 
Rien's Rebellion

Book I: Kingdom

By C. Z. Edwards

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Text by C. Z. Edwards copyright ©️ C. Z. Edwards 2010-2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

C.Z. Edwards

czedwards.com

First ebook edition 2018

ISBN 978-1-7327108-0-1

Cover illustration Original 2009 Les Haines, Creative Commons Share Attribute Remix license

Dedication:

For CH, who knows why.

Back of book:

Once upon a time, a nation's fate depended on an informant.

Once upon a time, a woman knew the law and a man knew war.

Once upon a time, they all lived under a good Monarch's leadership.

Until he was assassinated.

Galantier's politics can be vicious, corrupt, and unfair, but not deadly. They've got a war they can't win and dare not lose on their border. Everything depends on a practical, cooperative government, including a smooth succession.

Vohan made that easy. For twenty-five years, he's been a steady, reasonable monarch and leader. He raised his daughter, Cazerien, to serve Galanteran justice. His nephew, Laarens, leads in the Galanteran army. They will follow him.

Now Vohan is dead, and Galanteran politics have turned bloody. Nothing will ever be the same.

Cazerien believes in the law — not just as her profession, but as a faith and the wisdom that allows her people to thrive. She knows Galantier's game, and she plays it well. Laarens believes in Cazerien and the arts of war.

Their adversary doesn't follow their rules.

And someone knows what their adversary must keep secret.

This is part one of the series.

A glossary is found here.

# Maps 
#  Incitement: Winter, 1129 — Quin

I never should have come, I should have stayed in the field.

I pulled my collar tighter as I ducked through a torrent of icy rain overflowing the Karsai's gutters. The Reception Hall felt no warmer than the street, but a marble room the size of a tosca-ball field just can't be warmed, not without enough fire to blacken every wall in a half-hour.

Worse, there was a line. There's always a line when you're impatient. A slow line. I blew on my hands and studied the bas-reliefs of events and people most Galantierans barely remember. Could we build this today? Would we bother?

Impressive as the Karsai is, Galantier doesn't need a cube of marble covering two acres. A millennium ago, the Founders feared another black rain, but now...

This tenday's bitter, freezing rain wasn't mostly ash, but I understood why the Founders commissioned this fortress. I craved shelter, too. I can't, I won't do it, but I can't get out of this alone. Bright god of the sun and holy mother of wisdom, send me somebody who'll listen.

The reception steward had sent away everyone before me, but me, he eyed dubiously. I bored him, sure as sand and lime make mortar. Worse, I was inconvenient, and Sardan knows, someone like him didn't like inconvenience. Worst of all, he must deal with me. Another Pronator might be shunted off with an appointment, but the Optimus' son had to be heard, no matter how acrid relations between the Razin and the Prava. I could see his boredom turning to resentment, and from there, I'd see petty revenge if I wasn't careful. Why had I come, today of all days, to see the Monarch? Don't I know the Razin is a busy man —

"Just tell him — " This professional skeptic would label me a nutter and hustle me out if I blurted the whole story. I wasn't sure he wasn't wrong. "It's about the Reform faction. It's urgent, His Majesty needs to hear it."

"Pronator Tiwendar, I am sorry —"

"Just tell him." I knew what I looked like — a journeyman engineer, fresh off two years building for the Army. Rough hands, windburnt skin, worn clothing, wild about the eyes. Wet. What wealthy scion of the second-most politically powerful house would be walking in full sun, much less in a killing storm? Only a madman or a crank. Not someone the Razin need hear. People like me are why professional skeptics like him exist. "Would I be here at all if my message wasn't of the highest urgency?"

He didn't roll his eyes in my face, but I heard his sigh as he departed and could supply the contempt. I paced the slate floor, unable to settle on a bench. If His Majesty won't see me, I'll ask for Laarens.

The Razin's nephew would listen, though I didn't want to drag him into this, because I endangered him, too. He needs no more messes, has no more power than me, not when it came to our fathers.

Parent, I amended. Laarens never acknowledged Mathes.

This... this couldn't happen. What crime can I commit to make the Metropolita detain me for the next two days? Can I run where I won't get caught? How far can I get in a half-day? I'm in the Karsai — how to get to the private quarters from here? —

I squashed that thought. I'd never find the Razin or the Prazia before some guard caught me. Though that might get me thrown in jail. Last resort, then.

I think I wore a furrow into the floor before the professional skeptic returned.

I didn't expect the woman beside him, nor the two men trailing her. She stood in the doorway like a wisp of smoke, easily my height, but narrow and almost frail, excepting her expression. I'd only seen her on state occasions, in the finery befitting the Prazia of a kingdom over a thousand years old. Now, in her severe long coat and narrow skirt, with her nearly white hair coiled on the back of her head and spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, Prazia Bellacera descendara Galene looked like a misplaced, impoverished scholar, not the most powerful woman in Galantier. Except the ring of state on her left hand and that expression — command, power, cold calculation. I might have been an arch she was testing to ensure it would stand... and she wasn't at all certain.

I dropped to one knee as the son of the Teregenitor who led the Loyal Opposition should. My gaze fixed on a cracked grout line in the stone floor. It would need to be relaid in the next few years. Is that a Land Ministry job? There aren't many with sufficient security privileges. Will I get the assignment? Will I still be alive to do it?

Then I remembered, and dropped the defenses around my mind. Protocol's never been my strongest attribute. Comes of being raised in the back of beyond and being four generations from nobody.

An invisible finger traced a line down my spine as she read my mind with a subtlety her severity belied. I head a snick I couldn't interpret until the sigh followed.

Yes, Your Splendor, I am inconvenient. I'm sorry. I thought loudly, echoing it with Evocata. She could either read my thoughts or hear my mental voice, and those around us could not. I couldn't be other than exasperating and frustrating today, given tomorrow's ceremony. Please realize I'd not be here were it not vital you hear this.

"Rise, Tiwendar." Bellacera dat Ardenis, Prazia Royal, sounded both weary and interested. "Accompany me."

# Part One
# 26 Festivis, 1137, seven days after Midwinter — Laarens

"Find them!" I roared. "Get the Ingeniae Corps on it. Observers better be pulling puissance within four minutes!" I pointed at two runners in the hall outside my office. "You, Outriders. They'll have their directions at the stable. You, summon a security detachment."

My uncle Vohan, Razin of Galantier, was late returning to Northwest Border One, my garrison. Only an hour. That's half too much. The Monarch of Galantier travels with outriders and three carriages. If one breaks, it's left behind. If the Razin becomes incapacitated, an outrider on a fast horse proceeds to the destination for assistance.

This progress had run like a well-oiled One-Armed Archer, despite Uncle's best efforts. He shouldn't be here at all. My cousin and I wasted a half-year planning this trip as her long-delayed first visit. Then he came instead. Which we should have expected. He'd spent the seventh, eighth and ninth days of this progress at Western Two. This morning's heliograph report stated he left on time to return north. His security detachment of twenty heavy cavalry and two dozen guards, on fast horses, knew this territory like their own lovers. His ingeniae are their own weapons. In four annual visits, he had never once been more than a few minutes late.

Most times, people say, oi, he's an Ingenia, and you think, he knows where to dig a new well, or maybe he's one of those special lawyers who read minds. Perhaps a weatherwitch who can sometimes build a ward or see what's beyond a hill without taking a walk. That describes me, not Uncle. Seven hundred years ago, the House of Galene about-faced on Ingeniae in the bloodlines. The witchy, scandalous poor bastards who spent their lives locked in the attic suddenly sold high on the marriage market. Not that blood has much to do with it; prosaic parents produce Ingeniae all the time, and all the best breeding sometimes produces almost incompetent Ingeniae. Like me. My family's bred for brains and Talent for thirty generations, and Uncle's the pinnacle. He reads minds like print, which makes him one of the strongest Perceptives in Galantier. He's an Evocator. He can project his mental voice to another over fifteen milliae. He has a touch of Impathia to read the emotional weather around him. And, like me, he has a hint of Providias.

Precognition. Neither of us are true Prognosticators, but we both have enough to know when a situation is about to slip sideways into dark water. Mine ruffled the hair on the back of my neck.

The man still sitting across my worktable sighed with exasperation. "Laarens, relax. His Majesty can be distractible."

Too true. Any other time, I'd agree, but not with this feeling. I turned away from the Northwestern District's Justiciar Advocate General. Paval and I were discussing the cases on his bench; when we'd needed to light lamps, I'd realized His Majesty had not arrived. "Justiciar quan Bruckides, this exceeds your ambit. Please remove yourself before you become aware of sensitive information."

"Laarens," he said, his lovely, pointed face growing astonished. "He's my Razin, too — and you —"

"Go. Now."

"Fine." My lover stood and packed his document case with the wounded dignity of a wet cat. He could think I was irrational, but I couldn't care. The Razin vanished on my watch. "Bleeding ancestors, Uncle, you better be intrigued by some two inch tall plant nobody's ever seen," I muttered to myself.

Security protocol states that when something unexpected happens around the Monarch, the Ascendara is immediately notified. The sun had set. "Lynel," I shouted to my equerry, "have Communications ready white phosphor and a post rider."

Paval snorted.

My heart thumped as I checked the map.

Uncle left Western Two at dawn. That garrison lay almost sixty milliae due south, but his route would follow the Western Highway along the Paxular border instead of driving straight through the Army's border zone. He should have covered about eighty milliae today in relative safety, given the entire western border is at war at least half the year. The Western Highway route lay almost eighty milliae from the edge of the disputed zone. Which didn't mean Uncle hadn't had a fit of independence and changed plans. It also didn't mean Spagnian raiders hadn't gotten through. We can't watch every inch of our border. Maybe a few Spagnian scouts broke the forward line. Uncle had above forty well armed, well trained warriors with him. A raiding party couldn't harm him.

I'm being stupid. Given Uncle's recent restlessness, and with a force at hand, if raiders attacked, he'd give chase. Delay explained. Uncle wouldn't send an outrider ahead when he'd want all hands.

Except the outriders are mine. They knew the Razin's security trumped everything, including his commands. Only Uncle, my cousin and I knew this plan in full. I gave his outriders their orders, and they obey me. They knew that if they deviated from plan, an outrider must ride for the next rendezvous. Uncle can be impetuous, but my outriders must live with me.

"General Revinsel?" An Ingeniae Corpsman skidded in, the badge on his shoulder bisected; a book and an eye, so a Perceptive and Observer. He looked too young to shave, so fresh from the conversatory and still shocked by thirteen tendays of unit training. "Sir, we have a possible."

"Where?"

"About thirty milliae south, off the highway."

Exactly halfway between here and Western Two. If they'd been ambushed, it had been midday. And outside of Uncle's Evocative range for either garrison. Western Two would send a detachment if I flashed them a phosphor message. But Darensar's new to the post and he doesn't know Uncle. His background is engineering, not intelligence or law. Sun's down, so a phosphor message will be visible out to the disputed zone. Spagna probably doesn't have these codes, but more text just helps them code-break faster. My detachment rides in a quarter hour; it will take twice that to flash the message through two relay towers, then time to find Darensar and for him to figure out exactly where. Better if it's us.

If something had happened, that might be a crime scene and we'd need solid information. An engineer wouldn't help. I'm not the lawyer my cousin is, but I've got the basics.

"Lynel," I shouted, "I'm headed south. Wake sune Vandahl, tell him I'll be back around dawn." My second would take the night shift in a couple hours, but out here, we never break the chain of command. That's when the seventy-seven Hells open.

I better inform Cazerien. I coded a message, pocketed my codebook and dropped the message on my way to the stable. The Communications officer frowned at the column of numbers, much harder to transmit than words, but impossible to break without the book. He started climbing to the mirror platform to send it himself.

The stabler who brought out my Bravura had a fresh bruise on the back of his hand, so the damned nag had bitten again. I checked my escort. Twenty cavalry, half swordsmen, half archers. Three Ingeniae Corps, including one of a pair of powerful Evocators who can speak to each other over about fifty milliae. The other would remain here at the helio-tower as a relay. And Paval. His steady gaze told me he would happily waste time arguing about his presence, because he knew I knew I'd need him. I rolled my eyes at him, frowned and nodded once. Then we rode.

# 27 Festivis, 1137 — Cazerien

I hate this dream.

It wasn't the nightmare; I only get that one after I read my security reports. No, this was one of a series. Not strictly frightening, just disquieting because they're so bleeding frequent.

This was the dance dream, and in it, I'm enjoying dancing — which tells me it is fantasy because I hate dancing — with my chestnut haired Pronator. The dream is mostly memory; we revolve down the Presentation Hall. I look into his face, meeting his direct, dark blue eyes. We talk, sometimes about my work, though always my work now rather than what it was when the memory was formed. Sometimes we talk about his, though rationally, I know my mind merely fills in the script; I don't know much of what he did. Engineering, or maybe architecture. Firewatch platforms, I think. He always smells of sandalwood, sage, and a sweetness for which I have no name, but sometimes there's smoke, or pine sap or sulphur, too. His coat always appears to be fine, smooth indigo worsted, but that's not always what my hand on his shoulder feels. I've touched as little as a single layer of fine, worn linen over wiry, solid shoulders, or several layers of wooly knitted tunic, or wet waxed canvas.

I want to wake, but can't. This dream is better than the other two in the series. At least I don't wake from this one with my body in full rebellion, aching for what I cannot have and feeling like my mouth is bruised from kisses I never received.

Part of me castigates myself for not governing my mind better. After eight years, the man himself must be dead, and we spoke for all of ten minutes. That my mind has embroidered this for so long must be a sign of incipient madness.

"Do you know where the private library is?" my sixteen year old dream-self says. I know where the dream will take me tonight. Now, I must wake. Better to be awake half the night than spend tomorrow with my nerves jangling.

"Yes, Rien," he says. I know that's wrong. He always called me Ascendency.

"Cazerien," he says again. I pull away from him, trying to understand what has turned this well-worn script improvisational.

"Rye-en," he says, but his voice is feminine, urgent, irritated. "Cazerien Alzandra Lyria descendara Galene, wake up now."

My Elevation ball vanished and I opened my eyes to a single lamp on my desk. Avah, wrapped in a bedrobe and her hair hanging over her shoulder, stood over me. I fumbled for my pocket clock on the bedside table and squinted at the hands. Third hour of the morning. I didn't get home until tenth hour of the night and didn't fall asleep until nearly midnight. "It's not sixth, yet," I said, "and we needn't be at Privy Council until seventh, and not to Morning Audience until eighth, and not to my bench until ninth. Why are you waking me?"

"Oi, I didn't ask for it, either," my assistant said. "I was quite comfortable in a well-warmed bed with a lovely body, despite this freezing barn of a museum, but someone left orders not to be disturbed. Who would that be? Oi, right, you."

"Right," I groused. "My orders don't apply to you, but they really should. I'm awake. What?"

"Message, and if it wasn't coded into gibberish, I'd have dealt with it."

I growled low in the back of my throat and flung myself out of bed. The two cats nestled where my feet had been wriggled out from under the blankets and gave me hurt looks at being disturbed. "Who's your tumble? I thought Norden went home to Palisar." I pulled my bedrobe on as my feet ached from the cold floor.

"He did, and I wish him and Marta great contentment, a profitable partnership of his land and her money and many happy children. Sam, Pronemor tret Lowen," she said. "The odd-day senior on your afternoon guards. Who happens to possess a clever tongue."

"He'll ask you to marry him," I warned. "You're a brilliant match for a third grandson." I found my slippers and a shawl. I couldn't quite see my breath. "Please inquire of the engineer on duty why my rooms are suitable for aging meat, and what can be done?" Something was certainly wrong again with the nine-hundred year old hypocaustae that theoretically piped hot water from an underground spring throughout the Karsai.

Avah had left the message on my desk beside the burning lamp and a pot of steaming fondal. I took my time, letting myself fully wake while tucking my feet under me and pouring a cup of strong, spicy tea, already properly adulterated with milk and honey. Just because a heliograph marked urgent arrived in the middle of the night didn't make it so. At least once a tenday, someone expects the Razin's immediate attention. Since Da hared off to the Western border in my place, this was my mess, but people authorized to send such messages seem curiously blind to the speed of a heliograph. It's not instant. Faster than a messenger, true, but ten or twelve hours can pass between sending and response. If the problem is truly urgent, that's too long to await guidance and thus do we grant such people autonomy; if it only seems urgent, nine times of ten, it stabilizes before our reply arrives. Further, those on scene have more information and can better decide than me, hundreds of milliae away, with four lines of text.

My irritation evaporated when I saw the code and the message's origin. Avah saw a cipher she didn't recognize, not the origin station. Laarens does understand heliography's limits; he would not send a coded, highest priority message without reason. If Laarens sent this in the middle of the night, which meant burning expensive phosphor all along the route, it was indeed urgent.

He'd used our current private code, not a standard one; he wanted this message illegible in transmission. The decryption took several attempts; my waking brain stuttered over the wax tablet, my memorized code book and the signal officer's slip.

Hunting cat late. Possible Observation. No confirmation. Priority Two. Then the standard transmission information and a dawn continuance notation in the unencrypted helio code.

Priority Two meant the Razin or an Ascendar or both was possibly dead, injured, captured or otherwise threatened. My father.

Had anyone else declared Priority Two at this hour, I'd be livid. By now, whatever had delayed Da might be resolved. However, Laarens' idea of caution accords with mine.

Avah returned. "They're working on the hypocaustae. A pipe burst in the north wing. They'll send up an oil stove and window vent. Rien? What's happened? You're absolutely bloodless."

"I don't know," I said. "Inform my guards we're at Priority Two. I need the Privy Council summoned." I handed her the decryption.

I dressed carefully, while I tried to think. Priority Two is stupid — we know nothing, can do nothing. I hate Priority Two.

I'd endured it four times in the last two years — confirmed assassination attempts. On me. The other attempts... well, if they didn't get close, they don't count. Once coming home from the scene of a murder, once returning from a concert, once en route to Arisdal to ride with Da and once... here. That assassin hadn't reached my third floor rooms, but the roofs had been bad enough. My hands shook as I strapped my palm knife to my wrist and dressed in breeches, boots and a riding coat in case I was summoned. I kept the colors sober, but no black, no grey, no white. No mourning.

Avah returned, eyed my clothing, and chose for herself similar garments from my wardrobe. I was making a mess of braiding my excessive hair when she finished and took over the job. I clenched my hands together to make them stop shaking. Her nimble fingers tugged my hair into position, then coiled and pinned it at the nape of my neck. "Sorry about my foul temper," I said, partly to check the sound of my voice. A little thin, but not cracked. Not panicked.

"I woke you and we've had only short nights this tenday. I knew what I was stepping in. Laarens didn't wake us out of malice. No apology needed if you'll accept mine." She gently pulled my right hand free to twine her fingers through mine until I became still. Avah may be primarily my assistant, but she's well paid and her family will be compensated if what we fear ever comes. She's my height and though her hair is darker than mine, she keeps it bleached and long. She's approximately as too-thin as I am, though she must bind her breasts flat. She's no warrior, but she's learned the same self-defenses that I have. She's my double, half of my mind, my legal partner in all but contract, as close to a sister as I'll ever have. I try to not take her for granted.

We descended the stairs together, with six guards — twice what's normal when I'm outside the Karsai in a known environment, five more than when I'm inside. The Privy Council room, at the center of the ground floor, was warmer than the rest of the Karsai, but only because it is windowless and the walls are two feet thick. I lit the six lamps on the table and one in the adjoining private cubicle while Avah attended the oil-burning chandelier above the table. The flames washed the flat marble walls in gold. Maybe all the fire needed to illuminate a room half-buried in uncountable tons of marble and slate explains why this room always seems airless.

I expected the Privy Council to take at least two hours to assemble. I hoped by the time they arrived, I could send them home. I paced the room's perimeter, scrubbing a felt brush over the charcoal notes left on the walls from this morning. Don't imagine what convinced Laarens to request this. For now, it is not an emergency. I erased notes about the Treasury, naval recruitment and grain stocks, just for something to do. Avah arranged a fondal pot and warmer on the table with a plate of buns, then her own scribe's table in the corner.

These dreams of yours are utter nonsense, completely irrational.

There was a distraction. If the subject were anyone else, I'd just talk to Avah and figure out why my mind feels compelled to repeat them. But the man in question had courted Avah's elder sister before I ever met him, long before he probably died. She knows exactly how much time I spent in Quirin Tiwendar's company. To admit that eight years later, my sleeping mind conjures him at least once a tenday would be humiliating. Besides, Avah would just tell me to use my power and satisfy my curiosity. She'll assume it's some species of unrequited lust and tell me to stop repressing myself. Easy for her to say. She may accept any offer she likes, and her father expects his daughters to marry for love and contentment, not money or rank. She may conveniently ignore the fact that I'll probably be bound to someone three times my age with half my strength, bad teeth and a string of titles beginning with some variation on Monarch to secure a treaty, but I can't. Avah wouldn't laugh at me for my witless obsession with her sister's former suitor, and she'd certainly never tell Merian, but I'd know.

Nor could I speak to my family. Telling Da will just encourage him. He's wanted me to send someone to find the man and bring him in for years. I doubted that was possible. I'd get the same answer from Ethene, my father's companion. And Laarens, to whom I've always taken my naked heart? No. First, I'd have to wait for his next leave or write it, and speaking would be hard enough. Putting it in a letter... it'll never get sent. Second, it edged into lands into which we do not enter. Laarens and I do not discuss our affections — or whatever this was — with each other. Ever. We've spent too many years with the Privy Council, the Prava and every Curiar with a prurient interest trying to entice us into marriage with each other. I don't want to know anything about his affections, nor he mine.

The walls cleaned, I moved to the low, pale bookcases that lined the room, and returned them to order. In the rest of the Karsai, a servitor or librarian would be responsible for this tidying, but they're barred from this room. Once a tenday, either my father's captain of the guard or mine brings in a mop, bucket, brush and dust cloth. Everything else is the responsibility of we who use this room, and most of those fourteen people have never picked up their own stockings. I knew I was tidying because it allowed me to assert control over something, but the mindless activity let my mind work and warmed my bony body.

The dreams originated in memories of my Elevation, when I ceased to be merely the Razin's only child and became his designated heir, the Prima Ascendara. Being my father's legitimate daughter hadn't been enough for some; a number of Teregenis, temple leaders and Curiars preferred a bastard with a prong, jewels and beard. Almost nine years ago now, and a thousand changes since. Except that. Then, I'd had a damp Advocate's license and a Royal Child's responsibilities. Admittedly, those aren't light — lessons for ten or twelve hours each and every day, accompanying Da, Ethene or my late aunt to Prava House to observe the legislative sessions or to the Judicatura to observe trials — but compared to my schedule now, I'd been practically lazy.

It started in the weapons studio. At least, I think so.

# 1 Glacilis, 1129 — Rien

"Bleedin' Ancestors, Sav, get your right arm up," Laarens yelled from behind his mask. "You'd be meat on a pyre if I wanted you dead."

Rain aspiring to snow pelted the weapon studio's high, clerestory windows, the mirrors lining one wall reflecting the day's grey light. I lifted my left leg behind me, letting the muscles stretch as I placed my hands on the floor. My cousins' practice blades clashed and clacked as Laarens tried to turn Savrin into a swordsman or a pincushion. Hard to tell which.

He's a lost cause, Laarens, I thought. I think he knew it, but he's stubborn. Savrin engaged with less skill and more desperation.

They'd beaten me up here, but I'd had to sign a half-dozen documents for tomorrow while I'd changed out of the morning's formal reception gown. They'd been deep into mock-combat when I arrived.

"Watch your blade, not Rien," Laarens snapped.

I walked myself back up, feeling every moment of the past six tendays' inactivity. That I'd managed a half-hour of dancer's gymnastics or a run through the undercellar while I completed my Advocate's exams had been a minor miracle of scheduling. I'm stiff and graceless. Never in my twelve years of study had I been so confined to desk and books. It had worked; next tenday, I'd join the ranks at the Ministry of Women and Children and begin my real work, my apprenticeship to Galantier.

"I'm not watch— ow!" Savrin exclaimed. "Watch where you point that, Laarens. I'm no Spagnian."

I flowed into a lunge, happy this room unlike the rest of the Karsai, was well-heated. I'd felt cold all morning. Still, it's warmer than the practice yard.

Savrin dropped his guard — again. He already wore spots of chalk on his padded breastplate from the blunted point of Laarens' sword, and several white slashes on his emerald shirtsleeves. They weren't sparring for points else Savrin would be down. This was just practice, and probably no challenge for Laarens. For that, he'd want me and frankly, I wasn't confident. He spends every day of his life in either drill or combat. I don't.

Clang!! I caught the reflection as Laarens bounced his pommel off Savrin's helmet and tackled him. They wrestled on the floor in a combination of laughter and mocking insults, until Savrin shrieked, "I give! Ow! I'll piss — in your bed — if you don't — stop tickling!"

"I thought you swore off that particular vice a dozen years ago," Laarens teased.

"Your bed, not mine," Savrin said. "Get off me! Rye-en, help!"

"Laarens, I've little time," I called, as ready as I'd be. "Da's got a thousand tasks for me today."

"I thought today's free," he groused as he and Savrin extricated themselves. I buckled my gorget and slithered into the light chain shirt my father insists I wear for swordwork, though everyone else uses leather breastplates.

I slipped on my mask and picked up my practice sword while Laarens exchanged his blunted weapon for an unedged one. These weapons were more dangerous than those he and Savrin used, but only slightly. "Define free," I said as we met in the center of the floor and Savrin collapsed on a bench at the perimeter. "No lessons, no more receptions, no meetings. Best I'll get."

We bowed to each other. "Today's your last day. It supposed to be yours to do as you want," he said.

"Thus, we were supposed to ride out at Arisdal," I said, parried his first blow and circled him. "The weatherwitch promised this storm would hold off until day after tomorrow, but... here we are." He blocked my thrust. I dodged the riposte.

Our feet slid over the tight canvas floor as we circled, parried, blocked, attacked and counter-attacked. "Not bad for a desk-bound lawyer, Mistress Grace and Voice," Laarens taunted. "You might last five minutes on the front."

"If I'm a challenge, Scruff and Nonsense, you won't last five heartbeats on the front."

"I'm letting you warm up. Being a gentleman."

"Already warm," I said. Real combat began. I threw myself into the sword dance, letting body and eye place blade and arm without my mind's intervention. We roamed the floor, ducking each other, weaving our blades into silver threads of rain-light. My muscles melted into liquid warmth under the chain. I eeled away from a blow aimed at my stronger left arm and took the opening for my first touch on Laarens' breastplate.

"Your Highness?" a voice called from the door. Startled, I whirled. The flat of my blade thwacked into Laarens' side.

Thud. Snap!

I shouldn't have dropped him. I'm only good with a sword because I'm quick. I'm built like a darning needle — no bruiser. I must have surprised Laarens, too, because one moment he was standing before me and the next he lay at my feet.

The thud might have been expected, had it been possible for me to fell him, but the crack — Laarens knows how to fall well.

I ripped off my mask and dropped my sword, seeing wrongness as Laarens rolled to his back, groaning, his right hand clutching his left shoulder.

"What's wrong?" I demanded and pulled off his mask. He'd gone the color of winter butter, his face gone grey and damp.

"Collarbone," he said through gritted teeth, then proceeded to swear, greatly enlarging my vocabulary.

"Savrin, get help!" I called. "Be still, Laarens. I can't hit you that hard."

"Knocked me off balance," he muttered. "Top over tip."

"Your Highness," the voice from the door said again.

I glanced up as Savrin shouldered past the servitor. "Sav," I yelled. He turned. "Fetch the Healer, meet us in Laarens' rooms. You," I said, looking straight at the page. "Fetch my guard from the end of the hall." He started to protest, but I wasn't having it. "Now." He disappeared.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "Is it broken?" I disliked Laarens' breathing, too, both shallow and ragged. "I cracked a rib, didn't I?"

"Not you." He squeezed his dark grey eyes shut and inhaled a slow, deep breath. "When I fell." He grimaced and almost chuckled. "You're sworn to secrecy. If my mates hear I tangled with m'own feet — "

If he had a sense of humor, it couldn't be that bad. "Laarens, I'm sorry, but to preserve your dignity, I beat you the hard way."

He snorted ruefully. "Nyuh, dignity's wounded either way. Help me up."

"No." My guards, my Healer and my Ingeniae masters have always emphasized not moving someone with a potentially damaged head, neck or spine. My cousin would not inadvertently kill himself. "Shush. Be still." I laid my hands lightly on the swelling above his breastplate and inhaled, drawing puissance from the universe. I forced it through channels in my mind, into my hands, then into Laarens' shoulder. I couldn't Heal him — I'm a poor Healer — but I could ameliorate pain until the guards got him to the real one.

He rolled his eyes at me and sighed. "Rien, I'll be fine — once the Healer straps this up — it's my just deserts for cracking your head on the chimney pot."

"Quiet," I said. "Let me concentrate."

Once the guards shifted my swearing Laarens to the stretcher — they don't risk an Ascendar's spine, either — I hurriedly racked our discarded equipment. My arms full of masks, the floor slipped out from under me, making me skip three staggering steps to catch myself. When everything was tidy — the weaponmaster gives no quarter to anyone, even the Razin's daughter — I knelt on the smooth floor. There, I found what caused Laarens' fall and nearly sent me down.

The tiny ceramic ball blended into the creamy canvas floor; in the day's dim light, it was nearly invisible. I fetched the studio's broom and swept; when I finished, a few score of pea-sized bearings lay on the canvas. How'd these get here? The ceiling was blank plaster; the windows, high and closed. Our weapons were in order; the spheres were pommel weights used to adjust a weapon's balance to the wielder's hand, but each sword held only ten or so, not dozens, and no blade lacked a pommel nut. Was someone careless this morning? No, the weaponsmaster would never allow that. Odd.

# 27 Festivus, 1137 — Rien

When the first minister arrived — the Exchequer, who happened to live closest — I left off organizing the books. Alone with Avah, it meant nothing. Before my father's ministers, it might look like boredom or callousness.

I kept myself calm by reviewing procedures. My mother's safe. Mathes isn't in the line of succession and needn't be summoned; he's only a Prenceps by courtesy. Savrin, however, must be summoned, since he's Tret Ascendar.

Him, I didn't want.

I don't need his... sanctimony. Not to the cold god.

After Aunt Bella sickened, the Lethians sucked him in. He'd taken Holy Orders without informing us. He shouldn't even be in the succession anymore. If something happens to Laarens and me, the House of Galene's finished unless he renounces his immortal soul with his vows. Holy fire, I should have married something pretty and empty-headed with ingeniae in his bloodlines, tumbled him until I kindled, given him an estate and been done.

Da, don't do this. Don't be. No.

Now, I had only to wait and think. A tenday and a half ago, Da came to my rooms while Avah and I were in the midst of a disaster. "We're not taking ballgowns," I was saying for the ninth time that day. "Avah, you can't expect me to manage skirts — it's rocky, cold and a war zone!" Besides, Laarens had promised no dancing on this progress. I returned elegant confections to the wardrobe and replaced them with breeches, long coats, divided skirts and boots while we bickered amiably. We'd been racing at the Judicatura to clear my bench so my fellow Justiciars wouldn't suffer by my three tenday absence, leaving Avah and me exactly one afternoon to ready ourselves to go west. I've never enough time for all of the Prazia's duties, much less wardrobe concerns, I'd thought.

"Avah, thank you," my father had said, in that tone that everyone in the Karsai knows, the one that says obey me, now. She withdrew while my father eyed the wreckage, like a flood had washed through a dressmaker's shop. When the doors closed, he said, "Have all this put away. You're not going. I am." He looked smug.

"Da, not again!" I glared at him. "Laarens will kill you."

"No, that's regicide and he's a loyal Galantieran," Da said, the Royal glamour of authority falling away. Now, instead of Monarch of Galantier and his Heir, we were father and daughter, fighting a shopworn battle. He poured fondal from my pot and settled his rangy frame into my squashy reading chair.

I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the foot of my bed, watching him speculatively. Will I still be crowned Razia if I murder him? Probably not.

"Yes," I said, "he will. This progress has been arranged for a half-year. I cannot unpick ten thousand details in an hour so you can — once again — chase your perverse version of fun."

"No need," he said. "I'll take your guards. You keep mine. Someone must run the country."

"Yes. You! The whole point of this excursion is so I can observe the country's defenses. I must become acquainted with the Navy and Army. Da, I am nearly twenty-five, not six. I have excellent guards. The timing is perfect. The border is quiet. I remind you, I'll be running Galantier sooner than you think."

"My army," he said archly. "You can go next year."

"So you said last year and the year before and the year before that. You don't want me to go."

"I want out of Cimenarum," he grumbled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "The Prava will send me mad if I must listen to them dither all winter about the Sulva watershed and the roads budget and the trade tax. I want to see this new incendiary machine Laarens wrote about. It goes boom."

"You also want me crowned co-regnant Razia in the spring."

"Ayuh."

"Then I must go on progress," I said patiently. "I cannot be Monarch of this country without some military knowledge." We'd been fighting this for almost a year, since he'd decided it was time for me to be Razia in name as well as duty.

"You had history," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his spectacles. "You're better with a sword than any woman needs to be — "

"Don't even start that," I warned sweetly. "I'll prove how good I am, then Laarens can be Razin after I'm hanged for your murder."

"Don't threaten the Razin's life, daughter."

I crossed my little sitting space and leaned over him. I waited until he opened his eyes and glared down into his face. "You're being overprotective. Again."

He sighed. "I don't want you out there, alone — "

"Oi, please — alone? With two dozen guards and Laarens' hand-picked security detachment? Monarch or not, words cannot be redefined at your whim, Father."

"It's my decision, Rien. You're not going. I am. Royal prerogative."

"Why do you only use the Royal prerogative with me?"

"Because everyone else just obeys me." He pointed at the chair to his left. "Must you loom?"

I perched on the arm of the chair, not wanting to sit. I wanted to pace, yell and throw something, but I love my father and I know he loves me.

If only he didn't show it by keeping me wrapped in wool.

"Actually," he sighed, "I'm going because you're the better lawyer."

True, but... "Flattery buys you nothing."

"My honored half-brother," he said, through his teeth, "will introduce a proposal after Midwinter recess. I want you to review it and ensure it fails."

"What's Mathes doing now?" I asked, too familiar with my half-uncle's machinations to summon any feeling but weary frustration.

"Teregenitor Prenceps Picarem and Teregenitor Optimus Tiwendar propose," my father recited in a sarcastic sing-song, "that the Monarch's final right of arbitration be revoked."

