of people who enjoyed their work because they saw it as a step towards their chosen careers, who studied the set books in their spare time and went up together for the Service exams. He had met a few of them in the junior secretariat and envied them for their deep knowledge of the back corridors of power.

He had even thought, perhaps, that if he were ever in a position to make suggestions - well, requiring all aspirants to the service to spend a year or two as pages before they moved into secretariat roles would be good experience for all of them, and incidentally help level the playing field between the aristocrats and those from wider backgrounds, and build the sorts of friendships that would knit the wider Service together.

It was plain that the actual Administrative Office in Solaara had developed somewhat differently. The pages were moving as quickly as he remembered, but they had a hassled, haunted air and faces lined with worry. They were older, too, many with full beards or grey hair. As they came off duty they drooped with fatigue. The large woman, who introduced herself as Saya Emilia Mapa, clucked over them one by one, handing out mugs and extracting news in return. She was older, too, with a touch of iron grey in her curly dark hair.

Not wanting to interfere, Cliopher started leafing through the stacks of paper, which were mostly notes of receipt, slowly sorting them by date, category and sender. With the magic snarled the sorting had clearly spilled over to every available surface.

Saya Mapa was, Cliopher realised abruptly, taking remarkably thorough mental notes. She had no writing kit, but she was listening carefully and repeating messages and concerns verbatim from one page to another, freeing up her colleagues to sign off for the day. His respect for her crept up a further notch when she came across in a quiet moment to talk him through the notation in the paperwork.

“It’s a sorry sight, sir,” she said, “but since Old Moll clemmed up in the Fall, we’ve been holding it together with spit and string and that’s the truth of it.”

Saya Nila did, eventually, turn up an hour or so before her office hours were supposed to be over for the day. Her contribution to proceedings was a profanity-laden tirade directed at the luckless pages on the main desk, which Cliopher interrupted by stepping in between them and making his bow.

Saya Nila was, he realised, regrettably either drunk or drugged. She veered between aggressively defensive posturing at the pages, and staring in frank confusion at his unfamiliar face and robes. His Uncle Lazo’s lessons in people management proved useful; he found himself deepening his voice, using a performative deference to draw her across the room. Saya Nila was remarkably content to let her new deputy usher her over to a chair and assure her that she had nothing to worry about, he would see to everything.

The pages office never closed, but after a last flurry of evening messages and reports the tempo markedly slow down. Saya Mapa called it a night and handed over the stove to a friend. Cliopher reluctantly left his stacks of paper, and his nascent reimagined filing system, and holed up in his rooms making notes.

—

The next day he asked after the rota and was unsurprised when Saya Mapa told him that no such thing existed. He took paper and pen and sat beside her, taking down her instructions and the names and ranks and preferred working patterns of the pages themselves. There were fewer than two hundred and forty, covering the work of a full complement of three hundred, and their instructions had not been altered (except unofficially) since Astandalan days.

It was so good to have a problem to solve. And yet - this wasn’t an information problem, not really. In Princess Indrogan’s office his work had been about filtering knowledge and building a picture of the world. It had been about words, and strategy, and filtering. In this cavernous dark hall in the belly of the Palace the problem was all about people. It should have been totally unfamiliar, but somehow it felt like home. Cliopher knew people, too, didn’t he? He had Buru Tovo’s lessons to draw on, and his Uncle Lazo’s.

This time he intercepted Saya Nila before she shouted at anybody. Since she seemed to feel that she needed some interaction with what was nominally her workplace, he stood to attention and delivered a short verbal report on behalf of the pages. Saya Nila nodded solemnly and left again, walking with the careful precision of the somewhat addled.

By the end of the day he had set up a board beside the kitchen and written up his proposed new rota, taking account of the physical health of the pages, the number of seats and subsidiary sorting offices distributed about the Palace, the availability of couriers and guards to assist with some messages, and the preferred working patterns and external commitments that he remembered. Saya Mapa considered it critically. He held his breath until she gave it the nod.

“That’ll do for starters,” she said, then looked surprised to be handed the pen.

“Make any changes you need to,” he told her, “these are your people. I’ve seen how you look after them.”

He reluctantly concluded that there was nothing to be done about the top and back half of Old Moll, or the misfiring ends of spells in the rafters, not without serious magical assistance. Now that he had freed up slightly more of the pages to run the Hall, however, he was able to delegate three of them to hunting down a carpenter to build more mundane storage.

Sorting the stacks of paper was merely immensely satisfying until he found the piles of misplaced reports that the Master of Offices was supposed to read and respond to, whereupon it became extremely interesting, too.

—

Within the week the Hall was humming. Saya Mapa had found the time to go and strike a deal with the Palace staff for a better cleaning service and an extra stove. The carpenters were deep in discussion with her friend, Sayu Oast, about the number of cabinets needed to support the new filing system he had proposed. Someone else had hunted down some old armchairs from ancient storage and set up a proper rest zone round the kitchen; they all clashed horribly with one another, being from totally different eras and fashions, but the general effect was cosy. Best of all, there were now several pages who were comfortable intercepting Saya Nila and delivering the neat little verbal reports which seemed to satisfy her. Each time she left without stalking around ranting at people the general atmosphere relaxed further.

Cliopher, who was drafting his preliminary report, lost his train of thought entirely as a realisation struck. The Administrative Office was important. It was vital to the functioning of the Palace, which was essential to the functioning of the government, which was crucial to the wellbeing of the world. Yes, this was about people, but the changes he had made for the people would also change the politics.

But what if there was no ‘also’ about it? What if people and politics were the same thing?

—

Three months later Cliopher strolled back up to Lord Meriloe’s office with his report. He was annoyed with the Master of Offices and was, he found, taking a perverse pleasure in having nothing left to lose.

Saya Mapa and her crew didn’t need him any longer. She was more than capable of running the Pages; all he could do to help was formalise her authority, clear her backlog and get Saya Nila out of her way. Ideally he would get Lord Meriloe out of her way too, but he could see no obvious way to dislodge the man.

In a better world he would get Saya Nila the help she so desperately needed, but he could see no way to that, either. He hoped that she had family or friends outside the Palace who would step in. He wished there was some way to keep paying her at least enough to live on, without giving her responsibilities that were so clearly beyond her capacity. But - it was unfair to Saya Mapa and the other pages that such a large share of the limited budget for pages and messengers went to Saya Nila’s salary. Many of them were only in such physically stretching roles because they desperately needed the income, for themselves or their families, and their pay had not been properly adjusted for inflation, these past years.

It was a dilemma that nobody could fix without changing the fundamentals of the world. It made both his head and his heart hurt to think of it. Far beyond his sphere, or any sphere he was likely to reach in the Service. It would take the power of the Emperor and more time than Cliopher dared imagine to rewrite the rules of civilisation so far. And yet, and yet… he had those notes, sketched out in secret, those dreams of what could be. Too tenuous, full of gaps, full of assumptions that he had never been able to test.

Perhaps one day he would be able to publish his plan, anonymously, in the hopes that the Lord Emperor might be willing to consider trialling some of the ideas. Though it was hard to imagine the brusque and practical Princess Indrogan indulging in the exercise.

In a more practical format, and in far more detail, Cliopher had spent many of his recent evenings working up three different plans for the future of the Pages. The basic version set out a better use of resources under their current budget and operating structure, with Saya Mapa promoted to Head Page and given authority to appoint deputies for each watch. That would not cost Lord Meriloe anything and would give both him and Cliopher some peace of mind for the future (though perhaps for different reasons).

The second version, included as an appendix, proposed expanding the work of the Pages to allow those with the talent and the interest to support the Secretariat more directly, taking notes and filing reports on matters that did not sit under any specific Ministry. Cliopher thought that Lord Meriloe might be open to extending his fiefdom, but of course it would require investment and some thought about potential career paths for those promising Pages, few of whom would have the wealth or standing to feather his pockets for him.

The third version involved significant restructuring of entry level roles across the whole of the Service, including making every aspirant (however aristocratic their background) spend at least a year as a Page. He had kept a copy himself, left one in trust with Saya Mapa, and forwarded one unofficially to Princess Indrogan’s office via Kiri, who seemed both amused and intrigued.

A fourth part of the report, most certainly not for Meriloe’s eyes but too thin and speculative for Princess Indrogan, consisted of some highly cryptic shorthand notes on the pattern of messages passing between the Ouranatha, the Master of Offices, and various Ministries. He had made particular note of those Ministries that appeared to be exchanging more packets of papers with the Ouranatha than with their own Minister in Chief. These he kept in his bag with his writing folder, which travelled with him at all times.

From the pattern of receipts and messages stuck in the Pages Hall, Cliopher was confident that Meriloe was a cynical fellow-traveller with the Ouranatha in an outright bid to do… something. He hadn’t figured it out entirely, yet, but though it went back years it had really ramped up since the Last Emperor awoke.

Logically it should be a move to displace the bureaucracy with magical innovations only usable by the Ouranatha or their trained clerks, to extend their control of crucial chokepoints in the system. In fact, however, it looked more as though the Ouranatha were asking Lord Meriloe and his Office to conceal the range and depth of their more mundane activities. Hiding the number of messages they sent by hand, for example, or (he was nearly certain) ensuring that critical reports were routed to the magical offices some hours before they reached the centre of government.

The priest wizards had direct access to the Last Emperor multiple times a day for ritual purposes, of course. They also had direct control of those parts of the Palace stores that were set aside to support the various rites and works of magic that had once bound the empire together. Those magics had conspicuously failed in the Fall, but the rites continued. As the couriers had told him, the Ouranatha were promoting the Last Emperor’s devotion to his people as the last, best hope for the restoration of Zunidh.

The rituals required food, drinks, smoke, spices, and the dust and presence of many precious and semi-precious jewels. Cliopher had only seen the lesser rituals that the great aristocrats scrupulously observed, and he had wondered in the past if these had been deliberately designed to force powerful rivals to the Emperor to burn through their wealth and time in meaningless gestures. After the Fall… the rules had changed, perhaps, but even he felt less inclined to dismiss magics designed to stabilise the world as meaningless foibles. He had no reason to doubt that the Ouranatha were devout, only that they were effective.

All of this was beyond him, of course, unless he could wrangle any of it into an insight that was actionable for Princess Indrogan. He, Cliopher Mdang, was still attached to the Administrative Office under Lord Meriloe. And as there was plainly no need for a fifth degree secretary hovering around Saya Mapa, Meriloe would just have to find him something else to do.

—

Now that he was formally under appointment to the Master of Offices, Cliopher found that he had been promoted out of the aspirant’s antechamber and onto an uncomfortable wooden bench in the corner of the working rooms inside Lord Meriloe’s domain. Access to the sanctum sanctorum, the inner office, was now via a small disguised door in a corner, but remained as elusive as ever.

After waiting an hour or so past the scheduled time for his fifteen minute appointment, Cliopher asked if he could have something to read. Saya Hassia, who as Lord Meriloe’s clerk had the less lucrative job of managing his appointment queue for those within the Administrative Office, shrugged and pointed him at shelves of official reports.

To his delight, Cliopher found that these included the routine statistical analysis of Service appointments and dismissals.

Twenty minutes later he asked for a desk. Hassia seemed amused and gave him a corner of hers. Half an hour later she glanced over and asked about the figures he was drawing.

“Oh, just a time sequence of appointments by grade,” he said, showing her, “I’m sure you have these already prepared somewhere, but I haven’t been able to track down the reports and I do like to keep my hand in.”

The charts showed a distinct change in appointment patterns in the past four years, since the Last Emperor awoke - and since Lord Meriloe took up his post - and since the Ouranatha started their campaign. Mid level and senior roles were increasing, and entry level posts had been cut back. Some Ministries were getting more people and others more changeovers. Well… the government was under active reconstruction.

Cliopher did not dare pull out his notes on the pattern of messages between the priest-wizards and the departments, but he was fairly confident he could see some overlap.

He found that he was uncertain of Hassia. On his first appointment to the Administrative Office he had thought her scornful, smirking, but - he had not been entirely comfortable in himself, then. Perhaps he had been reading his own fear of diminishment into her features.

He smiled brightly and tried not to show how hard he was watching for her reaction.

She stared at his time series for a moment, then laughed. “We haven’t done that kind of thing since old Gavinor left,” she said, “Lord Merry doesn’t care for it.”

“Lord Merry?” Cliopher was startled into a laugh, and surprised by how rusty it felt. How long had it been since he had shared a laugh with a colleague?

“We all call him that,” said Saya Hassia, grinning, “he doesn’t notice us much one way or another.” The Palace bells chimed and she shrugged, “he won’t be seeing you today, either,” she added. “He’ll be getting himself dolled up for Court. Do you want to leave the report with me? Or come back tomorrow?”

“Oh - both, I think,” Cliopher stretched, and tucked the time series and his notes back into his folder. “Perhaps you could mention that I’ve sorted the pages and would be pleased to keep analysing the appointments reports for him, if he has nothing else for me to work on?” He grinned at her, imagining the Master of Office's reaction to hearing that someone was digging through his records. The man would be motivated to find him an appointment in a hurry.

Saya Hassia’s answering grin turned slightly sharper round the edges. “Oh, I’d be delighted to pass that on," she said. "First thing."

Chapter Text

Cliopher was redrawing his charts of Service appointments that evening when Kiri knocked on the door. He was so absorbed that he muttered “come in” without looking up, just as if he had been in his room at the Mdang house in Gorjo City, where the most likely visitor was one of his many cousins.

Kiri came in with emphasis, pushing the door hard and almost stamping to the centre of the room. He looked up in confusion.

“Cliopher! Sir! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well…” he hesitated, self-consciously, shifting round to put his body between her and the desk.. There was nothing actually wrong with him reviewing the Service statistics; the data was supposed to be made available in the Archive on a quarterly basis and any member of the Secretariat should have access.

Only, when he had gone to check up on the latest reports from the Administrative Office he had not found anything in the Archives. The data had not been made available for the past three years.

“Is he in there?” said another voice from the hall, and someone else looked in.

It was still early in the evening, but sunset was one aspect of Solaaran life that was reassuringly consistent and, at this longitude, a couple of bells before the fashionable dinner hour. Cliopher had been working with a single candle in his lantern from dusk, and only realised that he had been straining his eyes when the light from the hall dazzled them. Even so… surely that wasn’t Saya Mapa?

“He’s in here,” confirmed Kiri, “Sir, with respect, these are the guest rooms for visiting students.”

“Lord Merry’s petty when he’s in a snit,” said a third person.

“Saya Hassia?”

Kiri put her hands on her hims and looked around. “When you didn’t come and find me to catch up I got worried,” she said, “I asked one of the pages, and they said you’d been - yourself - and been through the Pages Hall like a whirlwind these past three months -”

“A very organised whirlwind,” Saya Mapa put in from the doorway, “you should have seen him tackle the filing!”

“- yes, that’s Cliopher,” Kiri laughed, “so you did yourself out of a job, but Saya Mapa kindly came with me to the Administrative Office where we found that Saya Hassia scratching her head over the room allocations -”

“You found me fuming over the room allocations,” Saya Hassia corrected, from the hall, “this is ridiculous!”

Cliopher felt a lump forming at the back of his throat. He looked around the tiny room, too small for more than one other person to stand between the bed and the desk.

A few months ago this had seemed like more than he could hope to ask for. Quiet, in a quiet corner of the palace, private, with a desk and a bed and all the basic facilities. The proportions were handsome, even out here where the rooms were an hour or more’s brisk walk from the centre. He enjoyed strolling round by the gardens.

“- and you’re here working again, aren’t you? Come and get some dinner, Sayo Mdang, and see if you can convince us that you’re actually happy hibernating out here in the basement.”

He folded away his papers carefully, both to hide their contents from these glorious women, and to take the time to blink away the prickling sensation at the back of his eyes.

As he and Kiri cleared the room, Saya Hassia looked properly into it and nearly growled. “The wizards told us that all these rooms had mage lights. Wonder who’s been selling them?”

Kiri must have seen the sudden speculative look on his face, because she swatted him lightly on the arm. “That is not a problem for you to solve tonight! We are going to get dinner, and we are going to eat it together and catch up. You two come too,” she added to Saya Mapa and Saya Hassia.

For the first time since his return to Solaara Cliopher found that he did not have to feign a smile, or think hard to remember the Astandalan gestures of gratitude and friendship.

Chapter Text

Lord Leofric felt a buzz of excitement every time he swept into his new office. This time the glow of pride was shared. His new undersecretary, Sayo Mdang, looked around with evident pleasure.

The second floor was much in demand, and they had been given this splendid room with wide windows and six serried ranks of desks. The hangings were still in the muted greens and browns of the Ministry of Agriculture, but that would change. The room was empty apart from the pair of them, but that would change, too.

Lord Leofric went straight to the big desk at the more propitious end - the end closest to the centre of the Palace, as physically and symbolically close as he could yet place his desk to the great Offices of the Lords of State.

Mdang had stopped in the centre of the room and seemed to be making notes. Lord Leofric left him to his contemplations and explored his new desk, on its raised dais, grimacing a little when he found that those louts from Agriculture had left it scuffed and unpolished. Random paperwork and whatnot in the drawers. Disgusting, but what could you expect from a bunch of farmers?

Mdang looked up, frowning. “How many people will we have?” he asked.

Lord Leofric felt that thrill again. “At least thirty,” he replied, “and we have permission to recruit without going through Lord Meriloe!” His hand went automatically to stroke the panels of his Upper Secretariat robes, feeling the cross-hatch of the embroidery, the sleekness of the silk.

He was still astonished and delighted by his own daring. He, a courtier with no government experience, had seen this opportunity in the gossip of the Court. He made his case to the Minister for Trade at one of those delightful little drinks parties put on for the ambassadors, and out of it had come this appointment.

Lord Leofric knew his strengths: he was good-looking, with a delicate combination of Voonran and Amboloyan features. His hair was thick, dark and glossy enough to wear long and make a statement despite Court fashions. He understood the value of standing out, of making that statement, of following the rules in all things but this one beautiful thing.

He could take a conversation that started with a passing compliment for his hair and turn it in many directions to get what he wanted: an invitation, a liaison, a job offer. He was persuasive and imaginative and creative and (mostly) as organised as he absolutely needed to be.

He was a little unsure about Mdang, who had (as far as Lord Leofric could tell) nothing extraordinary about him at all. The Master of Offices had been extremely receptive to Lord Leofric’s charm, and also to the selection of teas that he had brought from his family’s dwindling store. Lord Meriloe had promised him a free hand in selecting the junior members of his office, and had released Mdang from his own office, with apparent reluctance but possibly suspicious speed, to assist in establishing the team.

“Sayo Mdang,” he said now, calling that gentleman over. Well, man, probably, there was no sign of gentle birth about him. He did, however, respond promptly and politely with almost the correct forms of address and respect. Of course, he had reached the Fifth rank, for all that his accent was rough and his background was barbarian. And - a comforting thought - there was no way this nobody would ever outshine Lord Leofric’s career through the upper ranks of the Offices of State.

Mdang listened carefully as Lord Leofric set out his vision for a new government body, an agency devoted to the proclamations and messages of the Offices of State.

“Our job,” he announced, “will be to make the government look good. We will recruit those who are skilled with words, in the arts of persuasion, in the arts of showmanship and glamour. We will work closely with the great Offices of State, up to and including the Private Office of the Princess Indrogan herself! We will make sure that the people of Solaara - of all of Zunidh! - know who is working on their behalf.”

Mdang’s expression remained unmoved as Lord Leofric elaborated, but he asked a few intelligent questions and had clearly read the two page proposal that had proven so persuasive after the ambassador’s drinks.

“So, my Lord, I understand you intend us to unite the Ministries around common practices of public speech, so that they all have,” there was a pause as Mdang checked his notes, “agreed lines to take in the case of any public communication?”

“Exactly! This is how the great trade houses of the City of Emeralds protect their reputations! But not just agreed lines - we can go further. We can develop our own stories and share them with the public, winning hearts and minds to support the Imperial Service. We will need lawyers, of course, but we must also find performers. People who can dazzle and persuade - or calm down and dismiss - through their words and songs. Think of this as a campaign for the glory of the Offices of State!”

Lord Leofric’s great grandmother had been ennobled for establishing one of the great trading houses of the lost Empire, a network of warehouses, ships, farms, and contacts spread across three worlds. Her insight, carefully passed down within the family, was that it was far more enriching to devote your energy to persuading relatively poor people to buy mediocre tea under fancy packaging than to spend your time seeking out the quality leaves that only the rich could afford. The Leonine Teas had been masterfully packaged and sold, in small quantities in gilded caskets, for all that they were the same stuff as market traders had by the basket.

Mdang seemed unmoved by the peroration but Lord Leofric’s respect for him rose a notch when he nodded calmly and started sketching a staffing structure for the office. Artists, writers, support staff. “We’ll need a liaison with each of the Offices of State, and lawyers, as you say. And… the Guards? The Ouranatha?”

“The Guards, certainly. The Ouranatha have their own communications staff.”

“Ah,” Mdang smiled, “and they can hardly require our assistance in their efforts to promote the Glorious One.”

Lord Leofric was satisfied. Whatever reason Meriloe had released Mdang, at least the man had a grasp of the basic politics.

—

Whatever his flaws in presentation, Mdang was organised and alive to nuance. He had connections, too, at a working level. He mentioned as an aside that he had spent some time in Princess Indrogan’s Private Office.

Lord Leofric tried not to feel frustrated that such a - such a lump of a man - had had access to the Minister in Chief, even in what must surely have been a very minor and unimportant role. He consoled himself with the thought that Mdang must have no ambition to speak of, to be drifting around the Service as a fixer after a start like that. Perhaps he was just one of those strange souls who took pleasure in moving sideways rather than up?

Within a few weeks the nascent Agency for Better Communications was humming. Lord Leofric had spent hours going over colours and designs before selecting a striking livery of black, cream, and a delicate tea-inspired hue that gave a graceful nod to his family history and looked, frankly, fabulous with the official robes.

Mdang, meanwhile, had pressed on with recruitment and setting up his network. He soon had the Agency on the roster for both the official and the unofficial messages and pronouncements. He made the very practical point that Lord Leofric would need a team to follow and understand the messages coming from other departments, and from the playhouses, songsheets, and pamphlets in Solaara (at first; Lord Leofric had his eyes on the horizon even if Mdang wasn’t thinking so far ahead yet). He found a couple of lawyers, and permitted them to bring in three legal trainees each for what amounted to an apprenticeship, which had the pleasing double effect of getting them extra staff on the cheap and winning them some friends in the Legal Department.

Lord Leofric began to enjoy turning up at parties and being complimented on his energy and effectiveness.

Mdang spent three long weeks inviting the strangest people in to interview from the Solaaran riverside district. In recent years the sprawling outskirts of the town had developed a district of artists, typesetters, songwriters, performers, and other seedy types. Lord Leofric had visited one or two of the fancier establishments, with fellow courtiers, during his drifting and aimless years after the Fall. They were entertaining in the rustic style, if nothing like the rich sophistication he remembered from his long-ago trip to Astandalas the Golden.

As his family’s factor at the Zunidh court he had of course taken the opportunity to visit Astandalas when the Lady Magus. He had always resented the way that his older sisters in the City of Emeralds and his father in Astandalas were entrusted with the core business. He was the youngest, of course, and they all treated him like a baby. And then - Astandalas was no more, and the City of Emeralds cut off from Solaara by great gulfs of distorted time and disputed borders. Lord Leofric had been glad to assume his father’s title at court and, for a time, content to live by slowly auctioning off the contents of their local warehouse. He was, he told himself, waiting eagerly for someone to restore order so that he could contact Leonie and Lachima and claim his full inheritance.

Lately he had come to realise that, with Ysthar of the Magic almost totally cut off, importing tea in bulk was unlikely to form a viable business strategy. The Lady Jivane had failed to restore the magic of Zunidh and, when the Last Emperor awoke and accepted the role of Lord Magus, he had revealed only a small gift of magic. The Ouranatha might be determined to make him a god; the best sources said that they would never be able to make him more than a minor wizard.

Watching the Ouranatha manoeuvre their way into relevance while Princess Indrogan crushed the generals was inspiring, and the Princess’s distraction also became an opportunity to step in and help out. Lord Leofric might be young but he clearly had more experience at representing a brand than any of these stick-in-the-mud civil servants.

“Princess Indrogan is… unaccustomed to promoting herself,” Mdang agreed. “And I think she enjoys seeing what happens when other people draw attention on her behalf.”

Lord Leofric hesitated. From time to time he saw this glint in Mdang’s eyes and almost suspected him of insult, but he dismissed the idea as soon as it formed. The rest of that wide barbarian face was utterly bland. Mdang hardly had the subtlety or the imagination to be amused at his superiors.

—-

Mdang brought together a group of senior representatives from the various Ministries, Agencies, and Offices based in the Palace proper.Lord Leofric waved the first Official Lines at them with a flourish.

“So, if anybody asks a question about the time differences - you can turn to our report and use these lines on behalf of the government,” he said, and cleared his throat theatrically. “The magic of Zunidh is under reconstruction following the Fall. We at the -” he caught the eye of someone in those green and brown robes “- at the Ministry of Agriculture, or it could be Trade, or the Private Office, or so on - we at the Ministry of Agriculture are working around the clock to restore good governance and serve the people of Zunidh. And then you add your own lines based on your most recent triumph. My Office will liaise with you monthly to make sure you have agreed words to hand.”

His audience seemed suitably interested. After a brief pause to digest, the first question came from the representative from the Office for Health. “So, we’re not saying anything about the Ouranatha, on the magic?”

Lord Leofric smiled benignly. He might not know much about government work, but he knew about competing brands. He also had also noticed a pair of junior priest-wizards, conspicuous in their dark silver robes at the back of the room. He was almost certain that they had not been invited.

“My friends, we are here to speak for the Offices of the Lords of State. The Ouranatha have their own communications department, which is devoted as is proper to sharing the good news about the ceaseless intercession of the Glorious One on behalf of his people. We will have plenty to do simply to back up the official Proclamations with communications on the work of the Imperial Service. We will of course refer any questions about the Ouranatha or the Imperial Cult back to our friends the priest-wizards themselves.”

Later, Mdang complimented him on his delivery. Not on the speech itself, though. Lord Leofric thanked him graciously. Surely the man hadn’t meant to imply that he had any lack of substance… of course the whole team had devised the system, and the writer’s desk slipped him the words, but it was Lord Leofric who added the sparkle that made it work.

A stray comment from one of the lawyers the next day revealed that Mdang had modelled their lines on the practices of the Astandalan communications department. Lord Leofric had another moment of unease. Surely his vision was a new departure, based on the latest innovations in business that the sophisticated merchant houses of the City of Emeralds had refined?

The next time one of his dinner party companions gushed over his career Lord Leofric very nearly had an awkward moment. He felt uncomfortable, being congratulated on recreating something he had never heard of, but he kept his head up to accept the praise. It kept coming. The monthly lines were a definite success.

Mdang seemed indifferent to the recognition. In fact he had an air of - no, it couldn’t be a fond tolerance, could it? - Lord Leofric refused to be humoured. But what could you expect from a savage?

Mdang was so totally unaware of the exchange of favours of any kind that it was almost endearing. Bribery sort of bounced off him. So did flirting; his oddball writing squad included the ex-opera singer Saya Ulinore. Lord Leofric wouldn’t have minded an evening with her himself, but she very obviously only had eyes for Mdang, whose feigned obliviousness would have been annoying had it not been delivered with so much gentle friendliness.

Lord Leofric found himself watching his undersecretary more closely. That bland expression, those glints that could not possibly be humour… it took him a while to realise what was going on, but when he did he was confounded.

Mdang was in love with him.

Oh dear.

Lord Leofric caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored door and considered that he could hardly blame his undersecretary. Before coming to Solaara, what opportunities would Mdang have had to meet someone so sophisticated, with such elegance, with such an exquisite sense of courtly behaviour and fashionable dress?

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Mdang, the hitherto uninspired foreigner drifting round the Imperial Service, had been inspired to these great heights of organisation and efficiency out of devotion to Lord Leofric.

It was sort of touching, if a little pathetic.

—

No doubt inspired by his hidden passion, Mdang asked for a meeting with Lord Leofric to present some new proposals.

Unfortunately, these turned out to be ridiculous.

Lord Leofric was not an unkind man, and he was long schooled in the self control necessary to turn his every expression to the benefit of himself and his family business. He listened as Mdang waxed astonishingly enthusiastic about relations between the Service and the citizens of Zunidh, resting his hands on top of the wedge of closely written papers his undersecretary had placed on his desk the day before.

Lord Leofric had intended to skim at least the summary, but he had been invited out for dinner, and then his dinner companion had been flushed and agreeable and what, with one thing and another, he had got into the office rather late this morning.

Mdang was expounding on the benefits of transparency. He had some notion that if the Imperial Service routinely published all - or almost all - of their reports, the citizens of Solaara would trust the government more.

Lord Leofric had to wonder if Mdang had ever read any government reports. Apart from the ungodly long ones he produced himself, that is.

Mdang also had some strange ideas about public accountability for government finances which would no doubt cause the Treasury - and the two thirds of the service that was not mysteriously immune to bribery - to have conniptions.

Fortunately after nearly an hour of eager ranting (this was embarrassing, it really was), Mdang moved on to talking about some new ways to share government information with the public. Lord Leofric felt more comfortable discussing the relative benefits of a poster campaign versus a competition to design new heraldry for the Offices, and the question of which playwrights or poets could be trusted to write sketches or songs extolling the Imperial Service.

Lord Leofric was so delighted to find something salvageable in Mdang’s doorstopper of a plan that he allowed himself to become almost enthusiastic in turn. He had very definite views about the essential qualities of an actor portraying a character that could conceivably be connected with himself, after all.

“I think we could manage some initial drafts in the writing room here, my lord,” Mdang volunteered. Lord Leofric found that he could respect Mdang’s control of his features, which were back in perfect blandness despite the gleam in his eyes.

Mdang’s odd recruits were soon enjoying themselves immensely. Lord Leofric would have resented the gales of laughter he heard from the other end of the room, and the way they froze into politeness whenever he approached, if he had not realised how closely this reflected the strength of feeling that Mdang had for him.

Well, a paean by a besotted suitor was as likely as anything else to portray the Service in a positive light. Although Lord Leofric was fairly sure that Mdang was mostly acting as recording secretary to the rest of the team. Some people, alas, had no poetry in their souls.

—

The writers room had produced… doggerel. Cheerful doggerel, it had to be said.

Sayu Amarandu, who Lord Leofric was sure he had seen on stage at some point, brought along some kind of small stringed instrument and thrummed an accompaniment while Saya Uliore sang it.

There was a verse for each department, and a chorus for each rank in the Service.

“We count the fields and the trees
Make sure there’s flowers for the bees
And if you want to farm much wiser
You’ll hear us out on fertiliser…”

It was, well, harmless enough. Catchy, even.

“... don’t you fret about taxation
It’s revenue that builds the nation”

Sayo Mdang’s countenance was very, very bland. There were one or two lines…

“We keep things running hunk-a-dory
In service of the Sun-in-Glory”

Lord Leofric could feel a headache coming on. He suggested that the team keep their creations to themselves while he sounded out Princess Indrogan’s office about the content, and go back to writing lines-to-take.

His plan to bury the cursed verses in a deep, deep memory hole was scuppered within days. They leaked, of course. Worse, soon there were multiple versions circulating. One or two of them were obscene. One was frankly treasonous.

—

He found himself humming the blighted things while doing his makeup.

—

Mdang regretfully informed him that there was no way to trace the leak. All the written copies his team had prepared were accounted for.

At least, Lord Leofric suggested, that meant they were all at hand for a bonfire.

Mdang objected to this idea and, to Lord Leofric’s incomprehension, argued that the Archives should have a record of a government initiative even if it did not go ahead.

Lord Leofric conceded that one copy could be sent to the Archives, but only if it was under the 50 year seal for sensitive material.

Mdang, suddenly obstructionist, pointed out that that was for records that might put individuals in danger if released, or damage national security.

Lord Leofric reminded himself that his undersecretary was unlucky in love and moreover under severe strain, and managed not to reply that Mdang was in increasingly serious danger of a wallop round the ear.

“But what if those - those alternative rhymes for Sun-in-Glory reach the ear of the Offices of State?” He would almost have wailed, if wailing was consistent with the dignity of the head of an agency and an up-and-coming member of the Upper Secretariat.

“Oh?” said Mdang, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t think I’ve heard any alternative rhymes, sir?” said Uliore, earnestly.

It was at this fraught moment that Saya Kalikiri of Princess Indrogan’s Private Office walked in with a note from the Minister in Chief.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, pleasantly.

“Not at all! Come in, please.” Lord Leofric took the letter and flicked his arm to shoo the writing staff back to their desks. Mdang, unfortunately, excused himself from being dismissed.

Saya Kalikiri’s note observed that some creative outputs from the Agency for Better Communications had been circulating unofficially for a few days, and that Princess Indrogan was eagerly awaiting the publication of the official versions in order to, as she put it, have a reason to discourage those who were so kindly elaborating on the theme.

Lord Leofric found it within himself to smile politely, but his words came out weaker than expected. “Publish them? With my agency’s name on?”

Mdang was leaning on his desk, shoulders shaking. Well, it was about time the man felt some kind of regret for the outrage he was putting Lord Leofric through.

“Well, sir, look at it this way,” said Saya Kalikiri brightly, “I don’t think there’s a soul in the building who doesn’t know the ranks of the Upper Secretariat by heart this morning.”

Lord Leofric had only heard part of the most scurrilous version, but it definitely included a line in every chorus about the colours of each rank’s robes being swept aside so their secretaries could attend to the fundamentals. Of their fundaments. In much cruder language than was appropriate for a member of the refined Upper Secretariat to even know existed.

“Oh my,” he said faintly.

And Cliopher Mdang collapsed back across his desk and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Chapter Text

The Palace of Stars was big enough to house an Emperor, the Lords Magi of five worlds, and all of their entourages and toadies, plus the Minister in Chief of the Imperial Service, the whole of the Upper Secretariat, and the core of the ten great Ministries of Astandalas. The kitchens were cavernous, the corridors (if laid end to end) would have stretched from Solaara to the sea and back.

There were eateries of all kinds, from the staff dispensaries on the lower levels that handed out neat packets of easily transported food to be eaten on the go, to the four enormous and constantly bustling canteens in every wing, to the exclusive private kitchens that served distinguished visitors and their guests on the upper levels. The true aristocracy, naturally, had their own caterers and serving staff and ate in their apartments.

Kiri insisted on dragging Cliopher down into Solaara. “You haven’t been further than the garden walls for weeks, have you?” she said. “Saya Hassia and Saya Mapa are meeting us there.”

‘There’ turned out to be a long cobbled street that wrapped closely round the outer Palace wall. It was bright with coloured market tents and crowded with people in the varicoloured robes of the Imperial Service. The air was full of the sizzle and rich smell of roasting meat, thick with spices.

Saya Hassia and Saya Mapa were already queuing for kebabs. Dazzled by the options, Cliopher followed Kiri as she made straight for a purple stand with a massive hog roast.

He was suddenly, unexpectedly, drowning in homesickness. This was nothing like an Islander festival, he told himself fiercely. The crowd was anonymous, little groups moving quickly and independently of one another, no music, no sense of welcome and celebration. Many of them no doubt would have to climb back up through the Palace gardens in a hurry to reach their desks or their stations before the next bell. But… there were so many people, and pigs roasting, and laughter.

The four of them reconvened at the street corner. “How long do we have?” he asked.

“I’ve got to be back for the second bell,” said Hassia, “and look, Sayo Mdang, I have to hear how it ended with Leofric.”

“My Lord Leofric has concluded, alas, that now that the Agency is established he has no further need for an undersecretary,” he told her. She rolled her eyes.

“I heard that, of course - he gave you an excruciatingly polite write-up for Merry - but there are some beautiful rumours flying. Did you really faint on his desk?”

Saya Mapa gave one of her deep chuckles. “There’s benches - this way,” she said, “come on, sit down and give us a rendition of Our Friends in the Imperial Service.”

He gave her a little formal bow “Which version, my lady?” he asked, in his most courtly tones.

Kiri choked on her sandwich.

Chapter Text

Lord Meriloe lit a fire in the grate in his office when the rainy season started. It did little to clear the stickiness from the air and made the room uncomfortably stuffy for the aspirants, particularly those who had dressed up in the full layered uniforms of rank designed for wear in temperate Astandalas.

Cliopher had taken to wearing a light Vangavayan style tunic and trews under his robe. It had the added bonus of annoying the Master of Offices, who was too polite, in the deadly court style, to actually object.

“What am I going to do with you, Sayo Mdang?” he said, leaning back in his padded chair before the fire.

Cliopher had not been invited to sit. He thought of various responses but, honestly, none of them seemed likely to help matters.

“Lord Leofric tells me that you are an extraordinarily diligent young man,” Meriloe continued.

Cliopher inclined his head to accept the compliment. They both knew that Lord Leofric was at least half a decade younger than him.

The silence spooled out. Cliopher preferred not to give Meriloe any opportunity to misconstrue his words. It was easier to hold his tongue than it used to be, somehow. He had plenty of strong opinions, still, but he was more aware now of the wideness of the ocean and the smallness of himself. He no longer expected to get the best out of every conversation by seizing the initiative.

Meriloe had nothing on his Buru Tovo for patience, or on his mother for reproachful silences.

The fire crackled.

Meriloe snorted. “I send you to the pages and you upend half the Administrative Office and do yourself out a job. I send you to an agency and you make it a laughingstock. What you need, Sayo Mdang, is something to keep you out of trouble.”

He shoved a slip of paper across the desk at Cliopher who took it and gave a cursory bow, ambiguously disrespectful. He turned to go.

“I had to dismiss Saya Nila, you know,” said Meriloe, thoughtfully. Cliopher stopped with his hand on the door, listening. “It’s ten to one that Lord Leofric will leave the Service within the year. I can see why Princess Indrogan thought you would be better suited to any other role. I have of course made sure that the Ministers of Agriculture and Health know just how highly she thinks of you. I’m sure your labours on their behalf will make your patron proud.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he said, in even tones, his back still turned.

From an aristocrat this would have been a deadly insult; speaking with his back turned implied that he held Lord Meriloe in the greatest contempt. In Astandalas the Golden even an uncultured foreigner could expect retribution, most likely in the form of a little visit from some hired thugs, and no protection from the law. But this was Solaara, and the restoration of Zunidh, and the Master of Offices would not extend himself so far in front of Princess Indrogan.

Meriloe muttered “savage” just loud enough to be heard in the office. Cliopher caught Saya Hassia’s somewhat shocked expression, and winked at her.

Strange how restraint could prove so satisfying.

—

A week later Cliopher was almost ready to regret riling up the Master of Offices. His new appointment was to two different Ministries at the same time, and he was beginning to realise that neither had precedence for setting the priorities.

The history was simple enough. At a quarterly committee meeting the Minister for Health (the dapper, cheerful Lady Angusta) and her lugubrious counterpart at Agriculture (the ancient and grumpy Lord Oriaz) had in a brief moment of agreement taken an action to set up an investigation into the nutritional needs of the growing city of Solaara.

As the action had been minuted to both Ministries, in the usual course of things it would have languished unless one or the other had a particular interest in following it up.

This time, however, the Lord Emperor had seen the minutes and sent back a short note about the desirability of food security and good health in Zunidh. The one bright spot of that extraordinarily frustrating week came when Cliopher was handed that note - in a secretary’s hand, certainly, but sealed with the Sun in Glory and representing the direct intention of the Emperor himself.

Unfortunately the Emperor had given little actual instruction, just the vague intimation that he would rather not see his people suffer from a lack of understanding of their needs. Lord Oriaz, to whom the note had first been handed (on a purely alphabetical precedence, as the sorting office got to Agriculture before Health), had demanded some temporary appointments to furnish the necessary analysis, as all of his analysts were busy balancing the harvests and assisting the Ouranatha with their weather-workings.

Analysts in general were a scarce resource across the Service. It had been a festival night when the Fall of Astandalas mysteriously translated the Palace from Ysthar to Zunidh, and only a fraction of the Imperial officials had actually been inside the building. Solaara, at the time, had been a backwater village with no great institutions of learning. The great cities of Kavanor, the most populated continent on Zunidh, had been swallowed by the sea, taking with them their universities and colleges, their wisdom and their libraries.

The Lady Magus, Lady Jivane, had fortunately survived the destruction of half of her world. She had been on progress with her travelling court, close enough to reach Solaara within days. Princess Indrogan scratched together a new government out of the remnants of the Astandalan court, those officials that Lady Jivane would part from, and (especially in the early days) such junior staff officers as the guard was willing to spare. Some of them had been analysts, of course, or teachable. You had to be able to handle figures to coordinate even a minor column of soldiers. There were never enough.

—

When Lord Oriaz’s office finally managed to find a slot for Cliopher to discuss the proposed Nutrition Commission with him directly, the Minister for Agriculture promised that he would send another message to the Master of Offices about releasing a team of analysts.

He then spent ten of the fifteen minutes he could spare for Cliopher growling about the underappreciated nutritional benefits of a balanced diet. While certainly interesting, this did not help define the parameters of the project.

“So, the purpose of this project is to determine the nutritional needs of the citizens of Solaara, and to confirm whether they are being met?” Cliopher asked, eventually, cutting across a monologue on the importance of salt to human health which at any other time he would have found fascinating.

“What? No! We already know what a good feedin’ looks like, boy,” Oriaz had a blue and silver cane which he thumped on the floor for emphasis. “We need evidence to show where there’s not enough food being produced!” He leaned forward on his cane and peered at Cliopher. “Here, you’re that jumped-up Islander Meriloe told me about, ain’tcha?”

Cliopher reminded himself that Oriaz must be nearly eighty, and that he had come out of an honourable retirement after the Fall to bring a lifetime’s scholarly pursuit of the science of growing things to bear on reducing the effect of famine, and managed a more or less level, “I am from the Vangavaye-ve, certainly,” in response.

Lord Oriaz held his gaze for a beat longer and then actually laughed, a slow wheezing sound like a creaking door. “Good for you, lad, getting that oily toad’s back up, what?”

—

Lady Angusta was even more elusive. It took most of the rest of the week to secure an audience, despite apparent friendly interest from her office. Her secretary had already warned Cliopher that Health was struggling to secure its annual budget and its Minister was preoccupied and had few staff members to spare.

Health was one of the Ministries that had been completely recreated after the Fall. In Astandalan days the main concerns of the Imperial Ministry of Health had been to certify medical practitioners in the Astandalan School, to ensure that there was sufficient supply of various medicinal substances within the Empire to meet the needs of all those that could afford them, and to enforce quarantines on those travelling beyond the borders of the Empire, outside the magical protections that held most infectious diseases at bay.

After the Fall the magics no longer held anywhere in the Empire, the deep pockets of time allowed new diseases to emerge with unprecedented frequency and speed, fanned into plagues by widespread war and famine. Many of the Palace storehouses and cellars had arrived in Zunidh along with the sleeping Emperor, and many people (Cliopher included) had learned the principles of basic field medicine in the immediate aftermath. The fully trained medical establishment, however, consisted of those few trained practitioners who had been on duty in the Palace on the night of the Fall, plus those Zuni medical experts close enough to Solaara to respond to Lady Jivane’s summons to support the new government.

Lady Angusta was the third daughter of a minor noble family whose holdings had been on Kavanor, and a junior apprentice healer in the Lady Magus’s court. In the first frantic hours after the Fall she had shown an unexpected genius for organising those around her to free up the fully trained medics to deploy their skills directly.

Cliopher remembered her as a one-woman bustle of activity whose rapid-fire chatter was full of insightful anticipations of the next need, and the next. Sadly, in these less urgent times, it found another focus.

“It is such an honour to meet you, Sayo Madon, a real live Wide Sea Islander! I have always longed to visit the Vonyavivi, I have a dear friend who once travelled out as far as Gorjo City and he made it sound so exotic. Such a wonderful, simple place full of wonderful, simple people!”

“It’s the Vangavaye-ve,” said Cliopher, sharply.

Lady Angusta blinked at him briefly. “Is it really? How wonderful!” she asked, breathlessly, before plunging into an enthusiastic if completely inaccurate account of an Islander festival, with one or two details that Cliopher just knew had to be jokes passed off on her unsuspecting friend. He was unprepared, however, for her to finish with the eager question, “and do people really dance on the beaches wearing only a few banana leaves?”

Cliopher blinked back, silenced for once by the utter impossibility of trying to put any meaningful thing into terms that Lady Angusta would not instantly misunderstand.

“Oh please don’t be embarrassed! I think it’s just lovely! Did you know, the Museum of Comparative Anthropology has just added a Primitive Cultures Gallery, and there’s a stunning exhibit of Islander artefacts of all kinds.”

The Palace bell rang the time, recalling Cliopher from his immediate intemperate reaction (Primitive Cultures?) and reminding him that he had perhaps ten minutes left to find out Lady Angusta’s views on the proposed Nutrition Commission.

“Perhaps I should visit the Museum,” he said, “my knowledge of Astandalan cultures is sadly lacking. My lady, may I ask your views on the project plan?”

It took another couple of minutes for Lady Angusta to refocus and find the summary in the notes that her office had provided that morning.

“As I’m sure you recall, the Lord Emperor is personally concerned to ensure that Solaara is not exposed to the ill effects of poor nutrition. Lord Oriaz has instructed me to focus on researching the possible shortfalls in harvests that could lead to hunger in the city. His view is that we already understand what is necessary for nutrition…”

“Nonsense!” Angusta waved a hand, “we think we know what is necessary for nutrition for the Palace, for the Court, and for a large village with an influx of refugees. We have no idea what the actual size of Solaara is nowadays, nor has anyone taken a good look at how the end of the magical Pax Astandalatis may have impacted on anybody’s nutritional needs. Magic that kept out the plague must have been doing something to basic biology. You’ll need to start from scratch, I’m afraid.”

“In that case, my lady, may I draw your attention to the lack of resources currently allocated to this research?” Cliopher found himself forming the polite gestures of supplication almost without thinking about them. It was much easier to use the complex symbolic physicality of the Astandalan court when he felt invested in an issue; it was still a little artificial, like play acting, but it was at least in tune with an emotional base line.

What was surprising was how far he was beginning to feel invested in this commission. Knowing that somewhere at the peak of all this pile of privilege was an Emperor who cared that his people did not starve - that was a gift.

The Minister for Health naturally would not offer any analysts’ time for the Commission, but she did at least promise to join Lord Oriaz in petitioning the Master of Offices for some staff. Cliopher took the promise and left in as much haste as was minimally polite.

—

The promised team of analysts was not forthcoming. Cliopher’s days took on a certain predictability. Every morning started with a trek across the Palace between Agriculture and Health, visiting the offices of the Ministers in person to hand over his notes and ask for updates. Their secretaries began to regard him with a sort of weary amusement, but both agreed that it was reasonable to keep reminding their bosses that Cliopher would need a team if they wanted him to collect any new data or carry out any complex analysis.

He made a point of regularly coming back past the Administrative Office and checking in with Saya Hassia to confirm that the Ministers were, as promised, chasing the Master of Offices for people. She was more open than the secretaries at Agriculture or Health about her amusement and less optimistic about the chance of any help being forthcoming, but at least he had the assurance that the messages were getting to the right desks.

Cliopher himself, naturally, did not have a desk for this work. Neither Agriculture nor Health had space to spare, and without a team he had no case to make for an office of his own. He therefore spent the rest of his days in the Archives, holed up in a corner booth working systematically listing out every data source he could find that might be relevant to the question of nutrition in Solaara since the Fall.

He could wish that Lord Oriaz and Lady Angusta had managed to meet, even once, to discuss the parameters of the work. He could wish that the Lord Emperor had given more definite instructions. He could wish that somebody, somewhere, would take enough responsibility for the situation to provide him with the analysts he needed for the work.

He could not wish that this had not come up. The problem of famine was exactly the kind of problem that a government should solve. The Palace had deep store cellars. The Lady Magus had had access to rich landholdings. The Emperor still received tithes from many parts of Zunidh, even, occasionally, belated deliveries in from the other worlds of the broken Empire where the Sun-on-Earth was still revered.

The people of Solaara had - what they could find, mostly. The tithe and tax records should give a fair indication of the rates of food grown and harvested in the lands around the city, he reasoned, assuming that one used the guards’ data on intercepted smugglers to estimate the extent of the black market. And of course there were gardens, and some people kept animals in courtyards for milk or meat. Those well established families with country estates, or business concerns, or inherited wealth all had the resources to source both plain and luxurious food. Outside the Palace many things were scarce that had been abundant in Astandalas, but the rich were in little danger of starvation.

Things were not so rosy for the refugees, who were still arriving from other parts of Zunidh in large numbers, driven by war and magical catastrophe to head for the Imperial seat. The government was not so concerned with these newcomers and, in fact, had no reliable record of their numbers or needs. But Cliopher considered what effects hunger might create and he hunted out the data on crimes reported to the guards that involved the theft of food, and of the rates of deaths attributed in part to starvation, and of other health conditions that might be exacerbated by a lack of essential elements of foodstuff.

It would take months to review all these reports by himself and far longer, naturally, if he went down into the city to expand the official figures with some on-the-ground information. To model the future of Solaara under various assumptions, and to calculate the crop yields necessary to support those models, would take longer still.

Every day as he pored over the figures and built up the evidence he thought again that this was surely close to the true purpose of government: concern for the wellbeing of the people of Zunidh. At night, in his rooms, he tried again to articulate what he meant, the principle at the core of his vision for a better world. He filled notebooks with iterations on the theme of the responsibilities of government, on the need for every community to have resilient, robust systems that were inclusive and flexible enough to allow each individual to flourish.

The rainy season passed and the long dry period set in. Cliopher had stopped visiting Agriculture or Health more than once a week, resigned to carrying out all of this analysis himself. The question had not come up again in the relevant committees, and both Oriaz and Angusta seemed happy with his proposed approach, which combined both of their concerns.

Then, one morning, the Emperor asked for the report.

—

Cliopher was deep in contemplation of the Ouranatha’s official weather forecast for Solaara and its environs, having spotted what seemed to be some discrepancy between the historical forecasts, the actual weather, and the priest wizards’ proclaimed success rate. He was at first startled and then alarmed to be accosted by an undersecretary in the Imperial colours.

When he got back to Lord Oriaz’s office, which was the closer of the two, he found Lady Angusta already there. The two Ministers were smiling at one another with the barbed politeness of big cats unexpectedly forced into close proximity. The air was so thick with tension that he bowed formally on entrance. He carefully placed the note the Imperial undersecretary had handed him on the middle of the desk between them, where the Sun-in-Glory seal gleamed in the late afternoon light.

“My lord, my lady.”

“Sayo Madon,” said Lady Angusta, “how soon can this report be delivered?”

“If I am to continue to work on it alone, my lady, I can produce a basic analysis of the food security situation in Solaara now and in the projected near future within eight weeks,” he said, promptly and slightly mendaciously, as he was fairly confident that he could manage it in six. “I will not be able to collect any new data so the analysis would be heavily dependent on assumptions, which -”

“Two months is too long,” Lord Oriaz smacked his cane against his desk. “The Emperor is asking for it now!”

“If I had a team of analysts to assist with the work, my lord, we could prepare a paper in two weeks. It would still not include any new research but would, I think, be sufficient to answer your question of the projected agricultural yields needed to support Solaara, and to give some indication of the impact of the growth of the city and the withdrawal of the magical protections of the Empire.”

Miraculously, they agreed. Within the hour Cliopher carried all of his notes and sources up to a hastily allocated meeting room and met five bemused analysts, all of whom had been booted out of a budget session at short notice and were visibly disconcerted by his glee.

He tried to tone it down, he really did, but when Fin Sayu Aazlini revealed that they were a past master in the art of extrapolative modelling Cliopher nearly danced with joy.

Chapter Text

Once they had adjusted to their new boss’s enthusiasm, the shape of the task, and the urgency of the deadline, the analysts were a delight.

After Cliopher and Fin had their first great debate on factor analysis, and Cliopher conceded that he may have been reasoning ahead of the data - well, the whole team settled around him like a ship’s crew on a new voyage. An Islander crew, with little hierarchy and much good humour.

He had learned a great deal from the pages about the odd corners of the Palace, and more from the Better Communication writers’ room about their craft. In both roles, though, he had been the experienced one, the bridge to the wider Imperial Service for new or undervalued staff.

With the analysts, by contrast, he felt utterly at home from the start. Their expertise matched, stretched, and challenged his.

Cliopher brought the whole team with him to the meeting where they were due to present their analysis to Lady Angusta and Lord Oriaz.

“My lord, my lady,” he began, “we have as requested analysed all available data in the Palace Archives that shed light on the nutritional needs of the people of Solaara. We have tentatively identified metrics that indicate changing levels of malnutrition over time and have formed an estimate of the current gap between food availability, need, and consumption. We have also projected these trends out five years into the future, following the advice of the Ouranatha on predicted weather patterns and -”

“Thank you, Sayo Mdang,” broke in Lord Oriaz. “All very good, very useful stuff I’m sure. Thank you,” he added, nodding to the whole team.

“Lord Oriaz and I have been discussing the purpose of this exercise,” said Lady Angusta.

Something in her tone made Cliopher’s stomach sink. There were only a handful of days left before she and Lord Oriaz were due to present the findings, surely she couldn’t mean…

“The Glorious One is concerned for the safety of his people from starvation,” she said, “I believe he will want to see analysis on the risk of famine, not on the current levels of malnutrition.”

“My lady, do you not think the Glorious One is concerned for the hardships that his people experience now?” Cliopher asked, then wished he hadn’t. Or at least not so bluntly. The new Solaaran aristocracy were not so different from the Astandalan nobility when faced with a direct criticism.

“My dear boy,” said Lord Oriaz, “the people of Solaara are the luckiest on Zunidh. There has been no famine here since the Fall. We do not need to scare up ghosts to fight; we need to present the Lord Emperor with plans that ensure he never need worry that his people will starve.”

Cliopher felt a stir behind him. He didn’t dare turn his head to meet any of his team’s eyes. “We estimate that as many as thirty of a hundred households in the docks area may be skipping meals on a regular basis,” he said instead.

Landy Angusta actually laughed. “Oh yes, if we grant your assumptions,” she said, “but missing a meal here and there is hardly the same thing as starvation, is it?”

“There is a table - on the second page - showing the number of deaths -”

Lord Oriaz slammed his cane down hard enough to make Cliopher jump. “The Glorious One needs to know that we will do our duty and prevent famine,” he said, briskly. “Your work is excellent, Sayo Mdang, but it is beside that point!”

Cliopher felt his hackles rising but - what could he do? He was sure that the Glorious One would want to know that children were going to bed hungry - were suffering ill health due to their hunger - even in bustling Solaara.

“We can - extend our analysis,” he said, when he had mastered his tongue. “We can show how various pressures might threaten the food security of the city.”

He could see both Ministers relaxing as he spoke. They had various ideas for disasters to model: war, plague, the further fracturing of time.

It was in truth an important exercise, preparing Solaara to meet any eventuality. It just - wasn’t the exercise that either Minister had originally asked them to carry out. And they only had five days, and two of those were rest days.

—

Back in their requisition meeting room Cliopher took a deep breath and forced himself to meet the team’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “that was… not what I expected. The Ministers are right though. Your work is excellent.”

They sat down together and took stock of the scenarios that Oriaz and Angusta proposed. Cliopher was confident that he could produce some scratch versions in the time available, but when he tried to send the rest of the team home at a reasonable hour that evening they all refused to go.

“We can do this properly,” said Fin, abruptly, “if we dig in.”

“It’s for the Glorious One,” said Gurpal, bright eyed, “and we can include all the relevant context, can’t we? Please?” It was her work that gave Cliopher those facts about households near the docks. Looking at her enthusiasm, he could hardly force her to leave.

It occurred to him, as they worked through the scenarios, that including the possibility of magic failing would have been high treason in Astandalas the Golden. He mentioned this to Gurpal. She shrugged and said she had been born after the Fall.

This gave Cliopher a few moments of dislocation, a sense of a shift in the rhythms of the world. The thought jangled. Not because of her age, which had long since ceased to be a useful way of reconciling life histories, but because of that strange innocence.

A whole generation - many generations, in some places - growing up without the Empire, assuming from childhood their right to question the magic of Astandalas.

They deserved more than this broken world, than this squabbling mess of a government. Gurpal deserved better. He wished, briefly, powerfully, irrationally, that he could provide a better Zunidh for her to work at improving.

—

Three days and nights and a river of coffee later they traipsed back in to meet the Ministers. Again Cliopher had attempted to send his team to bed, but none of them had agreed to go.

He thought he was braced for anything.

Lady Angusta’s opening words proved him wrong.

“We have been rethinking,” she said brightly, and held up a copy of the first report the team presented. “You made some excellent points, Sayo Mdang. The Glorious One surely does want to know that his people in Solaara are flourishing.”

“Within reason,” said Oriaz.

“Yes, within reason,” she agreed, “we know, sadly, that there is some level of deprivation in all big cities. We need to show the Glorious One how Solaara compares - to Haion City, to the City of Emeralds.”

Cliopher, feeling rather like a man caught in a current, said “Ministers, with respect, only a day and a half remains before the nutrition commission report is due to be laid before the Committee.”

“The time is a bit tight,” Angusta conceded, “which is why Lord Oriaz and I have asked our offices to draft this report. All we need is your evidence to support our proposals, and it’s ready to go.”

Cliopher took the report, hands trembling a little with shock - disbelief - unfocused rage.

It snapped into focus as he skimmed the summary. The Ministers’ offices had drafted a polished and practised paper that argued that Solaara was the most fortunate city on Zunidh, no doubt due to the beneficent presence of the Glorious One, and that fewer families went hungry near the Palace than anywhere else in the world.

“No,” he said.

“What?” said Lord Oriaz. “No, what?”

“No, we can’t provide this evidence. Ministers, we do not have comparable data for other cities in Zunidh. We would simply be guessing, and elevating our guesses by attaching numbers to them.”

“Sayo Mdang, this report is for the desk of the Glorious One himself,” said Lady Angusta, smiling at him, “surely you can put in a few extra hours…?”

“Lady Angusta, this team has been working around the clock since the last time you and Lord Oriaz changed your minds. They have gone above and beyond any reasonable expectations, and without sleep, to produce the scenario modelling you requested. We could only do that because we had enough information to repurpose."

"The reason we cannot produce a comparison between cities is that we do not have the data. The only extra hours that would help would be travel hours round Zunidh to collect it. Have you crossed Zunidh since the Fall, my lady? I have, and I promise you that even with the best couriers on the known routes we cannot get information back from the City of Emeralds within the month. It is physically - even magically - impossible.”

Lord Oriaz looked slightly abashed, but Lady Angusta’s smile did not falter. “Can we not just make additional assumptions, as you did in your first draft?” she asked.

“My lady, we had something to support those assumptions. You cannot want us to send up wild guesses to the Lord Emperor in the guise of evidence? You can have no data or you can have fake data, but neither will come from me.”

He heard someone behind him breathe out, in what was almost a sigh, and saw Lady Angusta’s face change as she realised that he was serious.

“Sayo Mdang, the Princess Indrogan is expecting to see this report for clearance in two days time. You know how she is about evidence!”

He did know, from long experience, how the Princess regarded those who presented thin or speculative evidence as if it were robust. She would not be happy with any of them, but she would certainly prefer to see this mess for what it was. “My lady Angusta," he said, firmly, "I would be delighted to share with Princess Indrogan all of the very substantial work that we have produced, and to explain our process and reasoning.”

Cliopher bowed, stiffly, and walked out.

His team, every one of them, walked with him.

—

There was an awkward silence in the meeting room. Cliopher was not, he found, actually embarrassed or sorry about his behaviour in the slightest.

To his surprise, neither were any of the analysts. Fin thanked him with an unexpectedly profound and correct formal bow. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear someone say no to Lady Angusta,” was all they said.

Tiny and mild-mannered Gurpal, whose comments over the past two weeks had all been presented with a delicate hesitancy, was positively gushing. “That was so satisfying! Did you see the looks on their faces?”

“I hope this doesn’t, er, cause any problems for you,” Cliopher offered.

Fin shrugged. “It’ll blow over,” they said.

The analysts were, Cliopher reflected, too valuable to sack, if not apparently valuable enough to listen to. He thanked them again and made sure that between them they had a full copy of the notes to be written up for the Archives.

Then he went back to his room, shut the door, sat down at his desk, and dropped his head into his hands.

After a moment he opened his writing folder and pulled out the (now somewhat crumpled) notes from the Emperor. The two Sun-in-Glory seals winked at him.

Part of him was still wondering, forlornly, why it was so difficult to get anything done. Another part of him was kicking himself for missing everything that was wrong with this commission, and for believing that simply being right and well-informed would lead to success.

The heat of his initial response began to ebb, but the outrage did not die away. He was fairly confident that both Landy Angusta and Lord Oriaz genuinely thought they were doing their best for the Glorious One. They had simply not thought through what they wanted, not until it was too late, and Ministers were, after all, busy people. Each of them had responsibilities that stretched across the entire world, with thousands of staff members spread across Zunidh to manage and no doubt dozens or even hundreds of projects running at any one time.

They still should have paid attention to this one, though.

The notebook that he had been scribbling in was still out on the desk. He opened it and re-read the last few pages, his attempts to express what it was about this commission in particular that was inspiring and emblematic of the true purpose of government, as he understood it.

He liked wrangling numbers, certainly. He had studied statistics and history at university, and at one time thought he might become an accountant. But that was not the attraction.

It was easier, perhaps, to think about the lives and concerns of people who lived nearby in Solaara than to extend his analysis across the whole world. It was more solid, more real. But that was not the attraction.

This had been a commission from the Glorious One himself, or at least encouraged along by active interest from His Radiancy. That had been part of the thrill and was definitely part of the disappointment. The thought of his work - his summary! - going up through the golden trays and carried by the guards into the Imperial Apartments for the Sun on Earth himself to… well, skim over it and ignore it, probably. Even so, his work before the Lord of Zunidh, be it under ever so many other names! But that was not the heart of it, either, as bitterly as he regretted missing the chance.

No, this had been meaningful because it was about getting the evidence that the government needed to intervene to prevent poverty. And that was true, even though he should have known from the start that old Astandalan aristos like Lady Angusta and Lord Oriaz would not see the baseline levels of hunger in Solaara as a crisis to be solved but as a regrettable reality of living in the city.

And that was the great insight - the great heart of his understanding of the purpose of government. It was not inevitable that anybody should starve. If some were starving while others lived in plenty, that was not a comparably acceptable outcome. That was a crisis.

Suddenly full of energy, he got up to stalk around his room, the movement helping him think. There were enough supplies in Solaara to feed everyone in the city. If he were someone else - ha, if he were Fitzroy Angursell, the great outlaw poet - he would sneak into the Palace and steal the food and give it to the poor.

Cliopher Mdang was no Fitzroy Angursell. Cliopher Mdang had the kind of brain that followed that thought with ‘yes, but what then?’

Break into the Palace, upend all this jockeying for position, throw open the doors so that everyone could come and take what they needed… and the Palace would be ransacked. Fair, perhaps; the Emperors of Astandalas had stolen freely from five worlds.

So much art and beauty would be destroyed, or seized and broken up for resale later. Just the mage lights from this one corridor - lovely things, from one of the great Voonran pottery workshops, imbued with touch-sensitive magic - had been worth someone risking all the penalties of treason (for theft from the Palace could be construed as theft from the Glorious One himself).

Cliopher had reported the theft, and then regretted it when he reviewed the rotas and realised that the most likely suspect was a woman in the cleaning staff whose son was known to be desperately ill. And yet - destroying all those lamps was taking irreplaceable beauty out of the world. And yet - that young man’s life was worth more than pottery.

There had to be a better way. A way for the whole world to work that didn’t accept destitution, that didn’t lead to a community imploding, or impoverishing itself, or smashing the very systems that made it function.

His ancestors had faced these problems when they voyaged across the Wide Seas. In the face of the open ocean, they had chosen to share their resources, to pool their labour and their time and their ingenuity, to beautify each island they claimed and make it flourish.

The government of a world, or an Empire, was not the same as the organisation of one ship for voyaging, or of one village for living well. The systems that governed the worlds were more complex and less comprehensible than the networks that kept an island humming. But the principles should be the same, if only he could work out what that meant.

He sat back down, feeling exhausted and not a little foolish. It was not as if there was anything riding on his answers to these questions. However far he perfected his plans for a better world, he would never have the power to implement them.

Nevertheless… nevertheless, he cleaned the nib of his best pen, turned a page, and wrote in his clearest hand: the purpose of government is to steward the resources of all for the benefit of all.

He knew, looking at the words, that it would be the study of a lifetime to understand what they meant.

Chapter Text

The homesickness waxed and waned. It was easier when Cliopher could absorb himself entirely in work, shut out any thoughts of yesterday or tomorrow and just focus on the problem at hand.

It had been easier in Princess Indrogan’s office, working sixteen hour days when she was holding the good order around Solaara together from sheer force of will.

He shouldn’t miss those days. Things were better, now that the Glorious One was awake.

He did, shamefully, deeply, miss the urgency of disaster response, the full-tilt energy of being part of the Minister in Chief’s Private Office.

The work of the pages was no less valuable. The art of government communication did deserve to be taken seriously, and he had helped build a useful agency there in spite of Lord Leofric. His team’s nutritional needs analysis was published as an annex to the report developed by Lady Angusta’s office, and if his more radical conclusions were omitted in the text they were available in the data for anyone who cared to look.

It was not enough.

He started writing home again, though he knew as well as anybody that the state of the post was doubtful. A letter to his mother to assure her of his safe arrival in Solaara. Letters to Bertie and Toucan and (painfully) Ghilly, bright with a cheerfulness he did not feel.

He let his heart spill over, just a little, and wrote in hypotheticals about the world he would like to see. He wished he felt safe enough for specifics. He wished he could sit down with his friends and talk frankly about his struggles with Lord Oriaz and Lady Angusta.

It would be folly to put criticisms of the Ministers in his letters, and what he would like to write about the Master of Offices would scorch right through the paper. Some of his views on Princess Indrogan were equally unscribable.

He was not a rebel poet, to immortalise their foibles in excoriating verse.

He was a fifth degree secretary who did not even dare to discuss the situation openly with those he knew best in the Palace, who kept his speculations on corruption and conspiracy close to his chest for lack of evidence.

The more he antagonised Lord Meriloe, the less safe it would be for Saya Hassia in particular to befriend him. Keeping her at arm’s length naturally meant some distance from Kiri and Saya Mapa, too. He was careful not to attend their weekly lunches more than once or twice a month, doubly careful not to let his wistfulness show as they dropped formalities with one another but not, quite, with him.

He calculated how long it would take him to return to the Vangavaye-ve. Even if he saved up all of his annual leave for years, and had enough days free to get there and back, and spent bare weeks in Gorjo City, he would still be absent for too long.

He started saving the leave nonetheless. Perhaps the roads would improve.

Chapter Text

“...and that, my lord, is why I will not accept a further appointment unless it is clarified which Minister is responsible for the programme of work.” Cliopher bowed a respect he did not feel.

The Master of Offices looked, for once, a little taken aback. “My dear Sayo Madon,” he began.

“I am, of course, entirely willing to explain my reticence in this manner to Princess Indrogan directly,” Cliopher added, sweetly. “I am sure she will be interested, as it relates to a proposal that the Ministers are bringing forward for the sight of the Glorious One.”

Lord Meriloe was very still. Cliopher belatedly realised that his very bluntness had the man trapped. There were no suitable responses in the courtly formula for interruption that did not involve deference or threat. And, of course, rubbing the bridge of your nose in exasperation was entirely impermissible, though Meriloe looked as though he wished it weren’t.

The Master of Offices resolved his dilemma by dismissing Cliopher from the room.

—

The next morning one of the pages brought him an appointment slip for a position as undersecretary to Lady Kuyulush, a Minister without portfolio but apparently attached, loosely, to the household of the Emperor in his role as Lord Magus.

The page could offer nothing further bar the directions to Lady Kuyulush’s rooms, which were placed high and central in deference to her noble birth.

