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Below: Extract from annotated copy of the somewhat infamous ‘Untheileneise Guardsman’s Book of Etiquette’, 1596 edition (first issued 1576; had frequent reprints. This particular copy is believed to have belonged to Lt. Deret Beshelar, First Lieutenant Nohecharis to Edrehasivar VII from his ascension to the throne in 1597 AEC to the Lieutenant’s retirement from regular service in 1633 AEC.

ALCHENAR PRESENTS,

THE UNTHEILENEISE GUARDSMANS’ BOOK OF ETIQUETTE,

AND

MANUAL OF COURT MANNERS

A COMPLETE HAND-BOOK FOR THE USE OF THE NEW RECRUIT IN POLITE SOCIETY

CONTAINING FULL DIRECTIONS FOR CORRECT MANNERS, DRESS, DEPORTMENT, AND CONVERSATION IN SERVICE TO THE NOBILITY AND GOVERNMENT OF THE ETHUVERAZ

AND FURTHER, USEFUL RECEIPTS FOR COMING INTO THE SERVICE OF THE EMPEROR, SHOULD THEY BECOME RELEVANT

SECTION IX. THE EMPEROR

If one is so fortunate as to be elevated to the position of serving the Alcethmeret garrison— or, further, to become a nohecharis to His Serenity the Ethuverazhid Zhas— additional etiquette should be observed as an absolute first priority. 

1. Personal Presentation And Coming On Shift

1. Uniform, including baldrics indicating imperial service, should be kept in pristine condition. It is beyond disrespectful to serve the emperor looking dishevelled or lazy. Bracers, pauldrons, and leather must be polished and treated daily, all fabrics ironed and pressed correctly to avoid creases; it may be that this is done by the serving staff of the Alcethmeret, but it is the soldier’s responsibility to see it is maintained. All clothes and uniform pieces should be replaced immediately if they are worn out; pieces will be issued by the Alcethmeret garrison as is standard.*

*We can only assume the Athmaz’are issues a version of this rulebook which omits this passage. Since all Cala Athmaza does is read, we cannot imagine he would have somehow missed it.

2. Further, hair must be kept properly bound according to the guidelines of the Untheileneise Guard, nails kept clean and short, face and hands clean, and only basic stud piercings worn. 

3. It is unthinkable to be late — or early — to serve the emperor. Only a single minute early is permissible. The emperor’s schedule is carefully managed and cannot accommodate extraneous guards dithering about, or, Anmura forbid, guards absent when they should be present.

4. Excessive eye contact should not be made with the emperor, beyond a swift acknowledgement of a question, or of orders received; it is unseemly to stare as if he is one’s equal.* 

*E.VII will consider lack of eye contact an indicator he has given offence to his nohecharei (fundamentally impossible in the case of etiquette, but nonetheless will be his belief) and become troubled.

5. When approaching the emperor, one must stop three steps or more from him, make the appropriate obeisance, and wait to be acknowledged with a glance, if not addressed directly. To get too close to His Serenity, make excessive eye contact, turn one’s back on him, contradict him, or chatter, are all thought impertinent.*

*We do not think the emperor knows any of this, but nonetheless it remains prudent — and polite — to observe it. 

6. One may not sit, slouch, lean, perch, or otherwise appear to be anything other than alert to threats at all times.

2. Speaking With & Addressing The Emperor

1. The emperor is always and only [Your Imperial] Serenity. No other title is appropriate, and he must always be spoken to in the highest of formal address. This should not need to be said — but inappropriate titles have been attempted in the past.

2. Do not expect to be acknowledged by His Serenity with regularity, and certainly do not presume to offer your opinion upon any matter beyond the emperor’s security. Most emperors do not generally speak with or acknowledge their nohecharei unless necessary.*

*E.VII will ask questions of his nohecharei that are irrelevant to his safety, heedless of whether or not we are qualified to answer. Sometimes, per the circumstances in which E.VII came to the throne, the questions will be awkward, or jejune. This must be disregarded and the inquiries answered honestly, while still preserving the dignity of the Ethuverazhid Zhas.