"What?" I shouted.

"Exactly," Da said. "They want to destroy a thousand year old precedent — "

"One that's saved this country from destroying itself more than twice," I said. "Oi, bleeding wisdom. Yes, I'll stay. How much support do they have?"

"The Reformists, of course," he said. "I hear some rumbles from the militant Progressives, but the Royalists should adamantly oppose it."

I figured the numbers quickly. Da, Laarens and I share forty-eight Prava votes, so we need twenty-nine to reach majority. The Royalists bring twenty-seven of those. The Progressives — a misnomer; they wander the mushy middle between the Royalists and the Reformists — hold forty-seven votes, but are impossible to predict. "I'll work on it. How'd you hear?"

"That clerk of Tiwendar's I had Jahan bribe to make copies of anything they're planning. Wish his boy had stayed in Cimenarum instead of going home to run the langreve."

He didn't mean his clerk Jahan, who lacked children and langreve. So Tiwendar. "Da, that was almost nine years ago," I sighed. "Let it go." Whenever the Optimus came up, my father mentioned my vanished liegeman. Quirin Tiwendar had unexpectedly sworn fealty to me and I hadn't seen him since. He'd never returned to Cimenarum, never answered my invitations. Eventually, I accepted the obvious and stopped summoning him. At sixteen, sending armed guards after him felt like forcing someone to my will, like I was a suitor pursuing a reluctant virgin, like I was... in love with him and I most assuredly was not. Later, I realized no Pronator would ignore so many entreaties, but I had nothing to confirm my suspicions. Something happened to Pronator Tiwendar, and his father was keeping it quiet. Even I couldn't launch an investigation into the Optimus without proof, and the Pronator's silence wasn't enough. Bad manners are not illegal.

The fealty oath was probably part of some plot that hadn't borne fruit. I despise my uncle but I must admit he keeps thousands of pieces on Galantier's chessboard in play. Quirin Tiwendar means nothing now. I should read what Mathes and the elder Tiwendar wrote before I comment further.

I returned to the immediate issue of Da usurping of my progress. "I take no responsibility for Laarens."

"Just don't send him a heliograph," my father said. "I want to surprise him."

"Holy Wisdom, there will be blood," I sighed. Then again, the last time Laarens was home, he'd added ink to my hair-washing soap. I'd had blue streaks in my hip-length hair for a tenday thanks to him. He thought it was funny. Privately, I'd enjoyed the blue hair, but it started a fashion for lurid hair colors amongst the younger Curia women, and that sent their fathers, the Prava, into apoplexy for a full three tendays. I'd had to hear it, not Laarens. Not warning him's an appropriate revenge.

I unearthed a wrapped package. "Take Laarens' Midwinter gift. Give him my love. I won't mention it when I write tonight, but I will, in tomorrow's letter. He won't get that one until you're already there."

"My Privy Council notes are on my desk, my clerk is copying my proxy, and come to my study later for the Prava business. I must go pack. I'll leave your captain and take mine. You scandalize Bermer." He stood, took the package and kissed my forehead. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, not hiding my frustration. "Since I must listen to Prava blather, I want a promise."

He pulled his palm knife, the Monarch's last defense, from the wrist sheath on his left hand and pricked one finger. "I swear on my ancestors' blood that you'll go to the border next year to meet your army. As Monarch of Galantier."

"In the spring, before battle season starts, after I'm crowned. I want it in writing, three copies, all signed and sealed. One for you, one for me, one for the Recordia," I said. "When you meet our ancestors in the Afterworld, they'll beat you bloody for the number of times you've sworn something to me then reneged. I don't trust you anymore." Though I did. I just knew him. He's the Monarch. I serve at his pleasure, and he always does what's best for our kingdom. It always means duty first and putting the best person in the right place and time.

He had laughed. "That's my lawyer."

As his ministers assembled in that shadowless, airless room, I hoped Da wasn't meeting our ancestors now. We'd frequently descended into private, black humor about assassination and murder because laughter made the reality bearable.

How did we ever find it even darkly humorous?

When all twelve had arrived, Chancellor Werev carrying the case of succession documents, I waved them into their seats and explained what little Laarens had sent, then we waited again. They read, wrote, chatted. They weren't callous, but we have all endured emergencies that consist mostly of waiting. They fully expected this to be a false alarm. A failure of imagination — they could not envision anything happening to my father. I paced the room, reviewing the last tenday, trying to think if anything, no matter how small, presaged this.

Be a lawyer.

Da and I have a long-standing policy — when the Prava is recessed, we're off official duty. Since the Prava sits for twenty-six tendays of the year, that gives us little enough time to either attend human necessities or catch up the work of running a small, complex kingdom. Those thirteen tendays a year are more precious than waterstones. The progress Da had usurped coincided with the Midwinter recess. The Prava had just resumed, yesterday now. With me — publicly — in the west and Da enjoying his privacy, I'd had a full tenday to amend that proposal, write judgements in cases I needn't summon to my bench, and manage my nine langreves. I'd worked throughout the tenday, and seen nobody save Avah, Simin and the small rota of guards who fetched our meals from thirty different shops. The Karsai only had a skeleton staff of maintainers and engineers during the holiday, and I'd kept to our private quarters. Quite likely, those present hadn't realized I was in residence, and they're only hired if they don't gossip. I'd had Simin tell the Karsai Steward that the public statement was Da was working, and the gossip was that he'd overindulged at Midwinter on beer, sausage rolls and tosca games with his guards to keep the Curia from invading. We've used that ruse before and it worked again.

I shocked the Optimus yesterday when I appeared in Prava chambers. I'd surprised the Privy Council at dawn, too. Explaining the change made Privy Council run late, which delayed Morning Audience. I'd been late crossing to Prava House, and had run through the undercellars with Avah and Simin at my heels, taking the shorter, faster, more secure route between the Karsai and Prava House with only six minutes to spare.

When my ancestors completed the Karsai more than nine hundred years ago, it had been more than sufficient for the Prava, the Ministries, the temples, a public granary, infirmary and dispensary, and shelter for most of Galantier should the worst come again. Six stories tall and covering two acres, then, it could house all five thousand citizens, though quarters were tight. The worst never again came, but our fragile young country sheltered within these walls through storms and fires, floods and blizzards.

We've grown. Four hundred years back, the Prava outgrew their wing and the round, half-timbered Prava House was built across Welces' Square. A tunnel had been dug from the Karsai undercellars to the new building's cellar, mostly for the convenience of the Monarch and the Teregenis. Nonetheless, Da and I usually strolled across the square — assuming weather better than wretched — and gave ourselves an hour to cross the quarter-millia to speak with our citizens. Yesterday, I'd been late. Coming up the spiral stairs I'd run headlong into someone.

"Cazerien!" the startled voice had said. Then almost horrified, Teregenitor Optimus Tiwendar repeated my given name, so shocked that, though he only called me by my honorific in my hearing, he seemed to entirely forget I had one.

That's odd, I now realized. He thinks of me as other than the Prazia.

"Apologies, Optimus," I'd said. "Did I hurt you? No? Good. Forgive my haste." He's too much Mathes' man for me to trust him, but he'd gone pale. I couldn't hesitate long once I knew he was merely startled. I'd hurried to the study Da and I share that backs onto the Prava chamber so I could enter without appearing the complete hoyden some Teregenis believed me to be.

I'd paused briefly at the mirror to ensure my hair hadn't tumbled down, that my coat was straight and my sash of office fell without twisting from my left shoulder to my right hip. Yes. I'd finally noticed the colors Avah had chosen for us — waterstone blue skirt, blue-black coat with a little silver embroidery. I'd do. I'd straightened my diadem, checked through the peephole to ensure water and fondal were at my seat and entered the Prava chamber.

Every man in the room stood, not for Cazerien dat Vohan, but for the office of Prima Ascendara. The Vocata, an enormous, ancient mace that signifies the power of speech in the room, rested on Da's desk. On the right. I sit at my father's left in Prava chambers. I'd have to reach across for it.

Then again, this was first day of session. I'd have paper stacked to my chin by the end of the day. I'd need the desk room. Every Prava chair is identical — in theory, we're all equals — so I pushed Da's chair back and moved mine to the center so I could use both tables.

I tapped the heavy, marble mace on the sounder and the chamber, already quiet, grew silent. "The 1138th Prava of Galantier resumes in three minutes," I said, watching the clock. "I trust your Midwinter celebrations pleased you all, gentlemen?" I noted a Royalist Teregenitor, a widower of at least eighty, wearing a fashionable tunic. "Are you courting, Dastorian?" I teased gently. "You look quite dashing."

"My granddaughter's Midwinter gift," he said, smiling. "I promised I'd wear it."

"She has excellent taste. And Kurzon has a new face. The Old Man's finally given us up?"

Alvan Kurzon is about Laarens' age, but his father Hilmon has held Kurzon's seat since my grandfather's day. I would have been notified of Hilmon's death, so Alvan's presence surprised me.

"Possibly not permanently," Alvan said in his broad western accent. "Da broke his leg jumping a fence."

"Oi, no. Will he recover?"

"If my mother dan't kill him, he'll be fine," Alvan said, bringing a collective roar of laughter from the chamber. Hilmon could be mulish; I was glad I didn't have to suffer him laid up in splints.

"We'll send our condolences and wish your father a quick recovery... for your mother's sake. Did he turn over the seat to you, or deed you a proxy?" Had Hilmon proxied his seat to Alvan, Alvan would retain Hilmon's place in the order of precedence and his father's committee chairs, but he couldn't speak save to vote. If Hilmon had retired, then Hilmon's seats were up for redistribution and Alvan would assume the junior seat, but he'd have the privilege of speech and taking his own committee seats.

"Mam browbeat him into turning over the seat. The clerk of the Chamber has the document."

"Thank you, Teregenitor. All those hours in the galleries apparently weren't wasted." As children, Alvan, Laarens, Savrin, and several other Pronators watched countless sessions with me. The small clock in the Chamber ticked over and the Archilian Temple bells began to peal. I tapped the sounder again. They were relaxed, comfortable, and ready to work. Maybe this won't be so bad. "Prava session resumes. Optimus, the Vocata is yours." I held it down to him. The Optimus' seat was on the lowest tier of the chamber, just below the Monarch and Ascendars' seats, facing the rest of the Prava, ranked in tiers around the circular room.

Tiwendar neither turned nor moved. I saw the right side of his ashen, damp face.

Did I hurt him? He seemed fine.

"Optimus?" I repeated.

"Yes, Your Ascendency." He turned and blinked at me. His eyes, always dark, were dilated so wide I couldn't see the iris. His hand trembled as he reached for the Vocata.

As badly as he shook, he'd drop it. If it broke...

"Optimus," I whispered. "Are you unwell? Injured?" He wasn't young — perhaps I broke a rib?

"No — yes. We were told —" he stammered.

I tried to smile at him. "Once again His Majesty has exercised the Royal prerogative and gone to the western border. Sorry for the surprise. You know how he is. Considering the last four years, I should think you'd be more surprised to see him after Midwinter recess."

Tiwendar nodded. "Just took me by surprise," he said, sounding better and distant. "Thank you." He took the Vocata firmly.

I try to behave civilly to the man and just get rebuffed. Why try?

That moment was odd.

I'd dismissed the oddity as new proposals mounted up on the clerk's desk and Alvan's appearance caused a cascade of discussion, but something had prompted me to glance into Prava House's northern arc. I normally don't; Mathes and his cronies sit there. Sometimes when his eye alights on me, I feel cold, like a bird caught in a snake's gaze. Yesterday , I'd seen satisfaction on his face as he looked at me.

Another oddity.

Why my presence would please him mystified and concerned me now. He's no fonder of me than I am of him. In four years on the High Judicatura, I've ruled against a number of his associates for monopolies, unethical practices, even outright theft. Mathes has never been charged, though the break in his corruption network loomed. We've known it existed for years, but the man's clever and subtle. We'd never caught his hand on anything — bloody knife, money he couldn't claim, not even a pen accidentally kept. Until the last three tendays, when the key finally dropped out of thousands of pages of testimony and records. Nobody can stand close to a spray without getting damp, and my uncle was soaked.

All these oddities should mean something — they needn't, but they might. As I paced the Privy Council room, waiting for the next message, I tried to assemble them into evidence, or at least understanding.

Two hours passed in that quiet, stuffy room as the business of a kingdom ground to a halt. Laarens, hurry. Tell me he's hurt, was stupid, tell me anything but tell me something.

Shortly after the fifth hour of the morning, we received another message.

Too short. Cat gone. Priority One.

"The Razin is dead," I said. 

# 27 Festivis, 1137 — Laarens

By sparkling cold moonlight, the tracks veering off the road were just visible. Three carriages, assorted horses. The carriages bumped over rough, dry rises and into dips, then fell into a shallow ravine. It caught all three carriages, thirty-two horses and their riders. The rest lay dead on the ground above.

"How'd they miss that ravine? In bright daylight?" I muttered to myself.

The stench of charred bone and wood, flesh, leather and wool covered the site, but it didn't obscure the sulfurous, resinous smell of fire oil in quantity. Some body had been burned, and the fire started with Galantier's best weapon. I dismounted, gestured Paval to follow. We stood over the closest corpse, unburnt, with crossbolts in his chest and a slash across his throat.

We'll need pyres, aid from Western Two. Those can wait. I need information more.

I followed my nose to the edge of the ravine, where the pyre and fire oil stench originated. Paval's face turned blank as he forced his ingenia to make his memories permanent, not just the sight, but the sounds, the odor, the time and place. I waited until his eyes flickered. He'd come to serve Galantieran justice. Though he looked closed and guarded, I knew the moment I gave him leave, he'd declare this a criminal site.

I looked at the security detail until I found the Corpsman I wanted, the Observer from my office. "Other than us, where are the closest people?" I asked.

He consulted his inner sense, then turned, one arm outstretched and pointed south. "Approximately thirty milliae, sir. At Western Two."

Good. I turned back to Paval. We'd argued, by Evocata, for the entire long trip to this grisly site. Not knowing what we'd find, but knowing that nobody lived, I'd considered three possibilities — this might be an accident, a Spagnian ambush, or an internal assassination. I'd hoped for an accident. The succession would move fastest. There'd be nobody to blame, no investigation except why and how. Rien and I would grieve beside the entire nation, but accidents happen, even to clever, cautious people. The part of me who will forever be four, still holding my baby cousin for the first time and learning what love means, wanted to make this an accident for her sake, and Galantier's. If Uncle had to die other than in his bed of age, I wanted this easy for her and us.

Paval glanced up and shook his head once, briefly, with something like relief mixed into the horror, grief, shock, and anger on his face. You can't make this an accident, he said in my head. I know that's expedient, but these bodies have cross-bolts in their chest. Fuel-oil means this was encouraged, fire oil means it was set. His Majesty wasn't carrying fire-oil, so whoever did this brought it. You've too many people here to cover this. If you try, the truth will out and that's worse.

I knew that, and understood his relief, at least a little. Not only is it damned difficult to keep a secret in a country where over a thousand people can read minds, making this an accident would deprive Uncle of justice. Better let Paval investigate than try to cover it.

I lowered myself down the loose bank, knowing what I'd find, not wanting to see. The wreckage was bad, but it shouldn't have been this fatal. Those carriages were too well built for ten feet to break them.

The wheels had splintered, but the boxes looked roughly rectangular rather than shattered and torn. Or had been, before the fire. They had not burned well, considering. These winter plain carriages had wool felt stretched between the wood frame and the leather skin, and wool doesn't burn easily, even with encouragement. Paval slipped his hand into mine and squeezed.

I knew Uncle had been in the first carriage, the one that took the most damage from falling and being fallen upon, but the least burnt. I don't know how I knew, because Uncle himself never knew until he threw a die to choose one. There is security in a depth of men at arms, and in being unobtrusive, but there is also safety in randomness. Uncle used all three.

Successfully, for many long years. Just not this time.

His carriage had been smashed, but less than half burnt. I clung to Paval's hand and forced my legs to carry me to the twisted frame. I pushed the leather curtain aside and saw what remained of the man who raised me. His aide and his two body guards were crumpled with him, their bodies clearly battered beyond life, but neither fall nor fire took Uncle. I cupped his uninjured cheek without disturbing his shattered spectacles or the cross bolt that destroyed him.

Or not, the Army lifer deep in my mind whispered. I've seen men survive a bolt to the eye. A lucky few even keep some sight. I stepped aside so moonlight fell strongly on him, and saw the skew in his neck at the same moment Paval slipped away from me. A moment later, he returned with a narrow-mouthed bottle full of white fire. He gingerly lifted the phosphor light until the light fell on the four bodies. Uncle's aide had been impaled by a piece of broken wheel that came through the carriage on impact, but Tem sune Sandren had been trying to save my uncle when they fell. He still held the bandage, though both hand and bandage were scorched. One bodyguard lay folded in thirds in the corner, his spine broken at hip and neck. I guessed he had been standing over Uncle at the moment they went over. He probably smacked first into the carriage roof, then the floor. The other had bolts in his throat, belly and shoulder. He had been the first down. Then I saw that I had been wrong about the fire. More than half of the carriage was burnt. More than half of the bodies, too. This one, being lowest, had absorbed most of the oils, but the least air. It probably smoldered like a charcoal heap most of the day, until the oils burned off. I'd let air in when I moved the curtain. The seats and wooden frame flared back to life.

Paval pushed me roughly back and put himself between me and the blooming fire. Not for my safety, but to make the scene permanent in his memory. "Tret Darasin, to me," he yelled as the fire began to crackle.

A moment later, the young Perceptive from my office stood with us. "Full recall, transferable and privacy, Corpsman," Paval said. "See everything. I'll help, just do your best to record." He glanced at me. "You, too. The more perspectives, the better. We haven't much time."

I have barely enough of the necessary Ingenia — Perceptio — to make a memory permanent, unalterable and concealed. That skill is why the Royal House breeds for Ingeniae at all. I inhaled a lungful of smoke and death and pure grief along with the puissance that makes the machine in my head spin its wheels. For one long second, I considered putting a key on it, giving memory and key to Paval, then erasing it. The blackened bones, the flesh like lumps of meat left too long over a campfire —

They barreled into me and shoved me up the ravine as the carriages exploded into white light and heat. We landed in a tangled heap of legs and cloaks and arms, bruised but unscorched.

"Ancestors fuck the shit suckers," I said under my breath as I stared into my uncle's pyre. "The damned evidence—"

"It would have happened no matter who was first," Paval said. "We haven't enough water to douse it. I got better memory than if we'd waited and let it char until dawn or tried to bury and smother. We'd need six Incendiaries to control that." He turned my face away from the pyre and made me see him. "This isn't your fault. We can't change it, but I swear to you we will have justice, Your Valor."

For most of the next hour, Paval stood by me as we bore witness to the final disposition of my uncle, the only father I ever knew or acknowledged. My Razin. So, too, did my unit of outriders, the only honor guard possible in this desolate darkness thirty milliae from anything. We had to let it burn. We had no means to stop it. But we did have to put it out, because we do not leave our comrades for the wind to scatter. We especially do not leave our Razin. The only person permitted to scatter a Razin's ashes is his heir, who will place him with his ancestors at the base of Felicita's Rose. It's been four hundred years since a Razin fell in battle, but we don't forget those protocols.

The outriders were scooping loose sand from the bottom of the ravine onto the edges of the pyre when Paval squeezed my hand to get my attention. "You can tell Her Ascendency it was fast, if that will bring her solace," he murmured. "His Majesty did not suffer long. You've little time to say your farewells, my dear, but this time is yours."

I wanted to keen and hold Uncle's broken body, to throw myself into the dying embers, but the grief around my heart seemed too large. If I let it leave my throat, it would rip everything else in me on its way out. Instead I found that new memory and stepped into it. The stars shifted back an hour, the moon rose again, and I stood twenty yards up the ravine, still damp from three hours ahorse and chilled in the winter desert night. I touched Uncle's face again, saw what he still clutched, and forced that sight to plant a seed of consolation. He never surrendered.

I shoved the ache deep inside. I lacked time to grieve for Uncle. The only person I love more is my brat, and this would half-kill Rien. I stepped out of the memory, looked hard at Paval, and begged his forgiveness. "I can't take this back to the Karsai," I said.

"She'll demand you share it," he said. "If you don't have it—"

"Paval, she's a civilian. She's never seen—"

"She's an Advocate and a High Justiciar, Laarens. She's not an innocent infant, and she's done two years of death investigation in her spare time. I assure you she has seen this and worse. Do you want me to take this memory because you think you can protect her, or because you need to protect yourself?"

I almost couldn't answer him, but I have a small stage in the back of my head. Many scenes have played there in my life, and this memory had already signed a long contract. Its permanence had nothing to do with making it inviolate. I could only muffle it if I gave it away. "For me," I said. "It's already turning the black key."

He nodded. "Hand it over." He cupped my jaw in both hands and breathed in as I exhaled the memory in a cloud of puissance. Then he took a copy of my key, a little tune that rattles around in the back of my head that I've never actually heard, but left the original.

With the fire out and dawn still half a sky away, the ravine had turned as black as the darkness of my worst nightmares and memory. Paval guided me a step or two deeper into the shadows and wrapped me in a lover's embrace. Is it survivable now? he asked.

"Barely," I whispered. "I'm not going to hang myself or ride my own pyre. Thank you, beloved."

You know it's temporary. At best, you've got two days until it begins to rebuild. You need a Mind Healer, not an Advocate. It'll hit you in dreams, just like every other —

"Ayuh," I whispered. Two days would give me time to insulate myself from the black despair. I've had twenty-three years of nightmares. This one would hurt. Ugly, sad, cruel. Ayuh. But no shame. No guilt. It wouldn't make my mind try to kill me, once I got past the shock. "I promised I'll tell you goodbye before I hit the pyre, Pav. Not going to change that now. I'll have to stay through the Coronation, but Cazerien will let me come back once that's over. A couple tendays. I'll get it back then. Anything you want from the city?"

"Always the optimist," he said. "All I ask is you go over to the Renaran Hospital between midnight and eighth. Ask for Mell Bruckides, my sister. She's their trauma Mind Healer. Tell her nightmares, black despair and Advocate's Privilege. She can work around your secrets. Let her help."

"I don't need a Mind Healer, love." And I don't.

I need an executioner and a Judicatura willing to let the Advocates General keep this. Because army justice is faster and less sticky about little things.

For the next couple days, I could breathe and think.

Who wants him dead? Spagna. The succession, even if it went as well as planned, would cause a year's chaos. People change slowly and after twenty-six years, they'd find Rien difficult to take.

Forty-seven bodies, seventy horses... this was well funded. At least forty men on excellent mounts. Spagna's Rania Alsarka is reputed to be fiendishly clever.

I built the ambush in my mind. The road hadn't been blocked, not that I could see in the dark, but it might have been.

A pile of sandbags that disappeared with the bandits? I need to see the site by day. What next? Block the road, they're coming fast, they don't see the block so they veer — maybe in that dip? They ran for almost four milliae so they were herded. I counted, and yes, all of the bodies were here, so they didn't make any shots before... unless the bodies were moved?

Hopefully, we didn't ruin the trail. I see the ravine in the dark, so they'd see it in daylight unless it was camouflaged. If so, the material was below the carriages. I need more light. Who?

Why burn the carriages? Spagnians don't burn their dead. They bury, polluting the earth and trapping the soul for eternity. I shuddered. A terrible fate. Spagnian cross bolts, but Galantieran cremation? Have they developed a conscience? Unlikely.

I've never seen Spagnians stop for the dead. Why burn them anyway? Whoever did this knew we'd learn soon. Not panic. They brought enough oil for three carriages. Not a case of a broken lantern, which wouldn't have been burning at noon. The entourage left Western Two just after seventh hour, when the road was light enough to see. Given the place, the ambush happened about four hours later. It took good planning. This desert's bitter, even in daylight, so everyone's muddled with cold, tired, cramped, bored. Four hours in, so just before a change of horses. The horses in harness would have been tired. Close to haven so ostensibly safe. Off the border, so doubly so. The sun would be in their eyes. Whoever planned this was no amateur. He had money, wits, patience and loyal, intelligent men.

Of Uncle's enemies, my parent tops that list. He's made low men rich and they'll follow him anywhere. He's clever, patient, and not poor. I don't know how wealthy since he can't show it, but I don't doubt he can buy many Teregenis.

I can hear you. Lock it down, Paval said inside my skull. Why kill Vohan? Mathes hates His Majesty, but Cazerien's a worse prospect for him —

I forced puissance into the battlements around my mind until Paval nodded. "Rien," I breathed. Was she the target? Her carriages, her horses, her guards. Vohan came at the last minute.

The only reason for a fire would be to burn evidence.

We rode hard getting here. Even our remounts remained still damp and weary. But we needed fresh hands, wagons, more light and tarpaulins. I sent the three freshest horses and their riders to Western Two. Paval directed the rest into preserving the site while gathering the bodies above by torch- and bottlelight. Half a dozen closed the road at each end while the rest of us counted bodies, checked wounds — crossbolts and slit throats — and slogged through the grim night. I coded a short message and gave it to the Evocator to relay to Western One for transmission to Cimenarum, keeping it obscure despite the encryption. Rien announces Uncle's death. Not me and certainly not some signal officer.

Why didn't Western Two notice? Because day fires aren't obvious, especially oil fires and a smolder. They don't smoke much and Western Two lacked watchers or Observers looking this way. Why would they look into our land? Galantier is the safe haven. Home.

Not anymore. 

# 27 Festivis, 1137 — Rien

I mechanically signed and sealed the succession documents as Regent until the Coronation. He's gone. He sent me a heliograph yesterday. How can he be dead?

At Priority One, Savrin had to be summoned. He slipped in shortly after dawn, surrounded by Royal guards and flanked by two priests in black and purple. He'd dressed in pure mourning black, save for his purple Lethian stole.

I did not want these priests of the god of winter, cold, decay and death near me. I didn't recognize the priests, but once Savrin went to them, he'd avoided the House of Galene, the government, everything about his natal family. He'd quit — or been removed from — the Exchequer's office, and petitioned my father to remove him from the succession. Da spent that evening alone in the Presentation Hall, sitting beside the thousand year old rose tree, where the ashes of the House of Galene are scattered, talking to Aunt Bella. Mourning the loss of his nephew.

"Ma'am, messages," the heliograph officer said.

One, in plain text, began North of. Which meant the coded message was first.

It wasn't short. The signal officers must have hated this, I thought wearily. I removed myself to the small study off the Privy Council room. Avah closed the door silently behind us, and when alone, she embraced me for a long moment. She couldn't help, but I squeezed back, then let her go. She faced the door while I decrypted.

Rien, I'm sorry. Do not share this with Council. Appears an ambush. Possibly meant for you. He didn't suffer. Will explain on arrival. Leaving half hour after sunrise. Send messages to Dastorian Ferry. Don't let the Prava do anything stupid. If you have anything to compel Metropolita to arrest and hold parent or Optimus use it now. Be more careful and more brilliant than you've ever been until I arrive. The ambush happened thirty milliae

Now I went to the plain text. North of Western Garrison Two, four milliae off Western Army Highway. 67 casualties, no survivors. Identification confirmed. Expected arrival Cimenarum 22 hours from transmission. Ra Mo Ra Vi.

The last glyphs stood for Razin mortem, Razia viviat, but the Porsirian phrase wasn't true. I wouldn't be Monarch until the Coronation. Assuming the Prava didn't interfere with the approved Orders of Succession, we faced a tenday regency.

We mourn with our labor, Da said when Aunt Bella died. The Monarch — or the Regent — isn't permitted private anguish; we grieve as we live — in public. People suffer if we withdraw from the world for a broken heart.

Da, you were wrong. I won't listen to water-rights debates. I'll just wish I was.

I burnt the decryption and took the plain text into the Privy Council. The Lord Chancellor looked up at me, his brown eyes heavy-lidded and sad. He and Da weren't just partners in Galantier's future. They'd been friends and he was more my uncle than Mathes.

"Do we know what happened?" The Minister of War asked. "Was it Spagna?"

"We don't. General Revinsel may know more when he arrives. He was pressed for time."

"Majesty—" the High Justiciar said.

"Not yet," I said. "Ascendency."

"Ascendency," he restarted, "is there evidence of a crime?"

I wanted to tell him, wanted his advice more than anyone. He asked me — Rien, not the Ascendara — to join the High Judicatura, our highest court, after I'd spent four years as an Advocate for the Ministry of Women and Children. He'd trusted me with part of Galantier's justice — I'm an excellent lawyer, but I became a stellar Justiciar. Now I'd have to repay his faith in me with a lie. "Again, I don't know. What the Lord Chancellor read is what I have."

"The other message — "

"Was private, from Laarens to Cazerien," I said. "I've nothing more." I hoped my weariness and barely contained grief let them believe me. The High Justiciar let it pass. If Laarens didn't wanted it shared, he doubted his suspicions. If we were wrong and arrested Teregenitor Prenceps Picarem and Teregenitor Optimus Tiwendar in error, we'd look like we were attempting an overthrow. Impatient heirs are not just found in sagas. Laarens asked about evidence — hoping we could arrest them so Perceptive investigators could read their minds.

I had circumstantial evidence filling rooms at the Metropolita. The Chancery couldn't quite connect my uncle to an unproved murder-for-hire gang in Cimenarum to an assassination on the western border without two or three tendays to sift it together and a half-dozen warrants for mental catalogues due to be issued next tenday. The accused held positions in several households who benefited from Mathes' influence. I saw connections, but would another? Now? In a matter of hours? I can't review the evidence now. The Regent isn't a Justiciar and I'm an interested party. Still, speak to the High Justiciar. Alone.

"You have our support," the Exchequer said. "We'll ensure the bills are paid."

"Thank you. If there are no further questions, let's adjourn until General — excuse me, Diat Ascendar Revinsel arrives. You may remain in the Karsai, but I expect nothing further."

"You must grieve," Savrin said softly.

Now I looked at him. "No. The people in this world still need leaders."

I did, though, weeping on Avah's shoulder in the privacy of my rooms while I was supposed to be changing into mourning. In my breastband and drawers, I sobbed like a tired toddler. How can I breathe without Da? I napped in his office as an infant. He started me studying law when I was three. He's been present for every day of my life and now he's gone.

I threw myself at whatever came to hand. Since nobody complained afterwards, I assume competence, but I don't recall what I did.

My guard knocked, then called, "Savrin sator Lethis, Tret Ascendar, seeks your attention, ma'am."

If I send him away, he'll just return. "Come." I closed the files.

He was alone. Avah withdrew to my bedroom, but left the door cracked.

"What do you want, Savrin?" I asked once he occupied the chair opposite my desk. I wanted that expanse of wood and stone between us. Not true. I want him in his Chapterhouse, ignoring Galantier like yesterday.

"Rien, you need the comfort—"

I opened my mouth to rage at him, but he held up a hand, not quite meeting my eyes. "The comfort of your family. I'd like to return to the Karsai for this difficult time."

"How many priests accompany you?" I asked, unable to be politic with him.

"None, if you prefer. I'm very sorry. I grieve, too. My Penitar has excused me from duties until... the future's resolved."

A cool phrasing. "Fine," I said. "Not on this corridor. After what you've done —"

"I deserve that," he said. "I've made my penance and I try to be a better man, but I've failed to make amends with you."

"Savrin, I am the least of those you've wronged. You're a Prenceps of Galantier, accountable to every citizen. Yet you discarded it like rubbish for an impetuous vow — then tried to convince Laarens and me, the only remaining Ascendars, to follow you. You weren't charged with treason only because Da believed everyone has freedom of conscience."

"The temporal world is dust compared to your soul, Rien. I don't want you damned when your time ends —"

"And you are welcome to believe that, but you may not impress your belief upon anyone else. I'm not Lethian. I'm Pantheist."

"The other gods are myths. The only unity in the universe is decay — everything falters. Not everything's wise —"

"When the practicalities of maintaining this nation are assured, we can discuss theology. Did you just come here to tell me you'll fulfill your duty and return to the Karsai?"

"You're hurting."

"Of course I am!" I cried. "My father's dead. Prayer and platitudes will not resurrect him."

"Let me help. I love you, Rien. That's never changed."

Somehow, I doubted that. The last several years had been one problem with Savrin after another. The vicious rumors about him and that Pronatia, then Lethism, ignoring his Exchequer work, his attempt to abdicate and his celibacy. The House of Galene has three bodies capable of passing the line to the next generation and he's wasting himself. I'd have one child, and unless Laarens left the Army and married, then again and again, he'd have none.

The last few generations had pruned the House of Galene down to the rootstock. Once, we'd been enormously fertile, until... something happened. We'd engaged scholars and Healers and only learned something in our blood now made us... almost poisonous. A woman could bear one healthy child, but her next would be a monster or she'd flood. My mother lost five babies after me. A man could father as many as he liked, but only each woman's first might live. My grandfather took three wives, the last utterly unsuitable but from an astonishingly fecund family. Salvia had born Mathes... and four yellow, bloated weaklings who died within days of their births. Only Archilia knew how many had foundered before she came to childbed.

Savrin must father a child or six — afterwards, he could wrap himself in his cult of the dead for all I cared. I'd happily raise his children... but instead, he wasted his potential. He'd taken his sixth vow already. The seventh would come next year, and required a sacrifice. Castration. "You must set aside your vow for a time, marry — "

"I can't," he said. "I'd do anything you ask save break my vow by bedding a woman I don't love."

"It's necessary," I said. "Galantier is more important than our personal desires. Don't be spoiled."

Our worst childhood insult momentarily struck him, then his priestly calm returned. "Galantier is the temporal world. It will fade into ash and nothing when the hand of Lethis descends upon us. That time approaches, cousin. Will you be swept into oblivion and darkness by denying him?"

"No theology," I said. "I live in the temporal world. I'll argue with Lethis when he appears."

"How do you know he's not here now?" He had that — vexing, smug — look of revealed confidence he'd worn since taking his vows.

"Have the Lethians declared you their prophet?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

"I'm no prophet," he said, but I heard his prevarication. My ingeniae aren't strong and I'm not the Perceptive my father was, but I'm an excellent lawyer. I know when someone lies to me. Savrin hadn't said what he believed to be the whole truth.

Another knock. "Message, ma'am."

"Savrin, if you're finished?" I said. "Take the second floor east or fourth north corridor."

"Thank you. I'm very sorry."

That was a lie — but he was trying to be polite. "Thanks."

It was a plain text, from Selardi. Post riding. Coming fast. Changing horses every thirty milliae, Laarens would cover the remaining two hundred in seven shifts. About twelve hours.