Mystified, Cliopher donned his robes, tucked his folder of writing materials under his arm, and trekked through the splendid corridors towards the centre of power. Up here the ceilings were grander, the art on display finer, and luxurious benches were provided so that those waiting for the attention of a Lord or Lady could sit in comfort to contemplate their self importance.

Cliopher reached Lady Kuyulush’s doors before the third bell of the morning. Her aide let him into the anteroom, looking dubious.

“This - seems to be in order,” he said, checking Cliopher’s slip against a matching one that he had apparently only just received. “Wait here, please.”

Cliopher sat, slowly, taking in the space. The room was furnished in grey so pale as to tiptoe up to white without ever quite crossing the line into using the Imperial colour directly. The style of the furnishings was old fashioned, with thick drapery framing the windows and a deep soft carpet underfoot, swaddling the room as if against the winter cold that Solaara never experienced.

There was a small dark desk which was evidently the aide’s domain, as he returned to it in short order and busied himself with making a note. Even in Astandalas the Golden the rest of the furnishings would have looked decidedly fussy, Cliopher thought, with an array of little low padded chairs and tables heavy with dried flower arrangements. The air was full of the sweet musk of the dry vegetation.

Time passed. The aide glanced at him, now and then. Cliopher felt obscurely that to make a fuss would be to lose whatever game the Master of Offices was playing now, and held his peace.

The bells chimed the quarter hours. The bright sunlight moved slowly across the table in front of him.

Cliopher self-consciously kept his spine straight, his folder sitting across his knees, his hands loose on top of it.

He was conscious that his last three postings had ended awkwardly. Each one was defensible. They had been temporary appointments. Small shipwrecks; he knew how to pick himself up and start again.

It would be embarrassing to lose this role before he had even started it. Harder to explain to Princess Indrogan than any of his mishaps so far. He did not want to have to explain himself to Princess Indrogan again.

Some time after four bells the inner door opened and Lady Kuyulush made an entrance that could only be described as magnificent. Cliopher was practised enough in courtly etiquette to come to his feet, and alert enough that he did not quite drop his writing materials or even fumble with his folder. The lady was tall, square of shoulder, dark of skin and gowned in an exquisite flurry of ruffles and lace that swished dramatically as she swept in and put him irresistibly in mind of a frothy cocktail.

“My darling!” she exclaimed, when Cliopher explained who he was, “an undersecretary of my very own. What a treat! But what tiresome robes you are wearing. That colour does not suit you at all.”

With some difficulty Cliopher managed to convey that the robes were a uniform and that he was here to support her in her Ministerial role. Lady Kuyulush was briefly perplexed and then greatly amused. “Oh, of course! I am a Minister, I had forgotten.”

“What is your remit, my lady?”

“Remit?” she asked, with a laugh. There was a bitter note to it. “I am amusing. I amuse.” She spread her arms, striking a pose. Cliopher was immediately struck by familiarity; Saya Ulinore, the retired opera singer, had kindly shown him something of her stagecraft.

“And what,” he asked carefully, “would you have your undersecretary do?”

She looked him up and down, critically, then sniffed. “Oh, if you like, you can come with me,” she said, with an off-hand shrug. “It will give the chatterers something new to discuss.”

—

Lady Kuyulush travelled with a retinue. Three people appeared, disconcertingly silent on their feet, before Cliopher had done more than pick up his folder of notes. He found himself walking alongside her aide, who was giving him bristling sidelong looks, and in front of two identically dressed maids. All four of them followed as the lady swept along the corridors. Every part of the Palace of the Stars was beautiful, of course, but the difference between these spaces and the offices and rooms kept for career bureaucrats was striking. Cliopher felt the effect of the grandeur, and inwardly fumed.

It was clear enough that Kuyulush’s Ministerial position was entirely meaningless to her and valueless to the government of Zunidh. It was equally clear - crystal clear - clear as the Bay of Waters - that she had nothing worthwhile for him to do.

The Master of Offices had struck on a happy solution for his problem appointee.

Anger boiled in his belly and he worked to keep it from showing on his face. This was the court proper, not the Imperial Service where his ability to wrangle data tables made him valuable. Many of the courtiers were de facto rulers of their own little domains, and the Pax Astandalatis shattered with the Empire. He was unsure how far a tenuous connection to Princess Indrogan would protect him.

It was fortunate that the corridors were so long. The walk gave him time to rebalance, and to remember the most fundamental lesson his Buru Tovo taught: look first, listen first. Questions later.

Lady Kuyulush’s business that day was social. She attended a luncheon given by the Lady Astrid, in the Alinorel style and attended by those parts of Solaaran high society whose background appertained to Alinor. Their host invited the whole glittering party into the next room to spend the afternoon playing Alinorel-style card games. There were perhaps thirty aristocratic guests, and at least twice as many assistants and followers. Cliopher was familiar enough with the way that Astandalan nobles enhanced their status by surrounding themselves with servants and dependents, but he had never seen a Palace party from this perspective.

He would have much preferred to wait in the serving rooms with the maids, or stand at the side with her aide, but Kuyulush drew him alongside her into the throng.

Cliopher had learned a great deal of etiquette for the entrance exams which had not been relevant in his early, junior days and which had then again not been relevant following the Fall. In his dun secretarial robes he was afraid that he stood out like a crow in a pack of parrots. He felt unbelievably out of place and awkward; he could barely manage the formal gestures as deployed in the Imperial Service. He bowed again and again, murmuring the polite greetings, doing his best to perfect the angle of his back, his neck, his hands.

He reflected, as the sides of his face ached with the effort of maintaining the proper expression, that he had only ever interacted regularly with aristocrats in the midst of a world-shattering emergency.

There were others mingling who, like him, were wearing uniform or subdued clothing, and shadowing a noble. He tried to mimic them, standing a little to the left and half a step back from Kuyulush so that she could choose whether or not to explicitly include him in the conversation.

After a while the patterns began to make more sense. It was a dance and he was, after all, highly trained as a dancer (if very much out of practice). There were some people who made fixed points, centres around whom others circled.

Their host Lady Astrid, naturally, as each guest in turn went over to pay their respects.

The delicate and beautiful Lady Oriana, who was only in her teens but stood in the succession for one of the great Princely houses.

The priest of Solaris, a member of the senior council of the Ouranatha whose silver robes glittered with tiny bright flecks of… possibly magic, or possibly mirror shards caught in the fabric.

Lady Kuyulush was a supplicant rather than a centre, here. Cliopher followed her as she orbited each of the favoured ones, observed the bright, slightly biting humour she used to draw a quick smile from each in turn. She did not introduce him but from a couple of sidelong references he gathered that he was an effective prop to remind others that she had the Ministerial post, whatever that counted for in the game.

—

“Why do you do it?” he demanded later, as soon as they were back in the relative seclusion of Kuyulush’s anteroom. His tone was not deferential. The rest of her retinue turned to stare at him. One of the maids actually gasped out loud and then covered her mouth with her hand.

The lady stilled and raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Do you know, Cliopher dah-ling, you are most deliciously barbaric,” she said.

“I fail to see how the insult is relevant,” he replied, hotly.

“And now you’re trying to shock me into dismissing you!” she said, cheerfully, “oh my.” She flicked her fan up as if cooling an overheated brow. “Was it so terrible?”

“I am a fifth degree secretary, my lady,” he replied, as calmly as he felt able. “Not a new gown to display to your rivals.”

Kuyulush straightened slightly, letting the fan drop to her side, centring her weight, her face serious. “Cliopher,” she said, and all the teasing had dropped from her tone, “I don’t know what you did to earn Lord Meriloe’s enmity but it must have been spectacular. I bought my Ministerial role fair and square - I can see you bristle, dear Emperor but you need to learn to guard your expressions better, cupcake - do you really want to put yourself straight back into his hands?”

Cliopher hesitated, knowing he was off-balance. He had listened first, and looked first, but he had still managed to ask the wrong question at the wrong time.

“I thought not,” said Kuyulush. She peeled off her gloves, handed one to each maid, and made some small gesture to her aide that was almost too subtle for Cliopher to make out. As all three left the room, she sank down onto one of the small overstuffed chairs and waved him into another.

Sitting down took some of the tension out of the conversation, and forced him into a pause before he responded. Cliopher recognised the tactic; it was a favourite of his Uncle Lazo’s.

He tried to put aside his anger at being landed in this ridiculous situation, his frustration at the waste of public funds on court fripperies, his resentment at being managed. Underneath those emotions he found the thread of fear. He knew Kuyulush was right: he was nowhere near good enough at managing his expressions, at sending the right messages in this alien world.

He shut his eyes briefly and reminded himself that this was hardly the first time he had been lost in a strange and dangerous land. The courtiers might be beautiful and deadly, but so was a poison dart frog, or a gorge in the Gray Mountains, or even a typhoon, in its way.

“What do you want with me, my lady?” he asked, his voice more controlled. “I am service-trained, not a courtier. What can an undersecretary do for you?”

“Better,” said Kuyulush, “less accusatory, but still leaving yourself open, exposing too many weaknesses. You must avoid giving me any reason to take offence, but it is hardly necessary to imply that your skills are insufficient, or that there is nothing that you can offer.”

Cliopher looked at her in frank astonishment. Lady Kuyulush was slouched back in her chair, long legs crossed delicately at the ankle. She was smiling with what seemed to be genuine fond amusement, eyes crinkling.

“And the answer, of course, is that I don’t want you. I didn’t ask for a secretary, but here you are, and this is the hand I have to play. I can tell you come from a culture that prefers open dealing, Sayo Mdang, so I will be blunt with you. “I came to Astandalas the Golden twenty years ago now, as an actor - let’s call it that, my dear, it’s the done thing - and I was young then, and ambitious, and I found myself a noble patron. Several, in fact.” Her face softened in reminiscence.

“I came to know the Palace well, and I visited often. On the night of the Fall I was taking a quiet dinner with a friend; we had slipped away from the great Silverheart parties early to refresh ourselves, and so…” she shrugged.

“You came to Zunidh with the Palace?”

“Naturally. And my friend was old, and infirm, and his family were lost on Ysthar, so that I was all he had. And these apartments, of course. The records were lost, and I look plausible, and so he passed me off as his daughter.” She laughed, again with that bitter edge. “I thought it was an astonishing chance. I had no idea - no way of knowing then what a trap this gilded mausoleum can be.”

“So - your friend…?”

“He died,” she said, making an ambiguous gesture that Cliopher was sure a true courtier would be able to read. “I inherited. Or rather, I have been impersonating an Astandalan aristocrat for nearly a decade. I - we were wealthy, in useless things like gold and jewels. I haven’t sold more than a tenth of the heirlooms, you know.”

Her voice wavered, as if she were slightly drunk, as if this were a sentimental moment between friends.

She had just told him a deadly secret. If true. Cliopher felt the prickle down the back of his neck.

“Lady Kuyulush, why are you telling me this?”

“Ah!” she smiled, sitting up and easily shedding the lazy drunk pose. “You have some sense of self-preservation, at least. Good. So you know what will happen if you repeat this tale?”

“If I, a mere secretary, imply that one of the great ladies of the court is an imposter?” Cliopher asked, his throat dry.

“Precisely,” she said, “and if you are a spy - well, I do not think you are a spy for Meriloe. Why would he waste the effort? I paid him well enough. Princess Indrogan hardly cares for the likes of me, and who else would make use of the Imperial Service? The Ouranatha, of course, have their magic.”

This time, when the silence fell, she waited, her eyes on Cliopher. He did not think he had imagined the slight - the very slight - extra challenge in her voice.

He thought of the high priest of Solaris, in his glittering robes. Of the bribery, the manipulation of appointments, the slow bureaucratic struggle for the levers of power.

Lady Kuyulush could break him with a word. She could report him for any crime. She could destroy his career, or would have been able to had he not already imploded so spectacularly all by himself.

She could have him executed.

His heart was beating a little faster, but - he had never been able to resist a challenge.

He met her gaze, squared his shoulders slightly, leant forward.

“Do they?” he asked.

Kuyulush relaxed back into a laugh. “Ah, there it is,” she said. “And who do you work for, Sayo Mdang?”

He gave a rueful smile. “I’m nobody’s spy,” he said, “I am a member of the Imperial Service, currently assigned to your office, my lady, because I refused to bribe Lord Meriloe and he believes that Princess Indrogan will not let him dismiss me.”

She stretched, like a cat who has caught sight of a treat and is preparing their whole body to enjoy it. “My dear Cliopher, you are so utterly ridiculous I am forced to accept that you may indeed be an honest man. How utterly delicious.”

Chapter Text

Lady Kuyulush spent a good half an hour decanting Cliopher’s memories and observations from the Alinorel luncheon. Her questions were sharp, despite her mannerisms, and he did his best to answer them objectively and briefly.

She sent him away before preparing for evening court. “Cupcake, I do not throw ducklings to the crocodiles. Appearances aside, I am not entirely wicked. Attend me tomorrow, at noon.”

Her aide walked to the door with him, possibly entirely for the opportunity to give him a dirty look as he left the room. Cliopher returned a minor nod of his head, conscious that he had dramatically superseded the other man’s position in the household and not really able to do anything about it.

He strolled back through the glorious corridors, and out through those that were merely grand, and further out through covered walkways. Still clutching his writing materials, he stepped into the heavy warmth of a Solaaran evening, in the high dry season.

Dusk had fallen, but most of the Palace gardens were alight with flickering magic lanterns. This was not the way back to his room. He kept walking, all the same, listening to the gravel crunch underfoot, exchanging nods with the guards about their rounds, admiring the chance clusters of leaves or branches illuminated by the lights. The warmer brightness of Solaara itself spread out glowing like embers raked around the Palace walls.

Some parts of the gardens were dark. Some of those darknesses were haunted, or twisted in time, or both. Magic had worked erratically, since the Fall. Many routine functions had gone entirely astray, like Old Moll down in the Pages’ Hall. Others, like the mage lights in the Palace, were merely mostly sound, most of the time.

There was a pattern to magical effectiveness, and it was so big and simple that it was difficult to see.

The small magics worked by Lady Jivane and her court mostly held. They had attended to practicalities like the Palace lighting and kitchens, but had not attempted to replace complicated constructs like the sorting machine.

Similarly, the Lord Emperor was reputed to be adept at small magics, and these also held.

The great magics of the Empire, worked by the Ouranatha, had disintegrated utterly but unevenly. There were stagnant pools of sour magic in some places, and stretched or smashed fragments in others.

The small magics worked by the Ouranatha were… not much in evidence. The priest-wizards were working furiously to establish themselves, and if they had reliable magic they would be using it. Instead they were, for example, bribing the pages to carry messages to them first.

They were seeking mundane power for itself, but also to cover the lack of mystical power. A weakness, but not one that Cliopher was in any position to reveal or exploit.

Lady Kuyulush shared his suspicion, but she had given no sign of what that meant to her. Cliopher was inclined to doubt her tale, but not, so much, her character. She had revealed layers of deception as they talked; it had had the no doubt intended effect of encouraging him to trust her.

Slightly against his better judgement, he did trust her. Not so much to tell him the truth, as to be - benevolent, perhaps? As long as she found him more entertaining to pet than to sacrifice, at least.

He could feel a headache coming on.

He did not think that Kuyulush cared to support the Ouranatha, or Princess Indrogan. The grinding conflict between magical and mundial officials was being fought to shape the government of Zunidh, which was evidently not a concern of hers. Minister, indeed!

The other players for Zunidh were, of course, the powerful nobles who dominated stretches of the world. Each of them, potentially, the ruler of their own small stretch of ground, if the centre did not hold. As an ex-Astandalan noble (or the fraudulent inheritor of an Astandalan title), Lady Kuyulush might not have landholdings on Zunidh itself. In which case her future, such as it was, lay with the court.

Princess Indrogan had forced the surviving Astandalan generals in Solaara, and most particularly the largely intact Palace Guard, to report to Lady Jivane as Lady Magus of Zunidh. In practice that had meant reporting to Princess Indrogan herself, as Lady Jivane delegated the task of building a government to her.

The Lord Emperor had been lying in an enchanted sleep - or, less daintily, a magical coma - and all the lands of Zunidh fractured from one another by great gulfs of distorted time. Some regional units disbanded. Others rallied around local rulers, restoring order or robbing freely depending on their inclinations. Cliopher thought of armies massing, of the strain he saw sometimes in Kiri’s frowns, and wondered how far the situation had deteriorated since he was last privy to Princess Indrogan’s reports.

He most emphatically did not want to spend his days trailing Lady Kuyulush around endless receiving rooms. The court was full of plots and poisons, and so many of them were so extraordinarily petty. Three different youngsters were rumoured to be driving towards destruction for the sake of the self-possessed beauty of the young Lady Oriana. Two of them held neighbouring lands. There were rumours of raids already; it could go beyond posturing into open warfare. Fields laid waste, towns under siege, people starving. The sicknesses that come with crowding and destitution. And all unleashed by a few harsh words between over-proud aristocrats in silk-hung drawing rooms.

Still… these landholders were coming to Solaara, now that it was possible. Court was still a draw. They were in the habit of seeing the Emperor as the centre of the world. The Astandalan aristocrats still performed the ceremonies that were supposed to anchor the magic of the Empire. And… he remembered the couriers he met, talking about the Ouranatha’s books of rites, of taking up the ceremonies too. They had mentioned the high priest of Solaris as a persuasive speaker on behalf of the Glorious One.

In that one Alinorel-themed reception room Cliopher had met both the priest-wizards and the regional nobility. The centres of power, the people who could unravel the authority of the Zuni government that Princess Indrogan was painstakingly constructing.

He pictured it: the priest wizards pulling the Emperor up and away into godhood, extending their spiritual authority, extracting tithes and reverence but not, he thought, actual control. Certainly not without their magic to extend their power across the world. The local gentry turning more and more to their local rulers, power in the form of taxes, obedience and magical energy pooling into the hands of petty kings and princes so that each could raise an army. Would have to raise an army, for defence, even if they were naturally peaceable. Anarchy. War.

It was beginning already, but it was not, yet, irreversible. Nobles that spent significant time in Solaara were perforce committed to a central authority. Once they had passed that point of disintegration they would stop acting on behalf of the Emperor, on behalf of the Solaaran government. Court would cease to be the place wars started and would become - an occasional treat, a pilgrimage, perhaps, a seat of moral suasion dominated by the priest-wizards.

However much he hated this version of the court, it was still shaping the world. No brighter future would be possible unless its power was uprooted, devolved, or contained.

The next pair of guards he passed almost flinched away from the scowl on his face. Kuyulush was right, damn her. He needed to do better controlling his expressions.

—

Cliopher was forced to conclude that Lady Kuyulush’s main interest in him was that she found him amusing.

Most of his afternoons started with lessons, in her silver grey room. She put him through his paces at the court formalities, taught him the gestures and bows of respect, insult and apology. Sometimes she taught him tricks of oratory, how to breathe, how to centre his stance, how to project his voice to be heard by an individual or a crowd. She made him convey emotions on demand: anger, delight, fear, confidence.

After an hour or so she would abruptly lose interest and lead him off on a round of calls, or a reception or some other minor social event. He would watch as Lady Kuyulush herself slipped into a different act, a glossier, polished version of herself that let no secrets slip.

He grew better at reading the rooms. At court functions his robes of office were a disguise; many nobles were accompanied by secretaries and, as most of the great Ministers of State were aristocrats, Imperial Service robes and hats were common. Most of these secretaries were relatively junior. He only saw a handful of other officials of the fifth degree, and he began to recognise how his presence bolstered Kuyulush’s apparent status.

Lady Kuyulush herself seemed to have no aim but to establish herself further with the major figures of the court. Every evening, as she dressed in her formal finery, she debriefed him of the day’s impressions, laughing uproariously at his mistakes and even more so at his flashes of anger or frustration. The rest of her household remained distant, disdainful. It was easy to guess that her aide would previously have been the one to shadow her steps, that the maids were her former partners for these long gossip sessions. With Cliopher there to needle and instruct she had dropped them entirely; he imagined she would drop him just as quickly sooner or later.

Despite everything he could not help liking Lady Kuyulush. She was an expert reader of people (a survival skill, in this strange world). She was also, he began to realise, desperately bored and lonely. One day, as she was listing off the court factions - the high nobles, the Jilkanese, the financiers, the academics, the Ouranatha, the Guard, the remainder of Lady Jivane’s court, the high officials in support of Princess Indrogan - he asked her where she found her own friends.

“Friends, cupcake?” she raised both eyebrows, to the disruption of the maid who was applying her court make up. “Nobody like me has friends at court. Too slippery for the little players, beneath notice for the big fish.”

—

As he recovered from the first shock of the new, Cliopher began to realise just how far his world had been upended.

Lady Kuyulush never asked him to attend her before noon, and she never took him to full court. His mornings were his own, entirely. In every other assignment he had projects, ideas, side reading to carry out. He was used to spending his days hard at work and his early evenings going over his reports, or digging in the Archives for relevant material.

Very little of what he was learning at court could be written down. Some parts were practical: tricks for controlling his expression, nuances and elaborations on courtly etiquette, exercises to improve his stance or manage his breathing. Other parts were potentially deadly: rumours of misbehaviour, sharp personal critiques, observations about the intersection of power and personality. In the first week he briefly reflected on the file card system he used to remember the names of his many cousins at home in the Vangavaye-ve, and then reflected further on the implications for his person if any such system of notes and names were discovered in his room.

His notebook was still sitting on his desk, open to the page where he had written his core understanding, his central conclusion. The purpose of government is to steward the resources of all for the benefit of all. It taunted him. Every morning he looked at it, considered turning the page, considered closing the book.

He met, in the salons and soirees, dozens of members of the government of Zunidh. None of them would recognise his conclusion; for them, government was about power and how to exercise it.

Perhaps one or two of the Ministers who attended court events in the mid afternoon were there for a purpose. If power was collecting with the landowning nobles then it probably was necessary for the Minister for Agriculture to mingle with them occasionally to discuss weather patterns and harvest prospects, for example.

Cliopher began to keep notes on the Ministers without portfolios, the empty titles. He had already used the Minister of Offices records to map out the appointments within the Imperial Service; now he added those members of the Upper Secretariat whose details for some reason had slipped the official records. The Service was extraordinarily bloated. Staffing costs were the major expense on the public purse. The Upper Secretariat had three or four members for every substantive role, and those without portfolio were kept on the books at half pay.

The money padding all those pockets could have paid for emergency supplies for Solaara, against famine, a hundred times over. If only there was no hunger. If only… Cliopher came up against the impassable reality again and again. This rotten structure was incapable of mending the world. The government was corrupt, the priest wizards power hungry, the aristocrats selfish and scared.

At least he could seek to understand the problem, to map out the solutions. He was beginning to realise that publishing his vision for a new world government, even anonymously, might be safer from a distance.

—

His bows were improving. Laughing, Lady Kuyulush set about teaching him the obeisances required for those entering the Presence.

“Have you ever seen the Glorious One?” Cliopher asked.

“Oh, very good, darling,” she said, “smooth as butter. Not even a twitch at the thought.” She shrugged out her arms, the motion setting her wide sleeves swirling. The tawny fringe of teardrop gems clattered and chimed. Not for the first time, Cliopher wondered how much aristocratic court clothing was designed to emphasise the subtle Astandalan gestures. Or possibly to emphasise any errors.

“The Lord Emperor is present at court, of course,” she said, more thoughtfully. “On the throne, on the dais. Occasionally a favoured soul is permitted to climb the lower dais, to approach the Presence.” She sighed, theatrically, “I am not a terribly favoured soul, cupcake, I admire the Sun on Earth from afar.”

“And I am a lowly undersecretary,” Cliopher could not help pointing out, “even less likely to need to know the obeisances.”

“Oh, I know, cupcake, but you do look divine down on your haunches,” she said cheerfully. “And who knows? One day you may be Minister in Chief.”

Cliopher tried not to scramble to his feet too gracelessly. “Minister in Chief to whom?” he asked, “the Ouranatha?”

Kuyulush gave him a conspiratorial grin and flopped down into a chair. “That does seem to be what they’re going for, doesn’t it?”

Cliopher sat too, taking her cue to move the conversation to a more casual level. “The government is disintegrating,” he said. Too bluntly, from her delighted grin. He was no doubt overly emboldened by relief that she had stopped commenting on his haunches.

“Oh, Sayo Mdang, tell me all about it,” she said, and flirted her fan into the open, invitation pose.

It was another challenge, so he did. At length. In full.

A couple of hours and a handful of intelligent questions later Kuyulush sat up in her chair.

“Cliopher cupcake, what are you doing here?”

He hesitated, catching himself. It had been a long, long time since he had been able to share his thinking with someone so openly. Kuyulush had surely been enjoying it. She could have stopped him at any time, sent him away. But now she seemed - distressed? Concerned? - and he was not quite sure why.

“Lord Meriloe took against me,” he said, which she already knew.

“Cliopher,” said Kuyulush again, “you want to fix the government. What the hell are you doing about it, darling?”

There was a blow he had not seen coming.

He did want to fix the government.

“I… you have been teaching me,” he said.

“Ah, so you want to fix the court too,” she said. “Put us all in our places?”

He shrugged. “I’m a fifth degree secretary, my lady. What can I do?”

“Well, you can damn well stop going meekly where you’re told,” she said. “You’ll never get your feet under the table like this. And I suppose you really won’t bribe old Merry?” she laughed, “much better, with the face, but you shouldn’t stiffen up like that in the shoulders. So that’s a no. Hmm.”

She stood up and stretched, the light glittering off her dress and sending orange specks of light glittering across the room. He stood too, politely.

Lady Kuyulush stepped close. She was a tall woman who enjoyed using her height to shape a conversation, and Cliopher reflected that knowing this did not in any way lessen the effect. She looked down at him with a slightly worrying smile.

“Dress for evening court, Cliopher,” she said, “let’s have some fun.”

Chapter Text

Cliopher had ordered formal dress robes months ago, when he first realised that Lady Kuyulush might ask him to attend her at evening court. They were nearly identical to his day robes, if made of far finer fabric. He slipped them from the back of the wardrobe, pulling away the strong-smelling magic tab that deterred moths.

The hem caught on something. Holding the robes carefully over one arm, he used the other to pull whatever-it-was gently forward so he could disentangle them.

It was his basket of efela.

His heart was suddenly thudding in his throat, his head swimming. He lifted the corner of the formal robes away from the basket, then sat down abruptly on his bed.

The burnt umber silk puddled in his lap. He lifted the basket on top of it. His efela. His wealth, in the Islander tradition. His hand went instinctively up to efela ko, around his neck.

How long had he been back here, in Solaara? Years, it seemed, although it was difficult to add them up in his memory. Months with the pages, surely, and then it had taken a long while to properly staff the Agency for Better Communications, and nearly as long for Health and Agriculture to fully implode over their commission. At least two, maybe three years? It could be longer.

And since the first month he had not thought about his efela. It was as though he had left that part of himself, leaving Gorjo City.

His first impulse was to push the basket back down into the darkest corner of the wardrobe. Efela were accomplishments, as recognised in the Vangavaye-ve, and over the years your accomplishments added up into your identity.

Not when leaving Gorjo City, Cliopher realised. He had left that part of himself in Astandalas before the Fall. The last time he had seriously thought about acquiring a new efela had been… over a year before the Fall, when he was finally assigned to a supervisor who seemed to care about their work. He had not quite been ready on his last trip home, wanting to recognise the moment when their report was finally published, thinking also that he was beginning to make a friend. There would have been an efela, if the appointment and the friendship had both prospered, if he had finally felt settled in the Palace.

The report was long since buried and the potential friendship had cooled off, and Astandalas Fell. Since then… his work for Princess Indrogan, his promotion to fifth degree secretary, would have been cause for celebration. If he had cared to celebrate when the wall of storms lay across the Wide Sea, cutting him off from his family.

He had resigned, though, renounced his meagre success in the Palace. Then the long, painful journey home. No triumph there, just weary exhaustion, shipwreck, disaster.

He had come back to Solaara, renounced any possible future accomplishment at home. Back into this muddle, where he was drifting.

Lady Kuyulush was right. He knew what he wanted. He spent hours thinking about it. He wanted the government to be better, for everybody. The systems to be friendly, the support to be automatic, the powers to be humane.

Cliopher lifted the battered old basket gently, the cradle of dreams that were too small for this broken world. Tears started in his eyes. He blinked them away, mindful of the silk of his robes.

Lady Kuyulush was right to ask what he was doing drifting around the drawing rooms in her wake.

He could stay with her. She would tire of him in time, of course, but he did not think she would dismiss him. Not when the Imperial Service was paying his salary, and when she could tactically bring him along when she needed that extra weight from her position. He would have a great deal of free time. Enough to finish drafting his plans for the future of Zunidh, enough to write and compare all his thoughts with his friends from home, and then to slip away before the publication. Perhaps go looking for Basil, on Alinor. Hoping that his words changed the world in his absence.

He could ask Kuyulush to dismiss him, move sideways into another uncomfortable appointment. Drifting across the Imperial Service would bring novelty, a stream of problems to solve. If he stayed an anonymous fifth level secretary he could have some impact. The couriers - the pages - the communications agency - perhaps they were not perfect, but he had made them better. It would be satisfying to keep annoying Meriloe and perhaps there would be opportunities to undermine him. Though the Ouranatha might well sweep his work aside with the rest of the remnants of the Imperial Service, if they could dislodge Princess Indrogan.

He could… start caring again. Not just raging in his rooms or designing the perfect solution on paper, where all his fine planning was just beating the air. He could look for leverage, seek promotion, lay the groundwork for the future. Make it possible for those who came after him to go one step further, and their heirs to go further still. Take hold of his anger and channel it.

Hold the fire.

He was a Mdang, however little that meant here. He held the fire. He did not run from its burn.

The sound of the Palace bell brought Cliopher back to himself. He was standing with his basket of efela clutched close to his chest, the silk court robes of a fifth degree secretary in an untidy heap around his feet.

There was plenty of time. Lady Kuyulush took at least two hours to dress for court. He placed the basket neatly on the bed, wiped his eyes, and rescued the robes. As he shook them out and started dressing, Cliopher felt his mind slowly engaging with the problem. Every time he had been shipwrecked he had danced the fire, and the songs of his ancestors showed him the way. This… could be the same.

He had been thinking in terms of his vision, of where he wanted to get to. Knowing your destination was necessary, but every ke’ea had a start as well as a finish. He had learned, and learned again, the importance of knowing where to begin.

The last few years had taught him that. He began as a mid level official in the government of a world smashed down to its essentials. He began at a time of great uncertainty, where many different futures were possible. The Ouranatha had a theocratic future in mind. Princess Indrogan was attempting to rebuild past glories. The great nobles and their armies were jockeying for position, each attempting to dominate as much of Zunidh as they could. The Emperor was a mystery - although (Cliopher smiled at the thought, slipping the under layer of the robes over his head) he did not want his people to starve.

All of them were dreaming for themselves, with the possible exception of the Glorious One. None of them had a future to offer the people of Zunidh.

Cliopher settled his outer robes and donned the hat, which he privately thought very silly indeed. He fixed it in place with discreet pins, the way Kiri had once shown him, and regarded himself in the mirror. A plain, ordinary sort of face. A figure perhaps a little gaunt, hard-edged, tired. Robes that looked well enough here but would no doubt fade into insignificance in the Throne Room.

The purpose of government is to steward the resources of all for the benefit of all.

He raised his hand to his efela ko. He began with a dream that was for everybody.

The next question, of course, was how to get there from here. It was abundantly clear that the current government - corrupt, bloated, divided, ignored - was in no fit state to fix the world. The Ouranatha’s vision was inward-looking, pulling wealth and devotion to the centre. They must be stopped. If the nobles raised their banners and Zunidh descended into anarchy the bloodshed would continue for decades. Perhaps generations. Each would create their own governments, based on the principle of rule by force.

Princess Indrogan was reconstructing a functioning world government. She had restored order after the Fall and integrated Lady Jivane’s household into the remnants in the Palace, preventing the remaining generals from staging a coup. She had lost ground now that the Ouranatha had a living god to promote, and was struggling to control her own bureaucracy. Also, her vision was too small, too focused on the past. Zunidh did not need a new Astandalas. Zunidh could do better.

Cliopher could do better.

He reached Lady Kuyulush’s rooms afire with resolution. As he sat waiting for her to finish dressing it did not so much ebb away as curdle. He could do better, certainly, but how was he going to get the chance? The Minister of Offices was throttling the life out of the Service with his crony appointments and sinecures. Brilliant young people would not choose to work for a government that rewarded only wealth and connections. Those bright few who made it through the other route would, like Lord Leofric, waste time and energy reinventing the wheel because nobody had taught them humility.

Princess Indrogan could dismiss Meriloe at any time, but he would not go quietly. The row would split the Service, and probably the court as well. Given time, Cliopher was confident that the Princess would prevail, but she would not have time because the priest-wizards would take advantage of her distraction to peel away more and more of the core government remit. They would take on appointments - they had already tried, he remembered her cautious warning on his return to Solaara, the wry twist of her lips - and they would absorb the Ministries.

The first star of his ke’ea was to strengthen the Service and reach a position where he could weaken the Ouranatha. That meant he had to find work as a private secretary, not as an analyst or communications expert. He needed to shape decisions. He needed to be close to the decision-makers.

Lady Kuyulush arrived with a twirl, showing off her full court costume in grey and tawny orange. Cliopher stood, stepped forward to the correct distance, and bowed with the exact gradation of deference due from a client to a patron. She smiled, made a small hand gesture, and nodded as he slipped quietly to stand a pace behind her left shoulder.

“Perfect, cupcake,” she said, as they left the room. “Keep that baby face bland and we might both survive this experience.”

—

The Throne Room of the Palace of Stars was astonishing. Cliopher had seen it many times: carrying a message to an aide, passing through on his way to a meeting, standing in the back row of some formal ceremony.

Full of the lost and despairing, in the timeless strangeness following the Fall, the only knot of purpose in the confused crowd listening to Princess Indrogan.

He had never seen it alive with the great courtiers of the Last Emperor of Astandalas.

Dark corners, gleaming tiles, bright mage lights, and the swirl of astonishing colours. Shimmering fabrics in every shade, fluttering, draping, clinging to moving bodies of all sizes, shapes and colours. Every single one of them gliding gracefully through the steps of the formal dances in the centre of the room, or the informal dance of thrust and counter-thrust, gossip and glamour that spread between the pillars almost to the base of the dais below the Throne.

Almost. There was something about the impassive watchfulness of the guards, the glint of their spears, which demanded a certain amount of distance and respect.

Cliopher’s silk robes were dowdy here where ahalo cloth shone on the shoulders of the most powerful people in the land. His odd little conical hat had nothing on the great head-dresses of the courtiers, bedecked with jewels. After weeks of practice he found that he could, indeed, follow Lady Kuyulush at a steady respectable distance, holding himself ready to slip into a conversation at her signal.

He could feel his hackles rising. These people, these beautiful people, who were somehow also the inevitable powers of the world. How many of them had ever felt a moment’s concern about where their next meal was coming from, or spared a thought for the crafters whose long hours of labour fashioned their robes and their jewels? Then Lady Kuyulush turned her head, caught his eye, and he remembered her story. How much did he know about the lives behind these carefully made-up faces?

She led him assuredly down one side of the hall, exchanging brief greetings as they went. Cliopher felt some tension relaxing as she maintained correct, short encounters. He was confident that his presence was noted, but as long as Kuyulush did not introduce him he was free to follow her and soak in his surroundings.

There was a great deal to soak in. Or rather, there was one focus for the eye, and it was entrancing and endless. Every line, every shift in colour or tone, every aspect of decoration and ritual drew the eye to the Throne. The motions of the courtiers deferred in symbol and gesture towards the Lord of the Rising Stars, the shape of the pillars and the images depicted on every wall turned their faces to the Sun on Earth.

Cliopher, looking at the blaze of gold and glory, felt dazzled. The person of the Emperor was… a long way away, up there on the Throne. A dark figure wrapped in shining robes, remote and impersonal. His expression, as far as was visible, bland and benevolent.

It was difficult to reconcile that glorious idol with the person who had asked whether the people of Solaara had what they needed; whether his report was ready, his city fed.

The Islanders did not really do majesty, Cliopher thought. Then, a few moments later, he thought that they did majesty differently. In the Singing of the Waters the whole Islander community came together in performance, entering into the Lays of their ancestors. That was majesty shared, enacted, embodied. Here in Solaara the community looked to the Throne; in the Vangavaye-ve they looked to one another.

Their progress slowed as they reached the midpoint of the room. He was nearly caught out the first time Lady Kuyulush greeted a courtier with a full bow as an equal and ally, but just managed to sweep down after her into his proper subsidiary bow.

This section of the crowd was full of the Upper Secretariat, he realised. He recognised Lady Angusta, and the largest cluster of people orbited the slight, elegant figure of Princess Indrogan. Lord Meriloe would no doubt drop into this crowd at some point in the evening.

Lady Kuyulush kept to the outskirts and greeted several people he did not know in quick succession. “Minister!” Kuyulush trilled to one after another, “how are you?”

They replied noncommittally, politely, and a half-step behind each a secretary in burnt umber silk nodded correctly, if warily, to Cliopher. He felt strangely disconnected from his emotions and from the scene, as though he were watching from above as his most senior colleagues greeted Kuyulush with amusement or disdain.

He did not realise Kuyulush had a destination in mind until she reached it. In an alcove at the back of the crowd she bowed to a short, neat little man somewhat swallowed by his robes of office. “Irry!” she said, “how marvellous you look tonight.” She swept up out of the formal bow and took his arms in greeting, then stepped back and angled herself so that Cliopher was included in the conversation. “May I present my secretary, Cliopher Mdang?”

Cliopher swept down into the deep, respectful bow. Some part of him was distantly amused and rather thankful that she had chosen this dim corner to put him through his paces.

“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Lady Kuyulush stage whispered, “a fine specimen of an undersecretary. Fifth degree, as he will tell you, and also I believe one can deduce from the hat. Cliopher, cupcake, this is Lord Irridis, an utterly dreadful man who will try to talk to me about the balance of trade but has many redeeming qualities.”

Lord Irridis nodded with what Cliopher recognised as a generous degree of respect, and said, “always a pleasure to work with your office, Lady K,” in a surprisingly deep and resonant voice for his small frame. This was as much a joke as the rest of Kuyulush’s entire appointment, evidently, from the sardonic tone. She brushed it aside and took Irridis’s arm, gesturing to Cliopher to stay put.

Relieved, he stepped back slightly into the alcove and watched the pair of them promenade together towards the dance floor. Their strides matched, for all that Lady Kuyulush was nearly a head taller than Lord Irridis. In a moment they had plunged together into the dancing and, in a quick glimpse, before they were lost in the crowd, he saw that they knew one another and knew the steps well.

Left to his own devices Cliopher felt himself recovering a little from that dreamy, detached state. No aristocrat would lower themselves by speaking with him directly, nor would they risk giving him an order when he was obviously here in attendance, unless they were very sure they outranked the person he was attending. He was secure in his insignificance.

Every step, every conversation here was a negotiation of some kind. He watched as Lord Meriloe arrived in the Throne Room and became another centre for the crowd, collecting a knot of admirers almost as large as Princess Indrogan’s. Naturally enough, as Princess Indrogan navigated the ship but Meriloe picked the crew.

For a while he watched his secretarial colleagues, some hovering behind their Ministers, others drawn into deferential conversations, others waiting like him for their boss to return.

Attending evening court was one of the perks of private office work for many. In Astandalas those undersecretaries would mostly be aristocrats themselves, the sons and daughters of the powerful Ministers they shadowed, learning their trade. Since the Fall every effort was being made to maintain the illusion of changelessness, but the faces were different. Older, a lot of them. Fewer wearing the colours and bearing typical of the great families of Astandalas, more upstarts from Zunidh itself.

Eventually, of course, the whole effect of the room and the motion did its intended work and drew his eyes again up to the golden figure on the golden throne. The Last Emperor of Astandalas and Lord Magus of Zunidh. The Sun on Earth, the Glorious One, the Lord of the Rising Stars. Graceful, still, serene, looking out over the crowd of his courtiers from a distance the priest wizards proclaimed safe.

Cliopher had, of course, heard the stories. The taboos on the person of the Emperor were not mere ritual. To approach the Sun on Earth was to approach a fire that could burn through flesh and bone alike. If you survived a mistake, the Ouranatha might well execute you anyway to preserve - well, they would say the balance of magics, but he could see well enough that it preserved their own authority too.

At the centre of the light, at the centre of the majesty, the dark beautiful figure of a man. The Emperor was sitting with still serenity, separate from but enabling the entire courtly dance. It must be strange, sitting there with an invisible fifteen-ells barrier of silence and respect, watching all this susurration of silk and gossip from above. A small, treasonous voice at the back of his mind wondered if the Emperor was bored.

Cliopher was so lost in contemplation that he nearly missed Lady Kuyulush’s return. He managed not to jump and was only a breath or so late sweeping down into the proper greeting.

“And here he is! Isn’t that colour atrocious, Irry? You can’t do anything about it, can you?”

“I am a junior Trade Minister, my lady,” said Irridis, with a sort of weary tolerance, “my remit is financial reporting.”

Kuyulush waved this away, winked at Cliopher, and said, “what a shame. Poor cupcake here is only in my office because he pissed off old Merry quite spectacularly. I would love to help him out.”

Lord Irridis turned to Cliopher with greater interest, “really? What did he do?”

Cliopher bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself not to answer. They had not invited him to join the conversation. The conversation they were having about him. Right in front of him. He felt his face heat.

(Lady Kuyulush had been eloquent on the subject. “I can get away with bloody murder, darling, because the court expects it from louche Kuyulush. You are a cherub-cheeked official below their notice. Do not risk directly challenging their expectations, cupcake, it makes them dangerous.”)

Lady Kuyulush took Lord Irridis’s arm again, signalled to Cliopher to follow, and led them both towards the exit. “Oh, Cliopher was off doing something-or-other for the Dragon when they were handing out appointments and he missed the boat, or something like that, anyway Her High and Mightiness told Merry to find him a job but Merry’s been digging his heels in.”

Lord Irridis gave Cliopher another appraising look. “You were in Princess Indrogan’s private office?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Cliopher, hardly even needing Kuyulush’s emphatic little gesture behind Irridis’s back to get him to stop there. He had no idea what she was up to.

“Isn’t he marvellous?” she gushed, “apparently very good with numbers, or tables, or charts, or something like that. I’ve been teaching him how to make his bows, it is delicious wandering around with a fifth degree secretary to rub all those snooty noses in.”

They passed out of the Throne Room into the bright central corridors of the Palace. Lady Kuyulush led them into a side room where there were drinks and games of chance set out to refresh those aristocrats who had tired of Evening Court. Lord Irridis perked up at the sight of the card tables.

Cliopher, who was beginning to understand what the worm feels like on the hook, was not surprised when Irridis asked him a few searching questions about his career. He was surprised, a couple of hours later, when Kuyulush gave him a wicked smile and wagered his services on the last hand of cards. Which Irridis accepted, and won.

Cliopher returned to his room as dazed as if from an evening of heavy drinking. He could not, quite, believe that he had been wagered in a game of chance.

The next morning, however, her triumphant aide delivered his letter of release from Lady Kuyulush, his letter of appointment to the Ministry of Trade, and an unsigned handwritten note in sprawling purple ink that read “Go get them, cupcake.”

Chapter Text

His family started to write back.

The letters were intermittent and arrived somewhat at random. He could tell that he was only receiving a selection, that there were gaps in the sequence.

The first letter he received from his mother asked when he was coming home, but then so did every other letter from her and after the fourth he gave up trying to figure out which order they had been sent in. Eidora was a woman with a great deal of gossip to impart, much of it around Ghilly and pointed hints that she was not a woman to wait much longer.

Cliopher responded with the closest to good cheer he could manage, wishing Ghilly well and good health to all the cousins, telling little stories about his colleagues, describing the rapidly growing bustle of Solaara and passing on any safe anecdotes he could think about Palace life.

Toucan latched on to his hypotheticals about government. In honour of the old Empire Cliopher had written, where they used to turn every ancient trick or tradition into another thread in the tapestry of Astandalas - I have been wondering what we could weave out of the ways of our ancestors. Would they have so many different hats? Probably not, since Islander crews split tasks by need and skill and not by status.

Toucan was of the opinion that a government designed by Islanders would not wear a uniform at all, would be run by the matriarchs with an iron grip, and would probably only work part time so that everybody could get on with their fishing.

Cliopher could see flashes of insight in the light hearted exchange and very much wished that he could sit Toucan down with a drink and drill into the details with him, but mindful of the possibility of interception he could only return in kind.

For Bertie, Cliopher described the displays of Islander artefacts in the Museum of Comparative Anthropology in excoriating detail. He noted that the curator seemed open to new ideas, though he did not mention the kindness the man had shown when he found Cliopher weeping in front of the brightly lit glass cases.

To Vinyё he wrote about the music of the court, the artists he had seen performing and the style of their playing, and promised that he would come back and pick up his oboe as soon as he had leave. To the rest of his family he said much the same, save that he was more circumspect about the length of time it might take to save up enough leave to travel halfway around the world. He would need a sympathetic boss, too, someone prepared to give him the equivalent of an academic’s year-long sabbatical to make the trip.

To Basil he wrote that there were times when he just wanted to go out and get drunk. "I do not mean drinking alone, drowning my sorrows," he wrote, "but I wish you were here with your mead and your taste for wine and your head for drink, ready to accompany me through all the dives and greasy spoons of Solaara in search of a place where the Palace doesn't matter for a little while.”

By the time he was writing maudlin letters to Basil the evening was a lost cause. It would only lead to staring into the middle distance while the ink dried on his pen nib.

Cliopher sighed and was cleaning up his writing equipment slowly, thinking that he would clear his head with a walk in the gardens, when Saya Hassia knocked on the door.

“Uh, hello Sayo Mdang,” she said, awkwardly. “I’ve been meaning to come round and… well, see how you’re doing? With Lady Kuyulush, I mean? We haven’t seen you at lunch for a while.”

Cliopher stared at her for a second, taken aback. “Thank you,” he said, automatically switching on the court-face mild smile Kuyulush had made him practise. “I’m doing well.”

He did not feel up to explaining that Lady Kuyulush had passed him over to Lord Irridis in lieu of a gaming chip. The letters had come from the Administrative Office, but presumably somebody else at Meriloe’s end had handled the paperwork.

There was an awkward moment. “Er… I was worried. About Meriloe,” he said, aware that he was not being coherent.

“Oh! Uh, that was kind of you,” said Hassia, “I don’t think Merry knows my name, to be honest, but, yes, he can be…” she lowered her voice, “petty.”

The awkward tension had shifted. Cliopher felt an urge to break it by inviting her in, or to join him for a walk, or out for dinner, or - well, it didn’t matter what he wanted. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

“When’s the next lunch?” he asked instead, “I’ve completely lost my reckoning!”

The balance shifted, the evening’s possibilities closed down. Hassia recovered her poise and gave him a brief update on their friends. Cliopher smiled mildly and promised to join them next time.

After she left he lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling as though his heart was stretched thin and flat across every inch of the distance that separated Solaara from Gorjo City.

Chapter Text

“Come in, come in Sayo Mdang,” Lord Irridis called cheerfully through the open door, the moment Cliopher turned up in his outer office. His secretary, a plump and rather young man with an unfortunate rash of acne, took the letter of appointment with a shy smile and ushered Cliopher to go on through.

In daylight Lord Irridis was a short man whose general appearance was middling. Mid-brown skin, mid-grey hair in the Service crop, features midway between bland and bulbous without approaching handsome. He exuded sober respectability with an edge of fussiness and, all in all, did not seem much like the kind of person who might win a staff member in a game of chance.

The Ministry for Trade had once stretched a third of the way along the Ystharian Wing, its twin grand central offices located conveniently close to the apartments of state. The Lords and Ladies of five worlds vied to petition the Ministers for favourable treatment. The economic heft of every household listed in The First Thousand Families of Astandalas had some stake in the economic web of the Empire.

The Solaaran Ministry for Trade was a shadow of that former glory. Half of the rooms were shuttered and a few others had evidently been repurposed. Those that remained, though, were as grandly proportioned as ever. Lord Irridis had a study that rivalled Princess Indrogan’s for size, though it was considerably more cluttered.

Cliopher sat as invited, reflecting that he would never have been allowed this close to a Minister on his junior assignment to Trade. His old desk had been squeezed into a back corner of a long, crowded office that had long since been handed over to some other department.

“So,” said Irridis, leaning forward and actually rubbing his hands together. “You’ve been in Private Office?”

Cliopher took a slow breath before answering, mostly to quash his immediate temptation to ask whether Irridis always ran the job interview after the appointment. He felt, strongly, instinctively, undeniably, that this was unacceptable. He reminded himself that appointment via the Master of Offices was also utterly irregular under the current circumstances, and moreover that Lady Kuyulush had lost consequence to help him out, and managed to give a tolerably complete overview of his work in Solaara.

Lord Irridis nodded along, almost as joyful as Cliopher had been to get hold of a statistical modeller. “Excellent, excellent,” he said, “information analysis and interpretation, eh? And you’ve handled sensitive documents before. Sayo Madon, I have been trying to get hold of a fifth degree secretary with a numerate background for years.”

“It’s Mdang,” said Cliopher, respectfully but firmly.

“Oh! I do apologise. Sayo Mdong. No, Mdang, Mdang. Thank you. So, Lord Meriloe has found it exceedingly difficult to locate a suitable candidate and I am delighted that we met.” Lord Irridis lowered his voice just a little, glanced around conspiratorially, and went on, “you see, our financial reporting has not been as - as robust as I would have liked, not since the Fall. So many records were lost, and the whole system of reports and audits just collapsed… and at first it was naturally not the most important thing on anybody’s mind. But surely now we can do better?”

Cliopher found that he was leaning forward too. “The accounting cycle? Are the Treasury involved?”

“I was approached by the Treasury’s financial reporting team four years ago,” said Irridis, “they are… struggling to get traction, too.”

“How unfortunate that you have struggled to find the staff,” said Cliopher.

Their eyes met. Irridis gave Cliopher a wry smile. “I can siphon off junior staff members from other projects but, as I am sure you know, senior skilled and experienced analysts are much in demand.”

Cliopher smiled back, “you know, I was thinking of training as an accountant, before I joined the Service,” he said.

—-

Cliopher’s first meeting with the lead of the Treasury financial reporting team was an emotional one. Domina Badgestock (“it’s pronounced Baddock”) was almost overcome just to find somebody else who cared. She was a tall, older woman, evidently not of Shaian descent. Her thick blonde hair was liberally frosted into natural greyish-white, neat dark make-up emphasised sharp grey eyes, and she wore the extra bands on her hat that marked her as a Scholar from Alinor, though Cliopher did not know enough to tell which School they pertained to.

The Domina had, apparently, been a professor of accounting, visiting Astandalas to study the theory of Imperial finance. The annual budget and accounting cycle had been one of the admirable regularities of the Empire of Astandalas, well worth the journey.

The five worlds were won with blood and bound together with magic. As the armies advanced, Schooled Magic followed in various guises: wizardly engineers who laid the stones and built the great Gates on the highways between the worlds; priest-wizards who studied local faiths and set up shrines to the Emperors in the local style; weather-workers to shape the seasons, applying the bound magic to create plenty; and astrologers who helped align the calendars so that recordkeeping stayed consistent for trade, tax, and government. Time itself was subservient to Imperial power.

All these magical bindings had ripped apart in the Fall. The Gates no longer tied highways together, so that the greatest roads on Zunidh now ended abruptly in barren wilderness. The worship of the Last Emperor was metastasizing, rising from a state-sanctioned piety to a full blown messianic world religion. The seasons were out of joint, harvests failing and trade cut back to a trickle as each corner of the world hugged its essential resources tight. And time was - broken, shattered, unreliable.

Following the Fall the armies of Astandalas were scattered, its postal system (to Cliopher’s great regret) in tatters, its people starving. In Solaara the Palace bells still rang the hours, and the days and months followed one another with the smooth regularity that had once been the standard across five worlds. Disorder pressed close; the mists of the Solamen Fens drifted almost to the city gates and their monster-haunted depths were as mysterious as any Borderwood of old.

As the couriers rode out from the Palace and connected the far-flung parts of Zunidh the distortions were more easily mapped, the zones of deep or shallow time shrinking back. Cliopher had seen this process begin from his desk in Princess Indrogan’s office, but she was concerned mostly with public order and had been uninterested in restoring a reliable post or in reconstituting the financial reporting cycle.

Domina Badgestock plunged into describing the disintegration of accounting practices with the air of a woman who has found the only way to get a hearing is to talk as fast as possible.

“The government used to publish guidance, every year, and then each department and agency had to give an accounting of their expenditure against their budget to the office of the Glorious One, and all those financial reports were sent to the Archives and made available to the Lords and Ladies Magi,” she explained, then gulped in a couple of breaths. “There was a balance of accountability between the worlds, you see, they could each call one another out or challenge something the central government was doing.” A couple more breaths, a slight wheeze. “Since the Fall we keep publishing the guidance and sometimes the Ministries share their reports with us, in confidence, but it’s patchy.”

“And your audits?” Cliopher asked.

“Nobody gives us access!” Domina Badgestock thumped the desk. “Princess Indrogan makes sure we get to see the budgets, and on her authority we release the funds in the name of the Sun-on-Earth.” She broke off again, breathless. Cliopher abruptly realised that her haste was in part because she was trying to get the words around some damage to her lungs. He forced himself not to interject, to wait for her to continue.

“The other Ministers pushed back hard when she tried to get them to restore the accountability reporting,” she went on, slowing down slightly at this evidence that he would listen. “Said it was too soon after the disaster, too much hassle for their overstretched teams… and she let them get away with it, too. We didn’t have a Treasury Minister at the time, and then there was the merger with Lady Jivane’s old finance office, and then Princess Indrogan appointed Sayu Loveless who is brilliant but none of the old aristocrats will listen to them.”

Domina Badgestock had spent over a decade attempting to rebuild the accountability cycle, frustrated at every turn. She had found some allies - in the tax authorities, across the Treasury - people who worked together to map out the new economic realities of Zunidh. Cliopher was familiar with their work as it reported up to decision-makers. He had never known that there was this other battle raging on, just below the surface. He wondered how far Princess Indrogan was following it.

“Oh, the Dragon was on our side once,” said Domina Badgestock, “when the Last Emperor was sleeping, and her authority was in the name of Lady Jivane. It was Jivane who didn’t have the guts to push for audits. They used to argue, and sometimes the Princess would get her way. But things changed once the Glorious One became Lord of Zunidh. He signs off all the budgets, of course, but he has never asked for financial reports, let alone audits.”

Cliopher reflected briefly on the current balance of power. Perhaps the Ouranatha and Princess Indrogan could be regarded as competing poles of authority who would hold one another accountable before the Lord of Zunidh, but he very much doubted that either would want to cede that much status to their rival power bases. Both would prefer to ease the Last Emperor into consolidating all of his authority through their offices without presenting him with a moment of choice that could go either way.

Lord Irridis and Domina Badgestock had a plan that depended on mobilising a third power: the aristocracy.

“Trade’s a small affair these days,” Domina Badgestock said, “but it matters to the nobles. So do taxes, now that they’re collecting on behalf of the Zuni government. They want to know that the money’s being spent well, and that the Ministry’s working in their interests. Lord Irridis volunteered to run a trial round of our new financial reporting system, to produce proper accounts against his budgets, and to publish them in the open-access halls of the Archives. He’s a second son, the Irridis lands were lost on Ysthar, but he’s got contacts all across Court. If anyone can get a request for an audit up in front of the Glorious One, it’s him.”

“Will he go through with it?” Cliopher couldn’t help but ask, struck by the thought that any of the old Ystharian nobles might call in Emperor-level favours to get their own department audited.

Domina Badgestock shrugged, her face shining with the effort of speech. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she said, and wheezed a laugh “it’s the best chance we’ve had yet. Fancy giving us a hand?”

All the careful training Kuyulush had given Cliopher on guarding his face went out the window. “Oh, yes, please,” he breathed.

—

It was... nice, there was no other word for it. Lord Irridis found Cliopher a dozen clerks and junior staffers. They were all very young, but several showed real promise. Domina Badgestock introduced some of her team, too, and in Scholar mode walked the youngsters through the fundamentals of double entry bookkeeping and the categories of funding pertaining to government entities.

Cliopher made a point of visiting the Treasury so that Domina Badgestock did not have to trek up the stairs and out along the wing to the Trade offices. After a month or so he managed to persuade her to join him in the canteen and share her story. She had been a professor of accounting at the University of Tara on Alinor, perhaps the greatest School on that world and one of the best-regarded across the Empire. In the year of the Fall she had been visiting scholar in Astandalas, and on Silverturn night had trekked up to the Archives to check a reference.

“I had a - speech to give at the Institute of Accounting - the next morning,” she explained, “and I had been entrusted a key… so I thought I’d slip in and check the records. The Archives were so quiet, it being Silverturn. Then there was that godawful moment and all the lights went out. I had nearly finished… I was so annoyed, wanted to get out to the parties. I just flicked on a magelight and kept reading.” She sighed. “I should have known better. I am mage-trained. There was something wrong with the air… I don’t know, it was noxious. I passed out. One of the search parties eventually spotted my magelight guttering out. I was in hospital for months.”

“I was in my room,” Cliopher said, quietly, “feeling sorry for myself - I hadn’t been invited to a party, you see. And then… it happened. And when things were… solid again, if that makes sense… I went looking to see what had happened. How I could help.”

“Yes,” she nodded, as much as what he had left out as what he had said. The shared weight of memory spread between them.

They ate the rest of the meal in a comfortable silence.

“This may be heresy,” she said as they finished, as if continuing a conversation, “but I am not convinced that either Princess Indrogan or the Lord Emperor really grasp the difference between administrative and capital expenditure.”

—

Under Domina Badgestock’s scholarly influence the younger team members organised themselves into an Accountability Study Group and started reading their way through papers she recommended. Cliopher started dropping in every now and again to encourage them.

At the end of one long and hearty argument about the respective responsibilities of those who prepared, audited, and used financial reports, Cliopher blurted out his theory on the purpose of government.

“To steward the resources of all for the benefit of all?” Domina Badgestock repeated, thoughtfully, “not bad. But that would imply that our financial reports are for everyone.”

“Well, they should be!” said one of the study group members, hotly.

Cliopher and Domina Badgestock grinned at one another in sudden, shared exhilaration.

—

Within the year the Treasury published a slim volume on The Principles of Financial Reporting. Cliopher knew that none of the Ministers read it, apart from Lord Irridis, as a courtesy, but he felt a hum of satisfaction every time he thought of it.

It took another six months to finish the first round of financial reporting across a whole budget cycle in the Ministry for Trade. The process had at times been painful, and it rankled that he had had to compromise to the extent of keeping staff costs relating to the Upper Secretariat out of scope. Nevertheless it was a solid report, the Treasury were delighted, and he had the pleasure of personally carrying his work to the nearest pages’ office to submit it through the golden in-tray for the attention of the Lord of the Rising Stars.

It was nice. He was making the world a better place. This was the kind of role he had despaired of ever achieving, back in Astandalas.

Cliopher could not escape a niggling sense of unease. This was useful and enjoyable work, but…

They were entirely dependent on the Sun-on-Earth for the power to hold anybody to account. They were manoeuvring through the goodwill of Lord Irridis for even the slight chance of an audit. They were bound to defer to the Ouranatha, to the vanity appointments in the Upper Secretariat, to the political expediency of Princess Indrogan.

Lady Kuyulush had asked him what the hell he was doing following her around, when he wanted to fix the government.

Trade was a good place to express his principles, but not a place where he could reach across government to implement them, let alone enforce them against the priest-wizards.

If he was going to shape the powers, he needed to become a power. Or sit alongside one. In the lore of his people the tanà who held the fire of a community was not a chief, nor a paramount chief, but when the tanà spoke the chief listened.

Cliopher had been studying with the tanà, before he entered the Imperial Service. The wisdom of his people had carried him through so many difficult situations, from the aftermath of the Fall to the strange turns of his recent career. So many times he had thought of his Uncle Lazo, of his Buru Tovo, and everything he had learned from them and from the Lays.

Surely somewhere here in this gold, black and white cliff face of a building there had to be a chief with both enough power to change things and a willingness to listen to Cliopher?

At times on his long journey across the Wide Sea Cliopher had come upon an island with everything he needed at hand. Somewhere his skills found their function, his body found rest, food, relief from the constant threat of typhoons. There were times when he had no further thought of travelling on, when exhaustion or the dream-like distance of solitude wrapped him closely and his mind and heart were filled with the small, simple tasks of living.

There was a kind of peace to be had in setting aside your destination, but it was not a lasting peace. Sooner or later he would build the fire, rake out the embers, and dance and dance until the knowledge in the movements told him again where he was and where he needed to go.

A storm was brewing in the Palace, and he did not know if his little vaha could survive being caught in the open. Even if it did, how could he justify taking the risk, when there was useful work here and perhaps no harbour waiting for him on the other side?

(And had he not had that thought, again and again, sailing home after the Fall when no word had come back from the Vangavaye-ve?)

The only way to find out whether he could win his way through these treacherous waters was to set sail again.

Chapter Text

Cliopher stopped at the bottom of the long pagoda that stretched up the steep hill to the Palace gates and hesitated. The directions to Saya Mapa’s retirement party seemed straightforward but the streets of Solaara at night were unfamiliar.

There were street lights, but these were spaced out so that each illuminated a separate circle of cobble and brick. In between the lights some eateries flooded passers-by with welcoming brightness from open doors and windows, but there were also disquietingly deep patches of inky black shadow.

He knew the way to the street market where they sometimes slipped out for lunch, but beyond that he had not come down through town for months, and Solaara changed fast. In the darkness he could see the sprawl of lights stretching to the river and then beyond, where he was sure he only remembered fields.

It took him longer than it should have to find the venue, a small Amboloyan-style restaurant with an unexpectedly large back room currently full of pages and a scattering of other colleagues from the Service.

Saya Mapa, for once, was sitting with her feet up and letting other people pour her drinks. “It’s Sayo Mdang!” she cried, on seeing him, and to Cliopher’s embarrassment there was a general cheer.

“Look, he’s blushing,” said somebody, and then Kiri pushed a drink into his hand.

“Where have you been hiding?” she said, “we’ve not seen you for - oh, weeks. Not been gambled away to another Ministry, have you?”

“Some of us spend our days at work, Saya Kalikiri,” he said, mock-sternly.

“He’s been busy moving rooms,” said Saya Hassia.

Kiri pretended to swoon, to general amusement. “Someone persuaded Sayo Mdang to move out of guest quarters?”

“My last, greatest contribution to the Imperial Service,” said Saya Mapa, lifting her glass and grinning. “He’s right out the end of the Alinorel wing, but he’s got natural light. Not that he knows what that is, eh? Somebody works round the bells. They’ve had to add extra years to the years, just to give him time to finish his homework.”

Cliopher took a sip of his drink, feeling his face burn and not trusting himself to speak.

“I hear that he went to Court,” said Saya Hassia.

“That can’t be true,” said Kiri, nudging him, “I’ve not heard a single suggestion for reorganising the aristos for better value for money.”

“I can write you a report, if you like?” he offered, smiling at their laughter.

(He had, of course, written the report. It was stowed safely at the bottom of his bag, tucked under his writing kit and labelled Notes: Late Astandalan Financial Reporting Conventions.)

Kiri looked at him with a slightly too knowing expression, then took pity and changed the subject. “I hear the Glorious One dismissed another secretary?”

“Oh, again? Wasn’t the last one just last week?”

The pages, even more than the rest of the Service, thrived on gossip. Several leaned in.

“I heard the poor chap only lasted three weeks, this time,” said Sayo Dirzha, Saya Mapa’s nominated successor, in hushed tones.

“The Glorious One is very particular, apparently,” said another, “this is what - the third, the fourth?”

“Can you imagine taking notes for the actual Sun on Earth?” said Saya Mapa, and shuddered dramatically.

Cliopher slipped his drink and tried not to look wistful. He had once upon a time harboured a dream of working personally for the Glorious One. He had almost forgotten… not the dream, so much as how naive he had been. All that long trip out to Astandalas, expecting to see the Emperor, to compare him to Aurelius Magnus, to find out if he was worthy.

The realities of life in the Service had soon disabused him of the notion that a nobody from the Islands could just turn up and offer his services to the Lord of the Rising Stars. This was not the age of legends, when Elonoa'a could meet an Emperor as an equal. The Imperial Personage was wound about with protections from the Taboos to the guards to the deadly aristocrats circling the Throne, to the weight of custom and procedure that measured out his days.

Of course that was probably a mercy. If Cliopher had ever spoken to the Glorious One the way he had spoken to Meriloe, or Leofric… well, even in Solaara the executioners were sometimes called upon to uphold the dignity of the Palace.

(And yet the dream would not entirely die, despite its improbability, despite everything. A little voice at the back of his mind whispered the Emperor certainly has the power to counter the Ouranatha.)

Chapter Text

The Master of Offices dressed his study to match his robes. Or possibly the other way round.

Cliopher centred his weight as Lady Kuyulush had taught him, breathing deep and slow. It was the high dry season. Even in this grand room near the centre of the Palace, the air carried a faint sweet flavour of brittle vegetation and the exposed, cracked mud of the riverbank and Fens.

Shafts of morning light glinted from tiny rubies as Lord Meriloe leaned back in a padded chair that was if anything a richer, darker red than the jewels. His supercilious sneer was textbook. Cliopher reminded himself that he was not here as a half-despairing, half-desolate aspirant, nor as a petulant troublemaker to lash out at this one petty man. He had found his ke’ea; he knew the next star that was his direction; he knew the currents that he would run into in this interview.

They contemplated one another.

Meriloe’s smooth features twisted in a slight scowl, the delicate disgust as much a mask as the smooth-shaven head, the glittering robes, the expanse of gleaming desk. Between them, on the desk, a sheaf of papers loosely bound. The title written in Cliopher’s preferred hand for unmistakable legibility (he did not follow the current Imperial fashion for twisted, decorative lettering, which deterred the casual reader while allowing the subtle the space for deliberate misunderstanding).

Cliopher did not allow himself to relax into the silence, nor to be tempted to break it. His steady breathing helped temper the thrumming tempo of his pulse, the cold line of tension down his spine. He did not relish being here, in front of this sleek noble, with a purpose that could be denied.

All the ceilings in the Palace were tall, all the stonework and tiles were white and gold and black. The effect varied from grand to magnificent but tended towards cold, particularly here in Solaara where few lit real fires in the wide grates. Like most of those who had authority to redecorate, Lord Meriloe had chosen to soften his rooms with fabric. The pale silk hangings were worked with intricate red thread, embossed and embroidered in sinuous unfamiliar designs. From the rest of Lord Meriloe’s personal presentation it was easy to deduce that these were the symbols of a great Astandalan house, or perhaps an aspiring Solaaran one.

There were reference books aplenty on the nobility of the Empire, breathlessly recorded annuals showing the rise and fall of each claimant under each banner in the deadly waltz of the Astandalan Court. Cliopher could have looked up Meriloe to see whether he ranked, if he had been inclined to care.

“My dear Sayo Madon,” said Meriloe, at last. “What a delight to see you in my office again. I have been following your career with interest since we met, oh, two and a half years ago. An astonishing trajectory.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Cliopher, holding himself as gracefully as possible through a painfully correct bow of gratitude.

He was stiff and self-conscious but at least these days he knew enough to choose his level of respect. It was no doubt too much to expect the motions of the Palace to come gracefully.

Lord Meriloe frowned a little more naturally at this sign that Cliopher did not intend to give him any outright excuse to dismiss his self or his report. The brief bitter expression smoothed away almost at once, but Cliopher was fully engrossed in the moment now and missing none of the tells.

“Five appointments in thirty months! It must be a record.”

There was another brief pause, then Lord Meriloe stretched, as if casually, and leaned forward over his desk. Cliopher could almost taste the shift in his thinking, as the Master of Offices decided to go on the attack.