3. It is the emperor’s prerogative whether or not he heeds the security advice given to him, and the nohecharei must accept if he chooses to disregard it, for it is still an order from the emperor they have sworn to serve, regardless of the consequences.* 

*It seems prudent to prevent His Serenity from ever becoming cognizant of the existence of this clause.

3. The emperor may order his nohecharei to do anything he wishes them to.* Short of leaving him entirely alone, which would violate the nohecharis oath most terribly, he must be obeyed without question.

       a. Implicit orders, i.e. the suggestion that something would displease the emperor if it was done, without the outright phrasing of an order not to do so, are to be obeyed as if they are direct orders.

*And this one, or Telimezh and ourself will fetch chairs for Dach’osmin Ceredin forever.

4. Under no circumstances may the emperor be touched, except in the case of preventing the most immediate danger to his person. It is a terrible piece of impropriety to do so. Only his edocharei (and only in going about their work) and his direct kinsmen may be permitted. Upon occasion it may be appropriate to offer an arm, especially if the emperor is wearing excess regalia or upon leaving a carriage or boat, but it must certainly be avoided as a general rule and a nohecharis or guardsman must use his judgement carefully. 

5. Even when concerns for the emperor’s safety are elevated, it is still crucial the nohecharei remember to be dignified and respectful while ensuring his Serenity’s safety; it is thought extremely low to snatch, grab, push, or generally hustle the emperor about like a sack of flour.*

*Antiquated. While we have every respect for the observation of etiquette, we would rather not risk five deaths by refusing to push the emperor out of the line of fire in the name of good manners. 

6. The emperor is not to be coddled, pitied, fussed over, or treated patronisingly; this should go without saying, but guardsmen and nohecharei to emperors their junior in years, particularly boy-emperors, have been guilty of this, and it is always inappropriate. The emperor is the Ethuverazhid Zhas the moment his predecessor is dead and ceases to be the man he was previously.

III. The Emperor’s Household and Audiences

1. While the nohecharei are by far the most elevated members of the emperor’s household, it is unseemly to remind the other servants of that fact, especially the imperial edocharei, who tend to erroneously believe themselves superior, due to their physical proximity to the emperor.* The imperial secretary, while permitted to speak in court and of course a gentleman in his origin, does not have the spectacular privilege of swearing an oath in life and death to the emperor, and is generally a clerk or barrister, not a dachenmaza or an officer.**

* Avris Eresha was not amused by this passage when we reported it to him.

** There is no note on how this works when the secretary was formerly a courier; must research. Cs.Ai. of course highly competent and respectable, but not a gentleman. And even besides the dire rudeness of doing so, one prefers not to envision the consequences of trying to pull rank upon Csevet Aisava. 

2. Should the nohecharei witness social improprieties or transgressions before the emperor, they may upon occasion be obliged to remind the transgressor to remember themselves.

   a. This may include physically moving petitioners away from the imperial person, if required.

3. Do not expect to be acknowledged by visitors to the emperor or members of his family; the emperor’s guardsmen and nohecharei are expected to be invisible.*

*Despite our best attempts to be invisible indeed, E.VII is lately developing an unwise habit of becoming offended when courtiers do not acknowledge his nohecharei, or do not know our names. We have attempted to dissuade this behaviour, to no avail. We believe it is a Barizheisei philosophy in origin and are attempting to research its stem so that we might reckon with it more sensibly.

Below: Extracts from the personal logbooks of Lt. Beshelar, written in a rigorous but typical cypher often used in senior military correspondence, with a few alterations. 

EVENTS OF AND CONCERNING SPRINGNIGHT, 1597 AEC

As previous entries will attest very well, we are not typically given to writing in such detail about the events of our shifts, being that we understand perfectly the need for discretion in all of the emperor’s matters. However, today Kiru Athmaza suggested to us during the shift swap that it could be ‘beneficial’ to commit the events of this evening to writing, implying, we think, that it might prove somewhat cathartic, or otherwise clarifying. We remain dubious as to its potential benefits, but we have acquiesced nonetheless in the name of culpability, given it was… well, we must first explain a great deal of context before we come to that.