I wanted to ride with him, fast and hard, towards a goal, no matter how awful. It must be better than waiting, a distraction from grief at least. When I closed my eyes, I saw Da. I wanted one more conversation. There's so much left to say, to do.

His Ascendar's sword rested on the corner of my table, symbolizing the military power now resting in my Regent's hands. Its leather belt smelled of him, enveloping me in his sweat and soap, sandalwood and spice.

Laarens' coded message twisted a knife in my guts. Possibly meant for you.

Even lacking direct evidence, I knew. Part of Galantier didn't want a Razia, and some didn't want it so badly that four times in the last two years, someone had nearly achieved my death, not Da's. The Hermachians, Teandrians and Cleatarni all opposed my Ascension, and many Reformists followed one of those faiths. Mathes, Hermachian to a fault, publicly prompted their ideal Galantieran woman — unseen, unheard, making children for our future prosperity but not participating in it. He made my mother's self-imposed arram a virtue rather than... what it is. Sometimes I doubted he held true faith in anything save himself and cynically used belief to get his ends, but I wasn't convinced. I doubted Savrin's faith, and I was wrong.

The Lethians approve of nothing to my knowledge. The followers of the Four Sisters — Archilia, Cresaria, Iolantha and Fordea — all encourage women, and the Lunagans, Renarans, Corsari and Sardani were as egalitarian and pantheistic as the Four Sister faiths. An Archilian follower of the principle of wisdom who also worshipped the goddess of the forests and hunts was no heretic. They saw no conflict in a shepherd follower of Iolantha, goddess of the fields and harvests, bedding his lady-love under the full moon to honor Lunaga, or a blacksmith follower of the fire goddess praying to the god of the sun.

I told Savrin I've no time for theology, I told myself.

However, when one's every day is scheduled to the quarter-hour, one learns quickly that five minutes of concentration saves hours of distraction. The religious situation would distract me if I didn't give the political implications my attention. For a nation with eleven gods and a dozen syncretic faiths, we get along amazingly well. In Cimenarum, the temples cooperate, moving children between temple schools to ensure they get the best and most appropriate education for their talents, temperaments and Ingeniae; they share the charitable work and try not to overstep each other. They even ring their bells at appointed hours. But with eleven faiths, amazingly well isn't perfect harmony.

Especially since some sects believe their deity superior to the others. To my knowledge, only the New Order Lethians outright deny the others exist but the Cleatarni consider acknowledging any besides their thunder-god sinful. Same with the Teandrians and their double-headed god of balance.

Which causes difficulties for the House of Galene. A millennium ago, Razin Argent, Razia Doromilla and their Prava issued the Pantheon Proclamation, making all eleven gods equally valid, and established the Pantheists. The House of Galene and many Teregenis are dedicated in childhood to all the gods, not just one or two. It calms more conflict than it causes. In one very long tenday when I was six, I'd been washed in a Corsari pool, touched a Renaran flame, planted a tree for Fordea, sowed wheat for Iolantha, poured water for the moon for Lunaga, spun wool — badly — for Cresaria, been bathed naked in the sun's light — and been burned — for Sardan, and affirmed to Archilia.

I had not challenged the lightning for Cleatarn, had my tongue and finger nicked for Lethis nor been weighed for Teander. The ecumenical dedication offended them and the Hermachians, who were themselves a syncretic faith, evolved far beyond their origins in Archilian Sophism and Sardani sun-worship. They'd all refused me, despite blessing my father in the same rites twenty-three years previously, perhaps because of my gender, but more likely because my grandfather's long, prosperous reign gave them leisure to contrive controversy rather than attend practical matters. Privately, I'm a rather heretical Archilian; I follow the principle of wisdom and believe that wisdom leads to reverence for the goddess rather than the reverse, but publicly, I favor no god over another.

It hadn't mattered much when the heir to the throne was male, but it became a bone of contention when coupled with my childless, unmarried, overeducated woman's body. It apparently offended someone badly enough to want me dead.

Except they got Da instead. Years of his overprotectiveness saved me, but destroyed him.

I tried to return to the business at hand, but that damned dream still insinuated itself through my mind. So inappropriate given circumstances, but Da's long obsession with the probably dead Pronator Tiwendar plagued me as much as the politics of faith and gnawing grief and guilt. I can't say I didn't welcome the distraction from the pain eating my heart. 

# 1 Glacilis, 1129 — Rien

Savrin was absent when I arrived in Laarens' rooms, but my father just looked pointedly at the settle in Laarens' wreck of a sitting room while he spoke to Healer Geniris. I didn't sit, but I didn't approach the conversing adults, either. Part of me wanted to tidy the books, papers, boots and polish kits. Laarens doesn't pick up after himself and won't allow servitors in his rooms. I folded my hands behind my back and reviewed the forthcoming lecture.

"It's not serious," Healer Geniris reassured Da, with some asperity in her voice. "He's broken his collarbone and cracked a rib. His head's fine. The guards were merely cautious. I've strapped his shoulders to ensure the bones heal properly and given him solemnium for pain. He'll hurt for a few days. He just took a bad fall, Your Majesty. I've patched you of worse after your misadventures chasing leather balls down marble corridors."

The Razin of Galantier nodded and let her return to Laarens' bedroom. Da closed the door and eyed me. "Couldn't you and Laarens try a quiet hour reading?"

"I didn't mean to — " I sighed. "I'm sorry, Da. We didn't sweep the floor first and missed these." I pulled several bearings from my pocket.

He took them and frowned, then returned them. "I won't lecture you about this obsession with single combat, nor remind you that Laarens should have returned to his unit in five days and is now on the medical list and may face discipline from his commander. I shall not note that his body is Galantieran property which you have damaged. I won't even mention that proper procedure in the studio is to sweep before and after. What blades were you using?"

"The pot-metal flats." Soft blades, no edges nor points; they were as safe as swordwork could be.

His shoulders settled in relief. "Mask and chain?"

I nodded.

My father ran his hands through his silvering blonde hair, leaving the short strands in messy spikes before he smoothed them down. "At least you won't have time for this — nor a sparring partner — after next tenday. Where was Savrin?"

"On the bench. He and Laarens got their bout first. I had to sign those documents from Morning Audience."

My father frowned and seemed to listen, probably talking with Aunt Bella, Savrin's mother. "Savrin says he and Laarens didn't sweep when they arrived. They both know better. It's only a broken collarbone but Bellacera's unhappy with Sav. This is exactly the carelessness — Bells, that's excessive — yes, he is your son." Pause. "It is your decision." Pause. "Ayuh." He sighed again. That last hadn't been meant for me, but sometimes, when Da and Aunt Bella speak by Evocata, he voices his half of the conversation while he's speaking mind to mind with her. They practically live in each other's heads when they're not together, though that's most of the time. She's his second mind, pair of eyes and bears most of his Razia's duties.

Da returned to me. "Savrin was already confined to the Karsai for two tendays for skipping a literature paper, breaking curfew and not taking a guard into the city. Bella's justifiably vexed so she forbade him to attend the ball tomorrow. Laarens is an adult. I can't punish him, but he made his own. You, daughter, should have checked, but you reasonably assumed the boys did. Once again, natural consequences exceed my best efforts with you hellions." He folded his arms over his narrow chest and grinned. Smugly, like he'd just won a coup.

I'm usually quick, but I was worried about Laarens. It took me a moment. "Holy fire," I groaned. "That punishment doesn't fit the crime — Da, I'll have to dance with all those puppies."

His grin turned vulpine. "Next time, don't break your cousin." Then he sobered. "It could have been you. Today was yours to do as you wished, but I requested you do nothing to disrupt your Elevation."

I nodded, feeling my responsibilities, not only to my family, but to my nation. "We didn't plan it," I ventured.

"I know." He grasped my shoulders and kissed my forehead, then smiled down at me. I was forgiven. "Ask Bells how we spent our days before Elevation. I'm sorry the weather didn't cooperate. You three are much safer ahorse. At least it wasn't fire-dancing or mountaineering."

"You summoned me?" I asked.

He started to speak, then closed his mouth and listened to my aunt again. He shook his head. "Nothing important now. We sorted it."

"I hate that," I groused. My curiosity would gnaw on my liver.

He grinned. "Get used to it. I'll do it to you regularly. Bells and I have work to finish. We'll see you at supper, family quarters. Don't read all night. Tomorrow's busy."

I kissed his cheek as he collected his assistants — or guards, I'm never sure which — and left. A moment later, a servitor and Laarens' equerry left his room with the Healer. I ducked in, feeling terribly guilty. Laarens' so rarely home anymore, and to waste it under narcotics and bed-rest... I should have double-checked.

Laarens' dilated pupils made his eyes almost black under the solemnium haze. "Sorry, Brat," he muttered. "No dancing for me t'morrow."

"I get to keep you longer," I said and climbed into his bed. He pushed himself upright, then leaned against my chest. I rested my hands on his bound shoulder and sent puissance flooding into his body. I can't heal bones, but my Valenas can soothe bruises and swelling, of which he had plenty. We were quiet through several cycles before my ingenia made my vision sparkle, declaring itself off-duty. It's the best apology I have.

"Damn," he muttered. "Was gonna drag you to your first tavern. Had an introduction to make. He'll be in your Prava."

"I'll meet him tomorrow," I said.

"He's not swearing. Tiwendar's son."

I stiffened. "The Optimus? Has a son? Someone married him? Willingly?"

"Quin's not bad," he said. "Bright. Good'un to have at your back."

"You're certain you didn't hit your head? You haven't seen much of the Prava and the politics, but the Optimus hates me."

He frowned vaguely through the drug. "No. Reginal's in my parent's pocket. Don't think it's personal, Caria."

"You haven't heard them." The last year, around my studies and responsibilities, had been devoted to Prava hearings to confirm my Elevation to the Succession to the throne of Galantier. It hadn't been pleasant, mostly due to my sex.

The drug overwhelmed Laarens, but I only reached for the bellpull, then sent the servitor to my rooms for the file on my desk. I didn't want to leave Laarens, but I had to be point-perfect tomorrow, and I wasn't entirely certain I'd memorized the devices, names and oaths of those swearing fealty. For this, I could not use Advocate's Memory, because I must not look bored nor distracted with Curiars. I almost never use prosaic memories for anything important because Advocate's is far more reliable and doesn't fail me. But if I slipped even once tomorrow, I'd hear the repercussions for years. Most of the noise would come from Mathes, my father's half-brother and Laarens' parent. Da and Mathes despised each other long before Laarens and I appeared, but Laarens' birth, then mine four years later, had widened the rift. Da's adoption of Laarens in childhood made it unbridgeable.

Only Da's logic and the force of his long, successful reign had bent the Prava to his will. He'd built the succession intentionally, training me to be Galantier's administrator and final arbiter; his elder nephew and adopted son to see to the kingdom's defenses, and his younger nephew to oversee the treasury. Nonetheless, he'd needed two years of uphill battle.

The servitor returned and I submerged myself in the specifics of Pronator Savary's pledge. The courtyard window eased open and Savrin slipped inside. He vexed me. I'd anticipated the ball; with my cousins, I could escape those Curiars whose breeding left them bereft of sense and grace. "Shut that, he'll take a chill," I hissed, "and you're confined to your rooms."

"Lunaga's tits, nothing's secret here." Savrin closed the window and folded himself on the floor. "What my mother doesn't know won't hurt her. Is Laarens all right?"

"He'll heal. What Aunt Bellacera doesn't know mayn't hurt her, but you'll complain when she learns."

He made a contemptuous, eye-rolling face. "It was an accident."

That was a prevarication, almost a lie. But Sav has always lied when in trouble. Why should now be different? I dropped my papers and gazed at him. "Sav, don't you understand? Tomorrow, I'm an adult. Next year, you take your place in this kingdom, too. A half-million people rely on us. We can't be careless."

"I forgot. I'm sorry."

"You never used to be forgetful. If you're overworked — "

"That's rich, coming from you," he groused. "Pot, kettle, meet Cazerien."

"This isn't about me. If you're overworked now, we must account for that. It'll only worsen when you go to the Exchequer's office."

Savrin rolled on his back and stared at Laarens' ceiling. "The floor looked fine."

"The path of ease runs straight through the sewers to hell," I said.

"When I want my mother's words, I'll ask her for them," he said bitterly. "Are you in trouble?"

"I've my punishment," I said.

"I'm sorry. We had fun, until Laarens got hurt."

I smiled at my notes. "Ayuh. No more, though. After tomorrow, the Prava can censure my slightest transgression. Or perception of one."

"We won't get caught," he said, nodding firmly.

"We won't behave like barbarians."

Savrin snorted. "Glad you like your library. Uncle's never letting you out of his sight." He sat up and stole my pages. "Marry me. We'll produce a son, give him to a nurse, then your duty's done."

"Not this again." I leaned against Laarens' headboard and gazed at his furnishings, simple and solid, like him. I stroked Laarens' light hair, like my own, but short, as Savrin stretched himself across the foot of Laarens' bed. The three of us look more alike that some full siblings born to double-cousins. All bloodless blondes, grey-eyed and lightly built. We're only half-cousins; our parents are half-siblings. That's not too closely related to marry; the Prava's tried to marry me off to one or the other since I was thirteen. The idea nauseates me. "You've been inhaling paint fumes if you think bearing a child is my sole duty to this kingdom."

"Keep thinking like that, you'll work yourself sick again, Rien. Let's finish the big duty, and I'll care for you."

I didn't look at him. I knew what I'd see in his face and I didn't want this fight again. Not today. "No. I'll be Razia, not some decorative object. Test me on those, since you've stolen my papers. Pronator Alvan Kurzon. Tabard: gold with bar perpendicular red, hunting cat rampant."

He leafed through the sheaf, willing to play along. "Left or right facing cat?"

"Left. Supporting the western front, sixty armed and trained per year with ninety in reserve. Personal fealty to me and one fifth of his income in time of war. Pronator Corvin Paxular. Tabard: three dog-tooth points gold..."

# 27 Festivis, 1137 — Laarens

Two scourges drove the Founders to build the Karsai. They well remembered the Porsirian Empire's institutional, epidemic anarchy. And they barely survived the ash that blanketed the world and dimmed the skies and roiled the seas after Mount Porsir annihilated the Empire. They built the Karsai as our first and only true fortress, and to survive any blast, be it human, natural or disastrous. I have no idea how I'd put it under siege, but I'd start with several million arrows and a lake of fire oil. Marry an exterior cube of stone with deep, stone-grilled windows, narrow approaches, ramparts, and guard-towers. It rings a courtyard and the glass and mica-roofed Presentation and Curiars' halls. The exterior walls rise seven stories, but from inside, one can gain the courtyard ring roofs and still be secure and unobserved. On those roofs, Rien, Savrin and I played as children.

I knew where I'd find her. I'd brushed past the ministers and had not bothered to stop for warmth or water.

I nodded at her Captain and stood beside her. Rien's heavy, pale braid fell down her straight, narrow black back. Her smooth face gleamed white against her dark coat, her elbows propped on the parapet overlooking the Presentation Hall. Through the glass, I made out the shadow of Felicita's Rose. A few lamps burned beneath that ancient tree's spreading branches, but the Karsai stood dark.

"Savrin returned." She sighed.

I echoed her. She didn't need our problem child right now, but he needed to be here. "Leave him to me," I said. "You've enough worries."

"Laarens, don't be absurd. I can't leave him to you. He's an Ascendar of Galantier. He's necessary and he's my problem. I didn't catch him before he was too far gone."

"He concealed it from you —"

"I should've known. I was too absorbed in my work when he needed me."

"Brat, let it go for now."

She shrugged. "Tell me what happened."

I wrapped myself around her so her back pressed into my front and my lips were at her ear. "An ambush. The Western Army highway was blocked and forced his entourage off the road. About three milliae off the curve, something happened and the entourage sped up. They tried to cross a ravine that had been camouflaged with sand-covered tarpaulins and fell into it."

"You said he died fast."

"A cross-bolt in the eye."

"In my closed carriage —"

"He had his bow in hand. He died fighting them off."

"Idiot," she whispered. "They should have returned to Western Garrison Two at the detour. He knew better. He would have been warned of legitimate detours. But no, let's be brave and stupid."

"He was warned of a legitimate block. The highway crosses the same ravine that caught him. The bridge was under repair. They were supposed to cross the ravine at a natural bridge -- the tarpaulins would have looked much like it, given their speed and the time of day. The road crew repairing the regular bridge never noticed."

"How could the repair crew not hear —"

"They were using a steam engine to pound new piers into the earth and the fuel oil for the engine masked the smell of burning. I checked."

"Thank you," she said. "I want your memories."

"I don't have them." Paval had been right. Of course she would ask. I'd spent most of the ride here working out just this reasoning. "We are not the Chancery or the Advocates General. We will not attaint their work."

She started to argue, her professional hazard. Then she stopped. "Bloody hells. Who has them?"

"Paval quan Bruckides and one of his Ingeniae Corps apprentices. He promised transcripts as soon as they can get here, but he also sent this to you, Majesteria. Stop joggling our elbow. He strongly suggests you let the other Advocates work."

"No worse patient than a Healer, no worse victim than a lawyer," she said. "Mother of Wisdom, Laarens, it should have been me."

"Don't," I said. "He chose to come, and he didn't murder himself."

"Do you know who did this?"

"No," I said. "I suspect either Spagnians or from within Galantier."

"That doesn't help." She pulled away from me. "You brought him home?"

"Yes. We had to... finish his pyre. I brought the ashes once they cooled."

"We'll hold the scattering.... after everything else. We haven't time now."

"Rien, cry."

"If I start, I'll never stop," she said. "I've too much to do. The Optimus, the Minister of War and the Chancellor want to start the Succession discussion tomorrow. If this was Spagnian -- they believe it's possible -- that's an act of war and we can't afford delay. I can't disagree. Was it Spagnian?"

I studied her. Fatigue and grief reddened her eyes and made them too large in her pinched, drawn face. She held her chin high, her mouth firm. She didn't want certainty, just my opinion. I shook my head.

"No hard evidence?"

"Not yet."

She sighed heavily. "Go to bed, Laarens. We've a long day tomorrow."

"You, too."

"Soon. I need to tell the Ministers we know nothing more and send them home." She walked away. I started to follow, but she shook her head. "No. Go."

I heard her in the hall just after I left my bathry wearing old, worn, clean night linen. Rien always moves quietly, but a half-dozen guards don't. She held herself together, but too tightly. Sometimes I admire my brat's control. She always puts the nation first, always thinks logically before she'll let her heart react. But she squashes herself. I doubt it's always good for her.

Our bedrooms share a wall. When the halls fell silent, I tapped, in our childhood code, Are you awake?

No, she tapped back.

Want company?

No, she tapped, then after a moment, yes.

# 28 Festivis, 1137 — Rien

When I dozed off, Da was there, saying something I couldn't hear. I couldn't reach him, he couldn't hear me, I couldn't find him.

Laarens beside me, his arms around me, didn't help. His presence should have been solace, but his sweat, his soap smelled like Da. Even their shapes and temperatures are similar, both always warm, almost fevered. Then that blasted dream came again. Fine, I told my rebellious mind. Take me through whatever you want me to remember, but just the memory. No embellishment.

It cooperated. Ethene, former nurse, now my father's companion, fussed with the thousand yards of gold-embroidered blue silk swathed about me. I hated the gown, utterly unlike my long wool coats and narrow skirts. The scant bodice hugged my body and lay low over my breast, and unless the temple and the Curiars' Hall were better heated than normal for midwinter, my almost naked arms would match the azure skirt in moments. If I can't have wool, why couldn't I have been born at Midsummer instead of six tendays before Spring?

The gold lace sleeves itched and I couldn't conceive how I was supposed to walk without tripping in a skirt that billowed from a million tiny pleats at my waist. At least the seamstresses had given me an illusion of a woman's shape. That's part of the point of this exercise in excess — proving my nubility. Thank all Eleven Gods the midwives disagree. Marriage. Why would anyone bother?

Ethene smoothed a brush through my hair one last time. The ridiculous mass, never cut, had been washed and combed dry this morning, and fell straight and unbound to what would be hips on someone blessed with them. It warmed my back and neck, a small consolation, but would be in my way all day long.

One of the ladies newly attached to my household tapped on my door and said, "His Valor, Teregenitor Commander Revinsel, requests admission."

I rolled my eyes at the new formality. Only yesterday, Laarens could wander into my rooms, shout about our most recent argument, or drag me from my books for an hour's ride or swordwork. As of today, my sixteenth birthday, that ended until I reached twenty, legal adulthood for all citizens. Da had promised I could then order my household to suit myself, but until then, I had to try the Curia. "Come," I said.

The Healer had bound his arm and he moved stiffly, but he looked steady enough. "There's a Prazia under the brat after all." He gave me a small box. "Congratulations."

"For surviving your influence this long?" I stepped away, ignoring Ethene's protests, to open the box. "Ethene, it snarls when I move anyway." On a bed of wool lay a fine pen. Ribbons of blue and gold flakes spiraled through the glass from nib to the bulb at the end, where a blue and gold rose bloomed eternally under glass. My sigil, a stylized crown and wheat sheaf, had been carved into the bulb to serve as a seal-press. "Thank you," I said and put it on my worktable. "I'll use it daily."

"Good, write me. I got my orders today," he said. "I'm on border patrol."

"Oh." The delight in the gift — more useful than the furniture, tapestries and caged birds that had been arriving for the last tenday — evaporated. "Be careful and be brilliant."

"Always, and I'll be here until I heal. Ready?"

"No, but it's time." I avoided his bruised ribs as I threaded my arm through his and went to my fate.

The investiture in Hermache's Hall went as expected — started late, cold hall, no fumbles nor forgotten lines — but three-quarters of the way through the oaths of fealty, disaster almost struck.

Pronator Watable's next, but he's red and white. Who's the green and blue lackwit who bloody can't count? Events like an Elevation are scripted to the second, planned tendays in advance. As the young man with dark chestnut hair and a defiant expression on his face approached the dais, his tabard's symbols came clear: three balls, silver. Tiwendar.

I'd been trained since I was old enough to understand to hold my face impassive under duress, but this made no sense. I'd known who would be swearing to me for six tendays. It's impossible to add someone at the last moment so he must be a threat, and with his father, how could he not be?

I'd have to rely on my guards. I twitched my fingers in the subtle, silent sign for them to stand ready. I'm utterly defenseless standing here, though I'm not half-bad with a sword, but would the Prava grant me an Ascendar's Sword? Certainly not. They'd grudgingly accepted a woman might eventually, someday, in the far future lead Galantier, but an armed one had sent them half-way to apoplexy. Stupid, in my opinion, but they hadn't asked me. Really, who's more likely to need to defend herself, a strapping lad of eighteen stone or eight stones of tall, skinny me? Utter nonsense.

I was approaching high dudgeon at the Prava when Laarens caught my eye from his position in the first rank of the already sworn Curiars. Tense and alert, he shrugged with his good shoulder and made a fist of his good hand, thumb pointed up. He didn't understand either, but he didn't consider this a threat.

Had I not been controlling of my expression, I'd have scowled at him. I dropped my chin a scant fraction and let one eyebrow rise a little. He caught my skepticism and shrugged again. True, that meant. His eyes shifted to my guards. Yes, that's why they're here.

Quirin, my father said in my mind, from behind my left shoulder. He's swearing full fealty.

I clenched my teeth so my jaw wouldn't drop. Fairies are more likely than Quirin Tiwendar swearing full fealty. But Da can't be wrong...

The Pronator knelt before me and held his sword above his head, like the others had done. I took it and kept surprise and irritation from my voice. "What do you request?"

"Fealty."

"How do you pledge?"

He placed his hands between mine on the flat and looked up, locking his gaze on mine. Blue eyes, the margins rimmed in a near black, bored into me. "To thee I pledge mine wealth, mine arm, mine mind, mine heart ent mine eye, that I might defend thee from all who would do thee harm, that I might reason ent preserve thy justice, that I might love ent preserve thy goodness, that I might see unrighteousness ent correct it in thy name. So do I pledge, Quirin sune Mathilde et Reginal, Pronator Tiwendar."

My mouth went dry. He hadn't just sworn fealty, he'd sworn the old, comprehensive fealty. By tradition, I, Rien, not the Prazia Prima Ascendara, now owned him, not that I'd act on it. Of those swearing fealty to me, only Laarens swore this way; even Savrin defined his responsibilities in terms of his lands and service to the office. I wish I could talk to Da as easily he speaks to me. This makes no sense! But refusal would be a political disaster with six hundred people watching.

I swallowed and said my part. "I accept thy pledge of fealty. For thy faith, thou shalt have only to please me in thy endeavors. No other may command thee nor ask thee for tribute. Should thou be troubled, I shall ease thy way and defend thy honor, for thy honor is mine. Should thou be destitute, thou shalt have lands from my holdings and wealth from my coffers. So I pledge, Cazerien Alzandra Lyria dat Vohan descendara Galene." I bent and kissed the blade between my hands. Before I straightened, I whispered, "Kiss the blade and rise. Face me." They all need prompting. I held the blade point down and rapidly worked the mental angles. No, I couldn't glare at him without everyone in the hall noticing. "You bear a blade of my hand. Use it in justice and defense of this realm." I dismissed him, but I wanted him alone in the studio to beat him bloody with his own blade. This birthday's been coming for oh, sixteen years and he decides now?

The dream shifted, as it always did, skipping the remainder of my new liegemen and the reception, to the ball. Laarens couldn't even manage a staid pavin, so we sat together on the settee at the top of the room when his turn on my list came. "Glad I'm not your unexpected liegeman," he murmured. "I haven't seen my honorable parent this bent on murder since Uncle adopted me."

"What's he dragged me into?" I said, barely moving my lips. "Now he's my responsibility. Should I find him a place in my household or may I kill him myself?"

"Be kind, Brat. He's not a bad sort. But you maybe needn't worry; he might be dead before First Summer's Night."

"In such a way it's not clear murder so we can't charge his father, hm?" I said sourly and looked away from the dancing Curia. "Thanks for staying."

"There's music here and I'd hurt just the same sitting in my rooms," he said, his eyes half closed. "Work on Savrin, will you? These lies must stop."

"Lies?"

"I swept." Laarens' eyes met mine. "And checked the weapons. I don't know how pommel weights got on the floor, but I didn't put them there and you wouldn't. That leaves one person."

My mouth went dry. I sipped my cassia water. "It had to be a prank," I muttered.

Laarens' eyebrows rose briefly, then fell. "He's back to the War College next tenday anyway. They'll beat that out of him. For my sake, don't spar with him."

"He's no challenge anyway," I agreed, but I couldn't fathom why Savrin would play such a prank. Despite pot-metal blades and armor, it could have been deadly.

"I think it was just stupidity, but talk to him. He hears you."

"When he wants to listen," I said.

"Work on Uncle, too. I want you to visit the western front, in a half-year or so."

I laughed. "Laarens, going to a playhouse is now an expedition of twenty guards and two tendays of inquiry. Da won't let me near the front at the height of battle season."

"You should be there."

"Along with a thousand other things I can't do." I bit back my frustration, but I kept my voice soft and my face expressionless.

"Try?"

"Yes," I sighed. "Time for another puppy." I raised my voice to the lady keeping my dance card. "Allaine, who's next?"

"Pronator Tiwendar, ma'am."

I suppressed my annoyance.

"At least he'll go to his pyre titillated," Laarens snickered. "Next piece should be a Natavian galliade. Nice little thrill for him."

"Laarens!" I snapped.

"Tall as he is, with those steps, he'll look down your dress. When his face isn't pressed—"

"Tongue between your teeth, Scruff," I hissed as blood rose to my cheeks.

"Ancestors, you're squeamish. You know you need to bear us an heir?" he teased.

"I'm not discussing this with you." I spun and descended the dais to wait for my inconvenient new liegeman.

Laarens was wrong, of course; the Pronator kept his eyes fixed on my diadem and trod my feet. Perfectly correct, his hands barely touched my waist as we went down the hall, two steps, a kick and dip, a spin, then it repeated all over again. Pronator Tiwendar said nothing and I didn't try to draw him out, until the reversal at the far end of the hall. Then I saw his father.

My inconvenient Pronator didn't resemble his father; grey frosted the elder Tiwendar's muddy brown hair, his square frame was running stout and stooping unlike his gangly beanpole son, but his wide, square face was crumpled. His jaw muscles stood out as he ground his teeth. His hands knotted into fists. Anyone else, I might have thought he was holding back tears, but Teregenitor Tiwendar wouldn't cry. That's rage. Maybe my black jests with Laarens aren't jests at all.

I thought quickly, aware of the political bomb this man had forced into my hands. Both sons of my father's chief opponents were my liegemen. I've been in the midst of our family quarrel all my life; I need no more fronts to defend. Yet Pronator Tiwendar had placed himself under my protection and the Royal House bears the ultimate responsibility. I've always known I'll have to navigate these waters; I just hadn't expected it so soon. I can't convince him now — we're halfway down the hall. "Can I trust you to get discreet directions to the private quarters?" I asked as he lifted me.

His eyes unlocked from my diadem to meet mine. Still defiant, and now haunted. "Yes, Ascendency. I know where that is." We circled, his face awfully close to my neckline.

"The library is the fourth door on the left. Meet me there just before supper. In the far left corner of the room, there's a door to my private study. Ignore the mess. Try to be unobtrusive. Today's password is geographer, you must use it in a sentence, you'll need it four times, but you may use the same sentence."

"Yes, Ascendency." He looked terrified.

I took pity. "I don't bite. Well, only when I'm pinned."

That, if anything, increased his anxiety. Humor, not his strongest attribute. I bit back a hiss as he fumbled the drop and his cheek stroked from my breast up my neck. Slightly scratchy. I tried to think of something reassuring, but came up empty and a moment later, was moving through a rondo with someone married to one of my mother's ladies.

As midnight approached and the pause between the dancing and supper began, I accompanied Laarens to his rooms. My guards trailed behind so we could converse privately.

"What did you say to Tiwendar?" Laarens asked. After I told him, he shook his head. "What's your plan, brat?"

"I need an assistant. Seems a bit humorless, but... You're sure he's... reliable?"

"Ayuh," he said. "We were at College together. He's good to have at your back. I trust him with mine, and I trust him with yours. He's smart. Keeps his counsel. You're worried about him?"

I nodded. "Did you see his father's face?"

He scowled. "Ayuh. If Quin's reluctant, send him to me. I'll wait up a while."

"Thanks." I had a half-hour before I must return to the hall. Several enclosed lamps dimly lit our private library, but I saw light from neither mine nor my father's studies. I took a lamp into my disaster.

I knew immediately nobody'd entered. I'm usually tidy, but I'd been preparing for my Advocate's examination for six tendays. Open books covered every surface, stacks of paper hid the long worktable, and drafts littered the floor. Tunics, coats, two formal gowns, breeches and shoes lay in a heap by my desk. I'd worked nearly every waking hour; had someone cleaned in my absence, something would have been moved. I'd passed the examination, but hadn't let my librarian in. I stuffed my clothing under my desk, then closed books and ordered papers as I circled the room, lighting lamps as I went. There'd be no hint of an improper assignation — I'd leave the door open with the guard watching a bright room.

Had Quirin Tiwendar put a toe in here, I'd have known; the only chair not holding a text or commentary was at my desk. Still, I checked the hidden door to my rooms — locked. Did he find my goatpen too disgusting and decide to wait in Da's study? Or just get turned around?

My father's study stood empty, too.

I'll wait, but the guards can be useful. I grasped my captain's sleeve at my door. "A liegeman should've met me here. He's not arrived. His safety is... um... perhaps compromised?"

Simin's not stupid and he'd been with me all day. "Pronator Tiwendar?"

I nodded.

"I'll have Ranev check the Karsai logs and Haren can find him if you wish, ma'am."

"Please." I closed my door and dived under my desk for walking shoes. Dancing slippers look elegant, but they don't protect one's toes. I stood to check the hem. They'd show. So my blue embroidered feet became black leather. As I buttoned them, I wondered if I could convince someone in the armory to make me steel lined shoes before the next ball. Dance floors are as close to a battlefield as I'll ever come, so best be armored.

I took the top file from the stack the Minister of Women and Children had sent. Advocate's certificate or no, I had much to learn before I began my apprenticeship.

I was deep in the intricacies of an adoption case when someone tapped on my door. Three taps, four, then two. A guard. "Come."

Simin stepped through the door. "Pronator Tiwendar left the Karsai an hour and a half ago, ma'am. With Teregenis Haelens and Klept, Pronator Darasin, Teregenia Klept and Pronatiae tret Klept and diat Haelens."

Those were younger members of the Prava or Curia. "Not his father?" I affirmed.

"No, ma'am. Teregenitor Tiwendar is still here. You've a quarter hour before supper, ma'am."

"Thank you. I'll be out shortly."

I studied the linen map of Galantier pinned to the wall behind my desk. Tiwendar, in the northeast Uplands, would be beautiful, productive and fertile, but hard living. It's too wild, blanketed by the Magna Foreti that stretches to the northern ice. On my exceptional map, the Foreti is blank, an ancient forest so thick and dense we'd never mapped more than the rivers. We couldn't. We'd need hundreds of surveyors and Observers, and we never have enough people for our 500,000 dry, mountainous square milliae. We've just enough people to keep the land we have, but the upland's virtually empty compared to the south. A whole langreve like Tiwendar might number a thousand, while in the south one would find larger villages.

I opened the Prava book, the summary of the Prava's decisions and discussions. That's one good thing about my Elevation — I'd now vote on the Prava instead of just observing or reading these notes. Then again, the men who make up the Prava range from moderately skeptical to utterly appalled by me. No woman has sat on the Prava in almost five centuries. Not that I'd have much time around my apprenticeship. Da would hold my proxies for probably three-quarters of the twenty-six tendays a year the Prava was seated. That's the price of being a small nation — without sensible ways to work out disagreements and a fraction of our people dedicated to running the country, we won't have one to run. We're small, so we must be organized and clever. The official motto of Galantier might be From Ash, Probity, but the unofficial one is Plan First.

I paged backwards until I had my fingers stuck in four different places. How did those companions of my new liegeman vote on factional issues? If they were part of Teregenitor Tiwendar's Reformist faction, Quirin Tiwendar might be as endangered with them as if he'd left the Karsai with his father.