“I was hardly astonished when my clerks told me that you were asking for a meeting, I must confess. You have been in Trade for just over a year, and we all know you have no staying power. As a friend, Sayo Madon, may I counsel you to consider how your dilettantism appears on your record?”

Cliopher bowed again. “I will take your kind words under advisement, my lord,” he said, “but as you know, I requested this meeting to discuss the findings of my report.”

Lord Meriloe’s control was impressive. He did not even flicker an eye down towards the document on the table. He would, naturally, be hoping to dismiss Cliopher without having to acknowledge its existence. “Also as a friend,” he said, a new edge of sternness in his voice, “I must tell you that you have distracted me from the essential work of this Office with your foolishness. I have been working through the much-delayed appointments to the Department of Internal Security, a branch of the Service sadly neglected since the Fall.”

Cliopher inclined his head without apology but with a show of respect for the other man’s time. Meriloe stifled a reaction that Cliopher thought might have been a snort of surprise. This was definitely not how the Master of Offices expected this conversation to go.

“The Palace Guards have of course taken on many of the responsibilities of the Interior Minister, in their capacity as defenders of the Imperial Personage, and the Commander does an adequate job of providing intelligence and direct support.”

Lord Meriloe’s disdain was, Cliopher judged, genuine.

“The guards,” he went on, “as splendid as they are, are hardly experts in the subtler arts of correction and discipline. The position of Head Censor has not been filled since the Fall; the Sun on Earth has given no instruction to reinstate the office of interpersonal investigation.”

Cliopher had once worked in an inadequately soundproofed room between the censors and the euphemistically named office of interpersonal investigation, and he still suffered occasional nightmares. He kept his breathing steady, his expression open and polite, and hoped the slight shiver down his spine was not apparent. Lord Meriloe must have seen something, though, because he smiled just slightly too sharply.

“Fortunately,” he continued, “the Ouranatha have volunteered to help out. My office has partnered with the priest-wizards to establish an entirely new correctional facility in the Collian Wing, dedicated to re-establishing the… decorum that has slipped sadly across the Palace in these degenerate times.”

Cliopher could not help himself rising to that threat as to a challenge; he brought up his head to look Lord Meriloe directly in the eye, careless of the correct deference.

A belated welter of considerations ran through his mind as the Master of Office’s brown eyes widened in outrage. Lady Kuyulush would rap him with her fan and tell him not to run counter to people’s expectations.

A bottom-feeding pretender to nobility like Meriloe was not subject to the full reverent customs that surrounded the great ones of the court. Even he would be technically in his rights, in Astandalas, to exact a punishment from a commoner who arrogantly met his gaze, but it would have to be unofficial. Doing so formally would leave himself exposed to ridicule, loss of status, or more dangerous accusations of presumption. The magical bindings of the great taboos were, after all, the exclusive honour of the Imperial Family.

This was not, after all, Astandalas, and standards in Solaara were different. And Meriloe did not have guards of his own.

Cliopher could not have physically prevented himself from taking the risk, anyway. It was an instinctive response.

“The Ouranatha,” Lord Meriloe said, almost dreamily, “are great students of the art of correction. And of course their aetherial manipulations enable them to deploy the finest gradation of interpersonal pressure with the minimum expenditure of effort. They are, indeed, most efficient.”

Cliopher reminded himself that he was here with a purpose, and that he needed to manoeuvre Lord Meriloe’s response precisely. He forced himself to look down first, as if in submission. He focused his gaze on his report.

Lord Meriloe’s crackle of satisfaction was almost audible. He, too, looked down at his desk, and with a flourish he added, “my office is a crucial directing power in the battle to restore Astandalas and you - you! - have the gall to compose this - this ridiculous report!”

…and there was the opening. Half the secret of long-distance sailing was knowing when, precisely, to lay a hand on the tiller. Cliopher kept both his fear and his triumph out of his voice and seized the moment.

“My lord, I have reviewed the appointments made by this Office over the past twenty years, and the resulting shape of the Imperial Service. In your admirable efficiency you have increased the ranks of the Upper Secretariat by a full twenty-four percent, but I am distressed to inform you that many of those appointees are drawing their salaries without attending their appointed offices. You have maintained control of the appointments in core departments, even down to the entry level secretaries, but due to your wise focus on matters of concern to the Sun on Earth you have not found time to fill more than a third of these humble posts.”

Cliopher smiled at the desk, and kept his tone cheerful, but in the back of his mind he imagined his little vaha skewing round, facing into the darkness to ride out the storm.

“In your zeal no doubt you have overlooked the details of the budget, but I regret to say that the lack of financial reporting from the Administrative Office may sadly have laid temptation in the paths of some members of staff who do not share your iron integrity, my lord, as some of the records that are available to the Treasury suggest significant irregularities may have taken place.”

There was a deadly silence, which Meriloe broke with a hiss of rage.

“Sayo Madon,” he said “I have tolerated your insolence and sought to protect you from your own worst habits, but I will not endure this - this outrage, these fabrications. You will withdraw this report, sir, and you will not be admitted to my office again.”

“Lord Meriloe,” Cliopher replied, evenly, “this report cites its sources and evidences every claim. As you may be aware, the Glorious One has recently ordered an audit of the Department of Trade. Fortunately our financial records are complete and our activities fulfil the remit of the department. On reflection, however, I considered that my excellent colleagues elsewhere in government might not have anticipated a revival of the Astandalan practice of audits, and that it behoves me, as a man interested in furthering the good of the Imperial Service, to consider where early action might prevent embarrassment. I am here, my lord, as a courtesy, to discuss these findings that I shared with your office when I sent up my report. If you wish it, naturally I will withdraw my report and return to Trade.”

Lord Meriloe grimaced with what Cliopher took to be an entirely genuine reflex of constipated rage, and as he mastered his expression Cliopher judged the moment to add, reflectively, “of course, it is too late to withdraw the copy of the report that I directed to Princess Indrogan’s office this morning, but I may be able to ask a friend there to hold onto it, as a favour, if you would like to talk me through any grounds for amendment before it goes up.”

The silence this time was dumbfounded.

It was broken by the Master of Office’s appointments secretary, who peered round the door no doubt to see whether Meriloe was ready for his next aspirant, and was sent on his way with a headshake and a savage gesture of dismissal.

“Sayo Madon, what do you want?”

Cliopher smiled, suddenly confident (though his heart was still in his throat). “I want to fix the government,” he said, cheerfully. “Isn’t that what everybody wants?”

He was so far out on a limb that the trunk of the tree had vanished in the distance.

He had no instructions from Princess Indrogan.

Lord Irridis was definitely sympathetic but when Cliopher had started to explain his plan he had actually winced and said “for Emperor’s sake don’t tell me the details!”

Sayu Loveless at the Treasury had actually reviewed the report, but had chosen not to add their name, and had asked Cliopher half-jokingly whether he had any preferences for his funerary arrangements. At least, it had presumably been a joke.

Meriloe was cornered and spluttering. Time to offer him a way out. “My lord, I would of course be happy to spend some time on further investigations, and to develop a plan for reform before my report goes up to Princess Indrogan.”

He watched Meriloe swallow his frustration again and consider the options. Now that the report was actually with Princess Indrogan’s Private Office there was little he could do to prevent the Princess seeing it, unless Cliopher called it back. Removing Cliopher without first having the report withdrawn would only ensure that she paid close attention to its contents.

As Meriloe hesitated, Cliopher had enough time to think through the implications of a more open alliance between the Master of Offices and the Ouranatha, and all the ways that the priest-wizards could undo his careful positioning.

What if they persuaded the Glorious One to audit elsewhere first? What if they volunteered to undertake the audit on the Sun on Earth’s behalf? Belatedly he wondered whether Princess Indrogan had avoided reinstating the audits to deny the Ouranatha the opportunity to exert them as a tool of control in the name of the Last Emperor. The Master of Offices was too absorbed to notice his shudder, and his mind must have been working in a different direction.

“My dear Sayo Madon,” he said, eventually, “as it happens, I have a recent vacancy in my office at the fifth degree. I would be delighted to offer you the post while you carry out further researches into the efficiencies of the Administrative Office, and to agree plans for reform in your full report.”

“What unexpected good fortune, my lord,” said Cliopher, gravely. He bowed for the umpteenth time, while his heart turned over again in joy that this had actually worked. “I will recover the incomplete version from Princess Indrogan’s office this afternoon, and look forward to working with you.”

Lord Meriloe’s beneficent smile only partially concealed his relief. He even stood up to dismiss Cliopher, ushering him in person over to the side door and startling Saya Hassia from her duties in the outer room.

“Sayo Madon will be assigned here for the foreseeable,” he announced, “please find him a desk close to the office. This one will do,” he slapped her desk and retreated, leaving an astonished silence.

The bustle of the office started up again, a little louder than usual as if in reaction. Cliopher felt his court face crack at the expression on Saya Hassia’s face.

“Please don’t give me your desk,” he said, “I can work anywhere.”

“Cliopher Sayo Mdang, what are you doing?” she nearly growled at him.

“Reforming the government,” he said, lightly, belying the giddy relief that was rising in reaction. He pictured his little vaha, his Tui-tanata, plunging through waves, the prows sometimes submerged but always rising, rising again. He was committed now.

—

Cliopher had made three copies of his report. Lord Meriloe had, he realised, kept the one delivered to his office. His anger suggested that he had at least read the executive summary, which was probably enough.

Kiri had a second copy. Cliopher asked her to keep it to one side unless anything happened to him. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” was all she said, but he trusted her.

The third full copy was in his room, on his desk. Or at least it had been.

“Now there’s a mess,” said Kiri appreciatively, looking over his shoulder.

Every drawer and cupboard was open. His clothing was untouched, but notebooks and papers were scattered across the room, intermixed with inkstones and scribal sand and loose pen nibs and other tools of his trade.

“Oh dear,” he started, then saw his basket of efela knocked over, the contents scattered, and crossed the room in the blink of an eye on a tide of rage and fear.

He recovered his poise only after he had righted the basket, collected its contents, counted and checked that each one was there, and overcome the heartstopping wrench of loss enough to realise that the one missing efela had rolled under the bed.

Suddenly aware of how much of his heart had been revealed, Cliopher looked over a Kiri. She made a sympathetic face and put her finger on her lips; after brief bewilderment he recognised a roseate glow in her hand as one of the magical artefacts of the Private Office, a device to detect objects enchanted to record or transmit sound.

Cliopher tucked the basket of efela back on a shelf with trembling hands and made a mental note to find a sturdy chest or something to store them in. Kiri completed her circuit of the room, made a small satisfied ‘hah!’ and lifted something up to show him. He looked at it curiously, a dull round pebble that had no special properties he could make out, but that revealed a shimmering red halo in the light of Kiri’s device.

Holding the pebble away from her body, Kiri left the room in silence. By the time she returned Cliopher had sorted most of the papers.

“I was right to come back with you,” she said, pointedly, “what did they take?”

“Just the report, I think,” said Cliopher. “I have all the real notes in my bag,” he held up his writer’s kit, which never left his side.

Perhaps his smile gave some clue that his bag also contained all of his most treacherous musings on the future of Zunidh.

Kiri eyed it suspiciously. “I… see. Don’t lose it, will you? I don’t want to be the one writing to your family with the news.”

Chapter Text

The morning after his room was ransacked, Cliopher found a pair of junior pages hanging around in the corridor outside. When he asked if they needed help, they asked for directions to the Administrative Office. It was, naturally, easier to show them the way, since that was where he was going himself.

When all three of them turned up together Saya Hassia sent the pages off to requisition another desk and settled Cliopher into a corner beside the filing cabinets.

“Saya Kalikiri told me about your room,” she said, quietly. “Let’s get your back to a corner.”

He thanked her, sat down, and hesitated. He had not really expected to get this far. For a minute or so he stared blankly at the blank sheet in front of him, before remembering that he did have a plan of attack.

His report was largely complete, of course, but this access would allow him to check all the findings, dredge up additional evidence, and agree it with senior members of the department. He took a deep breath, pulled out a directory of staff, and began drafting notes requesting meetings with the people whose roles would allow them to credibly challenge his conclusions.

Five minutes later the two pages reappeared by his desk. Cliopher was aware of them watching as he finished writing a sentence, cleaned his pen nib, and set the last sheet of notes aside.

“Can I help you?” he asked them for the second time that morning. They looked at one another.

“The Head Page said we should stick to you like glue today, sir,” said the shorter one.

“Until further notice, sir,” said the thin one, their adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

Both touched and amused, Cliopher glanced over at Saya Hassia. She shrugged, and suggested. “Saya Kalikiri again?”

“Saya Kalikiri has an overactive imagination,” he muttered, looking the pair of youngsters up and down.

They wore their matching robes of service in dull yellowish brown. One was tall and skinny and looked impossibly young and the other was shorter, rounder, much darker, and at least looked as though she was old enough to leave home.

They both wore the short-cropped hair that the Palace insisted on, though, and identical sheepish expressions.

“Very well,” he said, “have you experience with scribal shorthand?”

A short round of questioning elicited names (Saya Ao, Sayo Bezzin) and the shyly-revealed insight that both of them were practising taking dictation and considering taking the Imperial Service exams.

It was encouraging to see this evidence that the Pages Hall was in somewhat better order, and it would, after all, be useful to have backup.

—

Ao and Bezzin insisted on accompanying Cliopher back to his rooms that evening. He did his best to give in gratefully, recognising that his colleagues were concerned for his welfare.

He was not at all sure that they wanted to leave him there, but they did retreat when he promised that he would stay put for the rest of the evening. He sighed, after the door closed, conscious of how much he would prefer to be walking out his thoughts in the Palace gardens.

It was long after the last bell of the working day and evening had already fallen. A faint breath of air stirred through his windows as the city of Solaara exhaled the heat of the day; it was fragrant with the incense-smells of the dry gardens below.

His new room was far larger than the guest quarters he had accepted before, and his desk was positioned in front of the window. Although he was only two floors up, the great volcanic plug raised the whole Palace up above Solaara so that he could see the glitter of the city spread before him whenever he looked up.

Cliopher did not, himself, feel any strong anxiety about being waylaid in the Palace, at least not yet. The Master of Offices knew that Princess Indrogan’s office had his draft report. He would not want to be detected in anything so crude as an attack when she had the ammunition to respond so close at hand.

The time to worry would be the moment when Lord Meriloe concluded that he was going to lose more by allowing Cliopher to drive through his reforms than he would by taking drastic action.

Even then, Cliopher was ready to bet that his preferred approach would be political, not physical. Meriloe was many things but he was not, actually, a senior noble. The lever of power that he would find closest to hand was that he was now once again Cliopher’s direct boss.

Cliopher had talked his way out of a number of dangerous situations, on his long journey home. He had structured his approach to limit the risk of confrontation before he was ready.

As for the end game - well, Cliopher’s best case scenario would be to kick up a stink large enough that Princess Indrogan was justified in removing Lord Meriloe outright, with a publicly acknowledged recommendation (ideally under the Imperial seal) that the powers of appointment should be distributed across the departments. That would increase the authority of every other Minister, countering any lingering loyalty they might feel to Meriloe.

Cliopher had come to feel that it was inherently a bad idea to put one person, however honest they might be, in charge of selecting personnel across so much of the Service. Far better to allow those decisions to be made by the person who would be responsible for leading their work. One of his fast-growing lists of governing principles was to allow every member of the Service the greatest possible autonomy and respect in every circumstance.

Princess Indrogan would probably want to keep the authority to herself, and would never independently propose delegation to such an extent. That kept her hands tied; she was not sure that she could prevent the Ouranatha from absorbing the powers if Lord Meriloe gave them up (she had told him as much, over two years ago).

There were, therefore, only two essential guiding stars to this part of the ke’ea: first, he had to legitimise his reporting and draw the Upper Secretariat’s attention to his draft conclusions. Second, he had to publish it into the Archives with the approval of Princess Indrogan’s office.

The formal publication would tie the Princess’s name and reputation to seeing the reforms implemented. It would also create public accountability, and allow the Treasury to seek the Lord Emperor’s backing for a formal audit.

It was unfortunate that this would also give Lord Meriloe time to withdraw, to cover his tracks, to cash in on his favours and leave, but that was safer for the stability of the government than putting the Master of Office’s back up against the wall. The level of bribery and corruption in his office was far past the line for a capital offence.

Cliopher set himself to work through his decision trees to determine the most effective way to redistribute the power of appointment, and tried not to worry about the risk of Meriloe lashing out at one of these engaging young pages, or at Saya Hassia.

There was no way to predict every turn of the game. That was how beginners played, mapping out detailed strategies branching into the far future. He knew better; the history of individuals was contingent on too many unpredictable factors. It was only at a systemic level, mappable through his beloved tables of statistics, that the patterns resolved.

He felt again that certainty that he was doing the right thing, that this was the next star on his ke’ea, that the gain was worth the risk.

The peace was broken by a frantic hammering on his door. “Sayo Mdang! Cliopher, are you there?”

“Kiri?” he called back, fear gripping him. “The door’s open, come in!”

She burst through into the room, gasping. “Merry’s trying to get you fired. Come with me RIGHT NOW!”

Cliopher let her grab his arm and drag him along, surprised but not shocked, feeling his immediate fear shift into something closer to amusement.

Of course the Princess’s Private Office worked into the night, when there was no evening court. Of course Meriloe would try something.

It was almost insulting that he was trying something so stupid.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Merry came down in his full court robes, like he was on the way to some party or other, and said he needed a word or two about “that meddling Madon”. Well, he called you some other things too,” said Kiri, rapidly, as they clattered up the stairs.

“You said he was trying to get me fired?” Cliopher could understand the impulse, Meriloe must be hoping to discredit him before his report reached the Princess. Barging in on her evening, stamping his feet and demanding Cliopher’s head was unlikely to endear either of them to her, however, and as the source of the irritation Lord Meriloe would come off worse.

“I’m on the desk this week, so I tried to intercept him. She came out to find out what was happening. He was on his dignity, you know, saying that you had some kind of grudge and were overturning the work of his office. So as soon as she let him in I slipped away, and -”

Cliopher stopped, pulling her up short. “Wait, Kiri, you say he spoke to you? Did he see you leave?”

“No-o, I don’t think so,” she said.

They had reached the last corridor outside the wide anteroom where most of the Princess’s Private Office worked. A handful of pages were waiting, as usual, for any late evening messages. Cliopher was aware of heads turning towards them, of the rumours starting.

Princess Indrogan’s Office knew that Kiri had worked for him, but Meriloe had no idea yet (he hoped) who his contact was in her Secretariat.

“You go in first, without me,” he said, “get back to your desk. I’ll come through in a second.”

She looked at him, evidently concerned, but nodded. “Cliopher, I duplicated your report. Three of us have it now.”

“Thank you, Saya Kalikiri,” he said, gravely.

He gave Kiri enough time to reach her desk, then walked in. The room was half empty, this late in the day, but he was aware of several pairs of eyes watching covertly as he strolled up to the secretarial desk.

“I understand Lord Meriloe has some concerns about my report?” he said, loudly enough for them all to hear. Let him try to bury that he thought vindictively, smiling blandly at Kiri.

Kiri would never be an actor. She openly rolled her eyes at him. She did, however, have that instinctive knowledge of the Astandalan courtesies that had always eluded him, and she got up again gracefully to knock on the Minister in Chief’s office door, open it, and offer a brief exchange of gestures with the unseen Princess Indrogan. Cliopher recognised the signals that said Kiri had someone useful to introduce to the meeting; he hoped for her sake that Princess Indrogan would agree.

Cliopher’s first thought on entering the office was that the Princess was looking tired.

She was impeccably turned out as always, the cerise and blush pink trim subtle, the lacquer on her nails (red today) smooth, her hair and make up crisp. The room was, in every way, a grander and more tasteful version of Lord Meriloe’s study, though the desk was piled with papers that suggested it came in for more practical use than his.

A bowl of petals and a plate of ash at the Princess’s right hand suggested that she had worked late enough to perform her evening rituals here in the office. Lord Meriloe must have arrived as she finished, preventing her from clearing them away.

Her expression was not encouraging.

In such a commanding presence the sleek and unremarkable countenance of the Master of Offices faded into the background, bejewelled robes, glimmering court make up, and all. Cliopher glanced sideways at him while making his obeisance. Lord Meriloe’s smooth features were as controlled as always, but there was a tension around his eyes that suggested he had not found the Princess sympathetic. He was sitting up in his chair, self-consciously on his dignity.

“Sayo Mdang,” said Princess Indrogan, “thank you for joining us. Lord Meriloe has some concerns about your apparently self-directed project concerning his department.”

“So I understand, your highness,” said Cliopher, respectfully.

“As I have not hitherto heard of this report, may I ask you please to summarise your key findings and the evidence that appertains to them? In brief, Cliopher.”

“Of course, your highness, my lord,” he replied, with the correct respectful nods. She had not asked him to sit, so he shifted his weight and half turned to address both his superiors. He had, however, seen the wry twitch of her lips after the word brief and inwardly rejoiced: from the Princess, that amounted to friendly banter with a colleague.

Mindful of all the times the Princess had stared him down over a report that took too long, or came out muddled, he spoke quickly and clearly to his main headings. The Administrative Office had not published all the information expected over the past few years, but from the available reports he had mapped out some unfortunate patterns suggesting that the understandable concern to fill roles in the Upper Secretariat in these trying times had led to understaffing across the rest of the Service, that regrettably some senior appointees were not fulfilling their duties, and that there were signs of funds being misappropriated within the department.

“And so, your highness, I discussed my concerns with Sayu Loveless at the Treasury. As they were unable to resolve my questions, and as I am aware that the Lord Emperor recently ordered an audit at the Ministry of Trade, I determined that both duty and courtesy directed me to document my concerns and raise them formally with Lord Meriloe.”

Princess Indrogan closed her eyes for a breath. Her poker face was as impeccable as her nails, but Cliopher was nearly certain that there was amusement tucked in alongside the exasperation.

“I see,” she said, at length. “Lord Meriloe has, unaccountably, come to suspect that you are working against him. In your zeal, I am afraid you may have given him an impression that you are engaged in a crusade, a witch hunt, and, indeed, a campaign against the good name and efficient operation of his office.”

Cliopher bowed to Meriloe, whose poker face was almost as good as the Princess’s but whose less-guarded eyes were hot with impotent rage. “My apologies, Lord Meriloe.”

Under the Princess’s meaningful stare, Lord Meriloe actually got up from his seat to return the bow. “Not needed, Sayo Madon,” he ground out.

Cliopher fancied that, just perhaps, in a less guarded context the Princess Indrogan would have rolled her eyes at this. Long experience reporting to her on all sorts of catastrophes had created a bond between them, he realised, however unimpressed she was with his recent career. He didn’t think it would act as any kind of guarantee. She would throw him to the Ouranatha without a second thought if her calculation suggested the Service would benefit.

“I am glad that we have resolved that misunderstanding,” she said. “Now, I understand that Sayo Mdang has been reappointed to the Administrative Office.” She looked down at the paper in front of her and raised her eyebrows. “This week, it would seem.”

Cliopher, who could see that the paper was an order for the next week’s court sessions, and nothing to do with appointments, bit his lip.

Princess Indrogan looked directly at Meriloe. “It seems to me,” she said, in tones of sweet reason, “that we will both benefit from letting Cliopher exercise his remarkable passion for order. And, of course, his integrity.”

—

Despite the lateness of the hour, Saya Ao was waiting for Cliopher outside Princess Indrogan’s Private Office. Cliopher carefully did not acknowledge her until, with a frosty bow, Lord Meriloe had swept out of sight. Then he sighed.

“Admirable devotion,” he said. “I won’t embarrass you by asking who put you up to this.”

She shrugged. “Back to your room, then, Sayo Mdang?”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” he assured her, as they made their way back along the corridors. “It’s just that I don’t need…”

Saya Ao gave him a look that was older than her apparent years. Cliopher sighed again. He doubted she would be able to stop anybody who seriously wished him harm, but at least having a witness might deter an opportunistic attack. Not that he expected one.

He was beginning to feel like all of his colleagues were too handily distracted by the drama to focus on the problem.

Oh, well. It was nice to have company.

Chapter Text

“With all due respect to your reforming principles,” snapped Meriloe, “the nobility fill a high percentage of the roles in the Upper Secretariat due to their inherent abilities.”

Cliopher regarded him in silence, as was increasingly his habit when unable to think of a passably polite response.

“The cream rises to the top, Sayo Madon, it is simply a matter of breeding,” the Master of Offices spoke more slowly, emphasising each word as if he thought that would drum it into Cliopher’s understanding. “Quality will show.”

Lord Meriloe had ‘just happened’ to pass through the working part of the Administrative Office more times in the past week than he had, apparently, all the previous year. Each time he had a new objection for Cliopher, and each time he was apparently confounded that Cliopher did not agree.

“Respectfully, my lord,” said Cliopher, who had begun to enjoy imitating Meriloe’s use of that word to mean its opposite, “this analysis is restricted to those whose roles involve no labour or achievement at all. The sinecures, my lord, the empty appointments. It may be that the nobles gracing the ranks of the Upper Secretariat in general are the cream of the crop, but this category includes only those whose appointment is entirely a waste of the resources of the Imperial Service.”

Meriloe looked genuinely pained. He was extremely good at that. Cliopher raised an eyebrow.

“Sayo Mdang, you must understand that it is in the interests of the Service to have advocates at court. We need friends among the nobles who will advance our view of the world.”

“Lord Meriloe, the Imperial Service is the direct conduit for the will of the Sun on Earth. Surely you are not implying that the Glorious One needs our assistance to gain legitimacy from those who regard him as the very fount of honour, the source of their lands and titles?”

Meriloe huffed and left him to it. Once the door of his office had shut behind him, Cliopher made a face at Hassia, who snorted and returned it with interest. Sayo Bezzin, who was sitting with Hassia practising his scribal hand by writing up Cliopher’s meeting notes, caught the by-play and chuckled.

Cliopher turned back to his conclusions. His analysis stood up well under this more detailed investigation of the department. In the full report, the one he kept in his shoulder bag, he proposed delegating appointments across government, giving Ministers powers of oversight on every grade below the Upper Secretariat, and simultaneously substantially reducing the size of the Upper Secretariat.

Cliopher was fairly certain that the main service Lord Meriloe provided the priest-wizards was the gift of sinecures to win allies among the nobility. The trouble was, he could just as easily imagine Princess Indrogan offering sinecures to buy off the nobles who might otherwise support the Ouranatha.

Without close budgetary control and with power hanging in the balance, there was every incentive for both of them to just keep appointing. No wonder the ranks of the Upper Secretariat were so bloated. This was not a point he could concede to either the Princess or the Master of Offices. This internecine warfare had to come to an end before the noble families finished dividing Zunidh between them, giving only nominal service to the Lord of Zunidh. The whole mess was obscene, likely to turn violent, and it totally undermined the daily activities of the machinery of government. It had to stop.

He was looking forward to pointing out that this would save significant amounts of budget from the Administrative Office, enhancing their reputation for efficiency. How could Lord Meriloe object to that?

“Uh…sir?”

“Yes, Sayo Bezzin?”

The page looked deeply uncomfortable, for some reason. “Uh, you were humming…”

“Oh,” Cliopher blinked in surprise. “Sorry. Am I disturbing you?”

“I think,” said Saya Hassia, an odd note in her voice, “that we’d all find it easier to concentrate in silence.”

—

Lord Meriloe’s next move was one that Cliopher really should have expected.

It was mid afternoon and Cliopher had just returned from interviewing yet another senior member of the Administrative Office who had no real grasp of their work beyond turning a blind eye to Meriloe’s little peccadilloes. He was humming to himself as he wrote up his notes while they were fresh in his mind, until a loud cough from Hassia prompted him to look up.

Meriloe came striding out of his office in what passed for his casual work clothes, accompanied by an unfamiliar woman with a pale, striking face and ears that stood out like banners against her dark hair.

“Sayo Madon!” cried Meriloe, “just the man I need. Lady Xatia, meet Sayo Madon, an absolute whiz with the ledgers as I understand it. Sayo Madon, we are going to meet Princess Indrogan, I am sure she would highly value your presence too.”

Instantly wary, Cliopher seized the bag with his most dangerous notes, bowed respectfully to acknowledge Lady Xatia, and followed them both. Lady Xatia gave him a good natured smile, more open and appealing than court-trained. Her appearance was compelling, not so much due to beauty as to the arresting sight of so many strong features on one woman’s face. Her nose was long and pointed, her ears and eyes protuberant, her cheeks round and red, and there was something earnestly appealing about her smile. It invited you to join her rueful delight in owning such a peculiar set of features.

Lord Meriloe dominated the conversation for the whole of their walk across the Palace. Cliopher listened to his ebullience on the financial opportunities for government with growing unease. This did not sound like it related much to his work in the Administrative Office.

When the Master of Offices dropped in a neat little encomium of Cliopher’s diligence, his work for Princess Indrogan, his familiarity with so many parts of government, his facility with numbers… well, he could smell the set-up as well as anybody. He just couldn’t understand how Meriloe expected to get it past the Princess. That question was answered the moment they entered Princess Indrogan’s office. The young man on duty at the main desk smiled deferentially at Lady Xatia, ushered them straight into the office, and returned with refreshments before they had finished taking their seats. Princess Indrogan actually smiled at Lady Xatia with a human warmth.

As the most monumentally junior person in the room, Cliopher listened carefully and kept his mouth shut. Lady Xatia was, apparently, the most powerful trade factor in the City of Emeralds. She was in Solaara to learn more about the restoration of the government, and to volunteer her services and expertise in financial management to strengthen the Service. She talked with authority of several modes of finance that she had, in the past, apparently advised on to great effect, supporting businesses small and large.

She was offering her services to the government pro bono, if they would allocate her a room and a secretary in the Palace. Princess Indrogan was both delighted and grateful, and confident that Lord Meriloe would be able to find her a secretary of suitable experience.

At this point, everybody looked at Cliopher.

His heart did not so much sink as recoil, like a stubbed toe.

Princess Indrogan was nodding along in apparent deep appreciation of Lady Xatia. Princess Indrogan responded well to frank, no-nonsense, friendly people who offered their expertise. Princess Indrogan would be looking for political support from the merchant classes, and would want to show willing.

Meriloe could not possibly have orchestrated the lady's arrival, but it gave him the perfect opportunity to divert the Princess’s attention and divest himself of Cliopher.

“My review of the Administrative Office is two weeks from completion, your highness,” he said, knowing as he spoke that it was hopeless but determined to play his hand out, such as it was.

Princess Indrogan tapped her desk gently, the way she did when someone tested her patience, and looked at Lord Meriloe. With heartfelt reluctance, Meriloe did feel that he could release Cliopher to support Lady Xatia in her vital work.

“Your report can be deferred, Sayo Mdang,” Princess Indrogan told him crisply.

He made his long-practised bows and kept his long-practised straight face, the litany of curses entirely internal.

Lord Meriloe smiled, slowly, and said, “oh, it need not be deferred. I’m sure I can find someone in the office to wrap it up.”

“As it happens,” said Princess Indrogan, drily, “I believe some members of my office have reviewed a near-complete draft. I will gladly loan you someone to support drawing up the conclusions, and I’m sure the Treasury will be happy to discuss implementation.”

It took all of Cliopher’s willpower not to turn his head to fully take in Lord Meriloe’s reaction, but he caught the rapid flicker of frustration in the corner of his eye. He felt almost equally frustrated. Princess Indrogan would no doubt seize the chance to clip Meriloe’s wings, but a joint report likely meant the man would keep his job. The Princess raised an eyebrow at him. Ah, yes. His turn to agree with them.

He turned to Lady Xatia and scraped together a smile. “In that case, my lady,” he said, “I am at your disposal.”

Lady Xatia stopped to chat with Princess Indrogan’s secretaries on the way out of her office. Cliopher was impressed and slightly concerned by the way she presented her project as a top priority for the Princess. It was not, technically, untrue but he was not convinced that the Princess intended to attach her own name to the work quite so closely.

Lord Meriloe took advantage of the moment to stride away without directly giving insult. Cliopher waited, smiling despite himself at Lady Xatia’s enthusiasm and slightly admiring the way she just came out and asked for work space here at the heart of government. No official in the Imperial Service would presume on Private Office like that; perhaps there was something to be said for an outsider’s ignorance of the shibboleths of the Service.

“That’s settled, then,” she said at last. “We’ll be back up tomorrow morning and I’m sure Cliopher here - do you mind if I call you Cliopher? Oh, and you must all call me Leanna! - Cliopher and I will settle in soon enough.”

“What would you like me to prepare, my lady?” he said, bowing.

“Leanna, please!” she repeated, “I’ve only been a lady by marriage these past two years and nobody back home ever uses the title.”

“Leanna, then,” he said, using one of the lesser bows of apology and hoping that he had judged the angle right. It was either correct or she was unconcerned, for she accepted it with a friendly nod.

“I’m going to want to meet with all the major departments, I think,” she said, “I’m completely new to government! I’ll need to get my head round how the commercial side of government works, then we can discuss the efficiencies of financing.”

“The Treasury first, then?”

“Oh, yes, but I’d like to speak to everybody. My expertise is factoring invoices, you know, freeing up funds in the supply chain… I’ll explain tomorrow, but we’ll want the procurement teams from every department” she added, apparently taking Cliopher’s sudden reserve for befuddlement. He bowed again as she left, and exchanged glances with Kiri, who had been hovering just in earshot.

“How strange,” said Kiri, “I wonder what she thinks we should be doing differently? Saya Ao is here for you, by the way.”

“Thank you,” said Cliopher, with a sigh, “but you can certainly stop following me around now, Saya Ao. The Princess is adopting my report, so there’s really no reason for anybody to accost me.”

“Actually,” said Kiri, slowly, “I think it would be helpful for Saya Ao and Sayo Bezzin to spend a bit more time with you. For their sake, Cliopher Mdang, don’t you look so pathetically at me! They’ve got the entrance exams in a month, there’s a lot more they can learn from you and, uh, Leanna, than from Sayo Dirzha and the Pages Hall right now.”

Cliopher rubbed his face. “I see,” he said, “is this really what you want, Saya Ao?”

“Oh, yes, please, sir!”

“Well, no more traipsing over to see me home after dark, please,” he said, grumpily.

“Of course not, sir!” said Ao, with the earnestness of a twenty-something who thinks they’re being subtle. Cliopher held back a sigh and let her accompany him back to the Administrative Office.

Meriloe hadn’t won, but neither had he entirely lost. The Princess might be able to peel away some of his power, to prevent him from acting so egregiously corrupt, but she would not go through with the full plan for reform that Cliopher had sketched for her. He was fairly sure that his report would not get into the Archives either, nor into the hands of other Ministers who might want to take back the power to make their own appointments.

This felt not so much like another shipwreck as being swept out of his way once again, to navigate a strange reef in uncertain weather. He was still sure of his goal but it had swung further out of reach, into the darkness.

Whatever Lady Xatia - Leanna - wanted, whether good or bad, it would take time to work through. Afterwards he would return to Lord Meriloe’s office, too late to influence the outcome of his analysis and once more without a natural home in the Service.

He wrote to Basil that evening about missing the sea, the clean salt tang of the waves, the depths that hid the mysteries of Ani, the wonder and the danger that could encompass the smallness of his boat, the smallness of himself. How much easier it was to be exposed to the elements than to the court. How, even when he lost his way, the route home was there in the Lays and in his family’s dances.

It had been a long time since he danced any part of the fire.

He felt the stiffness of his limbs, the coldness of his heart, and he thought about how easily Meriloe and Indrogan between them overturned his careful planning, and he wept tears of frustration for what he had given up and for the grinding difficult of the ke’ea he could not yet see his way through.

Chapter Text

Kiri Kalikiri swept up a stack of papers and followed two of her colleagues into the familiar grandeur of Princess Indrogan’s office. Reports were coming in from Xiputl and Amboloyo more regularly now, and the Princess had established a regular sequence of meetings with department heads implicated in the apparently inevitable war.

The conversation was brisk as usual. It was Kiri’s turn to run through the register of known risks and prompt Ministers to provide updates; the trick was to keep them moving, to stop the conversation slipping off after new hypotheticals, to focus on the scenarios that had already been agreed and refer any new suggestions for consideration by the Princess later.

The news was bad, of course, but not unexpected. Kiri noted three major escalations and managed to politely cut short discussion of a possible fourth, handing the thread of the meeting back to the Princess to allocate actions.

Twenty minutes later the Ministers filed out, chattering, and the secretaries waited on the Princess’s pleasure.

Princess Indrogan made a brief note herself, then nodded at Hazhin and Ulio to leave, and Kiri to stay. That was unexpected. Usually all three stayed if there was anything to discuss. Hazhin and Ulio gave her sympathetic glances as they left, and Kiri felt her heart beat a little faster.

The Princess’s office was as splendid as might be expected for the head of the Imperial Service and one of the most important figures in the government of the world of Zunidh. Tall shelves in rich dark wood held reference books, reports, a few art objects. The Princess’s chair was intricately carved and padded with a small and scruffy old cushion that supported her lower back, out of sight whenever she sat to greet visitors. Behind her another piece of artistry spread out in the unused hearth, a series of delicate glass flowers in flame colours that Kiri longed to examine more closely one day.

Princess Indrogan waved her to bring a chair forward to the desk. Both intrigued and relieved by this unexpected sign of favour, Kiri sat.

“Thank you for keeping us all on track this morning, Saya Kalikiri,” the Princess said, with a crisp smile. “I appreciate your preparation, as always.”

Kiri bowed her appreciation.

“I have a delicate matter to consider, and I think you may be able to throw some light on it for me. In confidence, Saya Kalikiri.”

Kiri bowed again, in agreement, and allowed herself a small gesture of curiosity. Princess Indrogan’s smile relaxed a fraction.

“Tell me, Kiri, what do you make of Sayo Mdang?”

Taken aback, Kiri took a further moment to collect her thoughts. “I consider Sayo Mdang a friend,” she said, slightly more shortly than was strictly polite when addressing someone so toweringly senior.

Princess Indrogan actually snorted. “Yes,” she said, “but I’m asking as a colleague. You used to work for him, I believe?”

“I did, your highness,” said Kiri, “he was - well, probably the best boss I’ll ever have. I was new to the Service and frightened by - by everything that was happening. Cliopher showed me how to… I don’t know how to put it, but how to take a step back in my mind and see what is needed, and then how to dig in and not be daunted and just keep going until it’s sorted out.”

“I see,” said Princess Indrogan, with a slight note of irony. Kiri mentally ran through that last speech in her mind, remembered that she was talking to her current boss, and felt her cheeks heat. She kept her mouth shut, though, because she wasn’t taking any of that back.

Princess Indrogan nodded at her in appreciation. “I see,” she said again, more softly. “Hmm. Well, Lord Meriloe’s squeals have been shrill these past weeks, but what they amount to is that Mdang is insubordinate and far too efficient. Subordination to Merry might be regarded as a character flaw in itself, of course. Have you been following your friend’s recent escapades?”

Kiri was glad that she was already blushing, as her complexion mercifully made it difficult to blush deeper.

“I think he has a bee in his bonnet about fixing things,” she said. “You know he reorganised the pages the year before last? And of course he worked at the Agency for Better Communications.”

“I noticed,” murmured Princess Indrogan. If her voice got any drier, Kiri thought, the desk might crumble into dust.

“It didn’t work out with Agriculture and Health,” she went on hurriedly, “and I don’t know what he got up to at court… but Treasury and Trade loved him.”

“And now, of course, he has deliberately thrown himself back under Lord Meriloe,” Princess Indrogan said, with a sigh. “In a sane government I’d be able to use the man, to channel that reforming zeal. Not that it hasn’t been useful. I thought at first that it was a shame that he missed the private office appointments, but he has stirred things up most satisfactorily. Did you know that Irridis actually managed to prod the Glorious One into commissioning an audit? Though that nearly got away from us; the Ouranatha made a bid to be appointed the auditing body and I barely reached the room in time to counter them.”

Kiri’s role mostly involved managing reports on the rest of the world. Her understanding of Palace politics was filtered through Cliopher’s current fixation with the Master of Offices. Even she knew enough to be slightly worried by the Ouranatha's ambitions, though, for all that her parents were priests. The chief priest-wizards were... zealous, and possibly not just on the Lord Emperor's behalf. The thought of them taking on responsibility for auditing the rest of government was disconcerting to say the least.

Princess Indrogan appeared lost in thought for a moment, then drummed her fingers on the desk. “Saya Kalikiri, what do you think Cliopher Mdang wants?”

Kiri had to laugh. “That’s easy, he tells us all the time,” she said. “He wants to fix the government.”

Princess Indrogan sighed, wearily and with some amusement. “Don’t we all,” she said. “Well, if he gives you any more of his reports, pass them on to me at once, please. They make fascinating reading. If somewhat acerb.”

She made a gesture of dismissal, but as Kiri rose added, thoughtfully, “I need the business community as well as the aristocracy, more than I need rid of Meriloe.”

There was another pause. Sensing that something more was coming, Kiri waited. Princess Indrogan looked down at the reports on her desk, drummed her fingernails some more, looked up at the window, and then looked back at Kiri.

“I told Merry that he can’t sack a man for walking in a straight line when the rest of us are going in circles. He knows that’s what I’d say, though, damn him. The Service has noticed that I am standing by Cliopher Mdang. Ministers are already expressing concern for my judgement, and Meriloe has been looking for a lever to dislodge me for years.” She grimaced, “I need Sayo Mdang to bring me a success, Kiri. Soon.”

“I… understand,” said Kiri. “Thank you, your highness.”

Chapter Text

The hubbub of the Minister in Chief’s private office was unchanging and unceasing, but it was comfortingly familiar territory. Cliopher arrived early and found that they had been allocated a set of desks in a back corner, where the incoming messages from the couriers used to be stored and sorted. He was unsure whether Leanna recognised that even being allowed to establish herself alongside Princess Indrogan's staff was a sign of unusual favour; the office was constantly rearranging desks and duties, but he would not have thought that even this cavernous room had space to spare for interlopers.

At this time in the morning the Princess would be reading her early messages in her rooms over breakfast. Under the narrow pillars down the centre of the room the secretaries and runners on the night shift were clearing their inboxes and handing over concerns or packets of papers as the day shift arrived. More senior secretaries were settling in behind dispatch boxes at the desks closer to the windows. The messenger station was up near the other door, now, and every so often there was a rush and a clatter as new boxes came in.

Somewhere out east the sun was rising in a slow flood of pale gold that flooded through the huge oriel windows, each with their seating nook to host the dozens of urgent conversations that did not demand the dignity of a closed room. Remembering some of the sensitive topics discussed in those bright, airy corners, Cliopher felt uncomfortable all over again. Leanna was most emphatically not sworn to the Emperor. Her service appointment was irregular, as she was not being paid and had no Ministerial oversight.

Saya Ao and Sayo Bezzin arrived as he was setting up the desks. He delegated the task of finding writing materials and spare dispatch boxes to them, and went to have a quiet word with the Princess’s senior clerk. Sayo Gilogani, overset with cares as usual, put his hand on his forehead to consider. Cliopher smiled as the Service hat rocked back over Gilogani’s sparse hair. There was a longstanding wager in the office as to what dramatic event would see it finally tip over and fall off.

“Hmpfh, yes, see what you mean,” Gilogani conceded, “she’s not officially one of us. But the Princess likes her, and she’s got a fantastic reputation, you know. We’ve heard of her from the City of Emeralds, and from Csiven… and she’s here entirely pro bono. We’re not even paying her. And anyway, she’s a factor, what does she have to gain from spying on us?”

Cliopher could think of several answers to that question, up to and including high treason, but he contented himself with pointing out that a woman in banking could make a great deal of money out of the information overheard at the centre of government.

Sayo Gilogani grunted again. “She’s so rich already, though. What would be the point?”

There seemed no answer to that, or at least none that Cliopher felt he could deliver in a pithy one liner to a busy man against the rising tempo of other business. He thanked Gilogani and left him to wrangle whatever problem was absorbing the Princess's staff today. The tension between the nobles, probably.

Leanna arrived shortly, was polite and friendly to everybody without distinction, and totally absorbed in her mission to track down every commercial team in central government and see if they needed her advice. Her single minded concentration was slightly reassuring from a confidentiality perspective; it puzzled Cliopher almost enough to make him consider that she might, in fact, be acting in good faith.

In mid-afternoon, once the initial plan was sketched out, she sat Cliopher, Saya Ao, and Sayo Bezzin down and delivered a short lecture on the benefits of high finance.

“As a factor I care about risk and time,” she said, earnestly, “that’s what determines the cost of a loan. And so many other things, when you think about it. For example, a supplier might need payment up front in order to pay their suppliers, or they might have to take out a loan. But paying late is in the interest of the buyer, who might want to do more with their money over that time. My job as a factor is to make sure that the money is available for the people who need it at a price that reflects the value of that service. And that brings me to the government,” she beamed at them. “The Imperial Service borrows on a massive scale, but it also buys materials and commissions services on a massive scale too. I believe I can help the Palace get better terms and make greater use of financing, which will help departments pay their suppliers earlier and free up funds to invest. Better for the businesses, and a more efficient use of public money.”

She stopped, perhaps aware that her manner had slipped into that of a woman addressing a public meeting. Cliopher felt a flash of kinship, which did nothing to resolve his underlying discomfort.

“Do you mean that we should withhold payment from suppliers and invest the funds while they wait?” he asked, “wouldn’t that be difficult for the smaller businesses that work with the Palace?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” said Leanna, easily, “they can access finance too to cover the gap. So everybody has the liquidity they need, when they need it.”

“...at a cost, though, surely?”

“A cost that covers the discrepancy in the timing and compensates the person taking on the relevant risk, yes,” she said. “Jerri was absolutely right, you have an excellent head for this, Cliopher. I’m so glad he could spare you for the project!”

Cliopher was so astonished to hear anyone refer to Meriloe familiarly, and had such an urgent need to hide his smile at the idea of ‘Jerri Merry’, that he held his tongue and bowed his thanks.

The pages vanished with sheafs of introductions and meeting requests, and Leanna followed shortly after to try her luck at tracking down contacts she had been given by her fellow factors before leaving the City of Emeralds. Cliopher contented himself with staying put and drafting up their project timelines and pro formas. Leanna was both plausible and likeable, and perhaps she really could help the Service out, somehow.

Complex financial instruments seemed an unnecessarily expensive way of improving relations between the Palace and its suppliers. If they had that effect at all.

Solaara was a fast-growing city with, as yet, minimal banking services on offer. A government contract or two would be an excellent leg up on the competition should a financial sector take root here, as seemed likely for a capital city.

On reflection, he was still not convinced that Leanna was a disinterested benefactor.

—

Saya Ao’s given name was Eala. She had a gift for summarising long, chatty meetings into pithy half-pages. Sayo Bezzin, who pulled a face and asked them all to stick with ‘Bezzin’ struggled with concision in his notes but had an excellent memory for details. Together they made an excellent team, keeping track of conversations and contacts and planning meetings with ruthless efficiency. Every other day they handed Leanna a short stack of formal meeting notes to review.

Leanna’s habit of delivering the same little speech to every new contact probably helped; all three of them knew it off by heart within a day or so.

Cliopher leafed through the latest stack, sighed, and dismissed his little team. The pages needed study time, and he needed to think. These meetings felt like sales pitches.

Was that a problem? Government departments had to buy things like anybody else. In Astandalas there had been an elaborate process to spread the honour of supplying the Palace across the nobles as a burden and a favour all in one.

Some Emperors had been deft in their demands, had used the Imperial supply system as a way of siphoning away resources that might fund rebellion, had delivered their honourable demands with a barbed sting in the tail.

In Solaara things had so far been more hand to mouth. There were favoured suppliers, but they were mostly merchants. The nobles had been quick to forget the honour of supplying the Empire, now that the Emperor was Lord of Zunidh and his government spanned a single world. Or at least the parts of the world that the couriers could reach, more or less.

Emperor Artorin had shown increasing deftness at the shifting game of the Imperial court. As Lord Magus of Zunidh his levers were different, and he did not seem to be using them directly. The Ouranatha continued to collect the tithes and the Imperial Service to do the dirty work of making purchases. There were no doubt plenty of merchant houses that would delight in the title of Imperial Favourite, and might offer more favourable terms, but the very idea would be anathema to the aristocrats.

Leanna wanted to attend court, he thought, but she had been snubbed. Politely, no doubt, and with a deadly frosty courtesy. She was doing better at making friends with the commercial teams than with the nobles. If only he felt confident that the services she advocated were in anybody’s best interest.

It had not escaped his notice how often she was in meetings without him, or any of her team.

—

Sayu Loveless was short and extremely dark, with a light, curvy frame and hair that always seemed just slightly too long and wispy for the regulation cut, forever escaping from under their conical Service hat. Technically a junior Minister, they were widely acknowledged as the brains of the Treasury. A dubious distinction, in this uncertain government.

Like Lord Irridis, Loveless gave the impression of being under assault from all the cares of the world at all times. They greeted Cliopher like an old friend, directing him to a comfortable padded chair and ordering tea. Cliopher settled his bag, sipped his tea, and relaxed into the pleasantries. It was good to let his guard down.

Loveless listened to his account with their tea held out in both hands in front of them, grey eyes staring thoughtfully into the steam.

“Lady Xatia has… hmm, not come to our attention,” they said. “I will ask Domina Badgestock to arrange a meeting.”

Cliopher had been under the impression, which he suspected Leanna had deliberately cultivated, that she had spoken to the Treasury before starting on the rounds of the rest of government. “That’s curious, surely?" he said, "for a woman with an interest in finance?”

“Oh, well, yes,” Sayu Loveless sighed, and focused on him. “There’s no shortage of plausible sales people in Solaara, you know,” they said. “We manage to intercept some, but when one gets the ear of a Minister… well, it’s their job I suppose. Lady Xatia is thinking big, though, I’ll give her that.”

“You’re not a fan of her loan schemes?”

“Domina Badgestock can run the numbers for us, but I think you see the problem, don’t you?”

It was Cliopher’s turn to take a sip, and sigh. “Yes,” he said, “if we needed it, someone would be doing it already. The government can always raise funds, as long as it’s still the government.”

“Precisely,” said Sayu Loveless. “If she could lend to us at a competitive rate, why not make that offer? Here, to me? She won’t, because she’s looking for departments where she can dazzle people into taking out loans without realising they’re loans. Or, worse, into forcing their suppliers to borrow just to do business with us.”

“Princess Indrogan is an enthusiast,” said Cliopher, working to keep the tension out of his voice, to relax his shoulders, to keep his hands light on his cup. Loveless gave him a pitying look all the same.

“Finish the report,” they said. “Domina Badgestock will back up your numbers. Let Lady Xatia talk her way round the Ministries. I’ll put the word out for people to be wary. She’ll slip past us somewhere, but we can keep her from doing too much damage.” They put their tea down long enough to rub their hand across the permanent worry lines between their eyes. “We’ve got to have another go at the procurement process, though. And another round of training for the commercial teams.”

All of this made excellent sense for the Treasury, but Cliopher reflected ruefully that none of it helped much with his personal problem of letting down Princess Indrogan.

—

Working alongside the private office again should have been a treat, but the building tension between Lady Xatia’s spoken and unspoken goals were making it increasingly hard to enjoy. Around him new and former colleagues juggled the great perils of Zunidh, or the issues that most motivated the powerful courtiers, or on rare occasions matters that were both. He was nearly as busy pulling together a scoping report on Leanna’s proposals, but the exercise felt utterly futile.

After several weeks of follow up meetings, Leanna abruptly invited him out to lunch. It was a surprise; she routinely vanished at lunchtime and often for the early afternoon, and Cliopher and the pages had grown accustomed to using the time to work through the drafting of their report.

He reflected, as they strolled slowly through the cool gold-and-white Palace corridors, that most of her private meetings had probably taken place over lunch.

They came out into the full warmth of noon, in that breathless heaviness that betokened the late dry season. Leanna asked after Eala and Bezzin, and after the traditional entry points to the Imperial Service, and the changes that had come about since the Fall. Cliopher thought again what a pity it was that someone with such friendly energy should devote so much of it to separating other people from their money.

The long stair with its covered pagoda stretched down into the middle of the city. Baskets of flowering plants drooped in the heat, gasping dusty perfume that pooled in the still air. A handful of other robed officials were heading down out of the Palace, but the market stalls were half closed up and the bustle of the street was subdued by the heat. Cliopher felt his shoulders ease back, the tension giving way to the warmth, to the sheer sense of contrast from the cold halls of the Palace. The air was moving and alive with the pungency of the city, vivid and varied.

Leanna led the way down past the markets and eateries that catered to those working at the Palace or in nearby embassies and guild halls. They passed the tall townhouses that had sprung up close to the city centre, took further flights of steps down between the streets, and emerged near the wharves.

A couple of enterprising coffee houses had opened here, and one discreet and exclusive-looking tea room. Leanna led him into the latter, up a grand and open staircase, and into a gallery of semi-private booths overlooking the other patrons, where distance and the background hum of conversation kept their discussion discreet.

They talked of inconsequential things. Leanna told one or two mild, funny stories about the officials she had encountered in meetings Cliopher had missed. She asked after his family, and told him about hers, and about her rural childhood as the middle daughter of a middling merchant in a small town founded by the descendants of a group of merchants stranded in the mountains near the City of Emerald by the Fall.

Cliopher might have enjoyed the walk, and the food, and the company, under other circumstances.

The moment he was expecting came after the plates were cleared, over the smoky dark afternoon tea and the plate of thin curling chocolate mints.

“The Princess thinks highly of you,” said Leanna, casually.

Cliopher’s habit had always been to brush away flattery with a few blunt words. He thought of his dreams, of the necessity of staying within the Service to fulfil them, of the value of presenting to somebody what they wished to see, and made himself incline his head with a modest smile.

Encouraged, Leanna launched into a well-observed and possibly well-practised panegyric on Cliopher’s virtues. She admired his diligence, his devotion to his duty, his grasp of the finer points of finance. She lauded his network of friends and admirers in the Service, his reputation for probity, and the high trust confided in him by senior and junior colleagues alike.

She put her finger, in fact, on every personal desire for recognition that he had ever nurtured beneath his Service robes. She painted a picture for him of a rising star, a coming man.

He managed to maintain a certain detached irony, and not to wince as the compliments cut across the sore spots in his self-esteem. He knew the scorn he had from some Ministers, the cordial dislike from others, the teams he had walked out on, the string of muddles and disasters in his wake, the disappointment his efforts were to Princess Indrogan.

“Jerri is finishing your report on his office, and the Princess has not lined up another role for you yet, I think?” she said, feigning realisation. “What will you do next?”

“I’m sure the Master of Offices can find me some appointment,” he replied, dryly.

“It is a shame that you are so devoted to the Service,” she said, “when one thinks of the opportunities that await a man of vision.”

Cliopher knew his next line. His younger self would have scorned to say it, would have pivoted straight into angry rejection, instead. He reminded himself firmly that this was only compromising his manner, not his principles, and managed to speak before the silence grew awkward. “Opportunities, Leanna?”

She gave him another of those disarming smiles. “Oh, I was thinking about my colleagues in the City of Emeralds. I know of at least three banking houses looking to establish branches in Solaara. All three offer the loans and financing that I have been discussing with your colleagues across the Service. When our recommendations go up to the Emperor, they will need a reliable contact in government to make connections, to ensure any loans are awarded fairly.”

“It is indeed unfortunate,” he said, “that I do not feel able to recommend any government department seek out your colleagues’ assistance. I do appreciate the great value of temporary finance to those running risky trading or industrial ventures, Leanna, and I respect your desire to share those benefits with the public sector. I simply think that the government is better off using its own debt finance than working through a third party.”

He managed to deliver this earnestly, if not with a note of genuine respect.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Leanna, still cheerful and apparently unconcerned.

They finished up more quietly. On the way out of the tea house Leanna stopped to greet a sombrely dressed couple at a table near the door. Cliopher, standing politely out of close earshot, caught nothing of the conversation.

He was, however, close enough to see the florid stamp on the business card that Leanna placed on the table, which read Lady Leanna Xatia : Solaara : Special Adviser to the Princess Indrogan

Anger and amusement bubbled up in equal measure. The thought of the likely expression on the Princess’s face, should she ever see the cards, won. Cliopher stepped smartly out into the sunlit streets where the clamour of the dock workers covered his bitter laughter.

Opportunities, indeed.

Chapter Text

Cliopher was deeply relieved that the last two weeks of Lady Xatia’s scoping exercise coincided with the run up to the Imperial Service entrance examinations. He dismissed Eala and Bezzin to study, shooing them away from the stacks of notes they had so diligently constructed.

He wished them luck, sent a note of appreciation to the head page, and planned to discuss the moral quandaries of the position with them later, if all three of them were still present in the Palace for the conversation.

To Leanna’s evident pleasure, several departments had expressed an interest in her financing proposals. Cliopher dutifully noted these responses, wincing especially at the commentary from Health which included cheerful speculation about the flexibility and savings available to both the Service and the handful of public hospitals directly supported by the Palace from the introduction of financing to support employee salary draw-downs.

He ran each chapter of the report past Leanna as they were finalised. Trade: uninterested. Agriculture: unimpressed. Education: intrigued. The Ouranatha: welcoming.

He hoped that future readers would see how lopsided the enthusiasm was, how the departments that understood money, or bargaining, or insurance were those that brushed the offer aside.

In the last week Leanna herself was mysteriously absent. He suspected she was making the rounds of the most interested commercial teams again, perhaps sharing contact details or tips that were not (strictly speaking) disinterested.

By midweek he had a draft of the final chapter, the contribution from Domina Badgestock at the Treasury. He edited it only to clarify the language, to repeat some of her calculations in plain terms for his reader, and to add a conclusion.

The methods of financing advocated by Lady Xatia are doubtless useful for those whose supplier relationships are fraught with uncertainty or whose pockets are empty. The government has extraordinarily ready cash flows, however, and is in a position to provide unrivalled security to suppliers and creditors alike.

The introduction of specialist loans will increase costs. There are vanishingly few government contexts where it will add value. If a member of the Imperial Service is concerned that their terms of payment are putting undue pressure on small businesses, or on government employees, the best response is the simplest: for a department to pay its bills and its staff in full and on time.

Cliopher read and re-read this final paragraph, methodically cleaning his pens.

He looked up, along the long room. It was late in the day. No stinting on scarce magic here, not in the nerve centre of Zunidh’s government. The oriel windows were black and glossy with the reflected brightness of the dozens of mage lights, so that no stars could be seen.

The Princess’s office was closed and locked, now that she had left for evening court, but the clatter of dispatch boxes continued: arriving, being stacked, being cleared. Secretaries bent over their work along the rows of desks, scribbling notes or copying more slowly into a neater hand. Sayo Gilogani was working late at the clerk’s desk, no doubt logging some logistical matter of meetings or staff rotation.

Whatever way Cliopher looked at the situation his prospects were bleak. Lord Meriloe may not have realised it, but this appointment was a perfect trap.

The waves rose around his vaha, the lashing rain ate up the horizon, the water swamped him until he could not say what was up and what was down.

Write an honest report and place it against Leanna’s charisma, her favour with the Princess, her easy familiarity with wealth. Fail again in the eyes of his patron, expose her to criticism, weaken her in her attempts to hold the Service together.

Leave out the legitimate criticism and let his colleagues in the Service take the bait, expose innocent employees and businesses to additional fees. Rely on harried experts like Loveless to spend their time chasing Leanna’s contacts down and reasoning them out of danger. Slide back into the Administrative Office, putting himself back in Meriloe’s power to appoint to some other role he was equally unsuited for.

Either way he probably ended up back in the Administrative Office. The route elsewhere came from impressing the Princess, which would be straightforward: he could lie outright and praise Leanna’s proposals, which he already knew Indrogan wanted to be good. The more examples he could find of teams ready to introduce new financing arrangements, the happier the Minister in Chief would be. She might take him back, give him a role coordinating those loans, set him up perfectly to offer Leanna that contact in the Service, those opportunities -

There was no temptation to lie, not really. The sea could rise and swallow his vaha, the sky could reach down and envelop it, he could lose the stars and forget his ke’ea, but he could not be other than who he was. Cliopher Mdang was painfully, personally, instinctively honest.

He had been learning how to hold his tongue.

There were times, most definitely, when the best course of action was to trim the sails, to glide softly over the reefs on the water’s rise, to listen rather than speak, to tuck the flame of his spirit down and away. To not say - so many things.

He felt a weariness that was greater, somehow, than the wrung-out exhaustion of a shipwreck, than the gaunt collapse at the far end of terror and deprivation, than the heartsore and footsore loneliness of his long trek across the world after the Fall.

He had still not learned when to stop.

Cliopher chose a new nib for his pen, refreshed the ink, and transcribed his conclusion over to become the first paragraph of a summary to introduce the report.

He managed to wipe his eyes on his sleeve unobtrusively. Nobody in the room would find it strange that they were watering. Eye strain was a common complaint in the Service, after all.

—

Leanna reviewed the draft report the following morning. Then she stood up, collected her belongings, and left without a word.

She did not return.

Cliopher collected together her papers, queued for use of the golden tray that duplicated Service documents, and sent copies of the final report to Sayu Loveless and Domina Badgestock. He sorted Eala's and Bezzin's stacks of notes, and disposed of all those not essential to maintain the record. He cleared the desks. Kiri came in for her shift on the main secretarial desk and looked askance at him. He shrugged and told her that he was waiting for Lady Xatia to return.

After a while the sense of being the only idle person in a hall humming with activity began to wear him down, and he pulled a set of private notes out of his bag and continued them in neat scribal shorthand. By the time Kiri came back over to his desk he was deep in contemplation of the principles that should apply to ad hoc appointments to the Imperial Service, and she had to say his name three times to get his attention.

“The Princess wants to speak with you,” she said, “she’s cleared fifteen minutes.”

That was not a good sign, particularly not when the time cleared was, he suspected, the Princess’s lunch break.

Cliopher smiled at Kiri, though from her expression it did not come out entirely natural. He stuffed his papers back in his bag and walked up past the banks of desks to the Minister in Chief’s office, trying not to take the curious glances cast his way as hostile.

He bowed his lesser obeisance to the Princess as Kiri shut the door firmly behind him, then squared his shoulder and waited for the blow to fall. The Princess's mouth was a flat line, her hands were folded on her desk.

“Cliopher Sayo Mdang,” she said, “I have just received a note from Lady Xatia informing me that due to ‘irreconcilable differences’ with my ‘critical and uncomprehending’ officials, she does not see her way to supporting the Imperial Service with any kind of financing matter going forward. What is more, this note was delivered by a runner from the Ouranatha, with whom she has apparently found a more sympathetic hearing. Help me understand, please, why she feels that you have been relentlessly hostile to her proposals?”

There was never any value in deferential circumlocution with Princess Indrogan, even if Cliopher had been capable of it. “Your highness," he said, "I have spent weeks assisting Lady Xatia in her scoping exercise. I have extended every courtesy to her throughout. She reviewed and approved every chapter of the draft report until this morning, when I added the assessment provided by the Treasury and added a summary introduction explaining its implications.”

The Princess’s direct gaze was formidable. Her expression did not soften.

“Was Lady Xatia unaware of the Treasury’s views?”

He kept his voice level. “Lady Xatia chose not to arrange a conversation with the Treasury, and declined to accompany me to meet with Sayu Loveless,” he said, “her focus was on the departments that she believed she could help. The Treasury, however, had legitimate concerns about her proposals.”

“Legitimate in whose view, Sayo Mdang? Your own?”

“Yes, your highness." He took a breath. "Lady Xatia is offering either to gouge the Imperial Service on the part of small businesses or to gouge small businesses on behalf of the Service. Either way she and her colleagues would take a cut from a series of unnecessary financial transactions. The Treasury have calculated the additional costs, which could collectively amount to millions should Lady Xatia implement every scheme she has proposed. Additionally, some departments have been lured into discussing loans for employees in advance of their salaries, at rates which appear superficially reasonable but which could prove punitive.”

“And you raised these concerns with Lady Xatia herself, I take it?”

The tension was thick in the air, but Princess Indrogan was a fair minded woman with a towering intellect (towering, he tried not to think, like a storm cloud). She was not happy with Cliopher, but at least she was listening.

“I raised concerns several times,” he said, “Lady Xatia dismissed them without discussion, but she knew my views throughout. She attempted to persuade me to set them aside and act as her agent in the Palace.”

The Princess glared at him for a few seconds longer and then grimaced. Cliopher felt some tension release at that flash of more natural emotion.

“No wonder she got your back up. I should have known. Very well, Sayo Mdang. Please give Kiri your report so that I can enjoy the finer details.”

Cliopher bowed, taking this as a dismissal, and was surprised when Indrogan sighed and waved him to take a seat.

“No doubt you and Loveless are correct,” she said, “but the outcome should have been finessed. Another time, Sayo Mdang, please refer your concerns to me before you blow up our connection to a powerful financier and all of her government contacts.”

Her resignation was somehow worse than her earlier anger. Cliopher looked down, seeing nothing, feeling the Princess’s disappointment as a crushing weight on his heart.

This was familiar, this sinking feeling. So often he felt like he was sailing smoothly in a fair wind, as though he was gliding on his skills and his efforts, and then came the mistakes… these pits, these whirlpools opened unexpectedly on the surface of the sea, sucking him down. He was a disappointment again to his mother, to his friends, to Ghilly, and here in Solaara to the colleagues he respected. It should not be a surprise, and yet every time he was surprised, miserably, by the gap between what he reached for and what he achieved.

“Cliopher,” said the Princess, more gently but without pity, “where do you see your career going?”

“I… truly do not know, your highness,” he said, looking up, surprised and a little alarmed by her use of his first name. He knew what he wanted, certainly. He wanted to take all of the cramped pages of treasonous speculation clasped in his writing bag out, and methodically test and develop and implement them to remake the government of Zunidh and restore the world. He wanted the aristocrats constrained and the Service reformed and decisions to be made as closely as possible to the people affected by them. He wanted Lord Meriloe gone, and the Ouranatha’s new torture chamber obliterated, and all their corrupt cronies peeled away from the levers of power.

He wanted the Last Emperor to read his reports. He wanted -

“I want to strengthen the Service and support good government,” he said, which was, like all those conversations with Lady Xatia, accurate but incomplete.

“I see.” Princess Indrogan regarded him dispassionately, then said, “you have a gift for disruption, Cliopher, but there is a limit to how far I can support you.”

“I understand, your highness,” he said, mouth dry with sudden apprehension, wondering why it was harder to accept her pity than her scorn.

“I can and have pushed Meriloe to implement your proposed reforms to redistribute the power to make junior appointments across the departments. He is, I believe, presenting it as his own proposal now, to general acclaim from the Upper Secretariat.”

Cliopher struggled to contain his scowl, disgusted but once again unsurprised. These dynamics had begun to feel like the fundamentals of his universe: the Princess holding back her power, Meriloe extending his, Cliopher muddling through the middle and inadvertently making things worse.

The Princess continued levelly. “Without a formal audit I cannot dismiss Meriloe. He has installed friends across the Service. There would be an outcry. It is highly likely that the chief priest-wizards would use the controversy to absorb much of his authority to make appointments, as they increasingly speak for the Glorious One and regard many matters of government as relevant to his celestial status.” Dry as the Jilkano desert, she added, “I can, of course, sack you.”

It was a strange relief to hear that bald statement. Conscious that the Princess made no idle threats, glad the these subjects were suddenly permissible, Cliopher found himself unexpectedly daring. Or perhaps not so much daring as (once more) unable not to say what he thought, even to the Minister in Chief.

“Your highness, nobody but you can counter the Ouranatha,” he said.

The Princess looked at him, looked at the door, then looked at him again, and said, crisply, “the government of Zunidh acts as one to implement the will of the Sun on Earth. It would be inappropriate for the Imperial Service to oppose the Ouranatha; the magical and mundane parts of government cooperate in perfect harmony, well balanced by the aristocrats, the judiciary and the generals.”

“Is it appropriate, then, for the Ouranatha to take on functions that the Service has always performed?”