You must first understand that the deepest origin of the problem, such as it was, stemmed from Nemer Cerezched.

Perhaps it is not fair to blame Edrehasivar’s youngest edocharis for doing his job. Nemer can be relied upon to argue that it has historically been part of the role of an imperial edocharis to keep the emperor abreast of important court happenings… but we would term it prattle, or otherwise, gossip. Whatever the motivation or justification, it was still Nemer who told the emperor about Springnight — filling the silence with plenty of sentiment but no sense while pinning his hair. Esha tried to kick him in the calf, but it was too late; it was out of his mouth, by then. 

Edrehasivar was pleased by it, at least. “Twill be very well,” he said, seemingly surprised. It was clear to us he had never heard of the Alcethmeret’s Springnight tradition; a gathering of the staff and their kinsmen in the kitchens and kitchen garden upon Springnight eve, intended as an acknowledgement of service. From what Dachensol Ebremis had said to us, it was a great deal of traditional card games, traditional folk dances, and (Ebremis had said, completely po-faced) traditional drinking, too. Allegedly, the emperors traditionally ignore the fact that everyone is slightly hungover the next day. We do not know if we can envision the late Varenechibel IV Zhas — who was many things, but a stringent observer of protocol nonetheless — turning a blind eye to such a thing, but we suppose many emperors can be prevailed upon to unquestioningly observe tradition when it is a long-standing fact. 

Many, that is. Not all.

“We should be happy to see all of your work commended.” Edrehasivar added, and he smiled — he meant it, of course, because he always means it. Unfortunately, he had been facing us at that point, so the sentiment was directed at us. Being that we never do know what to do when left holding his inappropriate imperial platitudes, we merely bowed.

“Everybody will attend, we presume?” the emperor added.

Nemer, before anyone could stop him, said: “The nohecharei will have to take half and half, we think, Serenity— but yes, other than that. There’ll be a bit of coming in and out, we imagine, just to check the pneumatics and so forth, but yes…” 

Avris sent Nemer a spectacular we’ll twist thine ear right off look, but it was ignored, and anyhow it was no use; Edrehasivar's face fell. He looked quickly down at his hands, ears sagging. 

“Yes, quite.” He had clearly come to the (correct) conclusion that he was going to be left in the emperor’s suites with the nohecharei, shifts swapping halfway through — too cumbersome to invite, naturally, and too elevated by half, but it was unthinkable to leave him alone. The idea was obviously mortifying to him. He already hates to be a burden, and, we think, he hated more in this case to perceive that he was an obstruction to the one holiday the Alcethmeret staff have.

“Swapping halfway through has always been done, it is sufficient,” we said, attempting to defuse the situation. 

“Pre-Varedeise—” Nemer attempted again, but Esha cut him off.

“Nemer, enough from you. The precedents were different back then. Emperors attended."

One of Edrehasivar's ears pricked up slightly — he shot a quick, almost apprehensive glance at us, and shrunk in his chair, somewhat. We realised in dawning horror what notion he had just taken hold of. 

The emperor sat plaintively for a second longer, ears low, obviously hoping that someone else might come to the conclusion on their own. Unfortunately, no one except us had; Cala was (typically) gazing off into the distance, Nemer was rummaging sulkily through a box of rings, and Esha and Avris were preoccupied with Edrehasivar’s hair.

The emperor, finally, said, “Er—” 

It was not an eloquent start, but an address from the emperor, no matter how ill-formed, is to be listened to. We all turned to look at him.

“...forgive us for the presumption,” Edrehasivar said, tone slightly strangled in the way it always is when he doesn’t like what is coming out of his mouth. “But we thought, if we... that is, if we, er… attended... then you would not have to… no one would have to…" He sagged under our stares. “...stay behind,” he finished feebly.

We were at that moment visited by a terrible, inevitable vision of the Ethuverazhid Zhas cornered by our mother, and we confess we had to lean on the wall in a brief violation of Alchenar IX.I.VI. Even the edocharei seemed taken aback; even Cala. Edrehasivar looked horribly dismayed at this non-reaction, and immediately started to backtrack. 