As I read, my concern for his safety eased. Haelens and Klept voted against the Reformists three times out of four, and Darasin's father had split his votes. Further, Haelens' aunt is my father's companion, and Elvir wouldn't make difficulties for Da. I checked the map again. All three langreves bordered Tiwendar: Darasin to the southeast, Klept to the southwest and Haelens directly south. That's reasonable. Pronator Tiwendar's probably known them all his life. That Darasin and Klept weren't Reformist surprised me since they did border the Optimus' own langreve. Had they been, they'd never vote against the Faction. My uncle and Teregenitor Tiwendar ruled it absolutely.

Interesting. Mention that to Da. The Reformists worried him, and those three could be the lever he needed to break my uncle's support. Da didn't trust his younger half-brother, not after what he'd done to Laarens.

I closed the books. Pronator Tiwendar'll probably be fine. I checked my schedule, found a free half-hour, then wrote an invitation and dropped it in the outgoing post. He'll come to me, hopefully, if he finds himself imperiled before that. I could force him to accept my aid, but that felt like the action of the spoiled child I'm so often accused of being. Still, it stung a little, to offer assistance and have it rejected. I may be a girl, but I'll be Razia someday. That counts for something.

Near dawn, I extricated myself and brooded alone, in the dark. The dream had revealed nothing new, and my heart ached twice.

All my fault. I should have fought Da. Had I assigned a legal clerk to assist Da in building the Prava argument, he'd be alive. I wouldn't have taken Hamil to the border. Da, forgive me. I'm so sorry.

How do I bear this? Da wouldn't fade from my world. How do I follow you? How do I rule alone? You planned another apprenticeship, with me at your side.

I bathed and dressed alone, in a narrow black skirt and a long black coat over a plain, high collared white shirt. My sash seemed too bright against the darkness, and my diadem would be far too festive, but they'd be required for the Prava session. My hair loose over my shoulder, I curled into my window seat and stroked one of my cats as the sun slowly lightened the eastern sky. A gorgeous clear day, but the sky should be black.

He's not gone, he can't be. Oh, gods, how do I tell Ethene? Da and Ethene were closer than most married couples, and had been for all of my life. She's more my mother than the woman who bore me, but she'd spent midwinter with her family at Haelensel, and didn't plan to return until just before Da was due. Worse... I won't tell her, she'll learn from the broadsheet. I had Da's death announcement in my files, as he'd had mine and Laarens', because things do happen; I'd sent it for printing just before I went to bed. By now, Royal Messengers were carrying copies to every community in the country and the heliograph stations would transmit it at dawn. I could send her a flash message, but that's horrible, so perfunctory. I must send a rider. Now.

As for my mother... Her companions would break the news better than I could. Considering her health, they might keep it from her. Mumma's... fragile.

I'm unsure what I wrote to Ethene, but I know I wrote, Father is dead. She knew me well enough to know if I wasn't rational, I couldn't be.

So many details. Who else must be told personally? Gresev, the Karsai armorer, should have been told, but he already knew. He and Da were close. The Rose and Branch of Archilia to arrange the funeral and scattering, the heads of the other temples...

All my responsibility. Once, when I had time to read sagas for pleasure, I'd read about a fantastic kingdom where the Ministers and Monarch never met. Where children were sent away at birth and never knew their parents. They'd done so because the kingdom was wracked with assassins and it was better if when someone died, those who had to work best didn't have their hearts broken. The story had been horrible — most of the assassins were children deprived of parents — but for an instant, I envied them.

"Brat," Laarens said sleepily.

"Over here."

"We'll be all right." He sounded utterly certain from the darkness.

"Hm?"

"Don't question it. I can't explain it. You know how my ingeniae work." Now, he just sounded annoyed.

In other words, normal. My skeptical Laarens hated anything he couldn't weigh, measure and test. Mysticism drove him wild and ingeniae are little more than mysticism. We don't understand how they work, just that they do, for the third of us who bear them. Laarens' — and mine — were insignificant compared to Da and Aunt Bella, but sometimes he sensed how something would turn out. Though he can be wrong. "If you're awake, slugabed, we've a battle to fight."

# 28 Festivis, 1137 to 10 Alglidis, 1137 — Laarens

That morning began the longest fourteen days I'd yet lived. Rien, Savrin and I took our places with the Prava and almost from the first, I knew it would go badly. The Prava drowned in their shock. Teregenis I thought cold and brusque wept openly. They seemed drunk on grief, bereft and bewildered. They would have sold their own children to Farenze to know what happened. I didn't know. Paval and my opposite number at Western Garrison Two continued their investigations. Metropolita investigators had already traveled west, but simple facts remained: Vohan was dead, and he planned to elevate Rien to co-regnant Razia in the spring.

The prefix stalled the Prava. They'd agreed to Rien's coronation while Vohan lived because whomever she married would not be Razin and they needn't elevate her Consort. Now, most of the Prava seemed convinced the assassination was a Spagnian act of war. They faltered at the idea of a woman and her as yet undetermined husband ruling us. A woman with neither military experience nor official training. The Monarch holds two offices: the Raz Civitata, the civil Monarch, and the Dux Martiale, the War Duke. In Galantier's long history, no woman has ever held both seats in wartime. The last sole Razia of Galantier had died five centuries back. Eliseth ruled benevolently enough to be called the Just, but she never declared war.

The days blended together as they debated the possibilities — selecting Rien as co-regnant with me, or Savrin. Or me, alone. Then the Royalists woke from their daze and argued for her, as Uncle wished. That started the battle.

Always, my parent watched from the north gallery. At first, he rarely spoke. He kept his expressions neutral, but I knew better. He exuded satisfaction, like one of Rien's cats in the fishpond. The Judicatura couldn't link Mathes to Uncle's death, but he convinced me. My parent set that trap.

When he did speak, I knew. We can't afford a single woman, no warrior, on the throne now. What if she marries? What if she doesn't? We're not just discussing this year, but the next decade, perhaps half-century. The Prima Ascendara is very young, how can she lead Galantier alone? He sowed uncertainty about her, always in the guise of protecting his tender niece.

He edited the reality he presented. Rien, at nearly twenty-five, is older than half of Galantier's Monarchs at their Coronation, including Uncle, and far better educated. Further, no Monarch has been anywhere near battle since we've been fighting Spagna. In point of fact, no Monarch has led Galantier in war in three hundred years, and that was a civil war, to depose the mad Razin Gadrick. And in further point, that monarch was a woman, Renea, though assisted by her husband, Eduar, and Renea was not been the decorative sort of Razia. She ruled, and did so well.

Rien and the Royalists argued those points, but to me, it felt as if no one in the room heard. Odd undercurrents made the whole Prava seem off-balance, perhaps unbalanced, and every time I came close to understanding, some emotional tide seemed to shift. It felt subtle to the point of insignificance. Initially, I thought I imagined it, or just misunderstood. I have ducked this responsibility almost comprehensively. But when I mentioned it to Rien over a late supper on the second day, she concurred. Not happily.

They barely mentioned Savrin. His celibacy virtually eliminated him. He wouldn't be sole Razin because of it. He only spoke when questioned, and only briefly. He always seemed to support Rien.

By the third day, though, I listened to him carefully. Art of war, maxim nineteen: War depends upon deception like trees depend upon the earth.

The Prava had proposed Rien and I as co-regnants, with me taking the Dux Martiale while she reigned as Razia Civitata. They argued now about the form of that reign — as siblings or a married pair? The latter twisted my guts. I'd sooner bed my horse than my cousin. Perverse? Ayuh. Incestuous? Never.

"Perhaps the Tret Ascendar wishes to marry Prazia Cazerien?" Teregenitor Ruteri said. No discussion of what Rien wants. Nor did he use her honorific. Not good.

"Does the Tret Ascendar wish to comment?" The Optimus asked.

Savrin stood. 'My cousin believes marriage between herself and either myself or my honorable cousin to be irresponsible. Though a marriage might be legally and ethically sound, she disapproves of any match which the midwives consider ill-advised for her future children, as did my beloved late uncle. I doubt her hand will be forced as she seems quite dedicated to her single state. Further, while for the good of Galantier I would put aside my vows of celibacy for a time, I could not discard entirely my faith and my cousin's... faith is incompatible with mine."

The little bastard. He insinuated that Rien didn't intend to marry, that she's disastrously stubborn, that if forced to wed, her children wouldn't be those of her lawful husband, and that she's heretical. I'll kill you when I get you alone.

Rien tensed beside me, but she held her impassivity, just like always in Prava chambers. She'd heard it.

The days wore on. We came to votes at least once a day, but never assembled the three-quarters plus one agreement the succession requires. We came close, on the tenth day, when they voted to elevate us as sibling Razin and Razia and both marry others. We had seventy-seven of the necessary eighty votes. Only the Reformists opposed us, but they opposed us entirely. We couldn't win without three Reformist votes, and they vote as a block.

I know I dressed, ate and slept during that long debate, but I don't recall it. I know Ethene arrived and stayed near Rien and me, but I don't remember what we said. I know she returned to her Cimenarum townhouse, but I couldn't say when. Bravura, the nastiest-tempered but strongest horse I've ever owned, finally arrived, and I paid her bruised hostlers very well, but I saw her only briefly each morning and evening. I was entirely focused on the Prava and relearning everything I'd ever forgotten about it.

During a short recess on the twelfth day, the Optimus turned to Rien and me. Savrin had gone, probably to the bathry. The rest of the Prava either milled about in the galleries or out in the hall, raiding the provision baskets. "I have a proposal," he said, "but I want your agreement before I present it. This wrangling doesn't investigate His Majesty's death, nor secure the country."

"I'll hear it, but I promise nothing," Rien said. "The study, please."

Once enclosed in the study, the Optimus looked uncomfortable. "Please realize I want General Revinsel returned to the West. We need able officers there, not wasted here. Thus, I oppose measures that deprive us of his talents. Further, Ascendency, I respect your administrative and legal skill, but we're going to war. You've never been west. I doubt you can effectively lead us in this trying time."

"Go on," she said. A few fine hairs stood on the nape of her neck. That told me she was furious, though her voice and posture didn't show it.

"His Worship's only detriment is his celibacy," the Optimus said. "He's young, but his military training and education are sound, and his celibacy may be beneficial. He won't be torn between Galantier and his private life like His Majesty. I observed the partnership His Majesty shared with Her Splendor Bellacera. She was Razia of Galantier in all but name and I believe, far more effective because she lacked the title. I propose we follow that pattern, elevate Tret Ascendar Savrin to Razin, and leave you as his Prima Ascendara, with General Revinsel as Diat Ascendar. Your children will be his heirs, and because you shan't be thrust immediately into the necessities of the Monarchy, you'll both have leisure to both grieve and marry. I know you're more attached to His Majesty than His Worship."

"Optimus, with all due respect," she said, "I cannot prevent you from proposing that, but it's disastrous. Savrin's not the Monarch we need. He's entirely wrapped in his faith. He's no strategist, won't consider the long-cycle of the world like my father did. He's... cold. He doesn't well balance compassion and expedience. He's no arbiter and doesn't understand that great responsibility accompanies power."

"Savrin attended the War College," I said, "but his instructors weren't impressed. Cazerien had the same instruction in military history, tactics, strategy and personal combat. She lacks unit experience, but the Monarch hardly needs it. Savrin spent the hours, but Cazerien got the education and skills."

"You're both missing the point," the Optimus said. "Her Ascendency will rule. Through His Worship. We know Savrin sator Lethis is no Razin. However, neither are you, Laarens. The Reformists haven't forgotten your shouting matches with Teregenitor Prenceps Mathes. They mistrust your temper, and without their support, we'll be here until the moon falls into the sea. Frankly, Your Ascendency, you're almost untried."

"Save for reigning beside my father and in loco regentatis on his behalf for the last eight years, Optimus," Rien said. "Did you call my father untried? My grandfather refused to allow my father or his siblings any authority, and the Prava of that day refused to grant a regency despite my grandfather's years of ill health. And yet, my father was easily crowned."

"I was not then a member of this body," he said without inflection. "That precedent is immaterial to the matter at hand. Your father was then the sole elevated Ascendar, he was married and your mother anticipated your imminent arrival."

"In translation, Optimus, what matters is my wedded state, and my experience or lack thereof is immaterial to the Reformists. As, too, it seems to me, the nation's expected continuity of government, or the succession plans that my father filed and the Prava approved in 1129, 1131, 1132 and 1135."

He seemed puzzled for the next long moment, as he watched her watch him. Then he turned to the sideboard and poured water into three glasses. He raised the first to his lips and tasted it before handing it to Rien, then repeated it with the second before handing that one to me. The ritual came from an ancient Porsirian courtesy, who had long experience with poisonings. For us, it became an obeisance. The giver symbolically volunteers to share the recipient's fate, no matter the consequences. It's deeply intimate, an honor only between close friends, long allies or relatives. I didn't know what to do with the glass. The gesture seemed not just unexpected, but out of place.

Rien studied the rim for a moment before raising it to her lips for the ceremonial response. I followed her lead, accepting the gesture of good faith. "Thank you, Reginal," Rien said quietly, using the Optimus' given name.

"And to you, Cazerien," he said. "May I ask a question that will probably sound insulting?"

"I will attempt to remain unoffended," she said, nodding.

"Have you examined the records on those four succession approvals closely?" he asked.

She nodded. "Both at the time and in recent review. I do recognize the alteration. A succession plan vote is a simple majority by the individual body. There is no Royal block vote, thus it only requires a simple majority for passage. All four were sealed anonymous votes, per the Prava's rules for end of session votes when time is short. The succession plans were all substantially the same. I was consistently named Prima, Laarens Diat, Savrin Tret. The only alterations have been to the subsequent succession, which, barring disaster, is unlikely. In 1129, the Prava had 101 members since neither Savrin nor I were yet seated. 1129 passed eighty-eight to thirteen, and that was the slimmest margin. There were twenty-nine Reformists in 1129, as today. Assuming strict block-line voting, at least sixteen Reformists approved each succession plan. That's more than half of your numbers. That wasn't substantially rude," she added.

"No, but this is. I cannot decide if you are so naïve that you believe there is no alteration between a secret vote for a far-off potentiality and an immediate, public vote, or if you just have that much faith in the better natures of this body."

She half-smiled, but looked pained. "I have always believed this body to be committed to the best interests of Galantier. Of course a secret ballot provides a shield from retribution. I am not so naïve. You and Mathes and Bastiari and Sulaven are holding the Upper Crook Canal over Delavi's head. Should Rassath break ranks, his port won't get supplementary funding for dredging. Should Silvalt go against type, he'll lose a Naval contract. Need I go on? All of you Reformists have interests that only the kingdom coffers can provide, but your individual interests serve the national interests. Funding them serves us all; denying them damages us. It shouldn't be political but we all use the levers we have. Perhaps I am naïve, but I truly do not understand why you Reformists continue your mutual extortion when it's not what most of you want." She looked away from him for a moment and her eyes flicked right and left as if she was skimming through her files of memory. "Just over a year ago, when the most recent succession plan passed, the vote was ninety-three to nine and one abstention. The Reformists have not altered their membership since '33, when the current Bastiari succeeded. Twenty-nine of you. I don't know who voted against the succession plan in '35, but did I gamble, I would say Picarem, Ruteri, Sulaven, Silvalt, Rassath, Pinuvar, Razavelt, Revinsel and Galensel. The abstention was Savrin, since he has abstained on every vote since he took his vows."

He had been quietly nodding until Rien came to her own voting name, mine and uncle's. We've been voting against our own succession plans since 1131, when Aunt Bella died and Savrin began to leave his path. We never worried about the succession passing, because the margins had always been more than sufficient, but Rien, Uncle and I knew that Savrin shouldn't stay in the succession, even as third in line. He didn't want it, and a reluctant monarch will probably be worse than none at all. Of course, we also knew a succession plan without him couldn't pass. The Prava won't consider the deep succession, and I can't blame them. After Aunt Bella died and we had to determine who was fourth in line, we found eighteen names with equal, distant claims to the throne, from a second cousin three times removed to a fifth cousin once removed. All come from noble families, all have the means and influence to fight for the throne, none have enough of either to win over a block of the others. The succession plan requires only three names, which is why we delayed figuring out who would replace Savrin for as long as possible. After all, there had been a chance that Uncle might remarry if Aunt Alnora died, and Rien and I should have been marrying and producing subsequent heirs. We thought we had time.

"You didn't even agree with the succession plan your father proposed?" the Optimus said.

"We agreed with two-thirds of it," she said. "Reginal, we tried to resolve this when Savrin approached Da about leaving the succession in '33. Check the Prava book for that year. Seventeen Solestis." She reached behind her and found that year's Prava book with barely a glance at the shelf. Rien knows this room like almost nobody else. She's spent thousand of hours here since she was six. She handed him the book.

He still looked affronted and mystified that she was handing him previously unknown information, but he took the book and laid it open on the table. He thumbed to the back half, then leafed through the pages. "A resolution to form a committee for the determination of Galantier's subsequent succession. Joint proposal, Razavelt, Galensel, Revinsel, Kurzon, Arisdal, Marinvelt. Suspended indefinitely per voice vote, affirmed Optimus," he read.

"And 12 Glacilis, '34," Rien said and handed him the next book. "After that, 16 Solestis, '34, and mid-Glacilis '35 and mid-Solestis '35 and so on. I've tried to re-open discussion every half-year since we proposed it three years ago, and every time, the Optimus has left the matter tabled. Why is that, Reginal?"

He closed the books, then closed his eyes briefly. He drank deeply of the water before he sighed and looked back at her. "Because there are eighteen claimants for the quan Ascendar. Nine are in this body, nine are their wives who are also sisters of claimants. Five are Reformist, six are Royalist, seven are Progressive. The marriages cross factions in several cases. I doubt we can form the committee to discuss the matter without starting a brawl, much less come to agreement. Cazerien, we cannot crack this bottle of fire oil. We have a war in the west, trade, water, diplomacy —"

"I know, Reginal," she said. "Look again at the dates when we proposed or brought up the committee. Look at what else was on the slate for those days."

Now, he pulled all six books and opened them to the dates, then read carefully. "You always proposed these on busy days."

She nodded. "And if I felt the committee a highest priority, do you not think I would have found more support? Do you think I would have kept silent except for twice annual peeps to remind everyone we had a pending problem? I am well aware, Reginal, that opening this debate would distract us for years. Succession arguments are why any paele older than five hundred years is a fortress, not a home. It's why we build succession plans, and in the last five hundred years, have contested only two. This one, and Gadrick's, because Gadrick was mad and he named his cat as his successor. I am not mad, my father was not mad, and I am not a cat, so Gadrick's precedent cannot be held against me.

"Now look at the succession plan votes again, Reginal. We don't have an argument. This body has overwhelmingly agreed to the succession four times in eight years. The plans have passed with well above the needed three-quarters. The body's constitution has not substantially changed over those eight years. The only difference is that this is a roll-call vote, depriving the Reformists of their veil of deniability. Now that you know that only six Reformists oppose the planned succession, why are you allowing those six to deny the will of the other twenty-three?"

They stared at each other as long minutes ticked by. At the heart of Reformist internal politics, somebody knew where the bodies were buried. I wondered how literal that might be.

Without breaking his gaze, Rien's right hand turned several pages of the most recent Prava book, the one for the end of last year. She glanced down to ensure she'd found the right place, then laid a finger on a section and blocked the view of the page from me. She reached across the Optimus for the water decanter and refilled his glass. He looked down and read whatever she indicated, then sighed deeply. He sipped from his glass, then offered it to her and she took it to finish the ritual.

"I'm sorry, Majesteria," he said heavily, "but I don't think that will help."

Now I wanted to know what Rien had indicated, but she closed the book before I could get a look. But the Optimus called her by her bench title. He acknowledged her legal authority as a member of Galantier's High Judicatura.

"None are so lost," she started, "Reginal — "

"I shall propose Savrin as sole Monarch," he said, "with the expectation that you will maintain your place in the Judicatura and this body, and in doing so, exert your influence over his reign. I believe it is the only solution possible."

She sighed. "And I will oppose your proposition. With my one vote."

"And me," I said. "If you want that proposal, propose Rien as senior and Savrin as junior, co-regnant siblings."

"That might not be sufficient," Tiwendar said to me, "because she's a woman. Your Ascendency," he turned back to Rien. "Were we not facing war, you'd be a competent Monarch, alone or not. Had your father died like his father, had we time to prepare and grow to expect the succession, we would not be in this room discussing this. I admit that I, too, fear a return to the years when a quarter of the men we sent west didn't return. I endured that, Ascendency. I lost friends and a brother. I did not count myself fortunate to be excused from border service when I attended fifteen funerals a year. And I saw what happened to those who survived the battle, but never left the war. Your father was a symbol as much as he was a man and a leader. I've disagreed with you, personally, Cazerien, on your methods, rarely on your positions. I find your policies too radical and you want change faster than reality allows, but I don't doubt your ability. I know you will rule through Savrin. He's a symbol. You're the mind and the leader."

"No, Reginal," she said, softening. "I won't. You don't know him. Perhaps, on good days, he will delegate to me what he doesn't want or doesn't understand. There are two Savrins. One is distractible, easily bored, mercurial, impetuous. The other is convinced that his god is the universal savior. He's rigid, dedicated, single-minded. The latter seems to have dispelled the former in recent years, but neither is a Monarch in the making."

She pulled down another book, this time the Lex Galenteris, our comprehensive legal code, and Rien's first holy text. She opened it to the section on the monarch's rights and privileges. "My father granted me the governance of the Prima Ascendara's holdings by Royal Writ, per his authority as Razin. Chapter two, section two, column seven. The Lex Galenteris grants the Ascendars no power beyond what accompanies their inherited langreves. Chapter two, section two, column twelve. My mother brought no Galantieran land. The Monarch need not consult any Ascendar and the Privy Council exists only at the Monarch's discretion. Chapter two, section one, column six. Should you select Savrin, he will have the absolute right per the Lex to dismiss any and all writs of the previous monarchs. Chapter two, section one, column three. He will certainly dismiss the current Ministers.

"His faith commands men to bear responsibility for the women in their family, to protect them from the rigors of public life. New Order Lethians interpret this to mean that women should not own nor administer property. The High Judicatura has heard four cases on this matter during my tenure. Mistress Mer Garran versus her converted former husband Garran Eternal Comfort for her half of their marital house. Master sune Saddlar on behalf of his deceased daughter versus Samnel Infinite Mercy for the deeds to three fields granted to the couple for their use during her life. Teregenitor Dastorian on behalf of three children versus Ceran Pious Dust for return of property to provide for the support of Master Pious Dust's three minor daughters. And Decca dat Anten versus her father, Anten sator Lethis, who was entrusted with a house and goods left to Mistress dat Anten by her late mother until Mistress Dat Anten's majority, and who instead transferred the property to the Chapterhouse.

"Every woman who has sued her male Lethian relative for her property has won in the courts. The New Order Lethians have destroyed every structure, salted every field, and burned any portable property before returning the deeds and ashes. They comply with the law, but when it becomes clear they will lose, they ensure no one shall benefit. The arson and destruction cases are underway, but workfarm sentences don't seem to deter them. Savrin's means of complying with his faith's dictates are much simpler — merely not renew my father's writ of my holdings." She looked up from the book to ensure he had kept up with her legal reasoning. When he nodded, she went on.

"Thus, maintaining my place in this body is tenuous at best and not to be relied upon. Now, Savrin himself has a deep and seemingly sincere faith. In five years, Laarens and I have not found a single crack, and we have tried. He is entirely convinced, and his faith is a mystical one of signs, prophecies, portents. While I can't confirm it, I think the New Order Lethians believe that Savrin is somehow special. He doesn't state he's their prophet, but he prevaricates around that point. Think back to Hermache, Reginal. An orphan brought to the Sardanis, whom some eventually claimed to be the human child of Archilia and Sardan. Hundreds of years later, thousands of people believe in that incarnation and spend their lives waiting for the second incarnation, though Hermache said he would be reborn in the lifetimes of those living when he died. Mysticism is powerful, and I think Savrin will interpret his Elevation as a sign to bring the people to Lethis. Given the extent of his faith, his reign will exceed Baethan Pious' ... reforms." She spat the word.

"When Baethan ruled, the ten thousand Galantierans starved or thrived together. Now the Famine Coffer provides when private generosity fails, but New Order Lethians revere fasting and consider bodily deprivation sacred. For Lethians, charity subverts Lethis' will since the material world is irrevocably tainted, thus to distribute its bounty is to spread impurity. Savrin has often mentioned to me how abhorrent he finds the Famine Coffer. Baethan Pious didn't persecute those who didn't worship the Pantheon, but if Savrin's in power, the Lethians will. Many of our customary liberties — the right of people to worship, marry, work and read as they please — are anathema to Lethians. Lethians arrange their marriages, insist upon marital continence lest trying to kindle a child, that no other god exists. Reginal, they even believe reading printed matter rather than manuscript corrupts the mind. Galantier won't survive Savrin's leadership."

"We'll codify those liberties and prevent such... behaviors," Reginal said.

"Not fast enough," she said. "Savrin will use the Monarch's powers to veto those decisions. They contradict his faith. And even if he doesn't, the Prava cannot legislate influence. I got ink in my hair and suddenly, three hundred young women discovered the wool dyer's market to somewhat disastrous effect. My father admitted he preferred watching dance to watching tosca, and within a tenday, there wasn't a dance ticket to be found and nobody was playing tosca. My father, who played tosca in the halls. He preferred to do rather than watch anything, and he liked dance because he preferred watching lithe young women in diaphanous clothing to muddy young men in heavy wool tunics.

"The Lethians need not force Savrin to issue writs or push laws through the Prava. What happens at the Karsai becomes fashionable, whether we intend it or not. Imagine this country taking on Lethian sensibilities. Think what it will do to our trade. Thirty million gallons of wine a year, not made. More than five thousand persons of fashion in this city alone who buy tens of thousands of garments each year from five hundred seamstresses and tailors. A thousand printers. Sixty theaters. Hundreds of taverns. And think a generation out. We require every soldier and sailor to be able to read and comprehend simple arithmetic. Right now, Old Order Lethians contribute fewer than one-hundredth of our forces. New Order are a fraction of that, and the New Order doesn't send their children to school. Where does our army come from if we have a generation unschooled? How do we pay them if we have a generation who does not trade? Our war with Spagna is not voluntary. He's not what you want."

"I fear he is the only expedient option remaining, Your Ascendency."

"Damn expediency," she said, her temper finally flaring. "The Prava's duty is not to be expedient, but to choose the best possible monarch. Objectively, without personal or political prejudice. Mathes opposes me due to private, familial hostility. Ruteri opposes me specifically because I have prosecuted three of his close relations and returned two judgements against him. Rassath because he's ninety, mostly deaf and blind, unwilling to admit that he cannot recall his breakfast by tenth hour, and relies on Ruteri's nephew to prompt his votes. Sulaven votes as Ruteri demands because Sulaven owes Ruteri somewhere north of ten million teanders. Pinuvar because he feels bound to support Savrin's father through him, though Wulvar has been dead longer than Sav's been alive. And Silvalt because..." She took a deep breath and raised her chin before continuing. "Silvalt opposes me because despite his effort, he has never managed to corner the only woman seated on the Prava and compromise her. I hear no criticism of my character, my mind, nor my ability in that opposition, Reginal. Am I blind to a slight I've offered?"

I didn't know Silvalt had harassed Rien, but it didn't surprise me. He'd been under my command when he was fresh at the War College. Every master failed him and I'd recommended a bad conduct dismissal because he bullied indiscriminately. He'd lasted a half-year. He only managed to circumvent the Prava requirement of two years' service because his father died just after he reached majority. Hunting accident, if I recalled correctly. Mathes agreed to mentor him in the Prava as substitute service. Silvalt paid no attention to the Prava, attended irregularly, proxied his vote to Mathes much of the time and voted as Mathes directed.

"I cannot disagree, Cazerien. Your behavior and abilities are not in question, but each member may vote as his, or her, interests lead."

"Three votes, Reginal. Of the others, are there not two more who would prefer relief?"

"No," he said softly. "I've tried. Not in a public vote."

"Can we make it a secret ballot?" I asked. "The roll-call seems to be the sticking point."

They both seem to have forgotten me, because Rien jumped and Reginal startled. He pulled down the Prava procedure book, stuck a scrap of paper in one place, then opened it to a second and handed it over. "You tell me."

I read the first passage. All matters which concern the whole of the kingdom and whose duration will exceed one year must be brought to a public accounting by the body of the Teregenis, either by voice or by written record. Then I read the other one. The Prava shall confirm the succession before the coronation of the subsequent monarch through any means established by precedent or agreement of the body.

"These rules don't say anything," I said. "Public accounting means counted in public. By voice is by acclimation. Written record can mean a secret ballot as long as they're opened and counted in full view. Through any established means is vague enough to mean if you all drink your fondal, you can consider that a vote. Agreement of the body makes it even more vague. Hold a majority vote for a secret ballot first, then hold a secret ballot."

"That's the problem," Rien said. "Prava procedures are intentionally written to be as vague as possible, to give the body as much flexibility as possible. The precedent of the last two centuries has been to require a three-quarters majority by individual voice vote."

"What happened two hundred years ago to make that the rule?" I asked. "What was it before?"

Reginal shook his head. "And this is why I want you in the west, doing what you're best at. The ballots for Razin Faram's confirmation were subverted between the Prava chambers and Welces' Square. Three times. In two hundred yards, with three hundred people watching the entire time, the ballot box was tampered with. The key would work in Prava chambers, but not in Welces' Square."

"It sounds like the lock was the problem, not the ballots," I said. "Cold, heat, damp. The War College has a couple very old ones that can only be opened if it's raining."

"Probably true," Reginal said. "All three counts were identical and tallied with the roll-call, but ever after, the box was relegated to minor matters. In this instance, we have spent twelve days in debate assuming a voice vote. We have established this precedent for this selection. To change the rules in the midst of the game would inflame all three factions."

"But what we're doing clearly isn't working," I said.

They both gave me a confounded look, as if I had just said that the sea consists of liquid cheese.

"He has a point," Rien said eventually to Reginal. "Poorly articulated and with limited understanding of legislative procedure, but a point nonetheless. Would the Reformists even support a redefinition to a secret ballot?"

The Optimus wobbled his head left and right. "They'd split. It's the Progressives who will oppose it. They think the voice vote keeps us all honest. I also think your Royalists will oppose it. Arisdal and Dastorian have been negotiating just as hard with the Progressives and our block gives them a united front to rally against. They've got as many millions in funds promised as we have. At best, it would be a narrow victory that would not necessarily carry."

"May I have a day before you propose Savrin?"

"You may have two," he said. "I'm no greater advocate of the expediency argument than you, ma'am."

"Reginal, what must I promise to get you to release three Reformists to vote their conscience?"

He stayed silent for too long and refused to look at her. "I don't hold those cards, Ascendency."

"While I query the Royalists and Progressives on the voting, will you consult for their requirements?"

He hesitated. "It may not be within the Monarch's power." Then he sighed. "Two days."

"And if you break from the block entirely?" she asked. "I've seen all of you vote against your own best interests. What mutual aid... or is it the opposite?"

"When needed, others in the faction vote against their best interests for us." He looked away uneasily. "The method works. I don't expect you to understand."

"Why? Because a woman can't understand your political brotherhood?" she scoffed.

"No... because there's always more at stake than personal power." He glared at her, and the man who had been negotiating and sharing water just seconds before vanished. His fury was cold, but wrapped in contempt for the girl opposite him. "You'll drag this out for your own selfish ends."

"The monarchy is based on responsibility and justice, not power, Optimus," she breathed. "That's the last thing I want."

"Quite right, niece," my parent said from the door. "May I quote you? Reginal, we're ready."

"They'll wait. Get in here. Close the door." Rien seemed to grow a few inches as her spine stiffened and her chin rose. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She turned slightly, a swordfighter's defense to present a narrower target.

He clicked his tongue as if Rien were a naughty child. "Niece, it's impolite to keep such important men waiting."

"They'll live. If five minutes kills them, they're too fragile anyway," I said. I hated to touch him, but I pulled him into the study and shut the door.

Rien opened her documents case and removed a sheet in her own hand. "Will you still propose this?"

"How did you get this?" Tiwendar asked as he read.

"Ask my father," she said. It had to be the draft Royal Powers proposal she'd written about. "He merely asked me to fix it. You realize that contradicts Galantier's every founding principle?"

"Interpretation, niece. Galene wouldn't have wanted —" My parent started one of the set-piece lectures he delivered to guilds and temples for a fee.

"You don't know what Galene wanted. Don't presume to give her words," she said. "This contradicts the Founder's Codex and a thousand years of precedent. The entire point of the Monarchy is to plan for the future and to protect embattled minorities from popular majorities. To quote you, Mathes."

"I believe the Judicatura and the Prava are effective defenses."

"I agree," she said. "Though it pains me to agree with you at all, I do. That draft isn't yours. It's what you should have written if you intend the Prava to check the Monarch."

My parent didn't quite roll his eyes at Rien, but even he can't deny she's one of Galantier's best lawyers. He snatched it away from Tiwendar then skimmed her document. "Hm. The Prava checks the Monarch, the Judicatura checks the Prava and the Monarch checks the Judicatura." He looked like he'd bitten a salted lemon. "Though it pains me to admit it, this is clever, niece."

"I know," she said. "Thus, I return it." She took it from Mathes and handed it to Tiwendar. I don't know if she intended it, but her left hand brushed Tiwendar's right, and he startled as if awakened from a light sleep. The hostility in his face receded.

"Why correct it?" Mathes asked, looking at her suspiciously.

"The Royalists can and will veto yours as written," she said, "but the ideas are infectious and necessary. The remaining Royal Prerogatives are apolitical. Our internal arguments must stop at the sea, thus the Monarch may still appoint diplomats, establish embassies, negotiate treaties and direct foreign relations. Judicial mercy embodies our collective capacity to forgive, and the Monarch's right to pardon or commute a sentence recognizes that justice can be blind to extenuating circumstances. The block vote remains since it represents the people on Royal lands, but it now must be split to represent those needs instead of being cast at the Monarch's discretion. It reduces Royal writ to a half-year's duration, usually sufficient time for an experiment, because government should support innovation. The Prava can then end, extend or make the writ law. When the time came, I would have proposed this, and this will pass."

"Arrogance is unbecoming, girl," Mathes said. "Why give it to us if you're so confident? Don't you want credit for reforming and improving the country?"

My fist clenched to batter him. Mathes sounded like he believed Rien to be entirely self-serving.

She stood her own ground and stared him down. "That's you. It's now a good law and good laws are the only collective wisdom we have. I return it because that's what should be submitted. Ensure it's submitted as a Royal Powers proposal and it'll pass. I'll ensure the Judicatura doesn't overturn it. You'll have the check on the Monarch's power you want. Now, release the block and let them vote for me."