“There is a healthy tension where the zeal of one function creates a risk of duplication with another,” she allowed, her long fingernails tapped a couple of times on her desk. “I would welcome an opportunity to clarify our remits with the Glorious One, but it is also imperative that we achieve a true meeting of the minds with our friends in finance,” she gave him a hard stare, “the military, and the court.”

Cliopher was reeling from the implication in the Princess’s careful use of language. Either she did not believe that her office was truly private, or she did not trust his discretion, and yet… the conversation continued. She was taking a risk, to give him this warning. He remembered all the times lately that he had thought her tired or distracted, and cold realisation gripped him.

The Princess was fully aware of the precarity of her position. She was desperate enough to hold out hope for support from Lady Xatia, to confide in a fifth degree secretary despite her disappointment in him, to be stymied by a bottom feeder like Lord Meriloe. She believed that the Ouranatha stood in a stronger position with the Emperor than herself, had a stronger hold on the aristocracy, and would be able to sidestep the courts.

He thought again of Lord Meriloe’s threats of magical torture from the Ouranatha and had to concede that she might be right about that last point.

“Your highness, let me help,” he said, almost pleading.

The Princess shook her head in frustration. “You have run through seven official and court appointments in under three years, Sayo Mdang. I cannot send you back to Meriloe, or recommend your services in good faith to any of my peers. Despite your penchant for argumentation, you have no legal training, nor, as I recall, any gift for magic?”

“No, your highness,” he admitted, quietly.

“Hmm,” her fingers drummed on the desk decisively. “The military, then. I will propose to General Ravillon that he considers your insights. A change of scenary will do you good, and it is high time the system of secondments between the Service and the army was reinstated. Do me a favour and try not to discover a nest of snakes in his command tent, Sayo Mdang, and next year we will reconsider your position.”

And, Cliopher’s thoughts continued, reinstating the secondments was something she could do without confronting the Master of Offices directly. More shocked by this reprieve than by any other part of the interview, he scrambled to his feet to bow his thanks and take his leave.

Princess Indrogan was looking tired again as she said, “And by the Sun, Cliopher, try to remember that patience is a finite resource.”

He could not help wondering, as he made his shaky way back to his room, whether the Princess realised the boundless demands she made on the patience of others.

Chapter Text

Viorin saya Hassia was leaving the Imperial Service.

She woke up one morning with that knowledge firmly lodged in her mind. There was no specific incident to trigger it. The back of her brain just up and presented her with the information: she had had enough of this shit.

She thought it through as she got up, washed and dressed, helped herself to fruit and made coffee, and set out on her daily walk to work. At this hour the streets were bright with the dawn, loud with birdsong, and sparsely peopled with other early risers.

The service had seemed an attractive career, once upon a time, and an unexpected opportunity. Viorin would never have put herself in for the Service exams in the days of fabled Astandalas the Golden; she had never wanted to move to another world. Her family were homebodies, several generations deep, all settled in the small collection of villages and hamlets that stretched downriver from sleepy rural Solaara.

As a child she could never have guessed that another world would come to her.

The day of the Fall, she had survived because her parents had taken her and her youngest brother on a family picnic to the riverside. Her older brother and her grandparents had been at home, near the centre of the old village of Solaara. Nobody had ever been able to say what had happened to the people inside the area where the Palace materialised, but it had been quick, at least. (She had to believe it had been quick.)

It had been a gut-wrenching relief, the first time someone managed to dig down through the rock and found that it was solid, that the former village of Solaara was not trapped underneath. Sometimes she let herself imagine that it had been a straight swap, that Shugh and her Nana and Gramps had translated across to Ysthar and made a life for themselves.

(That was impossible. Astandalas the Golden had been enveloped in the cataclysm. She still let herself picture it, when she needed to.)

Since the Fall, the Palace had loomed over Solaara. It was always in the corner of her eyes, at the back of her mind. As she climbed up from the riverbank the curve of a street or the brow of a ridge of rooftops sometimes hid her destination briefly, but it was always there, the centre of most of her days.

Food was scarce in the early days, with the harvests interrupted. Medical care still cost dear even now. Her parents weren’t getting any younger. Palace folk, she heard, had access to Palace stores. Viorin in her teens already wrote a good clear hand and she needed a reliable salary. She had liked the idea of helping to set things to rights, too.

In the topsy-turvy years after the Fall the Service had been in disarray, the entrance requirements minimal. The ready rhythm of exams and admissions was in abeyance, anybody who lived nearby and could hold a pen could audition in an afternoon and get to work.

Since her family village was now a Solaaran suburb she had no need to move into the Palace. She still enjoyed the morning walk up through the centre of town, but almost every other aspect of the job had steadily deteriorated over the years.

At first there was no difference between old Service hands and those recruited in the crisis, but over time a distinct hierarchy developed: officials who remembered Astandalas formed a career-boosting network, those who had passed the revived entrance examinations had a certain cachet, and those who had neither distinction were routinely overlooked.

Viorin had counted herself lucky to reach a head clerk position in the Administrative Office when she was in her early thirties. She had imagined staying for three or four years, learning how to run a room, then looking for promotion into one of the bigger departments. The old Master of Offices, Gavinor, had been a real gent, despite his bluff manner, and she had got on well with his secretaries and with her own wider team.

The last stretch of her daily walk before the Palace was the steepest and most crowded part, busy both because she reached it just after the second hour when the town was stirring itself into wakefulness and because many of her Service colleagues also started work between the second and third hours of the morning. She slowed down, as usual, not wanting to exert herself too much in the gathering heat of the day.

Opportunity after career opportunity had came up and slipped away to others. She was too local, too young, too uncredentialed, and then all at once, most unfairly, too old. Gavinor left and Meriloe took over and the whole Office slowly turned sour round the edges.

Viorin had stayed at first for the sake of her team, and then out of habit.

This past year or two she had been staying on out of a misplaced sense of loyalty to Cliopher Mdang, a man who hardly seemed to register her existence. He was warm and friendly enough as a colleague, decent and funny and sweetly earnest, but somehow he never quite let down his barriers enough for her to call him a friend.

Mdang was digging into his fruitless crusade against corruption. To Viorin Hassia the thought of picking a fight with the person who controlled your appointment had very little attraction, as much as she had occasionally wanted to punch Merry in the nose, but Mdang would not be dissuaded. At least their mutual friend Kiri was keeping an eye out for him.

The last part of her commute was a long trek up and across the grand staircases and corridors of the Palace itself. Viorin had long since stopped noticing the fancy stonework, the priceless artistry, but she always appreciated the steady cool air and the soft hush guaranteed by those acres of carpets and drapes.

It was deeply frustrating how someone so intelligent could be so obtuse. Mdang was better than anyone she had ever met at understanding the dynamics of the Upper Secretariat. He obviously knew exactly what Merry was up to, and exactly how to put his finger on a pain point and push. And yet somehow he missed that the most probable outcome of angering powerful aristocrats was an ignominious end to his reports, his career, and quite possibly his life.

Here she was, tying herself in knots over Cliopher Mdang again. She had to stop obsessing over the man. He had, after all, politely but firmly made it clear that he was uninterested in getting to know her better.

She had a sneaking suspicion that he knew the political game he was playing and was idealist enough to think the stakes justified the risk. It was inspiring. It was infuriating. It was terrifying.

Viorin unpacked her kit from her desk, checked her calendar, took a look at the in-tray, and made a round of the office greeting her team and colleagues. Drat Mdang. The Palace might not be the snakepit it was in Astandalas, but only because the Fall crumbled away the sides of the pit and let the snakes that survived crawl free in the wreckage.

Lord Meriloe came sweeping in at the fourth hour, at usual. Merry seldom deigned to notice Viorin directly but his secretary routinely hassled her for paperwork whenever the Master of Offices was in the room. She put up with this, as she had for years now, because the woman ignored her all the rest of the time and she had no desire to give her or Merry an excuse to start interfering while Viorin did both her job and parts of theirs.

Princess Indrogan and Lord Meriloe would grind Sayo Mdang down to nothing, between them. Pour cold water on a fire long enough and it would go out. And if that didn’t work (and a small part of her knew that it wouldn’t) then his enemies would find more direct methods.

She finished the last of her morning messages, took down a fresh sheet of paper, and drafted her letter of resignation.

She was young enough to find another career, another purpose. There were big trading houses down by the docks, now, expanding every year. They would fight to recruit a Palace-trained clerk, and pay her better, too. A woman with a neat hand who could wrangle a ledger and run an office could name her price, near enough.

Sooner or later Merry would assign Mdang to the Ouranatha, or to the Lord Emperor, or some other place where his refusal to moderate his tone would land his neck on the executioner’s block.

Viorin was getting out before that happened.

Chapter Text

Cliopher approached General Ravillon’s Palace headquarters with decidedly mixed emotions.

The armies of Astandalas were immense, implacable, heroic and fanatically loyal, at least in the official songs and stories of the Empire. The songs and stories of those they had defeated were, naturally, much harder to find.

The Vangavaye-ve had never been conquered by Astandalas, not that many Palace folk knew or cared for that distinction. The great Emperor and mage Aurelius Magnus made alliance with the Paramount Chief Elonoa’a, and the tale in the Islander Lays made it clear that this was, at first, an equal partnership. That equality scarcely outlasted the great heroes of old, but the story of Aurelius Magnus and Elonoa’a was one of exploration and adventure that appealed deeply to the Islanders, formed one of their central cultural motifs, and had shaped the half of Cliopher’s own heart that was not bewitched by the far more piercing and accusatory paeans on the Empire from the dashing revolutionary pen and harp of the poet Fitzroy Angursell.

Aurelius Magnus had been stranded without his soldiers when he first took to the sea with Elonoa’a, and the Islander Lays were far more interested in navigation than in warfare, so it was the perspective of the rebel poet that informed Cliopher’s early understanding of the military might of Astandalas the Golden.

It was true that the nature and extent of the Imperial wars had shifted under Artorin Damara; the expansion slowed, the borders steadied, and most of the ongoing conflict lingered around intractable ancient enmity in the places where the bitter build up of centuries of fighting snarled unpredictable knots in the prospect of peaceful negotiation.

It was also true that the Fall had ripped apart the five worlds of the Empire and that the soldiers in and around the Palace had been essential to the first, dazed crisis response. Cliopher had, a century or so ago, worked closely with the guards seconded to Princess Indrogan’s Office, and had come to like and respect some of them a great deal.

The Palace Guard had, naturally enough, made up the majority of the military might in the Palace on the night of the Fall. They had absorbed the few other soldiers available and merged with the smaller force that traditionally attended the Lady Magus of Zunidh.

Most of the other Imperial forces on Zunidh had, at first, been isolated from one another and from their command structure. Some had been separated by hundreds or thousands of years, and existed now only in legends of the ancestors of towns that sprang up where the garrisons had been based. Others had put themselves under the command of the most senior noble available in their region, from the Grand Duchess of Damara to the self-styled Prince of Amboloyo.

The largest force had been lost with drowned Kavanor; the second largest, under General Ravillon near Csiven in Western Dair, had secured their garrison and sent scouting parties across the continent. Within a couple of years, from their perspective, they had found the Palace and their sleeping Emperor; to General Ravillon’s discomfort more than ninety years had passed in the Palace since the Fall and the Palace Guard was well established as the core of the Imperial forces.

Princess Indrogan had been magnificent, wrangling General Ravillon, the Commander of the Palace Guard, and Lady Jivane’s advisory council of (mostly) retired generals into a sensible command structure that remained accountable to the civilian authorities even when the supreme head of the armed forces was locked in a magically induced coma.

When the Last Emperor awoke and took on the mantle of the Lord Magus of Zunidh some of the tension resolved, but the situation remained delicate. Cliopher had left Solaara on his long voyage home and missed the next steps of the dance, but he remembered the Princess talking about the political capital she had expended holding the centre together. She had invested a great deal in making a friend of General Ravillon, clearly, to the extent that she felt comfortable sending a liability like Cliopher over to him to hide away.

The General’s office was right out at the end of the Zuni Wing, entirely across the Palace from Cliopher’s rooms. The walk gave him plenty of time to look for bright sides. This was not, technically, a demotion or a punishment. Acting as an aide to General Ravillon was similar to joining a Minister’s secretarial team. The military were integral to Astandalan government; things might be different after the Fall but making contacts and getting to know the expectations and pressures of the General’s HQ would be helpful, in the long run.

It was still a shipwreck. Cliopher was so tired of dragging his vaha up on yet another beach, of starting again from scratch to scope out the opportunities of each new island. He could not, quite, wish that he had stayed in comfort at the Ministry of Trade, but he also could not, quite, see the next star of his ke’ea any longer. The storm clouds towered too heavily, obscured too much of the sky, and he was not a navigator like Elonoa’a.

His imagination presented a vision of heavy dark clouds in the shape of Princess Indrogan’s tucked-away stare, that unnerving expression which let no hint of her true feelings show, and the image gave him just enough energy to smile and offer his name affably to the splendidly correct guards.

The guard eyed his Service robes, saluted perfunctorily, and directed a runner to show him to the General's office. Cliopher tried not to show too much obvious curiosity as he was led through the headquarters. The military costumes were richer in colour and decoration than his Service robes, and the staffers filling them were more uniform in height, youth, and an indefinable air of boisterous good health than officials in any civilian department. Apart from that, the army headquarters were disappointingly similar to the service offices, with the same compromise between the glorious marble and soaring proportions of the Palace and the mundanity of filing and paperwork.

The runner delivered him to General Ravillon’s anteroom, where the general kept a smaller core administrative staff than Princess Indrogan. The room held the familiar messenger station, a row of benches for petitioners to await the general’s pleasure, and about ten people in unfamiliar military dress, all of whom looked up to give Cliopher a slightly scornful once-over.

Cliopher, nettled, looked them over with his best bland expression and hoped it conveyed ambiguously polite disapproval.

The four closest to the messenger station were younger and wore fewer decorations than the others; all were copying notes. An older and remarkably broad-shouldered woman at the end of that row was likely in charge of the scribal side of the room, therefore. The clerk at the desk would be coordinating messages, meetings and budgets; Cliopher noted the empty sleeve pinned to their tunic, and the flashy additional badges, and guessed that the trusted position might be something of a reward.

That left the four senior staffers, clearly all officers. Cliopher bowed politely to them as a group, and said “good morning! My name is Cliopher sayo Mdang and I have been seconded to General Ravillon’s office. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

There was a brief silence, which Cliopher hoped was not too astonished, and then the most gorgeously dressed of the soldiers stood up to return the bow while his colleagues exchanged laughing glances. One made a decided unmilitary face and a great show of flicking a coin across the desk to another, who ostentatiously gestured her thanks.

“I’m General Ravillon’s chief of staff, name of Brigadier Datchet - this is Major Haion - Captain Ulu - and Captain Ramanach, who has just won a quarter off Ulu.” The Brigadier rolled his eyes at Ramanach and grinned. “We were… unsure whether to expect you today.”

“None of the civvies we’ve been threatened with have ever actually turned up,” said Ulu, reproachfully, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Well, here I am,” said Cliopher, with another half bow.

“Oh, stop bobbing up and down and grab a desk,” said Datchet, “I’ll go dust off the security protocols and we’ll get you settled.”

Ulu waved him away with what he hoped was mock disapproval, so Cliopher slung the bag with his writing kit behind the chair next to Haion and sat down.

Haion raised a narrow eyebrow but shifted some papers to make space for him. Datchet returned a few moments later with a dog-eared folder. “Take a gander,” he said, “but it boils down to: don’t take any papers home with you, don’t chat about the work out of the office, and do what you’re told while you’re with us.”

Cliopher dutifully leafed through the paperwork, which amounted to the same code of practice in place in the Minister in Chief’s office set out with a few more bullet points and underlined sentences.

The aides settled back to a fascinating discussion about a series of planning exercises the general had commissioned. Cliopher finished his reading, closed the folder, and listened as unobtrusively as possible.

General Ravillon was nominally in charge of nearly twenty thousand troops. A quarter of that number had been left at the garrison near Csiven, a quarter had been dispatched on scouting missions, and a smaller number had been transferred over to Princess Indrogan to bolster the courier service. The remaining force was quartered on the plains outside Solaara and was available to be deployed in defence of the capital. The general wanted to war game the potential threats of invasion, from the low-probability high-impact scenario of a Fae incursion to the more mundane and unfortunately much more likely threat of some jumped-up aristo marching to the gates of Solaara and trying to hold the government to ransom.

Cliopher slowly established from the conversation that Major Haion was in charge of the small battalion of military mages that had survived the Fall, that Captain Ramanach was in some capacity the liaison with the Palace intelligence service, and that Captain Ulu was Datchet’s deputy and already tearing her hair out trying to get all the right officers in the right rooms to run the exercises.

After an hour or so he made a tentative comment about the food stores in Solaara. Haion raised an eyebrow again and Ulu asked “what the hell do you know about it?”

To his surprise, Cliopher found himself instinctively reaching for his formal bow, his bland bureaucrat voice. “Two year ago I assisted Lord Oriaz and Lady Angusta with a thorough analysis of the sustainability of Solaara’s nutritional needs. I can assure you I am familiar with the problem.”

“Go on,” said Datchet, challenging but open. Cliopher outlined what he remembered of the project assumptions, the modelling undertaken, and their key takeaways. Haion’s other eyebrow went up, reaching a pleasing symmetry of surprise. Ulu gaped for a second and then scribbled notes. “The research is in the Archive,” he added, “if it would be helpful.”

Captain Ramanach looked a little chagrined. “How come we’ve never heard of this?”

“Lord Oriaz and Lady Angusta revised the scope of the report when they concluded that Solaara was not in immediate danger of starvation,” Cliopher replied, “the research is buried in an annex.”

“Hmm,” said Datchet, but it was less sceptical. “Ulu, dig out our research, will you, and let Madon take a look at it? Let’s see if there are any other gaps he can fill.”

Cliopher bowed again, and chose not to say anything about the pronunciation of his name. The hint of tension was still hanging between them. Everything would become much harder if he offered another correction just now, if he gave them reason to think that he was an irritant, a pedant.

It was so easy, this business of compromising on the manner of his presentation. He reminded himself again, fiercely, that he was not compromising on the substance of who he was.

Datchet and team were not exactly hostile but they regarded him with persistent low-grade suspicion. It seemed to help when he played up the bureaucratic mannerisms, particularly when he returned exaggerated politeness for their curt questions. Ulu thawed noticeably when Cliopher offered to help with the scheduling, and Ramanach when his review of the Archives found only a handful of additional papers that she had missed, and he carefully pointed out in each case how politics or civilian mis-filing was to blame. Haion was far more expressive with his eyebrows than his words, but he was the first to start asking Cliopher for his thoughts on the scenarios under consideration.

Cliopher’s only previous experience of scenario planning had come during the immediate aftermath of the Fall, when the emergency demanded rapid assessments and the stakes were both dire and immediate. This work felt different, in that each scenario was built off a hypothetical event that had not yet occurred. Even if the incidents between nobles continued to escalate, the prospect of an army marching on Solaara itself was still comfortably remote.

After the first week Datchet began to rotate secretarial duties for General Ravillon between Ulu and Cliopher. The General was a hawk-like man with deep brown Shaian colouring, an aristocratically shaved scalp, and a noticeably crooked nose. His height and build were decidedly average, which meant that he looked slight and short amongst all his tall, burly soldiers. His courtly formalities were precise, almost clipped, but all he said to Cliopher was the occasional curt “thank you, Sayo Mdon” or “take an action, please”.

Much as he chafed at being diverted from his confrontation with Meriloe, Cliopher had to admit that he was enjoying being the odd one out among Ravillon’s aides. The army was a different hierarchy, a different world, where nobody cared much about his past unless it was relevant to their work. His new colleagues knew as little about the Imperial Service as Cliopher had known about the military before this assignment. Their gossip was all army gossip and they regarded the rest of the Palace as some kind of decorative background. He had to explain the meaning of his hat, and they delighted in pitying his ignorance and talking him through their decorations of rank and service.

He learned that the Imperial Guard (unlike the Army) selected for splendid presentational physique as well as physical prowess, and were accordingly scorned by the ‘real soldiers’. He learned that the mages were not required to match the physical training regime demanded of the ranks, and so were also to be pitied, though not as much as a benighted civilian like Cliopher himself.

Ulu and Ramanach took turns inviting him out to the practice fields to try his luck, and Cliopher made his excuses. “I’m not a fighter,” he said.

“You could be,” said Ramanach, eyeing him critically. “You’re not too unfit, for a civvy.”

“And you’d enjoy beating me up, would you?”

Her grin turned a little feral. “Ooh, I think Ulu would enjoy it more,” she said.

Cliopher looked over at the massively built captain, laughed, and waved them both off.

—

A month slipped past, and General Ravillon scheduled a chat to ask how Cliopher was settling in.

Sitting down in front of the desk, rather than unobtrusively in the corner to take notes, Cliopher reflected that the General’s office was similar to Princess Indrogan’s, although instead of the glass art in the fireplace he had decorated with a large and lavish map of Zunidh on the wall.

“Settling in all right, then?” Ravillon asked.

“Yes, thank you,” said Cliopher, remembering at the last second to slightly deepen his acknowledging gestures in recognition of the General’s army service.

Ravillon nodded. “Princess Indrogan said you’re a sound man. I understand she’s having trouble with her wizards. Bunch of shiny silver fools on the civvy side, I’m afraid, d’you know they tried to nab my mages? Said that esoteric arts were all the same.”

Cliopher had no magical senses whatsoever, and was glad of it, having seen how traumatic the Fall was for those more closely attuned to the worlds’ magic. “Military mages are different?” he asked, politely.

Ravillon snorted, a sound made more emphatic by his crooked boxer’s nose. “Totally different,” he said. “The army operates on every world, and beyond the Pax Astandalatis. Couldn’t function without mobile magical foci. And discipline, of course. Soft idiots in the Palace think everything should run to their bells. Well, I’m not having any of that. Magic serves the Empire, it doesn’t run it.”

Cliopher nodded agreement, hoping that Ravillon was speaking of empire in the present tense out of habit and not out of any misguided idea that the exhausted Zunidh government should embark on a new imperial adventure.

—

That afternoon he found Haion by himself in a corner of the headquarters canteen, nursing a mug of coffee and staring into space. On an impulse, he sat down nearby and pulled out his daily stack of meeting notes to summarise. It was a routine task and as easily done here as elsewhere, and he was curious about the taciturn mage.

After a few minutes Cliopher looked up to find Haion watching him with amusement. “There’s a copying tray in the office, you know,” he said.

“I know,” Cliopher replied, “but summarising makes them easier to read, and helps me clarify what the General wanted.”

“So you don’t object to magic, then?”

Cliopher shrugged. “I used the copying tray in Princess Indrogan’s office all the time for reports,” he said, “why, do you find people do?”

Haion sighed. “I forget how long it’s been for you, since the Fall,” he said, putting his coffee mug on the table and cupping his hands round it. “For us… three years, coming up to four.”

“That’s - not long,” said Cliopher, disturbed. “Was it… are you…?”

He could not say was it difficult, because of course it was. He could not say are you okay? because of course Haion wasn’t.

“I get by,” said Haion, shortly.

“I understand the Fall was harder for magic-users,” said Cliopher, tentatively. “The Palace mages have had a century to recover, those that survived.”

“They have rebuilt,” said Haion, looking down into the depths of his coffee mug.

“I - understand that the rebuilding may not be complete,” said Cliopher, looking down at his notes to avoid seeming too interested. This would be a sensitive subject, he was sure, but he could not help thinking how valuable it would be for Princess Indrogan to have reference to magic users not fully bound to the Ouranatha.

“What do you mean?” asked Haion, looking up from his coffee so suddenly that Cliopher instinctively raised his head to meet his gaze.

The mage’s eyes were a deep brown, almost as dark as the black coffee he was drinking, but even as Cliopher had the thought they swirled with a lighter colour as though a ripple of cream was stirred into the cup.

“I heard the priest-wizards’ magic stopped working,” he said, a little more plainly than planned.

Haion held the gaze and Cliopher did not look away, though the uncanny sense of motion in the other man’s eyes left him feeling a little seasick.

“Oh,” said Haion lightly, “I’ve heard that rumour. It’s not true, you know. The Ouranatha retain every magical faculty, in direct service to the Glorious and Illustrious One.” He smiled and looked down again at his coffee cup.

Cliopher shook his head slightly, but the brief moment of dizziness had passed. It was a relief to know that the Ouranatha had their powers intact, he thought, though the scornful General might not agree.

“Do you work with them often?” he asked, vaguely.

“Not us, no,” said Haion, “the General’s not keen. But we keep tabs on them. It’s a professional rivalry thing.”

“A professional rivalry with the civilians?” said Cliopher, “you astonish me.”

Haion laughed and drained his coffee cup. “Always happy to talk shop,” he said, “as long as it’s not state secrets. Come and find me again if you have any other questions about the Ouranatha and I’ll be delighted to help out.”

Chapter Text

Cliopher enjoyed the research stages of the military planning exercises, and found that he could often contribute a connection or an idea from the wider Service or from his time in Solaara just after the Fall.

Once the scenarios were sketched out he and Ulu organised a larger group of officers who came in from other duties for day-long challenge and review sessions, an invigorating exercise and one which he had never seen in the service. They split the group into teams and worked through the scenario from beginning to end, one team speaking for the enemy, or the crisis, setting out their challenge, and the other for Ravillon’s staff, describing their actions in response.

This was harder. The officers were playful, in that bright and brittle way Cliopher remembered being playful during the worst of the crisis. He felt an answering flippancy rising in himself; not exactly a lack of gravity, but a practical recognition that coping meant disregarding any emotional response and treating all of the numbers as a way of keeping score. In the exercise itself this worked. Cliopher, describing the hypothetical sequence of events he and Haion had theorised around an invasion from Fairyland, might announce “officers, the unnatural darkness now fully surrounds the Palace and you can no longer see the stars. The third bell is ringing. The mage lights in the Palace have gone out.”

And someone would answer, “well shit, my team can’t read their next steps!”

And everybody, including Cliopher, would laugh.

And at the end of the day they would go together down into Solaara, to a totally different set of bars from those Cliopher had occasionally visited with his service colleagues, and some would get drunk and some would get maudlin and one or two were inclined to start fights.

This part dragged out of him some tanà training he hardly knew he remembered: his Uncle Lazo was adept at handling distressed and difficult drunks and Cliopher found himself using the calmly authoritative voice, the gentle deflections, and the incredibly valuable trick of wordlessly supplying plenty of water from the start of the evening.

(And there was nobody to note how, every so often, in his rooms, Cliopher sat and stared at the wall while the back of his brain shuddered apart with the collapse of Astandalas and all the lights went out.)

After the challenge sessions came the meticulous but satisfying work of pulling together the implications and drafting up a formal protocol for future reference. Cliopher’s experience drafting reports and his lack of other officer responsibilities made him the natural candidate to do the bulk of the paperwork, which Ramanach and Ulu were happy to leave to him.

Once he had grasped the essentials of the army-approved drafting style, the writing rapidly became his favourite part of the week. Each Protocol included some steps to be taken immediately, such as ensuring that non-magical forms of lighting were available throughout the Palace, some steps to be taken in the event of the emergency, such as designating the responsibility for obtaining and deploying lighting to a named member of each squad, and a covering note with suggestions for research and development, such as a question for Major Haion to answer on whether the Palace magelights could be made more resilient.

There was something deeply satisfying about breaking down disasters into their component pieces and methodically disarming them. It gave him something better to think about in the aftermath of a nightmare, too, an answer from the waking mind to the sleeping one: yes, indeed, let us make sure that this never catches us unprepared again.

—

His new world was so absorbing that Cliopher only realised how completely he had lost track of Imperial Service gossip when a note arrived inviting him to Saya Hassia’s leaving drinks. Of course he would attend, though he felt a frisson of - not fear, but concern, palpable concern - at how his former colleagues might react to his disgrace, to Princess Indrogan’s blatant move to shuffle him off game board of the Imperial Service for now.

Saya Hassia had picked the largest of the three bars most frequented by Service members, the Sun-in-Glory. It was set on a prime corner spot where the cobbled street divided round it and ran down on both sides towards different districts near the river. This close to the Palace the slope was steep enough that the owners had been able to open a terrace garden across the flat roof of the buildings below, with a spectacular view across the lower city.

Cliopher fought his way through to the main bar, smiled wryly at the motto “we make the world run hunk-a-dory / in service to the Sun in Glory” that was painted in gorgeous lettering across the top of the chalkboard drinks menu, secured a drink, and fought his way back out to the terrace where he had spotted some familiar faces from the Administrative Office.

He need not have worried about his colleagues’ reactions. In this whirl of people and noise nobody looked at him twice until he found Saya Hassia, and with her Kiri, Eala, Bezzin, and a handful of other officials he knew by nodding acquaintance.

Eala and Bezzin were both in full Service robes. Cliopher felt a pang of guilt for forgetting to follow up on their exam results, and congratulated them warmly. Initial appointments for their whole cohort had, it turned out, been the first made from within the departments rather than through the Administrative Office. Bezzin had won a highly competitive place as a junior analyst at the Treasury, and Eala was on the secretarial track at Health. Cliopher tried not to question them too closely about their experience of the new appointments process, nor to make mental notes for a follow-up report, but he could not help being glad that something worthwhile had come out of his otherwise futile arm-wrestling with the Master of Offices.

“Sayo Mdang! You came!” cried Hassia with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, breaking into their conversation.

“Of course I came,” he said, “I can’t believe we’re losing you! How will Merry survive?”

She grimaced at him, and tugged him back a little from the throng so they were standing close against the balcony. Warm air was rising from the city below, a soft humid breeze tugging at their hair and clothes.

“It’s not my survival I’m worried about,” Saya Hassia said, meaningfully.

Cliopher shrugged. “I know you all worry,” he said, “but I’m quite safe in Ravillon’s HQ. Unless Ulu manages to lure me onto a practice field somehow! I am entirely surrounded by the earnestly loyal and the hyper-fit.”

Hassia shook her head in frustration. “Merry is utterly petty,” she said, “and I’ve seen him wait a lot longer than a year to squash someone who annoyed him far less than you did. And I don’t trust his friends, particularly not the silver robes.”

The clamour of the crowd surged behind them and Cliopher winced at the sudden spike of a headache. He was reminded why he tended to avoid evenings here, even out on the terrace.

Kiri, who had turned to join them, nodded. “Somebody put that listening stone in your room,” she said, her light conversational tone at odds with the words. “That’s either new magework or something from the Ouranatha’s holdings, and you know what’s most likely.”

Cliopher shook his head, then put his drink down and rubbed his forehead as though he could smooth away the growing ache. “Sorry,” he said, “been at my desk too long today I think.”

The glance that Kiri and Hassia exchanged was both fond and exasperated. “I am truly shocked to hear that you’ve been overworking yourself, Sayo Mdang,” said Hassia, rolling her eyes. “Utterly astonished. It’s so out of character.”

He smiled sheepishly as they laughed, and tried to keep the tension off his face as the headache intensified. It was rising and falling in waves, now, like an iron band tightening and loosening about his skull.

As soon as felt decently polite he made his excuses and slipped away, concentrating too hard on keeping his face smooth and his voice even to do more than distantly note the disappointment from Saya Hassia. He knew that there was a pang of loneliness and misery there, and regret that would sharpen later, but the immediate physical pain and fear pushed it aside.

Cliopher got out of the bar without incident and turned half-blindly uphill towards the Palace. It felt like his head was splitting open and it was getting worse, and now he could tell that it was getting worse because it was tied to a deep inner well of confusion about the Ouranatha. He needed to get somewhere quiet to think, to be safe.

It was as though one half of his mind was knotted tightly around a core of fear and worry of the state magicians, and the other half was equally tightly clinging to a warm reassurance of their loyalty and trustworthiness. The two convictions were deeply, painfully, at odds, and yet equally real. The more he tried to interrogate either perspective, the more the iron bands tightened, and yet Cliopher’s stubborn intellect revolted at the dissonance and he could not let the question go. Surely he had made notes about this? He could not recall their contents. His mind was fuzzy with pain.

The headache seemed to be spreading beyond the physically boundaries of his head, encompassing the stairs he clambered up and the corridors he stumbled along. A guard gave him an amused look, clearly taking him for an early drunk. Cliopher waved away an offer of help, wincing. He reached his room at last and on the third try managed to unlock his door before him and lock it again behind him. He swung his writing bag onto his desk - that habit of always carrying it on his person was surely associated with this suspicion that was tearing his thoughts apart? - and pulled out the notes.

There were, indeed, notes on the Ouranatha.

The pressure built in his head as he stared at them, built and built until he thought he would pass out. His mind tried to grasp the memory of writing and thinking about the priest wizards, and ran into a blanket of reassurance, an emotional nexus that did not fit with the evidence of his eyes.

The real and the unreal emotions were at war, straining against one another, inflamed and engorged beyond capacity. His swollen thoughts seemed to fill the room, the Palace, the world, stretching and straining beyond his ability to contain or control them.

His brain felt like a puffer fish that kept on puffing out, sharp spines in all directions, expanding and expanding beyond all reason - it could not go on expanding forever, surely, something would have to give - he had no awareness of his body, of his physicality, of anything but the fierce pounding agony that engulfed and enveloped everything bar the awareness that there was a person here and that person was in pain -

And then, with a high, sharp, sweet pop the tension broke.

Cliopher came back to himself.

He was sitting slumped at his desk, his ears ringing, his face and robes damp with sweat and tears, his breath coming in fast, rasping, pants, his whole body thrumming with a backwash of emotion and sweet relief.

The pain was gone. By contrast this quietly aching aftermath felt glorious. His body relaxed involuntarily as though into a warm bath, into a soft bed.

At first he felt like he could sit there forever, enjoying the rush of clarity and energy that came with the clearing of his mind. Soon, though, the discomfort of his sticky robes and slumped posture slowly came through. Cliopher sat up, rolled his shoulders, rocked his head gently from side to side.

The pain was gone. He gingerly looked down at his notes, let his mind tiptoe towards the question of the Ouranatha -

- the money they had paid to bribe Meriloe and undermine Indrogan - the arrangement with the pages to receive messages early, to feign foreknowledge - the mirrored decorations rather than magical sparks woven into the High Priest Solaris’s robes - Lady Kuyulush’s agreement that their magic did not work - the patterns of messages, of appointments - their overt and covert attempts to redirect the devotion of the people, to turn the Last Emperor into even more of a living god - their greedy absorption of the functions of the Imperial Service, of the power to direct the government - the magical device planted in his own room, by whom he did not know -

- and Haion had countered this with… with what? Cliopher’s recollection was hazy, but he could swear that Haion had simply told him, very convincingly, that the Ouranatha were loyal.

Haion had not said to whom the Ouranatha were loyal.

Haion had created a powerful sense of trust, of reassurance, with that single ambiguous phrase.

Major Haion was General Ravillon’s chief mage, skilled in all the arts of magic relevant to war. Including deception of the senses, of the emotions, and of the intellect.

The word for the emotion that he was feeling now was, Cliopher thought precisely, rage. Fury blazed up within him, volcanic anger all the fiercer for being laced through with fear.

How dare Haion casually meddle with his mind? How dare he take Cliopher’s freedom of thought away from him? Intelligence, a quick understanding, the ability to grasp a problem and rapidly unravel it - that was all that Cliopher had. He would never be the tallest, the best-looking, or have a natural flair for song or poetry or any kind of sport. He had his brains and his persistence. All of Cliopher’s gifts, all of his hopes, everything he was and could become depended on the confidence in the carefully honed skill at reasoning. And Haion had tried to take that away from him.

Cliopher let himself sit and shake and sob with the reaction, here in the privacy of his own rooms.

Some immeasurable time later his tired brain shifted, as if the wind had shifted, and started moving again, asking questions.

Why had Haion tried to convince him to trust the Ouranatha? The magic - whatever it was, and Cliopher was probably the least qualified person in the Palace even to begin to hazard a guess - the magic had been laid on lightly enough to break in the presence of contrary evidence. Either it was intended to fail, or Haion did not expect Cliopher to have any interest or information that could threaten it.

He had approached Haion cautiously, suggesting that he was idly repeating a rumour. If Cliopher’s interest had been as casual as he implied, there likely would have been nothing to contradict Haion’s reassurance. He would have left the rumour aside, possibly sought to reassure others who were concerned, and… nothing more.

Cliopher shuddered at the thought of having a wrong idea implanted so aggressively in his mind, but acknowledged even as he shuddered that it was possible for unprincipled liars to implant bad ideas just as effectively with tricks of rhetoric. It was not the magic that revolted him, but the intimacy of the deception. If he did not let himself be distracted by the means, what could he deduce about the ends Haion was working towards?

There was no obvious gain to Haion or anybody else from Cliopher’s brief deception so far, and now that the implanted emotion had worked loose Cliopher was if anything more of a threat to Haion than he could possibly have been before. Assume, then, that Haion expected the enchantment to pass unchallenged and to hold for some time.

Haion had implanted a reassurance about the activities of the Ouranatha to counter an idle rumour, and to leave Cliopher feeling warmly disposed towards the priest-wizards.

A Cliopher who was reassured would not raise concerns with his seniors, but Haion’s method revealed that he did not know that Cliopher had evidence, and without evidence an assertion of rumours against the Ouranatha would make little difference to Princess Indrogan or General Ravillon. The rumours were not new. It was unlikely, therefore, that this was targeted to prevent any specific conversation.

If Haion were working for, or with, or alongside the Ouranatha he might have reason to want to increase the number of their advocates within the Palace, to help counter some of those rumours. If that were the case Cliopher might be one of a number of victims carrying false emotions.

It was also possible that Haion wanted to protect Cliopher from the priest-wizards and felt that the best way to do so was to reach for his own familiar magic. The kindest thing that could be said about that scenario was that it was dangerous and deeply misguided but not actively hostile, but if the intent was to help then the man might be teachable.

On reflection, if Haion was routinely using magic to improve views of the priest-wizards then it was strange that General Ravillon remained so suspicious of them. Strange, but not totally inexplicable. It could be that Haion had some compunction about not using magic against a superior officer. Cliopher was, after all, a civilian. He knew his military colleagues well enough to see how that might make enchanting him ‘for his own good’ seem like a reasonable thing to do.

Cliopher picked himself slowly out of his chair, one steadying hand on his desk. Any analyst needed to know when they reached the end of the insights that could reasonably be inferred from the material they had to work with. If he wanted to draw any further conclusions, he would have to gather more data. His shocky reaction to the headache was receding, and the volcanic rage had not so much faded as cooled into stony determination. The thing about magecraft, the essential thing, for the non-magical pretty much the only thing, was that you had to be able to trust the mages.

Major Haion had shown himself unworthy of trust. Perhaps it was a misjudgement, perhaps it was well-intended, perhaps it seemed like a small thing to a man used to wielding arcane power on a battlefield. It didn't matter. None of the possible reasons or excuses mattered. This went beyond Cliopher; this was about integrity at the highest level of the armed forces. It had to be reported to Ravillon, first thing. There would be precedents… protocols, he thought, with a weary sigh, wiping the residue of sweat and grime from his face.

He tried not to think about the likely perspective of a traditional Astandalan general on a common-born civilian accusing one of his senior officers of a serious crime, or the career and personal risks inherent in General Ravillon decided to end the secondment, or how much he had enjoyed and learned from his time with the army. There was something terribly clarifying about that tremendous wave of agony, that huge breach of trust.

His vaha drifted under a bright sky, tattered sail catching a fair wind, taking on water but not - not yet - submerged. The sea was barren ahead and behind, and he had lost the next star of his ke’ea, but he had not lost himself.

If there was one thing Clopher had learned it was that the sea had her own ways. The ocean was far bigger than him. There might be an island over the horizon, and then again there might not.

Sometimes all you could do was set the course and keep sailing.

Chapter Text

It took several days to discreetly secure a private conversation with General Ravillon. Cliopher was unwilling to say more to the clerk than that it was a sensitive matter he felt the general would want to hear about as soon as possible. He considered mentioning a security concern, to increase the urgency of the request, but decided that it was not worth the risk of triggering some protocol that forced a discussion with the rest of the general’s aides first. Ravillon was Indrogan’s ally. Ravillon had the seniority to demand answers from Haion. Ravillon was the only person who had criticised the Ouranatha to his face since he started in this role. If the general would not listen to him, then - Cliopher would go back to the Princess, for this, even if she washed her hands of him thereafter.

The morning after the compulsion broke was… difficult. Walking into work and casually sitting down at the desk next to Haion took a level of control that Cliopher had not known was possible. Just the sight of the mage’s uniform set his heart thundering in his chest. Glancing at that smooth, mobile face - meeting those brown eyes and smiling at the quirk of Haion’s raised brows - holding himself naturally and concealing the tremble of banked emotion - he must, so he did. Somehow.

“You’re looking a bit peaky this morning, Mdang,” said Datchet, handing out the order papers for the day. “Been out on the town without us?”

“Leaving drinks for a colleague last night,” he said, grateful for the suggestion.

“Oho, someone forgot his own advice,” said Ramachan, gleefully, “next time you look meaningfully at me with those big baby peepers I’m doing the shots whether you like it or not.”

They laughed together and Cliopher felt the inner tension curl more tightly round his heart. He liked these people. He was glad that the army’s leadership was so loyal to the Emperor, to the new order being built in Solaara, to the world of Zunidh. He did not want to break their mutual trust, to see them all look askance at him and one another with suspicion.

He could not make himself meet Haion’s eyes again.

Somehow the day passed, and the next one. Being on his guard was exhausting. Every evening Cliopher forced himself to think through each part of their work, each interaction with Haion, to prod and test his mind for any trace of internal conflict or confusion. His head ached with the strain of it, but the pain did not spike or expand in response to his thoughts.

He had trouble sleeping. By the time Ravillon’s clerk gave him the nod to enter the General’s office, he was exhausted.

Knowing that it would be his word against Major Haion’s, Cliopher had carefully documented everything: his own complete lack of magic. The conversation in the canteen. The way that Haion’s eyes had swirled, Cliopher’s moment of dizziness and instant conviction that the priest wizards were trustworthy. The headache when that perspective was challenged by a friend. The intense pain when he reviewed his own previous notes and the evidence he had collected of the Ouranatha’s activity. The sense of pressure as the pain built until it snapped and the compulsion to trust the Ouranatha vanished.

He had made copies, but he had not dared send anything in a dispatch box. He had considered, several times, copying everything in his writing bag, taking it to Kiri… but he could not do that to her. Kiri was a good colleague but she was decidedly junior to him. He could not abuse her trust by putting her career in jeopardy. He had a duty to her as his former employee; the difference in their Service ranks created a power imbalance that he must not forget.

The austere quiet of General Ravillon’s office was familiar, by now, and so was the General. Ravillon welcomed Cliopher politely, acknowledged his bows in the court style, and invited him to sit. Cliopher felt steadied by his calm, attentive expression.

The story was easy enough to tell, if painful. Ravillon asked one or two small clarifying questions, drawing out the history of his research on the priest-wizards. Cliopher answered accurately but with a keen consciousness of what he wanted to hold back: the names of his colleagues, the conversations with Princess Indrogan, any suspicions that he could not fully back up with evidence.

Cliopher only faltered once, when trying to explain the intensity of the internal struggle to overcome the compulsion. He found himself instinctively rubbing his forehead again at the memory, and had to breathe and force his hand down before continuing. General Ravillon waited patiently while he collected himself, but Cliopher saw the frown cross his face.

“And so, sir, I determined that Major Haion had placed a compulsion on me without my consent. I… my position with your aides is by your courtesy. It seemed best to inform you directly.”

“Thank you, Sayo Mdon,” the General said, gravely. “Distressing experience. Glad you came to me. Hmph.” He tapped the bell on his desk and, when the clerk popped their head round the door, said, “send a runner for Major Haion, please.”

Cliopher managed to stifle most of his instinctive inarticulate noise of protest, but not before Ravillon heard it.

“Got to ask the man what he’s up to, Mdon,” he said. “Can’t have my staff at odds with each other. Haion’s a decent chap, solid record.”

“Sir, if Haion is -” Cliopher cut off the words in frustration as the door opened again and Major Haion sauntered in, hands in his pockets.

The Major flicked a glance at Cliopher, acknowledged Ravillon’s invitation to sit with an insouciant tilt of his head, and listened without apparent emotion to Ravillon’s blunt summary.

“I see,” he said, when the General finished.

“Do you?” said Ravillon, with the faintest hint of warning. “D’you admit to using magic on a civilian without consent, Major?”

Haion sighed, shifted, and lifted his hands from his pockets. “It’s his word against mine, sir,” he said, meeting Ravillon’s gaze and holding it.

Alarm jolted through Cliopher. Haion’s hands passed across one another and a light blazed between them. Cliopher opened his mouth to shout and found himself wheezing, eyes streaming, as though something was caught in his throat.

A snapping sensation jangled through his nerves, his tendons straining as the momentum of his instinctive leap to his feet failed and reverberated back through his bones. His whole body was pulled taut like a wire stretched and pinned, vibrating with trapped energy. His teeth buzzed, briefly, until he let his muscles relax into the magic and hold still.

Haion placed the source of the light on the desk - Cliopher could not make it out clearly through the blur of his watering eyes - and gestured again, slowly as though his hands were lifting something heavy that Cliopher could not see. Nothing changed this time as far as Cliopher could tell, but the Major relaxed, dropped back into his chair, and grinned.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “couldn’t let you run for back-up, could I. Oh, hang on,” he shifted the bright light on the desk slightly, tilting it away from Cliopher. The pressure at Cliopher’s throat and face lifted, slightly, though his body was still trapped as if pinned to a rock by a strong current.

Cliopher coughed, spluttering, blinking away tears and wishing he could wipe his face. As he drew breath to shout, Haion said, “save your voice. I’ve had this room soundproofed for the General for ages.”

The General. Cliopher could not turn his head away from Haion but now that the glare was no longer fully in his eyes he could move them to look sideways across the desk. General Ravillon was fixed in place, looking at Haion, expression mild and mildly disapproving and utterly still.

It was hard to move against this pressure, but not impossible, and where his mouth and lungs could move, he could speak. “is he…?” was as much as Cliopher could force out before his throat tightened on the words.

Haion’s eyebrows went up again. Cliopher thought, sourly, that he looked rather impressed.

“Oh, Ravillon’s fine,” he said, “it’s you I wanted a word with. And - ah yes, there’s your bag.” The Major reached over and snagged Cliopher’s bag of notes. “You’re very careful with this, aren’t you?”

“What… do you want?” Cliopher managed. He was angry again, and scared, but not witless. He had been in this position before: helpless, imprisoned, powerless. He knew how to put aside his emotions and endure.

Haion ignored the question and started leafing through Cliopher’s private notes, spreading the sheets across the General’s desk. “Oh dear, scribal shorthand,” he said, after a moment. “I’m afraid I’ll have to burn these… no time to decipher them now. But you’ll have made copies. Hmm.” He leaned back, rocking the chair onto its back legs.

His private notes. His personal memoranda; the most treasonous of his speculations on better government; the evidence he had painstakingly collected against the Ouranatha, against Lord Meriloe; and the sentimental flotsam of the past few years, the notes from – it was almost certainly better that Haion destroyed than deciphered them, but Cliopher could not stop himself from crying out anyway, urgently, inarticulately.

The papers spread across the desk all burst into flame at once, burning hot and yellow the way that paper often did. Cliopher felt his eyes watering again with the acrid smell of the smoke, the sight of his careful collection of dreams and plans disintegrating into an undistinguished scattering of ashes. The two notes from the Emperor burned the longest, the flames flaring blue and green and gold, the Sun in Glory seals blazing before they died.

Cliopher choked back a sob and forced himself to talk. He had to remind his captor that he was both a person and a potential source of information. He had to be interesting. “Are you… trying to protect me?” he asked, hoping that the wheeze came out with the intended level of irony.

Haion actually chuckled. “By the Sun, Mdang, you’re entertaining. No. I’ve nothing against you, you understand, but the Ouranatha pay me handsomely to carry out some minor enchantments - nothing underhand, all to the glory of the Empire, of course. You’re right, by the way, most of them can hardly light a candle.”

“But you… you can do magic?”

“I’m a soldier,” said Haion, sweeping the ashes off the desk back into Cliopher’s bag, where they were going to make an unholy mess of his writing things. “We’re trained to draw on Astandalan Schooled magic outside the Empire.” He looked around, giving a wry smile at something Cliopher couldn’t see. “The magic of Zunidh is a disaster, since the Fall, cracked like a broken mirror and tangled like the cat got into grandmother’s basket of knitting. Sharp edges and deep pits and stinking rotten things everywhere. But my mages can work it,” he added, pride evident in his voice, “the trick is creating your own focus. Easiest to enchant objects, of course.”

“The pebble… my room?”, Cliopher croaked, fascinated and appalled.

“What? Oh, yes, the listening pebbles. That was an early attempt, they’re not terribly reliable. I knew they were handed out for testing, had no idea someone tried one on you. Sounds like that might have been a mistake.” Haion’s brows quirked up again and Cliopher was momentarily, disconcertingly, reminded of his close friend Bertie. No wonder he had instinctively wanted to trust the man. “How did you find it, if you don’t mind me asking?” Haion went on, looking at him with incongruous polite interest.

Cliopher did his best to clear his throat and replied, “working for Princess Indrogan - her office… had a device”.

Haion laughed outright. “We made the detectors too,” he said, “no wonder you found it. There weren’t many of those; whoever planted the thing on you was a fool. Silver robes, hah, the wisdom of the Empire. It’s good for them that we’re around to pull their chestnuts out of the fire.”

Cliopher’s face was a disgusting and undignified mess of snot and tears, but his vision and breathing had cleared. He regarded Haion with as much steadiness as he could muster, and wondered how a man with so much ability could be so casual about this betrayal. Keep talking.

“The General doesn’t know,” he said, flicking his gaze across to that statue-still figure. Cliopher's body was motionless, more or less, but his eyes and mouth were moving and he was breathing, if painfully slowly. Ravillon was motionless as a stone.

Major Haion shrugged. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. I tried, you know - we nearly got ourselves transferred into the Ouranatha proper - but he’s so damned suspicious about their motives.”

Cliopher coughed again and thought about the effect of opening a mage’s sensitivity again and again to the chaos of a battlefield. He'd seen the Fall make people callous, and send mages mad. Most of those in the Palace were recovered or fled by now - but it had only been a few years for Haion.

“You’re happy working with them,” he said. He had often found that a statement was more likely to prompt a response than a question. It let the other person believe they had control of the conversation, that they could decide how to respond, and yet any response gave him new information.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” said Haion. “The priest wizards serve the Emperor. They’re all we have left. And it’s not as if there’s anything better going… the mewling bureaucrats, the warlords and petty kings… Indrogan’s got no fight in her. Zunidh’s falling apart. The General thinks the empire’s coming back. Pah.” he spat on the floor under the desk.

Cliopher felt an odd stir of pity, of kinship and regret. Hadn't he felt lost and purposeless, and turned his back on his home and his family? He might (so very nearly) have abandoned his dreams for a better world, too. He might have given up, might have supported whoever seemed most likely to restore order whatever their other flaws.

And yet despite his pity Cliopher found he had plenty of room for anger too. How dare Haion act like his magic gave him the right to ignore and humiliate others? And Cliopher, who had no magic, had never completely lost hope. Not in the Palace after the Fall, not on the long trek home across Zunidh, not in the face of imprisonment, hunger, and loss. He had sailed into the wall of storms across the Wide Seas. He had rebuilt his vaha after every storm. And when he found no place at home in Gorjo City he had turned round and come back to the Palace, and he had not given up hope here, either.

Haion finished tidying the room and came back, swinging Cliopher’s bag back in its place by his feet. “The Ouranatha are the future, Mdang, whether you like it or not,” he said. “They have the ear of the Emperor, and they carry the flame of civilisation, the last hope for the magic of Astandalas.”

Cliopher, head still firmly held in position, found his eyes level with the Major’s belt. He could not lift his gaze to look Haion in the face, but he could see the other man’s hand move down to the hilt of a knife.

Keep talking. “Cutting my throat would make an awful mess,” he said, which was the first thing that came into his head.

Haion sat back on the desk, bringing his face back into view. There was a peculiar look in his eyes. “You’re not short of guts,” he said, “and you’re not wrong. But really… I hardly need to. Ramanach looked into your career, you know. We all had a good laugh over it - a nobody from the islands, so ignorant it took you five attempts just to pass the Service exam! You were going nowhere in Astandalas. You’d still be a nobody now, if not for the chance to jump into better men’s shoes when they died in the Fall. And then you run off in the middle of Indrogan’s reconstruction, leaving everyone in the lurch, and then you show up again and blaze an extraordinary trail across the secretariat, going up in flames multiple times and somehow still clinging on…until now. You’re an embarrassment to the Princess, and a plaything to the rest of them. Do you really think there’s an ounce of goodwill left for you, from anyone?”

Cliopher found that he had shut his eyes and forced himself to open them again. The terrible thing about this onslaught was that Haion wasn’t using magic. The Major’s eyes were mundane, softened slightly with pity.

Keep talking. Cliopher was beyond planning what to say. There were tears starting up again, stinging the corners of his eyes that were already raw from weeping.

The words came from somewhere deep inside, and he wasn’t talking to Haion any longer. “Is this where you stop?” he whispered to himself.

Haion made a strange sort of clucking noise, pulled out a crisp white handkerchief and wiped Cliopher’s face. His touch was not gentle.

“This is where we both stop,” he said.

Cliopher watched, dazed, as he checked the room again, sat back down in his chair, and with a smooth and practised set of gestures released the magic and swept the glowing device back into his pocket.

Cliopher felt all of his muscles spasm in relief and was immediately seized with a whole-body coughing fit. He automatically accepted the handkerchief that somebody - Haion - passed across.

As he was wiping his face he heard Haion speaking smoothly to Ravillon. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t know what I’ve done to offend Sayo Mdang, but you have to know that I would never use magic on anybody without their consent.”

“I know, soldier,” said Ravillon, with swift and utter certainty.

Cliopher twisted the sodden cloth in his hand, speechless. However the past fifteen minutes had affected the General, it was clear that he had no memory of it.

Ravillon turned back to Cliopher, coldly hostile. “Sayo Mdang, I extended the courtesy of a secondment to your Princess as a favour in return for her support and goodwill. In return you abuse her trust and mine to fabricate scandal against my officers. It will not do, sir. It is totally unacceptable.”

“Sir, I -” Cliopher began, hardly knowing what to say. The General gave him no time to figure it out.

“Sayo Mdang, you are dismissed. Major Haion, will you escort Mdang back to the Palace?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Haion, standing up. “Come on, Sayo Mdang, let’s go.”

Numb, clutching his bag of ashes, Cliopher followed him out.

Haion escorted Cliopher straight back through the outer office, past the startled or concerned glances from the general’s other aides, and out to the front of the command station where informed the guards on duty that Cliopher’s secondment had concluded and his access was revoked.

Cliopher returned the other man’s elaborate and extremely Astandalan bow, with its politely frosty overtones, as smoothly as his aching and abused neck and shoulders would allow. He did not meet Haion’s eyes, and he waited in the corridor, ignoring the guards as best as he could, until the major had fully turned and gone back into headquarters.

It was nearly noon but Cliopher had seldom felt less like eating. He trekked wearily back across the Palace to his room, flopped down onto the bed, and lay still until his body stopped shaking.

He felt small, and cold, and stupid.

Chapter Text

Cliopher woke to find his room dark with the evening and the curtains open, the dim reddish glow rising from the town of Solaara below the Palace the only source of light.

He fumbled across to his desk and switched on the low working mage light, finding the partial darkness gentler on his sore eyes.

Mechanically, he stripped off his stinking clothes and cleaned himself up.

He could not face digging into his bag to discover the state of his best writing kit. Being without a working writing kit felt wrong, though, like missing half his fingers. A brief rummage in his drawers discovered fresh paper, a couple of back up brushes, spare ink sticks, and an old inkstone that he had absently assumed was lost.

A half finished letter to Basil had been among the papers in his bag. Cliopher took a breath, took up his brush, and started another. The salutations were the easy part, and then – always that concern about what to say, when these letters were likely to circulate on Zunidh for some time before reaching someone heading for Alinor.

(The possibility - the probability - that most of his letters would be lost long before the routes to Alinor re-opened was one of the things that made it so easy to write to Basil.)

He settled on noting briefly that his disagreement with one of General Ravillon’s officers had led to his dismissal.

So now like the other aspirants I am back in the pool of unallocated staff, awaiting whatever fate the Master of Offices has in store for me. He may not be best pleased with me following my escapades last time I worked in his office, although I understand he has now adopted some of my proposals. They say that imitation is flattery that is sincere. If I get an opportunity I will suggest that to him, just to enjoy what happens to his face.

I think of you often, and everybody at the Bee, and all our Alinorel friends. The first question on my mind of course is did you survive? You, and Sara, and little Clio - are you alive, is Alinor whole? Is time as confused for you as it is for us here?

One of my colleagues once suggested that the Palace had added hours to its hours to let me do my homework, although it feels more often like the extra time is there to give me more opportunities to come a cropper (now there’s a nice Alinorel turn of phrase for you! Strange to think that Clio, and any other children you have, are more likely to ride a horse than sail a vaha.)

If you have survived of course there is no guarantee that it has been as long for you as it has been for me. I am over a hundred years old now, I’ll have you know, as time runs in Solaara. I think only a year or two have gone past back home, though, and our information from other worlds is thin and patchy. Perhaps you are twice as old as me, and equally bemused by how the years have passed.

Perhaps for you, like General Ravillon and his soldiers, it has only been a year or two since the Fall. Perhaps Clio is now a toddler, or a little boy, or a young man, or generations ago lost and gone and his great-great grandchildren run the Bee - is it still at the Border? It’s hard to imagine the road to Astandalas ending ignominiously in the middle of a field, when you think of all the grand parties that rode along it.

The truth is, Basil, that I’m writing these hypotheticals to hide from the events of the day. Losing another post will not look well on my record, I’m afraid. It is the same story I told you long ago (or only a few days, for you? It is so strange being uncertain not only whether you are alive but how long you have lived) - it is the endless curse of starting well, and soaring along, and then pitching head-over-feet in my eagerness to land the prize.

Do you remember watching the seabirds coming into land on their nests, the first time we sailed the Outer Ring together, and how the clumsy adolescents sometimes missed their bearings and crumbled with those noisy squawks along the cliff edge? We thought it hilarious at the time, but it looks very different from the other side, wings floundering, feet scrabbling, beak crunching desperately into the rock.

It is a shame, too, because I was learning a great deal from the army. They have a trick of gaming out disasters in advance and developing protocols so that everybody knows what to do when the crisis happens. When I think of how people struggled in the Palace after the Fall, I feel a burning desire to import the concept into the Service proper.

A knock on the door set Cliopher jumping to his feet, reaching by reflex to sweep the surface of the desk – but he had no sensitive papers to hide now, he reminded himself.

He felt foolish again about his nerves when it turned out to be Kudzai, the messenger who routinely delivered letters and parcels along this end of the Alinorel wing, with confirmation of Sayo Mdang’s dismissal by General Ravillon and a written direction to report to the Master of Offices first thing the following morning.

Cliopher thanked the messenger politely, made a few indistinct noises of agreement to his chatty assertion that the dry season was oppressive and the coming rains would be good for the gardens, and retreated back into his room.

He was no longer sure of his reckoning. This to-and-fro from Lord Meriloe felt like being caught repeatedly in the same current, running aground again and again on an identical reef.

He stood in the middle of his room, twisting the two letters in clammy hands.

The Master of Offices must be confident enough to dismiss Cliopher altogether, by now. Princess Indrogan would not intervene this time, not after his eighth failure in three years. Not with the Palace gossip dragging her name through the mud after his, and her enemies waiting to pounce.

Haion was right to pity him. No wonder he had felt comfortable letting Cliopher go.

This was the end of Cliopher’s career in the Service, or close to it.

Going back to the Administrative Office would mean enduring Meriloe’s gloating, to no purpose. It was not as if there was any chance he might change his mind, not now.

The sensible thing to do would be to resign first, to leave on his own terms. Follow Saya Hassia. He could – he could get a job here in Solaara, perhaps, build up some experience outside the toxic cesspit that the Imperial Service had become, wait for Meriloe to move on before applying again.

Would there even be a service to return to, though? Did it - did it matter?

(Of course it mattered; his heart was shattering under the strain, numb to the thought. He knew how much the government of Zunidh should be able to achieve; he would always know what he had lost.)

Perhaps it would be better to swallow his pride altogether, to return to the Vangavaye-ve and find a place again among his family. They would be delighted, and maybe eventually he would be able to forgive them even for that.

But… Ghilly did not want him, and Basil was lost, and Dimiter long since dead, and every memory of his brief time in Gorjo City after the long journey home was a bruise to flinch away from.

And all of these thoughts were idle, anyway, because until the conversation with Meriloe was over there was still the shackle of hope binding him to the Palace.

Perhaps instead of dismissal this interview meant demotion; that would be another storm to weather - but not, he thought, impossible.

In his memory his Buru Tovo cocked his head back, eyes bright with challenge. Is this where you stop?

While his vaha was afloat, while the sail still caught the wind, while the stars stood above him - whether visible or not - while Cliopher had any possible route forward out of the reef, however hidden, however hard, the answer was no.

Chapter Text

Despite all his resolution, Cliopher hesitated at the door to the Administrative Office.

He was dressed formally, from neat black sandals and smart robes to the correct plump little hat. His face was freshly shaved, his hair trimmed back from his ears, and every small aspect of personal grooming was painfully correct.

These things didn’t matter at all, of course, except that they did. He was determined not to give Lord Meriloe any excuse for his scorn, any ridiculous little handle to attach censure, any mocking reason to cite for his dismissal.

It would not help his composure to be discovered hovering in the corridor. Cliopher took a deep pearl diver’s breath, feeling himself steady before the plunge.

He strolled through the office, smiling at his former colleagues, glad that Saya Hassia at least was no longer here to pity him. He thought, abruptly, of the best secretarial role he had had in Astandalas before the Fall. The moment when he realised that his director was competent, imaginative and ambitious, and when she began to recognise his answering ambition and draw him into the decision-making. Somehow, simultaneously, he ached with the grief he felt when she broke her back and left the Service, and with the renewed grief for her loss on Ysthar in the Fall, and for the reflection that at least she was not here, too, to disappoint.

Saya Hassia had had a deputy, but they had not been appointed into the head clerkship when she left. The man at the desk beside the inner office was a stranger. That should have been a relief but his knowing grin on hearing Cliopher’s name only sent Cliopher’s nerves jangling further.

The direction to attend before the third bell had been couched in the sharpest form of the passive imperative so beloved of the Service, but Cliopher knew both where he stood and how late Meriloe was accustomed to arriving at the Office. He was therefore unsurprised to find himself sitting again on the padded petitioner’s bench, between two nervous colleagues whose outfits were as painfully correct as his own.

Time passed.

The third bell of the morning was, for most, the start of the working day. A few people Cliopher knew continued to filter in, glancing across at him with pity or scorn on their faces. None came over to speak to him; no-one met his eyes. The other petitioners shifted occasionally, turning away from him as though nervous of the association.

It was almost meditative, sitting here in the small silent bubble of his disgrace. The prospect of being dismissed was - a black pit at the centre of his thoughts, an emptiness that he dared not examine. Edging away, he considered instead what he might do if Meriloe took a different approach.

A fifth degree secretary stood on the threshold of the Upper Secretariat but not, quite, above the level of appointments that the Master of Offices had recently had to delegate to colleagues across the Service. There was flexibility in the nature of the roles, too. If Cliopher were demoted, but managed to persuade someone from a different department to offer him an appointment that stretched above the remit for a sixth degree secretary, he could position himself -

Lord Meriloe swept in through the outer office. The Master of Offices in person today was as gloriously made-up as usual, glinting with rubies, resplendent in silk, but, as always, technically in the correct service colours and patterns for his rank.

The other two petitioners both stood upright as Meriloe came past, but it was Cliopher that he stopped to consider.

Cliopher could not - would not - make himself go through the forms of humble address with the man. He stayed seated under Meriloe’s smiling regard, giving a half-bow, half-nod that acknowledged their respective ranks without implying anything beyond barest courtesy. Meriloe’s smile spread, sharply predatory, but all he said before entering his inner office was “ah, Sayo Madon. Don’t go running off anywhere, will you?”

More time passed.

The other petitioners were called across to the inner office, one after the other. A third woman, who turned up later in the morning, was also ushered in before Cliopher, who was astonished again by the sheer pettiness of it all. He considered what would happen if he left, perhaps to wait on Princess Indrogan instead. She would not leave him sitting around outside her office; she had neither the time nor the patience to play status games.

She would, most likely, take the opportunity to dismiss him as publicly and scornfully as possible, to salvage her reputation.

The secondment to Ravillon had been his last chance to redeem himself in Indrogan’s eyes. She had burned a favour to make it happen, and he had repaid her with scorched earth. If the Service was lucky, the General would not hold it against the Princess, but that opportunity to tie the tag-ends of the military further into the unified government of Zunidh was gone for good. Indrogan did need to know about Major Haion, about the military mages propping up the Ouranatha with magical artefacts. Cliopher resolved to find some way to explain, before - well, it would mean requesting a meeting. He needed to know where he stood in the Service first.

Belatedly, Cliopher wondered what would have happened if he had side-stepped Ravillon and gone to Indrogan instead. That could have been - better. His gut twisted. It could hardly have gone worse. At least Indrogan would never have invited a potentially hostile mage to explain himself directly to her face. But - he wished it were easier to trust Indrogan’s reactions the way he trusted that her fundamental purpose was the good of Zunidh.

He tried not to think that it was easier to face Lord Meriloe’s gloating than Princess Indrogan’s sharp disappointment. Haion’s words echoed in his heart; he would always, always rather be a plaything of the people he despised than an embarrassment to those he respected.

It was just after the first bell of the afternoon before the clerk motioned to Cliopher to go through to Lord Meriloe’s office. The room was unchanged: grand, silk-lined, prepossessing, but the effect was diminished with time and closer familiarity with Princess Indrogan’s far more impressive command of her space.

Today Meriloe was ostentatiously busy as Cliopher entered, leaning forward over a small stack of letters all in the heavy cream paper weight used for formal decrees and letters of appointment. Cliopher stepped in front of the desk, maintaining the correct distance, and gave the correct bow. Meriloe kept signing papers, the ink gleaming on his brush, his motions surprisingly deft for a man who was so indifferent to every other responsibility of his role.

The brush dipped in the ink one final time, the last paper was set aside to dry, and Lord Meriloe carelessly set aside his writing kit. He looked up, then, with that same sharp smile. “What an unexpected delight to see you here again. Do take a seat, Sayo Madon.”

Cliopher sat, disconcerted, and feeling his teeth set slightly on edge as the ink dried on Meriloe’s brush and encrusted it. “Lord Meriloe,” he said, “you directed me to attend.”

“I did! I did. I do apologise for the wait, my boy,” said Meriloe, leaning back in his chair with a motion that was uncannily similar to Haion leaning back on Ravillon’s desk the day before. Languid, secure in his control of the situation, judging the best angle for the cut. Cliopher felt that same shiver at the back of his neck. He braced himself for the blow to fall.

“I have had a great deal of trouble, as you know, finding an appropriate appointment for all of your, ah, noted talent and abilities,” said Meriloe, his pose relaxed but his eyes anticipatory. “Eight placements in three years, and none of them sufficient! You know I pride myself, Sayo Madon, on the efficiency of my office, and yet in your case we have been so frequently, so tragically mistaken.”

Cliopher nodded, not trusting himself to reply.

“It pains me. It pains me deeply to think of such a fine asset to the Imperial Service languishing in obscurity,” Meriloe went on. “And yet - failure after failure! But, you know, that started me thinking. There is, of course, one other blot on the otherwise spotless record of my office… there is one appointment that I have attempted many times to fill with the cream of the crop, the glory of the Service, to no avail. Alas.”