"We do not wish to inflict ourself," he said wretchedly. "It was only a— a thought…" He trailed off, but the pause persisted. In it, we reflected to ourself that while we had taken knives for this boy, and would willingly take plenty more, he had — indeed, has — a talent for making us want to scream in dismay. “Tis no matter. Perhaps it would not make it simpler. We only thought we should— show our gratitude. Forget we ever made the suggestion. Please.”

We were quite happy to; but it was at that point that Cala Athmaza decided to say musingly; "Do you know, Serenity, we had not even thought of that. The Varedeise emperors set a precedent of not attending—" We tried to stop him, to no avail, and he ploughed on; "But the Edredeise emperors always did, and indeed we do not keep with so many Varedeise precedents, do we?" 

He looked around for support. We gave him none. After a brief, awkward, pause, Nemer said, “To be sure…”

“Oh,” said the emperor, unhappy and unconvinced. “Not really.”

“We will think on it,” Cala insisted, trying to stand pointedly on our foot and hardly accomplishing anything, considering we were wearing Untheileneise Guard issued boots, and he was wearing out of date court slippers with the sole peeling off, in blatant contempt of Alchenar IX.I.I. He frowned. “Indeed we will, Serenity.”

We had a terrible feeling of doom at that moment. Cala Athmaza has a dreadful habit of feeling sorry for His Serenity (A.IX.II.VII notwithstanding), as if he was a scullery boy and not Ethuverazhid Zhas, and will often try to make excuses for frivolities if he considers it likely to “cheer him up”. We knew at once that he would manipulate the matter to the emperor’s benefit.

It is not, we must stress in the name of posterity, that we wish for the emperor to be unhappy; but he is often ignorant of court intricacies and his attitude to his household is outré in the extreme. Not to mention that the emperor should not be subjected to the inevitable impropriety of… some of the kinsmen in attendance. 

Nonetheless, we were correct, although we wish heartily we were not. Cala prevailed — Edrehasivar would attend on Springnight. This was greeted with commingled confusion, enthusiasm, and dismay from the household (although, after our collective first failure, the staff have only ever expressed polite enthusiasm to the emperor’s face). To our surprise, the endlessly mild Csevet Aisava also seemed horrified; he stared in some dismay when Cala told him, and left without saying overmuch. We assumed it was his excellent sense of propriety at act; but Cala said conspiratorially, once he was gone, “We wonder who he is planning on bringing that he does not want the emperor to encounter?”

We ignored him; he repeated an inappropriate theory about Csevet’s attachments within the courier fleet, which we will not dignify with reporting here, then asked us, now we were off-duty, would we not go home and convey the news to our kinsmen? 

We did so, for we know our duty, albeit with a reluctance that can hardly be expressed on this page. Equally, the depths of our mother’s… joy upon hearing of the emperor’s attendance cannot be accurately described without sounding as if we resort to hyperbole, but we will recount the experience to the best of our powers. 

We went to our kinsman’s house in Cetho, found our mother in her parlour, and informed her of the state of affairs; accordingly, Reliän Beshelaran emerged from her arsenic green easy chair in a manner that put us in mind of Osreian raising the mountains. 

She said, toweringly: “The emperor. Will be there?”

We stared into our teacup and thoroughly regretted having ever had any family in the first place. It pained us to do so, but we answered in the affirmative. 

“Deret. You are joking.”

“We never joke, Mother,” we reminded her. People often laugh as if we have been purposefully amusing, but we cannot recall the last time we aimed to jest.

“At the little… servant’s party?”

“At the Alcethmeret’s Springnight gala. Yes.”

Our mother asked after specifics, most chiefly and repeatedly, why; we told her His Serenity wished to make his gratitude known, for that was what we had inferred, and in any case it would have been highly damaging to the imperial sense of dignity to suggest that he had gotten himself mired in the entire affair out of guilt and loneliness.

“...the emperor,” said our mother again, somewhat heedless. All of a sudden she flew to action, upsetting her teacup and spraying tea-leaves all over the rug. “This is too much!” 

We crouched to retrieve the unfortunate teacup, saying something about how she need not attend if that was to be her attitude, but she took a very poor view of that.