I saw my brat's plan. My parent has wanted the Monarch leashed and gagged since he realized he'd never be Razin. If he can't have the power, he thinks nobody should have it. He'd have his check and Rien would be Razia. She'd give up some power for it, but Uncle proved a good Monarch doesn't need most of its powers.

"I don't make deals with girls," Mathes said, taking the document from Reginal's nerveless fingers and tucking it away. "Thank you, niece."

"Prenceps, it's a sound proposal," Tiwendar said. He sounded vague, almost confused.

"Then make the deal with me," I said. "Rien and me, together. That satisfies your Cleatarni and Teandrians. You only must say personal feelings shouldn't be political."

"But they are, my son," Mathes spat. "Acknowledge me as your father on the Prava floor and I'll consider it. Now, we have a vote that will fail. You know it, I know it, everyone out there knows it, but this is the process and it's time to move on."

# 10 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien

"I want to go somewhere," I said. "Without guards or being noticed. Help." Laarens and I were having supper in my rooms, the long days starting to wear on us both. I'd snapped at him earlier and a fight brewed, but I throttled my temper. I needed rocks dropped on my head more than an argument with Laarens. When we get going, the wise man flees to the far side of the sea.

He shoved away from the table and stalked the length of my room. "How many assassination attempts will convince you that you're not immortal?"

"One. Security through obscurity."

"Hm." He closed the hangings on my bed, to keep the interior cooler than my rooms. He'd shared my bed since he'd come home and though he liked his bed practically freezing, I probably slept a little better with him there. He didn't want me out of his sight. Da's assassination scared him. I didn't blame him. It scared me. Maybe if Da wasn't using my carriage.

I need an unexpected ally in the Prava. I thought I knew who, but I didn't want it official, and summoning him to the Karsai would make it so.

"Ayuh," he said. "I can do it. Three conditions. What did you offer Reginal Tiwendar this afternoon?"

"Judicial immunity in return for testimony. There's a bribery case on my docket. I have circumstantial evidence that he benefitted and I think it can be proved. From his reaction, he knows that I know. He has three options. If he cooperates with the Judicatura, he'll be the hero who exposed corruption. If the succession follows the approved orders, then I become Razia and leave the Judicatura. My docket will be reassigned, that case will be delayed for at least a year, and that gives me a year to either convince Sam to drop the case entirely or not go digging. Or I remain a High Justiciar and issue the warrants for the documents and full Perceptive catalogues."

Laarens looked skeptical. "You're certain he understood? He sounded like he didn't think much of it."

I went to my window seat and looked out over the square at Prava House. A few lights burned in the upper stories, including one in the Optimus' office. I could see him at his desk, a bottle before him and someone small moving through the room. "I know he understood," I said, watching him. "He said it wouldn't help, either that his testimony alone wouldn't be sufficient, or that his immunity alone wouldn't be enough to sway the Reformists. He didn't refuse or contradict the essentials of the charge."

"But how do you know that?" he demanded.

"Because I've been an Advocate for nine years," I fired back. "Because you don't survive your exams, much less practice, if you can't hear a lie or an evasion. Because I've watched him in chambers for almost twenty years and I've negotiated everything from bridge funding to a multinational trade treaty with the man."

He paced the length of my room, not comprehending the delicacy of Prava diplomacy. Laarens never found the intricacies of legislating to his tastes. I sighed inwardly. He's direct and I've known this for years. It's what makes him an exemplary General. He has an innate ability to break any problem down to discrete units and determine which must be skewered first. It makes him a terrible politician because negotiation by brute force fails. The law, diplomacy and the Prava all more resemble a spiderweb, where each thread connects to all the others. A breakage or vibration on one affects everything else.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, as Da used to do when frustrated. "Do you have any idea what the Reformists want in exchange for breaking ranks?"

I turned back to the window so I could say this without having to watch Laarens. "Some. We need three of them. Delavi needs the Crook canal extension, even though it won't be of much use to anyone but him; there's nothing north of him but ice. Same with Catalan's reservoir. At least a dozen of them have similar pet projects, but not all of them will take that bait. Then there are the legal caltrops to sidestep. Four Reformists have connections to that bribery case. I think all four took the bribe rather than offered it. We'd rather prosecute first those offering than taking. We have another case that looks like murder for hire with multiple connections to close associates of the Reformists. If that case somehow vanishes, quite a few people will sleep easier. Three of them have other pending cases. The Exchequer has noticed an oddity in the money supply. Small coins are not circulating as the mathematicians expect. The Exchequer has advised several audits, and the Reformists oppose that. They'll probably want to choose my Exchequer to force the audits to be abandoned. Gorthania and Farenze both want greater access to fire oil. The Reformists think we should take a side in that fight, but so far, they can't agree which side. I think they'll demand I pick. If Reginal's half of the faction can be persuaded, they'll choose Gorthania, but if Mathes holds sway, it will be Farenze."

He turned me away from the window, his eyes large. "You can't. If Farenze gets it, they'll sell it just like everything else we've ever given them. Spagna will have it within a year. Our machinery and alchemy is all that's keeping us at stalemate."

"I know, and if I agree to involve us in the Monmarrane war at all, we'll lose the Royalists and most of the Progressives. It's not our war, and our best strategy is what we've been doing. But the Reformists think that if we build the manufacturies in whichever country, if we supply the alchemists, and just sell at a lower price, we'll keep control of the supply and profit."

"They want to make it elsewhere?" Laarens looked sick at the thought. "Strike one year. The secret would be out in six tendays."

I smiled wearily. "Except the only person who knew all of it is downstairs in an urn. I know my part, and have a description of what you know and what Savrin was told, but none of us have more than a third of the information and the key to someone else's information. That's why Da divided the knowledge between us. To put it back together, we have to cooperate."

He pulled back. "What do you think I know?"

"When you were sixteen, Da made you memorize a set of alchemical procedures. And two years later, a string of numbers."

His eyes narrowed. "That's a state secret, you're not supposed to know that."

I patted the top of his head with as much sarcastic condescension as I could manage. "White brandy in a fondal cup," I said, giving him the pass phrase for that specific secret. "Which one of us is Prima? We can compare our state secret files after the coronation, but I'm pretty sure I'll win on quantity."

"Point," he agreed. He looked out my window, but he didn't seem to be looking at anything but distance. Tiwendar's light still burned, but I could only see his silhouette, looking out of the window. He couldn't see me. He could see that my rooms were lit, but the grilles of the Karsai's windows specifically obscure the inhabitants while permitting us to see out. The Founders who planned the Karsai had come from an Empire where half of the Imperial families and the whole of the short-lived Republic were assassinated. The original architects took pains to discourage more of that nonsense. Yet though I could only see his outline, I knew he was contemplating my deal.

As we have done for years when in the Karsai, when we couldn't know if we were being Observed or overheard by Ingeniae, Laarens rested his chin on my shoulder and put his lips to my ear. "How goat-fucked is my army if we've just lost the secret to fire oil?" he whispered.

On that, I could reassure him. I turned my head so that I could whisper to him. "Current production can continue as long as none of the senior alchemists have a sudden accident. There's a year's stock at the strategic depot, and all of the manufacturies have authorization to continue requisitioning their materiel at present levels. They cannot increase production without the Monarch's authorization, and that code clearance I don't have. How many ravens in a venator?" That last nonsense phrase was a security question Da had given me on my twenty-third birthday.

"Two," he blurted and I elbowed him in the ribs to shush him. That told me how many counter-seals an increase in production would require — two of us. "How does a Porsirian bake a cake?" he whispered.

Da had apparently given him some of the security questions as well. "With a recipe," I said.

He clapped a hand over my mouth. "You know what goes in the stuff?" he whispered. "Nod for yes."

I nodded once, then bit the finger across my lips. He yanked his hand away and shook it. I hadn't bit hard, just enough to get him off my face. "It's Privileged, idiot."

"If I know the how, and you know the what, what does Sav know?" he asked.

I considered if I could tell him. We have similar, not identical clearances. On the other hand, I didn't know the specifics of Savrin's knowledge, and a filing code shouldn't be as secret. Yet... this was the great puzzle, important enough to Galantieran survival that Da trusted nobody with too much of the whole. Fire oil is everything that allows us to maintain our western border, and what maintains our grudging neutrality with our warring neighbors to the east. "Privilege," I requested, and waited until he managed to convince his minor Perceptio to make a memory both permanent and hidden from anyone who ever managed to read his goat-pen of a mind. "He knows the quantities of materiel and time, but as numbers only."

Laarens sighed with relief. "Not something he can sell out or have stolen from his defenseless head, then."

My heart cracked a bit more then, and nothing would plaster that break. For the first eleven years of my life, we three had been one. Yes, Laarens and I fought, but when I had nightmares, I crawled into his bed, and he into mine. We shared every meal, every playtime. Laarens protected me, I protected Sav, and Sav put himself between us when we fought. We trusted one another with anything and everything.

Did we really?

Yes, I tried to say, and in the earliest years, we did, but that gradually evaporated, and maybe earlier than later. And now, it was gone entirely. Sav had become an enemy to defend against, a danger who must be planned around. A minor one, probably — unless the Optimus is right and the Prava decides that the worst possible candidate is the only one upon whom they can agree.

"Who knows where, Rien?" he whispered.

I put every defense I have in place. Color drained from my vision and the few sounds of the empty, evening Karsai in mourning faded to nothing. I looked at the lighted window and the dark figure, then turned away and went to my desk for a scrap of paper. Laarens followed, and watched as I wrote, full defenses. Privacy. Only when he nodded did I write the most recent secret. I have the code. Each minister has an encrypted phrase. When he nodded again, I held the scrap to the lamp flame until it caught and let it burn before dropping it in my ash vessel. Then I let my defenses return to normal.

I looked back at the window, one last time, and considered the shape there. I could walk across the square now and give him this lever to take to his faction. I personally knew enough to ensure that our single most important export and defense and lever with the rest of a hostile world would continue to flow. I knew what had to be imported and what we produced. I knew how to determine the several sites where we built the components that became the deadliest weapon the world has yet known. With Laarens, I knew the method, and I could learn the quantities and times from Sav in the course of an hour, if necessary. Even without him, given the locations and their requisition records, we could probably recreate that. It would take time and patience, not genius.

I'd have to ensure the Optimus understood my knowledge could not be forced nor taken against my will. Almost anything can be read from a mind, cooperative or not, but nothing behind an Advocate's Privilege can be retrieved by any Perceptive yet born except with specific permission that I would not give. Advocate's Privilege is the prime reason that our ancestors broke with the rest of the world and began encouraging our Ingeniae six hundred years ago. If I destroyed my memories, half of the formula vanished — the what, the key to where, and logically the order of Laarens' process. If I refused to cooperate, Laarens would, too, destroying the how and probably the order of ingredients. He and Savrin together didn't know enough to recreate even the start point. My destruction wouldn't doom our defense against Spagna, at least not for a few years.

On the other hand, did I really want the Optimus and the Reformists to know that the formula was currently lost? For nine years, I'd watched them make hostages of one another for the smallest reasons. Perhaps they volunteered for it, but the other half-million of us did not volunteer for their collateral damage. I watched the figure while I mapped my paths. If I told the Optimus and he secured the Reformist votes needed on the strength of their fear for the loss of the formula, my reign would be contingent on producing those secrets to people not cleared to have them — many of whom were either prosaic or had no access to Privilege. Maintaining appropriate security would breed resentment, even if I took the necessary steps to increase production. It might gain me a throne, but at the cost of any goodwill or cooperation for years. If I thought relations were acrimonious now...

If I kept the state secrets as charged, nothing would change until and unless an alchemist died without passing on her specific information: her sources of components, her specific process, where she sent her finished component. That could happen tonight or in ten years, and would eventually happen no matter my choices now. But the Prava would not know the whole of the formula had been lost until that day, or until they collectively decided to increase or alter production. Not telling them removed a lever from my hands, but it also did not further fuel their insecurities.

I could keep it as a reserve. After all, I had levers now — the legal bribery of legislated contracts and funding, the ability to turn a blind judicial eye on corruption, patronage and privilege, two marriageable adults and the prospects of our future children. Archers before cannon, fuel oil before fire oil.

And to consider the worst scenario: assume Sav was selected. I received my parts of the formula at my Elevation, when I was sixteen, another part when I was eighteen, the description of Sav and Laarens' parts at twenty-one, the security questions and responses at twenty-two, the carriers of the code at twenty-three and the code itself last year. Da planned to give me the full formula only after my coronation in the spring. Da gave Laarens his parts on that same schedule — sixteen and eighteen — but Laarens had not gotten the security questions until I was twenty-two because Da and I devised those together. More importantly, Da didn't tell me why he wanted me to memorize a list of twenty common metals, chemicals, earths and oils. Nor why the string of numbers mattered. I didn't know those until I learned what Laarens and Sav knew. Laarens didn't know what parts Sav and I knew. If Da followed the same pattern with Sav that he followed with Laarens and me, he gave Sav two strings of numbers two years apart with no context to link them.

The next year we learned Sav was leaving the path. By the time Sav turned twenty-one, he had already requested to be removed from the succession. Da wouldn't have given him further state secrets after that. Thus, Savrin knew nothing. He didn't even know what he didn't know. He would have no reason to believe I knew anything about fire oil — after all, my profession is the law, my military training was unofficial and general, and my understanding of alchemy only that of any well-educated child. If he were Razin, when he discovered the deficit of knowledge, he would have to spend time and resources rebuilding, if it could be done at all.

I wouldn't be dead. I could choose when and why to reveal my half. If Spagna grew more ferocious, Galantier would need more oil. If the Prava decided to sell the process, I need not help them bring down our destruction, and without the formula, they couldn't inadvertently destroy us.

Better they never know that they are now on borrowed time. No good can come of bearing that message to these specific men. The only lights remaining at Prava House were the door lights and the one in the Optimus' office, but as I watched, he turned unsteadily and the light disappeared. A few moments later, he emerged from the front with a small man beside him. They walked slowly across the square then out of my sight. For tonight, whatever chance I'd had was gone.

"Stop thinking about it," I warned when I looked away and saw Laarens back at the table. He had pushed away his plate and glass, and was using his finger as a stylus on the cloth. He left no visible marks, but in his mind, he was reinforcing dangerous memories as he tried to break the problem into known factors, known unknown factors and unknown unknown factors. I doubted he was in his scrap of Advocate's Privilege for this, which meant that anyone who could read his surface thoughts or managed to get him in a position for a full or partial catalog would have full access to his speculations. He looked up, his soap-bubble thoughts broken, and I saw him hastily try to shove the remnants behind Privilege. Not much potential Advocate in him, I mused. Nor gambler.  "What was your third condition?" I asked. The moon was rising, my night was burning, and I had an early morning of consultation with the leaders of the Royalists.

He gifted me with an entirely blank and mystified expression. He'd forgotten I wanted his help. I stifled my irritation because we shouldn't fight now. Typical of him. I ask for help, some tangential detail about his army grabs the whole of his attention, and the small assistance I need is gone. If it doesn't involve stabbing people with pointy sticks, Laarens can't be bothered. I took a deep breath and made myself accept this about him once again. Use his strengths. Never depend on his flaws.

"I want to pay a call, unobtrusively. You agreed to help. You had three conditions. The first was what I offered Tiwendar. The second was what the Reformists would probably want. That distracted you. What is the third, so we can go?"

Laarens nodded. "Though I guess I've got a fourth. What's so wrong about saying we should change the rules since they aren't working?"

I returned to my chair and picked up a bun I couldn't bring myself to eat before. I didn't try now, but abrading the crust into crumbs with my fingertips gave my hands something to do. "The rules are working, just not to my advantage. There are at least six members of the body who entirely oppose crowning me, another twenty with valid reservations, and twenty or more who are ambivalent. The selection of the monarch is not a three year budget or a ten year bridge. It will affect half a million people for probably a half century, or longer. We make this decision intentionally more difficult because the consequences are greater. It is exactly right and fair to address valid reservations."

"You're overly nice," Laarens said. "Those rules give bullies a club to use on the weak and cover for the cowards who don't want to provoke the bullies."

He had a point — factions do coerce or convince the weak willed or ambivalent. But they exist because no individual can know everything about everything that goes into running a country. Nor can a single person shout loudly enough to bring everyone else along. We have factions for the same reason we have representation at all — because no single perspective is comprehensive. True, the Prava's perspective was uniformly middle-aged men from wealthy families who spent all of their time with one another and married each other's sisters and daughters....

Fine, I grudgingly agreed with myself, they're lacking in anything like diversity of perspective, but it's not as if the House of Galene is much better. Wealthy, intermarried, mostly male, almost as provincial.

"It's the difference between selecting provisions for next year and picking one sweet now to have every day for the next six tendays. You know you must provide two hundred men with three meals a day, and those supplies must withstand heat, cold and indifferent cooking. You're not now terribly interested in what you'll be eating next summer, so you choose what you know — salted meat, beans, flour, dried noodles and vegetables. You know it will work out and everyone will get enough to eat because you've done it for years. You even know that you'll likely be eating mostly bean paste and flatbread, bean soup, salt meat soup and that brownish muck —"

"We call it shit on shingles for a reason," Laarens said. "It doesn't have a polite euphemism."

I acceded the point with a nod. "But it's a year away. You don't have to eat it now, because you're eating the decisions you made a year ago, and those supplies are here and paid for, and the food is hot and filling and you didn't have to cook it. That's passing a succession plan. It's far away, doesn't affect today at all and it will be convenient when the time comes." I put the nub of the roll down and took another to add to the small mountain of crumbs on my plate. "Tonight's sweets are cassia nut tart, cream custard with burnt honey or almond ice. All three are perfectly fine in their ways, but will you want an ice on a snowy day? Cassia tarts are lovely, but two days in ten, they're baked in the oven that burns everything. Cream custard is bland. They passed the succession plans because they've always passed succession plans and they expected Da to live forever. I certainly did. Now they have to pick a sweet for the rest of their lives, and I'm cold and occasionally bitter, you tend to burn easily and Sav looks bland but palatable."

"But cream custards only last a day or so before they turn sour and give you the squats," Laarens said. "A burnt tart won't poison you and if an ice melts, it's still sweet and tasty." He squeezed his temples between his palms. "Your metaphors need work, Brat."

"They're scared, Laarens. I'm scared. You're scared. The rules are how they assert order on a fundamentally chaotic moment. They can't control life and death, they can't control Spagna or Farenze or a gang of thugs... and they know they can't truly control the Monarch. But this process? This, they can control. Let's assume I get half of them to agree to a secret ballot instead of a roll call. The half who disagree will consider my selection tainted, so they will obstruct everything for at least two years, probably ten or more. Tiwendar is not wrong — the ones most likely to object are the Progressives because they already resent the Royalists and the Reformists. Have you ever considered why the factions are sized the way they are?"

He shrugged. "Because organizing more than thirty people makes cat herding look efficient?"

"Because of the Monarch's block vote. That's why I proposed we break it. We have always controlled about one-third of the legislative votes since Galene's first Prava. The Founders intended the Monarch to restrain the Prava. No Monarch could make permanent law alone, and the Monarch plus a few can prevent a popular but dangerous or unjust law. The Founders expected two factions, and through most of history, that's what we've had. Roughly, call them the coal cup party and the flint party."

One of his eyebrows rose. "I'm lost."

"Two ways to make fire — use a coal from another fire to start a new one, or gather tinder and strike a new spark every time. One preserves and conserves the traditional fire, one builds anew. Both are work, both take time and planning, both have conveniences and inconveniences, and both are effective. In reality, we need both perspectives, in balance. For the most part, the coal cuppers want to maintain the structures we have, change slowly, fully examine each step before we take it. Generally, the flint party wants to try new ideas, experiment, take risks. Historically, both have been in balance and the Monarchs have alternated their support. Except when a third party emerges, which started happening about fifty years ago when the old Outer Langreve block fell apart. The Progressives picked up most of their pieces, but the Royalists closed ranks for a few decades. That gave Mathes an opportunity."

"So... " He started sketching on the tablecloth again, drawing boxes. "The Change Nothings, the Try Anythings and the ...?" He looked up.

"The Conflicted and Confused. Our Progressives. They like some of the changes the Try Anythings produce — vapor light, oil stoves, better roads, canals and locks — but they were comfortable when nothing changed. Listen to the older Progressives." I mimicked a few of the more querulous speakers we'd been hearing over the past few days. "When I was young, the streets were clean, the Judicatura moved quickly and we didn't have all this crime. Girls stayed home with their mothers, not out in the streets with pink hair and tight skirts and spending all their hours studying and roaming the markets."

"Get those children out of my garden," Laarens added. "How are you girls in the streets and studying at the same time?"

I grinned and shrugged. "That we're visible outside of a garden party or a temple is the problem. The streets weren't clean when Marinvalt was young; they were worse than they are now, but Marinvalt wasn't here. He was out on a 'greve. The Judicatura is less backlogged now than it was when Da was crowned because Da added magistrates and justiciars. Violent crime is down, if you don't consider making war a crime. Violent crime is generally a young man's game, and we have most of ours occupied elsewhere, where their violence is directed. Fraud, coercion, extortion and organized crime are up, but that's the result of concentrated power and wealth. But facts can't fight an ordinary memory. People who aren't Perceptive believe what they perceive and perceive what they believe."

"I think that applies to Perceptives, too," Laarens said doubtfully. "At least, I don't doubt my senses and memory."

"You should, they lie to you all the time. Memory erodes, we don't recall what we didn't attend, we let our feelings color our perceptions and we get drunk on fear, grief, joy, surprise. Memory, perception and thought are my stock in trade, and they are as frail and malleable as the bodies that carry them." I shrugged. "It's our nature, to be accounted for, not changed. Right now, we have twenty-seven Royalists, who are this generation's coal-cuppers. They want to preserve the monarchy, preserve our support for the poor and intellectual pursuits, expand our proven methods of developing the land and our skills and abilities."

He grew still and puzzled. "The Royalists are the Change Nothings? No, they're moving us forward. They're funding my engineers and paying for the alchemists and — "

"And that is our state of affairs now. We are building on our past, taking coals from previous fires to start new ones. We started by educating Pronatis and that worked, so we began educating clever freeborn boys, then Pronatiae, and now most children get at least a little reading and maths. Don't confuse progress with change. These distinctions matter, Laarens, especially in law and politics, and you'd know this if you'd ever paid it the slightest attention." I bit off the rest of my annoyance that we had to review this lesson from my eighth year now.

"The Reformists are the Try Anythings and they want to try a radical government that has never existed. Never in history has any government placed most of the power in the hands of a small hereditary elite, or never for long. The longest oligarchy lasted three years before it dissolved into warring fiefs. Oligarchy is inherently unstable because the power is too concentrated for broad support, not concentrated enough for leadership and the oligarchs cannot trust one another. But that's what Mathes and the Reformists want."

He inhaled sharply. "Except you told Mathes you agree with him — "

"On power and its concentration. At a philosophical level, we both believe that concentrating the bulk of power in the hands of a single individual is dangerous. That doesn't mean we agree on methods or the distribution of that power."

"Which party are you, Rien?" he asked impatiently. "Flint, coal-cup, or wet and confused?"

"I'm a vapor light, an oil stove, a burning lens. I'm an alchemical match. I'm an Incendiary. I see no point in hauling around a burning coal on the off chance or shredding a handful of bark and hoping for good aim with my flint." I dug in my pockets for my hand lens and the little bottle full of distilled fuel oil. I drew the stopper, scraped the steel down the channel and the spark caught the oil. I shook it out, then muttered a few words of Porsirian and pressed puissance into the oil lamp wick on the sideboard. "I'm what they all fear. I'm what comes next and renders everything that came before archaic."

"That explains why they're all on edge," he said. He took my alchemical match. "These are dangerous. The oil leaks into the cork. Strike it and you're wearing a glove of fire. Lenses work half the day. Not everyone's an Ingenia, and most of us aren't Incendiaries. Vapor lights only work in cities, because a village can't produce enough shit for the digester. We don't have the land or water to make much more fuel oil than we make now. As power goes, we need something that isn't fire."

I nodded. "And you think that isn't terrifying them, too?"

Avah knocked briefly on my outer door, then entered. She took note of the burning lamp lighting nothing in use, the bottle in Laarens' hand and my lens on the table. "Oi, Laarens, is she giving you the alchemical match speech? It's unadulterated horseshit, and she knows it. The distribution of the factions is an internal power balance. If you place each individual Teregenitor on a discrete point of a curve, they will equally distribute along it from radically Royalist on the far left to radically Reformist on the far right. Right now, the Radicals at both ends have loud shouty voices. Those forty-five in the middle are repelled by both, and so wander without any leadership. They're looking for quiet reason, stability and security. The Reformists keep their mushiest because the Delavis have three generations of mathematically inept gamblers, Croysart's mother spoiled him and he thinks the world belongs to him, Silvalt is a bully's bully, Sulaven literally owes Ruteri more than he is worth, and Tiwendar lost his mind after his brother and his wife died. Rien overthinks this. It's quite simple."

"Except your theory only accounts for nine-tenths," I said and pushed her chair from the table so she'd join us.

"That's because in any population, one-tenth is either drooling-stupid, perpetually drunk or mad and cannot be quantified." She draped her cloak over the chair back, kissed Laarens' cheek and patted my hand before she sat down and pulled her plate from the warmer. "You could have left me bread."

I gave her the two rolls I hadn't reduced to crumbs and she ate quickly. "It's the math, Laarens," she said around bites. "Twenty-six can veto any three-quarters vote, so any block must have that as their minimum, to ensure they can block an Elevation or Ascension. And they have — The Royalists flatly opposed Mathes's Elevation per Razin Ardenis' wishes, in 1109, '10, and '12.

"In most simple majority votes, when the Royal block is cast, majority is seventy-six. That's the Royal block of forty-eight, minus Savrin's one abstention, plus twenty-seven Royalists and two Progressives. That's not difficult, given there are forty-five Progressives. Until eight years ago when my father and Teregenitor Alvard took over from their fathers, the Royalists were a closed club. One had to be born a Royalist and from a Founder Family to join. A pure example of drooling-stupid snobbishness.

"Most of the current Progressives have been in the Prava for at least a decade, and their families for centuries, so they had many years to be insulted by those demented old fools. Yes, my grandfather was a demented fool. Ask anyone in the family. About half of the Progressive families voted with the Royalists because they were almost as old and had aspirations of being drawn in, but the other half wouldn't join the Royalists for half of the Treasury, even though they agree with the Royalists. Old insults cut deep.

"The Reformists are also a closed club, at twenty-nine. That's also not an accidental number. They've been waiting for the opportunity to be a block-vote majority, in addition to blocking Ascensions. The Royalists keep their mushier members in line with family ties and your grandmother would be so ashamed, but the Reformists don't have much of that. More of them are newer families. Mathes and Tiwendar use blackmail, graft and extortion. Note the Delavi and Sulaven debts. Zubiri had two daughters spend a year in Natavia, but both returned as sunless as they left despite six tendays at sea and a year at the seaside. Neither visits any public hot spring anymore. We'd see the stretch marks. The Zubiris are Cleatarni, so kindling before marriage is a great sin, and I assume the lads making the contribution weren't marriage material. Why they didn't flood or take care beforehand, I couldn't tell you, but I'd say that's a public shaming Saren Zubiri cannot bear to face, even though every Curia women knows.

"Tiwendar has gotten very wealthy for a third generation Teregenitor from the back of beyond whose best marriage prospect thirty years ago was a linen merchant's daughter. Not that Mathilde wasn't a lovely woman — she was — but no investment quadruples a fortune every year, and that's what had to happen for that man to be that wealthy now.

"Dadda remembers Ruteri, Bastiari and Mathes before Mathes started the Reformists. They were at school together. Hermachians. Dadda wasn't there, but a boy died while they were there, and it was strange. Nothing could be proved, anyway. Also, I've heard rumors that some of the first Guild courtesans know something else. A hundred stories, but the common thread is three street girls found all strangled at the same time in the same room."

Laarens looked from my assistant to me, then back. "None of this surprises either of you," he said.

I shook my head. "We just can't prove it. The Reformists are the legal community's serial saga. We watch them with the same horror and fascination with which people watch cart accidents and street fights."

"That they get away with it isn't the fascination," Avah added. "It's how it repeats."

He shoved away from the table and banged his forehead against the tabletop a few times in purest frustration. "If you know this is happening," he said to the floor, "why don't you lawyers stop it?"

"Stop what?" Avah asked reasonably. "Stop a parent from being ashamed of his daughter? That's not illegal. Compel a young woman to admit she made a mistake with her giant fennel? Why? It's her life and body. She chooses to abide her parents' wishes. Epina Zubiri knows that she could have gone to her Suthwren cousins and they would have welcomed her and her child, but she'd lose forty thousand teanders a year and her leasehold dowry. For a stabler? Infatuation isn't that strong, Laarens.

"The Delavi gamblers play in private houses, not public gaming halls. In a public hall, you cannot borrow. Not so in private games. When Mat Delavi leaves ten thousand on the table, there is not an authority in Galantier who can force him to pay his marker, except his own honor. The Delavis could refuse to pay. If Corysart or Vitaren brought their markers to the Judicatura, they'd be laughed out of chambers. But if the Delavis refused their debts, they would never find a seat at a table in any house. The Delavis can't stop playing, so they keep making promises. It's tragic, it's not criminal.

"Sulaven's debts are private, between him and Ruteri. Sulaven keeps borrowing, Ruteri keeps lending. They both get something out of it, though I've no idea what, because they both keep doing it. There is no law and there should be no law that forbids you from loaning me ten teanders, or me loaning you the same, as long as we both agree to the sum and terms and a means to resolve the matter should we disagree. The law cannot complain on behalf of a person who doesn't feel injured."

"You're talking murder," Laarens said. "And coercion and corruption and bribery and theft."

"I know, Laarens," I said. "And believe me, if the bodies weren't ash thirty years' old, we would act. But the people who are willing to talk don't remember enough even with Perceptive help for us to order a full catalog of the ones unwilling to talk. There's no limit on murder, and we are perpetually the advocates for the dead, but we have to have a place to start that's better than maybe. Coercion and corruption can't be proved without either a voluntary catalog or physical evidence to compel an involuntary Perceptive catalog. We're not talking street thugs here. These men are the most powerful, most well-connected and wealthiest gang in the world, who have built the laws to protect themselves."

"We're close, Laarens," Avah said. "It's taken us seven years, but we have the tiles lined and are waiting for one little push. The Chancellor should have filed the first round of warrants this tenday." What she didn't say, what Laarens and I knew perfectly well, was that until the end of the Regency, the Chancellor could not file for any non-essential warrants. Avah squeezed my hand under the table and my heart stopped.

The timing had not been accidental. Had I died in my place in the west, the wheels of the law would have continued to turn and those whose memories had been warranted would be now recovering from several days of sedation while Perceptives cataloged their minds.

A Justiciar is not a Royal Advocate. I started this investigation long ago, because I had taken an unplanned liegeman who vanished immediately after taking his oath at my Elevation. At first, I thought he was rude, but Avah had known him slightly and found his absence strange — not criminal, just odd. We never had any indication of anything nefarious, but as we dug into other cases with Reformist ties, Avah and I stumbled into the foundational evidence when we were Advocates for the Crown at Women and Children.

When I moved to the Judicatura, we continued to contribute to the case files as relevant evidence admitted in other cases crossed my bench, but the investigative work had been properly passed to the Chancery and the Metropolita. I had been assigned the first case from that long investigation to come before the bench — the Paperers' Guild bribery charge — because I had no connections to it, but my preparatory work had found several connections to the Reformist files and the hired murder gang. Had I died in the west, the Paperers' case would have been suspended, but not the warrants. Which should have posted three days ago.

The legal community in Cimenarum is small, and usually keeps our secrets behind our teeth, but we've all expected these warrants since before Midwinter. The Chancery attracts two distinct groups of lawyers and Advocates — those from modest backgrounds with talent and new licenses looking to prove themselves, and the subsequent children of the wealthy and powerful. The Chancery, the Judicatura and the Royal Advocates in the ministries aren't paid well — pipe fitting is more lucrative. I could think of a score of well-born clerks, lawyers and assistants with Reformist relations. If one person spoke too openly over a holiday drunk, the Reformists could have heard the warrants were coming. All it would have taken was one slip, then a little pressure afterwards. The Reformists had now had an extra tenday to confirm a suspicion. I had to assume the Chancery security was blown.

I pushed away from the table and went to the window in my bedroom to look at the Judicatura on the west side of the square. Many lights were still burning, but not the ones I hoped to see. Sam's was dark, as was Efan's, the Lord Chancellor. With ten words to either of them — ten words in Privacy, by Evocata — I could confirm the leak, but if I went to their houses now, they would return to their offices. Whatever surprise they had left would be gone within two hours. Reginal Tiwendar promised two days to rally my support.

I would have to rally it, and without making a single deal. I knew now the prime concession I would have to make — replace Efan Warev with a Chancellor of the Reformists' choice. The Chancery planned to issue seventeen warrants for full Perceptive catalogues. Every subject of those warrants had a close tie to a Reformist household, and five were Teregenis themselves. Not Mathes, not Tiwendar — those would come after this first round when our circumstantial evidence was proved — but protecting five of their faction and twelve of their households explained why Reginal had told me that his immunity wouldn't be sufficient.

Our best margin so far had been when Laarens and I had been proposed as co-regnant siblings, and that failed by three. Savrin voted with us. His vote was not assured — I'd seen a brief but unpleasant looking conversation between Sav and Mathes after that vote. Until Mathes approached the study, I had been within seconds of getting Reginal's agreement to break rank. I thought I could him get back, but I'd still need at least three, and better four or five other Reformists.

"Avah, who's clean in the Reformists?" I called.

She snorted and came to my bedroom door. "We're talking the Prava, right? Nobody is clean, except Alvan Kurzon and you. Him, because a tenday isn't long enough to get dirty, and you, because we've been expecting some sort of fight for years."

"Cleaner," I amended. "They want to replace Efan. That's their goal now, and they won't make any deal as a block that doesn't include that."

She pressed her hands to her lips as if trying to keep her words in her mouth. "Lady Bright," she muttered. "I don't think we can peel off a handful. We eliminate anyone with close ties to the Bastiaris — Sulaven, Rassath, Zubiri — "

"Tiwendar, Croysart, Kleppt, Delavi and Viteren?" I suggested. "Offer immunity in exchange for testimony to all, guaranteed funding for Delavi's canal extension, replace the Kleppt and Croysart docks and add more canal boats to speed transit, guarantee Viteren's army contract for beans and oil?"