Lord Meriloe’s courtly mask had slipped, revealing naked enjoyment, but his words made no sense. Cliopher did his best to keep the confused trepidation from showing on his face. An appointment that Meriloe kept trying and failing to fill? Why had he never heard about this, in all his review of the Administrative Office? Unless -

His breath caught.

His attempt at composure shattered, although the emotion that broke through it was too mixed to name, too vast to comprehend.

There was one appointment in the Imperial Service that was notoriously impossible to fill.

Meriloe was still talking, his voice small and far away behind the roaring in Cliopher’s ears. “A dozen attempts this year alone! Each one an individual of impeccable breeding and reputation; nobles from across Astandalas vied for it, you know, in the old days; and yet all found unsatisfactory… the Glorious One is most particular, they say, very sensible of his dignity. Why, poor Lady Vanage this week got no further than half way through her obeisances.”

It was impossible, and yet - and yet the Master of Offices was sitting there, watching his face as the snake watches the mouse it has fascinated, and talking about -

“Of course the Last Emperor’s personal secretary must observe etiquette most precisely. I do hope you are familiar with all of the forms.”

Cliopher felt dizzier than he had under Haion’s enchantment. He was flushed, and trembling. He had been braced against dismissal; this sudden, malicious elevation caught him unbalanced. And yet - and yet despite the ostensible honour, Meriloe was almost crowing. With good reason.

Cliopher had failed the etiquette portion of the Service exams five times. He considered the prospect of entering the Tower - entering the Imperial Apartments - facing the scrutiny of the Emperor himself, and his heart quailed.

“The work is, naturally, of the highest importance,” Meriloe added, after a brief pause to savour the impact of his monologue.

“Naturally,” repeated Cliopher, steadied a little by the thought of the work, and proud that he only sounded slightly stunned.

“It is an unprecedented elevation for a man of - such - common stock.” Meriloe gave an airy little gesture, taking in all of Cliopher and dismissing him at once.

A trickle of anger began to reassert itself somewhere at the bottom of Cliopher’s soul. “I am honoured by my lord’s regard,” he replied, recovering the shreds of his courtly expression together as best as he could. “When does this appointment begin?”

Meriloe cocked his head slightly to one side at this evidence of recovery, gave another beneficent smile, and said, “it is a great honour, of course, but then we all know your… audacity. You will be careful about the taboos, will you not, Sayo Madon? The priest-wizards are extremely strict about enforcing the penalties on those matters that touch near the dignity of the Glorious One… those that are not self-enforcing, of course, in these degenerate days.” He paused again, no doubt to allow Cliopher to consider the crackle of lightning that a self-enforcing taboo might summon to smite an Imperial secretary who misstepped, and then added as if as an afterthought, “you are required to present yourself at the Tower at the third bell tomorrow morning.”

The relish was unmistakable. The Master of Offices did not want Cliopher gone, he wanted him dead; he did not want Princess Indrogan embarrassed, he wanted her humiliated.

Dismissal was still the most likely outcome. Cliopher seized that familiar thought, almost clinging to it in the face of the storm of emotions that he could not name. This was too much to process, this last, strangest outcome of his struggles, but... if it would not change his trajectory, at least - that roaring of waves rose in his mind again, overwhelming rational thought.

Sometimes, in the whirling dark, all you could do was hold on and wait for the weather to subside.

Lord Meriloe, apparently satisfied with the effect of his news, tossed a letter of appointment across the desk and got up to personally usher Cliopher out of his office.

Cliopher caught the letter, and noted that the envelope was sealed with the Sun in Glory, in the gold-flecked wax that came from only one desk in the entire Palace.

His bag was in his room, still filthy inside. He tucked the letter inside his robes instead.

The Emperor. The Emperor!

The Glorious and Illustrious One. The Lord of the Rising Stars. The - the Lord of Five Thousand Lands, and Ten Thousand Titles - the hope of his people, the living god. The Sun on Earth. The Lion-Eyed. The Lord of Zunidh. The Lord Magus, even.

Particular, exacting, persnickety… Cliopher had heard the stories. Imperial secretaries often measured their appointments in days, not weeks. There had been executions, both by the direct working of the magical taboos against touch, and ritually according to the requirements of the priest-wizards when the taboos did not enact their own purifications.

Somehow the world had blurred past and he was back in his room, the letter still crinkling under his hand, tucked under his robes, stowed away against his heart.

A secretary to the Emperor would be directly in the Presence, every day.

Indrogan would be so annoyed if he got himself executed for breaking a taboo. Cliopher actually snorted at the thought, imagining the dressing-down she would deliver.

The letter of appointment, when he could bring himself to withdraw it and break the glittering seal, was bland and uninformative. As Lord Meriloe had said, he was expected to report to the Imperial Apartments at the third hour of the following morning, to take up the position of secretary to His Serenity, Artorin Damara, the Last Emperor of Astandalas.

The Palace bells rang the third hour of the afternoon, and Cliopher almost dropped his letter. Eighteen hours - less than a full day before he, Cliopher Mdang, the barbarian, the outsider, the difficult idealist - he, the Wide Sea Islander, the inheritor of the dreams of Elonoa’a, the man who wanted to mend the world - would stand before the Last Emperor of Astandalas.

What the hell did the Emperor’s secretary actually do?

Cliopher needed - he needed a month to revise the etiquette, and a week to meet his new colleagues, and days to plan what to say, how to act - he would not get any of those, and so he needed to think, and he needed to do something with his hands.

He turned his writing kit out of his bag. It was, as expected, entirely covered in a mess of black charred paper and fluffy white ash, greasy with melted wax from the Sun in Glory seals. Calmed by the process of sorting the waste into his bin and the recoverable tools onto his desk for cleaning, Cliopher put aside the whirling mix of elation, disbelief, and terror and forced himself to consider the problem.

Some form of further disgrace, whether death or dismissal, was inevitable. Until it found him, however, he had a job to do. He knew how to be a good secretary. He knew how to be a very good secretary indeed.

The first thing was to find out what the role actually required.

To his annoyance, two of his favourite brushes were irretrievably misshapen by a clod of wax. The rest of his kit, and the bag, would take hours of careful attention to clean completely. Another time. He had his spare kit, his old fashioned ink stone, his back-up brushes. He could tuck them all back into the small leather case they came in, and carry that under his arm rather than using a bag.

With a slight wrench of regret Cliopher left the rest of the cleaning for later and hurried down to the Pages’ Hall.

Sayo Dirzha was on duty at the desk and happy to step aside for a quiet word, although his “Dear lord!” on hearing the news echoed to the rafters, to the startlement of his fellow pages. Once Cliopher managed to get him over his shock, and had listened to a pungent and expressive little monologue of disgust on the malpractice of Lord Meriloe, Sayo Dirzha was happy to help.

“We rotate people up to the Tower every couple of bells,” he said, “so that his Radiancy always has the latest news - and somebody fresh and attentive to call on. Here, you can go up with Ange and ask about tomorrow.”

Ange - Sayo Ange, it turned out - was one of the older pages, with the ruddy complexion and open features common amongst the local people from the plains around Solaara. He was also gratifyingly horrified at Cliopher’s predicament and kept up a steady stream of observations and suggestions as they hurried together up what seemed to be endless stairs.

The Tower was the centre of the Palace, the physical and metaphorical hub where the five great outflung arms of its starfish shape met and rose and came together. Cliopher had never been higher or further in than the floor where lesser nobles kept their apartments, where he had regularly attended upon Lady Kuyulush. The offices and working rooms were mostly a floor below, again, and the apartments given over to the secretariat were pushed out to the very tips of the five great wings, on a lower floor again.

“Have to stay fit to run up here every day,” said Ange, as they stopped for breath on a landing, “o’course you’ll not be coming from down in the Pages’ Hall, so that should help.”

They came up another floor and reached the corridors given over to the apartments of the Lords Magi. There were five, one for each world bound into the Empire of Astandalas. For a time the Lady Jivane had used the apartments pertaining to Zunidh, but since she handed the world back to the newly awoken Emperor all five elaborate suites had stood empty.

Ange delivered all of these facts, and more, with the pleasure of someone sharing an enthusiasm. Cliopher, who also loved to understand the history and fabric of the building he called home, regretted that his general distraction was preventing any of the information from lodging firmly in his mind.

Another stair, this one short and grandly carpeted, and two more corridors across, and -

The Imperial Apartments were the crown of the Palace, at the height of the Tower. They were surrounded by a ring of lesser rooms and offices for the staff. The great doors, stamped and gilded with an enormous Sun in Glory, reflected dozens of mage lights in the grandest style.

A pair of guards stood impassively, one each side, well matched for height and physique and foreboding expressions. They wore the full panoply, which Cliopher had only seen before in the light and glitter of the Throne Room. The gleam of the mage lights picked out the sharpness of both their spears and their eyes. Here, in this still corridor beside those refulgent doors, the effect was as intimidating as was no doubt intended.

When he tore his eyes away from the guards Cliopher found that there was a messenger station directly opposite, and Ange was already deep in explanations, waving across at him.

“Lord Merry has it in for him,” Ange was saying, “dropped the letter this afternoon, but no instructions, no nothing.”

The woman running the messenger station was wearing Imperial livery, unlike the pages waiting nearby who were in the standard Palace uniforms. She gave Cliopher an assessing glance, wary but not unwelcoming. He bowed, with more respect than he had ever been able to summon for Meriloe.

“Well, you’re a gentleman, for all you’re not gentry,” she said, “Saya Sawasaka. Charmed, I’m sure. How can I help you, Sayo Mdang?”

“You can help me understand the - the pattern of my new duties, Saya Sawasaka,” he said. “I am ordered to present myself at the Imperial Apartments at the third bell tomorrow morning and - and that is all?” He spread his hands, pleading, and conscious of his use of the Astandalan gesture.

Saya Sawasaka took it for the correct politeness, or was simply polite herself in turn. With a flash of something like panic Cliopher wondered how many of his colleagues would actually point out his mistakes in etiquette. Perhaps he was getting none of it right, even after all this time.

“I… see,” Sawasaka said, slowly, “none of your, er, predecessors ever came asking that question.” She smiled, suddenly, “of course, they pretty much all were gentry, the Lord love ‘em. Now, let me think - we’ve not had a secretary lasting longer than a handful of months since his Radiancy returned, but the routine’s the same for all that.”

Cliopher concealed a wash of horror at the thought. The Emperor was in charge of Zunidh. How was he managing, without even one effective secretary? Saya Sawasaka was confident that he received reports from every government department, every morning, and letters and dispatch boxes were sent out from the Imperial Apartments early every afternoon with decisions, requests, and directions.

It was ludicrous. It was far too much. It was - not an accident, Cliopher realised, with growing alarm. No single department could dominate all the others across the Service, not with Princess Indrogan locked in political conflict with the Administrative Office, not with the Ouranatha attempting to absorb every lever of power they could access, not with Ravillon in his headquarters, painfully polite and neutral and probably answerable to the Commander of the Imperial Guard.

…and so, no single department was controlling the information that went up to the Glorious One. To his Radiancy (the phrase tingled on his tongue, the household’s chosen familiarity for their lord - for Cliopher’s lord - for the Lord of the Rising Stars).

The reports that came up would be edited by half a dozen different hands, shaped and muddied by a thousand petty or vital squabbles that would not be evident to its glorified recipient. Responses from the Tower would not doubt be subject to wild interpretation, suppression, imitation - how would anybody check, with this system?

The Lord Emperor was governing Zunidh by correspondence. By incomplete, intercepted, redacted and manipulated correspondence.

On reflection, that explained a great deal about the state of the world.

Chapter Text

The most recent book of etiquette Cliopher had on his shelves dated from before the Fall. He consoled himself with the thought that fashion moved slowly in matters of Imperial protocol, and that the Emperor himself had only been awake for three of the past hundred years and had had other things to think about.

The description of the appropriate prostrations for use in the Imperial Apartments was unnervingly brief, and the illustrations were unhelpful. Cliopher abandoned the book and practised the forms as Lady Kuyulush had taught him: smoothly down to his knees; gracefully descending until his forehead touched the floor. He fumbled with the trick of spreading the fabric of his robes so that it would not bunch or twist under his legs, however long he was kept in the prostration. Up to his knees again, smoothly. Up from his knees, without using his hands.

Customary obeisances before the Emperor were, at least, the same for every rank, the difference between the divine descendants of the Sun and the nobility being regarded as a difference of kind, not degree.

Lady Kuyulush, he could not help reflecting, had never actually met the Emperor. Her interest had mostly been in the amusement she derived from seeing Cliopher, as she put it, “down on haunches”. It was probably too much to hope that the Lord Emperor would be equally distractible by Cliopher’s haunches.

The midnight bell interrupted his intensive etiquette practice session, and Cliopher realised with a fluttering heart that there were only nine bells left before he would be making the obeisances for real. He should sleep.

The moment he lay down, he started worrying about his uniform for the next day. After a brief time tossing and turning, he gave in and got up again to look out every item of clothing and equipment that he was going to need. His best robes. His best hat. His newest set of underclothes. His best sandals. Every implement he could possibly need for writing, including new ink sticks, fresh water for the reservoir, brushes, knives, cloths… all squeezed into his old and slightly battered leather case. Self-conscious, he cleaned and polished the leather as best he could.

He really should sleep. He lay down again, and tried to let his mind wander. It showed a treacherous tendency to wander directly back to the unbelievable fact that in nine hours - oh, eight hours now - he was going to stand in front of those splendid doors and be admitted.

He was going to meet the Glorious One and start working for him.

There were seven anterooms leading up to the Imperial Apartments. He had read that somewhere… or was it in a Fitzroy Angursell song, perhaps? Or a poem? He seemed to remember reading a book of poems on the architecture and artefacts of the Palace. Lines rippled through his mind, mostly disconnected from their import. The seat of the shining lord, the glory enclosed, the sun hidden behind the pale clouds, the stern spears of the gate-guards sevenfold…

He must have slipped into sleep eventually, because the thoughts disjointed even further as new ideas rose from the depths of his subconscious. In the Lays of the Islanders, the Emperor of Astandalas, Aurelius Magnus, first came as a petitioner to Elonoa’a and then stood as his friend - his great friend.

He dreamed of Princess Indrogan drumming her long lacquered nails on her desk (the lacquer turquoise blue, clear as the Bay of Waters), telling him in his mother’s voice how disappointed she was that Cliopher was approaching his Emperor as a lowly secretary. Cliopher protested, turned away, and found himself facing the wanted poster of Fitzroy Angursell that he had long ago framed to hang in his bedroom. The famous outlaw was also disappointed, though Cliopher could hardly hear the papery whisper of his voice, and kept lifting his ink-sketch hands to mimic the asses’ ears from his most scandalous satire on the Imperial family.

And then he was awake again, breathing hard, his mind full of the biting verse of Fitzroy Angursell, and beneath that, sliding past, the older, deeper currents of the Lays. He sat up, in the darkness before the dawn, and stared across the room. After a while he realised that his eyes were resting on the Voonran chest that held his basket of efela.

His appointment to the Emperor might not be a matter of song and story, but it was certainly a matter to mark with an efela. Even if he was dismissed on the first day. Even if he did not make it past the obeisances. Cliopher would have - would have been admitted through those seven doors, past those seven stern spears (fourteen, surely, since the guards stood in pairs? Though that would not work so well for the poem) - he would have had the honour of being named secretary to the Emperor.

The first not from a noble household.

The first from the Vangavaye-ve.

He was not Elonoa’a, the greatest navigator the Wide Sea Islanders had ever known, to come to the aid of an Emperor in his time of need. He was Cliopher Mdang, who many years ago had caught sight of a small replica state portrait of Artorin Damara - the portrait old Saya Dorn kept in her personal shrine - and had informed his family and friends that their fates were intertwined.

That was the spark that lit the fire. That was the impulse that drove him to insist on taking the Imperial Exams, and to retake them when he failed, and to take them again until he passed. His career in the service had been a star-path, a ke’ea, leading to this moment. In the privacy of his own mind, on this morning of all mornings, he could admit that the Emperor was - had always been - the star above his island, the ke’e of his inner self.

He wished he still had those two notes about the nutrition commission, the notes that asked whether the Emperor’s people in Solaara were safe from hunger. Re-reading them would have helped him think of the Emperor as another person involved in the great work of government, as a person who might be concerned that others went hungry.

Or perhaps it was better to be dazed. He remembered a golden god on a throne shining above the court: glimmering, beautiful, remote…

Particular, persnickety, given to dismissing secretarial candidates half way through their obeisances…

Just over three bells to go.

Cliopher dressed himself carefully, forced himself to eat a couple of pieces of fruit that he hardly tasted, checked and double-checked his robes, spent another few minutes in a futile attempt to polish the case of his writing kit, tucked it under his arm, tucked the letter of appointment back in the fold of the robes over his heart, settled his best hat on his head, and went.

He reached the corridor outside the great doors well before the first bell. High round windows let in a flood of pristine morning sunlight, catching on the tiny glittering specks in the pale limestone walls, gleaming off the black ebony and sheer whitewood of the doors, and dazzling where it blazed from the golden sun-in-glory.

The guards must have changed, of course, but though the faces were different the white kilts and leopard-skin shoulder pelts were identical and the spears still glinted with menace. Cliopher mustered his courage, and showed his letter of appointment.

“This is in order,” said the guard, looking at him curiously, “but, Sayo Maad’n, you are more than two hours early.”

“I am informed that his Radiancy receives morning reports when he breaks his fast, at the second bell,” said Cliopher, trying not to let his eyes slip sideways onto that wickedly sharp spear point. “As his secretary, I will need to review and sort these reports to provide the Lord Emperor with a concise summary and to prepare for the work of the day.” He allowed himself a wry smile, and added, “I know my colleagues in the Service will each have done their best, but a dozen separate reports from a dozen departments will not, together, present a coherent picture.”

The guard glanced at his partner, shrugged, and said, “come with me, then Sayo Maad’n.”

“Ah, it’s Mdang,” murmured Cliopher, rather charmed by this mispronunciation, which had the virtue of originality. He wondered where the guards were from. Every corner of the Empire, presumably. Their splendid uniformity of height and physique did not carry over to skin tones or facial features, which were markedly individual.

“Mdang,” the guard repeated, “And I’m Hlinar. Good to meet you! The morning reports come in through here,” he gestured with his spear to an alcove behind the messenger station, “and, er… you’ll need somewhere to work, won’t you?”

“If you please,” said Cliopher, heartened. This was not the mindless soldier ant of an Astandalan guard from a Fitzroy Angursell polemic.

Hlinar led him down the corridor, pointing out the guards’ and pages’ off duty room, the facilities, the household’s dining room, and then hesitating. “The priest wizards use the rooms in the other direction to prepare their ceremonies, mostly,” he said. “But, um, there are empty offices all down this way, and I don’t think anyone’s using them. If you don’t mind a little dust, er… oh”

There was more than a little dust behind the next door. The room was full of a swirl of moving air, though all the windows were closed. The dust was dancing in slow circles, stirring up and down as an eddy of magic swept through it.

“Oh dear, I forget every time. I don’t think this is dangerous,” said Hlinar, reflectively, “we did a thorough security review when his Radiancy moved back in. But nobody has been through to clear these outer offices since the Fall.”

“Perhaps the next room?” said Cliopher, trying not to sound as aghast as he felt at this further evidence of neglect.

Hlinar opened the next door more carefully, but in this room the dust lay quiescent and nearly an inch thick across several neglected desks. The guard vanished back to his duties, promising to send along the morning reports as soon as they arrived.

Cliopher’s ineffective attempts to clear the dust without getting any on his outfit were interrupted by a short, brisk woman with a trolley of cleaning implements who managed to give him an unnervingly frank and appreciative once-over at the same time as she shooed him over to one side to let her work. “I hear you’re a nice lad,” she said, briskly wiping down the surface, “diligent, too. We’re all hoping that someone will make it stick, you know.”

Cliopher thanked her, not trusting himself to say anything else. He did not want to like anyone from the Emperor’s household, not when he was sure to end up disappointing her, and Hlinar, and Saya Sawasaka, and - well, it was probably too late for that. Focus on the work, he reminded himself, and remember the taboos.

No touch. That would be easy, surely. The Lord of the Rising Stars could have no possible need or desire to touch his secretary.

Do not look him in the eyes. It was a shame that he would not be able to look directly at the storied lion eyes, to see if the tawny golden colour described in the Lays still ran true. In every painting of every Emperor the eyes were traditionally coated with solid gold, which served to create an eerie sense of continuity, and a mystery that had intrigued him since he first laid eyes on that state portrait. Aside from that curiosity (extraordinarily unhealthy, given the circumstances), Cliopher knew his own weakness. He had always struggled to keep his head down. Focus on the work, that was his best course.

Other taboos, such as those restricting the Emperor’s diet or preventing him from going outside, were surely no concern of Cliopher’s. He was hardly likely to be inviting the Glorious one for a stroll, or baking snacks for the Lord of Five Thousand Lands.

As the chimes of the first bell faded, a page darted in with a stack of papers all in different hands. The fabled morning reports, evidently. Cliopher spread out the papers across the desk. A summary document had been included, on stationary that he was fairly certain came from Princess Indrogan’s office. It was set out in a table and most of the items were listed baldly as “the update from the Treasury”, “the update from Agriculture”, “the update from the Ouranatha”. A rapid cross-check revealed three documents unmentioned in the summary and two that it listed that had not been provided.

Aware of the lack of time - conscious that even now, somewhere further inside the Tower, the Lord of the Rising Stars was preparing for breakfast - Cliopher limited himself to the most cursory skim across the top of each set of papers. He laid them out across his desk in order of apparent urgency and importance, shifting them back and forth until the full set was clear in his mind. Then he took a fresh sheet of paper, took a breath, and created a new summary.

As he worked he considered the ideal version, of which this would necessarily be a faint and faltering echo.

The Emperor needed some detail in the updates, but not more than a man could reasonably be expected to absorb in an hour. This stack was unreasonably high and each page was covered with dense, tight writing in hands that were not all of the limpid clarity that might be desired.

The Emperor needed the salient points summarised at the start of each document, which only half the departments had thought to do.

The Emperor needed a clear list of required decisions, other actions, and potentially also of risks or opportunities to note for the future. Nobody had provided that, an absence which a cynical man might conclude was a convenient way to sidestep Imperial attention.

The Emperor needed a named author on each paper, so that his secretary - Cliopher Mdang, personal secretary to his Radiancy - had somebody to chase down for updates or requests.

For today the Glorious One would have to make do with Cliopher’s best guesses and first impressions. At least the papers would go up with a covering sheet that was accurate and gave some indication of the contents of each. They would be organised by importance, too, although Cliopher wished he had a better sense of what concerns might move the Last Emperor. Without further guidance, he had sorted everything which directly impacted on the needs or suffering of the people of Zunidh to the front, prioritising those he judged most urgent.

He was dimly aware of several people watching him from the doorway as he worked, each looking in briefly and then leaving. A couple of guards. Some of the pages. A few other miscellaneous people in the Emperor’s livery. Some gorgeously dressed individuals he thought might be associated with the Emperor’s chamber, at least one of whom had the splendid tattoos that suggested he was high aristocracy.

His papers were done and the ink dry on the summary by the time someone came looking for them. Cliopher stretched his hands, rolled his shoulders with a sigh, and was methodically packing away his writing kit before he realised that he still had an audience.

It was a different guard, this time, younger and without a spear. “Hello!” he said, with great good humour and an accent so aristocratic that Lord Meriloe would weep tears of joy to hear it. “I hear you’re the new secretary? Hlinar’s on duty all morning but he’s asked us in the reserve squad to make sure you get breakfast.”

The reserve body of the Imperial Guard were easily the most physically intimidating breakfast companions that Cliopher had ever known, and possibly the friendliest. His guide introduced himself as Ser Rhodin an Gaiange and gave the names of all fifteen of his equally cheerful young squad mates, but Cliopher failed to retain any of them. Now that he had no task to focus on, the sound of breaking waves was rising in his ears again, growing louder as the bells marked the quarters of the hour.

Ser Rhodin put food in front of him and he ate it with painstaking care, heedless of what it was but entirely terrified at the thought of getting any mark on his clothes. There was coffee, Cliopher thought, but he scarcely tasted it. At some level his mind was running over the headers from the morning reports and the likely tasks that would result. Letters, presumably, as the Emperor had no other way to make his will known.

A level beneath that his attention was occupied with taboo and custom. Do not touch, do not make eye contact, do not initiate topics of conversation, follow his lead on the level of formality.

Below that were snatches of poetry, lines from the Lays, and under and around and above all his thoughts were floating a great sea of awe and joy and terror that he could neither plumb nor navigate.

The last quarter of the hour sounded. Cliopher brushed down his still-spotless robes, thanked Ser Rhodin and the guards, took hold of his writing kit, and returned to the great doors.

Hlinar winked, lifted his spear, and thumped the floor, calling “Cliopher sayo Mdang, secretary-candidate to his Radiancy.”

This was it.

The first set of great doors swung open, revealing the first anteroom. It was small, lined with plush velvet benches, gleaming white and gold. A couple more pages waited just inside the door, these ones in the black and white livery of the Imperial Household.

One of the guards at the inner door stamped his spear and repeated the announcement, causing the second door to open. Cliopher felt like he was floating.

The second anteroom was larger, large enough to act as a receiving room and host a gathering. The walls were hung with glorious tapestries on a theme that Cliopher thought might be Alinorel, depicting a knight and a unicorn. How interested his cousin Basil would be, if Basil was still alive.

This morning was going to be impossible to explain to Basil. Even if he were sure that his letters were confidential, even if he was standing in front of Basil in person, how would he ever be able to describe this ecstatic terror, this unutterable elation?

The third room was cupped around a fireplace containing a single burning branch, the unnatural symbolism of which slightly annoyed him. A fire, like a community, was built of many branches. It could not be healthy for the world to think of the Emperor as a blaze that eternally consumed himself and yet still burned.

Another set of guards, another announcement, and a fourth room, this one clad in golden sunbird feathers, awash with rippling summer splendour.

Even if this was it, even if he was to be sent home in disgrace tomorrow, this was a moment that nobody could take away from him. He would go home having sat at the feet of the Sun on Earth, having - at least once - personally served the Lord Emperor.

Cliopher could tell at once that the fifth room was, or had been, a chamber for the most elite petitioners to the Lord Emperor to await his pleasure. No long aspirants’ benches here, but separate bays large enough for a noble and their household to rest in comfort while they waited. The entire room was divided by exquisitely carved half-height screens depicting scenes from the history of Astandalas, with an emphasis on successful battles of conquest. They were made of all shades of wood, fragrant and polished, lively with detail but utterly devoid of the blood and waste of real combat.

Narrow curving stairs led up to wooden galleries along each side of the room, joined in the middle by a totally unnecessary elaborate wooden bridge, which he vaguely remembered was an exact replica of the famous bridge of somewhere-or-other on Ysthar, memorialising some ancient victory of the Empire.

The sixth room was, by contrast, spare and dark and cool, walls of a shimmering black marble inlaid with a thin tracery of precious metals and gems that picked out the patterns of the great houses of Astandalas, all curving in and out of one another and all emanating from and directing the gaze back towards the enormous jewelled sun-in-glory mosaic in the centre of the floor.

Cliopher was almost beyond rational thought but, when the guards announced “Cliopher sayo Mdang” for the sixth time and he walked between them into the seventh anteroom, which was walled with mirrors, he found that he was not beyond a brief fit of panicked self-conscious awareness.

All around him into the infinite distance his own image receded: short, ordinary-looking, a clod of grey-brown mud wandering through a fairy-tale. He stopped in the middle of the room facing the final set of doors and ruthlessly pushed down the incipient panic. He was not here as a hero out of legend; he was not here as a noble from a fable; he was here as a secretary-candidate and he had a job to do.

One of the guards at the final door gave him an encouraging smile. Cliopher clutched his writing kit, clutched his composure, clutched all his dreams close to his heart, and nodded.

The spear butt stamped on the floor.

The doors swung open.

Chapter Text

The official study of the Last Emperor of Astandalas was full of golden light.

Cliopher walked a few paces forward, dimly aware of the doors swinging shut behind him and yet another pair of guards to his left and his right. He felt far away and high above the scene, as though he was watching himself from a distance.

The light was the pure radiance of dawn. He remembered the sea-birds crying out at the Gate of the Ring of the Vangavaye-ve, when the sun came up, and all the glory of morning sprang out across his vaha and lit the way home.

He blinked, and the light resolved itself into an astonishing room. The walls were made of intricately carved stone, pure white, translucent, catching the glow of the Solaaran sun. The floor was another intricate design, gold and white, much of it visible because of the lack of furniture. The windows were set high in the luminous wall, and must be shaded somehow, perhaps to prevent the glare of direct sunlight ever slanting across the room. There was a desk for the Emperor, and another, smaller desk nearer to the door, both with chairs. There was art on the walls and some kind of plinth displaying a delicate golden sculpture and -

There was one person standing in the middle of the room, facing the far wall.

The Last Emperor of Astandalas was a mere twenty paces away. All other details blurred in Cliopher’s mind and arranged themselves as backdrop to the Presence.

The Lord of Rising Stars had a tall, narrow profile, his stance proud without a hint of relaxation. There was a firm set to his shoulders, and his hands were dark and distinct, clasped together behind the shimmering yellow cascade of his robes. For a heartbeat Cliopher stared, arrested, before he remembered to drop his eyes to the floor. A flood of terror tingled through him. If the Emperor had been facing the door - that could have been -

The Emperor was still facing away. Cliopher had recollected himself in time. He let his eyes rest on the lower hem of the Imperial robes, where some kind of froth of netting caught with tiny sparkling gems puffed around the Imperial ankles, and focused on getting his panicky breathing back under control.

The robes swirled dramatically as the Emperor turned to face him. A guard behind him announced “Cliopher sayo Mdang, Glorious One,” in an Azilinti accent that, mercifully, handled the pronunciation almost perfectly.

Cliopher burned and trembled with the knowledge that the Imperial gaze - the lion eyes? the eyes of the living god, which could blind the unwary at a glance - were looking at him, at Cliopher Mdang, fifth degree secretary.

Secretary-candidate to his Radiancy. To the Sun on Earth, who was standing before him.

Keep your eyes down. He could raise them just slightly, perhaps, to see the folds of sheer white samite gleaming under the Imperial yellow over-mantle, the galaxy of jewels caught in the outer robes. The hands, released from their clasp, that were, like the man, elegant and slender, dark and striking.

The Emperor regarded him in silence.

Abruptly Cliopher remembered to sink into the obeisance, hoping that the brief delay had not been obvious. The practice paid off; he did not have to think about it.

The Glorious One spoke, his voice mellifluous, as perfect in proportion and majesty as everything else in the flawless room. “Rise and take your seat.”

Getting up from the prostration was more difficult, as the etiquette precluded using your hands to balance your weight, but Cliopher’s training as a dancer had strengthened his legs and he managed to stand almost gracefully. Flushed with relief (at least he had passed the lowest bar, unlike that unfortunate predecessor he had survived his first obeisance) he walked to the secretary’s desk - his desk - and sat down just as the third bell of the morning began to ring.

The desk was larger than he was used to, though in this generous and empty room it seemed small. It was suitably subfusc for a secretary, and yet it was also quite the most elegant work surface Cliopher had ever used. Subtle marquetry rippled across the grain of the wood. The legs were in copper and some dark metal, twisted together into improbable grace by an unknown mastery.

The sound of the bell covered the small noises he made unpacking his writing kit from its leather case. He set everything within easy reach, tipping just enough water into the reservoir of his inkstone with a hand that shook only slightly, grinding the ink with the sure twist of decades of practice. He was waiting, brush in hand, ink ready, eyes on the blank page before him, as the last chimes died away.

There was a profound stillness, a dawn freshness in the air; perhaps it was maintained in the room by magic. The scent of his ink was a brief, astringent tang on top of sweetnesses of perfume and incense that he could not identify.

The Glorious and Illustrious One spoke again. “We begin with Our correspondence. A response to the overture received from the most excellent Duke Ivalior, chief of the Alinorel community in exile, on the subject of the investigations to restore travel between the worlds. Opening with the usual courtesies. Then: In recognition of the loss suffered by Our noble subjects and the manifold and thorough protestations of loyalty which they have shown both in word and deed, We have explored your petition with Our magical servants. The priest wizards are confident that they will find a resolution to the problem of intermundial travel but We regret to inform you that reliable passage is dependent on the restoration of the fabric of time and space across Our world of Zunidh…”

Cliopher focused on the words, focused on his pens, focused on the page, and marvelled. His Radiancy’s voice was resonant and clear; the subject comprehensible; the language concise.

All Cliopher had to do was - do his job. This was possible.

The Emperor kept talking but the quiet swish of fabric, together with a subtle shift in the nature of the sound, suggested that he was moving closer. Cliopher fought the instinct to raise his head and made himself concentrate on what he was writing. The steps were soft but distinct, drawing level with him, then moving past him towards the doors. A pause, a rustle of shifting robes, and the steps again.

The Emperor was pacing as he dictated, Cliopher realised, and the motion of the steps was in rhythm with the sound of his voice. A regular, triangular pattern: the length of the room, the distant turn, a shorter length to his desk, another turn, a stretch that brought him down past Cliopher’s desk towards the doors, and then again the long walk all the way back to the far wall.

Most of Cliopher’s attention was occupied with taking dictation, but every time the steps were distinctly moving away he risked lifting his head to steal a quick glance. In these snatches he took in the rest of the room. The Imperial desk was gorgeous copper filigree and sandalwood, and seemed rather wasted on a man who preferred to dictate while in motion. The wall on his right had no further decoration than the delicate twists of its carving and the vibrancy of sunlight glowing through the stone. The opposite wall held five huge canvases, all wide views of landscapes of quite breathtaking beauty and serenity.

On the plinth the sculpture resolved itself into a caged nightingale, a wonder of delicate metalwork. Golden feathers ruffled on its golden back, golden feet clutched the rough golden bark of the golden branch that served as its perch in its tall golden cage.

Beyond the guards, surveying the room, the magnanimous features and blank gilded eyes of an enormous state portrait of Artorin Damara. With a curious flutter Cliopher realised that this was the original for the replica that old Saya Dorn had shown him nearly thirty years ago.

Below the portrait, pacing between the doors and the nightingale, awash in silk and adrift with diamonds, the real Emperor outshone the marvel of his setting: a living, vital Presence, hands clasped once more behind him, the smooth dark head held high and steady, the rich voice rolling on. His pacing never stopped. Every so often Cliopher spoke up to clarify the spelling of a name, or to repeat back a phrase, or check a reference. Each time the Emperor kept moving, not breaking the rhythm of his steps, taking the interruption only as a minor variation in the metre of his words.

Cliopher had always found there was some adjustment to taking dictation from a new speaker. He had to acclimatise to their accent, their pace, their preferred turns of phrase. Always, until now. Here, at last, was an instant, perfect, match. This was not just possible, it was delightful. HIs brush danced across the page, catching the words flowing sweetly from the Lord of Rising Stars, across his awareness, and down into coherent, complete paragraphs before him.

The Emperor’s dictation was swift and his correspondence was thorough, and respectful, and all couched through with consideration. Cliopher could tell that his Radiancy had given thought to each petitioner, to each response. He could see the stirring on the surface that spoke of currents and undercurrents deliberately crafted - what a way with words the man had! - though the specifics of the personalities and concerns were still unfamiliar.

It was too soon for Cliopher to understand enough context to contribute any ideas of his own, but yes, he thought, this was the lord who cared for the people of Solaara. This was Cliopher’s Emperor, the man he had left his home and his people and even his world to seek out, and he was - he was - quick, and brilliant, and kind.

The stack of letters piled up to his left, Cliopher smoothly shifting each page across as the ink dried. He felt more than the satisfaction of completing the work, he felt a strange peace, a pristine emotion, so unfamiliar that it took him a while to realise that he was happy.

After some time the Glorious One turned to dictating an overview of the state of the world, region by region. Cliopher had heard rumours, had been in Princess Indrogan’s private office himself only a few years before, had read the references in the confused bundle of that morning’s reports. Now he found his mouth dry, his mind whirring, as he heard with mounting horror the full tally of strife and disaster and suffering across Zunidh. No wonder Princess Indrogan was so tired; no wonder Kiri and the rest of her office seemed so strained.

And yet despite the subject matter the morning was all so glorious, a waking dream. The Emperor was concerned about the state of the world. The Emperor wanted to mend Zunidh. Cliopher felt that unfamiliar happiness growing, an inner warmth strengthening moment by moment. Here was a chief he could stand beside, a lord he could fully support, a place he could pour all his energy and skill without stint.

The Emperor’s voice lightened a bit as, at length, he reached the Wide Seas. “the Wall of Storms has abated somewhat and appears to be reducing proportionately with each ship to make safe passage; we have resumed contact with the Vonyabe-”

The mispronunciation was such a jarring note in that musical litany that Cliopher could not help himself. “I beg your pardon, Glorious and Illustrious One?” he blurted, without waiting for the end of the sentence.

This was no gentle request for clarification for a secretary to make of his lord, this was a direct interruption, a challenge. The rhythm of pacing feet halted. His Radiancy was… was listening to Cliopher.

Do not look him in the eyes.

“The Vonyabe,” said the Emperor, more slowly. “It is in the former Imperial Province of the Wide Seas.”

Cliopher forced himself to stare at his desk, wondering if he dared, discovering that he did. He had corrected every other person in the Palace of Stars who mispronounced the name of his home. An inner voice, perhaps sounding a little like his Uncle Lazo, whispered be gracious about it. This was a man, like any other. He would have his pride, like any other.

“Ah, yes,” said Cliopher, the words like hot coals in his mouth, “the Vangavaye-ve.”

He wrote it down.

He stared at the letters on the page.

He had just corrected the Glorious One.

He felt the shock in the room, the Emperor’s eyes on him, intent.

He was a Mdang; he held the fire; he did not run from its burn.

This was the burn of the very Sun on Earth.

He kept his posture, held his brush, controlled the tremors in his hand, and waited for the dismissal. He thought, with rising hilarity, of Buru Tovo saying that someone always went to see if the Emperor was worthy. An Emperor who could not bear to be corrected would not be worthy, but if Cliopher was to be executed he would never get home to tell Buru Tovo that, which seemed like a waste of his career -

“The Vangavaye-ve, then,” said His Radiancy, sounding the words with evident care.

The sound of sandalled feet pacing the marble floor resumed. Cliopher felt himself start to breathe again, and the dictation continued. The spark of his happiness blazed brighter. The Emperor - his boss, and so, for today, in a sense that he had never truly imagined would be possible, his Radiancy - had listened to Cliopher.

The peace of the room and the steady account of the world continued unbroken until, some indefinable time later, an attendant came through from the door at its other end, bearing a tray carrying a selection of small foods and drinks, each one a gorgeous creation, jewel-bright and artistically arranged.

The Emperor - his Emperor! - his Radiancy paused his dictation, though not his pacing, to say “Sayo Mdang, would you care for some refreshments?”

Cliopher answered, automatically, “thank you, my lord,” and kept writing. This was exactly as he would have replied to Princess Indrogan or General Ravillon, or any of the other great figures of the court he had served, if they had offered him something else to do with his hands while still requiring him to take dictation; he had grown so used to it as a foible that the reply was reflexive. Besides, though Cliopher had eaten very little in the past twenty four hours he was not hungry; he felt full up with wonder, replete with majesty.

It occurred to him after a few minutes had passed that a casual ‘thank you’ was totally unacceptable as a response of a lowly secretary to the Sun on Earth, so much so that it amounted to a minor insult. He managed to bite back his next reflexive reaction, which was to blurt out an inelegant apology. The moment to apologise without awkwardness had already come and gone. His Radiancy did not appear to notice.

Cliopher was still only getting glances of the room when he was sure the Emperor’s back was turned, but he was fairly sure that the Glorious One had not touched the refreshments either. Perhaps he would eat more later; surely after all that pacing he must be hungry. The man - the Emperor - would lack for nothing, but he was thin and rangy for his height.

The noon bell rang, signalling that the morning’s work was over without further incident. Cliopher packed up his writing materials, glad that this gave him another reason to keep his eyes on his desk. He regarded the stack of notes critically; not bad for three hours, but not enough to keep him busy all afternoon, either. Well, it was the first day. He thought, with some satisfaction, that he would have plenty to do hunting down the authors of the morning reports for tomorrow.

His hands smoothly went about their business of clearing up and his heart danced at the thought of working together with the Lord of Rising Stars. The last page of his notes was just drying. He reached out to take it, as the Glorious one spoke, again, not in an order or a request but in a casual comment, as to an - an employee, a colleague - one human to another - and -

“It is satisfying, Sayo Mdang, to see tangible evidence of Our morning’s labour”

- because he was happy, and because he felt at home here (here!), and because he had done it, he had worked all morning directly for his Radiancy - and because he was half-distracted waiting for the ink to dry, thinking through the prostrations that would be required on his exit from the room - some long-buried mischief in Cliopher took hold of his tongue and made him say -

“The birthing pangs of your wisdom were near painless, my lord, I shall take the fruits of it for adoption by the Service at once”

Cliopher snapped his mouth shut, too slow to catch the words, and felt his face blaze red and hot and cold at once.

And his Radiancy - the Sun on Earth, the Lord of Rising Stars, the Glorious and Illustrious One - his Radiancy - stopped his pacing not five feet from Cliopher’s new desk, in the Imperial Study, in the Imperial Apartments, and replied, “A good sized child. We can only hope Our offspring has inherited the lion eyes and not the asses’ ears.”

The great tide of joy that had been rising in Cliopher all morning rose higher, bubbling over with a froth of mirth and delight. This Emperor - this Lord - this man - able to stand there with his towering Presence, strikingly beautiful amidst all the splendours of his fabled Imperial Study, and calmly cap Cliopher’s ridiculous joke.

Cliopher laughed aloud, the sound reverberating through the room, echoing from the alabaster walls, the priceless art, and he crowed “oh splendid!” -

- and he looked up, looked straight into the eyes of the Sun on Earth.

They were the lion eyes.

The colour was shiveringly vivid, golden as - as the pearls he had learned to dive for, as a child - golden as the heart of a fire, as the heart of the Sun itself - blazing like embers in a firepot, like the roots of all warmth, alive with good humour.

- the long, thin face, strong-featured and bright with shared joy in their joke -

- and the weight of gold, the hunger, the flames roaring out towards him, the heavy burning pressure, his eyes watering, stinging, and -

- the sharp intake of breath from one of the guards at the door, the cold wash of shock and horror in the wake of the broken taboo, but still Cliopher could not look away, could not bear to lose sight of those shining embers, though the pain and terror in them overwhelm him… and -

His Radiancy turned sharply, breaking their eye contact, drawing himself back, up and away from Cliopher into a solemn dark statue of a man, expressionless and serene, even more remote and untouchable than the state portrait that hung on the far wall behind him.

Cliopher collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, and crashed to the ground where his throbbing head met the relief of cool stone.

“You may leave us,” said the Lord of Rising Stars, as distant and high and clear as any celestial body.

Cliopher scrambled to his feet, backwards, writing kit and notes abandoned on the desk. The room wavered; his eyes seemed swollen; his head and his heart hurt. He stumbled out, somehow. The guards made no move to catch or prevent him. The doors swung open without announcement, without pause, letting him flee. There was no outcry.

By the time he reached the first anteroom he was holding himself upright, despite the tremors of reaction, despite the heavy ache in his eyes. He refused help from the pages and made it out into the corridor. There was no fixed idea in mind apart from the desperate need for distance.

Someone called after him with what sounded like concern, but he could not face them and did not want to stop. Panting hard, wiping his face roughly on the sleeve of his best robes, blinking through the tears, he made it somehow down the stairs and out into the gardens, and kept going. Out. Away.

He plunged down a side path at random, in between the bushes, and was finally brought short when the path ended up against the Palace wall, in a quiet corner where a hedge of thick leaves and bright scarlet flowers hid him from sight.

Cliopher sank down on the ground and buried his face in his hands.

His mind was a jumble of impressions. When he lifted his head strange dark shapes floated in his vision, making him nauseous. When he shut his eyes he saw the Emperor’s face. The aquiline nose, the high cheekbones, the glimmer of delight in the lion eyes.

The Emperor’s delight had dissolved into blank dismay.

The penalty for breaking the great taboos was death.

Cliopher opened his eyes again and stared at the nearest flower, its thick fleshy petals, its golden heart. The dark shapes wavered and dissipated and reformed in front of his eyes, but they were growing fainter. It was - was just as if he had, unguarded, looked directly at the sun - but of course he had.

The guards had let him go, but the Emperor must have given some order by now. His thoughts seemed to arrive slowly, weighted down by inevitability. Here then was the link, the twist of fate that bound Cliopher Mdang to the Last Emperor of Astandalas.

He could hope that it would be quick. The Emperor was kind, but it would not be his hand that held the knife. He would be executed, ritually, by the Ouranatha, in their office as priests of the Sun on Earth. He remembered Lord Meriloe describing the priest-wizards as “great students of the art of correction”, and wished he hadn’t.

Insects whirred in the hedge. A bird, somewhere, gave a chirruping call. The heat of the sun soothed his physical trembling.

Cliopher’s heart still quailed within him, but the fog of distress was clearing from his thoughts and the dark spots faded from his vision. He should go back to his room. He did not want the guards to track him down hiding in a corner of the Palace, as though he was ashamed.

He pulled himself wearily to his feet and brushed down his best robes. He was not ashamed. He was proud to have served in the presence of his Emperor, even for a day.

He was half-sure that his execution would be less about the magic and more about cementing the authority of the Ouranatha, which was… irritating. But he had known the risks, and he would accept the consequences.

If the taboos demanded a sacrifice, so be it.

Chapter Text

The worst part was that nobody came.

Cliopher’s room was as he left it, an aeon ago that morning. The far end of the Alinorel wing seemed dim and shadowy now that he could compare it to the magnificence of the Tower.

He realised, belatedly, that he had left his writing kit in the Emperor’s study. He wished he had remembered to pick it up. He wished he had not stumbled out of the Presence so awkwardly. He could already imagine the stories that would spread, the implications it could have for those across the Imperial Service who came from humble families or far-flung provinces.

There was nothing he could do about that now, apart from hold himself as well as he could to face the summons. At least his notes should be clear enough that someone would be able to salvage the morning’s work.

At first he sat down tensely on the corner of his bed, trying not to jump at every small sound that came from the corridor. As time kept passing and no guards appeared, his fingers fidgeted for something to do. The mess of his best writing kit was still spread across his desk, half-cleaned. No point in leaving it for the Palace staff to deal with, after. He sat down to finish the job.

The bells rang, one after another, and still nobody came.

Cliopher finished washing the writing kit, swept the last of the ashes into the bin, spread out most of the salvageable parts on the windowsill to dry, and wiped off one pen and ink pot for immediate use.

He considered his half finished letter to Basil. It was hard to believe, re-reading it, that he had been so convinced that Meriloe would be the one to send him home. Only two days ago, and yet those days outshone the months and years before them for the fierce intensity of emotion, for the culmination of his career, for the last, and greatest, mistake of his life.

Basil, I do not know what to tell you, he wrote. When the general sent me away I was afraid that my chances were all run through - and yet - I found another, unexpectedly, beyond hope, and

He stopped to think, long enough for the ink to pool and blotch on the page.

I am afraid that it has once again ended in disaster. I can tell you, Basil, who always listened to me. You have always been the safe harbour for my hopes… you know why I left home. When we were children, you played Aurelius Magnus to my Elonoa’a, more times than I can recall. You know how I longed to imitate the third son of Vonou’a.

You will know what it means when I tell you that today I achieved my ambition, and you will understand the dizziness of the resulting failure, and yet how little it matters to me that I have failed, having reached so far.

To start at the beginning: the Master of Offices was indeed displeased to see me on his petitioner’s bench again, but it turns out that he had found an appointment, a placement with a great lord well known to be difficult to please…

The words flowed more easily once he could slot them into that familiar pattern. He had written many times of his unsuitable placements, his difficult lords and ladies. And yet occasionally he stopped, and looked out over Solaara, and felt that this was unfair to the Emperor.

Meriloe had said that the Emperor was particular, but Cliopher had found him courteous, and kind, and funny. Those few hours had been the happiest he could remember since - since he first took up the challenge of the Imperial Service Exams - since before his sister Navalia died - he was not sure, on reflection, that he had ever been so happy.

He did his best to explain, but without naming names it was hard to be sure of the effect. At least he was confident that Basil would understand that one of the hidden names was that of the Sun on Earth. News of his execution would help unravel the rest of the riddle.

By the time his letter was finished the evening was closing in, his headache had lifted as lightly as ordinary eye strain passing, and the tension of anticipation was taut in every tendon in his body.

The wait seemed cruel, but perhaps that was deliberate.

He set the letter aside and took up a fresh sheet of paper. He should write to - to everybody.

(The person he wanted to write to was that laughing man he had seen for a moment behind the lion eyes.)

He could not.

Kiri would know what to do with his things. For the rest… he sealed up the letter to Basil, addressed it, and left it on his desk.

He spent another hour tidying everything he could find to tidy in his room.

It was fully dark before there was a knock on his door. Cliopher glanced around, pulled the covers straight on his bed, adjusted the fit of his robes, and opened it to find… an unfamiliar page, in the standard Palace livery, bearing his battered leather writing kit.

“Courtesy of Lord Meriloe, for Sayo Madon?”

Cliopher could only stare helplessly at the woman. She shrugged, thrust the kit into his hands, and added “Merry wants to see you tomorrow morning, before the first bell, he says.” She spread her hands and smiled, acknowledging the unlikelihood of Meriloe being anywhere in the vicinity of his office at any time before the third bell, and hurried off.

Damp with relief, Cliopher went back into his rooms and sank back into his battered old sofa, clutching the writing kit.

This… almost made sense. His mistake had been to think that the Imperial Service would get around to anything as routine as enforcing the taboos with anything like urgency. They would know if he tried to leave the Palace; as long as he was here, and not judged to be a threat, why hurry? There would be paperwork.

It did seem harsh to put the orders through Meriloe, but… the Emperor must have delegated this to the Ouranatha. Or they had assumed it. One thing that was clear was that nobody in government was being frank with his Radiancy. Either way, the Master of Offices had been working with the priest wizards for a long while now, and was no doubt enjoying the prospect of Cliopher’s demise.

Unless this was an administrative screw-up, and the Ouranatha were coming for him some time tonight after all.

Cliopher resolved not to let his mind worry over questions he could not answer. If he was going to die - well, he had to be ready to meet the Ancestors.

He was a long way from the sea.

He tucked away his writing kit and turned out the lights. The ocean was out there, on the other side of the Fens. In daylight from this high point it was possible to see the shine of it, in the distance.

Cliopher arranged himself sitting cross-legged on his bed, facing the window. His private shrine, little-used and rather dusty, was tucked away on the window ledge. After a moment he got up and fetched a fresh stick of incense, the last of the Vangavayen sweetgum that he had kept in the back of the box since the time before the Fall, when it was expensive but not impossible to come by in Astandalas.

This time when he sat down his focus was the faint red spark of the incense, doubled in reflection in the window. The fragrant smoke was vanishing into the shadows.

Beyond his room the broad sweep of the countryside below from this high vantage point, the reddish glow of Solaara. Beyond that the darkness of the equatorial night leaned in close.

He shut his eyes and tried to pray. No words came.

He remembered a night, a hundred and twenty years or more ago, when a boy squatted on a beach and tried to meditate on what it meant to be the tanà, the One Who Held the Fire.

Cliopher smiled wryly at the memory. He had not been allowed to light a fire on the beach, the purpose of the exercise being to think about a fire, not tend one. His child-self had fretted and fussed and struggled to settle to the task.

Now he thought about all the fires that he had lit, or tried to light, since then.

He had not been able to settle in Gorjo City as the tanà, for all that he had learned and loved there.

Astandalas had been… difficult.

After the Fall, he had gone down to the kitchens and relit the fires in the great ovens there. He had climbed back up to the throne room and seen the spark of hope in Princess Indrogan’s fierce eyes. Those fires caught; he could be proud of that. He had stayed to nurture them as best he could for a hundred years while the Emperor slept.

In the literal sense, he had lit more fires on the journey back to the Vangavaye-ve than at any other time in his life. Small campfires for cooking and huge bonfires as hopeless beacons on deserted islands, and countless fires to rake out and dance and uncover from the lore of his people and the ke’ea that would take him home.

And then… he had found Gorjo City, painfully, nearly as difficult as Astandalas. And he had come back to a Solaara where he was no longer sure of the future of the fire he had lit in the Palace. All his efforts to tend it, these past three years.

Failures punctuated with small successes: the pages were in much better order than they had been. He had helped Trade and Treasury, he thought. The government was better at communications thanks to the agency he helped set up, and driving away Leanna Xatia was no doubt a useful service.

He had done his best, and in exchange he had those three golden hours in the Presence of the Sun on Earth.

He could only hope that the Ancestors understood why that was worth it.

Cliopher was unsure whether this counted as prayer, any more than his child-self‘s frantic singing over every song that might help keep him awake counted as meditation. It steadied him, at least, and that had to count for something.

His mind jittered back and forth through his life, refusing to settle until he began, quietly, to sing the Lays.

Peel away all the outer layers encrusted round his soul and he was still that boy, squatting in the sand, singing to stay awake. Only his adult voice must surely be rusting with disuse, and it wavered as he sang of Elonoa’a and Aurelius Magnus. Young Cliopher would not understand - could not understand - how tired he was now. How hungry, not for sleep, but for some recognition to rest in, some assurance that his deeds had meaning.

He had been so sure that his name would enter the Lays. Or perhaps not sure... perhaps that fierce certainty had also had its roots in fear. That he would try his hardest, and it would not be enough. That he would lose the fight against the current and be swept into the dark, alone.

The Lays reassured him as he sang. He might be far from the sea, far from his people, far from his island, but... the Islanders, the Ke'e Lulai, the people who live Under the Wake, had been voyagers once, and they knew that their own were not lost, however far they travelled. His cousin Dimiter was not lost to his people, though he had died in a distant desert long ago. His cousin Basil would not be lost, though he lived or died (or had already died) on Alinor, under a strange sun, in another world. Cliopher would not be lost.

By the small hours of the morning he was too tired to feel anything but a weary resignation, but he did not want to sleep. With his wilder emotions settled, or at least dormant, his pride in his work slowly reasserted itself.

Even if the Ouranatha did not execute him for the broken taboo, it seemed improbable that the distant remote statue of a man who had dismissed Cliopher from the Imperial Apartments would want him back. Nevertheless, he found that he was thinking over some of the contents of his Radiancy’s correspondence, and whether a more thorough overview of the situation around Zunidh might be drawn from Princess Indrogan’s private office, with a bit of persuasion. As personal secretary to the Glorious One he would have been able to just walk up and ask for these things and expect to be given them.

After a while the niggling sense of an unfinished task drove him to clamber stiffly off the bed and tuck back in behind his desk. He wrote up his findings about the morning reports. He set out his proposed format for the summary page, from memory, and annotated it with a list of suggested contacts from each department, and any advice he could bring to mind on how to approach them. He listed the issues that the Emperor had seemed particularly concerned with, from memory, and which departments or specialists would be best placed to provide advice.

Together this amounted to a solid wedge of papers, which he rolled up and addressed to ‘the Imperial secretary-candidate’. Kiri would be able to work out who that was next. Cliopher felt a small pang of guilt about the fear that the next candidate would no doubt feel in the wake of his public execution. Perhaps there was some grain of wisdom in appointing aristocrats, who at least had a chance of minding the taboos.

In the grey hour before dawn Cliopher sat back up on his bed, wrung out into a state of resignation and exaltation that probably owed something to the lack of sleep or food. He felt like he was carrying the weight of gold and glory he glimpsed in the Emperor’s eyes.

It was worth it. Heart humming with this certainty he washed and dressed again in the crisp linen of his robes.

Acceptance brought with it a heightened awareness. He was exquisitely conscious of the cold freshness of water on his face, the soft touch of clean fabric, the shifting of colour into the world as the blueness of dawn gave way to first light. He left time to walk to the Administrative Office the long way round, through the gardens where the birds were singing the sun up.

The desks were empty, as might be expected two hours before the working day began. To his considerable surprise, though, Lord Meriloe himself was standing in the outer office, expostulating at an Imperial Guard.

The presence of the Master of Offices at this time in the morning was unprecedented, but Cliopher could just about imagine him making the effort in order to witness his arrest - and an imminent arrest also explained the guard, of course, although he would have expected one of the priest-wizards to be present as well. What mystified him was the apparent argument. Lord Meriloe actually looked flustered, and not a little angry. There were red spots burning on his cheeks, as red as the rubies glinting, as usual, round his neck, and his voice was loud enough to be audible from the other end of the wide working space.

“How dare you! How dare you! I am here, aren’t I, at this ungodly hour? I am responsible for appointments. I am responsible for ensuring that the Glorious One gets the respect he deserves! There must be some mistake.”

The guard said something in a quieter voice.

“It was a direct order from the Tower! Of course I returned his writing kit!” cried Meriloe, as Cliopher came up beside him.

The guard looked past Merry and met Cliopher’s eyes, and completed his bewilderment by smiling in… restrained but joyous relief?

“Sayo Mdang! You are here! Are you well?”

“Yes… er, yes I am here, and yes I am well,” Cliopher said, weakly, struggling to make sense of the situation. This seemed like a peculiar approach to an arrest.

“As you can see, he is unharmed,” snapped Meriloe.

The guard gave Cliopher a doubtful look. “And informed..?” he asked, the barest rumble of distant thunder in his voice, though his face was controlled.

Both he and Cliopher looked at Meriloe, the guard with bland challenge, Cliopher in pure confusion.

Through gritted teeth, Meriloe ground out, “Sayo Mdang, the Emperor has sent to confirm your appointment as his personal secretary.”

Cliopher could not parse this at all. The words made no sense. He looked helplessly between the furious Master of Offices and the phlegmatic guard, and said, intelligently, “what?”

The guard raised an eyebrow. Meriloe’s face reddened even further with outrage. Cliopher stared at him. What on Zunidh could have happened to undo all his careful court polish, to leave him outwardly, obviously fuming?

“This is my office! This is my task! I do not know, sir, why the Tower wishes to see Sayo Mdang back so early in the morning but it is my prerogative as Master of Offices to inform candidates of their appointments and ensure that they arrive. You overstep!”

The guard cleared his throat. “The Imperial Household receives a dispatch box at the first hour every morning. As we had not heard whether to expect Sayo Mdang this morning, I was ordered to run down here and ensure that his Radiancy’s request had reached him.”

The only part of this that fully penetrated his sleep-deprived confusion was the need to address the morning reports, preferably before he was executed. “I… have to fetch my writing kit,” said Cliopher.

“But! But… you can’t! He is entirely unsuitable!” hissed Meriloe, his face twisting, grasping at Cliopher’s robes.

Cliopher stepped back, a little slowly. He felt like he was moving through clear jelly, not air, as though his exhaustion was an invisible weighted coat.

The guard was suddenly there between them. “His Radiancy has concluded otherwise,” he said, coldly. Meriloe shrank back.

Cliopher felt his lungs constrict with shock. His Radiancy had concluded otherwise. The Emperor wanted him back. He sat heavily down on the nearest desk.

The guard turned away from the cowering Meriloe with splendid unconcern. “Your writing kit?” he said politely.

The morning reports. A task that made sense. Only…

“My room is at the end of the Alinorel wing,” he stammered. It was at least thirty minutes even at a run, both ways - the quarter bell chimed - there was no time.

“Perhaps Lord Meriloe could assist?” said the guard, swinging back round with a meaningful look.

The Master of Offices puffed himself up, briefly, as though he was about to argue. As he was not much taller than Cliopher, and the guard had no other reason to be intimidated by him, the effect was no doubt not what he hoped. The guard simply stood staring down at him with solid persistence.

Meriloe deflated, all at once. “My clerk will find you something,” he spat, and scuttled back into his office.

Cliopher looked round and found that the scene was being watched by a small group of early risers, among them Meriloe’s new clerk. The guard stared impassively as the man rattled about in drawers and scraped together pens and ink pots higgledy piggledy into a bag, which he thrust at Cliopher.

Cliopher took them and followed the guard out of the room, head spinning.

“Er… thank you,” he said. “I - I don’t think I caught your name?”

“Just following orders, Sayo Mdang,” said the guard, easily. “Nice to have a bit of excitement before breakfast. I’m Hiscaron.”

“Good to meet you,” said Cliopher, automatically. His feet found their natural pace, which was, he knew, rather fast for most people. Hiscaron matched him without comment. The benefit of walking with an Imperial guard was evident; passers-by gave them a wide berth.

After three years contesting with the Master of Offices in large ways and small, it was passing strange to see the man brushed aside with so little effort. Alongside his amazement, Cliopher was aware of a small wave of savage satisfaction. It rippled and sank, however, beneath the rising tsunami of joy.

The Ouranatha were not coming for him. The Emperor wanted him back.

Meriloe had known since yesterday.

Cliopher knew he should be angry about that, and perhaps he was, but the radiant acceptance of the early morning was still with him, transfigured by the turn of events into exaltation. He had thought - he had known - that he was hours away from execution. To receive not just a reprieve but an acclamation…

Also a job to do. The morning reports. Ah, yes, that consequence of the Master of Offices' little bit of prevarication was small enough to be annoyed at Merry about. If Cliopher had heard this news yesterday when word came down from the Tower, he might have had time to visit a few departments and shake them down for better information.

By the time he and Hiscaron swept into the corridor outside the Apartments, the reports had arrived and were waiting for him on desk he had used the day before. Cliopher scrambled through the somewhat ratty bag and found a glittering red and black pen that surely belonged to Meriloe himself. He murmured thanks again as Hiscaron excused himself, relieved to focus once more entirely on his work.

He tore into the task with relish, his relief rapidly swallowed by frustrated perplexity. The second time round it should have been easier, but the departments had sent up another totally disjointed set of papers. Several items that had been promised yesterday were missing. There were no updates on progress against orders that Cliopher knew had been given. He hissed in frustration as he worked. Despite the muddle he had the papers sorted, categorised and summarised before the second bell.

Today when he looked up the room was empty, but someone must have dropped by while he was busy. His own battered leather writing kit was waiting at the end of the desk, next to a large and steaming cup of coffee. Hiscaron had sent a runner to fetch his kit. This small thoughtfulness, and the welcome it implied, unexpectedly overcame him. The Imperial Household wanted Cliopher, wanted him to succeed.

He sank back down, scrabbled in the bag from the Administrative Office for a pen rag that was free of ink, and caught a couple of sobs before the tears could splash on his reports or mark the front of his robes.

The Lord of Rising Stars wanted him back.

The Imperial study was not, after all, the Gate of the Ring at the end of his journey. It was not Pau’en’lo’ai, the Island of the Dead, where the ancestors waited. It was, improbably, the next star for his ke’ea.

That meant work. That meant… everything.

He would have time, now, to do it well.

Chapter Text

After the longest night of his life it was a gift to have a moment to rest while the Emperor breakfasted.

Cliopher delivered the reports to the Imperial pages and retreated back to his cup of coffee. He spent a soothing half hour sipping it, settling his nerves, checking through his writing kit, and mentally going over the topics likely to come up over the course of the day.

His meditation was interrupted by a short, aristocratic man who strode into the room carrying a small tray of pastries. “Sayo Midom?” this apparition said, accusingly, his accent the purest court, “the guards tell me you have not come for breakfast.”

Cliopher blinked, recognised from the tattoos that this was one of the members of the Imperial household who had been present the previous morning, and managed to make a bow that he was almost sure was correct. “It’s Mdang,” he said, as the tray of pastries slid smoothly between him and his writing kit.

“Sayo Mdang, then,” the man said. “Excellent to meet you, charmed I’m sure. Go on, eat!”

The pastries were small fluffy twists around pockets of yellow cream, with tangy translucent red berries scattered on top. They were warm from the oven, crisply golden on top, and smelled mouth-wateringly good. Cliopher stared at them, suddenly discovering that he was not just hungry, he was ravenous.

The little man handed him a pure white napkin and hopped up to sit on the desk beside him. “Please eat them” he said, “put me out of my misery. I can’t stand the suspense.” He grinned triumphantly as Cliopher started in on the custard twists. “I’m Conju - the Cavalier Conju an Vilius, if we’re being proper, but Conju to you, I think. I’m his Radiancy’s Groom of the Chamber.”

Cliopher tried not to choke on a mouth full of flaky pastry. The Groom of the Chamber was the head of the intimate household, the most personal of all personal attendants to the Glorious One. Surely of all people in the Palace this was the man most likely to be offended by an uncouth outsider breaking the great taboos.

Conju grinned at this reaction and began talking in a rapid patter about his Radiancy’s morning routine, the advisability of eating a good breakfast, and the pleasure the whole household took in seeing a capable candidate in the secretarial role at last.

“I am sure we will be working together, Sayo Mdang, so I wanted to introduce myself in person. And make sure you got breakfast, of course.”

“I would be fascinated to learn more about your work,” said Cliopher, honestly, and also because he could see at once how helpful this would be.

“Naturally you would,” said Conju, “I’d be delighted. Drop me a note, when you’re ready, and let’s get dinner.” He whisked the tray and napkin away with professional briskness as the quarter bell chimed, winked at Cliopher, and swept off.

Cliopher stared after Conju for a second and marvelled. The Groom of the Chamber. He knew that there were some aristocrats who worked effectively, like Princess Indrogan, and others like Lady Kuyulush who could be pleasant and friendly when the mood took them. He had just never before met a great personage of the court who sat down on the edge of his desk to have a chat, who treated Cliopher with casual equality, who thought that a secretary might need feeding at the same time as his lord.

It struck him how kind everybody was, here in the Imperial household where he had least thought to expect it. These people served a living god, every day, and yet they laughed and welcomed him and brought him food, even though he had fled the Tower in disgrace on his first morning. That was another sign in the Emperor’s favour. Cliopher had worked in enough departments to understand how the tone was set from the top, by example and the choice of appointments and dismissals as much as by direct instruction.

The pastries and coffee had revived him a little, but his stomach still turned over uncomfortably as he came to walk again through those seven splendid anterooms. Yesterday he had not known what to expect. Today he knew that the Emperor was kind as well as powerful, funny as well as splendid. He remembered that swift withdrawal of personality and connection when the taboo shattered, and he trembled. Did the Sun on Earth really want his new secretary back? Or was this just another kindness, concealing Cliopher’s fault long enough to dismiss him in peace? He wished he had had more time to prepare. He wished he had slept.

The mirrors in the seventh room showed him pale, shaken, red-eyed from lack of rest. At least he was neat, clean, and correctly dressed. And then, as the guard announced Cliopher’s name, he realised with a singular sinking feeling that he had given no thought to what he should say to the Emperor.

He would have to acknowledge the clemency of the Lord of Rising Stars. There were no special bows to carry the weight of his gratitude that were relevant to the Emperor, as the full formal prostration was appropriate to a petitioner, not to someone who had already received the Glorious One’s benison. The Emperor always received the very highest level of gratitude in the formal obeisance. Any further acknowledgement of his favour had to be in words. As he entered the study, Cliopher felt his mind go helpfully blank.

The glorious room was, if possible, even more full of light this morning. he made his obeisances with single-minded focus, keeping his eyes firmly down in the narrow band between the floor and the Emperor’s hands. The Lord of Rising Stars lifted a hand, gesturing towards his desk, then turned swiftly away.

Gratefully, Cliopher slipped into his seat and set out his kit. There was an eerie edge to the brightness, a faint coruscation like rainbows in the corner of his eyes. He blinked, hoping that he was not about to faint or do anything foolish.

As the hour bell faded his Radiancy began to pace, in silence. A little unnerved, Cliopher frantically began pulling together words and phrases of formal gratitude in his mind. They all seemed painfully stilted, deeply inadequate to the moment.

The Emperor made a full turn of his triangle and returned back to his desk. He stopped there and stood regarding Cliopher. The rainbows had thankfully receded but the air felt still and heavy as full summer noon.

“Good morning,” the Glorious One said, gravely, “We are pleased to see you today, Sayo Mdang.”