“Needst not attend?!” she squawked, whirling from the open door. “I could not be stopped if Ulis himself came down, my boy!” She swept out onto the landing. We tried to scrape up tea-leaves with the abandoned saucer. “TERIS.”

There was a vague rustle as our father slung down his papers in his parlour. “What’s that?”

“The emperor.”

“Not dead too, is he? Deret going down with him?” 

We have often wondered what our kinsmen would spend our quietus recompense on, an we were forced to commit revethvoran or killed in defence of the emperor. Something unwise, we suspect — in our envisioning, the money would be solemnly set aside for a year or two, and then doubtless someone would forget and buy a racehorse which broke a leg in its first race, or twelve bespoke Barizheise tiles for the lower washroom, or a set of Ezheise feathered hats. Thankfully, the crown covers the cost and practicalities of our interment.

“We are to see him,” our mother said. “At Springnight.”

“Are we indeed? Well—” 

Whatever our father might have said next was lost to us in the bang as the door on the floor above flew open, and our sister Teralo exploded out onto the landing. 

“Let me come, Deret, please, please—!” She practically fell down the stairs, blew past our mother through the parlour door, and grabbed us by the collar like she was apt to beat us around the head if we said no. 

Our mother called, we felt somewhat belatedly: “Don't manhandle thy brother, dear.”

Teralo ignored her, shaking us with some force. “No, no, Deret, please, I don’t want to be the one left behind— I know thou saidst Lieutenant Telimezh has sisters and surely they will attend— oh please, please, I want to see the emperor— and I should practice, anyhow, for Mama says I am to debut…”

We must here note that we have repeatedly pointed out to our kinsmen that the Beshelada do not have the court standing for Teralo to make a society debut, and that certainly neither of her elder sisters have had such a thing — but to no avail, for our mother has been filling her youngest daughter’s head with nonsense ever since we were appointed to the Alcethmeret. The Beshelada are, historically, minor bannermen to the Cambeshada, but realistically the somewhat erratic funds come from Cetho tenant farmers, and the odd investment in a shipment. They have never had any mighty claims to court, and we hope intensely that they never will. 

“Dost thou promise,” we said to Teralo, not really trying all that hard to wrestle her hands away, “Not to spill punch on thyself, or laugh at inopportune moments, or say anything foolish to the emperor?”

Teralo’s eyes almost fell out of her head. “Can we talk to him?”

It is hard for us to imagine Teralo debuting amongst the court Os and Dach’osminnoi. Compared to Prince Idra, or Dach’osmin Ceredin’s sister Hesiriän, both of a vague age with her, she has plenty of good will, but no composure, little sense, and no feeling for political machinery. We hope fervently our mother does not find a way of sponsoring a debut for her. The idea of her presented before the courtiers — well, it does not bear thinking about. 

We pressed her for an answer; she promised in the most stringent terms possible, begged yet more, and promised to wear her least ugly dress. (Our mother frowned at this; she fancies herself a fashionable woman, and is forever testing her dubious fabric combinations on the daughter unfortunate enough to have been born last and thus too young to marry and escape her mother’s tastes.) 

Teralo shook us slightly more gently, this time; we were not certain if she was genuinely starting to tear up, or if it was a manipulation tactic, but she sounded very earnest when she said: “I’ll practice all my etiquette, every day, and I won't say a thing so I can't be silly…”

That gave us pause. Teralo is imprudent, but she is also fourteen, and she never says anything truly disastrous — not compared to some of the things that come out of our parents’ mouths, anyhow. 

“Thou dost not have to make a vow of silence,” we said to her. “Just… think before it comes out of thy mouth.”

“So can I come too?” 

We said she might so long as our father approved; Teralo screamed, grabbed our ears in both hands, kissed our head, then ran full-tilt from the room, hollering for our father. We returned to removing the tea-leaves from the carpet, as our mother came flying back inside.

“I don't have time to go to the modiste! We shall have to work with what we have— oh, but they have such a lovely set of velvets in at the moment, a lovely tangerine— well, do not look so, Deret, they are bought and worn in the court! The drapers are contracted to the Ceredada, knowst thou?”