She shook her head. "Viteren and Croysart want to replace the Exchequer since they're up for audit. We have to forfeit either Exchequer or Chancery, and all of them have at least one other minister they want gone."

"How was your father?" I asked. "Clearly you didn't get much supper with him."

"When do I ever when we're talking politics?" she said. "He thinks the sealed ballot is risky at best, but he thinks Tiwendar lied to you about the Reformists splitting. He said it will be close, that yes, he can convince the Royalists but he'll need more than a day to get twenty-four Progressives. It'll make the first year absolutely wretched and we'll probably accomplish exactly nothing. He also thinks we should stop counting on Savrin's votes. He overheard a conversation between Mathes and Savrin late this afternoon. Mathes offered him something — Dadda didn't hear what — and Savrin stopped shaking his head and nodded."

"But if we get approval for a sealed ballot, will we get the approved orders passed?" I asked.

She shrugged. "That's the part Dadda can't predict. He thinks it will be close, not less than seventy-four, but not more than eighty-one. Losses don't matter, but he says there are very few roads to eighty."

"What are his odds on Savrin?" Laarens said, joining her in the doorframe.

"Almost opposite. He needs eighty, too. The Royalists and you two oppose him, so his best margin is seventy-five."

"The secret ballot is the only route to any win for anyone," Laarens said.

"That's the real worry Dadda has," Avah said. "If we approve a secret ballot and Rien doesn't win the first ballot, the second will probably be for Savrin, not the two of you together. On that secret ballot, there are four Royalists who might flip to Savrin. They think you'd be his Bellacera, and they're impatient. They think we need to declare all out war, start conscripting, hire the Tasleroyan mercs and push Spagna hard. They know you, Rien. They know that you'll wait for evidence, demand diplomacy and the Judicatura first, and they don't think we can wait."

"That's madness," Laarens said. "That assumes all of the Progressives just blow whichever way the wind goes. So what if twenty-nine Reformists, four war monger Royalists and Sav vote for him? Why should those Progressives who just voted for the approved succession change their minds?"

"Because they're all tired of wrangling," I said. "What does your father think are the best chances for Laarens and me, together?"

"On a secret ballot, about the same. To keep the Royalist hawks, you have to agree to at least a conscription order."

"But we don't know it was Spagna who killed my father," I said. "Who do they think we have to conscript? We've already got half of the men between eighteen and thirty-five under arms, and a third who aren't are veterans with injuries. Shall we send children? Old men? I can think of four Royalists I'd like to put on the front line."

"And thus, the mercs," she said. "Which Dadda says we can't afford for more than a year, maybe two."

"We can't take Spagna in two years," Laarens said flatly. "Not with fifty thousand mercs and ten thousand wet recruits. We hold that border because both sides have supply lines and neither side has to cross the desert except to raid. If we push across the desert, we have to extend the supply line and leave it defended. There go our wet conscripts, and half the mercs to protect them. That leaves thirty-five thousand to invade a county at least as big as Galantier, and probably bigger. Can't be done. Simple math."

"Thus," I said. "The secret ballot is not wise, yet. Better to let someone else propose it. The Progressives will think of it eventually. I need to work on the Progressives and get them committed to anyone but Savrin alone. Laarens, shall we marry?"

"Not til they make us," he said. "Have you picked a captain of the guard yet?"

That was our code for whatever lover I'd take to kindle our child. I shook my head.

"Dadda had one exceptionally wild and somewhat mad suggestion," Avah said. "Would you consider marrying the Optimus? He's a widower, probably no children, and half of the Reformists are his partisans, not Mathes'. Dadda doesn't think he'll live more than a decade."

"He'd want to be Razin," I said. I considered it for a moment. When Mathes didn't interfere, Reginal Tiwendar and I worked together quite well. We disagree — I think he's much more a coal-cupper than most Reformists, or me — but he's organized, intelligent, committed to a fair, responsible and responsive Prava. He's also cold, joyless, obsessed with his work, corrupt and drinks more than is good for him. I would never call Reginal Tiwendar a friend, but he's a reliable Loyal Opposition. "He's certainly not my first choice," I said. "I'd rather have him running the Prava. He's good at it. Laarens, that unobtrusive call just became quite urgent. Shall we?"

He eyed me from the door of my room. "D'you still remember how to be a boy?"

I slouched against my wardrobe, mirroring his posture. I thinned my lips and jutted my jaw forward to square it. I reset my shoulders, drooped my eyelids and shoved my hands in my pockets. "Right, sir," I said in a southeastern grain district accent.

Laarens frowned. "Have you been practicing?"

I shifted back to myself. "Yes. Simin considers it useful."

"Ancestors, you're unsettling. It's like looking in a mirror that doesn't behave. Ayuh," he said. "I can get you out, but I'm going, too. Where?"

"Good," I said. "I don't know where he lives and I don't want to go alone."

Avah went back out, ostensibly to visit one of her cousins, whose townhouse backed onto the Lord Chancellor's. He needed to be warned of the lapse in security, and to work on any means that would allow him to issue those warrants during the regency. Assuming he could make the argument to the Chief High Justiciar that these warrants were necessary to the national security, approval would depend on which of the other twelve High Justiciars was called to review before issuance. Eight of us belong to the Restorationist school of legal theory, which posits that a warrant is simply an inquiry and that most questions can be asked without prejudice. The other five tend to a much stricter line of reasoning, requiring the Chancery to have specific evidence first. It's luck of the draw which Justiciar Lord Werev would get. The only one he knew it wouldn't be was me. 

# 10-11 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien

Laarens dressed us in Captain's uniforms he hadn't worn in years. Fortunately, he's lean, too, and I'm almost his height. I couldn't conceal my yard of hair under a hat but a uniform cloak is hooded. I bound it tightly down my back under the uniform coat.

The risk lay in getting out. Simin disliked the notion despite the political necessity and the greater ramifications, yet he escorted us through the undercellars. From there, we passed to Prava House and into the streets. We walked, since junior officers can't afford cabs and aren't worth pickpocketing. We hurried through windy, moon-dark circles, nearly deserted at this hour in Government district. As we followed the spiraling streets, first north, then west, the city noise shifted; rumbling carts and steam engines in the Manufactury and music, shrieks and laughter in the Theater district. Barge horns, bells, and the creak of rigging underscored the crashes of dropping crates and the rumble of drovers hauling their loads away from the Docks. When the Snail Shell road turned east again into the Financial district, something like quiet returned. Here, circles of shops and offices broke occasionally for a residential circle's imposing facade. Laarens led us into one and up to a red door set in the district's nearly ubiquitous white tile.

Teregenitor Watable opened the door. Surprising, that. Most Teregenis have servitors. "Hallo," he said uncertainly. "May I help you?"

"Message from the Karsai," Laarens said in official tones from deep in his hood.

Watable's mouth made a silent O as he let us in.

"Have you a private room, sir?" Laarens said.

The Teregenitor's residence wasn't large and once inside, I realized he occupied only part of the building. This was a flat, not a house, and at first, I thought he'd just moved in. The hall held only a potted tree and a table with an empty stone bowl on top — no mirrors, no art, no benches for waiting visitors. But as we passed into what was certainly the library, I knew I was wrong. My taste is simple, even spare, but he exaggerated simplicity into an art of its own. Only someone confident about his place in the world could be comfortable here. He doesn't need ostentation.

"I ... I'm expecting someone, but — "

Who does he expect? Hopefully not Mathes or Tiwendar.

Laarens closed the window blinds while I locked the door behind me. Then I put back my hood.

"Your Ascendency," Watable said, bowing.

"We lack time for protocol. Please. After the Prava recessed this afternoon, I examined the Prava book. I need an ally."

"Your Ascendency, I'm moderate, not Royalist — "

"I wouldn't be here if you weren't moderate. Who's coming?"

He flushed despite his years; he was older than Da. "I'd rather not mention — "

"Ah, your companion. Perfectly understandable," I said, relieved it wasn't Mathes. His flush deepened. "I'll be brief. You've seen how the votes are going."

"Yes," he said. "Full stalemate."

"Yes," I said. "You've my thanks — all your votes have been for me."

"You may not be ideal, but you're the best candidate we have."

I tried not to wince. Damned with sketchy praise, that. The man is brutal with his honesty. "Thank you anyway. First, have you any suggestions to break this stalemate?"

He gestured towards his desk and I followed. Folio sheets covered the surface, with six diagrams of the potential variations of three candidates — each of us alone, Laarens and I as a pair, Savrin and I as a pair, and Laarens and Savrin as a pair. That last was a loss; it couldn't get the support of either the Royalists or the Reformists and only a few Progressives. He had mapped each member's inclinations and a number of alterations told me he had been doing so for several days. I examined the most likely variations first — the established succession, Laarens and me, Savrin and me. My chances alone were worse by one than my chances with Laarens, better by four than with Savrin, but Savrin's chances alone fluctuated wildly over the last few days. His sole candidacy had not been called yet, but on his best day, he was within three votes. So too, Laarens and I together. "Your thoughts?" I asked.

"You can get Tiwendar if you promise him the moon, and if you get him, you get Tristrari and Catalan. But that moon is a completely new Privy Council and his approval of the next two High Justiciars, so your replacement and dat Rappel's because she'll not last much longer against her tricky heart. That turns the Judicatura Retributionist. It also loses you two Progressives. I believe the Judicatura should be entirely independent, and if I thought you'd whisper in Sam Benscop's ear, I'd have to vote against. Marinvalt won't go along with replacing the whole Council. Then you'd need another two Reformists. Best chances are Delavi, who needs a literal bribe, at least a million teanders, and Ramarow who's spent the last year trying to get us to draft everyone between sixteen and sixty to go burn Spagna to ash. He'll require that declaration. Ma'am, he's also rather stupid, if you hadn't noticed. That promise loses you half a dozen Royalists, no matter what Alvard and Selenar think. There's no strategy, ma'am. For every negotiated Reformist vote, you lose two of the rest of us."

"What if I lie to the Reformists?" I asked, curious to see his response. "The Privy Council is the Monarch's sole purview, and three centuries of Judicatura independence is a strong precedent."

"Mathes has six Progressives he recruits if you renege, and I know he's got nastiness on at least eight more. Assume he gets them all. None of those are the Progressives who vote against the block vote as a matter of principle so you still have fifteen obstinate fools who can't agree with the Monarch that water is wet. Most of your regular votes still pass at seventy-nine or eighty, but only because of the Royal block. You won't get anything on a three-quarter basis for years. And the Progressives will probably take up your succession committee plan. We must — one Ascendar is at war, one's celibate and women die in childbirth. The Reformists will nominate Trensen Silvalt for Tret and a Pinuvar for Quan."

I shuddered at those ideas.

"Why in hells aren't you in charge of the Progressives?" Laarens said.

"We're not that organized," he said dryly.

"Which Royalists will switch to Savrin?" I asked.

"Dursen, Lavinor and Darshaiz," he said at once. "They've got faith in you and not much understanding of the Lex Galanteris. They think you'll pull Savrin's strings. Dursen needs Reformist support if the battles in the west move north onto his western border. Lavinor's got a southern port that could become deep water with some work, and Darshaiz has an army contract for brandy he's about to lose because he's got rot in some of his vines. He can't repair the damage without money coming in, and he can't meet the contract now."

"Who's next for the contract if the quartermaster won't support him through the next few years?" I asked, pretty sure I knew.

"Me," he said.

"What makes the Progressives change sides so easy?" Laarens demanded.

"We need a monarch," Watable said shortly. "Nothing happens until we have one. No new treaties, no funding, nothing. We can't patch a hole in a road right now."

"But they don't like Savrin or me," Laarens said.

"A flawed monarch accomplishes something. None gets nothing."

"Have you considered sealed ballots yet?" I asked.

He nodded and turned the top page back to reveal another. These ten diagrams were similar to the first page, but the first was of the secret ballot vote itself, and where the proposal originated. If either the Reformists or the Royalists proposed the change, it would fail. The other side and more than half of the Progressives would reject it. If a Progressive suggested it, it would narrowly pass.

Then I checked the numbers on the most likely scenarios, plus his first. Resolved: that the Prava reaffirm the succession plans of 1129, 1131, 1132 and 1135. His numbers accorded with Teregenitor Selenar — he projected eighty-one votes in favor. His twenty-five opposition were mostly Reformist, but two Progressives and one Royalist broke ranks. He touched that diagram. "Were I Optimus, I wouldn't allow any other secret ballot on this matter. This vote should not be a surprise, and nothing else is remotely predictable."

Then he revealed a third sheet, this one with a system I had never seen. The top line was the six practical options — each of us alone, and the three possible pairs. Underneath, he projected each Teregenitor's preference of those options. Most of the Royalists he projected to prefer me alone, or Laarens and me as a pair. Most of the Reformists he projected to prefer Savrin or Savrin and me.

"This is a very old system from the Bahan colony before it became Bahan Bay. Preferential voting. First choice gets six points, second five, and so on. The option with the most points wins. Since none of us can have our first choices, this lets us make a decision, which is better than none at all."

"Sounds complicated," Laarens said.

"It can be," he said, "and that's why it hasn't been used in fifteen hundred years. But it's not a secret vote, it allows for roll call, and it recognizes that nobody is getting their first choice."

I looked at his projected results. I wasn't surprised to see that I did not win alone. The best of the six candidates was Laarens and I as a pair. Then I noticed at the bottom another set of notations, that seemed like a tourney result. "What's this?"

"An even older system. Instant tournament, just add votes. Same rankings. If the first choice gets a clear eighty votes, that candidate wins. But if one doesn't, the lowest is eliminated, and the second choices are added to the first choice tallies. In this case, we reach majority in two rounds for the pair of you. The pair of you are our preference in all systems, and I'd say that's what your father of blessed memory wanted. My apologies, Ascendency, but there is no scenario where you are sole Razia with the current Prava."

I looked over the numbers and the diagrams again, looking for flaws. Other than the fact that they were untried in our eleven centuries, they seemed sensible. I've expected that I would have to share at least part of my authority all my life, but my father did, too. Aunt Bella was his Razia in all realistic terms. I glanced at Laarens, who was studying the document upside down. He met my eyes, shrugged slightly, rolled his eyes and nodded. He didn't especially like it, but he'd agree, as long as I did the work and let him run the army. I made the decision for us. "Have you any support for these schemes, Watable?"

He nodded. "Thirty-eight Progressives. I mentioned it to Arisdal, Dastorian and Kurzon. They'll be here soon for a tutorial. If they like it, they'll take it to Selenar and Alvard. If you two agree, and at least twenty of the Royalists, we could adopt it on proposal and finish this selection the day after tomorrow."

If I told the Royalists I agreed with Watable's proposal, they would agree. "We Royalists are meeting at sixth hour tomorrow morning, at the Karsai. Please join us, with your diagrams. We'll have to choose which version and write the proposal, then introduce it immediately we have a clear slate. I think we ended on a motion to amend, so that has to conclude first." I looked down again at the projections. "Teregenitor Watable, I am quite impressed. May I ask what prompted this extraordinary effort?"

"I like having a map, ma'am. We've spent more than a tenday wandering the wilderness. Your father wasn't one for dithering. No one else seems to have a marked path, so 'twas time to make one."

I touched his precise, small notes, straightened, and looked him in the eye. "I believe that no later than the day after tomorrow, Savrin will be proposed as sole Monarch. The arguments will be persuasive and he'll get eighty votes. I believe your assessment is correct and four Royalists will break. Selenar and Alvard don't have the Reformist control. The Prava wearies of uncertainty and a candidate who possesses what they think a Razin should have will prompt them to vote for him so we can proceed with..." I trailed off. Suppressing a crime in the midst of a war we'll accelerate over a mistake.

Watable paled, turning his coppery skin to parchment. "Savrin's the worst choice."

"He presents well," Laarens said wearily. "He's male, he attended the War College, he's an Ascendar, he hasn't annoyed my parent."

Watable nodded miserably. "Holy Water, he's a disaster, but he'll pass in a matter of hours. Everyone assumes you'll remain the mind behind the throne, but you won't. The Lethians won't allow it."

"Precisely. We must be prepared. When it happens, Galantier needs that." I gave him a copy of my Royal powers proposal.

He read quickly, then shook his head. "I heard rumors about something similar from the Reformists, but — "

"Yes." I explained. "Galantier needs this improved version if Savrin's the Razin. I've no idea how long I'll retain my seat, but if I introduce it, it'll fail. I'll appear angry for losing and want to limit his power in revenge. That's not my motive but nobody will believe that."

"Ayuh," he said, re-reading more carefully this time. "Yes, I'll propose this. Immediately."

"No," I said. "That's obvious and it'll fail. Let a few proposals go first."

He chuckled mirthlessly. "You know us well."

I grimaced. "I have observed the Prava for eighteen years."

"You have my word." Watable extended his hand.

I shook it. "Thank you. The Reformists have a copy of this. We've a wager on the table that might render this obsolete."

"Tell me about it."

"Mathes wants me to acknowledge him as my father on the Prava floor," Laarens said. "In return, he claims he might release the Reformists to approve a joint reign by Rien and me, then limit her power — because I'm not ruling — with that document. But he doesn't promise and I don't trust him."

"Do it, man," Watable said. "It's a sip of air to call him your honored father once."

"After what he did to me and — "

"Bleedin' hell, Laarens," Watable snapped. "Don't be a stiff-necked idiot. Yes, he beat you. That was twenty years ago. He wasn't old enough to be a father. Acknowledge he's changed. Give him a chance."

Laarens and I exchanged a long, wordless glance. He wanted to explain in detail exactly how we knew Mathes hadn't changed, but that discussion contained several state secrets far beyond Watable's clearances and we were short on time. "It's under consideration," I said. "Thank you, Teregenitor. Until the morning." The knocker sounded. "Have you another door? We shouldn't be seen."

He led us out and we went home to wait for what tomorrow would bring.

# 11 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien

"While my honored father has an excellent point," Laarens said, looking at Mathes over the tiers of the chamber, "Her Ascendency's youth is an asset, not a detriment. Like the late Razin, she will have many years to lead this chamber and realm. She's vigorous, driven and determined, necessities in a Monarch. Further, claiming Her Ascendency is too young while promoting our even younger cousin is — "

"A contradiction," I interrupted. Laarens would have used hypocritical or irrational or foolish, and this situation could not bear any word that would leave bruises. "Sorry," I whispered.

"Thanks," he replied and returned the Vocata to the Optimus.

"Teregenitor Picarem, your rebuttal?" Tiwendar said.

"My son's point is well taken," Mathes said, a glimmer of dark humor in his eyes. "Youth serves us well. However, I ask you to consider, not the Prazia, but my niece, Cazerien. Bereft of her adored father, so distraught my son, her brother in heart, comforts her through every hour. Think, gentlemen, what we ask of her. I admire her self-command amongst us while we discuss her future as if she were no more than a sigil on scrap paper. She has not broken before us. We have seen neither tears nor grief. Such stoicism is admirable in one so young. However, my fellow Teregenis, can we fairly ask her to bear this burden? In the presence of my son and the distinguished Optimus, I heard my niece say that the last thing she wants is power. My comrades, how dare we force a woman to deny her natural and tender feelings immediately and permanently? Should we not permit her grief and an appropriate marriage? After all, her primary duty is to bear Galantier's next Ascendars. My son has profited from my impetuous younger self's example and delayed his marriage; my nephew should not be asked to abandon his true-held beliefs. Thus, the primary burden of marriage and children falls upon my lovely niece. We must permit her to devote herself to motherhood and the education of our next generation, following the meritorious example of my late, beloved sister. I beg you gentlemen, care for my niece's heart. Consider her duties to this kingdom and the duties of the Monarch and see how mutually exclusive they are. Reflect on her tender grief and be kind. I now nominate my nephew, Savrin sator Lethis to the throne of Galantier and give the Vocata to the Optimus so that he may explain why His Worship is the Ascendar we should elevate."

I looked down at the Optimus, but he held his back to me. He'd promised a day, even two, and an hour into this morning's session, he had let Mathes reverse him. Twenty of us all pounded our tables to object, because Mathes was out of order — we were in discussion of the terms of the next vote, and new propositions are not allowed before a previous one has been tabled, passed or rejected — but the Optimus didn't seem to hear. Nor did he notice when more than a dozen Royalists and Progressives began to yell.

For most of an hour, the chamber rang with noise as a hundred men and their three hundred aides and secretaries roiled like a disturbed hive. The good part was that they didn't seem to have noticed that Mathes had called me Laarens' whore, that he considered me both so broken that I shouldn't be allowed to oversee an embroidery circle and so icy that I couldn't be trusted to not lay waste to everything in sight. Sometimes procedure can be useful that way. The Royalists and Watable's cadre of Progressives refused to recognize the called vote, while the Reformists and their cadre of Progressives tried to behave as if the Royalist faction wasn't shouting.

I couldn't shout above the din, nor could I get past the scrum to the knot of the senior Royalists. Of the five Royalist leaders, only one is an Evocator on my key and chord. I started to inhale the puissance to get his attention.

It burned, as if the air had been infused with a combination of pepper vinegar and fire oil. My defenses slammed shut automatically. That doesn't happen. Puissance can twist or run dry, but it doesn't become toxic. At least, not in my experience. My heart pounded in my chest and ears. Something had gone wrong, deeply so.

I leaned left into Laarens to get his attention. "Who is on your key?"

"Kurzon and Bruckides," he said and his attention turned away for only a moment. "There's a silence ward on the room."

Wards are forbidden by Prava rule. Those of us with ingeniae may use our abilities as needed — Evocators may inform aides in other parts of the building to retrieve documents, and some of our elder Teregenis require aides to hear or read for them. That also explained the furor. Teregenitor Alvard and possibly Teregenitor Watable would not be aware — Alvard is prosaic and Watable's not an Evocator — but about a third of the others are Ingeniae. I scribbled cards to both of them and raised them for a page to take. Then I leaned down and pulled the Optimus around.

His eyes were wide dilated again, as black as holes in a skull, and he did not see me in that first second. Then my seal swung loose on the chain around my neck, the arc about to intersect with his teeth. I grabbed it back just before impact, and my hand brushed his jaw. I saw it happen, though I cannot explain it. Sense returned and his pupils contracted to normal size. The brown returned and he jumped as though I had shocked him. "Cazerien —" he started.

This happened before. That morning in the hall, and yesterday, when Mathes neared the room. Each time, a touch altered... something. I leaned further down so that my cheek pressed to his and spoke directly into his ear. "We are out of order and the room is warded. Two procedural violations that will invalidate whatever happens next. Reginal, your duty calls." I kept my hand on his shoulder, my thumb just touching the flesh above his collar as I pulled my face back until I could see him. The sense had not left his face. He covered it well, but the noise startled him, as if for the past hour he had heard nothing. I sipped at the puissance again, but still found the pepper-acid-sulfur instead. I glanced up into the north just in time to see Mathes turn away and walk from the room. But he had been staring intently at the Optimus until caught.

The Optimus turned away and the Vocata slammed into the sounder on his desk. Four terrible cracks brought first quiet, then silence. "A recess, until first hour. We will resume with the discussion of the terms for Teregenitor Andrasel's proposal. Teregenitor Picarem is ruled out of order. Sergeant, to me. Please clear the room until first."

I let myself breathe again. The Optimus had returned us to where we had been when Mathes tried to rig the process. I caught Alvard's eye and nodded slightly left, to indicate the Karsai. He nodded, then I caught Watable's eye and did the same.

I turned to the right and saw Savrin eying me as if I were a new creature drawn from the deepest depths of the sea — both wonder and disgust. Before I could speak, he stood, pushed past me and followed Mathes out the north's upper tier door. Whatever just happened, I'd lost him. 

# 11 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien

"Of course he's rigging the process," Teregenitor Selenar spat. "We've lost all chance of a fair selection. A ward in that room is an insult to every one of us, prosaic and Ingeniae. He might as well have gagged us all."

All twenty-seven Royalists and almost thirty Progressives were crowded into my sitting room, the only place in the Karsai I felt secure enough given servitors, ministers and assistants. They were crowded three to a chair, leaning against my walls, or folded on the floor according to age and flexibility. I'd given up my desk chair to Teregenitor Dastorian and perched on my desk.

"Nobody's disputing that, Aron," Watable said. "But what can be done? Every time we try to force a fair hearing, something happens. I've been watching my water pitcher all tenday. There's been enough puissance thrown in that room since we came into session to lift this building, but I can't tell what it is. Just that my water vibrates, and that doesn't happen in my Acquae-sight unless some Ingenia is at work."

"Has anyone else noticed anything?" Kurzon asked. "Not my field."

Laarens shrugged. "My Inspica keeps firing. I thought it was just that you lot don't make any sense to me."

Several others nodded, but none of us could identify the source or what was being done, save the ward. It probably wouldn't happen again, since we would all be alert to it, but once was bad enough. "I believe we should request two days' recess," Arisdal said, "and disregard all that has happened since we began. This selection is tainted."

"And give Mathes longer to strengthen his block?" Haelens said. "I say we propose Watable's point preference and vow our first choices to either Her Ascendency or Her Ascendency and His Valor. We've enough votes in this room to carry a majority, and almost enough to carry either of those choices. We're not getting the Reformists to crack, not if they're cheating to win."

"We've never done such a thing," Selardi said. "Not in over a thousand years."

"We've also never contested a succession plan after the fact," Dastorian said. "Except for the cat, but Puss wasn't descended from Galene." He shook his head and leaned back into my chair. "I never believed I would say this, gentlemen — and lady," he added.

I waved it off.

"We should return to the sealed ballot. It's worked best for the succession plans. We've used it before, it's not so outlandish and I've faith that if we propose the same succession plan as always, it will pass. I don't think I'm alone in wanting to test such a new idea on something less permanent."

"I'll only allow one," Selenar said. "Only on the approved plan. Jeren's not wrong. If we propose something besides what we've always voted upon, we've no possible prediction. This should never have been a surprise."

Slowly, every man in the room came to agree that it was the only possible route to a decision they could tolerate. I, too, eventually agreed. After twelve days of failures of any proposal, desperation was setting in. I was willing to wrangle for as long as it took, but the Famine Coffer needed to be filled, the garrisons paid, the roads maintained. Citizens were suffering while we distracted ourselves.

The air, and the puissance, had cleared when we filed back into the chamber. I saw Watable peer at his decanter then nod once, to indicate that he saw nothing amiss. Laarens tapped a finger twice subtly against my leg to tell me he had heard from Bruckides and Kurzon. Selenar whispered only acceptable in my internal ear. Savrin did not resume his place on my right, but took a seat alone on the lowest level of the north. That made it clear his alliance had shifted. I tried to catch his eye before the bell tolled, but he watched his toes with apparent fascination.

I had told the senior Royalists of Tiwendar's dilated eyes, though not of the two earlier incidences, nor that a touch seemed to disrupt him, and they had sent their strongest Ingeniae aides to the lowest level of the southern arc to watch the Optimus. I could see him as he faced the south and see his eyes were brown and clear. "Recess has ended," he said as the bell ended. "We have exhausted discussion on the previous question. Shall we resume?"

No one spoke. "The discussion is ended. Alvard, you have the next proposal?"

We spent the rest of the afternoon debating the merits of the sealed ballot, and a tangent on Watable's preference ballot, but eventually, just before supper, the proposal for a sealed ballot carried by eighty-two votes. With that modest victory, the Optimus adjourned us once again for the night. 

# 11 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien

One more night. After our near-spats, I tried to interest myself in a book so that Laarens would let me alone on elementary Prava procedure, but I wanted to know what had happened in the Chancery. On the excuse that we had left a case unsigned, Avah and I crossed the square and wound through the long corridors, past our bench and the small rooms where we had consulted with clients when we prosecuted for Women's and Children. Our footsteps echoed in the shadowy, empty halls. Lawyers work long and late hours, but the regency had halted much business. When we reached Lord Chancellor Werev's office, we also found High Justiciar Benscop. The Chancellor closed the door and brought down the wards so that we four would be neither disturbed nor overheard.

"The Prava was interesting today," Sam Benscop said.

"As the curse defines interesting," I said. "It's tampering, Sam. Can this decision be appealed?"

Efan Werev pointed at his worktable, covered in open books. "Only if you're planning to resign from the Prava in the aftermath and will see the case through, not as client, but Advocate because you two and me are the only ones with a deep enough grasp of Prava precedential law. As Chancellor, I cannot sue the Prava for internal decisions of their function. Even assuming you win a reversal and send the decision back to the Prava, it won't oust an enthroned Monarch. We have no precedent for abdication and no means to remove one once consecrated. At best, the Prava would declare a custodial regency, as when the Monarch is an infant."

If Efan hadn't found another precedent, it didn't exist.

"Of course no Razin would permit a means of removal short of a knife in the back," Avah said. "Someone might use it when one goes mad or demented or proves to be incompetent. Thus was Tulian smothered."

"Probably," Sam said. "Another problem. I approved the warrants, but sune Arvar has placed them on hold due to the Regency. They will post, but not until after the Coronation."

"And if Savrin should win, expect to be replaced immediately, Efan," I said. "Which means those warrants will be recalled. Mother of Wisdom, this is exactly what Da was trying to prevent. If I brought you two extremely sketchy, mostly circumstantial evidence tonight that His Majesty was assassinated by agents most likely from within Galantier, agents likely in the pay of at least one Teregenitor, could you issue warrants for full catalogues before dawn?"

The Chancellor and the Justiciar spent several moments staring into the distance while their eyes skimmed through several hundred mental documents. Avah, as much a lawyer as me, stayed impassive, but I noticed my partner's one nervous tell. Her left leg tensed, pressing hard into her right toes to give herself something else upon which to concentrate.

"How sketchy?" Efan said as Sam said, "How circumstantial?"

I stood and paced the perimeter of Efan's office. "One. Mikel sune Jax, currently consigned to Paxular Workfarm for life, was convicted of accepting twenty-seven thousand teanders from a person called Traska to commit the murder of one Dils Sublin, a smuggler of Farazine poppy paste and boys. In the course of his catalogue, a memory of the meeting with Traska was entered into evidence against him. As sune Jax approached the warehouse where he received his payment, he saw a broadly built man in dark clothing carrying a small child from the same building. That man was later identified as Tarnan sune Radler, a guard employed in the household of Elden sune Bylav, where a boy, known as Wils, was found and proved by Perceptive testimony to have been assaulted by several men, whom Wils never saw clearly — an assault was always preceded by eye drops and a sweetmeat, probably poppy based, to blur his vision, make him relaxed and compliant, and mask pain.

"Sune Bylav is a horse and cattle merchant whose primary contracts are for Army transport beasts and preserved meat for the Navy. Bylav received his first contract through the recommendation of two Teregenis, Picarem and Sulaven. Bylav has hosted both men socially on multiple occasions, both at his Cimenarum townhouse and his hunting lodge which is a leasehold from Teregenitor Picarem. Wils' Perceptive testimony recalls several journeys from the townhouse to another house. He arrived hungry each time, was fed in the scullery, always apricot ale and a meat roll that matches precisely with the lodge housekeeper's daily accounts. The boy recalls the housekeeper and the housemaid who took him to the rooms where he was kept, and the time in transit from Bylav's townhouse to the lodge matches.

"Two. In the audit of Bylav's assets and accounts after his arrest for receiving and attempting to sell fourteen stolen horses, the auditors found a significant annual discrepancy between Bylav's income and expenses. Multiple sums, similar in size to the payment transferred to sune Jax, were recorded as Treasury payments for contracted goods, but no similar payments were found in a subsequent Treasury audit. Further, Bylav's Army contract has been canceled twice for either insufficient supply of stock or inadequate quality. Each time Bylav's contract has been reissued, at the behest of Picarem, Tiwendar, Ruteri and Sulaven.

"Three: I have an adult victim of assault similar to the child Wils, who by concealed Perceptive testimony will confirm that Picarem has a long history of this behavior. I believe that comparison of the adult's memory to the child's would show strong similarities.

"Four: A former member of the Tiwendar household who provided compelled Perceptive testimony in the pending Paperers' Guild bribery case can confirm that Bylev, Picarem, Ruteri and a man who was called Traska by a man who is most likely sune Radler were all present at Bastiari paele during Cresarian Festival, 8 Storis of last year, during which time the man called Traska accepted a container of Gorthanian marks and a wax-sealed box identical to the type used to transport military fire oil hand bombs.

"Five: That preliminary examination of the site of the Razin's murder shows evidence of fire oil containers for Galantieran military production and one three inch piece of leather bearing a partial imprint of a sigil that appears to be in Galantieran script.

"Six: That Bastiari has access to fire oil via his supply depot at Bastra, and that two production batches were registered as accidentally destroyed on 19 Frumentis last year.

"Seven: That unknown persons prematurely released information about the pending cases against associates of sune Radler, Bylev and Traska."

"You underestimate when you say circumstantial, Rien," Sam said gently. "The memory of a convicted murderer places a servant of an incompetent used horse dealer in the act of procuring a bugger-boy. We then have to compare that poor kiddy's memory of a prong in his arse to an anonymous memory that's at least fifteen years old and I assume has not been protected by Privacy for all these years to prove what? That Picarem was in a house a few times and can't keep his buttons fixed. A crime, yes, but... We then have to connect the same incompetent used horse dealer to the four leaders of your opposing faction on the memory of a fired servitor with a presumed grudge against his former employer. Also, prove that the Spagnians have never once managed to acquire a fire oil cache. Then there's proving that a destroyed cache somehow got diverted into another Reformist Teregenitor's house, then to the ghost of the Cimenarum underworld, who managed to get it past four border checkpoints so it could be used by persons unknown against a target whose movements on the border are kept under strict privacy."

"That's why these are requests for warrants, not the filed charges or the sentencing summation," I said. "We have a man with a long history of raping children, who despite any legitimate public indications continues unprofitable business alliances with a disreputable character who has been known to procure and pander children, and has ties to smuggling as well as hired murder. The man with the long history of rape was seen in the presence of his regular cohort and the source, at which time one of the regular cohort had access to a highly controlled weapon, a sample of which appears to have been transferred to the source. An exceptionally similar weapon with the potential to prove its own provenance was used in assassination. Those most likely to benefit from the Razin's assassination had access and associates with histories of hired murder, smuggling and child slavery. None of this information was obtained improperly. It's all evidence in other cases. We haven't begun to investigate this case yet. My request for these warrants is the beginning of this investigation. Were they not Teregenis, these warrants would have been issued the moment I said they were seen together with a box of fire oil."