Cliopher’s whole heart turned over within him. His Radiancy - still, impossibly, in truth, as absurd as it might seem, Cliopher’s Radiancy - kept his bearing turned slightly to one side, so that his gaze would not fall precisely on his secretary. Cliopher could see it in the Imperial stance, although he kept his own eyes down this morning, kept his motions as painfully correct as he knew how. They were both -he, Cliopher, was - a little shy, a little exposed, as though he stood trembling in the breath before making a solemn vow.

With relief he realised that he could follow the etiquette in this matter too, and let the Emperor take the lead and set the level of formality. Painfully correct for both of them today, it seemed. He knew what was expected, what was proper: he, a fifth degree secretary, to be made welcome in the Imperial Apartments, to be forgiven for breaking the taboo, must be overcome with gratitude (which he was) and must express his gratitude with eloquence.

Cliopher was entirely unpracticed at courtly compliments, which had somehow never seemed relevant before. He rallied himself. He could not - he would not - be found lacking in anything the Glorious One deserved, and he had won prizes for his eloquence in extemporaneous debate. At university, he reminded himself, when he was twenty years younger, which was over a hundred years ago as time ran in Solaara.

“I am honoured by my gracious lord’s regard,” he began, ignoring the internal voice of doubt, “to me, a lowly petitioner to your Imperial magnanimity, to me, a candidate for your consideration, to me, a secretary only of the fifth degree, that my lord would overlook my many and grievous faults and deign to bid me return to these storied halls and place myself at his disposal.”

It was, in fact, rather like answering a challenge song, only with all the rules reversed to suit the stylised humility so beloved of the Astandalan court: the goal was to combine self-deprecation that did not wallow in its own abasement with praise that was neither forced nor cloying.

The Emperor resumed his pacing. Despite the movement he carried with him a perfectly self-contained stillness, the remote serenity that Cliopher had taken yesterday for disgust and dismissal. Today the Glorious One seemed attentive, but just as distant, as though some vast power was holding itself back to properly behold Cliopher.

Cliopher allowed himself a short parentheses on the theme of the heavenly bodies, the Palace of Stars, and the illumination provided to those below by the great ones above. He was well used to arguing the side of the debate that he could not believe in, and if he personally rejected the premise of Astandalan hierarchy at least the awe and gratitude were real. His Radiancy was overlooking the breaking of a great taboo - and his Radiancy, and his guards and household, must have concealed Cliopher’s mistake from the priest-wizards. That consideration had saved his life.

The hardest part was delivering all this oratory to the paper, inks and brushes lying before him on his desk. A challenge song was, of necessity, a duet, and a debating speech was a kind of trio between the speaker, the audience and the opposition. Cliopher was well practised at reading the responses and judging how to collect and reflect them into his speech. Good intentions aside, therefore, as he reached the natural crescendo of his performance he inevitably did flick his eyes up to catch the Emperor’s expression.

The Emperor was coming down the near side of the room, nearly at the turn, and his gaze was just lifting from Cliopher’s face. His features were familiar, of course, they graced every coin in the realm. His Radiancy was apparently one of those people whose reactions were chiefly internal, whose emotion expressed itself primarily in subtle variations of expression. No doubt a lifetime as the centre of Astandalan power would have strengthened this habit, made it unthinking. The lion eyes, though, were windows into an unexpectedly lively inner life. Today, even in a sidelong glance, they were bright, almost merry, and Cliopher smiled at his desk as he crested his metaphor and slid down through the proper forms for closing the speech.

Then, blessedly, they got on with the day’s work. Several of the letters that his Radiancy had dictated yesterday had already elicited responses requiring new decisions; the admirable speed of the turnaround probably owed something to the respect due to the Lord of Rising Stars, but many of the issues were minor matters to thrust so importunately onto the desk of the ruler of Zunidh. Cliopher set a page to one side and started noting the names of the chancers and opportunists who needed handling. There were three separate pompous screeds from the Prince of Amboloyo alone. Rufus was ruler under the Emperor of his own domain, wasn’t he? Surely he should know better than to waste time with these petty matters of protocol.

By the noon bell the backwash of excitement and fear and wonder had seeped away, leaving damp exhaustion, but nevertheless he felt they had got through an acceptable quantity of work, all things considered. Cliopher gathered up his papers, made an obeisance that apparently passed for correct, and left the Imperial study with his head spinning. There was so much to do.

Saya Sawasaka greeted him and his pile of letters with a determined effort to feed him and send him home to bed. “Anyone can see you’re in need of it, Sayo Mdang! You leave those with me, now, we have some excellent copyists from the Pages’ Hall. We’re used to it.”

Cliopher could have wept again for her kindness, if he had any space left for emotion after the past three days. He could not quite stifle a face-cracking yawn, but he did manage to negotiate a compromise where Sayo Ange and one of the Imperial pages joined him at the desk in the outer office to finish the correspondence together. The Imperial page, Sayu Qitu, won his eternal gratitude by turning up with another enormous mug of coffee for him.

Between them the pages made short work of drafting up the letters from Cliopher’s notes, leaving him free to think. The Emperor was good hearted and willing, but his ability to command as Lord of Zunidh depended on his wishes being heard and obeyed. All power theoretically derived from him and yet in practice it was hovering precariously in the balance between the short-sighted wilfulness of the Upper Secretariat, the outright unrest of the nobles, and the religious authority claimed by the Ouranatha.

This was a systemic problem across the entire government, and that meant that it was the kind of problem that hinged on a large number of people just… being human, in a system that was poorly adjusted to survive contact with the flaws and foibles of human nature.

Cliopher had told many people that he wanted to fix the government. It had been one of those flippancies that lay lightly across a deep passion in his soul, concealing the strength of his desire to tackle the wrongs of the world at their roots. Actually getting the opportunity was bewildering. There was so much to do.

Break it down. A ke’ea depended on knowing where you were, and where you were going, but the stages of the journey were set out in many individual markers, a litany of stars to follow in turn as they rose over the horizon. Cliopher had spent years stepping back and out to think about the system as a whole. Now he needed to move back in, to feel the current tugging his vaha, the wind and the waves, to understand the exact level of pressure needed from his hand on the tiller to set his course.

The closest star on this ke’ea was surely the Imperial Service. The bureaucrats were supposed to enact his Radiancy’s wishes, made manifest in the collection of moneys through taxes and their efficient expenditure on those things the Emperor deemed the province and purpose of his government. Cliopher was entirely certain that budgetary control was in tatters in most departments, in the absence of audits, and that the chronic understaffing in the Lower Secretariat was paired with cronyism and corruption in the bloated Upper Secretariat.

The Emperor could insist on audits. The Emperor could demand answers from his Ministers. The Emperor could revoke or reassign authority to act between the departments at will. As his Radiancy’s secretary Cliopher would be able to draw these matters to his lord’s attention. He shuddered at that thought, at the power of his new position. What was that Ystharian saying, from one of their natural philosophers? Give me a lever long enough and a firm place to stand, and I will move the world.

The trouble was positioning the lever. He understood why the Service imposed careful filters on the information they sent up to the Imperial Apartments. Perpetrators of wrongdoing wanted to conceal it, but even totally honest Ministers might want to develop a plan or a programme themselves without interference, and would naturally prefer to keep the Emperor’s interest and attention at arm's length.

Cliopher had come across academic research on the problem of agency in a large organisation, but his brain was moving sludgily and he could not for the life of him remember the titles of the papers nor the names of the authors. He did remember that large economic concerns often attached financial reward to incentivise managers to act in the best interest of the business owners, such as by allocating the captain of a trading ship a share in the profits of a successful voyage.

Alas, the outcome of successful government activity was - or should be - a happier, healthier world, which was more gratifying than profit but would not function as well as a mechanism to preferentially reward excellence in the Imperial Service.

He rubbed his face. So much to do. The problem of aligning incentives between honest Ministers and the centre of government could wait until the Imperial Service was in better order. Rooting out the corruption came first, and for that the Emperor needed better information, and for that Cliopher already had a lever to hand.

Qitu coughed quietly. They and Ange had finished making fair copies of all the letters. Cliopher blinked back from his abstraction. “Oh! Please hold on a moment, I have one more for you,” he said, and pulled over a spare sheet of paper to draft quick note for Princess Indrogan, asking for a meeting at her earliest convenience.

His hand shook a little as he signed it: Cliopher sayo Mdang, personal secretary to the Sun on Earth.

–

Princess Indrogan’s earliest convenience for Cliopher Mdang, fifth degree secretary, had been a matter of days or weeks. For the Emperor’s personal secretary, it was a matter of minutes.

Cliopher hurried down the stairs, trying to guess how the Princess would respond to his unexpected promotion and mentally drawing a blank. A distinct susurration rippled across the working desks of her private office as he arrived. He caught glances that might have been awed, envious, amused, or fearful, and pretended he didn’t hear the comments that went with them. “Really? HIM?” and “better him than us” and “how long d’you think he’ll last?” and even a “go on, pay up”.

Sayo Gilogani tried to intercept him halfway down the room. Cliopher kept walking, a little dazed and a lot unwilling to keep Princess Indrogan waiting. The portly senior clerk followed along with him, offering congratulations that sounded more than a little dubious.

Kiri, who was on the main desk, gave a startled cry as they approached and came darting around it. To Cliopher’s astonishment she stopped him in his tracks by dint of seizing him in a bone-crushing hug. “Are you well?” she whispered, low enough to be covered by the general laughter.

“Yes,” he replied, just as quietly, “everything is… it’s wonderful.”

Kiri released him far enough to take a good hard look at his face, as though considering how far to believe him. Cliopher knew that he was wrung out, red-eyed, pale, and almost swaying on his feet, but at her question the flood tide of incredulous joy was rising again. His grin felt like it stretched several inches wider than his face.

“...good. That’s good,” she said, though she still sounded a little unconvinced. Cliopher could see that his wild fervour might not be entirely reassuring, in context.

“I promise I’ll fill you in later,” he said, soothingly, “as soon as I get a moment.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Kiri, “if you get yourself some sleep first.”

Sleep sounded like an excellent idea, when he had time for it.

Chapter Text

“So,” said Princess Indrogan, arid to the point of acidity, “someone took a gamble. Was it you, Sayo Mdang?”

Cliopher felt the tiredness hovering, slow and thick, but the buzz of his purpose was still with him, possibly aided by the amount of coffee he was drinking.

The Princess had not only agreed to see him at once, she had welcomed him with a brief but distinct bow, a gesture of respect shifted several registers above his previous due, and to his astonishment her secretaries had reappeared a few moments after the meeting started with a tray of refreshments.

Outwardly these were signs that she recognised Cliopher at his new status which was, he felt, more than he had managed to grasp so far. He took another, subtler, message too: she was treating him as an outsider, as the Private Office treated those whose egos needed stroking, whose willingness to support the government might be enhanced by a little show of deference or attention. That said: I am unsure whether you are still one of us.

He met her eyes, thanked her graciously for the coffee, and attempted to moderate his return courtesies. Princess Indrogan was a Power, a woman whose presence defined formidable, but he had spent his morning working with the Lord of the Rising Stars whose authority and presence were an order of magnitude greater. The Princess did not seem diminished, exactly, just set in context as a light among other lights.

“The appointment was not of my choosing, my lady,” he told her. “My lord Meriloe observed that I am a secretary who could not fill a place, and that he had a place that no secretary had been able to fill, and on his initiative brought the two together.”

“I see,” she said, smiling in appreciation and, perhaps, relief.

“I believe the Master of Offices may have come to regret his decision later,” he told her, demurely, “but, alas, his Radiancy has been kind enough to confirm me in the role, so he must learn to live with his regret.”

The Princess laughed freely. Cliopher realised, with an odd little twist of shock, that he had never heard her laugh before. He drank some coffee to cover his confusion and collect his thoughts, which seemed to be scattering and reforming like a flock of gulls over a moving shoal.

This would be a delicate balancing act of a conversation. Indrogan had been cautious with her words last time she granted him an audience, and he had realised that she was not confident of their privacy. No doubt Haion and his friends had shared at least one listening device with the Ouranatha that did not show up when scanned with the detectors given to the Minister in Chief’s Private Office.

Nevertheless, he had worked for the Princess long enough to update her obliquely. And he was, he suddenly realised, no longer afraid of her. Wary and respectful, yes, but this woman was no longer his powerful patron. She was - or could be - his ally. Nothing more.

If he succeeded as the Emperor’s secretary then his Radiancy became the centre of his career, the footing for his leverage, his hope for making a difference. And of course if he did not succeed, all the most likely outcomes would remove him from the Palace entirely, and quite possibly from the land of the living. Either way, he would never again be dependent on the whims of the Upper Secretariat.

A soft wave of relief broke over him.

“Well now,” said Indrogan, seeing some change in his expression, the edges of her amusement growing sharper. “And you requested this meeting because…?”

Her chair was still high-backed and throne-like, the sprays of glass flowers behind still caught the light and emphasised that impression, the tall shelving units stretched up into delicate gold-painted stone ribs that carried the canopy to the high ceiling. Her hair was still neat, held back today by simple combs that only incidentally gave the vague impression of a crown. From the subtle flash of a single jewel at her neck to the crisp elegance of her long lacquered nails the Princess Indrogan was every inch the controlled and controlling Minister in Chief.

She was asking him to steer the conversation.

Cliopher consciously summoned his reserves of dignity, all the strength of purpose he could muster. He thought of his Radiancy trying to stitch the world together from the glimpses that came through the distorted window panes of his private correspondence, the muffled and retouched colours of the departmental updates. Things had to change, and that meant the Princess had to step up.

“Thank you for making space for me on such short notice,” he began, doing his best to convey in the tone and the shallow tilt of his nod of gratitude that this was an Astandalan-style courtesy between equals, that he knew he now merited her full attention on request, that he was here on behalf of the Emperor they both served.

“My appointment was… unexpected,” he went on, “and came at short notice, and I am still familiarising myself with my duties and with the preferences of the Lord Emperor. As you know there has been significant turnover of secretary candidates to the Glorious One, and I am concerned that this unfortunate circumstance has led to disarray in the information and requests being passed up to his Radiancy.”

He could tell that Princess Indrogan was enjoying his dry circumlocutions, and hoped she appreciated the care not to imply that she was personally at fault. Half his tension came from the singing conviction that he must not fall back into a habit of reporting to the Princess, easy as that would be. There could only be one sun in his sky, only one star as his ke’e.

It helped that he was used to sharing difficult information with her, and closely reading her response; it helped that he was fully absorbed in the moment, viewing her reactions through an eerie coffee-fueled clarity from the other side of the extraordinary experiences of the past two days. He reminded himself that the sense of alert focus was almost certainly an illusion.

“The morning reports are not what could be wished,” he said, keeping the tone pleasant but not apologetic, allowing the challenge to lie there between them.

“The Emperor’s morning reports are commissioned by the Tower,” Princess Indrogan’s reply was crisp. “We have no oversight.”

“And how do you find they compare to the reports you receive through your private office, my lady?”

The Princess paused before answering, a hesitation so minute that Cliopher only recognised it because of his long familiarity with her usual swift certitude. “My office does not get copied into the reports that departments send up to his Radiancy,” she replied, “so I am unable to make that comparison.”

“That… does not seem conducive to effective coordination across government,” said Cliopher.

They were both speaking carefully, courtly formality masking his shock and her - awkwardness. Shame, perhaps. Her only clear sign of emotion was a sharp rat-tat of fingernails on the desk.

“Indeed,” she said, “the system leaves something to be desired.”

At that acknowledgement they both fell silent, taking a moment to sip their drinks and regroup. Cliopher wanted to ask how this had happened, how control of the mundial government had slipped so drastically out of the hands of its ostensible Minister in Chief, but he knew that this was not the moment. Besides, he had an inkling.

The arrival of General Ravillon had been a moment of potential destabilisation, bringing a new military force into Solaara. Princess Indrogan had managed to convince the General to put himself and his troops at the service of the Palace under the leadership of the commander of the Palace Guard. She had made free use of the traditional association between the Palace Guard and the Emperor whom Ravillon served in making her case… and to draw in the rest of the magical and mundial government to her single purpose… and then the Emperor awoke, and the abstract unity that the Princess had drawn on became an active rivalry to win the favour and speak on behalf of the Glorious One.

Lady Jivane had resigned as Lady Magus of Zunidh in a heartbeat, thrusting the role of head of state onto a man who had spent the last hundred years suspended in a magical sleep. The abrupt combination of what had previously been two distinct roles naturally confused the exercise of power. With the army tied in to the bureaucracy, and much of the aristocracy either scattered in their demesnes across Zunidh or trapped in Solaara away from their seats of power, the two main factions were the magical and mundane arms of the government.

The Minister in Chief headed up the Imperial Service on behalf of the Lord or Lady of Zunidh, but the Ouranatha by long tradition maintained the cult of the Emperor; they spoke to and for the Sun on Earth and did not answer to the Lords Magi of the five worlds. In the immediate scramble the priest-wizards, with the responsibility to implement the taboos, were closest to the Emperor’s actual person. They had taken full advantage of the widespread joy at the Emperor’s return to cement the cult as the centre of religious life across what remained of Zunidh.

The bureaucracy in theory enjoyed a similar level of access, but while she focused on General Ravillon the Princess had missed the significance of the growing corruption and cronyism in the ranks. When the Emperor awoke, Lord Meriloe was firmly ensconced as Master of Offices, firmly in the pocket of the Ouranatha, and firmly in control of the Imperial Service appointments to the Tower.

Thanks to Princess Indrogan, there was no real threat of a military coup. Thanks to the weight of the whole history and tradition of Astandalas, the role of Emperor eclipsed that of the Lord of Zunidh. Thanks to the Ouranatha, that role continued in its religious and ceremonial aspect even though the Empire had fallen. Thanks to Lord Meriloe’s catastrophic appointments, and to other Ministers acting selfishly or at cross purposes, the interface between the Tower and the rest of the Imperial Service was in total disarray. The Princess had been scrabbling to stay afloat, with no meaningful support from the Tower.

Until now.

The Emperor - and therefore Cliopher - needed Princess Indrogan. She was commanding; she had held the government together in the dark times after the Fall. She was rough-spoken, and peremptory, and difficult to work for, but she was honest. There might be another Minister in the current swamp of the Service (stinking as the Solomen Fens, the saying went) who had the toughness and integrity to make an effective Minister in Chief, but the odds were surely against it.

Cliopher knew what he was going to do, but Princess Indrogan would not take kindly to feeling that he forced her hand. She would also not respect him for dissembling. This was a conversation to approach in the courtly Astandalan style, with a self-deprecating mildness, but without any hint of doubt.

“I intend to meet with the authors of the reports from each department this week,” he told her, “to consult on the process and develop a consistent template. I would very much appreciate seeing the reports you get here and speaking with the team you have working on them; it would surely save time and effort if we had a single version of the truth instead of this duplication.”

“A single version of the truth? How novel,” Indrogan replied. He smiled at her, and shrugged as disarmingly as he knew how. She raised her eyebrows and gestured for him to continue.

“Should matters come up that need coordination across government, naturally his Radiancy would expect the Minister in Chief’s office to take the lead,” said Cliopher, carefully. “I am sure the Glorious One would appreciate it if we were to work more closely together in future, now that the sad disruption caused by the rapid turnover of secretaries in the Tower has, I devoutly hoped, come to an end -”

“A hope we all share, I’m sure,” said Indrogan. Cliopher bowed his thanks and hoped she meant it.

“What is the usual schedule for your meetings with the Emperor?” he asked, “I am afraid none of my predecessors were able to provide an administrative calendar for reference.”

“How shocking,” murmured the Princess. “I am afraid, Sayo Mdang, that our meetings have become somewhat irregular. I believe they were supposed to be weekly, but unfortunately the Ouranatha have frequently been unable to prevent diary conflicts with essential ceremonies that must be performed irregularly, at auspicious times.”

Cliopher struggled to cover his shock at how blatant that sounded. “...I see,” he managed. “I do feel as though it would be easier for his Radiancy to articulate his views and engage with the work of the Service if we found a more consistent schedule. I will speak with your secretaries.” He took a breath. “Are there any concerns or issues that I should bear in mind, and perhaps ensure we have on the agenda?”

The Princess picked up her drink - tea, not coffee, he was fairly sure - sipped it, and gave him an openly assessing look. She was wondering how far to trust him, Cliopher thought. He waited, let the space sit open between them, forced his own whirring tension to settle back, and hoped.

The afternoon sun sent slabs of brightness across the room, gleaming from the rich polished wood of the desk in front of him, filling the golden glass blooms in the fireplace with borrowed light. From the angle it was sometime between the second and third bells. That was good, it meant that he would have time today to revise his initial template for the morning reports, and to write to the Ministers to set up meetings with each department…

Indrogan set her cup down again with deliberation, and said, “I believe many of our current... difficulties stem from a lack of clear delegation of powers and remits. When the Glorious One condescended to become Lord Magus of Zunidh he verbally confirmed continuity with Lady Jivane’s chosen delegations. It was agreed that these should be reviewed and reconfirmed in writing within three months. The exercise was interrupted, however, by the early replacement of the first secretary to the Emperor, and has never been resumed.”

That made a horrifying kind of sense. The delegation of responsibilities defined the roles of each department, and at a higher level the core functions of the state; the Lord of a world made it clear who he would hold accountable for the official use of magic, of military might, of money, and of the lawful exercise of aristocratic power.

If you were a powerful body chafing at the limitations of your role, particularly if you envisioned remaking the government in your image, disrupting the delegation of powers was an essential first step. Every comment Cliopher had heard about the Ouranatha encroaching came to mind - offering to help with various aspects of government, offering to take on more work and more responsibilities… of course they would want to prevent the Emperor from putting them back in their box.

He had never fully appreciated the constraints Princess Indrogan was working under. Without formal Imperial approval for her chosen structure of government, the door was ajar for ambitious Ministers to push a redefinition of their own remits. If Indrogan disapproved they could always send messages directly to the Tower, seeking to lure the Emperor into addressing them as the responsible owners for the work in question. That explained some of the petty matters that were landing on the Imperial desk: it was the froth of internecine departmental warfare, the minor political gambits of a dozen chancers a day.

Cliopher realised that he was staring at the Princess in shock. She gave him a wry acknowledging grimace, and he tried his best to shift back into courtly mode and bow his admiration. Wrestling the Upper Secretariat without the Imperial delegations confirmed must be something like herding recalcitrant thunder lizards. “I will ensure the matter is raised with his Radiancy,” he said, “we can perhaps use the tightening up of the morning reports as a moment to review and fix the current delegations across the Imperial Service, and then consult on the best approach to the future.”

Princess Indrogan - the Minister in Chief - the head of the Imperial Service and one of the fiercest people Cliopher had ever been privileged to meet - bowed deep gratitude. He accepted with a respectful nod, and was rendered speechless by a glimpse of unshod tears glittering in her eyes. “The confusion has made it extremely difficult to track departmental budgets,” she said, briskness covering her emotion, “as full financial oversight remains with the Glorious One.”

Who was, of course, not exercising it. Cliopher wondered whether the Emperor even knew that he was responsible for budgetary control. The Lords Magi had always been held accountable by the financial core of the Imperial Service, and audited out of an Astandalan department which no longer existed. It was painfully believable that nobody would have pointed this out to the Tower if they didn’t have to.

“Do you receive input from the Tower on government finances?” he asked.

“Intermittently,” said the Princess, “his Radiancy always comments on the budgets but seldom requests further financial statements.”

…and Cliopher knew from his time in the Ministry of Trade that audits only happened on earnest request from the department in question. He sighed. “We will need to restore a regular cycle of budgeting, reporting, and financial audits, then,” he said. Another tricky stretch to navigate, where the currents would be contrary and furious.

“His Radiancy will need to start with the Treasurer,” said Princess Indrogan, with a certain grim emphasis.

“Oh,” Cliopher blinked, “oh dear. I will bring the matter to his Radiancy’s attention as - as I can.”

There was another assessing silence, as though they both needed to pace themselves through these acknowledgements. Then Cliopher said, “his Radiancy is absorbed at present in developing an overview of the state of Zunidh. He has a remarkably thorough grasp of the situation already, but the process of generating it from the information scattered across his current reports is time consuming. I am confident that he would appreciate a briefing from your Private Office sharing your current best understanding, for comparison with his own, and in future would appreciate regular updates against this overview in his reports from this Office.”

“That, we can do at once,” said the Princess. “Though the presentation will be smoother if you give my staff a week to prepare.”

“It is important, but not urgent,” Cliopher conceded, “and his Radiancy will likely have questions, and may be able to expand your understanding too, particularly on magical matters. I will consult with the household and find a time when we can do the conversation justice.”

“Thank you,” she said, “what else do you want?”

It was Cliopher’s turn to hesitate. He knew it was essential to be impartial, to avoid any hint of personal feeling in his dealings with the rest of the Imperial Service. He also knew what needed to be done. The Princess, in her turn, gave him the space to think before speaking.

So far they had spoken of routine processes and avoided much discussion of how changes might be achieved; Cliopher devoutly hoped that nobody was listening in, but if they were he felt reasonably confident that they would see the discussion so far as internal Imperial Service business. The Ouranatha might prefer the Imperial Service weakened and the Emperor confused, but as long as the reforms did not touch them directly they would not see them as an immediate threat. This next part, though… it had to be attempted.

“My lady, we need to reform the Administrative Office,” he said. Merry has to go.

“On that we are of one mind,” said Indrogan, at once, “if you are confident that his Radiancy will consider a proposal, I will prepare one.”

Yes, let’s make this about the Tower. “I do not think his Radiancy is happy with the service he has had in finding a secretary, and I do not think he has had solid information on the state of the service on which to make any decisions. I cannot predict the outcome, but I will certainly draw his attention to any recommendations you might have.”

She flashed a quick smile, “I seem to remember having read a promising draft the other day,” she said. “I will dig it out and revise it to reflect present concerns.”

Cliopher had not quite dared call for the dissolution of the Administrative Office while he was working there, knowing that any change would have to be managed through Lord Meriloe. The conclusion was lurking in the report, though, and if the Princess herself failed to make it explicit he was sure that he could find a way to introduce it in conversation. He felt some of the tension lift, a little, from his shoulders.

“On an unrelated subject - may I ask, Sayo Mdang, what discussions you have had with the Ouranatha?” The Princess’ tone was neutral, but she met his gaze and dropped the courtly mask so far as to let her worry show in her face.

Cliopher returned his own honest anxiety in his expression, and said, “I am not privy to the priest-wizards’ business with his Radiancy. It would be highly improper for the Imperial Service to interfere with the worlds’ adoration of the Sun on Earth. I propose that we focus on the business of the Service and leave the religion and the magical workings to the Lord Magus and the Ouranatha.”

“Wise counsel indeed, Imperial Secretary,” said Princess Indrogan, only the merest hint of irony in her voice.

Chapter Text

It was not possible, Cliopher realised, to grow accustomed to meeting the eyes of the Last Emperor of Astandalas.

Many other aspects of his new role were startling at first and then became routine. Folding himself into his daily obeisances and rising from them without dropping his writing kit or losing his train of thought. Meeting as an equal with the Minister in Chief or the Groom of the Chamber, to talk schedules or frustrations or plans. Making his way through the seven beautiful anterooms into that astonishing study, spending his days among exquisite masterworks made by the greatest artists in the Nine Worlds. He did not think he could ever see these things as normal, but they were soon familiar.

And, every day, Cliopher entered the Imperial study five minutes before the third bell, full of the joy of being able to say, casually, “good morning, my lord” as if they were - as any colleagues might greet one another. And, every day, Cliopher was astounded again by the light in his Radiancy’s eyes.

The first week passed in a blur, only partly due to the lack of sleep and the abundance of coffee. Before he knew it, Cliopher had a routine. An early morning walk through the gardens, followed by the steep flights of stairs up to the Tower. Catching his breath and catching up with Saya Sawasaka, or whoever was on duty at the messenger station. Picking up a hot drink from the household mess room. Taking the morning reports through to the empty office that was beginning to feel like Cliopher’s room, though it was really far too large for one person.

His summaries were growing pithier and sprouting additional commentary as he grew more familiar with the issues and personalities involved. By the end of the week he had circulated a draft template and most of the departments were at least attempting to use it, with varying degrees of good faith.

He rapidly grew to love the quiet three quarters of an hour to break his own fast while the Emperor digested the conundrums of the day alongside his morning meal. Cliopher alternately used the time to think through the day's work ahead or to join the guards and household members in their mess room.

After those brilliant hours working with the Emperor, the rest of his time naturally dissolved into a whirl of meetings and frantic note-taking and, he soon realised, endless dispatch boxes. The same note of introduction sent to the Ministers of each department yielded astonishingly varied responses. Some replied at once, flooding him with eager requests to meet with half the staff in the building, sharing projects and reports that must urgently reach his Radiancy’s desk, copying in their counterparts across the Service with eager abandon. Others sent back dry, courteous little memos, thanking him for his interest, suggesting that he meet with their junior secretaries or professing to be too busy to engage for another month at least. Still others, the Administrative Office amongst them, maintained a stony silence.

Cliopher found himself on the one hand fending off unbridled enthusiasm, and on the other sending endless chasing messages of his own. He began to wonder if it would help to go round the Palace and pin the dictionary definition of “priority” to the door of every office used by the Service, and possibly directly to the robes of some of the Ministers involved.

Princess Indrogan’s private office swung fully into action to assist him, scheduling meetings and providing helpful comments on all his draft documents. In exchange, he made sure they had a representative in the room for all of his meetings, emphasising that the Tower stood firmly behind the Princess. After so many years working against the grain of the system, Cliopher found this sudden access exhilarating to the point of bewilderment; he would suggest an angle, or a contact, and it seemed that he only had to turn around to find one of Indrogan’s junior secretaries working it up for him.

It was a treat to work with Kiri again. She had grown a great deal more confident in her analysis since they were last on the same team, and was now delegating to and coordinating the rest of the junior secretaries. They rapidly found a rhythm for chasing up recalcitrant departments together. She would bounce into the meeting with a Minister, full of cheerful energy, and gush with disarming enthusiasm about all of their work. He would hold back, glower, and drop ominous observations about how little of its value was apparent from the Tower.

Kiri also began intercepting him on his way down to Princess Indrogan’s office and thrusting food into his hands, and hovering beside his desk shortly after the evening bell talking loudly about how she would go home when he did. It was good advice, if difficult to take. The walk back to his rooms helped settle him, with a glimpse of the stars, the soft night sounds, and the sweet or spicy fragrances of the gardens breathing out after the long day.

(And if Kiri guessed that he spent much of his evening reading reports, or wrestling with problems, well, she did not say so and he did find time to write to his family too.)

The joy did not diminish with time. A rich vein of happiness ran through every day, flooding to the surface of his mind when he stood before the Lord of Rising Stars, lending grace to his bows, sureness to his pen, and swiftness to his thought.

At times his mood subsided beneath the weight of the work, the irony of Princess Indrogan, his lingering worries about the priest-wizards, or the frustrations of wrangling the Ministers, but the underlying contentment never left him. Whenever he had a moment of quiet he found it waiting in contemplation of his work, of his hopes, and of the dark striking profile of the Lord of Rising Stars, half-turned to him with a thought or a question.

He had never realised how lonely he was, moving from role to role, developing his ideas in conversation with himself and with the Lays he had memorised, or drawing out thoughts in slow, oblique, correspondence with his friends from home. Now, suddenly, he had an abundance of people to talk to about his interests. It was breathtaking.

Members of the Palace Guard were intriguingly different from General Ravillon’s staff, who were always highly conscious of the distinction of rank. The Guard did recognise levels of seniority while on duty, mostly visible in the relative proximity of their assigned posts to the Sun on Earth. Once off duty they mixed freely, officers and men alike, and Cliopher gathered that senior members were almost entirely promoted from the ranks on the basis of skill and experience.

Members of the Imperial household were more specialised and, Cliopher found, very willing to talk about their specialisms. He had never previously considered the fine distinction between the role of a footman or a page, an expert in costume design or a specialist in jewellery or make up, and he listened to their explanations with something approaching awe at the whole extent of the - the production of the Emperor.

The Cavalier Conju an Vilius was as good as his word. At the end of the first week he tracked Cliopher down in the Minister in Chief’s Private Office, dragged him away from the dispatch boxes, and introduced him to one of the private kitchens kept for those aristocrats who lived in the Palace but did not maintain a full household. This highly exclusive venue was tucked up almost under the roof tiles of the Palace, at the top end of the Voonran Wing, close to the Tower and a floor higher than most of the noble apartments. It was entirely clad in a black marble full of shimmering flecks that looked like silver shells, with thin lines of glowing gold artfully woven across the surface. Individual booths lined a long room, each with a pearly white table set back far enough to prevent casual eavesdropping. The only decoration, and the only lighting, came from the mage light imbued into the intricate golden knotwork in the walls.

Cliopher almost baulked when he saw where they were going. “Shouldn’t I change?” he couldn’t help asking, conscious of the plainness of his Service robes compared to the velvet outfits of the staff, let alone Conju’s glorious silks.

Conju grinned, with just an edge of mischief, “don’t you dare!” he said, “I’ve been looking forward all week to starting these rumours.” And he ushered Cliopher before him into one of the grand dining booths with the gestures appropriate to escort a - a great lord, such as a senior member of the Imperial Household.

Cliopher’s discombobulation must have shown on his face, because Conju laughed in delight when he caught sight of it. “And that, my dear, will set tongues wagging,” he said, then sobered a little. “It’s tactical, too. It will increase your consequence no end to be publicly recognised, and mine to be associated with the man who’s turning the Imperial Service upside down.”

“I’m not-” Cliopher began, and stopped.

“Yes? Not what? Not going through the Ministers like a warm knife through soft wax?”

“The Minister in Chief -”

Conju snorted. “Indrogan’s frantically trying to keep up with you,” he said, “and she’s got an entire department backing her.”

“But not…” Cliopher hesitated. She had not had the Tower behind her. She had not had his Radiancy, but to say that felt like criticising the Emperor, who was incidentally also a god and quite possibly the god venerated by the man in front of him.

“No,” said Conju, as if sharing the thought, “she’s not had the support. Still, you’re here now, so that’s something.”

There was - not offence, but - something brittle in Conju’s tone, perhaps even bitter. The previous secretary candidates had been bad, clearly, and Cliopher could see why the Imperial household might have some frustration about the service. His hesitation over how to reply was interrupted by the need to order food, and his utter confusion about the system. There were no menus; the assumption seemed to be that visitors and staff shared an understanding of what it was reasonable to order. Another one of the innumerable little traps the Astandalan court laid for outsiders… he resolved the immediate dilemma by murmuring “same, please,” after Conju, which seemed to be acceptable.

“How long have you been in the household?” he asked as the server left, hoping that would be safe ground. It was; Conju brightened at once and told a convoluted and extremely funny story about the roots of the ambition that led to his appointment.

“...and as I’d had a contretemps with him that week, I declined to create a new perfume for the Earl, who never had what you might call a nose, so I gave him the second bottle, and then I felt deeply, deeply, sorry for his footman, of whom I was very fond… anyway, I gave him the third bottle and thought no more about it. How was I to know that the Marchioness was intimately involved with all three of them? Did you ever meet the Marchioness of the Woods Noirell? No? Fortunate man.”

“Does she have a nose?” Cliopher asked, enthralled in spite of himself by this frank view of the court. It was all remarkably like the gossip his mother shared with the aunts back home, transposed into a different key but recognisably a human constant.

“Oh yes. For trouble,” said Conju, gleefully. “ The Marchioness is - was, I should say - this was before the Fall, you understand - the most extraordinary elder lady. I understand she could be a revelation for those so inclined. Anyway, of course when she recognised the scent there was a truly delicious scene…and, what with one thing and another, I decided to seek out another placement before the Earl decoded what she meant by his ‘predictable exhibitionism in a public venue’.”

“So you joined the Tower before the Fall?”

“Only briefly, it was a temporary opening, but they were short handed at the time and I was grateful for the opportunity. Places in the Tower were diamond dust in those days. I wanted the training - it takes months, you know, before they let you anywhere near the Presence.”

Cliopher thought of his own brief instruction from Lady Kuyulush, and his frantic evening with an outdated book of etiquette, and felt a pang of envy.

“I found another master in Astandalas,” said Conju after a moment, “and I planned to try again for the Imperial household, for a permanent position, when I had another few years’ experience - and some of the rumours had died down, of course.”

“Of course,” Cliopher agreed, lips twitching.

“After the Fall there were not many of us with Palace training. But - there was not much demand in the Tower.”

The Emperor had lain asleep for a hundred years, unmoving but for the slight rise and fall of his breath. Cliopher had never wondered, before, what happened to the people who served him. “It must have been a difficult time,” he said.

“That was universal,” said Conju. “My lord at the time was at a party in the city, and so I found myself without employment. But I did have the Palace training, and there were openings…” he sighed, “nothing felt right, not until the Emperor awoke and the Palace came looking for recruits. I was a junior attendant at first but - there weren’t many of us who could follow the taboos well enough to satisfy the priest-wizards. So… having worked through the other candidates (one way or another) - eventually they were bound to get to me.”

“The priest-wizards make the appointments?” Cliopher was proud of how level his voice was.

“The Emperor chooses his attendants,” said Conju, and sighed, “on their advice, most usually. I think at first he tried but… people kept leaving, and eventually he just confirmed the successors they nominated.”

There was a heaviness to the words that hinted at more to come. Cliopher bit down any observations he might be tempted to make about the Ouranatha, reminding himself that they would probably be unwise. He waited, wondering what Conju wanted to tell him.

Conju ate quietly for a moment, then tensed, put down his cutlery, made a formal gesture that Cliopher did not recognise, and said, “I have been Groom of the Chamber for just over a month.”

Ah. Conju was also new to his role, and unsure how Cliopher would feel about that. Cliopher felt - an ache, mostly, when he thought of the Emperor struggling to bring together his people, and refusing to settle for the options presented by the Ouranatha, or the Minister for Offices. He nodded and let the awareness settle between them, before saying, “and - how do you find it?”

There was another pause. Conju picked up his drink and sipped delicately, looking away across the room. Cliopher did the same, taking in the widely spaced booths, the distant serving staff, the soft quiet of the place. There were a few people eating at other tables, but the dim light made it difficult to see them clearly and the distance, and some subtle feature in the design of the room, muffled the sound of their conversation into a background murmur.

Conju appeared to reach some internal conclusion, and turned back. “Cliopher - may I call you Cliopher?” he said, “thank you. I understand you have - that is, on your first morning… tell me, the Glorious One… are his eyes -”

Conju’s words trailed off in strangled intensity. Cliopher felt his face heat. He put down his goblet. Conju was looking at him with a strange kind of pleading, almost fear.

Conju had brought him here deliberately. The eating hall here was designed for the famously vicious aristocrats of Astandalas to meet in semi-public and carry out their intrigues. The property of being visible without being overheard was no doubt valued and carefully maintained.

The listening devices created by the mages would be distributed in the places where they expected to overhear valuable secrets, such as offices, not in every nook and cranny in the Palace.

Conju already knew enough to denounce him. The Ouranatha would not ask for further evidence. He did not need to lead Cliopher into a trap.

Cliopher expected to work closely with this man. Trust had to start somewhere. Besides, he already liked Conju.

He took a slow breath, looked steadily at the other man, and said, “they are the lion eyes.”

Conju gave him a long searching look, then seemed to deflate back into his chair. “He never looks at us while we dress him,” he said. “He keeps his eyes shut - for our safety. I have always chosen his outfits on the presumption but… it is good to know.”

“You are not angry that I…”

“No,” said Conju, holding up his goblet and staring at it. “No. The taboos are - magical constructs, they are for the good of the Empire, for the good of the Emperor… but - so much of my job is helping him, and the Ouranatha are good at - at explaining what must be done, at showing us how to manage - but - I am glad that they are not always right.”

There was another moment of silence while they both absorbed this idea, so alien to children of the Empire. Then Conju stirred, as if recollecting himself. A spark of amusement crept back into his voice. “They are certainly deeply inadequate in matters of dress. Those silver robes! Shapeless, gaudy, surely impractical -”

Cliopher laughed in spite of himself. “I once saw a high priest at a salon in a robe sewn over with tiny mirrors.”

“No! Did you really? Which one - the High Priest of the Moon?”

“No, no - it was Solaris, I think.”

“Oh, yes, him,” Conju waved a hand dismissively. “He spends all his time on what they call ‘outreach’. Very theatrical. The others try to keep him out of the Palace when they can.”

“The Ouranatha must spend a great deal of time with his Radiancy?” Cliopher made it a question, “collaborating on matters of magic, as he is Lord Magus?”

On Conju, casual shrug looked effortlessly refined. “Not as much as you would expect,” he said, “they do schedule ceremonies, and of course attend for daily enactments of the rituals, but I have never known them to consult. Unless they are communing by arcane means, that is. His Radiancy does meditate and attend to the magic of the world in the afternoons.”

Cliopher nodded, adding this to his mental map of the Emperor’s days. Breakfast with the reports, mornings in the study, afternoons attending to the magic, evenings at court.

“Who controls his Radiancy’s calendar?” he asked.

Conju looked a little surprised at the question. “Well… I suppose we do?” he said, gesturing to indicate he meant the two of them. Then, more thoughtfully, “does he have a calendar?”

Cliopher looked at the ceiling, looked at the floor, looked across at the other booths, and counted to ten, twice, before he could trust his voice to say, “perhaps he should?”

“Well, what would go on it?”

“The service would have some suggestions,” said Cliopher. “His Minister in Chief would value a regular chance to seek his views on matters of government policy, which I understand has not been possible due to scheduling clashes with the Ouranatha. He is also engaged in mapping out the current situation of the world, and I believe her private office could share a great deal of relevant information if we could find a time for them to attend in person… and for me, I have noticed that we always seem to have three hours available for dictation; can I rely on that time being available?”

“Oh, yes,” said Conju, “he is very consistent about wanting the mornings for government work. Yes… I do see what you mean. To be honest, Cliopher, I am not sure that our, er, forerunners were entirely reliable.”

Cliopher tried and failed to repress a snort of amusement. Conju laughed with him.

“I will schedule government meetings for the morning hours for now, then,” said Cliopher, “and draft out a calendar - and perhaps we can discuss again? Regularly?”

“I think I could brace myself to bear your company,” said Conju, “possibly with a strong drink.”

They laughed again, and the meal continued more cheerfully. As they finished the final course, Cliopher found that there was one other thing he wanted to say, in this relative privacy.

“Conju,” he began, hesitantly, “I - do not think the Ouranatha have been historically forthcoming with the Service.”

“Cliopher,” said Conju, his voice still light, “the Ouranatha are not forthcoming with anybody. It’s part of their charm.”

Cliopher lifted a hand to acknowledge the point, and went on, “we also believe - I also believe - and so does the Minister in Chief - that they may be observing private conversations by uncanny means. Do you - that is to say - has the suspicion arisen in the household? Would such observation be possible in the Tower?”

“...it seems improbable,” said Conju, “we have had no indication - and the priest-wizards spend a great deal of time in the Tower themselves, so would they feel the need…? No, of course they might. Well, I’m not a security expert. You will have to ask the Guard. Somebody senior, I think - perhaps Sergei, or Ludvic?”

“Thank you, I will.”

It occurred to Cliopher, as he headed back to his dispatch boxes, that any listening device in the Imperial Study would surely have let the Ouranatha know about his mistake. He felt a cold prickle at the back of his neck.

His Radiancy was a mage, supposedly. Would he know if there was a magical device in the room? Would he be in danger of enchantment? The risk of seeing an Emperor under compulsion certainly cast another light on the rule against meeting his eyes… but Cliopher remembered the snap and the shock of the broken taboo, the blazing heat of the Sun on Earth. It was impossible to imagine all that latent power bending before any other magic.

Perhaps his treason had been caught on some kind of recording device; it should not matter. He had been forgiven - condoned - even encouraged - by the Emperor himself.

Cliopher was smiling by the time he got back to his desk.

Chapter Text

As the days went by, things began to seem more structured. Before the end of his second week in post, Cliopher had met in person with the responsible Ministers of half of the existing departments, or their chosen deputies, and had the rest lined up, or most of them.

In these initial meetings he restricted himself to collecting information about the current division of responsibilities between different leaders within each department, and between departments, and impressing on each the importance of submitting complete and concise morning reports using his new template. He made sure they knew that the first few rounds were draft, and that he was eager for their input to revise and improve the approach.

He had looked again over Princess Indrogan’s copy of his plans for the Administrative Office and concluded that there was no point trying to work through anything with Lord Meriloe, who would be departing the Palace and (hopefully) Solaara as soon as the Emperor signed off on the proposed restructure. Now that they were in a position to make changes across the entire government, however, Cliopher asked the Princess to hold off on submitting the part-drawn plan. He had an uneasy feeling that it would be a bad idea to reveal the scope and ambition of their intended reforms until they were entirely ready to carry through with them, and for that the Emperor needed time to absorb an accurate impression of the whole situation across the service.

There were other problem departments. General Ravillon entirely refused to speak to either the Minister in Chief or the Imperial Secretary directly, and delegated Captain Ramanach, the most junior of his aides. Cliopher was unsure what Ravillon had ultimately concluded about his behaviour, and even more unsure what either Ravillon or Haion had said to the rest of the general staff. He was glad to have introduced Kiri as a representative from Princess Indrogan for what proved to be a highly stilted conversation, as Ramanach awkwardly tried to cover for a complete lack of engagement on the part of her boss.

Ramanach agreed that it would, in theory, be a good idea for some information on the army’s activities to go up from Ravillon’s office to that of his ultimate commander in chief at least once in a given week, but was unable to make any promises that this would happen. She was also, more worryingly, unable or unwilling to share exactly what the reporting lines looked like between Ravillon and the Commander of the Palace Guard, who was at least nominally his superior officer. Even Kiri was frowning as she noted this down.

Cliopher, conscious that Ramanach was not personally to blame for Ravillon’s intransigence and was in all likelihood unaware of his magical compulsion, cast around for a more positive note to end the conversation. He remembered an idea that had been lurking at the back of his mind since his time on Ravillon’s staff.

“How are the emergency protocols coming along?” he asked, “have you finished the set on the fae invasion, yet?”

“That’s classified, I’m afraid, Sayo Mdang,” said Ramanach, her voice as stiff as her bearing.

“Of course. I was merely thinking - His Radiancy has expressed concern about the security of food supplies here in Solaara,” said Cliopher, “and I’m confident that any emergency response will need to take account of all those available in the Palace and their concerns… we could do a great deal better across the Service at preparing for disasters. You might suggest to General Ravillon that he give some thought to the matter, in anticipation of a request to share his teams’ experience?”

“Do you really think you could make the Secretariat follow army protocols?” asked Ramanach, sounding a little more natural in her surprise.

“If they were clear and practical, why not?” he said, then grimaced, “I can promise that any of us who were in the Palace for the Fall would see the benefit… for general use they wouldn’t include classified details, of course, just - something for people to reach to. Steps to take. Combined, perhaps, with stockpiles of food, medical supplies, tools…” Everything we didn’t have, and desperately needed.

“It’s - definitely a thought,” she said, sounding a little shaken. “My brother was in the Palace,” she went on, “he was injured - half a wall came down - but he should have survived. Only - he had a fever, and nobody realised - not until it was too late…”

“...and the medicines were being held back for those most obviously in danger,” Cliopher finished for her, softly.

There was a moment of reflective quiet before Ramanach drew in a shuddering breath and said, “I’ll make the suggestion.”

Cliopher thanked her, glad to have found a project Ravillon's staff might find compelling that would join up their activities with the rest of government. He fully intended to propose some steps on emergency preparedness as soon as the service was in good enough order to implement them, whether or not the army assisted, but it would be better to work together. He hoped Ravillon would also see the benefit in bridging one of the most uncomfortable gaps in the government, whatever his feelings now about his former secretary.

The question of what to do about the military mages sat uneasily in his mind next to the question of what to do about the Ouranatha. Until the command structures fully merged, which (barring Imperial intervention) was most likely to happen when General Ravillon retired, they sat ambiguously a little aside from the control of either the Commander of the Guard or the Minister in Chief. He was deeply wary of pushing any of the magic users in the Palace onto the back foot until he had a firm enough place to stand to counter them.

Even leaving aside those parts of the government that were actively working on a slow-moving coup, there were plenty of deep-seated issues to tackle. It was astonishing how difficult some departments found it to explain how many Ministers they had on the payroll and what each of them did. Appointments to the service more broadly appeared to be equally erratic, as departments had resorted to various work-arounds to put people in post in the absence of willing engagement from the Administrative Office.

In theory funding to support new staff members was released from the Treasury once the Master of Offices had formally approved an appointment, or delegated the authority to appoint staff to the department in question. In practice the Treasury seemed to have been signing off requests at random. It would have been easier to understand if it was a matter of bribery and corruption, but the pattern did not quite fit. Certainly there was some corruption - Lord Meriloe never had any trouble, for example - but in other cases powerful court figures who were entirely capable of greasing palms had endless difficulties, where some dutiful and penniless bureaucrats were handed everything they asked for.

Princess Indrogan made no bones about her diagnosis. “Baravan’s a weak-willed fool,” she said, “no head for figures, no feel for the court, and no spine.”

Cliopher, sensing a familiar dynamic where Indrogan’s powerful personality reduced grown adults to quivering piles of jelly (thus justifying her ruthless dismissal of their talents), stepped aside with Sayo Giligani later to get his view. As head clerk of the Minister in Chief’s private office he spent a great deal of time managing the Treasury and, naturally, had a more nuanced perspective.

“Humph. She’s never really been in control of things, Baravan. Full of self-importance but hasn’t got a clue. Thinks she has a great eye for business. Proper mark for toadies, too.”

“She doesn’t always do what’s asked, though, even when there’s money on the table,” said Cliopher, who had spent the better part of several afternoons running through the correspondence between the Treasury and a couple of other departments and checking against their financial transactions before he reluctantly concluded that very little money was changing hands.

“No. Prides herself on being independent, so she’ll promise anything and refuse to follow through if she starts feeling put-upon. Oh, and she hates Loveless, because everyone knows they’re the one who does most of the work.”

The Treasurer had, in fact, delegated Sayu Loveless to handle Cliopher. They met in the Minister’s familiar, slightly careworn office. Loveless, to Cliopher’s delight, treated him with exactly the same respectful courtesy they had offered to the trouble-making fifth degree secretary a year or more ago.

“My remit is accountability,” they said, “I don’t set the budgets, I do get to chase up the departments to report their outturns, and generally unknot transactional headaches as they arise. The Treasurer holds the keys to the vaults and she keeps a firm hold of the budget-setting process, too, though I help the spending teams out where I can.”

Cliopher interpreted this to mean that Loveless's unit was crunching most of the numbers for the budgets, too, which explained why they continued to bear some relation to reality, and also why the Palace had not long since been forced to resort to selling off the contents of the Imperial Treasury for spare cash.

“I appreciate your position,” he said, “but do you think this is tenable, long term?”

Sayu Loveless looked as though they wished that question hadn’t been asked, but they squared up to it anyway. “No,” they said, “I’ve tried, but Lady Baravan has not been… reachable.”

Cliopher liked and trusted Loveless, and so he felt able to say, “I am working with the Minister in Chief to review the current distribution of responsibilities and authorisation across the Service. I suspect we will end up recommending some restructuring, if the Glorious One so pleases. For now, though, we need a functioning system of financial planning and control. How would you recommend we approach Lady Baravan, to encourage her to work with us?”

“Not through me,” said Loveless at once, with a lopsided smile. “You’ll need to put some pressure on her ego…” they sighed. “The thing about the Treasurer is that her job is bigger than she is. She gave up long ago, I’m afraid. Now… I think she feels that she owes Lord Meriloe for the appointment, and she’s intimidated by everything else.”

“So - to reinstate regular audits -”

Loveless sighed, heavily. “I’d start from somewhere else, if possible,” they said.

Kiri, who had been sitting in a corner doing her best impression of a piece of furniture, blurted out, “but we need the Treasurer’s agreement, don’t we? To get access to the records? Or can we do without her?”

“We need her help to check the accounts against the vaults directly,” said Cliopher, “and anything else would make a mockery of the audit process. As for doing without her… the Emperor could order the Guard to take the keys by force, of course, but I suspect you can see why we would not want to take that approach.”

Loveless winced theatrically. Kiri stared in horror, “no - I didn’t mean - but… couldn’t he just…?”

Cliopher grinned at her. “The machinery of government constrains Imperial power as much as it exercises it,” he said, “once the authority is delegated, the Emperor can revoke it - but there is a political cost. In this case - the Treasurer has the keys. Every door would open for the Glorious One, of course, but do you think it is compatible with the Emperor’s dignity to spend his days unlocking the vaults for the auditors?”

“No!” said Kiri, more shocked than Cliopher would have expected. She was, he remembered, from a fairly traditionalist Astandalan family.

“And if the Emperor sends his guards to strong-arm a Minister, the government dissolves into chaos,” said Loveless, “he could, of course, but imagine how long it would take to get anything done, having broken that trust.”

“The Tower would need to reassert authority by force. It has been done,” said Cliopher, thinking of several extremely messy historical episodes, “but - rule by fear is inefficient. A tyrant can never take their eyes off the court, and is at the mercy of their own poor judgement.”

“And that was at the height of the Empire,” said Loveless, grimly. “Take a wrecking ball to the government now, when we’re in disarray, and the whole system could shatter.”

Cliopher nodded, glad he wasn’t the only person seeing how brittle the threads tying the aristocracy to Solaara had grown.

Kiri was looking between them, shocked, as though she expected one of them to laugh and admit they were joking.

“Welcome to the world of practical politics,” said Cliopher, as kindly as he could.

Loveless shook their head. “Getting back to Lady Baravan,” they said, “your best bet for bringing her on board is the Emperor himself, I think. She’s as old fashioned a loyalist as they come; if she believes the Glorious One wants something from her, she’ll do the best she can, and the rest of us will swing into line behind her to explain what that means.”

Which only left the problem of persuading his Radiancy to take an interest in the Treasury. The Emperor had never yet spontaneously brought up the budgets, or government finances, or any related subject, or suggested they discuss any finance-related papers in the reports. Cliopher had not, previously, really thought through this aspect of Imperial etiquette, but not being able to introduce a topic of conversation was becoming a challenge.

—

The next time he broke his fast in the guards’ mess room, Cliopher asked after Sergei and Ludvic. Neither were present, both being on the morning shift of his Radiancy’s inner guard, but Ser Rhodin promised to ask one of them to come and find him that afternoon.

He must have been punctilious about it, because Cliopher was interrupted in his note-taking shortly after the noon bell by a vision of muscular Azilinti manhood in the gleaming greater panoply of the Palace Guard: white kilt, onyx belt, leopard pelt across his sturdy shoulders.

“May I step into your office?” the guard asked.

Cliopher glanced round the empty room that he had taken to using - the formerly empty room. The main desk was spread with his notes and a selection of writing implements, including the glittering red pen that he had not quite been able to bring himself to return to Lord Meriloe. The other desks were piled high with dispatch boxes, or set up for use by the pages who often came in to lend a hand. He supposed he did have an office, now.

“Come in,” he said, pulling out a chair.

“I’m Ludvic Omo,” said the guard, simply, “you wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Cliopher. “I was - well, I met with the Groom of the Chamber last week and we fell to discussing matters of magical security, and he recommended I talk to you or Sergei.”

“Yes?” Omo looked neither alarmed nor affronted.

Cliopher felt a slight, instinctive tightening in his throat as he considered how to phrase his question. He recognised Ludvic Omo now as one of the guards who had witnessed him meeting the Emperor’s eyes, that first day. And of course several guards had seen it now; Cliopher had not been able to stop at merely one act of treason, after all.

It helped to know that, unbelievably, the guards were covering for him. It also helped that Haion, though military, had been the opposite of this stolid soldier in almost every way: nervy, lightly built, his face mobile. Neither factor, alas, helped quite enough. Nevertheless, this had to be asked.

“Hypothetically speaking,” he said, clearing his throat, “in your view, would a hostile mage be able to place a listening device within the Tower?”

Omo considered this calmly. “No,” he said, at length. “We have a number of devices to detect any enchantments attached to objects. We make use of them.”

“Forgive me,” said Cliopher, “but I have grounds to suspect that the Ouranatha have made use of magical devices to overhear private conversations. Did the priest-wizards supply your detectors? Can you be sure that they are functioning?”

Omo took his time to think this through, too. “Some of the Guard have magical gifts,” he said, at length, “and his Radiancy is the Lord Magus. They would know, I think.”

Cliopher nodded, turned his pen over in his hands, turned his concerns over in his thoughts, and struggled to put them into words.

“I think,” said Omo, gently, “that we would soon learn if the Ouranatha were listening to activity in the Household.”

Thinking over the events of the past couple of weeks, Cliopher had to agree. But the other, less rational fear was there, lurking under his reasonable concerns.If the guards - if his Radiancy - could and would detect latent enchantments, surely they would -

He saw Ravillon again in his mind’s eye, held fixed at his desk, and shuddered a little with a visceral muscle memory of the whole-body cramp Haion had gripped him with. He had to ask. “Forgive me,” he said again, “but… I have - encountered - the possibility of magical compulsion deployed in a political context. Could someone - would an individual under compulsion be detected, before they entered the Tower?”

Am I a security risk?

Omo’s eyes flashed. “When was this?” he demanded.

“Recently,” said Cliopher, and then, “there is no… evidence.”

The guard searched his face and apparently found no enlightenment there. “Was it reported?”

Cliopher could not quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. “It was.”

“I… see,’ said Omo. Cliopher hoped that he did, and also that he would not ask for details. The last thing the Palace needed was rumours spreading about General Ravillon.

After a moment, Omo said, “there are magical safeguards around the Tower. An individual under active compulsion would not be able to enter the Imperial Apartments undetected. And… his Radiancy is a great mage. He would know.”

The certainty in the soft Azilinti voice was absolute. Cliopher felt a small, miserable knot of tension unravel in his sternum. “Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you,” replied the guard, and stood, saluted, and was gone.

Cliopher swung around in his chair to stare at his page of notes, unseeing, while the relief filtered softly down into the core of his being. Of course there would be safeguards at the heart of the Empire. Of course the guards would be watching, would be trained to detect magical threats. They would know. He was not putting others at risk. He was safe.

As his own fear faded he was aware of an underlying emotion, a slight pressure of concern that had been growing more insistent these past weeks: he wished he could share Ludvic Omo’s firm conviction that the Emperor was a great mage.

Certainly the Glorious One had an overpowering presence; meeting his gaze had felt - did feel - indescribable, at least to an ordinary man like Cliopher, who had no speck of magic in him, and little poetry. But… he might not be able to sense magic, but since it affected the world he could deduce its presence from what it did.

The Ouranatha’s notable lack of magic became clear when you considered their other activities, but it was also present in the little derelictions - the occasional oddities in the Palace or the gardens, the lack of new works, the broken places. The same could be said of the Sun on Earth: if he had magic, where was the evidence? How was it being used? On Conju’s account he spent time meditating, communing with his magic - oh, there must be something there - but Cliopher could not reconcile the pieces into a coherent picture. He had an elusive sense - treasonous, no doubt, and certainly impossible to voice - that something was badly amiss.

Listen first, look first, questions later. This had the feel of a tanà problem, the kind of knot his Buru Tovo and Uncle Lazo had spent years showing him how to unravel.

It was hard to imagine framing the questions he would need, even to himself.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Sayo Mdang"

"Good morning, my lord"

His Radiancy's amusement was close to the surface today, Cliopher thought with satisfaction, as he rose from his obeisance and took his seat. As usual, the Lord of Rising Stars waited for the chimes of the hour bell to fade before turning and beginning his steady progress up the room, over to the nightingale, down past Cliopher and back again.

"We observe, Sayo Mdang, that you yourself submitted a paper with the morning reports today."

"Indeed, my lord," said Cliopher calmly, as though this were an unremarkable thing.

"Would you care to expand?"

Cliopher, not for the first time, admired the artisans who planned the acoustics of this room. Whichever direction the Emperor was facing, his voice filled his study as clear as it was, often, uninflected.

"My lord, I have given some thought to the matter of your schedule,” said Cliopher, wondering if the calm betokened polite interest or covered for some deeper emotion. His Radiancy was an intriguing man to read, full of these contradictions, bright eyes belying still waters, running deep.

"Our... schedule?"

The resonant voice was polite and serene. Cliopher winced inwardly. Perhaps he had misjudged... but this had seemed like the least obtrusive way to make this point, and it had worked to introduce a topic of conversation that had evidently not occurred to the Emperor.

"Yes, my lord. For meetings with your Ministers and other matters of state."

There was a long silence, apart from the whisper of fabric, and the almost-inaudible placement of sandalled feet on the marble floor.

"Thank you, Sayo Mdang. And you propose...?"

"My lord, I propose a regular weekly slot be held available for meetings with those Ministers whose affairs are of particular interest. At this time, as you are developing an overview of the state of Zunidh, I propose inviting Princess Indrogan to present the findings of her private office. Future meetings can of course be arranged with any member of the Service whose contribution might be of interest."

"And you made this eminently sensible suggestion via a formal report... because?"

Ah, the faintest trace of humour. As the Sun on Earth’s back was turned, Cliopher let himself grin, and give one of the reasons. "The morning reports are circulated back to the Minister in Chief’s private office, my lord. I wished to give Princess Indrogan notice of the possibility."

His Radiancy turned towards the shimmering jewelled nightingale, his face in profile, so that Cliopher just caught an answering grin before it faded.

"We understand that she has never liked being taken by surprise," he said.

"No, my lord," Cliopher agreed, and added, "I am sure she would value some time to prepare."

His Radiancy turned back towards him, the grin almost entirely smoothed away bar a slight - very slight - crinkle of amusement at the corner of his eyes.

"And how many days' warning have you already given her, before making the suggestion to Us?" he asked.

Cliopher bit his lip, slightly chagrined at being seen through so easily. "A week, my lord," he admitted.

The grin did not, quite, return, but laughter flashed in his Radiancy’s eyes like a benediction. “As you have been so kind as to prepare her for Our immediate attention, let Us not keep her waiting,” he said, and signalled to the guards.

Cliopher noted the signal with interest; it was a new one, and he presumed it meant ‘send a page to see to it’, or something of that sort. One of the guards - Sergei, as this was still Sergei and Ludvic, whose shift generally coincided with his morning in the study - slipped the door open and repeated the gesture to his fellows at the next door. It was more dignified and less disruptive than bellowing orders along that extended sequence of anterooms, he supposed.

His Radiancy settled back into pacing and they turned to his correspondence, which still took a substantial part of the morning. It was growing shorter, however, as Cliopher grew more adept at redirecting the stack of letters across the Service whenever they could be addressed with near-equal courtesy and more accuracy by a Minister or an official.

The next order of business was the round of decisions referred up from each department, but as Cliopher drew a fresh sheet of paper towards him and readied his brush he realised that his Radiancy had stopped pacing and was regarding the five large landscape paintings on the long wall of his study.

“There is a tapestry,” his Radiancy said, “a map of the full extent of the Empire. Hand-woven, from Colhélhé, We recall. A more accurate reminder of Our - people, Our Empire, than these,” his hand lifted, gestured, not in a formal signal but with a delicate, deliberate flair. Almost a natural motion, Cliopher thought, one man explaining his intent to another, with neither the edged meanings of the court nor the intricate practicality of his Radiancy’s signals to the guard.

With difficulty he shifted his gaze from the curve of those long, narrow fingers to the paintings, which were, he had to admit, relatively dull. Serenely beautiful, superb works of art, capturing the full weight of the weather, the scale of the country, and the breathing colour of each world in the Empire, but still on some level empty. Inviting contemplation. They would make fantastic aids to meditation, he thought, but he could understand why his Radiancy might prefer a display with more warmth.

“It is in the Treasury, we believe,” said his Radiancy, “have it sent up.”

“Certainly, my lord,” said Cliopher. He would have followed up this opening at once to talk finance, but the Emperor turned swiftly and resumed pacing, and after a moment or so prompted Cliopher to start running through the requests from Agriculture.

There was always an adjustment, when the wind came up after a calm, an uncertain period where his vaha shifted, and he used the motion of the water and the air and the weight of his own body to shape its potential, looking for the precise angle to make the most of the breeze, to reach for the right heading… it was beginning to feel - possible, perhaps. These small steps, requests, engagement - it was as though his Radiancy was noticing his support, noticing the change of pace.

Cliopher contented himself with jotting a quick note on the request and the opportunity, and picked up the highly enjoyable task of reading out departmental requests and taking down pithy and occasionally even pungent responses. There was a delightful rapidity to this exercise, a call and response that leant itself to a little edge of sarcasm at the expense of the more foolish or grasping Ministers. One of the secret joys of working with his Radiancy was that they appeared to be fully in agreement about who those Ministers were.

Princess Indrogan arrived just as the bell chimed for the last half hour of the morning. Cliopher sat up a little straighter in his chair as she entered and made her perfect obeisances. She knew his Radiancy’s hand signals, and rose with collected elegance and hardly even any heightened colour. They would have seen each other at court, of course, but even so Cliopher was impressed again by her control.

“Welcome. We await your account of Our world of Zunidh with interest,” his Radiancy delivered this where he happened to be standing, in the middle of the room, and made no move to sit at his desk or indicate where he would prefer the Princess to stand. She, accordingly, stayed where she was, close to the door.

“Thank you, Glorious One,” she began, “my office works with the couriers and with our partners across the Service to maintain a close understanding of the state of the world. We receive and incorporate new information daily. I propose to outline the level of information we have on each province, and to share our latest insights, in summary, if that is agreeable to you?”

It was. Cliopher’s brushes danced across the paper as she spoke, though in truth he had heard the Princess’s drafts of this presentation more than once in the past week and was entirely familiar with the content.

Indrogan was impeccably correct and deferential but she showed no sign of being overawed, and the Emperor listened attentively and occasionally contributed an observation from his own correspondence. Cliopher would have envied her smooth comfort in the Presence, if not for the just-slightly-smug reflection that he was the one who had a desk here, had a place here, could think of the Imperial Study as home.

And when, with another subtle signal, the Princess Indrogan was dismissed, it was Cliopher who watched the Lord of Rising Stars turn to pace again, one length and then another in silence.

The hour bell would ring soon. Cliopher began the process of cleaning his brushes and sorting his papers, but he allowed himself to look up as he worked, to take in his Emperor’s thoughtful face.

“You may ask the Minister in Chief to provide Us with a summary of her daily intelligence” his Radiancy said, at length, “and to attend Us in person weekly.”

- and he felt the catch, the tug, the moment when a sail tautened, and caught the wind - and the vaha beneath him heeled slightly, began to move.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Cliopher, primly.

—

The Treasurer’s oaths of office included a vow to defend the inner keep of the Palace with her life, her blood, and all the powers she could bring to bear. This duty had been regarded as ceremonial for many years, but it was magically binding and the Treasurer still held the literal, physical and magical keys to the vaults. Lady Baravan’s suite of apartments accordingly had only one upper and one lower entrance. The upper gate opened onto a broad, shallow spiral stair that curled right up and round to the Imperial Apartments that crowned the Palace; the lower gate was the sole publicly-acknowledged entrance to the Treasury proper, a massive series of chambers carved down into the living rock and part-out into the arcane fabric between the worlds.

Mindful of Sayu Loveless’s suggestion, Cliopher sent a note ahead requesting a few moments of Lady Baravan’s time on a matter pertaining to a direct request from his Radiancy, the Sun on Earth. He also brought with him a fascinated Sayu Qitu, whose Imperial livery underlined the connection in a way that Cliopher’s Service robes could not.

(There was, no doubt, some kind of special uniform for Imperial secretaries. In fact, he vaguely thought he had seen a picture somewhere, and it might possibly be red and black with an even larger, puffier hat than his current outfit. Cliopher shuddered both at the vision, and at the thought of wearing a special set of robes to advertise his new role - of getting, everywhere, the little double-take and chorus of whispers that had followed him through Indrogan's private office these past weeks - and he devoutly hoped that if he put it resolutely out of his mind nobody else would think of it.)