We doubted not a bit that the Marquess Ceredel had a contract with the drapers who made bright orange velvet, but we informed her with no small amount of satisfaction that we would be obliged to be in uniform. 

“Hm, you military men. Not that I should be happy with spending the funds on new clothes anyhow, not this month… well, how will the emperor know, an we are re-wearing pieces? We have never been put before an emperor before!”

We own to murmuring something to the effect of Anmura was merciful. Then her words registered. “The funds? We fixed the household budget just before Winternight.”

“Oh… yes, when you took it to that clerk boy… the courier…”

“Mother, we took it to the imperial secretary, and you were not a bit grateful.”

“Ay, yes, well…” We braced ourself for something disastrous indeed. “We have upped our donations a teensy bit, to Cats That Cough—”

Our stomach made acquaintance with our feet, so far it sank. “Mother. That cannot possibly be a real charity.”

“No no, tis very real! Tis not like The League for the Protection of Small Circus Birds—” (We still cannot bear the memory and do not have the mental fortitude to consign it to writing at the present moment. It is enough to say it was nightmarish.) “I have seen them, this time—”

“The people who run the charity? Or the cats that cough?”

“Oh, both, dear, they have a headquarters near the Mich’anmur’theilean in the Old Town—”

“Everything within five streets of the Mich’anmur’theilean is a tourist trap,” we were quick to remind her. Our mother has long fancied herself a genteel benefactress of charity, and to her credit, she is liberal with her purse, often overly so; it is just that she is so very bad at choosing the charities. Eight times out of ten they are swindles, hyperspecific to the point of uselessness, or outright bizarre. 

“No, no, it is quite legitimate—” 

“Do they die?” we asked.

“Hmm?”

“The cats. Do they die?”

“Oh!” She popped her head out of the fabric chest to stare at us. “No! No, I don’t think so, darling, tis just mighty unpleasant, poor things. Do they die— goddesses, Deret, what a notion! Oh, the army does put such ideas into thy head…” 

We said nothing. Our mother vanished back into a happy oblivion of clashing patterns. “Will he bring the lady? The Zhasan to be?”

“No. It is not thought proper for the Emperor and Dach’osmin Ceredin to attend private functions together until they are married.”

“Oh, well, perhaps it is no loss, I hear she is not very beautiful…”

We reminded her, somewhat stiffly, that Dach'osmin Ceredin is a woman of immense dignity and accomplishment, and in less than a twomonth she would be Zhasan. We have barely seen Csevet, as of late; he is always shut up with Dach’osmin Ceredin’s secretary Min Olivin, writing invitations and wrangling logistics and arguing with the florists, drapers, cooks, and prelates. Edrehasivar is blessedly shielded from the majority of the carnage; for a time, the staff had a fancy to delegate to him the ‘fun’ aspects of choosing things, but that also proved stressful to His Serenity, as we had forgotten he has very little in the way of personal taste and has a great horror of professing opinions if he fears he might give offence. Many matters were henceforth given instead to the Dach’osmin Ceredin, who is a woman with no deficit of opinions and little fear of voicing them.

Our mother proclaimed a reluctance to “have [Dach’osmin Ceredin] on the half-denominations”, being that “Osmerrem Ferecharan says she has a weak face and far too much nose.” We gave her a quelling look and she said, “Never mind, I am sure she is a nice girl, and we had to have Leshan Zhasan a while ago and she was not particularly beautiful either.” And, promptly changing the subject; “Well, just wait until thy siblings get home, and see what they have to say!”

We did not wait until our siblings got home, for nothing could have pleased us less than hearing Naris hold forth on the inadequacy of a servant’s garden party in reverence to the goddess of artisans. 