Efan rested his head on his palm, his elbow on his desk. "Not your request. You can't be the lead investigator. Who should be bringing this to me and why are you?"

I stopped pacing and looked at them both. "You haven't declared the chief prosecutor yet for His Majesty's murder. Laarens wants it kept in the Advocates General, because he thinks the Lex Martiale is more flexible than the Lex Galanteris. I'm uncommitted. The Reformist corruption files are under the supervision of Elzaveth Azalan, Chancery Prosecutor. The identity of the adult victim of abuse is a state secret. That person's memory has been Privileged since that person learned how to do so, but not continuously since the incidents that formed the memory. That memory has also been copied to that person's personal Advocate, me, in anticipation of formal admission at some later date. Elzaveth Azalan is currently unaware of the adult victim's memory due to security clearance, and thus has only a tenuous rather than reinforced connection of criminality between Bylev and Picarem. I am presenting this because I am here, she is not, and due to political forces beyond Advocate Azalan's purview or control, this request has acquired national urgency."

"I didn't think you mentioned it because you've had too little to do with your time, Rien," Sam said. "What's the point of bringing the poor laddie in for his catalogue? Just to prove that two kids crossed the same monster's path fifteen years or more apart?"

I shook my head. "No, rape and illegal prostitution are the charges laid on Picarem's head to warrant the full catalogue. His catalogue proves his financial ties to Bylev, whose catalogue proves his ties to Traska, and between the two, we should get Traska's legitimate identity. Picarem's catalogue also gets us the relevant events of the Cresarian festival meeting. Physical evidence in the form of case fragments from the carriages should match the destroyed batch, and Picarem was present when a box likely to contain that misappropriated fire oil was transferred to a person with links to smuggling, murder, extortion and fraud. Tie the fragments to the last person known to have the unused oil vessels who has been implicated in at least one other hired murder, who received them in the presence of a person with motive for instigating an assassination and the means to fund it. While the child rapes are relevant, and I hope there's a workfarm stay in the assailant's near future, they're just the excuse to order the warrant."

"Sam," Avah said, "we and Elza have been building this for seven years. Of course the warrants are complicated. If they were easy, it wouldn't have taken this long."

"It's fishing, Rien," Efan said heavily. "I need something more to connect Mathes to the assassination. Something that might put him there."

"It's not that sort of crime, Efan!" I cried. "Hired murder hinges on Perceptive testimony precisely because the hand that strikes the blow and the mind that made the decision are never in the same body. Mathes has between two and three hundred witnesses for his whereabouts when His Majesty was killed. He was in Prava chambers. I'm a witness. The crime was the planning and the procurement of the hands that spilled the blood. Certainly, I'd like the bloody hands, too, but the mind governs."

"There's the Paperers' bribery," Avah said. "The strike leader stabbed in a crowd of strikers, the witness statements made a composite memory that placed the as yet unknown murderer in the presence of one Picarem household guard, one Ruteri guard, sune Radler and one Guild Master guard just before the murder. Which links back directly to Mathes Picarem by the presence in the Guildmaster's accounts of a substantial fee for printing services never rendered."

"Gods, Avah, that's a stretch," Sam said.

"But the Paperers are being bribed to consolidate," she said. "They'll lose money as a whole when they close half the presses. That's why the workers struck. The Guild Masters wouldn't ruin their livelihood without a reason, and without getting paid. That hired murder connects to the Sublin murder, because sune Radler was there when both were arranged or paid. That's an impressive coincidence if it's a coincidence. And we have most of that Perceptive testimony already. Picarem has never been proved to touch the money, but it's always his employees or the employees of those with whom he has close ties, and the sums are never what a guard or even a merchant could explain."

Efan and Sam exchanged a look that, despite being their student and colleague for most of my life, I couldn't quite interpret. "Do you have another link to the west, Rien?" Efan asked.

"A very tenuous one. Laarens and I built the tentative schedule that my father followed because I was supposed to be there, not him. Laarens sent me the final draft by coded letter on 29 Fervenis. I returned six minor amendments without context by standard encryption on 2 Storis. That's the only time that any reference to that day's scheduled events could have been intercepted. I used the Prava house flash station because we were tight on time. Mathes has access to the flash station office and knows standard encryption."

"So do nine hundred flash officers," Sam said. "What about the leather?"

"I don't have it," I said. "It's in the custody of the Advocates General. Quan Bruckides says the mark appears to be about half a word, probably the horse's name or owner, but it's in reverse print and it's blurry since it's probably a stirrup strap or a belly band. It's not Army issue, which means it didn't come from any member of the security force or the guards. The script is Galanterian, not Spagnian. Their saddles don't look much like ours."

"The preliminary report I've got says Spagnian crossbolts," Efan said.

"Laarens says we confiscate and destroy thousands of bolts and bows every year. They're not uncommon out there, and more than a few have come into the interior as war prizes. According to a source at the Metropolita who is tasked to notice covert weapon sales, the supply of Spagnian crossbows has been a little slim for the past quarter-year, and the price is up, as if someone's been buying."

"Rien," Sam said carefully, "You know I don't disbelieve you, but you're a victim here, and you stand to benefit if you're right and Mathes was behind your father's murder. That's two conflicted interests. You're not a Monarch's Advocate anymore. Right now, you're the closest to a Crown we have, but you're not yet, and using your Regent's authority to warrant the confiscation of the whole memory of the head of the opposing faction would be both legally and politically tricky if you were already Razia. It's extremely close to retribution or intimidation, my dear. I agree with your reasoning and my gut tells me you have the right of it, but my legal head says someone else must take this lead. You are correct that the adult victim will be relevant as identification. We will conceal his identity in the public record and during trial, but the Lord Chancellor and I must have direct and full access to his memories and his identity. Because you are involved elsewhere, you cannot be his Advocate and cannot submit his memories on his behalf. Can you produce this young man?"

I'd feared this. "I can produce the person, who can verbally testify to a portion of the facts of the abuse, but I am the custodian of my client's complete and preserved memory because bearing them has repeatedly and seriously endangered my client's life and health. Given the nature of the assault, my client chooses to maintain privacy as is my client's right. As is also my client's right, in the interest of the preservation of evidence, my client assigned those memories to an Advocate. Were my client six years old and brought to Women and Children, we would have no qualms about my submission of the memory on my client's behalf."

"Were he a six year old at Women's," Efan said, "he wouldn't be your adopted brother, the child of the man you're accusing and another Ascendar. Rien, legally, you have no fault. Both you and Laarens have executed your duties flawlessly in this specific matter. I must assume that this incident is what prompted His Majesty to adopt His Valor in '17?"

That is a state secret. I did not classify it, but I'm bound to maintain the secrecy until Laarens himself chooses to alter it. I did not have that permission now. The fact that Efan had been able to correctly deduce my client and his circumstance didn't mean I had to confirm his deduction. I very carefully did not move, not even to blink. And that told Efan what he needed to know while we maintained the tissue of confidentiality and privilege.

Efan nodded. "Given that your client was a minor child and his guardians bore responsibility to pursue legal consequences against his aggressor, and for reasons unknown chose to maintain his privacy instead, you could not have possibly been his Advocate at the time. When did you come into possession of his memory?"

"1127," I said.

Before you were licensed," Sam said.

"I'd passed that exam," I said. "In point of law, I was then a clerk, legally competent to take, maintain and control depositions not then submitted to the bench. This memory was not submitted to a then active trial. It can be submitted now, by a licensed and practicing Advocate, as supporting documentation in the pursuit of another matter. We're not bringing that direct case and we're not seeking charges. We're submitting it as evidence of a long-standing pattern to support the case of Wils, ward of Galantier."

Efan sighed and rubbed hard at his eyes before turning his chair to place a large kettle on the oil stove to heat. He pulled down a normal sized fondal cup and one quarter-gallon tankard into which he spooned several scoops of the blackest fondal powder, unadulterated by honey, spice or dry milk. That bile-bitter cup would be strong enough to seize the spoon and smack him back, but it would keep him alert. For Sam, he added a proper spoonful of tan powder in the regular cup. "Take the memory, Sam. As supporting evidence under victim protection. Take care with her other secrets.

"The conflicted interests still matter, Advocate dat Vohan. Counselor Selenar, will you summon the records of the seven statements your partner used to lay this charge so that I may examine them?

"Justiciar Benscop, in deference to national security, I request a waiver to select the High Justiciar to whom I will present these statements when seeking my warrants. Further, I request that you be that High Justiciar. It's a hornets' nest as is. Let's not annoy another of your body by dragging him out of bed.

"Advocate dat Vohan, please send for a clerk to summon Advocate Elzaveth Azalan and to have the entire file brought to this office. One of the more discreet clerks, if you please.

"Sam, we'll be here all night. If you think you'll be hungry, the closest noodle shop and the bakeshop closes in an hour, so send a page with your order. Add Efan, standard to the bottom and they'll send mine.

"You two," he looked at Avah and me. "Follow instructions, then go to the Karsai and don't return until summoned. Majesteria dat Vohan, you are suspended from the High Judicatura through the term of your regency and permanently upon coronation. Counselor Selenar, while I'd love to keep you, I believe Her Ascendency has the prior claim. You're off this case, now and forever, but it is compelling and I will ensure that Elzaveth can see it through."

Sam grabbed my hand and I inhaled his sweet and mysterious puissance to wrap around Laarens' memory and float it to my mentor. It wasn't just one memory, but dozens. Many were fragmented because sometimes Laarens' mind refused to stay in the moment. I couldn't blame him, and having reviewed the whole collection more times than I wished over the years, perfect recall wouldn't have served better. I gave Sam my key to those memories, one of my memories. I'd received a single letter sheet a few days before Laarens was due home from the War College, where he was serving his command apprenticeship. The sheet said only Laarens is hurting. It's bad. He needs kindness and help. I don't know who sent it, or what prompted it, but that letter prompted me to convince Laarens to take to the roof with me, convinced him to talk for the first time in years, convinced him to let me share the burden of being a Royal child kept in a bell jar, unable to accuse his abuser and forced to sit across a table from him. The sight of that letter is the key. It remains one, though the letter itself is long since ash.

Sam kept my hand for the first moment while he checked to ensure he could access the memory, then tightened his grip. Do you know why your father and your aunt didn't pursue this? he asked in the hollow space that is my Advocate's Privacy.

I can hear Sam — we share a key — but I can't talk back by Evocata — differing chords. I shook my head. Over the years since I learned, I'd approached Da, Aunt Bella and Ethene, but their answers never satisfied me. To protect Laarens? Who from? Mathes? We'd already done that. From the public? Neither Laarens nor I gave a damned fig if people knew he'd been raped. He did nothing wrong, nothing to find shameful. He needed to see justice served. The denial of justice was what ripped at his soul and sent him into black despair. By the time Laarens was an adult, able to make the charge himself, he'd made some peace and handed me his memory so it wouldn't kill him. By then, it was too late anyway, more than ten years since the end. And now, Da and Bella were gone. Our adults weren't the first to keep private a child's rape by a relative. They won't, unfortunately, be the last. I assume they did so for Laarens' sake, not to protect their despised brother.

Sam's jaw worked and a simmer of righteous anger lit his tired face, but he let me go. He's no political innocent, either, and he and my father were friends for many, many years. He could probably work out their reasons better than I. I'm a modern woman, raised in a world with Courtesans of both genders, marriages between two men or two women, and protection for victims of crime. Those weren't always true. 

# 11-12 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien

Avah and I sent the messages as requested, and did not stop at our shared office. We'd been told to leave. Either we would be back or would send our clerks to clean it out. But ninth hour had not yet come, and the streets last night had been safe. Even for two women instead of an officer and a simulacrum. I didn't want to go far, but I had one more niggling factor to account. I turned towards Curia Park instead of the Karsai.

"Are you lost?" Avah muttered. "No, we're not going out. We're still under Priority. I don't have Simin or any weapon beyond a glass pen and a hairpin. Neither of us are armored and we look expensive. Worth robbing if not worse."

"I promised Tiwendar immunity in exchange for testimony. He has to come to the Chancery tonight if he wants to take me up on it. None are so lost that the law's mercy may not extend. He knows something, Avah." I pulled her into the shadow of a copse of trees to whisper. Avah is prosaic, no hope of Evocative voice, but the park was empty and the closest people when I Observed for life were in the buildings behind us. "I believe he knew about the assassination, but until he saw me that morning, he thought I was the target. And I think he had only just learned, because he was deeply distracted before he ran into me that morning."

"And you're forgiving him?" she demanded in her own whisper. "Ninth hour, Rien. His Majesty died around eleventh. If Tiwendar had gone immediately to the roof, told the signal officer to alert Western two of a threat, they would have gotten outriders there in time to capture if not prevent. He didn't. It's been thirteen days. He hasn't talked."

"I don't forgive him," I said. "What he knows hangs Mathes. That's what I want, and if seeing Mathes at the end of a rope costs looking at Tiwendar every day for the rest of his life, that's cheap. Tiwendar is cold and ruthless, but he is fair and competent and I don't think he's a murderer. A liar, a thief, a blackmailer, yes. Not a murderer. And you know it, too."

"Nyuh," she insisted. "I don't care if he is the key to the Incarnation of Wisdom. I am not letting you within a millia of his house. You have no idea if he's home, if he's alone, or if he has every Reformist over for brandy and hemp. He may not be a murderer, but at least four Reformists are. We don't know if Mathes is an Observer, and if he is, if your range is longer than his. I'm going to bet not because yours is good when we're fifteen milliae into Arisdal, but it gets sketchy when the Karsai is fully staffed. Too many people send you bockety, and there are 30,000 within three milliae of this spot. No, Rien, not without excellent reconnaissance."

I started to argue, but she kept going. "No lion's den. The end. They killed your father and more than sixty guards. What qualms do two unarmed women who shouldn't have been out after dark anyway pose?"

"Without excellent reconnaissance," I said. "What did you have in mind?"

"First, we go back to the Karsai to my rooms. We'll leave Laarens out of this tonight. Then we're going to a tavern."

That, I didn't expect. I've never been to a tavern — that would have made Da give birth to kittens.

Avah spent just under a quarter hour putting me in technical mourning, as she called it — black breeches, a close-fitting, full skirted knee length coat, also black, but one never seen in chambers. It had lace insets over the shoulders and breast, and was clearly made to be seen. She ringed my eyes with kohl and braided four sky-blue swaths of silk hair around my face, then wound the length twice so a swag of hair fell just to my shoulders instead of below my hips. She added several more blue swaths to the creation. She did something similar to herself, though she picked a grey coat cut low across her breasts to go over her breeches and used flame reds in her hair. She frowned at my practical, buttoned boots with the low heel, but though they didn't match, we cannot share shoes. For herself, she chose taller heels with thick soles, and told me to slouch, but not like a boy. She wanted us to look different, like minor Curiar girls out for a night of drink and dance, bored after a tenday with the family.

"Theater district," she muttered as we found our way back out through the assistants' door to the Karsai offices. She checked her pocket clock. "Good, not yet tenth. He shouldn't be too snockered yet, but we've got to hurry. That man so needs a case that uses his talents —"

Now, I understood tavern, tavern dancing clothes and minor Curiars. "Vaish went west," I said. "The Metropolitans took him. He speaks Spagnian."

"Damn, damn," she said. "I forgot. Well....." She looked us both over, considered the time again, then consulted her mental list of everyone in Cimenarum who might be useful for something, eventually. "I didn't want to pay Vaish's bar bill, anyway. Curiar tastes, carter's budget."

"I blame his mother," I said.

"I would have dressed us differently, but flashing our tart might help once we get there. It's just the getting there that might be unpleasant. No, not risking that," she said mostly to herself. "Cab it is, as soon as we see one." She had a roll of half-royals in one fist and a roll of whole ones in an inner pocket. This venture, whatever it was, looked expensive.

Cabs were scarce until we reached the far side of Curia Park, and for the most part, nobody seemed to notice us. We got a few cold looks when Avah grabbed my arm and giggled loudly, but that was because we looked like heedless young things too self-absorbed to comprehend the entire country's crisis. To be fair, I too would have been giving us a disapproving look, though I can't say I minded much this role I'd never even considered trying. Avah grew up in Cimenarum with her Aunt Ethene. She went to school, first the Archilians, then the Sardanis for her law license. Until she came to work for me, she had always been part of a great giggle of girls. She'd had the interest of her male peers for years, and had both the intelligence and the sense to make them treat her as a peer. I try not let myself envy those freedoms, but I do.

"Docks," she told the cabman when we found our cab. "Warehouse row at seventh pier. You wait. Double fee."

"Ayuh, Mistress," he said. "Empty streets, so should be quick." People were waiting, afraid, and staying in. Not in the lower Theater district — that never quiets, not for war, plague or death — but everywhere else seemed to hold its breath.

"Don't be shocked, yes, I trust him, and don't encourage him, whatever you do," she whispered.

"Avah," I said warningly. "Explain."

"Harliander was a year behind me in school. He tutored me in property, I tutored him in family."

"Tutored," I asked, "or tutored?"

"The sort with tons of books and gallons of fondal in a bright shop," she said. "Not that he isn't absolutely adorable, but that's the problem. I trust him, he's less a risk than Vaish on his best day, and he'll cost less."

"If he's a year behind you, and he taught you property, why are we going to the docks? Why don't I know this Harliander?" Avah's grasp of property law is excellent. If she hadn't come to work for me, she would probably be a thriving partner already. Far better-paid than the Judicatura and I can afford, at least. Fortunately, she's a Selenar, and they're neither poor nor parsimonious with their daughters.

"The usual reasons — money and family," she said. "He clerks for the Metropolita right now. It's a job until he gets done. Just don't encourage him and don't flirt."

"I don't know how," I said. I've never had opportunity to learn and really, little interest when my likely spouse is either my cousin or some noble forty years my senior.

"Don't even try," she warned as the cab pulled to a stop between two long rows of tall warehouses. Most of the doors had burning vapor lights so the street wasn't dark, and a number of carts were still in the process of loading or unloading crates. As we emerged, I caught the sound of several whistles and cheers at the sight of two women not dressed for heavy lifting. "You'll make good dogs beg, lovies!" someone shouted.

Praise, I suppose, but I didn't want to be noticed. I followed Avah up four flights of narrow iron stairs bolted to the wall. Fire-stairs, not the internals, and she stopped at a window.

The boy who answered her knock must have been her tutor's very youngest brother. He couldn't be more than twelve, maybe thirteen. He had sprouted, probably as much as he would, and the top of his curling mop would be at my kissing height, but he was slightly built with a sweetly puppyish face half-hidden by thick, heavy spectacles that made his lovely brown eyes the size of fondal cups. "Avah," he said, his voice surprised and delighted and exhausted. "It's been too long, but if possible, can I please come find you in a couple days? I just came off twelve of tote-n-carry, after I pulled overnight at the jail. I'm so happy to see you, but I'm gonna flatten —"

"Can we come in?" she asked.

He looked terribly hurt and conflicted. He also didn't look capable of a day's dock-work, and there was no way this was a younger brother. He just looked very, very young for his age. "Sun damn me, I've waited to hear that from you for six years, and I'm so bleeding tired —"

"I'll cover your tuition and your books for the next year if you just let us in," Avah said. "That should finish you up, right?"

"Ayuh, who am I to argue with rich and gorgeous? Drace said you were still at the Karrrsaaaiii... " he said, drawling the last word as he finally identified me. He stepped back into a room stuffed with books, files and a pile of clothing at the end of a narrow bed. Avah pulled me in behind her and closed the window, then drew his curtain, a heavy wool tapestry that, while once fine, had seen many better seasons. He stared at me in the light of his single table lamp.

"Harli, don't be that boy," Avah said. "This is my boss, Majesteria Cazerien dat Vohan of the High Judicatura, and you really want to impress her, so stop drooling and show us your Ingeniae."

He took a step back, as if planning to try a bow, but stumbled over a stack of Carthyer. I grabbed his arm, because if he went down, he'd either crack his head or knock me down. "I think I'm just an Advocate right now, Avah," I said. "That suspension and all. A pleasure, Harliander —" She hadn't said the rest of his name.

"Sune Arven," he said automatically. "Not the Regent, Ascendency?"

Not the way Avah had dressed me, and honestly, I'm the Ascendara most of my life. When I get to be Advocate Rien dat Vohan is my best time. I don't get near enough time with the rest of the lawyers and Advocates and clerks. When I get the chance, I take it. "Rien," I said and took his amazingly strong but soft hand to shake. Involuntarily, I looked for the gloves and found them at the top of the heap of coats. Lambswool lined heavy leather, worn shiny and flexible with use, very expensive when new and very carefully kept. Because lawyers with calloused hands don't rise very high and he wanted to soar. "Avah said you've—" I realized she hadn't told me why we had come here.

"I need your spying trick," she said. "I may need it all night. When's your next shift?"

"Docks tomorrow. The Metro sent me home until we get word on the Coronation. Nobody's getting in much trouble right now, and Cap thinks we'll have more 'an we can handle afterwards. Part of this city an't gonna be happy no matter what the Prava decides. That's why I'm taking extra dock shifts. I can't afford not to work."

"You can," Avah said and held up the roll of royals — 2500 teanders. She held it just out of reach. "Can you Observe the Financial district from here or need we go for a ride?"

"Ayuh," he said. "Who?"

"Tiwendar. Who's there?"

"Harder question, Counselor," he said and perched himself on a corner of his bed. Avah shoved his coats and tunics back, offered it to me, but I kept my feet. This was the smallest bedroom I'd ever been in, and his bed would be the third I'd ever touched, after my own and Laarens'.

Are you sure about that? one part of me asked the rest. Never Savrin's? Never?

While Avah and Harliander talked through addresses and people I didn't know, I had to consider that question. Had I never gotten into Sav's bed, even when we were toddling? No. From my earliest memories, I would crawl into bed with Laarens when afraid, and he with me. Sav would come to mine, but I never went near his. The three of us shared camp pallets when Da took us to Monserrat, and very occasionally, we would make an indoor camp in front of a fireplace when the hypocaustae broke or the weather got miserable. I avoided Savrin's nook when we shared the nursery and his room afterwards.

It... smelled. Wrong. Like... lilacs left too long in the vase. And like pepper vinegar and sulfur.

A ward, a minor one, but a ward. How had I never noticed that? Because it mostly smelled like dying lilacs and you only barely noticed any of them. Just enough to make you not go there.

For one second, I didn't care about Tiwendar or hanging Mathes or even if the Prava managed a simple sealed ballot in the morning. I wanted to see if the traces were still in Sav's old room. Or his new ones. I wanted to know I wasn't mad, wasn't imagining sixteen years of childhood.

Avah distracted me from my distraction with a tug on my finger. "There are thirteen bodies in that house," Harliander said as he stared into a great distance three inches from his nose. "One child, asleep. Very young. Another... a little older. Up too late. He's got that sparkly look of over-stimulated and underslept. A woman, controlling her frustration. That would be his mother. Another adult nearby but not involved with either child. Ah.... peeling a root, a lot of them. Bet that's the baby's mam. Next up. Concentration and... reaching, turning. Oi, he's fiddling with a boiler. That would be the houseman. Another servitor, that's shoe polishing. Gotta get past the servitors. That one is down cellar, probably the housekeeper getting the bottles for tomorrow. And another one, asleep. Woman, young — housemaid or laundrymaid. Deep sleep for the hour, so up early, anyway. That's the back, so front of house. Three sitting, two standing. That's all thirteen. First stander. Just standing. Creamy. Bored. Big. Bluish under the cream. Patience. And grey under that... dark grey. Watchfulness. Oi, bodyguard. Second stander. Sparkly, so this one's up too late, too, but he's older. Middle aged. Tired. Smaller. Grey and rusty — watchful and attentive."

"Tiwendar's bodyman," I suggested. "He's a rather mousy man, but I doubt much gets past him."

Harli nodded. "Well, if that's right, then Tiwendar himself is nineteen cups or so in. That's good and snockered, all right. The other two sitters aren't nearly so blasted. What's the black one?"

"You can stop," I said. "That's Mathes. I can never find him except as a hole in the world. He's got defenses on his defenses."

He looked up at me with surprise and some respect. "You're an Observer?"

I nodded. "I don't have your range, and our colors are different, except black. I think it's an absence of the essential light, rather than a color."

"Ayuh," he said. "Oi, you're an Advocate. I can feed this directly to you."

"Thanks, but there's no point," I said. "If Tiwendar is drunk and Mathes is there, I can't go there. By the time he sobers up enough for what I wanted, it will be too late. Now, forget that you know I'm an Observer."

"Certainly. I could take a message," he said. "I've got my uniform. Metro's got tons of reasons to send a note 'round to the Optimus. An't like we an't pulled many important men outta their houses when they're growing gills. All I need's a note and a cab and place to take him."

I considered it, but no Metropolita officer would request the Optimus come alone. If the Optimus was legitimately called to the Metropolita and Terigenitor Picarem accompanied him, no one there would object. I wasn't legitimately Metropolita, I promised to stay out of the Chancery's work, and I had made the offer once. I had no obligation to save Reginal Tiwendar from himself. When he was warranted tomorrow, he would have lost his opportunity with me. He could attempt to make his own deal with Advocate Azalan or the Chancellor. I shook my head.

This had been a fool's errand, and possibly my last freedom ever. But to have met Avah's property tutor, who was himself an interesting — in the best sense — and clever near peer almost compensated. In another world, where I was just an Advocate, I would have found him a friend. I made a mental note to myself. If I had a coronation in my future, once it was over, I would call this sweet, generous dock-working Advocate-in-training to clerk for me until he got his license, then hire him.

"You're an Evocator, too," he said, pleased. "And a beautiful key and chord. Mine's —" He snapped off, having realized once again to whom he was talking. My Advocate's heart cracked a bit. If I were just an Advocate, I could have tuned my Evocation to his and perhaps had an occasional conversation. Were I at all normal, I'd have been happy to chat because he had no malice in him.

I smiled sadly and shrugged. "Sorry, but no. Thank you, though, and you've my gratitude for doing my peeking for me. You have kept me from a nasty trap. I, Rien, owe you one favor. Don't forget that marker."

"It's already in Privacy," he said and shook my hand one more time. "Thanks for letting me help. Wish I could do more. You've got my cousin's vote, but you always had that."

I squeezed his hand in return. "Who's cousin are you?"

"Paxular. He's Mam's nephew. We're the lost sheep."

Now I looked hard at him. I don't spend much time at the Metropolita, but I've worked with and against Mandar quan Paxular since I got my license. He's an excellent Advocate, and partner at one of the best firms in Galantier. He's the Advocate to whom I aspire in ethics. He's also generous with both family and rising legal talent. "And you clerk for the Metro jail?"

"Oi, I like it," he said. "I'm the Defender's clerk. Everyone gets a fair hearing from the Magistrate on my watch. Uncle Mandar's promised he'll support a few years of unpaid defense once I get my license. But I like what I do and I really don't want to have to do divorces and contracts." He grinned wide. "Still, wouldn't pass up an apprenticeship with 317 to zero."

"You rat," Avah said and punched his shoulder. "You acted like you'd forgotten where I was. And I believed it!"

"I've made two hundred teanders on you, darling," he said and gave her a half-hug. "I've always got a half-teander on you to win. Sometimes at long odds. You never let me down, gorgeous." He looked at both of us. "The two of you paid for my books last term. I made fourteen to one on the Romalov case. Nobody thought he could be judged guilty except me. You two always make sure the Perceptives and the hard evidence line up. And you're good at the stories. Really, if you have an apprenticeship, that's the favor I'd like. Best legal minds in a century."

Avah blushed, though it's true. As a team, we are. "Don't gamble on Rien. She doesn't like it."

"You have a dispensation," I allowed. "Small sums. And don't tell me about it." The Curia has been betting on my smallest action for years. At least Harliander could and did use the money for good, and he seemed to have faith in my skills.

He smiled, his eyes gone shy and abashed.

"Thank you," Avah said again. "I'm sorry to use your mind and flee, but early morning for all of us. I'd love to take you for a drink and a dance, but not right now. Come see me next tenday. I'll take you to supper and I've got to have something that pays better than Metro clerk." She handed him the roll of coins. "Truly, you probably saved our lives."

He took the coins — no fool, he, and Avah would have stashed them here or deposited them in his treasury account had he refused — but shook his head. "No better clerk's job. Besides, I'm the only Defense clerk who actually likes defendants. Innocent 'til proved from midnight to eighth. Rest of the day, it's the other way round. Girl's gotta make a living and walking on pavement an't a crime."

Now, I truly wanted him in the Public Advocates' office. The pay is historically terrible, the hours worse, but we never have enough people who believe in innocence until proven. They need a pay raise, I reminded myself and stuck the memory in a file to remind me when the time came.

"Besides," he finished. "Next tenday you'll think this tenday was naptime. You'll be running from dawn to midnight, and good for you. When you're Lord Chancellor, I'll find you." He turned to me and half-bowed. "Ma'am, honored."

We let ourselves out and Harliander watched us into the cab. It wound back through dark, empty streets. "Don't know how to flirt," Avah scoffed. "You couldn't have flirted harder if you tried."

"I didn't," I said, stung.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Earnest modesty about our work, that's never an act. And your gratitude never has a tinge of resentment. I forget how simply charming you can be when you're Advocate dat Vohan, not Majesteria Brick Wall or Teregenia Prickles the First, or the Ice Ascendara. I need to make more time for you to be you. Don't blame me if he grows a fancy. You turned his every charm key."

"I won't. I wish I could like him." Simple friendship and power don't grow in the same soil. It's why, no matter how many years I spent in public service, I don't get to be an Advocate often. I cannot flirt and charm young earnest, idealistic, heroic puppies. That I have Avah and Laarens makes me a fortunate Ascendar. Many had no friends and couldn't trust the other Ascendars at all.

"Stay in my rooms tonight," Avah said. "You keep the brave, strong facade, but you're allowed to miss him. It's not weak to cry." She pulled my head onto her shoulder and stroked my hair. "Grief will stop being puissance very soon," she whispered. "You can't pour it into your defenses forever."

I didn't respond, but took what comfort she offered. Avah is prosaic, and while she spends most of her hours with Perceptives like me, she understands Ingeniae only abstractly, the way I understand that the stars are other suns, very far away. Yes, emotion is like puissance, the way anger fuels righteousness or fear can give matchless strength for a moment. But emotion isn't puissance, and I cannot use my grief and anxiety to fuel my Ingeniae. I generate a little, like everyone else, but like every other Ingeniae, most comes from the air I breathe or the earth under my feet. Those seems to be limitless resources, but I am not. After eight years together, Avah knew when I used my ingenia to suppress my feelings, but she thought I locked them behind my defenses like a pack of feral pigs. She's seen me lock away my feelings a million times, because a child covered in burns and bruises from a parent's hand needs comfort, security and safety, not to see her protector's rage. Both prosecution and defense deserve an impartial, impassive justiciar. Half a million people need me to think before I react. One hundred Teregenis and five thousand Curiars need to know I am competent, capable and sensible.

I don't wall off my feelings. I don't know if anyone can. I can't. I bottle them, condense them, distill them, then store them away. I have a twist on the Advocate's memory that turns puissance into insulation instead of thought, into an artificial calm instead of memory. The channel seems to run in a convoluted path from my head to my toes and back, but when I drip a little of my own puissance and some of the world's into the opening between my ears, that channel turns cold. Just like a copper pipe filled with ice water, my feelings condense into drops. No matter how hot the anger, how bright the rage, how searing the fear, it condenses in that channel. And I use it. I freeze those feelings before they scare the child, disturb the Prava, sway the evidence, before it becomes hate for the half-million people who decided that my family should be enslaved to their needs for all time.

The metaphor holds — water in pipes, in channels, water that freezes and expands. Water shunted into bottles, corked and stored away in the ice cave of my heart. Water under pressure expands. Ice twists and tears a sealed vessel, shatters glass.

Avah expected a panic soon, perhaps tonight. On that, she was wrong. The dread of the morning's Prava session would propel me through the next hours, just as flowing water can pass through the pipe no matter the weather. The panic would come when I had to stop and be still. The next bottle would explode when my perpetual motion met an immovable object.

The Advocate in me wouldn't mind much if the Prava decided I wasn't fit to rule. It would be my first loss — 317 to 1 — but if they so chose, I could see the inside of a tavern. Go to a play on a whim. Read sagas. Take apprentices. Defend inept housebreakers and women accused of unlicensed whoring. Reserve the channel for broken children and the service of informed, fair, restorative justice. Stop fearing the hands offering friendship because I wouldn't have anything worth taking except my affection.

If they choose Laarens, that's true. Not Savrin. Those half million people expect us to carry coals and spark fires as needed. They don't expect us to burn everything. If the Prava picks Savrin, we'll need every lawyer fighting, every politician obstructing, every voice raised and every drop of righteous anger at steam pressure. And I'm tired of the fight now.

"Laarens will be annoyed that I've been so long gone. Thank you, but I'm all right. Da knows he's missed. He knows he's loved. It's my fault he's gone, so there's no surrender. Not now."

# 12 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien

The approved succession plan on the first sealed ballot got seventy-six votes, but that was still a failure. All five Teregenis Advocates in the room — Laarens, Royalist Bruckides, Reformist Catalan, Progressive Julianis and me — and the fifteen Advocate aides watched the ballot box from every angle. We all fixed the memories, and after, we compared, looking for where we had let it happen.

Seventy-six. That number is so odd, given the factions. Twenty-nine Reformists. Twenty-seven Royalists. Two Royalist-leaning Ascendars. One Reformist leaning Ascendar. Forty-five Progressives. Take the Progressives and Royalists as a given block for approval. That's still only seventy-two. Add Laarens and me. Seventy-four. Two Reformists broke ranks. Perhaps one was Savrin; that still leaves one. Tiwendar, perhaps? Or Catalan, who seemed ready to be done? Maybe Tristari. Or maybe two of them broke and Sav didn't. That ballot was odd, but ultimately futile.

After, the Reformists demanded a recess to consider their options, and withdrew to their faction room. The Progressives and Royalists remained, milling in the tiers, building their next plan. Watable, Kurzon, Alvard and Haelens approached me about the preference plan. I agreed, if they chose to present it. Most of us stayed in that room, with the ballot box in full view of everyone. Nobody approached it. Why should anyone? With fourteen remaining Advocates in the room, a pair of eyes was always on it, and nobody wanted to be accused of tampering. We weren't even counting in Welces' Square, just on the off chance the lock wouldn't work.