Lady Baravan met them at the upper gate, flanked by a couple of aides. Her office was unlike any of the grand studies favoured by the rest of the Upper Secretariat on the higher floors of the Palace. Most notably, it formed the entrance to the Treasurer’s Apartments, which were tucked into the base of the Tower, slightly below ground level, and illuminated therefore by narrow, high strips of window. For security’s sake these could not be expanded into full light wells, and were largely concealed by decorative planting on the outside of the building. The light that did filter between the leaves had a greenish, underwater feel to it, a theme that the Palace architects had seized and run with in the glittering greenish-white marble walls and intricate oceanic carvings. Cliopher preferred not to look at these too closely; the carvers’ woeful lack of understanding of sea creatures’ anatomy made him wince.

The Treasurer seemed nervous, he thought. She was a dark, brisk woman whose rapid motions rumpled the splendid severity of her dress, and she bowed a shade deeper than Cliopher felt his new rank warranted. He returned what was becoming his practised respectful-not-subservient greeting for members of the Upper Secretariat, and let her fuss him and Qitu into seats and offer them drinks - tea for him, coffee for Qitu, but served in matched grey-green cups with an equally exquisite flourish of iridescence in the glaze.

Her aides were not invited to sit nor sent to other duties but stood back, respectfully silent, in a corner of the room. Cliopher felt a pang of sympathy for them.

“And now,” she said brightly, “how may I be of assistance to the Glorious One?”

Cliopher explained about the tapestry from Colhélhé. Lady Baravan frowned, and when Cliopher admitted that they did not have a catalogue number, only his Radiancy’s description, she looked pained.

“Our records are sorted by number,” she said, “I don’t know if you appreciate, Sayo Mdon, just how many rooms there are in this rock? I can order a search, of course, but it may take months.”

“I was hoping, my lady, that you would be willing to share with us the records of your last full review of the Treasury’s contents?” Cliopher spread the most recent accounting of the Treasury on the table between them. “This accounting from your office gives the value of the contents of the vaults, including long held assets, though naturally I appreciate many of these are unique and irreplaceable and held therefore at a token amount. In the process of making these accounts, you must have assessed the current inventory. Those notes should be sufficient to help us find the tapestry in question.”

He managed to glance over at the aides as he said this, and saw the rueful expression flash across their faces.

The Treasurer actually laughed. “We inventoried the valiants coming in or going out, of course,” she said, “but nobody touches anything from the vaults. What would be the point?”

Cliopher kept his voice mild. “To ensure their condition? To detect unwarranted removals? To update your assessment of their value? To provide a defence against any mischievous accusation of theft?”

Lady Baravan laughed again, but the merriment trailed off as he did not smile with her. “You… you’re serious?”

“My lady, it appears that we have a very different understanding of what is meant by an accounting of the Treasury,” he said, letting some - a very small amount - of his exasperation slide into his voice. “Of course, I do not have to answer to the Sun on Earth for the contents of his Treasury; I merely answer his Radiancy’s questions and seek to carry out his will. Which at this time is to find a certain tapestry from Colhélhé. May I visit your records room to review the most recent full inventory, whenever that was taken?”

The Treasurer’s smile of polite attentiveness did not waver, but it had taken on a fixed and ghastly aspect.

“Certainly, my lord,” she replied.

“I’m not a lord,” Cliopher returned, with an emphasis that surprised him. His attempt to bite off the irritation in his tone did not help, only meant that the rejoinder landed with further unintended force.

He thought Lady Baravan would have blanched if her skin tone allowed it; she drew herself up and to his consternation - which he concealed, because revealing it could only make this worse - made one of the lesser curtseys of apology.

“My sincerest apologies, Sayo Mdon,” she said, “follow me.”

There was a further awkwardness at the lower gate, where Cliopher had to remind the Treasurer, under the impassive gaze of the Imperial Guards on duty, that protocol precluded anybody being alone with the Treasury records. In the end all five of them entered; Lady Baravan directed her aides to accompany her with a glower and a gesture, and led the way. Cliopher exchanged rueful glances with Qitu - he had worked for enough incompetent and resentful Ministers to feel extremely sorry for those aides, who had still not been introduced - and they followed.

The records took up the first level of the vault, stretching on and on through a series of arched safe rooms. In theory the entrance hall was kept for the most recent accounts, with older materials sent either to the Imperial Archives or retained in the deeper caverns, depending on their value and sensitivity. In practice all was in dismal disorder. The shelves were stacked and double-stacked with volumes that spilled off into piles on the floor. A pair of desks near the door, where the Treasury clerks were supposed to sit in shifts, were empty of people and sprawled over with loose leaves of paper, all covered with close-written figures, some scrunched or torn.

Both Lady Baravan and Cliopher stopped and looked around in dismay. Her surprise seemed genuine; Cliopher found himself wondering if she had ever bothered to personally come down and review the records at all. He reminded himself that he was not ready - not yet - to destabilise the government by setting the senior ministers against one another and against the Tower - and that Lady Baravan for all her deep inadequacies did not appear to be substantially corrupt or consciously disloyal - and he said, still pleasantly, “would you summon your clerks, my lady?”

“Here they are,” she said, indicating the two silent aides, both of whom stared back at him with all the whites showing round their eyes, like rabbits looking at a snake.

Cliopher turned his back on the Treasurer and bowed. The Treasury clerks were, in theory, of at least the fifth or fourth rank in the Service. The robes and hats these two were wearing showed that they were considerably junior, as though Lady Baravan had not understood the significance of their roles when making her appointments.

“May I ask when the most recent full inventory was taken?”

It took a few minutes, but he eventually established that the contents of the Treasury had been catalogued and checked for damage on Princess Indrogan’s orders in the third decade after the Fall, when there was no longer any immediate danger of starvation in Solaara. Neither of the current Treasury clerks had been present, both being recent appointees from among the junior ranks, but they did know where to find the books and led Sayu Qitu down the hall to search the lists of fabric items in the Collian tithes from the pre-Fall years of Emperor Artorin.

This left Cliopher and Lady Baravan standing in an uncomfortable silence. On impulse, Cliopher let it draw out, curious to see how the Treasurer would respond.

Qitu and the clerks homed in on a selection of shelves and were taking turns to shift the first layer of heavy bound volumes and read the titles on the second layer to one another. Cliopher itched to go along and help them, but tried to keep in mind that he was here as the senior representative of the Tower and his actions reflected on his Radiancy. He could not and should not be personally going through the books to sort out their contents, as much as the back of his brain itched to get stuck in.

“I always thought Lord Meriloe was wise,” said Lady Baravan at length, still not looking at Cliopher.

“Indeed, my lady?” he replied, a little taken aback. He had not expected her to escalate to threats so abruptly.

“There are those who have said that your appointment was ill-thought-through,” she continued, “hasty, inappropriate, a petty, futile attempt to undermine the Minister in Chief. I have to confess I had my doubts.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied, as neutrally as possible.

She turned to face him with a direct and soulful gaze. “I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to find that I was entirely wrong, Sayo Mdang. You are evidently a man of great ability. Your insights and incisiveness are rightly becoming renowned across the Service.”

“Er, thank you,” he said, entirely astonished. Lady Baravan, undeterred by the shortness of this response, launched into a paean in his honour. Cliopher schooled his expression into sternness and tried not to let himself fidget or shift his weight openly as she lauded his intellect, his probity, his modesty, and a dozen other fanciful characteristics in increasingly elaborate language.

He felt briefly embarrassed when he considered how much less florid his own attempt at flattering his Emperor directly had been, but consoled himself with the thought that he was increasingly coming to suspect that the Sun on Earth preferred concision. He wished that Lady Baravan would not call him a diamond in the rough, nor yet a man marrying the cunning of his ancestry with the wisdom and benevolence of high civilisation. He stared down the long room, concentrating on keeping the strength of this feeling from showing on his face.

One of the Treasury clerks had pulled a volume down and the other had come back up the room briefly to collect another document, and they and Qitu were leaning over both with alert interest.

“- and I am truly honoured that you should choose to come down to my humble apartments in person on an errand for the Glorious and Illustrious One, the Lord of Rising Stars. I am sure there is a great deal we can do for one another.”

Lady Baravan beamed at him. As this seemed to be her conclusion, Cliopher bowed. He could think of nothing to say. Unfortunately his silence appeared to alarm the Treasurer further.

“I can only repeat my apologies for my doubts,” she said, rapidly. “The Master of Offices has of course been mistaken in the past… consider Sayu Loveless, in my own department.” She heaved a sigh. “They were appointed before me, and it has proven extremely difficult to dislodge them… please do let me know if they give you any trouble, or if you have any suggestions on appointments in my department.”

“Of course, my lady,” said Cliopher, surprised again at her blundering. This amounted to attempting to buy him off with Loveless's scalp, which was both unethical and impractical. He hunted for some way to both refuse and reassure her that would not be a total fiction. “Sayu Loveless has been most helpful; they do you credit. Thank you for your kind words,” he bowed again, for good measure.

To his relief, the rest of the group was returning, both dusty and triumphant.

“We’ve found it!” cried one of the clerks, then wilted a little under Lady Baravan’s glare.

“Thank you,” said Cliopher, “I will make sure your efforts are commended to his Radiancy,” he felt, rather than saw, the Treasurer shift in response, and turned to her, “my lady, the Emperor may be interested in renewing his familiarity with the contents and procedures of the Treasury. I think it likely that he will ask to speak with you in person,” he let his gaze shift from her face to take in the state of the records, “and may at some point soon seek a full accounting of all his treasures.”

“W-when?”

“When it pleases the Glorious One,” he said, “I suggest you hold yourself ready.”

“I am the Sun on Earth’s to command,” said the Treasurer, bowing deeply.

Cliopher, considering the state of both her department and her oratory, rather wished she wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Cliopher had already made a firm mental note not to trust that any of the current Treasury staff knew how to do their jobs, so he asked Qitu to supervise the clerks as they went further into the vaults in search of the tapestry. He left them with a promise to let the Imperial Household know to expect it for installation that night, in return for assurances that Qitu would come and find him first thing if the map proved to be damaged or unavailable for any reason.

He extricated himself from Lady Baravan’s fulsome thanks and compliments and headed back up through the Palace towards Princess Indrogan’s Private Office, enjoying the chance to revisit the familiar lower levels.

The corridors here were just as generously proportioned as those above but plain, even austere, in contrast with the gorgeously decorated centre of the Palace. He relished the relatively simplicity, and the space. There were fewer people loitering to be seen, down here, at this time when most of the bureaucrats were at work in their offices.

He passed a few pages and one or two other staff members, all absorbed in their own business and none of them inclined to look twice at another fifth degree secretary in workaday robes of office. He was glad that he had allowed a stretch of time this afternoon to process his impressions of the Treasury, and more than glad to have this anonymous interlude to walk and think without interruption.

If Lady Baravan was as devoted to her Imperial master as Sayu Loveless believed, she would be highly motivated to resolve the disorder. Whether she was capable of resolving it was another matter. He would rather not give her long enough to make a serious attempt, all things considered, but did hope she would be able to at least tidy and sort the records and perhaps familiarise herself with the most recent tally -

Cliopher turned in alarm at the sound of running feet in the corridor behind him, but it was just a page he didn’t recognise pelting along with a dispatch box clasped tight to their chest.

It was bad practice to run, of course, but he had spent enough time with the pages to know that it was occasionally necessary, particularly when a noble was getting tetchy. The quieter side passages of the Palace were the best place to make up the time and distance. He stepped back to let the page pass. To his surprise, they skidded to a halt instead and asked breathlessly, “Cliopher Sayo Mdang?”

“Yes? That’s me?”

The page thrust the dispatch box half into his arms. Cliopher drew back, lifting his hands away. “The procedure is for boxes to be delivered to the office,” he said, “even if -”

The box teetered for a moment in the page’s outstretched arms, and Cliopher had time to think how young they were, and how nervous they looked, and to reach out to try to steady it, before between the two of them fumbling for a grip it was knocked to the floor.

In these lower corridors there were no carpets to soften the black and white stonework. The Palace dispatch boxes were sturdy, but the catches did have a tendency to work loose over time. This one must have been at the end of its life, or perhaps the angle it hit the floor put particular pressure on the catch.

The lid splayed open, a spray of paperwork spilled out, and with it a thick curl of bitter smoke which set Cliopher’s eyes stinging and his throat burning.

Instinctively he shut his mouth and nose, grabbed the page, who was making stifled choking noises, and stepped them both over the smouldering paperwork in the direction of the nearest external door.

The door was only a few steps away but the smoke stung his eyes, blurring his vision, and then the page at his side made a great gasping noise and then doubled right over, hacking furiously.

Unwilling to let the youngster go, and even more unwilling to risk taking a breath, Cliopher forced himself to ignore the burning in his own lungs. It had been a long time since he last controlled his breathing to dive for pearls, and he was not accustomed to taking in a lungful of peculiarly acrid smoke first, but he was grateful that his body remembered his Buru Tovo’s lessons so well - the page was still gasping, which made it difficult to get his arms round them - if only he could transmit the skill by force of will alone -

- and then, thankfully, someone else was there, shouldering the page from the other side and pulling them both along towards the door. A staff of some kind was thrust into his hands and Cliopher took it gratefully, using it to haul himself the last few steps until the three of them burst out of the building onto one of the Palace’s wide terraces.

Cliopher breathed in the baking, dusty air of a Solaaran mid-afternoon and then found himself retching, hacking, and coughing as if he had been caught in one of the toxic clouds Mama Ituri used from time to time to vent her volcanic emotions.

He clung onto the spear for support - he could see now that it was a guard’s spear that he had been given - and as his vision cleared he could see that it was Hiscaron of the Palace Guard who was holding the shuddering page and helping them bring up their lunch without, quite, collapsing.

“What - what was that?” he asked, hoarsely, when he seemed to have control of his throat again. Then, straightening up, “we should warn -”

“Tuah’s in there, seeing to it,” said Hiscaron hurriedly. “He’ll keep the corridor clear - don’t you go back that way, Sayo Mdang! Sit down until someone can take a look at you!”

There was a stone bench up against the Palace wall. Cliopher’s hand fell back from the door and he sank down onto the seat, glad that somebody seemed to be in charge of the situation.

“What happened?” he asked again, staring at the shaft of the spear in his hand. It was bound with alternating strips of light and dark, and it was polished to a fine smooth finish. Suddenly self-conscious, he leaned it against the wall.

“We’ll have to ask your friend, I think,” said Hiscaron, and swung the page around, none too gently, to sit on the floor.

The fire had been wrong, and not just because it was unexpectedly discovered in a dispatch box. “I’ve never seen papers smoulder slowly like that,” said Cliopher, “and there was too much smoke…”

“It wasn’t natural,” the guard replied, with a hint of a growl, his hand tightening on the page’s shoulder.

The page gasped for air, coughed again, and then started sobbing in earnest. Cliopher stared at him in consternation. “He’s new, I think,” he said. Then, more slowly, “I’ve never seen him before today.”

He and Hiscaron exchanged glances. Cliopher felt like he was hardly keeping up with events, but he could put the pieces together, as incredible as they seemed.

The Palace door opened and Tuah came out, followed by another couple of guards Cliopher didn’t know. “Check on Sayo Mdang, will you?” said Hiscaron, holding his position close to the new page.

“I’m fine,” said Cliopher, absently. His throat and eyes were sore and his mind was reeling, but his head was clear. He let Tuah take his pulse and answered his questions. More guards had turned up, now, most of them people Cliopher had never encountered in the Tower, wearing the lesser panoply that was used by those on duty in different parts of the Palace. Someone brought over a bottle of water, and he drank gratefully, feeling less shaky.

The unfamiliar page had stopped sobbing and was huddled in on themselves. Cliopher got up to offer them a drink. Hiscaron bristled - his size and stance irresistibly reminding Cliopher of the enormous family dog his cousin Cedric used to own - but after a moment took the bottle from Cliopher to offer it himself and, after a closer look at the miserable figure crouched on the floor, moved them across into the shade.

“I need to get back up to the office,” said Cliopher, relaxing a little at this sign that the guards were planning to treat their possibly-prisoner humanely.

“The hall’s clear,” said Tuah, “there’s a nasty mess all over the floor, but whatever that was has burned itself out. I’ve sent for a mage.”

Cliopher could not quite conceal a slight twitch, before he remembered that there were magic-users in the guard, too. Both Hiscaron and Tuah gave him speculative looks, but neither acknowledged it. Instead, Tuah walked with him back into the Palace, and showed him the debris - the dispatch box sprawled open, its hinges coming loose, the curled and singed fragments of paper, the lingering acrid smell.

Cliopher did his best to describe what he had seen, but in truth he had not been attending to his surroundings. “It happened fast,” he finished, “and the smoke was in my eyes, so everything was blurred. I think Hiscaron saw more than me.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t breathe in,” said Tuah.

“Yes, it was that youngster who filled their lungs,” said Cliopher. He hesitated, but the guards had been friendly so far, and inclined to listen to him. “I don’t think they can have known what would happen,” he said, “if they are a page, they’re new… if not - well, who would drop toxic gas into a hall in front of themselves, and then breathe in?”

Tuah pointed the hilt of his spear at the paper slip on the front of the dispatch box, which read F.A.O. C. Mdang. “I doubt they intended to drop it,” he said, “it was supposed to be opened by you, while you were seated, with your head close to the box.” He sighed, “not that I expect our friend out there to be able to explain why.”

Cliopher nodded, and was about to comment on the anonymity and access that the pages enjoyed, but the chime of the Palace bells reminded him of the time. While he had set aside time to assess his thinking about the Treasury, he was still expected in Princess Indrogan’s office before the end of the afternoon, and his robes were no longer in a fit state to wear in front of the Minister in Chief.

It took some persistence, but he managed to turn down Tuah’s offer of a guard to accompany him back to his room.

–

“Good morning, Sayo Mdang.”

“Good morning, my lord.”

His Radiancy seemed a little abstracted this morning, and began pacing as Cliopher took his seat. The Emperor’s robes today were dark and layered and gauzy, with heavy gold sun-in-glory motifs worked to clasp the fabric together in ways that made it alternately cling and swirl. Against the black and gold, shimmering white pearls cascaded in loops down his back, each strand knotted with a gleam of the familiar gold-and-white-flash colour of the fire pearls routinely tithed from the Vangavaye-ve. They swung loosely back and forth with his steps.

“We see you found Our tapestry,” his Radiancy said, at length, a hint of approbation in his voice. Cliopher felt his heart and his cheeks warm, slightly. His Radiancy was always polite, but so often seemed distant. It was - gratifying to know that he was pleased.

“The treasurer was happy to assist, my lord,” he lied, “though in truth her records are in some disarray.”

His Radiancy continued to pace, face serene, as Cliopher talked him briefly through the most recent accounting from the Treasury, the state of their paperwork, and Lady Baravan's neglect of her duties. He explained as delicately as he could the lack of supporting evidence for any of the records submitted at any time in the past sixty years, including those the Emperor had reviewed.

“And so, my lord, Sayu Loveless - whose Ministerial responsibilities include accountability - has done their best, but Lady Baravan does appear to be somewhat… discouraged. I believe she might respond well to a personal audience.”

Silence fell. His Radiancy, coming back along the room, looked straight ahead, face immobile, eyes distant and shuttered.

Cliopher knew that the Emperor had seen the key financial documents from every department at least once a year since his awakening, but they had come up disorderly and piecemeal. He had shown interest in valiants collected and disbursed, at least to the extent of querying the occasional oddity, but had never probed further. This level of interest had, naturally, motivated the government to submit documents that were full of rambling asides on subjects they wanted the Emperor to read, and to avoid any surface discrepancy, but it had done nothing to ensure that the numbers were comprehensive or accurate.

It was ridiculous to think of the divine Emperor of Astandalas as having anything so… small, so quirky, so human as a discomfort with figures, but… the man who smiled and shared a joke with his secretary, who spun perfectly balanced phrases into being for his correspondence, who paced constantly, as though his whole body needed motion… the Glorious One was a person, and people could be bad at things.

Cliopher considered the lack of any kind of support his Radiancy apparently received on matters of finance and contained a tiny but fierce flame of anger. If the Treasurer had been doing her job - if his previous secretaries had done their jobs - if anybody in this whole rotten construct of a government and been interested in working in the best interests of Zunidh, or had meant those oaths they took to the Emperor…

That was probably unfair of him. He had seen for himself, again and again, how the system moulded the people in it against their own intentions, for good or ill.

It was the system - the whole interconnected nest of systems - that was the problem. The purpose of government is to steward the resources of all for the benefit of all. He knew that, in the core of his being. The challenge - the next long voyage, the horizon - was to make it true, for all of Zunidh.

The quarter bell sounded. “Let Us consider Our correspondence,” said his Radiancy, firmly. Cliopher obediently set the Treasury document aside - on the edge of the table, in the hope that it would catch his Radiancy’s eye every time he passed - and they resumed their usual business.

It was gratifying to see how much more focused the mornings were now that his Radiancy had a consistent thread to follow in the updates from each department, and a clear narrative bringing together everything Solaara knew about the happenings in the rest of the world. The Lord of Rising Stars seemed to relish being able to resolve matters, drafting responses to petitioners that were crisp as well as kind, and showing a keen interest in the wording of proclamations, guidance and proposed legislation.

Cliopher let the work absorb him, the music in his Radiancy’s words flowing over him, directing his dancing brush. He was confident now, whenever they paused to discuss an issue, in having the references to hand and being able to link cause to cause, and move to move.

He could see - he could feel - that they were working towards the same horizon, even if his Radiancy was still mostly looking at and responding to the concerns directly in front of him. He could also see, more and more, how isolated and confused the Emperor had become. He was beginning to think - treasonous thoughts, most likely - concerns about how the Emperor seldom smiled and never laughed aloud, not with his face and his voice and his whole body, not naturally, not freely.

The drape and flutter of the stunning robes and the sharp, brilliant lines of the Imperial profile were so beautiful to look at that you could miss, for a while, the slightly haunted, hunted edge to the serenity.

The Emperor always received refreshments, and seldom touched them, at least while Cliopher was in the room. Cliopher reminded himself that he was not worried. It would not be possible to worry about the Glorious and Illustrious One. The idea was absurd, the very thought criminal.

He wanted to make things right. For the government - yes - for the Palace, for Solaara, for the whole of Zunidh - but also and increasingly for this Emperor, this man.

And… his was not a voyage for one person, alone. He needed the chief to stand beside, the guiding star of his ke’e to hold firm - oh, he had the Lays of his people and the songs of Fitzroy Angursell - but he needed the Sun on Earth. The god who was a man had to be willing to take up the work too - and he was, he was - but that meant all of the work, including getting to grips with the problems at the Treasury. Together.

The noon bell chimed, interrupting the Emperor’s extended discussion of the adaptation of various staple crops to the changes in the climate of Zunidh since the Fall. Agriculture had sent up a proposal for a series of selective breeding programmes to improve yield and resilience, and Cliopher was rather looking forward to taking back this string of intelligent questions to Lord Oriaz, who would (he thought) be both startled and impressed. His Radiancy was broadly in favour, barring a few specific concerns, and once those were addressed the work could get started in earnest.

Cliopher carefully laid his notes on the opposite side of his desk from the sheet of accounts, and as he cleaned his brushes and his Radiancy came back along the room he looked up - met that golden gaze, and glanced pointedly down at the table of numbers.

“Ah, yes,” said his Radiancy, “Our Treasury.” He took a few more paces, turned in a flurry of dark silk, and met Cliopher’s eyes again. His voice was as cool as ever, his face as still, but there was a certain brightness in the lion eyes. “We concur, Lady Baravan would respond best to a personal audience. Attend us at the Treasury gate at the second bell of the afternoon.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Thank you, Sayo Mdang.”

Cliopher left the Imperial Study with those words, that hint of an emphasis, ringing in his ears. Had the Lord of Rising Stars sounded - glad - even (dare he think it) fond - as though he enjoyed Cliopher’s impertinence? It was - well, too much to comprehend, and somewhat distracting. He put it out of his mind.

His Radiancy had taken the hint more thoroughly than Cliopher had thought possible, and was planning to descend in person rather than summoning the Treasurer up to the Tower. There was work to do.

Cliopher dropped the messages and dispatch boxes with Ange and Qitu, stopped briefly at the messenger desk to ensure that Conju and the guards would all get forewarning of this minor excursion, accepted the offer of a page to accompany him (delivered with a glower from Saya Sawasaka that suggested that she had been updated on yesterday’s excitement), and walked as fast as he could to Sayu Loveless’s office.

He was gripped with exhilaration - it was not just him by himself any longer, they were moving, at last - the shift of a double weight in the vaha, the foam under the bows, the swirl of the wake - the excitement was not even dented when he had to stop, twice, to let the page catch up with him.

Sayu Loveless greeted the news that the Emperor was coming to intimidate their boss with a mixture of joy and disbelief.

“But the Sun on Earth never leaves the Tower!”

“He told me to meet him at the Treasury gate at the second hour,” Cliopher repeated.

“What will he do? What should we say?”

That was an excellent point. What would the Emperor have to say? They had not exactly discussed the matter, after Cliopher had shared his concerns, but the fact that the Glorious One was coming down in person suggested that he agreed with at least some of them. “I think… he is unfamiliar with the Treasury,” said Cliopher, slowly, “he will ask questions, intelligent questions, some of which the Treasurer may struggle to answer. We should prepare her to do the best she can.”

Lady Baravan did not seem comforted by their preparations. She had called in more members of the department to review the records room, but the process would likely take months. Cliopher suggested that they use the hours they had to remove all the less-current records to the more distant shelves, for future examination and filing, and bring the most recent books up to the front for easy access from the desks. It would not conceal the mess, but it would at least mean they could find references quickly if needed.

After the third time Sayu Loveless effortlessly answered a question that left the Treasurer floundering, she agreed to keep them in the room. Cliopher hoped that this meant that she was coming to see expertise as a valuable commodity, and not that she would resent her junior Minister later for their skill. At least he could ensure that Loveless was safe either way; he was confident that Lady Baravan belonged on the growing list of people who could not be allowed to stay in their current roles if the government was to function.

The litter carrying the Sun on Earth arrived at the Treasury gate as the sound of the second bell of the afternoon faded away into the awed murmur of a rapidly gathering crowd. Word must have spread through the department, as it seemed like half the Treasury officials were there, along with a solid mix of officials from other nearby departments plus a selection of courtiers, messengers, and other passers-by. The guards accompanying the litter did not look best pleased at this development. It took them several minutes to clear a space, while the bearers in the black and white and gold livery of the Tower stared impassively ahead and the Emperor himself sat motionless and serene, remote and divine.

His Radiancy appeared not to be attending, his gaze held high over the packed hallway, but as soon as there was enough room he gave a brief gesture and the litter was carried forwards through the bronze-clasped ebony doors. The guards shut the gates behind him with what must have been relief, as every single person waiting in the Treasurer’s office went down into their obeisances, and the bearers lowered the litter so that the Glorious One could descend and stand before them.

The Emperor gestured for them all to rise. “Lady Baravan, you have Our thanks for so rapidly locating the tapestry We requested,” he began, and then launched into… a lightly edited version of the outline of concerns that Cliopher had raised earlier.

Astounded, Cliopher slid his gaze across to his colleagues. The Treasurer looked transported. Her face was shining with adoration, more flustered by the first few words of praise than by the extended series of admonitions that followed them. Sayu Loveless was looking bland and, if anything, ironical. They had presumably also noticed how little the criticism seemed to be sinking in, and Cliopher wondered if they saw as well how much of the Emperor’s discourse drew on their own diagnosis. They did appear moved when his Radiancy turned to them directly and thanked them for their valuable contribution, responding with a deeply correct bow and formal phrasings of thanks.

Lady Baravan appeared simply stunned, managing far less eloquence in her response to her Emperor than she had brought forward for Cliopher. She did not, apparently, recognise the depth of concern being expressed, or she might have prostrated herself and begged forgiveness. His Radiancy, at his most serene, showed no sign of caring.

Cliopher himself was awash with renewed joy, which he hoped he was concealing beneath a proper official's countenance. The Sun on Earth had listened, again, and this time he had taken Cliopher’s advice.

The Emperor, having delivered his exhortation, said, “and now, We would be delighted to view Our treasures. We are minded that the artwork in Our Study that was lost in the Fall has not been replaced, and intend to rectify the situation.”

Lady Baravan, showing an unexpected presence of mind, called for torches and led her Emperor and his guards down into the treasure vaults. Cliopher - tempted as he was by the thought of wandering after his lord through the glittering trophies of the Empire - took the moment instead to step aside with Loveless.

“Will you be able to access all the records now, do you think?”

“After that? Dear Emperor, yes,” said Loveless, who was a little wild-eyed. “If she threatens to cut me off I’ll tell her you’ll invite him down for another round.”

“Good,” said Cliopher, “let’s hope the next accounting exercise goes better than the last.”

“I do still need an external auditor,” said Loveless, cautiously.

“I’m working on it, but… it could be a while,” said Cliopher, “I need to know - I need to be able to assure his Radiancy - that any changes he orders to the structure of the Service will be supported by the Treasury’s allocation of funds. We’ll have to recruit the auditors, too.”

Loveless nodded, briskly. “I see,” they said, “it’s Administration, then?”

Cliopher returned a wry grin. Administration, and the Ouranatha, and General Ravillon’s staff. It was all tangled together.

At least now there was a better-than-even chance that the Treasury would support the move, when his Radiancy was ready to make it.

Chapter Text

“It’s not that I wish to discourage you,” said Conju, sweeping in on Cliopher just as he settled to a quick breakfast in the Household mess, “but is this - this rapid acquisition of Art likely to continue, do you think?”

“I’m sorry?” said Cliopher, looking up from the daily schedule that he was reviewing alongside his coffee and roll. “Oh - the tapestry?”

“The tapestry, this new vase… if we keep on at this rate there’ll be nowhere left for himself to pace,” said Conju, swinging into a chair next to Cliopher.

“I don’t think I knew about the vase?”

“Lovely piece. Blue. He picked it in the Treasury yesterday, apparently. Good colour. I’m going to see if I can find him something to wear with a hint of teal in it.”

“Oh,” Cliopher blinked. He had not asked what the Emperor had wanted, down in the vaults. A vase seemed harmless enough. He said so, and Conju rolled his eyes.

“It’s not the specifics, it’s the pattern of acquisition,” he said, “that’s twice this week! At this rate he will not be able to enter the study past the objets d’art by the end of the year!”

“I don’t think he’ll need to go down to the Treasury again,” Cliopher replied, as comfortingly as he could. “Not soon, anyway. It’s not going to be a regular occurrence.”

“Well, do me a favour and don’t find anything he needs to investigate in the menagerie, is all I ask,” muttered Conju.

Cliopher sipped his coffee, set aside the schedule, and waited for his new friend to come out with what was really bothering him.

Conju leaned forward and lowered his voice. “His Radiancy keeps asking the guards to move the plinth. Three times already, this morning. It’s driving me batty.”

“I… see,” said Cliopher, and waited some more.

Conju had an Astandalan aristocrat's careful learned control of his posture, so he was not shifting in his seat, but Cliopher knew him well enough now to read nervous discomfort.

“He wants something - he’s missing something - something’s not there and I can’t tell what it is,” Conju admitted, finally, in a voice small enough that Cliopher craned to hear it. “I don’t know how to help.”

There it was again, that edge of concern, that sense that something was not quite right with the Sun on Earth. Only - this was Conju, almost saying it. The Cavalier Conju an Vilius, Groom of the Chamber, chief attendant to the Lord of Rising Stars. Tiptoeing up to expressing an idea that would be treason. No wonder he was on edge.

“I don’t know either,” said Cliopher, equally softly, though the bustle of the morning shift taking breakfast around them was most likely the best cover they could have. He picked up his roll, but found that his appetite had waned. He put it down again and continued, “it has to be a good sign that he’s - wanting the plinth moved? Asking for something?”

“How so?”

“Well, that implies he’s looking for the answer, too,” said Cliopher. He thought a moment, and would have continued, but another member of Conju’s staff pulled out the chair between them and plonked down her own plate of savoury rolls.

“Who’s asking for what, then?” she asked, “is this what’s-his-face, Marcello, again? I thought you’d thrown him over, Conju?”

Conju pulled an exquisitely elaborate expression of disgust and started talking loudly about how little the mysterious Marcello deserved to find any answers, in love or in life.

–

There was indeed a new vase in the study, and it was an astoundingly beautiful work of art. The glaze was asymmetric, the teal shading through almost to turquoise, iridescent and lovely as a butterfly’s wing.

The Emperor paced, and spoke, and seemed indefinably out of sorts. Cliopher wrote, and wished again that it was permissible to volunteer his thoughts unasked. He was fairly certain that he could see the problem at once: the placement of the plinth had interrupted whatever unconscious rhythm informed his Radiancy’s steps.

Previously, the Lord of Rising Stars had taken fifteen steps from his desk to the nightingale, where he turned under the windows and came down twenty-five steps past Cliopher to the doors and the guards, turning again to retrace ten steps back to his desk. Visually the placement of the vase made a satisfying asymmetric arrangement of the major art pieces in the room, but it also created a new locus, drawing the Emperor to break his longest stretch of steps, turning twenty-five into thirteen and twelve.

The mellow, continuous flow of his Radiancy’s words was interrupted, as though distorted by a stone under the surface, bunching together or shifting apart as his steps faltered from their accustomed pattern each time he paused by the vase. The effect was setting Cliopher’s teeth on edge. Eventually - part way through listing the points to be made in a series of instructions to the garrisons near Exiaputl, concerning rumours of piracy off the southeastern coast - his Radiancy ground to a halt and stood staring with haughty disdain at the vase and its plinth. He was so obviously frustrated - and so courtly about it - that Cliopher had to swallow a laugh.

As the Emperor said nothing, after a few minutes Cliopher ventured “my lord?”

Layers of shimmering white and gold samite swirled as the Sun on Earth turned and looked directly at him. The study was - it always was - suffused with rich golden light, but at moments like this the light seemed to pool and gather around the figure of the Emperor, gleaming from the high dome of his forehead, sparkling from the hidden humour in his eyes. Cliopher was not inclined to collude in the Ouranatha’s attempts at apotheosis, but he could understand the impulse to worship. This was the Presence, alive, glittering with amusement at his own frustration.

He regarded Cliopher thoughtfully for a moment, and then asked, “what is the difference between a rhombus and a trapezoid, Sayo Mdang?”

Cliopher blinked in surprise, and blinked again to hold back a powerful and nameless emotion, and then managed to say, “A rhombus has all of its sides parallel but its angles acute, my lord. A diamond, for instance. A trapezoid has two sides only in parallel.”

The Emperor absorbed this in silence. After half a second Cliopher added, conscientiously, “In some places such is called a trapezium.”

His Radiancy looked back at the plinth, then turned slowly to survey the room, taking in the nightingale, the windows, his desk, the guards, the door. “And if the sides of all of them are out of synchrony?”

“In that case it is a quadrilateral, my lord,” said Cliopher.

“A shape, that is, with four sides,” his Radiancy replied, as much disgust in his voice as Cliopher had ever heard.

“Indeed, my lord.”

Cliopher considered the quadrilateral route again. Fifteen paces, thirteen, twelve, ten… unbalanced, uncomfortable, no smooth progression there. He calculated angles in his mind, wondering if it was possible to restore his Radiancy’s preferred pattern, or reach a balance, without reverting to a triangle. The plinth could hardly be moved along the room to make the rhombus fifteen, ten, fifteen, ten or it would obstruct a discreet door that must lead to some kind of store room or servants’ quarters.

Conju would not take it kindly if further artworks were introduced to add new nodes, not to mention that Lady Baravan would probably expire on the spot if the Emperor turned up in the Treasury a second day in a row, but Cliopher would rather not see his own desk become one of the corners of the Emperor’s usual route. It would surely be distracting.

The Sun on Earth looked across, past Cliopher to the guards. Cliopher turned in his seat to follow the thought and so he saw Sergei cast his face down, as all the guards did, and witnessed Ludvic - Ludvic Omo, the steadfast, the reassuring - raise his chin and return his Emperor’s gaze.

The absolute stillness in the room was the only reason Cliopher heard the Glorious One’s slight, almost imperceptible, intake of breath. The air shifted, lightly, as though a window had been opened onto a fresh spring morning.

“Guard Omo,” his Radiancy said, utterly controlled and serene, “will you move the plinth back another foot?”

Cliopher, for once, did not want to look into the Emperor’s eyes. It seemed - intrusive, to take advantage of his lord’s kindness to witness the strength of the feelings hemmed in by that careful mask of control. Instead, he stared awed and unseeing at the glorious vase that Ludvic unceremoniously deposited on his desk in order to shift the ebony plinth closer to the wall.

Ludvic placed the vase, saluted, and returned to his place by the door. The Emperor resumed pacing in his old pattern: fifteen, twenty-five, ten. A little swifter than usual, and all but glowing with satisfaction.

“A triangle is a more pleasing figure,” he said, in the tones of one who had thoroughly tested the quadrilateral and found it sadly wanting.

“Indeed, my lord,” Cliopher replied, amused. He shifted his papers back to the centre of his desk, took up his brushes, and bent over the work again, feeling unaccountably cheerful.

–

Later, after his lunch, before his afternoon meetings, and after the guard shift had changed, Cliopher tracked down Guard Omo, sitting by himself in the mess room and nursing a hot drink.

“Take a seat, Sayo Mdang,” said the guard, easily.

Cliopher sat down next to him and then found that he had no idea what to say. It was not just that the venue was public; it felt as though any venue would be too public for the ideas that he found were growing slowly more compelling - the concern about the Emperor, his Radiancy’s hunger for connection.

Eventually, he asked, “did it hurt?”

Omo evidently understood what he meant, for he considered the question, and then said, firmly, “no.”

Cliopher nodded.

Omo looked at him, curiously. “Why? Was it painful, for you?”

“The first time - yes. It was - like looking into the sun,” said Cliopher. “Not since then.”

Omo nodded, and raised his mug in something that bore a passing resemblance to a salute. “Thank you,” he said.

They sat in quiet accord for a moment, until Omo added, “Hiscaron wants to talk to you.”

“About - oh, yes, I can guess,” said Cliopher, “where would I find him?”

“Barracks,” said Omo, finishing his drink. “I’ll show you.”

Cliopher considered asking if this could wait, thinking of the work he had planned for that afternoon, but Omo was already getting up to lead the way. And, on reflection, there was nothing on his schedule that he couldn’t move to free up an hour or more, and he had to admit that he was curious about the incident with the dispatch box.

The Palace housed several barracks, in recognition of the frequent need to host different units of the army in Astandalan days. Of these only two were now in use: the greater barracks, which the Palace Guard filled, and part of one of the lower barracks in an outbuilding that was given over to the couriers. General Ravillon’s troops were mostly stationed across Zunidh, and the General himself had chosen to take a large suite of internal Palace rooms as his headquarters given the relatively small size of his general staff.

Most of the others were available as storage, apart from the rooms in the lower Zuni wing which had been full of strange echoes and ghostly soldiers’ songs since the Fall. Rumour said these were best avoided, and most chose to walk out on the terrace across their dedicated parade ground instead.

The parade ground outside the main barracks was full of flesh-and-blood trainee members of the guard, attempting to move in unison while a burly man barked orders at them. He paused briefly to exchange salutes with Guard Omo, who led Cliopher in through another door and up into a suite of unfamiliar offices. In one of these they found Hiscaron, Tuah, and (to Cliopher’s surprise), Ser Rhodin. The reason for the latter became clear almost at once, as he was standing with his hands hovering over the wreckage of the dispatch box and an expression on his face that implied concentration. Omo nodded at Hiscaron, then slipped away again. Cliopher, feeling a little uneasy, hovered by the door.

After a moment Ser Rhodin frowned, lifted his hands, and shook them as if trying to dry them off. “Nothing more,” he said.

Hiscaron sighed. “Thank you for trying again,” he said.

“It’s no trouble,” said Ser Rhodin, cheerfully. “Oh, hello, Sayo Mdang, didn’t see you there! Sorry, got to rush… my shift’s starting,” and he stepped smartly out of the room.

“Well, that’s that,” said Tuah. “Thanks for coming over, Sayo Mdang, hope it doesn’t put you to too much trouble. Take a seat.”

“Not at all,” said Cliopher, as they settled themselves. “How are things?”

“The Commander let us have the investigation, since I happened to be on the scene,” said Hiscaron, glumly, “much good it’s doing us.”

“What happened to the page?”

“In the infirmary, still,” said Tuah. “Burns in their throat, some in their lungs. Nasty - but could have been worse. They’ll recover, the healers say.”

Cliopher winced, “I had no idea,” he said, weakly. He should have thought to ask.

“They’re a genuine page,” Hiscaron put in, “just started this week. Someone stopped them in the hall and told them to run and find you with that dispatch box, urgently.”

“Who?”

“That’s what we don’t know. This,” Hiscaron tapped the box, “was set up by a magic-user. The page doesn’t remember anything about the person who gave it to them - says it’s just a blur - which could be more magic. Or a lack of attention. Or fear, though I don’t think they’re lying. We’ve asked all the guards with a touch of the gift to come and scry off the remains for us, but none of them have been able to trace a signature… whoever set this up is a cunning bastard.”

Cliopher shuddered, a little, remembering his own thoughts when confronting Major Haion. You had to be able to trust the mages. Or else outweigh them, hold them to account.

“That makes you our last lead, Sayo Mdang,” said Tuah. “The box is addressed to you. Can you tell us anything about who might have sent it?”

Cliopher looked helplessly at the dispatch box. “It’s genuine,” he said, “they’re all made like this - they’re all over the place, anybody could have got hold of one. I suppose… the label is wrong. Dispatch boxes are addressed to offices, or by title if the contents are mostly for one person. So - this should have been made out to ‘The Imperial Secretary’ - and either to the Tower or to the Minister in Chief’s Private Office, since that’s where I usually work.”

The guards were both scribbling notes.

“The fire wasn’t natural, and it stank like a volcano,” he said, then added “I grew up in Gorjo City, near Mama Ituri, so I’m familiar with the burning air. I think - it might be possible to soak paper in a substance that would have that effect when burned, but I’m not an expert. Paper shouldn’t smoulder like that, not slowly, not unless there was something else different about it.”

“Thank you,” said Hiscaron, “and - who could have sent it? Forgive me, Sayo Mdang, but is there anything that you have done in recent weeks that might have made you an enemy here in the Palace?”

Cliopher looked at the guards, looked at the box, considered the past month and couldn’t help laughing, though there was little mirth in it. “Possibly,” he said. “Would you like them chronologically or in order of likelihood?”

“Sayo Mdang,” Hiscaron repeated, reproachfully. “Somebody tried to kill you.”

Cliopher shook his head. “Surely -” he began, then paused. Of course this was a murder attempt, not an unfortunate prank. He knew that - had suspected all along, really, and knew with certainty from the moment they said the page was in the infirmary. He just had not wanted to admit it to himself, which was foolish.

“Sorry,” he said, instead, “I am taking this seriously - it’s just - that really doesn’t narrow it down. In the past month I have discomforted the military mages who report to General Ravillon, offended the General himself, been appointed into one of the most sought-after posts in the government by a man who hates me and resents my success, pushed most of the Upper Secretariat off balance and directly caused the Treasurer to be reprimanded in person by the Glorious One. And I suspect that I have - annoyed - the Ouranatha, as well. The only powerful figure at court who might not be happy if I - disappear - is Princess Indrogan.”

Hiscaron leaned back in his chair, put his head against the wall, shut his eyes and took a deep, patient breath. Tuah, less expressively, gave Cliopher a deeply unimpressed look. “In that case, what the hell are you doing wandering about the Palace by yourself?” he ground out.

“What am I supposed to do?” Cliopher asked, reasonably enough, he thought. “I have a job that takes me around the Palace. Anyway, I didn’t know that any of them would go this far, or that they’d make such a mess of it.”

An immediate reflection reminded him that Major Haion had come close to cutting his throat, and that the Master of Offices had definitely intended for him to come to some kind of terminal grief over broken taboos through his appointment to the Emperor. He held his tongue. He could not discuss the former with the guards, not unless he wanted to risk an outright confrontation between the guards and the military, which if Ravillon backed Haion with force could amount to a condensed civil war in the Palace corridors… and the latter was too subtle to be evidenced.

Hiscaron gave him a look so old-fashioned it pre-dated the discovery of fire, and said “Sayo Mdang, our duty is to protect members of the Imperial Household and to keep the peace in the Palace. You are making this duty challenging. Please, for the love of the Emperor, ask somebody to accompany you the next time you feel moved to wander through the lower corridors.”

“And put someone else at risk?” asked Cliopher, thinking again of the sobbing page. “I’m - choosing this, you see, I know what I’m walking into.”

“Then. You. Should. Take. A. Guard.” said Hiscaron, emphasising each word by thumping his hand lightly on the table. “We sign up for the risk when we join! It’s what we’re here for!”

It was a fair challenge. Cliopher made himself sit with it, consider it. He imagined - walking the halls of the Palace, a guard at his shoulder - the heads turning. The reaction from the Secretariat… the concern rising. Other people feeling the need to travel with guards, or with weapons. No.

“No,” he said out loud. “I appreciate the offer - I really do - but - no. I need to be… unthreatening. Unremarkable. I wouldn’t be able to do my job if I had a guard with me - so - for the love of the Emperor - no.”

He did, however, accept Tuah’s careful offer of company up to the infirmary to visit the young page. He managed to leave both guards behind, afterwards, and find a quiet corner of the gardens to sit in staring at his hands until they stopped shaking.

Of course this was dangerous. It had been since - since he took Lady Kuyulush up on her challenge, and faced the question of what he wanted to achieve. It had been since he took the long road to Astandalas, full of pride and hope. He had never fully acknowledged that success could bring danger for others as well as himself.

The page had been unconscious, and so pale. A restorative sleep, the healers said, and the best medicines in the Empire. They would recover.

Cliopher was beginning to suspect that he would not.

Chapter Text

The Emperor’s visit to the Treasury marked a watershed, of kinds. Before, the members of the Service who knew about Cliopher’s new role were mostly limited to the Minister in Chief’s Private Office and a scattering of senior members of the Upper Secretariat. Afterwards, half the Treasury had seen him standing there next to the Treasurer, when the Sun on Earth came out of his Tower and descended into the vaults. Word spread.

When the first correspondence specifically denigrating Cliopher arrived addressed to the Tower, or the Minister in Chief, he was unsure how to respond. Many of the complaints were frivolous, one or two were unpleasant, and others seemed merely petty.

The complimentary messages were easier to handle. If they seemed to be work-related, either for the sender or the subject, he stuck them back into a dispatch box for later review. The rest were a bewildering confusion of subjects and requests. Complete strangers suddenly wanted to invite him to their soirees, or dinners, or to attend the meeting of their pet societies, or to read their pamphlets, or to comment on their plans, or their poetry (some of which was truly execrable). He sent a polite - and extremely short - negative to all of these, and continued to worry about the critical letters.

Just letting them sit there in his inbox felt - dishonest. He asked Kiri whether she thought he ought to pull them together and write some sort of report for - Princess Indrogan? The Emperor? Himself, to make sure there was nothing valid in the criticism?

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Cliopher,” she said, “leave it to me,” and she arranged for the messenger stations in both offices to screen both the dispatch boxes addressed to Cliopher, and all his personal mail from unknown senders. Cliopher did not feel entirely comfortable with this arrangement, but he had to admit it saved time.

His Radiancy’s visit to the Treasury also had a salutary effect on the rest of the Upper Secretariat. Some senior Ministers who had been dodging him were suddenly eager to join conversations with Cliopher. Others grew less cooperative.

Conju came and found him, one morning, with news that the Ouranatha had decreed a series of ritual blessings, more than half of which happened to coincide with times when his Radiancy was expecting to meet with Princess Indrogan or other Ministers. That, at least, was easily dealt with. Cliopher held multiple calendar slots and cheerfully moved the meetings between them as often as Conju said was needed. After several weeks the sequence of ritual blessings tailed off and the Ouranatha complained to the Minister in Chief. She stopped by the desk where he was working, in the open part of the Private Office.

“I am told that you have been trespassing on the priest-wizards’ prerogatives, Sayo Mdang,” she said.

“I am sorry to hear that, my lady,” Cliopher replied, mock-serious. They smiled at one another.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched his shoulders, taking the opportunity to check the room. It was late afternoon and the office was busy, with a hum of conversation from several impromptu meetings. Nobody appeared to be paying particular attention to their table. “Are you minded to raise the matter with his Radiancy?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she said. Cliopher tilted his head in a gesture of respectful agreement, which he found that he was using far more comfortably around her now that she was not his patron. There would come a time - there would have to come a time - to raise the problem of the Ouranatha with the Emperor, but they were not ready, yet.

The Princess looked at him, keenly, then said, “on an unrelated matter, Sayo Mdang, I understand that you are still lodging at the far end of the Alinorel Wing. With respect, may I suggest that you consider moving into apartments closer to the Tower? It would no doubt save you time.”

“Among other things,” muttered Kiri.

“I’m not sure the Master of Offices would agree,” Cliopher pointed out. Allocating rooms was one of the responsibilities that they had already agreed should move from the Administrative Office to the Palace staff. It was also one of the moves that could not be made without risking escalation, not until they were ready to show their hand.

“Lord Meriloe need not come into it,” said Indrogan, “I happen to know of a minor noble looking to return to her estate for at least a year who would be ecstatic if the Emperor’s secretary deigned to take care of her apartment in her absence.”

Kiri looked across at him with such pleading eyes that he had to laugh, despite his inner horror at the idea of rattling around by himself in empty aristocrat’s quarters.

“No, thank you,” he said, “though that is an extremely kind offer, please do pass on my thanks. I am very happy in my room. I like having time to think on my way across the Palace, and having a reason to go through the gardens.”

Princess Indrogan stared him down. He gave her his best bland, bureaucrat’s smile. She huffed and stalked off, looking for an easier target.

“She’s right,” said Kiri, “it’s a great idea.”

Cliopher groaned. “You want me to give up my home - my nice quiet space with a view of the sea, and all my comfy old furniture - and move into some fancy jewel box stuffed right at the middle of the Palace, where I can go directly from the office to bed and up again every morning without ever once seeing the stars?”

Kiri lowered her voice. “If that’s what it takes to keep you alive, then yes!”

“No,” he told her, as firmly as he could at a conversational level. She grumbled, but she let him pull her back to considering the list of responsibilities that two or more departments claimed sat with them.

He did have to admit, to himself, that their concern - like the guards’ worries - were justified. But there were some things that he needed, to keep going, to keep spinning all these ideas and people and systems within systems - and one of them was a view of the sea, and another was a daily walk in the garden.

The initial restructure was beginning to take shape, between the notes of several different teams. Only he and Princess Indrogan’s Private Office had seen the full proposal, which included dismissing nearly half of the Upper Secretariat overnight and reducing numbers further as people left naturally over the next few years. The money saved would go to quintupling planned recruitment of junior staff through a new formal process, involving making their oaths of service in the Presence of the Glorious One himself.

More specifically, the Administrative Office had to be dissolved. Cliopher had nothing against the idea of a central structure for appointments and allocations, and (at least in theory) employee support, but the current department was so hopelessly corrupt as to be unsalvageable, and redistributing its powers across the Service would help reassure other Ministers that their positions would not be undermined by the Tower as the Emperor continued to take a more active interest in their work.

A third team in Indrogan’s Private Office was working on plans to formalise the transfer of General Ravillon’s remaining forces under the Commander of the Palace Guard on the General’s retirement. This would not coincide with the rest of the restructure, but they hoped that announcing it as part of the same package would help smooth the process.

Together these moves were going to make a large number of important people very unhappy. A swathe of aristocrats would lose, at a stroke, a significant boost to their income from sinecures paid for out of the public purse. All those with a stake in Lord Meriloe would be shut out of the Service, at least temporarily. The Ouranatha might also see the consolidation of the armed forces as a threat to the military mages who helped cover their arcane deficiencies.

Cliopher and Princess Indrogan had discussed, discreetly, whether to attempt to make some of the changes in sequence rather than all together. They had not been able to agree on an approach. The Princess was wary of pulling the political conflict into the open too soon, and Cliopher felt uncomfortable about leading the Emperor through the proposals in stages, as if they were attempting to manipulate him. The catch was that as soon as any plan went into the Emperor’s reports, and was automatically sent back down to the Minister in Chief for review, copies could begin to circulate.

Cliopher was fairly sure of the Emperor’s support for most of their proposals. His Radiancy would want to scrutinise what they were suggesting. He would have questions, and ideas. But he had no special fondness for the aristocracy, and was frustrated by many of his Ministers, and he had agreed with Cliopher’s criticisms of his Treasurer’s incompetence.

Which brought it back, again, to the Ouranatha. Cliopher still had no idea how the Sun on Earth felt about his priesthood. He suspected - strongly suspected - that the Lord of Rising Stars was not entirely happy with his apotheosis, but the lion eyes could be as inscrutable as the sun itself.

The priest-wizards were devoted to making their Emperor into a god. Not a god like those of the Vangavaye-ve, the strange, personable, powerful figures Cliopher knew from the Lays, but a distant shining golden statue on a throne. Enthroned, to act as a focus for earthly power. A statue, so that he could not challenge their interpretation of his words. Shining, to attract glory and worship that they could borrow for their own ends. Distant, so that nobody but them could hear his voice. Their god would be their instrument, in life and in death. Perhaps better, from their perspective, in death. The hallowed Last Emperor, forever preserved in the distorting amber of their memories.

Cliopher could find fury in his core, for that presumption - that sacrilege - a deep welling tide of rage, rising and pressing against his thoughts like the heat from the centre of the earth yearning to break through, to flash seas into steam.

And yet - and yet, might his Radiancy see the elevation as necessary, even if he did not welcome it? Might he value the unifying effect of his cult, believe it was worth sacrificing his happiness to bind together the people of Zunidh in relative peace and stability? Prefer to use the power of persuasion granted him as a god than the power of arms he could raise from the scraps of Astandalas?

There were other, darker, possibilities. The Emperor could be held docile to the priest-wizards by force of magic, or by the cumulative effect of their constant exercise of control over his schedule and surroundings. He could be drugged, duped, soothed into compliance by some effect of the Imperial rituals, or simply by their repetition.

Cliopher reminded himself that he had learned patience, crossing the Wide Seas, and how to redirect a futile rage. It did not help to spend it howling at the empty ocean: it helped to light a fire.

For some reason, this thought led him back to his Radiancy. Look first, listen first, questions later. Well, he had looked, and he had listened, and the question that kept coming to his mind was what can I do to make the Emperor laugh?

He could - he knew he could - make the Emperor smile. He could coax out irony, amusement, and good humour. And yet - and yet the weight of that still cloak of serenity, the heaviness of glory - was unshakeable.

The frustration was with him in many of his meetings, and perhaps it did, sometimes, add the snap of fire to his tongue, a sliver of efficiency to his daily grind, cutting away the inessentials, focusing his mind.

—

The Palace bells sounded the fourth hour of the morning, and Cliopher’s brush dipped for the final time into the special gold-flecked ink that was kept for official proclamations. A complicated passage from near the close of Fitzroy Angursell’s great, glorious, and most decidedly outlawed poem Aurora was running through his mind. The princess meeting her chosen lover again, against all hope, and their mutual explanations and exclamations twining together in call and response.

He delicately finished the last of the list of witnesses whose signatures would confirm their agreement to the statements in the main body of the document, and with a final flourish added the confirmation that this document was issued under the seal of the Sun on Earth.

Cliopher reflected, not for the first time, how fortunate it was that nobody had been able to make it illegal to think about the works of Fitzroy Angursell, and how fortunate he was to be able to sit here in the Emperor’s study and celebrate his happiness, internally, in the verse of the favourite poet that it would be illegal to share out loud. He took a fresh sheet of paper and looked up, feeling the mischief of this minor transgression spilling into his smile. The Sun on Earth was pacing towards him. Their eyes met, and Cliopher felt his happiness stir and stretch like a cat on a sun-warmed windowsill.

His Radiancy smiled at him, stepped past, and began speaking about the latest reports from the coast. The weather had been peculiar, of late, and - oh, yes, there was something that came to mind, something that had made Cliopher laugh, reading the report in the quiet of his room. It was quite clear in his mind - he had not been able to resist writing to Basil, telling the story, which did not touch on any state secrets -

The Emperor kept walking but stopped talking, apparently lost in thought. Cliopher considered the notes he had been making, considered how much easier it would be to draw out the story in a conversation, considered when it would be appropriate to break the silence, and after a decent interval, asked, “And have you decided what you will be working on next, my lord?”

His Radiancy was behind him, near the doors. “Read out the last few lines,” he ordered, walking back past Cliopher towards his desk. The Emperor today was wearing Imperial yellow in fine, thin bands that fluttered out and were caught in again at his wrists and his waist by soft black twists of what seemed to be velvet.

He did not stop at his desk, nor continue his usual path, but went instead to the tapestry map. Long dark fingers brushed across the gems that marked Solaara, the embroidery picking out river, fens, coast. He made some comment about the strangeness of the weather.

Cliopher had to take a moment to gather himself. As terrifying as it had been to compose flattery on the spot, he had been able to shape his oration according to rules he understood. Here the challenge was different: he had to keep the conversation flowing until the opportunity came up, then turn it towards the story he wanted to tell, without once overstepping the bounds of etiquette (as best he understood them) by being seen to steer it.

“Indeed, my lord,” he said, “there have been a recurrent series of severe thunderstorms along the coast, with concurrent waterspouts.”

The Emperor, bright in his yellows against the dark tones of the tapestry, said nothing. Cliopher again judged the interval, carefully.

“The villages along the coast and somewhat inland have been reporting rains of fish,” he said, took a breath, and added “and other bizarre phenomena.”

The Emperor turned back towards him - his movements were intentional, he was definitely interested - and asked, reasonably, “what kind of fish?”

Cliopher answered, as best as he could, from his understanding of the phenomenon, blessing his Aunt Oura for making him proofread her papers on natural philosophy as a teenager.

“Are the fish alive when they fall?” the Glorious One asked, his voice alive, alert with curiosity. And, then, when Cliopher had answered that they often were, his Radiancy retreated several layers back into the safety of serenity to ask “does it ease the famine?”

Cliopher ached to say yes, but the Emperor - his Emperor - cared enough to hear the truth. Without salt, a barrowful of edible fish was dinner on the first night and a toxic hazard for waste disposal for the following weeks. There was not enough salt.

Still serene, the Glorious One asked “have we no stores in the Palace?”

Cliopher felt his hand gripping his pen, his anger at this - this trammelling of a good man into godhood colliding with another source of frustration. He made a note - tried to make a note - of this question, for later - and found the paper scratched under his pen and the true answer spilling out without volition. “The priest-wizards have tonnes, my lord, but they will not release them. They say they require it all for their ceremonies and rituals. It is purified, they say, far beyond the requirements of salting food.”

His Radiancy regarded him. Cliopher looked back, holding the lion eyes, realising that he had just criticised the Imperial cult to the Emperor’s face. He hoped desperately that this had not been premature… he had intended to find ways to present more updates on the priest-wizards through the routines of their work, to have time to make them visible to his Radiancy and gauge the reaction…

“We will speak to the Ouranatha. A rain of fish ought to be a blessing, not a curse.” The Emperor was turning away to pace as he spoke, leaving Cliopher space to clean his pen, turn over the page to hide the angry blot, and turn over his expression to cover his fierce contradiction of feelings: gladness that his Radiancy shared his anger at the salt hoarding, relief that he was both able and willing to criticise his own cult, a rush of anxiety close to panic at the thought of triggering an outright confrontation now. Were they ready?

He steadied himself. The Sun on Earth was offering - promising - to put himself in opposition to the Ouranatha. That was what they had hoped for. He would do so in service - not to the wrangling of his bureaucrats, nor the jealous preservation of power - but in service of his people who were starving. That was so much more than Cliopher had dared dream of seeing, in the desolate days when he drifted back to Solaara to rejoin the Service.

If the Lord of Rising Stars, and his guards, and his Minister in Chief, and the half of the Service that would fall in behind them, could not between them wrest power back from the priest-wizards now, then - it was not too late, it was never too late. They would try, and if it did not work, and he survived, he would try again.

The Emperor made a full turn about the room and then returned to the subject of the weather. “What other phenomena are they experiencing?”

Perhaps the real gods - his gods - his god of mischief, at least - was with him after all. Cliopher gladly put aside all political worries to tackle later. He tapped his pen down his notes and gave some examples at random of strange weather conditions, all notable in themselves but mostly there to distract the Emperor’s attention so that he could slide sideways into the story he hoped to tell. His Radiancy continued to pace, silent, as Cliopher introduced the giant waterspout. “The disk was a good two hundred feet across, so the report says, before the winds whirled up…”

The Glorious One was paying attention. When Cliopher described the gathering hammerhead sharks, he put in a question. “Are sharks not solitary?”

Cliopher explained the great gatherings of makopare, the gleaming grey schools a hundred or more strong, and the strength of the waterspout that lifted this particular gathering and bore it upriver towards the town of Dinezi. He described the elephant contest of the Dinezi in an aside, just as he had in the letter, and his Radiancy was still listening, caught up in the drama of the scene: the elephants charging down the gorge, the aspiring leaders risking their lives in leaps to seize a ribbon, the festival atmosphere…

To his delight the Emperor had stopped pacing, was standing by his desk with his eyes closed, was fully absorbed in the story. As the waterspout cut across the path of the elephants, he opened his eyes and looked sharply at Cliopher. The air seemed to crackle as their gazes met. Cliopher did his best to mirror the still formality of his Radiancy’s expression, not to react to the wild glee that was rising in those golden eyes.

The Emperor held his silence, so Cliopher continued, pulse thrumming in his ears. He described the contestants mingling with the elephants, holding the eyes of the crowd, so that the arrival of the waterspout took them entirely by surprise as it collapsed and “drenched the area with a considerable quantity of water and a hundred hammerhead sharks.”

The Lord of Rising Stars stood there, looking at Cliopher.

Cliopher fought, hard, to maintain his composure. He was not going to break down and laugh first, and let his Emperor watch in amused silence. Not this time.

The Glorious One narrowed his eyes.

Cliopher did not even allow himself to grin. He continued, blandly, describing the scene as he had imagined it for Basil: the elephants shocked and squealing as they trampled the live, biting sharks, the utter chaos.

His Radiancy was vibrating, just a little, the motion given away by the yellow streamers of his raiment shivering in the air.

Cliopher told him about the final contestant standing. “She held a white ribbon in one hand and a shark in the other, and no one could doubt that she was the true winner of the contest.”

The Emperor’s shoulders were definitely shaking now. Cliopher held his lord’s eyes, held his own breath, licked his lips, and with superlative care, his voice soft as though to hold a fragile, precious, thing, he said “Digourandé, they are calling her. The Shark Queen.” He let the flourish hang there, offered like a hand outstretched, like a question that exposed all of him, vulnerable in his hope and expectation - and -

- and the Sun on Earth laughed.

Heartily, frantically, doubled over almost to his knees, leaning on his desk for support - great musical whoops of laughter that smashed every hint of his serenity to fragments and danced on the pieces.

Cliopher laughed with him, from joy and pure release and triumph, and then sat smiling like a fool as his Emperor collected himself and looked - a little sheepishly, perhaps (another treasonous thought) - around the room, exchanging smiles with Ludvic Omo, who was at the door.

And when, having collected himself back into his mask, his Radiancy thought to ask whether the story was true, Cliopher had the very great pleasure of acknowledging that perhaps the number of sharks was somewhat exaggerated, and added the observation that “even one hammerhead shark falling out of the sky would be quite a shock, don’t you think?”

And to his enormous delight the Emperor laughed again, freely, frankly, casting the mask aside as casually as though all that glory weighed nothing at all.

Chapter Text

It was dark, and the mage light on his desk drowned out the stars beyond the windows. Cliopher put aside the list of departmental remits that needed to be untangled, and sighed over the three reports on the famine along the coast (each compiled by a different Ministry, each good in its own way but each missing the insights that they could have found if they had worked together).

The warm glow of the city lights below the Palace provided a reassuring contrast to his reading. Life in Solaara itself had been stable, though not exactly luxurious, for most of the past hundred years. Food had been scarce from time to time and public order patchy, but there had been no famine and no outright fighting in the streets. Princess Indrogan’s hand enforced order in the Palace and its environs, there was relative stability of time and weather across most of the river valley (if you disregarded the mystery of the Solamen Fens), the ornery instincts of old Lord Oriaz at Agriculture helped make the most of the available food sources, and (much as it pained him to admit this), people rallied around the central inspiring figure of the Lord Emperor through the Ouranatha’s active encouragement of his cult.

The city that was growing out around the Palace of Stars bore little resemblance to the sleepy provincial town that had once housed the keepers of the Imperial Necropolis, the only notable feature of Solaara before the Fall. It was an altogether new city growing around the Palace, beautiful in an entirely different way from Astandalas the Golden, drawing in people and food and trade from the growing zone of magical and mundane order. By contrast with the rest of Zunidh, stable-not-luxurious was a powerful draw.

Beyond the land directly linked to the government in Solaara lay hunger, conflict, wild weather, time twisted out of joint. No wonder his Radiancy was so focused on extending order along the coast, out to the provinces. The whole world of Zunidh was his domain - his responsibility. If the Ouranatha could not help with the broken magic, they could at least release their sacred supply of salt.

(He wondered if anyone could help with the magic. Could even a great mage - even Aurelius Magnus himself - weave back together these broken fragments? Stitch today back to tomorrow, and world to world?)

Zunidh was profoundly in need. Cliopher had, more than once in his life, thought that nothing would ever intimidate him again. After he retook the Imperial Entrance Exams so many times, dragging the regional examiner out to Gorjo City again and again and refusing to take failure for an answer. After humiliations and exploitation in Astandalas. After the Fall, and his imprisonment in the Grey Mountains, and then again and again on his long voyage of the sea; after typhoons and shipwreck and loss. After the moment on his first day in the Imperial Study where he broke etiquette, convention, and taboo, and expected the executioners, and yet was reprieved.

He was beginning to realise that the payment for getting up and going on again came in the shape of the next, greater challenge. He stared unseeing at the window, and tried to remember to take one star of the ke’ea at a time.

His Radiancy was going to speak to the Ouranatha about the salt. That - could mean nothing. The priest-wizards might conclude that it was worth giving way in this small thing, without demur. Or, as they had already refused the Minister in Chief, they might decline when the Emperor himself gave the order. As soon as the question was raised the locus of power would be exposed: if the Emperor backed down, he ceded authority to the Ouranatha; if the priest-wizards obeyed, they lost control of their god.

There would be a magical aspect to this contest. About that, Cliopher could do nothing, only hope that his Radiancy was ready, was safe, was - as Ludvic Omo believed with such fervour - a great mage. For any mundane conflict, he and Princess Indrogan had their plans. They had considered the possibility that the restructure might need to take place in the context of significant disorder, and Cliopher had in mind his list of candidates strong enough to take control in each department, to protect the functions and material of government until the matter was decided. He knew the announcements that they would make, the people they would call on.

The last piece they needed to be ready was… evidence. If the Sun on Earth pushed the Ouranatha back, it should be done on the basis of reason, justified by a fully documented account of their activities that could be shared with other senior figures in the Palace. Ideally fully cross-referenced to the Aurelian Code, to the fundamental legal principles that governed the exercise of schooled magic. Clear for his Radiancy so that he could decide how to act, convincing for the other senior government figures who needed to trust that that their Emperor was making intelligent, informed choices.

Cliopher had created one damning dossier on the priest-wizards already, drawing on all his encounters with them over the past few years, compiling rumour and records that he had collected with extreme caution from the pages’ records, reports found in the Administrative Office, deliberately sporadic visits to the Imperial Archives. He had made his notes in code, and in scribal shorthand, and even so had not dared leave the papers lying around. He had carried them on his person at all times - until Major Haion had, mercifully, incinerated the report rather than trying to decipher it.