We returned to the Alcethmeret and came on-duty in a bad mood, and promptly acquired a worse one, given someone in the judiciary had the bright idea to send Setheris Nelar amongst the judicial clerks assigned to the agricultural debate in the Corazhas. Pure ignorant bungling of the worst sort; but when ourself and Mer Aisava both went to protest, Edrehasivar made a sharp, brisk little gesture behind his back that quelled us before we had gotten as far as saying anything. We were forced to content ourself with positioning ourself so as to block Nelar’s view of the emperor, and glowering at the back of Nelar’s head. It remained suitably low for the duration of the meeting, but it would have been better an it was not attached to its accompanying neck. It has long been agreed between the Alcethmeret staff that to covertly kill Nelar would cause more distress in the short term than it would alleviate, and would be a violation of implicit imperial orders anyhow, which are to be obeyed in the same manner as explicit ones (Al.IX.II.IV.a)—but it does not stop everybody desiring it all the same. We sometimes wonder if Csevet could make it look like an accident.

At dinner, Edrehasivar paused, looked up at us, looked scantily amused, and said, “Gentlemen, we did not expect to never see him again. It would be very difficult to accomplish when he is still in our government. Which is our own fault. We note.”

He smiled hopefully, desperately, but we noticed his shoulders were stooped in defeat. He looked, as ever he tends to, very young and very narrow-shouldered, in the great chair at the head of the table.

We said, somewhat impotently and certainly belatedly; “Serenity, it should not have happened.” It was delivered with all the glacial quality of the northernmost Thu-Cethoreise mountains, but we doubt we could have stopped ourself on that point.

Edrehasivar half-smiled. “Well, no...”

“And it will certainly not happen again, Serenity,” Csevet said briskly. “We have spoken with the judicial under-secretaries to resolve the matter.”

All of whom likely had their eyebrows burned off, if we are any judge; the little courier had probably spat venom like a cobra. We often wonder if Edrehasivar has any idea that his prim, mild secretary terrifies his counterparts in the great offices. They hear him coming with his boots ringing and his earrings jingling, and scatter like mice. It isn’t as if there is anything physically intimidating about Csevet Aisava, but his engine of a mind snatches up and crushes men who do not have the nimbleness to avoid the cogs. Nemer always insists that it is really true that Csevet ordered one of the minor Tethimadeise lords hit over the head with a brick and thrown over the back of a horse set to run to Puzhvarno, but we told him not to be a halfwit. How, we asked him, is a horse supposed to cross the Istandaärtha? He said something foolish about the bridge and we proceeded to disregard him.

Edrehasivar did seem somewhat worried about what Csevet had told them, but he must have trusted that Aisava was discreet enough to have approached it from a subtle angle. “Thank you, Csevet…” 

But he still sounded disheartened, and he was quiet the rest of the evening. He remained restless, even after the edocharei left him in his bedchamber — he got up and wandered around, tried to read one of the low-brow novels that Dach'osmin Ceredin and Csevet both love, but gave up after a few pages, and eventually he sat on the edge of the bed and stared into space. 

“Serenity, you should try to sleep,” we said at last. (We are not certain if such a thing proves a violation of Al.IX.II.II, but we maintain it would be detrimental to his wellbeing to become an insomniac, or sleep-deprived to the point of hallucination.)

Edrehasivar fixed us with a flat, tired look. “We suppose so,” he said. He slung his legs around half-heartedly and knelt up to close the bed curtains—

"Serenity, it is not... your presence that we object to," we said, hastily.

Edrehasivar paused with his hand on the curtain — then settled back slowly onto his heels. He obviously knew what we were talking about, even though neither he nor we had mentioned Springnight since his initial suggestion. "We understand, Beshelar. You do not have to—"

We were determined to persist, despite the nagging knowledge that we were certainly in violation of Alchenar now. "Serenity, it is that— it is our kinsmen that are the point of contention. They are not... prudent."

"Not prudent?" Edrehasivar shuffled around and sat on the edge of the bed to stare at us. "We do not understand."

We took a deep breath through our teeth, and managed, in a voice rather thinner than we had wanted; "The Beshelada, Serenity, are petty Cetho gentry with decent means and good standing, but no particular..." We struggled for a moment, then settled on, "...subtlety. We have many siblings and although you should not doubt our devotion to them, we prefer not to… constantly be in their company. And our parents are... somewhat excessive. As characters."

"You mean they're..." Edrehasivar's brow creased for a second. "Beshelar, are you saying your kinsmen are embarrassing?"