I am positive that the Progressives and the Royalists anticipated the next ballot. We discussed it, and we all agreed the Reformists were likely to nominate Savrin alone. They had the right, as the last proposal had been Royalist and the previous — to use the sealed ballot — had been Progressive. We had a solid block against. Twenty-seven Royalists, two Ascendars, and fifteen confirmed Progressives. After yesterday's chaos, only four Progressives were feeling much charity towards the Reformists anyway; Watable was nearly certain that at least forty and probably all forty-five would vote against Savrin. Either way, it did not matter. He wouldn't get eighty under any circumstances.

I spent most of that morning not thinking about ballots, but wondering where in hells Sam and Efan were. They seemed determined to issue warrants this morning. I'd half-expected to arrive in Prava chambers to five missing faces. And yet... nothing by eighth hour, nor ninth, nor tenth.

Warrants aren't difficult, especially when concerning the assassination of the Razin. They're inquiries and orders to produce documentation. They are not sentences. They have a low burden of proof, and being issued a warrant is not a presumption of guilt.

As expected, the Reformists returned to nominate Savrin, and in doing, Mathes repeated, word for word, his speech against me of yesterday. This time, I watched the reactions of the more Reformist-leaning Progressives. I saw the expressions of contempt — towards Mathes. I saw them roll their eyes at Savrin. I knew they weren't swayed, and they were kind compared to the Royalist-Progressives. Those on the left side of Avah's curve turned away, doodled, and in Vandahl's case, took exaggerated care in cleaning his nose and ears. With his fingernails. They were not in favor, I would stake an arm on it.

The Prava clerk struck the ballots on a portable press. The typeface was crooked, but uniformly so. The ballots were simple — the candidate's name, a box marked yes, and one marked no. They pressed exactly 106 quarto sheets right before us, because by this, the fourteenth day, trust had evaporated.

I assume it must have been the box, though I've no idea how the trick was managed. We had all seen it — a plain, oak box with no lining, a simple flat lid held shut with hasp and the commonest sort of lock.

And yet. The trick was managed, though fourteen Advocates would share the memories from fourteen perspectives and try to see when the substitution had happened.

Either that, or the majority of the Prava was so tired of wrangling that they took what they thought might move us forward, and lied about it immediately afterwards for reasons of their own.

Except. By the time the tally read fifty to seventeen in Savrin's favor, the Royalists were getting restive. By the time he reached sixty to twenty-three, the Progressives started to eye each other suspiciously. By seventy, the south and center tiers were shouting in indignation. And at eighty, the room erupted into chaos.

For the first time in at least two days, and maybe in years, I managed to catch Savrin's full gaze. I queried him silently as the last votes, all against him, were counted. He looked back at me across the circle, utterly stricken, his eyes large and horrified in his face. We couldn't speak now, but would once we returned to the Karsai. We'd have a few days before the Coronation to work this out. My mind started working the possibilities, to keep the Privy Council intact —

The Optimus rose. "The Prava of Galantier declares Savrin sator Lethis to be Razin of Galantier."

Savrin didn't move as at least fifty Royalists and Progressives charged from their seats to the center dais. He was only a quarter of the lowest circle away, no more than five or six yards, and if the room hadn't been ringing with outrage, a speaking voice would have carried. Savrin slowly shook his head, so bewildered he might have just awakened in a fresh hell.

Before I could stop him, Laarens, with more force than necessary, pointed at Savrin to get his attention. I heard him speak over my shoulder, each word enunciated so that Savrin could read it on his lips. "If you don't keep her by your side and let her rule, I will personally tear your throat from your body and leave you to rot in the desert."

Savrin's eyes went hard. "Make me," he spat back, for an instant his old self, rebelling against any and every authority, including his elder brother and self-preservation. He stood and walked to the Optimus' table. His years as a priest served him well. He spoke over the din, but he did not shout, and he got attention. "I consent. Since we are in mourning, I suggest this coronation befit the simplicity of a nation in deep grief, and as we are under threat of war, an immediate coronation is in Galantier's best interest. I believe we need only the priests and senior members of this body. I move we adjourn to the Hall of Hermache immediately." He turned back to us for one moment. He did not point his tongue at Laarens; otherwise, he was twelve and recalcitrant until he turned away and walked with dignity towards the great doors.

I glanced at Mathes as Savrin left and guards surrounded him. Mathes smiled down at me. Figure it out, he said.

Laarens caught it. "You filthy, scabrous, faithless, lying, goat-fucking, piss-drinking, child-raping son of a whore! I will murder you and flay the flesh from your bones. Beetles will feast and dogs will drink your blood. I will ensure your soul never finds the Afterworld and—" he said, his voice starting soft but rising with rage as he threw himself over the desks towards Mathes' seat and the sergeants at arms descended.

"The Prenceps threatens the life and soul of a member of the Prava," Mathes said, utterly delighted. "Rest assured, son, I'll file charges this time."

End of Book One, Rien's Rebellion

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# Glossary

Ingenia

Ingenia, ingeniae: paranormal and intuitive abilities. Not well understood. Also, the people with these abilities. Usually, when describing the ability, the word is not capitalized; when indicating a person with an ability, it is. In Galantier, about one-third of the population show some ingenia; most of these are small and have limited uses.

Prosaic: Someone without any identifiable paranormal ability, or an action without paranormal assistance, such as natural healing.

Evocata, Evocator: telepathic ingenia. Usually limited by distance and compatibility, described in musical terms as keys and chords.

Incendas, Incendiary: fire-starting at a distance and/or paranormal control of fire. Usually limited to small fires, like candle flames.

Impathia, Impath: emotional telepathy, the ability to read, comprehend and sometimes manipulate emotional states over a distance.

Inspica, Intuitive: paranormal intuition. The ability to recognize patterns or behaviors or unconnected events as part of a whole.

Perceptio, Perceptive: mind-reading. Usually limited by distance and skill.

Prospicas, Observer: ability to see over distance. Two types: Life-Observers can see what is alive (usually mammalian life) but not buildings, landforms, or plants. Map-Observers are usually remote viewers, but may have little control over distance or resolution. Both are usually limited by distance and skill.

Providias, Prognosticator: Precognition. Rare. Unreliable.

Puissance: the energy that seems to power and cause any ingenia.

Valenas, Healer: paranormal healing ability. Can be trained for highly targeted applications, similar to medical school, or can be used like first aid with little skill. Limited by distance and skill. Mind Healers often have both Valenas and either Perceptio or Impathia, or both.

Visia: the ability to see or perceive ingenia and puissance.

Ranks

Razin (m), Razia (f): monarch

Ascendar (m), Ascendara (f): nominated and approved (Elevation) successor to the Razin. Designated by Prim, Prima for first in line, Diat for second, Tret for third, Quan for fourth.

Prenceps (m), Prazia (f): child of a monarch. Usually an Ascendar, but may be denied Elevation for crimes or moral failings. Prenceps Mathes was denied Elevation.

Prava: parliamentary body of the nobility; also the building in which they meet. Currently consists of 103 members, plus the Monarch and the Ascendars. Each Teregenitor has one vote in the Prava, while the Monarch consistently represents a block vote equal to 1/3 to 6/13ths of the Prava's total. (Usually around 44%, but fluctuates depending on recent langreve grants and consolidations.) The Prava under Vohan consisted of 103 members plus 48 votes shared between Vohan (35), Rien (9), Laarens (3) and Savrin (1), for a total of 151. The number is always odd. The goal is to keep each langreve representing around 4000 people, but subdivision in certain areas is becoming very difficult, both practically and politically. Thus, most southern langreves near Cimenarum run between 10,000 and 15,000 people, while multiple northern and western langreves are under 2,000 in population.

Most Prava vote are simple majority (50% +1, rounded up) votes that include the Monarch's block, so most votes at the time of Vohan's death required 76 votes to pass. There are two exceptions: When selecting a Monarch from amongst the Ascendars, the Monarch's block vote is in abeyance and cannot be cast and the vote must pass by 75% +1. Thus, the ascension votes for Vohan's successor require 80 votes to pass. (103 Teregenis, plus Rien, Laarens and Savrin as voting members.) The second exception are for sealed ballot routine business. These are essentially preference polls with some binding effect. At those times, it is a one person, one vote scheme and are generally simple majority votes. They're used for non-urgent and/or non-controversial matters, like end of term budgets, empowering diplomatic matters, emergency funding, and the succession plans. Sealed ballots usually pass at between 85 and 95%.

The Monarch's block vote, in most matters, can be split at the Monarch's discretion. In Vohan's case, he delegated specific langreves from the Royal holdings to his heirs, but did not gift them. Few monarchs actually give the land to their heirs -- Galantier has learned to prevent sibling rivalry amongst the Ascendars whenever possible. Each subsequent monarch may revoke any previous monarch's Royal Writs without cause or prejudice, but no Monarch is required to do so.

The 33-46% Royal block exists specifically as a hedge against a popular but untenable idea and as a bolster for unpopular but necessary requirements. Its most famous use was 63 years after the founding, shortly after Juliana and Argentus assumed leadership after Galene, their mother, died. The Prava then numbered 15, plus the Dux and the Razia, and at the time, Galantier believed that the 2000 people living early Cimenarum were all the people left in the world. Juliana believed that Galantier must send three ships with crews of twenty each back towards Porsiria to discover what had happened to turn the sky grey for three years, and for pumice to wash on the beaches for another decade. They were aware of volcanoes; they suspected Mount Porsir had destroyed the Empire, but they had no proof. The Prava could not justify sending three percent of the population to die in the ash choked seas. Juliana and Argentus' 6 votes, with 6 of the Prava, carried the vote. After six voyages and seven years, the expeditions finally found other living people. Galantier was the only Porsirian colony to survive more or less intact and without mass physical devastation.

The block was also used to prevent a war with Gorthania in the 4th century, and to permit immigrants who otherwise would have been barred. Vohan used it several times in the public interest, usually on matters of the western border, or to protect the rights of the freeborn.

Optimus: the leader of the Prava. The member who has been seated on the Prava longest is the Optimus by default, but can and usually does recuse himself. Then the body holds an election for their choice. The Optimus must be elected by at least three-quarters of the members. The responsibilities are primarily administrative, maintaining the minutes, keeping the committee reports, and ensuring the body follows precedent and procedure. No term limits, but an Optimus can be removed if three-quarters of the body calls for his replacement.

Teregenitor (m), Teregenia (f): senior nobility, with seats on the Prava. Usually only Teregenitors have Prava seats. Usually a Teregenia is the spouse of a Teregenitor, but if the Teregenitor is unmarried, his unmarried sister may hold the title until one of them marries.

Pronator (m), Pronatia (f): Subsequent nobility, the child of a Teregenitor and Teregenia. Pronators are usually next in line for the Prava seat, and can serve in the Prava while their fathers are alive under specific circumstances. Daughters are generally not in line for the seat. The first is Pronator/Pronemia [Surname]; subsequent children are Pronator diat/tret/quan [Surname]. Wives take their husband's rank, no matter her natal status, so if a Pronatia marries a Pronemor, she becomes a Pronemia, and if she marries a freeborn man, she becomes freeborn and her children are freeborn. She also loses any inheritance and may be disowned.

Pronemor (m), Pronemia (f): Subsequent nobility, the children of a Pronator and his spouse, grandchildren of the Teregenis, even if that Teregenitor is dead and his son (their uncle) has taken the seat. The eldest son's children are Pronemor/Pronemia [Surname]; the second son's children are diat Pronemor/Pronemia. Also aristocracy, but the further away, the more likely they are to be working at something. They are also entitled to shares of their family income, but even a 1% share is often not enough to support someone, and 1% is high for adult Pronemis. Primacy matters -- a third son of a fourth son is likely to never come near inheriting. In the Pronemis, the gender designator and the primacy designator matter, thus their names: Samnel tret sune quan Paxular -- meaning Sam is the third son of the fourth Pronator of Paxular. No wonder he signed up for the Army. Sam probably goes by Sam Paxular or Sam quan Paxular, and mostly tries to forget that his entire family has to get food poisoning if he's going to inherit anything. The subsequent Pronemis tend to be either complete slackers, or complete self-starters, and are often the major players in any year's marriage market. They need to climb.

All noble persons are bound to their house and langreve in economic, legal and social matters. They all require permanent permission of their seniors to marry, pursue education, take vows or contract business beyond the scope of their personal incomes. Most noble marriages are arranged to some degree. This matters more for the female half, who can be ordered to marry as their senior directs. In most cases, this doesn't happen, but when it does, it can be disastrous. Noble adulthood is at age 16, or at presentation to the Monarch, whichever happens later.

Everyone above this line is considered nobility. Everyone below is considered freeborn.

Freeborn: A general term for anyone not a noble, and thus not tied to any house. Technically, children of subsequent Pronemis are freeborn, though they usually use their family name for the social advantage. All children born outside of marriage are freeborn unless and until their grandfathers accept them. If their grandfather is dead, too bad. Being freeborn or not matters relatively little for men, but can mean a significant difference in freedoms and liberties for women. Once a freeborn person reaches adulthood (age 20 for the freeborn), she can make any contract she likes, be it marriage, a religious vocation, a business venture, or education. Between the ages of approximately 15 and 20, parents may allow their children to pursue marriage, vocations or education, but the child requires permission and consent. Again, in most cases, parents do not order their children into disasters, but it does happen. However, for the freeborn, there is an absolute end — age 20. That doesn't exist for the nobility.

Patrona, Patronae (pl): The gentry, and the managerial class on the langreves. Patrona is not gendered -- anyone can be a Patrona. Most langreves have many, at least two per settlement. Dense settlements often have several. This is both an old system that is eroding, and a reborn system, that is evolving into something like a local government. No two langreves use exactly the same rules for Patronae. This can get legally very messy. Pronemis sometimes become Patronae or leaseholders for their grandparents and aunts and uncles as a means of keeping management in the family.

Tenants: the common people who have agreed to a formal social-economic contract with a specific Teregenitor to provide labor in exchange for income, shelter, leadership and (in theory) access to decision making through their Teregenitor. Tenant contracts are usually long, often life-time contracts (20-65ish), though the contracts can be broken or altered by mutual consent. In some rare cases, the contracts are for a set number of years (80-100), and are considered to be heritable assets and debits for an entire family line. Still the most common form of labor and asset exchange in Galantier's north and west.

Leaseholders: people who have agreed to a formal contract for the right to use a specific piece of land in exchange for an annual sum of money. This is becoming the more common form of labor exchange in the south of Galantier. Leases can be as small as a single house or garden, or as large as a single digit fraction of a langreve. Some leaseholders are extremely wealthy. The most common lease contract is a century, with a right of resale for the leaseholder.

The Curia: The social aspect of the nobility, centered around the Prava and the Karsai. Curiars are the social elite — tastemakers, trend-setters, and in many cases, the financial support for art and innovation. Most nobles are Curia, but not all Curiars are noble — very wealthy freeborn are marriage prizes. In recent years, the Curia's influence has waned, since so many of the younger male members have volunteered for military service, and their sisters have stepped into their absent brothers' roles. Winter is still the primary Curia season, since that is the quiet season in a primarily agricultural economy, but compared to a generation before, the Curia is staid and tame.

Army Ranks

General: title refers to one of three levels: Commander General, Brigade General, Lieutenant General. Any region will have one Command General, four Brigade Generals, and several Lieutenant Generals who oversee individual garrisons. Any general has significant autonomy in their specific range. All are addressed as General; their duties are not linked to their ranks. Laarens is a Lieutenant General; General Arken is a Commander General.

Commander: reports to the Lieutenant General of a garrison. Most garrisons have several, responsible for specific duty structures.

Captain: reports to the Commander, responsible for several units with complimentary duties.

Major: Reports to the Captain, responsible for 2-4 units with the same duties.

Sergeant: Reports to the Captain, responsible for one unit.

Corpsman: reports to the Sergeant. Rank and file member.

Justiciar Advocate General: military law enforcement and justice officer. Out of the chain of command. Reports to the Lieutenant General of a garrison, or to the Brigade or Command General. May be either a lawyer (counselor) or an Advocate, but is usually an Advocate.

Advocate General: military law enforcement and justice officer. Out of chain of command. Reports to Judge Advocate General. Is assigned to both prosecution and defense. May be either a lawyer or an Advocate.

Buildings

Karsai: seat of government. Monarch's home. Originally a fortress designed to shelter the whole of the population and withstand major environmental calamity, the country has long since outgrown the emergency shelter.

Prava House: legislative building. Newer than the Karsai, built of wood and brick. Round.

Judicatura: houses the high court and the legal arms of the ministries. Newest of Galantier's three governmental buildings. Four long rectangles, joined at alternating ends.

Legal practice

Clerk: The first level of legal practice in Galantier. Equivalent to a paralegal in modern practice. Clerks can take depositions, create and file routine paperwork, and attend hearings. Clerks in training for Advocacy may also do some, but not all, memory work.

Counselor: Also known as a lawyer. A legal representative for a client, public or private, in any legal matter. Admitted to the bench. The Galantieran legal code uses ingeniae as a technology, but the code does not require ingeniae for enforcement, so prosaic people are not barred from legal practice. However, because the system now uses ingeniae, most lawyers are partnered with Advocates or are part of practices with Advocates on staff. Lawyers handle mostly civil and minor criminal legal matters. Similar to solicitors in the British system.

Advocate: A lawyer with a specific ingeniae skill set, usually Perceptio or Impathia. An Advocate can read minds for memories, store those memories and transmit them to other Advocates, with near-perfect clarity. Their primary talent is to store memory, both their own and that of their clients, and submit it as testimony. They primarily practice criminal law.

Magistrate: A local level judge. Primarily tasked with adjudicating small civil, family and minor criminal matters. Advocacy is not required for Magistrates, but all Magistrates must be Counselors admitted to the bench. Magistrates can be appointed by the local Teregenitor or by the Monarch, or by a local governing council.

Mediator: A local level judicial administrator, usually for interpersonal, family and civil matters. Mediators exist to ease the burden of local adjudication on the Justiciar system. Mediators are Counselors or Advocates. Both parties to the dispute must agree to the the specific Mediator and both parties are equally responsible for paying the Mediator. Should mediation fail, the case can be sent to the Magistrate, then the Justiciar or Circuit Justiciars, then to the High Judicatura.

Justiciar: A local or regional level judge, whose court hears local, serious crimes and local, serious civil matters. Not all langreves have a full-time or permanent Justiciar. Most are attached to cities. Appointed by agreement of the Monarch, Chancellor and the High Judicatura. Most are Advocates, but this is not required.

Circuit Justiciars: A local or regional level judge whose court covers multiple langreves or outlying parts of langreves. They hear serious crimes and civil matters, and are required when any matter directly involves a Teregenitor or their immediate family. Their benches are mobile, on a circuit. Appointed by agreement of the Monarch, Chancellor and the High Judicatura. Most Circuit Justiciars are Advocates since they are mobile benches.

Judicatura: The middle level of the appeals process in Galantier. The Judicatura consists of all Justiciars for a region or city, and they review cases originally heard by their peers. They have the options of reversing the original opinion, sending the ruling back to the original Justiciar with additional information, or upholding the original decision, which can then be appealed to the High Judicatura. Appointed by the Monarch and High Judicatura, with consultation from the Prava and the Chancellor.

High Justiciar: The senior justiciar for all of Galantier. One of thirteen Justiciars assigned to the High Judicatura. Hears only appeals cases. Appointed by the Monarch with the consent of the Prava.

High Judicatura: The highest bench in Galantier, consisting of thirteen Justiciars. All are Advocates and have been so for several centuries, but this is not a requirement of the office, per historical precedent. Prior Justiciar experience is not required. Usually, between four and six of the thirteen were in civil or private practice before being appointed to the High Judicatura, so that the bench remains familiar with bench procedure. Most cases before the High Judicatura are heard by one or three Justiciars; full panels of the High Judicatura are rare, and almost always are the most difficult cases that forge new precedent. Their decisions can only be altered by the Monarch, not by the Prava. They have limited power over the Prava.

Chancellor: The Monarch's primary legal administrator. Most Chancellors are counselors, not Advocates, because their primary role is to interpret the law rather than serve as the Monarch's counsel.

Metropolita: Cimenarum's law enforcement arm. They do not create law, but administer it in accordance with precedent, statute and Royal Writ. Each city may have a Metropolita or a City Guard. Most smaller settlements do not have a formal Guard or Metropolita presence. In Cimenarum, the Metropolitan Administrator is appointed by the Monarch in consultation with the Chancellor and the High Judicatura, and officers are hired by the Administrator's office. In the other cities, the local Council appoints the head.

Technology

One-Armed Archer: a mechanical machine for firing dense flights of unaimed arrows. Dozens of arrows are held by paper chains for firing by a pulley-driven firing device. Heavy, used for fixed defense rather than in mobile units. Design similar to a ballista or very large crossbow.

Hypocausta, hypocaustae: a central heating system similar to a radiator system. Pipes or channels are built into the structure of the building to circulate hot water through the mass of the walls and floors. They operate by radiant heating. When they work, they work well, but are prone to leaks and blockages and rely on the thermal mass of brick and stone construction. Most are attached to a pressured hot spring rather than relying on pumps, but smaller systems can use a wood or oil fired boiler and gravity. The Karsai's hypocausta is notoriously finicky after nine hundred years of continuous use.

Vapor light: Gas lighting by marsh (biomethane) gas. Biodegradable waste, human and animal, is placed in a sealed digesting tank to ferment. The gas is piped under pressure for lighting and some heating applications. The tanks must be vented and cleaned periodically, at which time the remains are used for fertilizer. Tanks can explode.

Tree-oil: the product of pressing oil-fruit. About one fifth of the early pressing is both edible and appetizing, and is used as a food. The remainder of the fruit oil and all of the kernel oil is used for fuel oil.

Fuel oil: The inedible form of oil-fruit oil, then mixed with potash, lye and alcohol. It is not explosive. It transports easily and remains liquid below freezing, so it can be pumped to elevated tanks. It burns via gravity-fed wick in cast-iron or ceramic furnaces and boilers, like kerosene/paraffin heaters.

Fire oil: A refined form of fuel oil, similar to napalm or Greek fire, mixed with sodium. Highly explosive and flammable, does not extinguish with water, explodes when exposed to oxygen or water. Floats on water. Usually packed into ceramic spheres for transport and use, though it can be sealed in glass vials. Its manufacture is a strictly controlled state secret. Is used in all cannons and most bombs.

White phosphor: Refined phosphorus. Produces a very bright, white light when burned that can be seen over long distances. Small pieces can be placed in a glass bottle and set alight for portable, bright lighting, but not indoors. Extremely expensive and hot.

Heliograph, helio-towers: Galantier's fastest long-distance communications. Large mirrors mounted at the top of tall platforms reflect sunlight or phosphor light in code. The platforms often serve double duty as fire-watch stations and messenger stations and may serve as post-rider stations. The service is available for varying fees, depending on urgency and distance, to the public. Messages can be relayed in hours, but are necessarily short. A standard message is fifteen words, unencrypted other than the flash code, and may take days to deliver in bad weather. Military and governmental business always have priority over public messages.

Ministries

Women and Children: The newest ministry. Primarily an advocacy for those members of Galantieran society with the least access to formal power. Works closely with Mercy.

Chancery: Law enforcement and prosecution. Works closely with Judicatura.

Plenipotenitary: Diplomatic corps. Works closely with Trade.

Trade: Oversees imports and exports, collects taxes and tariffs. Works closely with Plenipotentiary and Land.

Exchequer: Oversees the Treasury, the mint and the accounting. Works closely with Quartermaster.

Judicatura: Law interpretation. Works closely with Chancery.

War: Oversees recruitment, training, supply and mobilization. Works with everyone, and nobody. Was smallest ministry until Spagnan war first erupted. Is now largest.

Knowledge: Formerly the head of the Royal University and Library, now oversees all of Galantier's schools and training conversatories. Coordinates standards and funding. Works closely with Healing.

Mercy: Coordinates charitable endeavours and oversees the Famine Coffer. Works closely with Women and Children.

Healing: Coordinates Healing, the training of Healers and Healer's assistants, and the development of knowledge specific to Healing and curative work. Works closely with Knowledge.

Quartermaster: national inventory, national statistician, national assessor. Works closely with Exchequer and Land.

Land: national resources. Builds roads, garrisons, dams. Manages Royal holdings and consults with Teregenis or their representatives on natural resources. Works closely with Exchequer, Quartermaster, Trade.

Religion

Cresaria, Cresarians: goddess of herders, domesticated creatures, pastures, dairies, spinning, weaving. One of the Four Sisters faiths brought from Porsiria.

Archilia, Archilians: goddess of wisdom, knowledge, education, healing. Also called Sophism. One of the Four Sisters faiths brought from Porsiria. Most politically active and culturally liberal. Has been influential in Galanteran government. The Galanteran version is a heretical sect.

Fordea, Fordeanites: goddess of trees, forests and the wild. One of the Four Sisters faiths brought from Porsiria.

Iolantha, Iolanthans: goddess of grain, land, harvests and farming. One of the Four Sisters faiths brought from Porsiria.

Lunaga, Lunagans: goddess of the moon, love, midwifery, childbirth, and in certain aspects, war. One of the Twin Goddess faiths, brought with the Founders, but originated in what is now Farenze. In Farenze, it is heresy and has been exterminated. Usually aligns with the Four Sisters politically. Culturally liberal.

Renara, Renarans: goddess of fire and smithing. One of the Twin Goddess faiths, brought with the Founders, but originated in what is now Farenze. In Farenze, it is heresy and has been exterminated.

Corsaria, Corsari: goddess of water, rivers, streams, lakes, wells. Older than the Four Sisters or Brothers, brought from Porsiria, much closer to animism. Usually live and let live. Fading.

Sardan, Sardani: god of the sun, light, heat. Has aspect of passion. One of the Brothers faiths brought from Porsiria, but usually aligns with the Four Sisters in politics and culture.

Teander, Teandrian: god of balance, coin, trade, justice. One of the Brothers faiths brought from Porsiria. Rarely aligns with the Four Sisters politically, culturally very conservative. Musical. Has theological disagreements with most of the other faiths.

Cleatarn, Cleatarni: god of storms, weather, skies, lightning. One of the Brothers faiths brought from Porsiria. Opposes the Four Sisters and all of the other faiths in theology. Aligns with Teandrians and Lethians politically. Conservative.

Lethis, Lethian: god of cold, winter, decay, death. Originated in Galantier. In midst of schism. Old Order grew slowly, coexisted with others. New Order has grown rapidly, denies all other deities exist.

Hermachians: relatively new faith, founded by Archilian and Sardani mystics. Has aspects of both and believes in a savior (Hermache) incarnation born of union between both gods. Has evolved far from either faith. Has been deeply involved in government since inception.

Pantheists: An official, ecumenical faith that acknowledges all eleven deities and may participate in some, but not all, of their rites. Mostly practiced by the upper nobility and Royal House as a means of withholding official privilege to any sect to maintain a level of religious neutrality.

Territory

Langreve: a grant of land given by the Monarch in perpetuity to a Teregenitor and his heirs. Early grants were very large, with the (usually fulfilled) expectation that the langreve would be subdivided between the heirs on the consent of the Monarch. Langreve creation has slowed in recent centuries as Galantier has reached the limits of the unoccupied landmass. All land not expressly granted is the property of the Monarch. Langreves have specific conditions for maintenance, usually in terms of taxation and productivity. A grant can be rescinded if the Monarch finds that the current Teregenitor is unable to administer it to the terms of the grant. Langreve is the general term. Grants that primarily consist of forested land may be called sylvagreves; coastal grants may be called margreves. Sometimes abbreviated as 'greve.

Leasehold: a subdivision of a langreve granted by the Teregenitor to a subordinate, either in perpetuity or for an extended time period. Leaseholds can be inherited, and the terms of maintenance are similar to those between the Monarch and the Teregenitor. Sometimes abbreviated as 'hold.

Freehold: a subdivision of a langreve granted by a Teregenitor for perpetuity. Freeholds can be sold like any other property and the Teregenitor cannot object. Rare.

Time

Tenday: the primary cycle of work and rest days in the Galantieran calendar. Most working cycles are six or seven days of work and three or four of rest, though seasonal variations are common. The Galantieran government works on a seven-three cycle. Days are given ordinal names: Firstday or Prime, Seconday, Thirdday. Most organizations are closed or quiet on three of Eighthday, Ninthday, Tenthday or Prime. The calendar consists of thirteen months of three tendays in a 390 day year. Unique to Galantier; developed during the Cataclysm and maintained after contact with the rest of the surviving civilizations.

Food

Beanpaste: pulverized cooked beans or bean flour cooked in water, mixed with edible tree oil, usually with spices, vinegar and salt. Similar to hummus. Often eaten with flatbread.

Flatbread: a lightly leavened bread, usually sourdough, patted into a round or poured as a batter and baked or fried on a griddle. Similar to pita, tortillas or pancakes. Many variations.

Fish sauce: a thin, salty, fermented liquid rich in amino acids, resulting from the fermentation of small, difficult to eat by-catch. Similar to nuac mom in Vietnamese cuisine, or garum.

Cheria: small, tart, red berries. Tree and bush variations. Often preserved in honey and used in fruit soups and tarts.

Cassia: the aromatic bark of some southern trees. Often mixed with crystallized honey, tree sugar syrup or beet syrup, or added to boiling water as a flavoring. Similar to cinnamon.

Fondal: a dry mixture of beregan leaves, spices, dried milk solids and crystallized honey. When added to hot water, makes a chai-type hot beverage. Many variations.

Beregan: A low bush prized for its leaves. When fermented, dried and pulverized, the leaves dissolve in boiling water, leaving only a fine grit. Beregan has a strong stimulating effect, similar to caffeine.

Acantha: a primarily medicinal mushroom.

Stenhop: a primarily medicinal mushroom.

Fruit soup: a hot, sweet soup, often served in winter, usually made from berries, either dried or preserved. Often garnished with cream, fresh or sour, or butter, just before serving. Childhood favorite.

Amusements

Tosca: a ball game that can be played anywhere there is a length of space. The width of the space is not critical, though informal and formal rules exist for most variations. Teams of players — at least two but as many as ten on a side — attempt to get a leather ball from the center of the space to the opposite end. The players can use any body part except their hands to get the ball there. Often rough.

Cicera: a betting game characterized by bluffing, shifting alliances and mathematics. Often dishonest. Played with dice and markers.

Measurements

Millia, milliae: unit of distance, defined as one thousand military paces, or the length of a battalion (1000 troops) in single-file formation. A military pace is equivalent to two steps, when the right foot has touched ground twice. A military unit is expected to be able to cover four milliae per hour in good weather on flat ground. About two kilometers or one mile. Subdivided into smaller, standardized units (chains, rods, furrows). Has been standardized for surveying to 5,000 feet, but is extremely flexible in actual practice and usage.

Hour: the amount of time it takes a pure wax candle, one inch in diameter, to burn one inch, which equals one twelfth of the time between tide turnings. Measured in heartbeats, candles, public clocks and bells, and by the wealthy, with pocket clocks and table clocks.

Money

Teander: the basic unit of money. Bronze, stamped octagons. A teander usually buys about five pounds of flour, or a one pound loaf of bread, or a serving of protein. Currently, the median wage for a non-contracted laborer is about 10 teanders a day. In the median community of 250 Tenant-contracted people with 50-100 people not yet under Tenant contract, 10 teanders a day will provide for a single shared room with floor bedding and scant heat, 2-3 communal baths each tenday, simple food including standard ale and cheaper wine, 3-4 complete kits of clothing a year, and 100-200 teanders of discretionary funds a year. It won't support a family, but it will support a young person just starting out. While teanders are used for daily transaction, and are often cracked or broken for smaller sums, such as for cups of fondal, stuffed buns, or (in urban areas) street food like noodles or flatbread, most people are not paid in teanders, since very few people are paid by the day. 10 teanders a day will not support a single adult even in shared housing, in Cimenarum. It's barely possible in Julianasport and Crooksmouth.

5, 10 and 20 teander coins exist, but are falling out of circulation. Paper transactions -- treasury drafts --and bills of account are taking the place of mid-range and large exchanges. The major exceptions are inns and taverns, which require coin, and very small transactions.

Half-royal: 25 teanders, round, small, silver alloy. Starting daily wage for most newly contracted Tenants. Median household income for two adults and two children on a 'greve is in the range of a half-royal a day. Median daily wage for shop clerk, service jobs, dock-workers, and other low-paying urban jobs. A newly contracted Tenant has a right to one private room, food including ale and wine, sufficient fuel for moderate warmth provided by the langreve. This is a bare-bones, ramen and roommates living in Cimenarum, with no safety net except the Temples and the Famine Coffer. A clean, comfortable, secure room in a good but not excellent Cimenarum inn runs 20-25 teanders per day.

Royal: 50 teanders. Round, thicker, wider, milled edge, silver alloy. Median daily wage for 5+ year contracted Tenants. Median daily wage for a typesetter, Healer's assistant, skilled artisan, or a legal clerk in Cimenarum. Median cost for solid, well-made but not precisely custom boots, or a basic suit of not-custom clothing.

Magna: 100 teanders. Round, milled edge, gold. Largest coin in circulation. Median daily wage for a hospital Healer, most builders, a senior Advocate or Counselor just entering into private practice on partnership track.

200 teanders: the price of a prepared ermine skin, or of a tanned reindeer hide, or for one 60 foot long x 2 foot diameter log. 200 teanders will purchase a used riding pony with tack, but not one trained for harness. What the Karsai steward estimates it costs to maintain one person in the Karsai per day.

300 teanders: cost to purchase 150 gallons of fuel oil. Cost of one complete kit of armor for either light infantry or light artillery. Usual cost for a middle-aged, fertile army mare on the surplus market.
  1. Maps
  2. Incitement: Winter, 1129 — Quin
  3. Part One
  4. 26 Festivis, 1137, seven days after Midwinter — Laarens
  5. 27 Festivis, 1137 — Cazerien
  6. 1 Glacilis, 1129 — Rien
  7. 27 Festivus, 1137 — Rien
  8. 27 Festivis, 1137 — Laarens
  9. 27 Festivis, 1137 — Rien
  10. 1 Glacilis, 1129 — Rien
  11. 27 Festivis, 1137 — Laarens
  12. 28 Festivis, 1137 — Rien
  13. 28 Festivis, 1137 to 10 Alglidis, 1137 — Laarens
  14. 10 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien
  15. 10-11 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien
  16. 11 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien
  17. 11 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien
  18. 11 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien
  19. 11-12 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien
  20. 12 Alglidis, 1138 — Rien
  21. Glossary