He would not be able to reconstruct the details from memory, but he did still have some of the more innocuous supporting notes in his desk, and his accessing the underlying reports would be easier to explain now. It would not be a good idea to start carting a shoulder bag around again, not when his movements were watched so closely by the better part of the Imperial Service. These days the papers he was working on were carried around for him in the official dispatch boxes, and precious little was truly private. He would have to restrict himself to material that he could fit onto a few folded pages tucked into the corner of the old leather box he used for his writing kit.

(He once again resolved to go down into Solaara someday when he had the time and find a proper case for his materials, something big enough to carry a selection of books and papers as well as his brushes and pens.)

For now, Cliopher pulled over a sheet of paper and, with care, sketched the outline of what he needed to cover: the Ouranatha’s policies, their propaganda, their activities (overt and covert), his conclusions about their goals and, finally and most critically, the fact that their magic no longer worked.

He had grown used to leaning on the secretaries from the Minister in Chief's private office to collect evidence for his reports, but his imagination too readily provided him with images of Kiri lying pale and injured in the place of the page who handed him that toxic dispatch box. No. This was one draft that he would keep entirely to himself, as long as he could.

–

There was no eruption the next day, nor the next.

The Sun on Earth continued to reach out, to speak with his Ministers, to give orders addressing the state of the world, to worry about his people, but he did not bring up the subject of the Ouranatha.

A week passed. Cliopher worked into the night, every night, reconstructing his burned notes, refining the summaries, identifying the gaps. He found a moment in passing, in the open office, to mention to the Princess Indrogan that the Emperor had spoken about asking the Ouranatha to open the salt reserves to ease the coastal famine.

(By unspoken agreement they no longer discussed the doings of the priest-wizards in her study, in any but the most general terms.)

The Princess raised her eyebrows and murmured “indeed”, and assigned three more people to support the team pulling together the high level plan for coordinating the restructure.

Cliopher found himself watching the ebb and flow of people through the offices and the Tower as closely as he had ever studied the winds and the waves on the edge of a weather system, assessing whether each flurry of cats-paw ripples presaged a passing gust or the front face of the storm.

The Service was skittish. Some garbled rumours had started spreading around the work being carried out in the Minister in Chief’s Private Office, though fortunately these linked the proposals back to the Sun on Earth’s visit to his Treasurer which led them to underestimate the scale of the plans. Sayu Loveless reported that they were being courted by several aristocrats who fancied themselves as senior Ministers; they seemed no more harried than usual about this, so Cliopher left them to handle it.

A different set of rumours were spreading in the Imperial household. Cliopher was too busy for several days to spend much time catching up with his new colleagues, so his first clue that something had changed came when Conju caught him in passing in the corridor and pressed a note into his hand. On examination, this turned out to be an invitation to join him that evening in a meeting room close to the Tower.

Curious, Cliopher slipped away from Indrogan’s secretariat earlier than usual. He was even more intrigued when he reached the room, opened the door, and found that this was the place half-filled with the strange magical eddy. In the dark the cloud of dust glittered with almost-imperceptible flecks of light, a whole host of tiny viau caught in an endless dance.

Conju was sitting in a corner, his chair pushed back as far as possible from the stray magic, in the bright pool created by a small mage light on one of the desks. The effect was not unlike a small fire on a still night; he was gazing at the light, and his shadow stretched enormous up the wall behind him.

Cliopher, suddenly unsure what to expect, stepped into the room and let the door swing shut behind him. Conju looked up at the sound it made, got up, and bowed deeply. The movement was graceful, natural, and welcoming. Cliopher returned it without thinking. As he straightened it struck him that this was as comfortable to Conju and other Astandalan aristocrats as clasping hands and touching foreheads was between him and his Islander friends. The gestures were different but the greeting was no less heartfelt; he had not realised, until they were aimed at him in all sincerity, that they could be sincere.

“Thank you for coming, Cliopher,” said Conju, “take a seat - I’m just expecting - ah!”

The door swung open again and Ludvic Omo stepped in. “Cavalier,” he said, “Sayo Mdang.”

“Guard Omo,” Cliopher returned.

“Sit down, you two, and don’t look so stiff,” said Conju. “I have wine.” He produced a set of three gorgeous crystal-cut goblets and an unlabelled bottle of red wine, gave them both a look, and poured it out as they found chairs.

“An Alinorel toast,” he said, holding his up so that red fires glinted in its depths. “Here's to laughter, the sunshine of the soul!”

Cliopher jumped and nearly spilled his drink, then took a hurried sip to cover his clumsiness. The wine was warm and rich as velvet on his tongue.

“To laughter,” echoed Omo, before drinking.

Conju set his goblet back down on the table. “Thank you for meeting me here,” he said. “I admit the location is a trifle irregular, but - I have heard it rumoured that that monstrosity,” he nodded at the swirling lights, “has a tendency to slip from the minds of those with magical gifts. It was the explanation given - some time ago - for why this room could not be cleared and restored. I have pursued the matter more recently and to my utter astonishment the priest-wizards have not been responsive.”

“Shocking,” said Omo, a slight gleam in his eye.

“What did you want to discuss?” asked Cliopher.

“Straight to the point as always,” replied Conju, with a crooked smile, “how refreshing you are, Cliopher! I want to discuss this rumour that is going around about you” he gestured at Cliopher “- and you” the hand lifted to take in Omo, “and his Radiancy, the Lord of Ten Thousand Titles.”

Cliopher exchanged glances with the Azilinti guard. “What rumour?” he asked.

“That the pair of you conspired to commit treason, and somehow drew the Emperor into forgetting himself so much as to lose all his Imperial dignity.”

“...and who is saying that?” Cliopher asked, when it became clear that Omo was not going to say anything.

“Oh, one hears things,” said Conju, with a sly smile. “One hears, for example, that Guard Omo here has been coming under some mischievous influence, and has strayed so far as to look the Emperor in the eyes. Did it hurt, by the way?”

“No,” said Omo, stolid as ever.

“Where are you going with this?” Cliopher put in, before Omo could admit to anything else.

Conju looked at them, lifted his goblet, took a long gulp of wine - Cliopher, who had never tasted any vintage so fine in his life, felt that this was rather a waste - grimaced, and said, “I want in.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean it,” said Conju, “I want in on this plot. I want to understand what you are doing for his Radiancy, and I want to help… you have to explain,” he added, slightly frantic, “I attend my lord from the moment he rises until he breakfasts, and again all afternoon as he bathes and meditates and prepares for evening court, and later tonight I will go back through and unpin his robes and clean his hands and rub lotions into his scalp and he will not look at me, not once - he keeps his eyes closed when we get close, I told you - and I will prepare him for bed. I and my assistants are with him more than half his waking moments, and we have seen how - I don’t know how to put it - his is changing, he is waking up. His face is more mobile - he smiles - he has always read his reports, but now I can tell that he is - he is looking forward to them. What are you doing? And how can I help?”

Cliopher’s first instinctive denials withered away before they formed in his mouth. He had not thought of his efforts to support his Radiancy as a plot, but… he could not deny that he had been planning them.

Ludvic Omo shrugged his massive shoulders. “I follow Sayo Mdang’s lead,” he said.

“I can’t do that, I’m never in the Presence at the same time as you,” said Conju, sounding peeved, as though this had been arranged on purpose to annoy him. “Tell me what you’re doing, Cliopher.”

“I… I don’t know,” said Cliopher. He looked at his glass, saw the mage light reflected like glowing embers in the depths of the wine, and admitted, “I… try to catch his eyes. I… suppose I noticed that he seemed… distant. Serene.”

“Serenity is one of his titles,” said Conju, not critically but in the tones of someone turning over a difficult thought, attempting to fit it into his view of the world. “He is the very definition of serene.”

“On the surface,” said Guard Omo, gently.

“I… well, the government is in a bad way,” said Cliopher, “and I know he has been getting bad reports, and worse advice. So at first I simply wanted to give him better - better tools to do his job. Better service. And then… it felt wrong that he never laughs. I could see the humour - the laughter - in his eyes, but he never let it out. I thought - that seemed wrong. So I looked for an opportunity and…” he shrugged.

“He told the Emperor a funny story,” said Omo, “not as scurrilous as rumour has it. Not the one about Aurelius Magnus and the nunnery”

“Well, I am glad to hear that,” said Conju, his tone so flat as to be almost natural, “I was under the impression you had some taste, Cliopher, I am glad that I do not need to be entirely disappointed in you.”

“There was an incident in the weekly intelligence report that I thought the Glorious One might appreciate,” Cliopher explained.

“He did,” said Omo, with a grin.

“I… see,” said Conju slowly, turning his glass around in his hand. “But I can scarcely weave an anecdote into his beauty regime. I do not converse with the Emperor.”

“It’s not really about the anecdote,” Cliopher had only articulated this to himself, so far, and he hesitated as he tried to figure out how to say it out loud. “The Glorious One awoke from a magical sleep that lasted a hundred years and at once took up the mantle of Lord Magus of Zunidh,” he began, “and since then,” he glanced across at the dancing lights, sent up a swift prayer that Conju was right about what they meant, and continued quietly, “he has been ill served. You told me that he regularly sent away his chief attendants; the Service was in despair about the rapid rejection of secretaries. We know that his Radiancy is not capricious. He was receiving poor candidates - from the advice of the priest-wizards, whose purifications control the candidacy pool for attendants, and from the appointments made by Lord Meriloe, whose favour is bought and sold by those willing to spend. And… the Ouranatha are willing to spend.”

“Ah,” said Omo, “that is it.”

Conju had gone pale. “But you can’t think - the priest-wizards serve the Glorious One - they ensure his worship is correct - he is their god”

“Did he ask to be?” said Omo.

While Conju gaped at him, Cliopher put in, “I’m not saying that they intend him any harm. I don’t know the Ouranatha. I am saying that their approach is poorly judged - that until now his Radiancy has dismissed all their candidates, and has been ill served. If we want to do better we need to think differently. We should ask - how has this affected him? - and we should follow his lead - what does he want?”

“I am no expert on what his Radiancy wants, given that he never expresses the faintest hint of an opinion on anything,” snapped Conju. Then, more slowly, looking down at his hands. “I am his Groom of the Chamber and I have no idea what he wants.”

Ludvic Omo looked at Cliopher, expectantly. Cliopher stared at his own half finished drink, wondering what he could possibly say that would help. They had surely gone beyond looking, listening, and assessing the situation, but he still did not know what questions to ask.

“Has it - always been like this?” he tried, eventually, hoping that, if nothing else, it would deflect Conju from his distress.

“No,” said Conju at once, looking away. “When I did my early training - before the Fall - the senior attendants were full of advice on how to discuss clothing choices with the Emperor. He had strong views, they said. We spent - a good deal of time on it, on his likes and dislikes - they must have had conversation with him… but now -” he scowled, the least courtly expression Cliopher had ever seen from him, and spat out, “it’s like dressing a doll,” and abruptly swallowed the last of his wine, as though hiding from the treasonous ring of his own words in the bottom of his goblet.

Cliopher, feeling a little shaken, took another gulp of his own wine. The heady fragrance rolled over his tongue, filled his nose. He put the goblet down again and - still unsure, but feeling that he had to match Conju’s vulnerability - forced himself to add his own dark thought out loud. “Or the statue of a god,” he said, “immobile, remote… serene.”

“Yes,” said Omo.

The three of them looked at one another. Conju picked up the bottle in hands that trembled visibly, refilled Cliopher’s goblet, and poured himself another.

Omo, who had barely touched his wine, picked it up and looked at it dubiously. Cliopher swallowed a brief spurt of amusement. Here he and Conju were, sweating over their words, while the phlegmatic guard appeared unmoved by treason but a little uncomfortable about the propriety of drinking together.

“He makes government decisions all the time,” Omo observed. Cliopher huffed out his breath and sat back. That was true, come to think of it…

Conju clicked the bottle back on the table a little harder than necessary and said, “but no choices for himself... I see.”

There was a long, thoughtful silence. Omo tried the wine, and seemed to approve. Cliopher drank more of his. The strange cloud of dust and glitter swirled.

“Thank you,” said Conju, at last. “That - helps.”

“You’re welcome,” said Cliopher, and then, a couple of minutes later, asked, “do I want to know anything more about the rumours you mentioned?”

“Oh,” said Conju, waggling his eyebrows, “probably not.”

He told them anyway. Cliopher felt his face burn, and found himself wishing that Ludvic Omo’s deep rumble of laughter did not sound so decidedly earthy.

—

Two days later Conju breezed triumphantly across the Household mess to lean over the back of Cliopher’s chair, interrupting his breakfast to say, “I thought you’d like to know that his Radiancy asked me for the Zangora XIV parure today, to complete his magnificence.”

Cliopher looked up in astonishment, but Conju was already gone, hurrying back across the room with a spring in his step.

That sounded…positive. He would have to get hold of the man later to decant the details. Including what on Zunidh a ‘parure’ was.

Chapter Text

Time continued to slip past without any whisper from his Radiancy on the subject of salt reserves or the Ouranatha.

Conju triumphantly reported that the Emperor was choosing elements of his own wardrobe every day, now, and beginning to discuss his preferences with his attendants. Cliopher could not see any difference in the clothes themselves - the Sun on Earth’s wardrobe was as well crafted as ever, each garment superb - but he began to see that his Radiancy’s demeanour was - shifting, changing, stirring.

Those long periods of deep abstraction, when the study was full of the soft stifling pressure of his Serenity, were becoming shorter and less frequent. The Emperor did not grow more expressive, exactly, but he appeared to be more present, more of the time, more often lost in thought than in confusion.

Cliopher did not relax, but he did begin to wonder whether he should find some way to mention the priest-wizards again. His notes were incomplete and he was beginning to think that they would have to stay that way until the matter was out in the open. As the Emperor's secretary and Princess Indrogan's colleague he had reason to access more information, but was uncomfortably conspicuous doing so. He managed one trip down to the Imperial Archives. The archivists, happily, showed no inclination to offer him special treatment due to his changed status, but he found that he was deeply aware of one or two other browsers in the stacks giving him sidelong glances. He did not quite dare access all the records he wanted.

That evening he reviewed all the leads and notes that he had and summarised the set of references to be consulted and added in order to flesh them out into a report that, while minimal, would carry enough substance to stand up to critical reading. The following morning, after delivering the daily reports, he brooded over his breakfast on over whether and how to raise the subject with his Radiancy. He could not enter a leading document with the other reports on this, so he would have to find some natural way to bring it up in conversation and -

Abruptly and distinctly every single mage light in the room surged to a dazzling brightness.

Conversations stopped instantly, interrupted by a barrage of gasps. Somebody swore. Cliopher held his breath, gripped the table, considered whether to go first to the guards or to the Minister in Chief - and before anyone had time to say or do anything, or draw any conclusions, the lights flared and dropped back to their usual warm ambient glow.

The talk started up again, loud and excited as if to push the frisson of fear aside by main force. Cliopher stayed where he was, placing his hands flat on the table until he was sure they were steady. There had been many peculiar efflorescences of magic since the Fall, he told himself. Something had happened - some kind of arcane disturbance - but it had passed, and all was well.

After a couple of minutes he concluded that his appetite was not coming back, and the bell had sounded the quarter before the third hour. He gathered his papers, cleared his tray, and approached the guards for admittance to the Imperial Study.

They must have been on edge, because they announced him fully at each set of doors, thumping their spears down with a little extra emphasis. The last set of doors swung open and Cliopher stepped in, smiling, ready for his usual greeting.

The Emperor was not there.

Neither were the inner guards.

Cliopher stood stupidly in the middle of the room, clutching his writing kit and papers, while the door swung shut behind him and his heart thudded in his chest.

It was a sunny day. The two desks stood facing one another in the centre of the room; the golden nightingale was as brilliant, the tapestry as wide and warm, the teal vase as breathtaking as ever. The exterior-facing walls of the study were radiant, the whole room as clean and fresh as always, smelling faintly of that sweet fragrance Cliopher could not name, and empty, empty, empty.

Feeling as though his legs were stuffed with sawdust, Cliopher stepped towards his desk, set down his equipment, and stood there uncertain what to do. He did not relish the thought of sitting down and having to jump to his feet when his Radiancy arrived.

He wondered if the guards in the anterooms knew that the Emperor was not here, in his study. Possibly not. Their duties had them standing in those hallways on rotation day and night; there would be no need for them to change positions depending on whether his Radiancy was present. The inner guards who accompanied the Emperor’s person were a different, elite cadre.

Cliopher twisted his hands together. He had been serving as secretary to the Lord of Rising Stars for - time slipped out of his mind like quicksilver, difficult to grasp, but it had to be months, maybe nearly a year - and never, not once, had his Radiancy missed their morning session. He had always been here, in this room, waiting for Cliopher as the chimes of the third bell faded into silence.

His mind whirred, presenting things that could have happened. His Radiancy taken ill. His Radiancy, distracted by something more important, or angry at Cliopher, not wanting him for some reason - but surely the guards would have turned him away, if that were the case?

(The lights were back to normal now. There was nothing to worry about. There was no other disturbance. This was not like the tearing agony when all the lights went out and Astandalas Fell.)

The Fae invasion scenario that he had laughed over with General Ravillon’s staff presented itself insistently to his mind, and then the question of what exactly it would look like if the Ouranatha made a move by magic, of whether he would even begin to be able to understand or track what they had done. His gorge rose.

He swallowed, and looked across at the ivory door to the inner chambers, wondering if he dared knock...

As if in answer to the thought it swung open, and there was the Sun on Earth, flanked by Sergei and Ludvic Omo of his inner guard.

A thick current of - was that just air, merely a change of pressure? It seemed full of a greasy potential energy - perhaps power - flowed before the Emperor, flooding through the study like a tsunami filling a harbour, and setting tiny sparks tingling along the copper filigree work down the sides of Cliopher’s desk.

His Radiancy strode in, resplendent, fully present in the moment, not glowing (as he reportedly had, before the Fall), but so magnificent that the glow was implied. There was a great cape of some delicate material in Imperial yellow spread round his shoulders, a regal hood chased through with fine gold wire so that it cupped his head like a divine blessing, but that was incidental. The Emperor’s presentation was always supremely magnificent: Cliopher had never, until this moment, seen his Presence outshine it with effortless grace.

The guards took up their positions on either side of the door. Cliopher sank down into his obeisance, feeling his limbs fold of their own accord. He was breathless and still a little afraid. This energy - this thrumming potency that set the air of the entire room shivering - was to the glimmer of magic in Major Haion’s gaze as an ocean to a scrap of a puddle on the beach.

For a heartbeat he was sickeningly unsure. Guard Omo said that the Emperor was a great mage, but Cliopher could not imagine any mortal wizard alight with this much power - not one magus alone. What would it look like if the whole college of priest-wizards trained their power as one, took control of their figurehead directly?

A dark hand gestured gracefully for Cliopher to rise. He did - terrified, awed - and looked up - and met his Emperor’s eyes. He could not do otherwise.

“Good morning,” his Radiancy said, and it was his Emperor’s voice. More his voice than ever before, not serene but alive with an exultant joy. And his eyes were not the soft tawny gold of a summer evening, nor the high distant gold of an unobtainable star, but the blazing intensity of the sun at its equatorial noon. Not embers but starfire - two viaus brought close to the ground, hovering there just out of Cliopher’s reach -

“Good morning, my lord,” said Cliopher, smiling back, blinking away the black specks left in his eyes by that temporary dazzle, and letting his body fall back on its accustomed motions: up, going to his desk, getting seated.

The light in the room was reacting strangely in his peripheral vision. His thoughts were incoherent. Was this the fire - this glorious, vibrant man - that had always been just out of reach when he spoke with his Radiancy?

As Cliopher opened his writing kit, the Emperor went to his desk. He did not seem inclined to start pacing. Cliopher hesitated, gazing up at the lion eyes. It seemed incredible that the Sun on Earth should put on his full glory just to pace his study and discuss - Cliopher glanced down at the top-most item - how to respond to the latest impudence of Prince Rufus of Amboloyo.

He looked up. Their eyes met again, and this time the Emperor inclined his head, briefly, as though acknowledging the absurdity. Emboldened, Cliopher ventured, “does your Radiancy propose another task this morning?”

His Radiancy looked arrested, as though the thought had not occurred to him, then nodded again and spoke firmly: “Yes. Prepare a report on the current activities and policies of the Ouranatha. We have magic to work in the grounds this morning.”

“Very good, my lord,” said Cliopher, blank with shock, too stunned to ask any of the dozens of questions that clamoured for his attention.

The Emperor struck the desk beside him lightly with his hand, turned to the exterior door, and strode towards it. Sergei hurriedly rapped his spear down, the outer guards swung the door open just in time, and Cliopher had half a second to exchange an exhilarated glance with Ludvic Omo before the guards spun smartly round to follow the Sun on Earth out.

Cliopher stopped only to seize a sheaf of papers before hurrying after them, writing kit and notes forgotten on his desk. The Emperor strode straight down the seven anterooms, past gaping guards and out into the Palace proper.

All eyes followed the Lord of Rising Stars; once he had passed and they had risen from their obeisances, so did everyone who could excuse themselves to go after him in person.

Cliopher slipped away unnoticed, walking as fast as he could without attracting undue attention. He reached the Minister in Chief’s Private Office in record time and - without looking left or right - marched straight up to the inner office and walked uninvited into Princess Indrogan’s study.

He was dimly aware of commotion behind him, and the three Ministers closeted with their ultimate boss gaped at him in shock, but these were details. The Princess herself tilted her head back, took one look at his face, and rose to her feet.

“Excuse me,” she said to the Ministers, “we will resume -”

“Tomorrow,” said Cliopher firmly.

“Tomorrow,” she repeated, staring them down until, flustered, all three got up and left.

“Well?” said Indrogan.

Cliopher bounced slightly on the soles of his feet, weighed what to say, and settled for, “come with me.”

He expected her to argue, or at least complain, but she pursed her lips, gave him a last, considering look, and then walked round the desk and with him out into the office.

The outer office was always full of people and hurried meetings, but now it was truly crowded: the Ministers who had been kicked out of Indrogan’s study were hovering with their aides, the people who had leapt to their feet when Cliopher stormed in were still standing up and chattering excitedly, and a series of newcomers were arriving to exclaim or question the extraordinary story that the Lord Emperor, in person, had been seen walking purposefully through the Palace, without a litter, accompanied by only two guards, “literally blazing with magic!”

Since the person who gasped out that last detail was known to have a minor talent, Cliopher took it as description rather than hyperbole. He wished, briefly and fiercely, that he had a mage’s senses and had been able to actually see his Radiancy’s magic as more than a disturbance in the air.

The voices stilled as Princess Indrogan emerged, Cliopher at her side. People turned and stared in a widening pool of attention. Cliopher had not planned to stop here. He was full of the urgency of what his Radiancy was doing - what the Sun on Earth had just asked him to do.

“Quiet.” Princess Indrogan never had to raise her voice to get instant obedience. The long room fell silent.

The Princess looked at Cliopher, and gestured for him to speak. He could read this had better be good in her every aspect.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, amazed at how calm his voice sounded. He let himself turn to look around the room, drawing this impromptu audience in with his gaze. “May I reassure you all that there is nothing amiss. The Emperor this morning is undertaking a work of magic: you might have noticed the flare of the Palace magelights in response. He has left the Imperial Apartments to continue working in the garden, and has given me certain additional instructions which I intend to discuss with the Minister in Chief in the first instance. We will be working in the vicinity of the Tower, in order to respond to any further orders from his Radiancy.”

This final flourish had never been part of their plan - it was a last minute addition of his own - but Princess Indrogan stepped in as smoothly as though she had anticipated this all along. “My secretaries, with us. The rest of you, please return to your work, which I expect you to perform with your customary skill and devotion unless Sayo Mdang or myself explicitly request your assistance. Thank you.”

A murmur of response went up again, but the staff of the Private Office were used to keeping their focus in the face of occasional disruption, and when she took on that tone the Minister in Chief was obeyed without question. There was a brief further delay as the knot of people around the centre of the office untangled itself. Princess Indrogan took the chance to tell Sayo Gilogani to clear her schedule, and to unceremoniously dump the task of handling the three Ministers - from Education, Cliopher realised, recognising one of them at last - on him too.

Then, blessedly, they made it out of the office, trailed by Indrogan’s secretariat. Cliopher managed to give Kiri a quick, reassuring smile. He led his bevvy of bureaucrats up the long flights of stairs, past the great black-and-gold doors, and bowed them into the office partially inhabited by the strange magical dust construct. One of the secretaries yelped. Princess Indrogan looked sceptically first at the dust cloud, and then at Cliopher, who hastened to explain its properties.

“I see,” she said. “Very well, Sayo Mdang. Now: what does his Radiancy want from us?”

Cliopher grinned. This part - when his blood was racing, the sheet was taut in his hands, the tiller set firm against his side, the wind whipping his hair pack from his face and his whole body leaning out so that the waves snapped past beneath him, just catching him with the sting of their spray - this was his favourite part.

“His Radiancy has asked me for a report on the policies and activities of our friends, the Ouranatha. To be prepared this morning, while he is in the garden, undertaking magic of his own.” He spread his shoulders, turned to take in the whole of this little group of people. “Several weeks ago, the Emperor told me that he was planning to order the priest-wizards to open up their stores of salt to help alleviate the famine along the coast. I had wondered if he had forgotten but now - I do not think he has confronted them yet, but I am confident that he intends to do so. And it is our job to make sure that he is equipped with all the information that he needs to take back control of his government.”

There was a ringing silence in the room. Princess Indrogan broke it.

“Several of you know that I - with Sayo Mdang’s assistance, and with yours - have been planning a rearrangement of the government to better serve his Radiancy’s needs,” she said. “More of you, I think, have noticed that the Ouranatha have sought to usurp the activities and resources of the Service, and to position themselves to act as the interpreters of the Emperor’s intent. I have long suspected - and Sayo Mdang’s news has confirmed, today - that the Sun on Earth was not in accord with his priests in this matter.”

“Are we - are you asking us to work against the Ouranatha?” said one of the secretaries, quavering a little.

“No,” said Cliopher. “We are asking you to equip your Emperor with the information he needs to determine how he can best deal with them.” He looked from one to another.

These were the people selected by Princess Indrogan personally to act as her intermediaries and support in a thousand tiny choices all day, every day. They were, all of them, intelligent and committed, and, in this moment, slightly aghast.

“We took an oath to the Emperor,” he said. “All of us. This is what that oath comes down to: our job is to share everything we know, with all the skill and insight we can muster. In response, he gives us the benefit of his wisdom - and sets our direction. We do not make the decisions. We do not make the decisions, but we always, always, give him the best of our advice. That is our tithe, and today it is more valuable than any fire-touched pearl.”

He faltered, surprised at the strength of the fire in his own voice, kindling in the eyes of his audience, and looked to Princess Indrogan.

“Please, continue,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied, hoping that meant she was happy. It was too late to change course if she was not; he put the possibility out of his mind and spread his papers across the desk. “We should distinguish, I believe, between actual policy and propaganda, between overt and covert activities, and between conjecture and fact. There are always rumours, and some of the rumours may be related to an underlying truth, so we cannot entirely discount them, but we must ensure that our report is entirely clear on which is which.”

Princess Indrogan stepped forward and skimmed his headings. Cliopher felt a brief, schoolboy fear that she would comment on the grubby and much-folded state of the sheets of paper.

Kiri stepped closer. “You’ve been carrying this around in your writing kit all this time?” she hissed. “You crazy bastard, I’ve been trying to keep you alive.”

“Which you have,” he replied, soothingly.

“Very well,” said Indrogan, giving them a quelling look, “we’ll take this between us. Sayo Mdang, take Saya Kalikiri through your reasoning, please, and see if she can find fault with it. I know she’s longing to do so. Saya Hazhin, with me, we’ll need to prepare the Office for eventualities. Sayo Ulio - organise the rest, please, and follow Sayo Mdang’s lead. How much time do we have to return the final version to the Glorious One?”

“His Radiancy is accustomed to shifting his attention from the mundane government to the magical one in the early afternoon,” said Cliopher, thinking aloud. “As he has chosen to work magic this morning, it is possible that today may run to a different schedule, and as he has requested this report I do not expect him to take action before he has read it. We should therefore aim to have it ready to go up for noon,” with luck they could get away with one or two hours after noon, he judged, but it seemed better to give a deadline that could slip if needed. He spoke louder, over their objections, “which I recognise is not enough time, but it is the time we have.”

They scattered. Princess Indrogan left at once, towing Saya Hazhin in her wake. Sayo Ulio convened Kiri and two more secretaries to look over the draft, and handed the remaining two Cliopher’s scrawled list of references to run and ferret out as many as they could. Cliopher led them out and introduced them to Saya Sawasaka, Sayu Qitu, Sayo Ange, and the rest of the messengers and pages who worked directly to the Tower.

On his way back to the office he was intercepted by a visibly ruffled Groom of the Chamber, who wanted to know where the Emperor had gone, why Cliopher was commandeering so many pages, what the Minister in Chief was doing in their spare office, and whether the world was, in fact, coming to an end, as so many of his junior attendants averred.

Cliopher tugged Conju aside, considered how to explain obliquely and then, recognising that secrecy was rapidly becoming moot, said simply, “his Radiancy is working magic in the gardens. He has asked for a report on the Ouranatha. Princess Indrogan is here to help.”

Conju, to his credit, digested this with wild eyes but without exclamation. “Well done,” he said.

“You too,” said Cliopher, swallowing the lump in his throat. They could compare notes properly once this was over - one way or another. He bowed, doing his best to return the formal gratitude that Conju performed so elegantly, and was moving away when Conju grabbed his shoulder.

“Did he have a hat?”

“What?”

“The Emperor - did he have a hat, when he went into the garden?”

“No - I don’t think so - his robes have a sort of hood…”

Conju looked up as if seeking support from the heavens. “He’s not supposed to be exposed to the light of the sun or the moon,” he said, despairingly, “that hood doesn’t count! His skin is utterly unprepared - his head will be peeling!”

Cliopher was struck by a horrifying new thought, “wait, wasn’t that to stop him being kidnapped, like Aurelius Magnus?”

Conju dismissed this with a wave of his hand, “I’m sure we’d have heard by now, if the sun snatched him,” he said, “and there’s nothing we could do about that. But I can prepare aftersun lotion - we don’t have any in stock - a cold compress of some kind, I think…”

He hurried away, leaving Cliopher wrestling with his own reaction. The Emperor almost certainly had not been stolen away by the sun, and he really had no time to nip out to the gardens to check.

(Between the Zuni and the Collian wings of the Palace, by the account that had come back via Saya Sawasaka, standing right in the middle of the dangerous twisted patch that had led the guards to seal off the paths, surrounded by an extraordinary display of drifting leaves and petals…)

And if the Lord of Rising Stars had been taken? Aurelius Magnus had vanished from mortal lands, followed and sought after by his friend and companion Elonoa’a of the Wide Sea Islanders.

Cliopher Mdang, Imperial Secretary, had work to do. Now was not the time to rush, not anywhere - but, said a small voice at the back of his mind, if the sun took his Emperor, he did know what to do.

Chapter Text

The secretaries, to their great credit, had a twelve-page report ready on Cliopher’s desk by the time the noon bell was chiming. He thanked them and considered it. Rapid work, and solid, but it needed tightening up. He was in truth unsure when the Emperor would want to read the report, but judged that he could with propriety take another hour, perhaps an hour and a half, to revise it.

Kiri had at least as many pages of her own notes, and she sat Cliopher down and clawed through them and the still-too-long draft with a ferocity he had not expected.

She did not disagree with any of the content on the Ouranatha’s policies, though she had a needle-sharp grasp of the difference between summarising and interpreting them for the Emperor. Her reservations about the propaganda were more passionate. She made him cut out several references to conversations that had been relayed by a single person, and home in on the core message: that the priest-wizards claimed to be the saviours of Zunidh after the Fall, and the only ones able to intercede between the Emperor and his people.

On the overt activities she accepted the general content but applied a scathing editors’ pen to her colleagues’ efforts. Cliopher took notes with thanks. There was a definite tendency for the secretaries to elaborate on the frustrations caused by the expansion and invention of rituals and ceremonies which he suspected critics of the Imperial Service might find ironic.

It was the description of the covert activities that seemed to cause Kiri the most distress. “How can you be sure?” she asked, looking at Cliopher’s neat reconstruction of the scheme whereby the priest-wizards adjusted the pages’ rounds to receive word of events a few minutes before the rest of the Palace, allowing them to present an illusion of foresight.

“All the evidence is there, Kiri,” he said, gently.

She shuddered a little. “The listening devices… the bribery, meddling in appointments… I can’t believe… and this story of compulsions. That can’t be true, Cliopher. The witness isn’t even named!”

“It’s true,” he told her. He had debated internally about including reference to his own experiences, unsupported by other witnesses, but it was evidence and the involvement of the military mages did help explain the sequence of events. He had compromised by indicating very clearly that it was drawn from a single anonymous eye-witness, and by keeping the particulars - including the names of those involved - out of the paper.

“It can’t be,” she said again, vehemently. “Cliopher - I -”

“It happened to me,” he said, cutting her off. “I’m the witness, Kiri.”

She stared at him. “Dear Emperor, you’re serious,” she breathed, every last trace of fight draining from her face. “Cliopher…”

He grimaced, “I reported it at the time, but the person I reported it to was also - affected. And then I got assigned to the Emperor, so…”

“My parents are priests in the Imperial cult,” she whispered, eyes dark and wide with horror. “I never thought - they never -”

Cliopher had to catch himself from an instinctive recoil. He had known that her family was observant - had he known that? - that they were traditional, at least. He forced himself not to react outwardly, to neither disregard, nor suppress his immediate reaction without letting it shape his response to Kiri - to his most trusted colleague.

He could be outraged by the Imperial cult for the impact it had on his Radiancy, and still acknowledge that there might be priests, and priest-wizards, who wholeheartedly believed they were serving the best interests of their Emperor.

“I’m sorry,” he said, helplessly.

“They don’t work at the Palace,” she said, “they’re not senior - the gift of magic is come-and-go, for us, it’s more about priesthood, about serving the Empire, it always has been, but… I didn’t want to think…”

Cliopher lifted his arms and, at her nod, folded Kiri into a hug. “Thank you for telling me,” he said.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she replied, mumbling into his shoulder.

The half hour bell rang. It was past noon. Kiri stepped back, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s fine,” she said, “it’s all fine. You make the case - and I think you’re right, they don’t control the magic, any more. It… fits.” She visibly braced herself, before continuing, “With what my parents have said, now and then.”

Cliopher took up the papers again. “I need to summarise this,” he said, “we can keep the full report as back up, but - we don’t need all these details.” He glanced around. The other pages and secretaries in the office were all doing an excellent job of looking busy in different directions. “Can you get this lot cracking on the steps to take for the restructure?” he asked, “we need to be ready to take all the proposals to his Radiancy as soon as the situation with the Ouranatha is settled. That means having all the reports - detailed reports - ready to go up tomorrow morning if needed. It’s the Minister in Chief’s plan, though, so get her steer - let me know if she has any issues.”

Kiri nodded, gripped his arms briefly, and left him to it. Cliopher shoved aside the twelve page version, with annotations, pulled over some fresh paper, and wrote. He knew the material thoroughly, by now, and had a sense of which elements were truly necessary to explain his conclusions. He allocated half a page for each section, and filled them neatly, precisely, concisely.

Princess Indrogan returned to the room as he set his three pages to dry. She came over and read them, the ink still wet. “Extraordinary,” she murmured, and then, “don’t let that go to your head, Sayo Mdang, you had help.”

Cliopher copied the report twice over and took the cleanest copy to the messenger station, where Sayu Qitu was able to confirm that the Emperor had returned to the Tower before the first bell of the afternoon and was eating a late lunch. After some deliberation, Cliopher asked to accompany an Imperial page into the empty Imperial study, keeping tight hold of his report until he could relinquish it, himself, onto the Emperor’s desk.

Then he retreated. The Sun on Earth would read the report; nobody would dare meddle with materials left on that desk.

He stepped into the Household mess, hoping to pick up some food to take with him, and was immediately accosted by several people he hardly knew who wanted to know what was going on. Cliopher spent a frazzled few moments explaining multiple times that his Radiancy had been in the gardens between the Zuni and Collian wings, that he did not appear to be unwell but had chosen to leave the building to carry out a work of magic, that the Service had been given a separate project to prepare for his return, hence their presence near the Tower, and that the Emperor was now back in the building and eating lunch as normal.

He was rescued by Sayo Ange, who pushed a cup of coffee into his hand and said loudly, “we need you in the office, sir.”

The pages and secretaries had made themselves thoroughly at home in the empty office, Cliopher saw as he came back in. Somebody had thoughtfully set up a row of chairs and dispatch boxes around the strange swirly dust entity, which still took up the majority of the floor. The room was large enough to hold perhaps thirty people, if the desks were set out in rows the way the Service preferred, but the band of clear space around the edges of the magical disturbance was a little crowded with the fifteen or sixteen who were crammed into it.

Sayu Qitu, Sayo Ange and Kiri had adopted the desk that he had been working at. He sank down beside them, clasping the mug of coffee in both hands, and shut his eyes to steady himself.

“Don’t talk to him yet, he’s thinking,” said Kiri at once, “has anyone got any of that flatbread left?”

Cliopher could have hugged her, again, but she had bustled off. Qitu and Ange bent back over their papers, and despite the hum of the crowded room he felt his thoughts shift and open up again.

The Emperor had not, after all, been seized on first sight by his ancestor the Sun, so Cliopher could tuck that concern back down into the deeps of his heart and hopefully never think about it again.

The report on the Ouranatha was on the Emperor’s desk. There was some tidying up to do in the backing evidence against the priest-wizards. A longer form report would need to be ready within the week, to be filed with the Archive if all went well. Easier to start that today than to revisit it after the heat of the moment.

Beyond that - getting ready for the restructure was, would have to be, Princess Indrogan’s task. She was Minister in Chief; she would not thank Cliopher for any interference, and he was unwilling to let her delegate tasks to him. He was no longer hers to command.

His Radiancy was going to read that report and on that basis confront the Ouranatha. How and when were unknown. One man, even one great mage, would have surely quailed before the assembled might and magic of the Empire of Astandalas at its height. Even Fitzroy Angursell, who had been able to work wild magic within the bounds of the Empire, had never outright challenged the Imperial Wizards en masse.

The Empire had fallen, and the Ouranatha that remained was a hideous shadow of its former strength: petty, obsessed, and vicious in the way that any bully becomes vicious when made aware of their own mortality. They were reduced to bartering with others for magical trinkets, to blackmailing and bribing their way to political dominance in lieu of arcane power.

He thought of the way his Radiancy had come into the room that morning, the air around him shivering with unknown power, and fervently blessed Conju’s care for his lord, aftersun lotion and all.

If all went well, the Emperor would have new orders regarding the Ouranatha - tomorrow morning, presumably, as there would be no reason to interrupt their usual routine further. Once assured that the priest-wizards had been brought to heel, the Minister in Chief would make her move to regain control of the Service.

Much would depend on how confident Princess Indrogan was in her position. She would prefer to be slow and inexorable and bring up the malefactors on criminal charges, which meant taking longer to collect and recheck the evidence once the initial accusations were in the public domain, but if she had to move quickly to take advantage of a relatively brief opening, she would.

If the confrontation went badly the outcomes ranged from a seething stalemate to a rapid series of arrests and executions. Cliopher had no illusions about his own likely fate, if the priest-wizards could dominate the Emperor and had even an intimation of the contents of his report.

He could not even rest in the happy ignorance of a patriotic subject of the Emperor who believed that justice and mercy were delivered together. He had, after all, worked in that horrible office next to the rooms used by the torturers of Astandalas, in the time before the Fall, and the cries of their victims still visited him sometimes in his nightmares. He could only hope that he would be able to hold his silence long enough to protect his colleagues, to leave the Emperor with some true members in his guard and his household against the next attempt.

The flatbread that Kiri had thrust into his hands was fresh and garlicky and delicious, but sitting and eating was giving him too much time to fret. Cliopher wiped the grease from his fingers and focused on the papers in front of him.

The bells rang the hours. The sun slid down the sky. Cliopher remembered belatedly that this room was one of those that did not light up effectively in the evenings, and asked Sayu Qitu to find them candles.

As the working day drew to a close the Minister in Chief returned once more. Cliopher stepped aside with her.

“No word yet?”

“None,” he said.

She harrumphed and stared round the office. “Look at them all,” she said, “I’ll pack half of them off to bed now, so that we can run a couple of shifts overnight. Not that I expect anything before tomorrow morning, now.”

“Yes, my lady,” he agreed.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I’ll need you coherent tomorrow too, Sayo Mdang.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said again. She gave him a brief glare, but familiarity had taken the sting out of her disapproval, and he was able to muster a smile and a bow. She returned a steely frown and left him to it.

The room emptied out a bit as Princess Indrogan’s secretaries proved more amenable to being scared away. Cliopher managed to persuade Ange and Qitu to switch in with their successors at the messenger desk at the sunset bell, and was just pondering what argument might get Kiri to take a rest - it wasn’t as if they needed to be here working, now, everything was ready - when Ludvic Omo came looking for him, seeming immensely satisfied and not a little sunburned.

“All’s well,” he said.

“What’s happening?” asked Cliopher. “This is Saya Kalikiri, she works with me; Kiri, Guard Omo.”

The guard nodded absently at Kiri, looked from her to Cliopher, and then said. “His Radiancy spent the morning working magic. He has been resting this afternoon.”

“Did he read the report?”

“From his desk? Yes, after lunch.”

“And?”

Omo shrugged. “He’s bathing. Our shift changed. I came to find you.”

Cliopher remembered how the Sun on Earth fell silent when told about the problems at the Treasury, and how he had evidently considered the proposal to speak with her for the rest of that morning before responding. The Emperor did not react in haste.

“He’s thinking it over, then,” he said.

“Yes,” said the guard. “Ser Ergaz and Tisua are on duty. They know to find you, and the Cavalier, at need.”

He left, with a polite farewell nod to Kiri, almost before Cliopher had finished thanking him.

“Who was that?” Kiri asked, the moment he was safely out of earshot. She fanned herself and fluttered her eyelids, “those shoulders! I need a moment.”

“Take your time,” said Cliopher, amused. Kiri winked at him.

“I’ll see if the kitchen will send over some dinner,” she said, looking round the room.

Conju came in before she returned, looked askance at the secretaries and paperwork sprawled across the room, sniffed and said, “I did not expect the Service to take the hint so… exuberantly.”

Cliopher hid a smile. “Not all of us can work as stylishly as you, Conju,” he said. “What’s the word?”

“His Radiancy is in his study,” said Conju, lowering his voice, “his head is sunburned, and must be uncomfortable, but I was able to retrieve the Tower’s instructions for preparing aftersun for the Imperial family and with some help from the healers to correct its deficiencies in the matter of fragrance before his Radiancy finished with his papers. I am afraid that we may see some peeling tomorrow, however, but that is in the hands of the gods. I have done what I can.”

“No-one can ask more than that,” said Cliopher, diverted.

“And yourself?”

Cliopher sighed. “I provided his Radiancy with the summary of the activities of the Ouranatha that he requested. There are a number of changes that the Minister in Chief would like to make across the Service, if their influence is countered. I am - we are - as ready as we can be, until word comes from the Tower.”

“I suppose you are planning to camp here all night,” said Conju, his distaste clear.

“Not from choice,” Cliopher replied. “The secretaries will be on call from the Minister in Chief’s office, if you need the wider Service, and you know that the pages maintain the messenger station at every bell. But I’m… I may find it hard to leave, knowing…”

“There are bunks for attendants behind the mess room,” said Conju, “I will send someone to fetch your robes for tomorrow.”

Cliopher felt tears start in his eyes. He blinked them back, knowing that emotional release would embarrass Conju dreadfully. “Thank you,” he said.

Kiri came back as Conju left. Cliopher watched with interest as they bowed to one another, reading wariness, respect, a slight mutual interest, and a level of profound deference from Kiri. He felt like he was observing the dance of an unfamiliar people, laden with significance that was still mostly obscure despite all his years in the Palace. It was all the more impressive that Kiri managed the bow without spilling so much as a drop of coffee from either of the mugs she was carrying in each hand.

After the coffee was drunk, and they had done justice to the platter of cold meats, olives, and dried savouries sent over by the kitchen, Cliopher finally managed to invoke the Minister in Chief and send all of her staff - including Kiri - back to the Private Office. He trusted that Indrogan would be able to get at least some of them to go to bed.

Left alone in the office, he was tidying the stacks of paper when Conju returned and sank wearily into a padded office chair in a flurry of silk robes.

“Is the Emperor at court?” Cliopher asked. The Emperor customarily ate a court dinner at the second hour of the evening, and when he took to his Throne to watch his courtiers he seldom left before the fourth hour.

“His Radiancy chose not to attend evening court today,” said Conju. “He is in his study, with your report.”

Cliopher sat down, heavily, feeling the breath huff out of him. The glorious run of activity that morning seemed a distant memory; his vaha was shifting uneasily now, sails limp, wind and waves and current all uncertain.

He could be patient. He could wait through the darkness, alert, for the weather to change.

“After saying that he would not attend court, Himself asked me to dress him in half court costume,” Conju went on. “That’s where I’ve been. Half court is - appropriate to a meeting with the vassal princes. Or - another pillar of the state.”

“Such as the senior priest-wizards,” said Cliopher. “I see.”

“Well I don’t,” Conju snapped back. “Why couldn’t he do this in daylight? He’s asked to have the Swan Room opened - you know the one - we’ve had to put in candles, the mage lights are out all along this side of the Tower…”

Cliopher huffed a laugh. “Fitting,” he said.

Conju raised a perfectly shaped brow. “You would think so,” he said. “You’re as bad as he is. I’m starting to suspect he’s waiting for midnight on purpose. Do you know, he asked for the colours? Black and gold, dressed with black opals glinting in the orange and blue of Zunidh. Very subtle, my Lord Magus.”

Cliopher laughed again, and felt better. “Thank you,” he said.

“I’m sure I don’t know what for,” sniffed Conju, but he smiled. “I’ve told the staff to find me here when his Radiancy leaves the study.”

They sat together with their thoughts as the night spooled past and the miniscule specks of light danced.

Cliopher rose, at length, and took a turn in the hall. The guards were as grand and motionless as always; the messenger station had no news; the mess room was largely empty. He collected a tray of jasmine tea and brought it back to share with Conju, the fragrant steam rising between them.

Shortly after the midnight bell a junior attendant peered round the door. “Cavalier an Vilius, sir?” he said, “the Emperor has sent a runner to fetch the Ouranatha to the Swan Room.”

Both Conju and Cliopher came to their feet.

“This…won’t be long?” said Conju, to Cliopher.

“No,” said Cliopher, “one way or another…”

Conju stepped over and, to Cliopher’s surprise, gripped his arms, fiercely, in the Astandalan greeting. “If you can - go to bed,” he said. “I will.”

Then he was gone, and Cliopher was alone. The bells fell silent - they did not sound in the hours between midnight and dawn - and there was nothing more to do. Cliopher sat back down into his chair, and waited.

And then - without warning - between one breath and another - a wind rose that was blowing through the stone walls of the Palace. Cliopher’s skin tingled with it, his ears popped with the pressure change. Paper fluttered wildly off every desk, swept towards the outer wall.

He stood up, leaning his full weight back against the wind, supported even as every candle flame in the room flared and streamed and blew out in long strips of light.

He hoped that the wax had not fouled too many of the papers.

All the mage lights lit at once, flooding the room with brilliance, brighter than a spring morning, golden as his Radiancy’s gaze. The tangle of magic that filled half the space lifted and flowed outwards, dust and sparks and strange distortion smoothed and spread and…dissipated, into the invariant glow.

The strength of the wind was already falling, the light sinking softly in variations on tawny yellow. Cliopher breathed deeply, tasting the sweet incense he associated with his Radiancy’s study.

The wind reversed, far more gently, drifting back through the room, stirring his hair, fluttering the papers that had scattered in drifts across the desks and floor. There was an indefinable sense of ease, as though the whole Palace had exhaled in relief.

The air stilled. The mage lights flickered and came on, steady and low as they always were in empty rooms at night. They brightened as Cliopher moved forward, as they always used to do in Astandalas the Golden, before the Fall disrupted the magic.

Dazed, Cliopher walked to where the dust had curled and recurved in on itself. No sign of the distortion in space remained, but scattered across the floor he found a layer of greyish grit with a few flecks reflecting the light like mica.

He had a feeling that something had gone… well.

Chapter Text

Conju, occupied helping the Emperor out of his half court costume in the small hours of the morning, sent one of his assistants to show Cliopher to the spare bed that had been made ready for him. There was plenty of space. The attendant assured him that nobody had been evicted on his behalf; the bunk rooms set aside for attendants were, like so much of the Palace, far larger than the current staffing levels required.

Cliopher, thoroughly wrung out, barely managed to express the gratitude courtesy required before he collapsed. He fell rather than sank into a deep and dreamless sleep, a total release of tension.

The following morning the assistant returned with coffee and with Cliopher’s writing kit, which must have been retrieved from his desk in the Imperial Study some time the day before. He indicated Cliopher’s clean set of work robes, hanging on the next bunk, and made a noise that was both enquiring and encouraging.

Cliopher, stupid with sleep, took a minute or two to register this offer of assistance. “No, thank you,” he said, pulling the cover up defensively.

“As you wish,” said the attendant, cheerfully, “I’m Roderic, my lord, do ask for me if you need any help.”

“I’m not a lord,” Cliopher replied, but was too grateful for the coffee to say it with any bite.

“Not yet,” said Roderic, waggling his eyebrows.

Cliopher had to laugh. “Not ever,” he said, firmly.

Roderic, thankfully, smiled and left him to dress in peace.

When he came to view the morning reports, Cliopher rather regretted his distraction the previous day. Every department in the Service had, it appeared, found some way to connect their latest interest to the excitement in the Palace. At least his template kept them in something resembling order. He filtered out the dozen or so anxious enquiries after his Radiancy’s wellbeing, all of which could be answered by the Minister in Chief with more propriety. After some frustrated shuffling he decided that he could not really remove all of the proposed magical projects that each department had rustled up in fits of enthusiasm.

He would have to add a new header to the template, and speak with the priest-wizards about their remit… it would set a bad precedent if he did not insist the departments consult their in-house magical experts in this area before sending up proposals, when he was so adamant on that principle for other matters. He hoped that - was almost certain that - the Ouranatha would fall in line, following that extraordinary flood of what had to be the Emperor’s magic last night. Nobody was talking about it this morning, but there was a certain indisputable cheerfulness in the air.

Sayo Ulio and Kiri arrived at his desk around the time he finished sorting the reports. He took them through to the other office, where they had been working together.

“That’s… different,” said Kiri, looking at the mess.

“The wind changed last night,” he told her.

“I felt it,” said Ulio, making a reverent gesture that Cliopher didn’t recognise.

“There’s no need to work up here today,” he said, “er… I’m sure the pages will lend a hand to get this sorted out. Please leave the notes on the Ouranatha for me, but everything else can go back down to Princess Indrogan’s private office.”

“And you’re going to get breakfast while we clear it, aren’t you, sir?” asked Kiri, meaningfully. He laughed and lifted his hands in surrender.

There was a happy mood in the mess room, where the kitchen staff were handing out double portions and the guards were talking and laughing loudly. Roderic found him again and reassured him that Conju was fine, merely taking a long nap after the exertions of the night before. He seemed a little disappointed that Cliopher had no other requests to make, but gave him a friendly bow and left him in peace to reflect over his second coffee of the morning.

Hiscaron was on anteroom duty this week, with a partner Cliopher didn’t recognise. He exchanged friendly nods with them as the door opened, and greetings with the Imperial pages in the first room. Apart from this gentle welcome, nothing else had changed since his first morning as secretary to the Emperor, unless perhaps the eternally burning branch was flaring a little brighter. He gave the uncanny unfueled fire his usual frown, and comforted himself with the thought that his Radiancy had an entire household to draw on, headed by Conju who was funny and focused and stalwart. Not to mention the sturdy Ludvic Omo and the rest of the Palace Guard, and the indomitable Princess Indrogan and the Imperial Service behind her. And, last and least, himself, Cliopher Mdang, Imperial Secretary, who would not leave - not when he had found an Emperor worth staying for.

The Sun on Earth was waiting in his study, resplendent in iridescent ivory silks glimmering with just the slightest breath of teal, tasselled and weighted with shining black jet droplets so that they shifted and shimmered as he moved. Cliopher slid through his obeisances, met his Radiancy’s eyes and bid him good morning. The lion eyes were bright, almost sparkling, not with laughter but with a related emotion, one that Cliopher could not, quite, name.

“We met with the Ouranatha, last night,” his Radiancy said, without preamble “to discuss a great work which we will be undertaking: the restoration of the magic of Zunidh.” Here the Emperor paused, as though expecting him to comment.

Magic was entirely a mystery to Cliopher, but it could not be denied that the disturbances following the fall were a great grief to the people of Zunidh. As it seemed tasteless to make that observation to his Radiancy. He contented himself with bowing and saying “indeed, my lord.”

“In the course of the conversation, the leaders of the priest-wizards assured Us that they are both grateful and overjoyed to hear that Our work should eventually restore their own power to full… effect. They have promised to assist Us in the work,” his Radiancy continued. He smiled, slow and sharp. “Our first instruction is that they release their stockpiled salt, to be used in curing food to ease the famine that Our people suffer.”

“Very good, my lord,” said Cliopher, making sure his notes caught the exact phrase. That wording could be useful, later, if the Ouranatha attempted to prevaricate. Not that he expected they would: this was a rout, a total victory, leaving his Radiancy in command of the field - and, it seemed - with his eyes on the horizon.

He looked up again and exchanged smiles with - the Lord of Rising Stars - the Lion-Eyed - the Lord Magus of Zunidh - his Emperor, who was worthy.

“Your Minister in Chief has been working on some proposals regarding the structure of the Imperial Service,” he said, mildly. “If my lord would be so gracious as to share his requirements for this great work of magic, I am sure she will take them into account.”

The Emperor gave a slight nod of acknowledgement as he began to pace. “We will take thought on it,” he said. “Now, as to the magical initiatives proposed by multifarious departments of Our government -”

Cliopher grinned at his notes as his Radiancy stepped past him, enjoying the bite of the sarcasm sheathed in those smoothly resonant tones.

The rest of the morning flew past. Having dispatched with the arcane adventurism of the Imperial Service, they picked up the more weighty decisions referred from across the government. The Emperor dealt with these, too, with energy and certitude. When they turned to the wider world of Zunidh, he returned to the subject of magic.

“The energies are - snarled, turned against one another,” he said. “There is a great deal to be done. They are…”

“Cracked like a broken mirror and tangled like the cat got into grandmother’s basket of knitting?” Cliopher quoted, and then, at his Radiancy’s enquiring silence, “or so I have heard. I have no magical gift myself, my lord.”

“Exactly that,” agreed the Emperor. “We may need to expand the hours in Our calendar allotted to working magic. Beyond that… We will let Our attendants know what We need.”

Cliopher lifted his brush to take notes, listening eagerly to his Radiancy’s account of the magical disaster overlaid with and interlaced through the mundane catastrophes that he already knew about. The Sun on Earth was more animated, discussing magic, than Cliopher had ever seen him. A great mage, Guard Omo had called him, a term that implied both skill and potency. If the confrontation with the Ouranatha last night had laid bare his naked power, the close technical discussion this morning revealed his skill, even to a layman.

Cliopher left the Tower with his head spinning and, as he had promised, went directly to the Minister in Chief.

Princess Indrogan had her entire troupe of secretaries round the desk in her study. She waved Cliopher to join them. “Well?” she said, as soon as the door closed behind him.

“His Radiancy proposes to undertake a great work of magic - probably a series of great works - to restore the arcane fabric of the world,” said Cliopher. “Last night the Ouranatha pledged him their unstinting support. This morning his first order - which we he bade me convey to them - is to release their stockpile of sanctified salt so that it can be used to preserve fish, in order to ease the famine along the coast.”

“Well,” repeated Indrogan, the word heavy with satisfaction. Then, making a note, “I shall convey that to them - yes, Sayo Mdang?”

Cliopher had cleared his throat. “It is an order from the Tower, my lady,” he said, “I will take the matter up with the priest-wizards.”

She looked at him, that totally expressionless gaze that so often caused senior bureaucrats to fall over themselves to assuage her displeasure.

Cliopher held firm. He might not want to speak with the priest-wizards himself, but he was not willing to move the Ouranatha out of their dominant position in government merely to replace their stranglehold with one mediated through Indrogan and the Imperial Service. The Emperor needed every pillar that supported his throne to report to him separately, to be truly responsive to his directions.

“Very well,” the Princess said, at last. “Do let me know how you get on, Sayo Mdang.”

“Thank you,” he said, “I will. And please keep me informed, my lady, on the progress of your restructure.”

Her slight smile acknowledged his careful delineation of their roles. “I will, my lord,” she said.

“I’m not a lord!” he growled, and she laughed outright, startling nervous echoes from the secretaries.

“Never change, Sayo Mdang,” Indrogan said, then sobered. “We’ll go with our first plan for the service, I think.”

That was the long, slow process delivered in the open, with full accountability up to and including criminal charges against the most egregiously negligent or corrupt. Cliopher gave a little half-bow of acknowledgement; it was the plan he had also always preferred, for a robust house-cleaning and a chance to put the Service on a solid footing, and perhaps just slightly for the prospect of seeing Meriloe arrested and stripped of his title.

“Of course,” the Princess added, as if as an afterthought, “the full plan requires an independent auditor to review each department of the Service,” she spread her hands - the solid gold lacquer of the nails shining against the rich oiled wood of the desk - and asked, “you wouldn’t happen to know where we could find one… Sayo Mdang?”

“You could always ask Lady Baravan,” said Cliopher, mischievously.

The Minister in Chief looked him up and down, and gave a long-suffering, if very ladylike, snort. “My dear Sayo Mdang,” she said, “I have no quarrel with your aims, nor with most of your methods, but if you are determined to set yourself up as the power behind the throne then for the Emperor's sake you are going to need some sodding staff. Even you must admit that you cannot audit every bloody department in the Service entirely by yourself, while also serving the Sun on Earth as the first competent secretary he has had since Astandalas Fell.”

“I -” began Cliopher, but she cut him off.

“You can have Saya Kalikiri, she’s never quite forgiven me for sacking you,” she said. “And for fuck’s sake let her plan the rest. You can recruit them, if you like, but she’ll do much better at getting the structure right than you ever would, she doesn’t have a fucking saviour complex.”

“I - thank you,” said Cliopher, “but -”

“But nothing,” said the Princess, sounding so much like his mother that Cliopher had to stifle a laugh. “Go on, the pair of you, get out of my office and set up your own.” Her face softened as they stood up, just a touch, and she added, “good luck.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Kiri and, taking Cliopher’s arm, she tugged him out of the room.

As soon as they reached the relative privacy of the corridor Cliopher turned to Kiri and opened his mouth. She prodded him sharply in the stomach, so that instead of speaking he gave an oof of surprise.

“Don’t you dare apologise,” she said. “Cliopher Mdang, this is exactly what I want, and herself knows it.”

“Er… thank you?” he said.

“Better,” she allowed. “Come on, then.”

Cliopher had recovered his poise before they reached the offices near the Tower, and managed to introduce Kiri formally to the messengers, the guards and the kitchen staff as his new secretary.

“We’ll have to work out your actual title,” he told her, “not to mention which of these offices we’re going to be working in.”

“Several, I think,” she said. At his pained look, she added, “you are going to have a sufficient private office of your own, Sayo Mdang, or so help me, I will march straight back down and rejoin Princess Indrogan’s!”

“I surrender!” he said, with a laugh, “but if you’re going to work for me, Saya Kalikiri, we are going to do this properly. Permission from his Radiancy to appoint. A business case - fully costed. No poaching… not unless they really want to be poached.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I will find us a team to help plan that, then,” she said. “You’d better speak to the Emperor tomorrow.”

He left her with Sayu Qitu and Sayo Ange, both of whom he had already effectively poached from their current teams, he thought, suppressing a very minor twinge of guilt. The three of them were moving furniture back into the empty space that had been occupied by the magical disturbance, and taking measurements.

Cliopher folded up his papers, left his writing kit on the desk, gathered his courage, and slipped away to see the Ouranatha.

The priest wizards had chambers throughout the Palace, many of them carefully shaped and aligned to support various ritual requirements. Their central offices were, however, along the Ystharian wing, of a similar height and propinquity to the Tower as the Minister in Chief’s.

For this first visit Cliopher most emphatically did not want company. He felt safe enough - surely, as the emissary of that shining lord of magic, he was under protection - but he was also aware that he was going to present an unwelcome demand to a group of ambitious theocrats who had just seen years of effort overturned in a single night. If they were feeling vindictive, best not to give them a choice of targets. If not - well, still best to present himself by himself, in his fifth degree robes, a humble and unassuming messenger to speak for the Sun on Earth. It would make things - easier.

The artwork in the hall leading to the Ouranatha’s offices was full of silver and grey, with strange shapes and colours half-emerging, half-receding in patterns that made him slightly queasy. There were a lot of mirrors, so that he kept catching sight of infinite reflections of himself, curving out of sight in all directions. The main door to the wizards’ domain was impressive enough to describe as a portal, swathed about with more silvery fabric, and propped open with, he couldn’t help but notice, a twist of grey carpet wedged under one corner.

Cliopher gave his name to a bored-looking acolyte at the desk, sat drumming his heels for a length of time no doubt precisely judged to annoy a great lord of the court, and was shown in along shadowy corridors to a surprisingly pleasant and normal-looking meeting room, if you discounted the disconcerting artwork.

Three senior members of the Ouranatha were sitting around one end of a large oval table. They ostentatiously ignored his entrance, but he noted that they had found time to don their silvery masks of office before he came in. Unless they routinely wore them to sit down to do paperwork together in their own meeting rooms, which seemed unlikely.

“Excuse me,” he said, politely.

Three silver masks swivelled as their wearers turned to face him, an effect which he had to admit was disconcerting. I have looked in the lion eyes, he reminded himself, and gave them his best talking-to-Ministers bow.

“My name is Cliopher sayo Mdang, personal secretary to the Sun on Earth,” he said, “I am here on behalf of my lord, to convey his order.”

They stood, in eerie unison. Cliopher held his professional smile.

“What does the Glorious One require?” asked the one in the centre. The mask created a kind of echoing quality to their words, lending them a resonance nearly as impressive as his Radiancy’s.

“The Emperor commands that the salt stockpiled here in Solaara be released for use in preserving fish and other foodstuffs, in order to ease the famine exacerbated by the unnatural weather,” he said, with another bow. “I am instructed to seek confirmation, ideally in writing, that I can share with the Imperial Service so that they may make the practical arrangements.”

There was a long silence. Cliopher wondered if the three of them were really communing mind-to-mind through those masks, as rumour had it, and whether, if so, it would be possible to do so over a distance. He had time to begin mentally listing the coordination and logistics problems that could be ameliorated with such a device, and to wonder wistfully whether it would be accessible even to someone who had no magic, before the same priest-wizard spoke again.

“As the Emperor requests,” they said. “Your confirmation is waiting at the door. Praise to the Sun on Earth for his benevolence to all his people, great and small.”

They bowed. Cliopher bowed, and managed to turn his back on their blank silvery gazes and walk out of the room without showing visible any sign of his discomfort.

The written order was indeed waiting for him at the door. He wondered whether it had been prepared in advance, or whether some of that long silence had been to allow a listening acolyte to scurry off and scribe it for him. Either way, it was properly headed and sealed, and he took it back up to Princess Indrogan.

With some relief he realised that the immediate and inelegant tussle between Lady Angusta and Lord Oriaz over whether the coordination of the matter sat more with Health or with Agriculture would be Indrogan's problem to resolve. Cliopher shared his strong belief that a joint commission was a bad idea and left her to the joy of it, though the circumstance did prompt him to take Kiri aside and suggest some names for when she got around to recruiting a team of analysts.

Within the week, Cliopher was able to assure the Emperor that the salt had not only been released but was bound for the places where it could do most good. His Radiancy did not comment, but Cliopher saw the faint hint of smug satisfaction in his eyes. The Emperor seemed to have few views himself on the value of audits, but he was receptive and readily gave Cliopher permission to scope out the work.

The Minister in Chief had already shared - and put in motion - her dissolution of the Administrative Office and the radical reduction in the number of positions in the Upper Secretariat. Cliopher had rather enjoyed his Radiancy’s epithets for the salaried sinecures, when he shared the details. He had been less impressed when Lord Meriloe, informed by one of his many favourites, slipped out of Solaara a week before the arrests were planned. In the current disorder, it seemed unlikely that he would be apprehended.

General Ravillon had also left, an unexpected early retirement purportedly for the good of his health. The long form report from Commander Daich of the Palace Guard discussed in detail the effect of multiple longstanding curses and enchantments, and the need to dissolve the magical branch of the military as the ex-Astandalan forces were combined into the Guard. To Cliopher’s relief, nobody came chasing him for more information. He relaxed further when Ser Rhodin mentioned in passing that Ravillon’s chief mage, Major Haion, had been among those arrested and executed for treason.

The service in general was quaking in its decorative sandals at the developments. One or two of the aristocratic families who had benefited from Upper Secretariat salaries had expressed loud displeasure, and more had quietly left Solaara. That did not bode well for relations with the aristocracy, but on the whole Cliopher felt it was worth it for a government that was emerging far stronger and more united.

And, he observed with some gratification, those who had stayed in post - even those manifestly inadequate, such as Lady Baravan - were just beginning to relax. He was very much looking forward to announcing the formation of the Imperial Auditors.

—

“Good morning, Sayo Mdang,” said his Radiancy, a slight - very slight - crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

“Good morning, my lord,” Cliopher replied, returning his own more open smile, and rising obedient to the elegant curve of those long fingers.

“And what might be Our first order of business today, Sayo Mdang?” the Glorious One asked, a trickle of amusement running lightly through his words.

“Well, my lord” Cliopher began, “I am hoping for your permission to recruit some colleagues and create a private office to implement your will.”

The Emperor started to pace, dark gauze flickering around his legs. “Indeed,” he said, his face out of sight.

“The details are in my submission, my lord,” said Cliopher, with a slight feeling of unease. He was not, in truth, quite as confident as Princess Indrogan or Kiri that giving his secretary these powers would seem a sensible next step to the Lord of Zunidh. It had taken two months of planning and scoping before he and Kiri had a substantive plan ready to go before his Radiancy, and he hoped they had judged the presentation right.

The Emperor swept back past him in a rustle of fabrics. Cliopher eyed the sure line of his back. His Radiancy was still, much of the time, serene, but these days it was generally a thoughtful, focused serenity. He wondered what his Radiancy was so thoughtful about today, and hoped it was not his own temerity.

“Do We understand correctly, Sayo Mdang, that at present you have no staff at all?”

“Yes, my lord,” he said, then for accuracy’s sake added, “the Minister in Chief was kind enough to loan me an assistant two months ago, and she has secured some temporary assistance.”

The Emperor was heading up the other side of the room, his face out of Cliopher’s view, and the only possible sign of a response to this was a very slight tremor in his shoulders. Cliopher watched, a touch anxious, as his Radiancy made the turn near the window, then again at the golden nightingale, and back.

The Imperial visage was still remote, thoughtful, but there was a spark of something in the lion eyes - enough encouragement that Cliopher continued. “With your permission, I would like to confirm my deputy’s position permanently, and expand into an Office with sufficient resource and expertise to carry out audits across the Service on your behalf.”

Only a very close - and very treasonous - observer would have seen the quirk of his Radiancy’s lips as their eyes met. It was the nearest thing Cliopher had ever coaxed out of the Glorious to a conspiratorial grin. Cliopher returned it, his heart soaring like a seagull in the dawn.

“Why, certainly you may have staff, Sayo Mdang,” said his Radiancy, his voice warming, the trickle of amusement - and something more - surging up to a flood. Cliopher blushed, abashed by the sudden warmth in the Sun on Earth's smile, but he did not drop his gaze. The Emperor held it, looking at his secretary as if - as a man, as a person sharing a joke, and said, “We eagerly anticipate the wonders you will achieve.”