We stared firmly at the nearest gas-lamp. "It is not that they embarrass us, Serenity, although they… have been known to. It is that they are deeply foolish people and it would shame us badly to place them in front of you and allow them to transgress against your person."

We are aware that we have a reputation for punctiliousness amongst the Alcethmeret staff, that we must accept that we have brought it upon ourself — and what is more we know that the emperor has previously perceived us as prone to passing judgement, and indeed sometimes seems to expect it, although he also appears to anticipate our opinion with something more akin to amusement than he used to. Allow us a moment to defend ourself; firstly for having such a trait, and secondly for allowing it to be visible to the Ethuverazhid Zhas to the extent that His Serenity expects it. (We know; we are severely risking violating Al.IX.II.II.)

Imagine that you are the second son of three sons and three daughters — six children born to a family with relatively thin-running funds, owing to their woeful financial mismanagement. Your ancestors have a proud history serving the superior nobility of Thu-Cethor in the name of the emperors of the Ethuveraz, but the current branch of your kinsmen are feckless and imprudent, and your youth is spent trailing them from social disaster to social disaster. You have bourne witness to some of the most spectacular gaffes possible in elevated company and been powerless to prevent it, try as you might. Delivered, then, an imperial charge with a not entirely dissimilar naive enthusiasm for charity and an even more non-existent social context, we do not think we can be faulted for interpreting our vows as nohecharis as also requiring us to prod the imperial person in the direction etiquette requires in order to preserve both his person and his dignity. Unlike our kinsmen, however, Edrehasivar VII Zhas is neither heedless nor tactless, which makes all the difference. 

An all this is done in a manner that is inelegant, we can only fail to defend ourself. We have acquired competence, obedience, knowledge, and discipline, but we have never understood how we might teach ourself grace or charm.

Edrehasivar stared at us with his mouth half-open for a moment. We do not quite blame him; most people, we know, imagine us snapping into existence wearing a soldier's topknot and pauldrons, so to find out our lineage lies in a gaggle of frivolous petty gentry does not tend to entirely register.

After a moment, the emperor started to laugh; we did not think he was laughing at us, but we were not certain until he said, "Beshelar, you have seen our future father in law."

It is true that the Marquess Ceredel is utterly farcical, but we insisted; "Serenity, you have an obligation to tolerate the… whims of the Marquess Ceredel, but you have no obligation to suffer through an interaction with our kinsmen, and we would prefer not to be witness or conduit to it."

Unfortunately, this was obviously proving terribly counterproductive; the emperor sat down properly and craned forwards with an incredulous smile, elbows on his knobbly knees. But he seemed to have forgotten entirely about Nelar, and surely obstructing Nelar’s influence in every possible way cannot be considered a dereliction of duty on our part. "But they cannot possibly be so bad?"

We said nothing. Edrehasivar added, "This seems ironic to say, Beshelar, but we do not think you should be afraid of our judgement. We do not mind. You know we are very resistant to offences against our person, both material and otherwise." 

Yes, but he should not have been, as he certainly knew; he smiled, proud of himself, until we stared sternly at him and it turned a little sheepish. But he was right, we might admit. We struggled to actually imagine the emperor being anything but lightly bewildered to be confronted with Osmerrem Reliän Beshelaran, and he does ignore a great many things he rightly should understand as insults, be they accidental or purposeful. But the principle of it… besides, there were plenty of people to take offence on his behalf, Csevet and ourself chief amongst them.

Edrehasivar's smile faded. "But... we do know we are intruding as it is. So if you truly wish it, then we will withdraw the idea. We know it was... foolish in the first place—"

"It was not foolish, Serenity, and you were not intruding," we said, although we still wince now at how austerely it emerged. "It is… entirely our own problem. If you truly wish to meet everyone’s embarrassing kinsmen, far be it from us to stop you.” We added, to make our point; “But you will regret it.” 

Edrehasivar smiled again. "We will try our honest best not to be overawed.”

We suspected that he would be underprepared, nonetheless.

Springnight dawned green and damp and windy, but the rain stopped by midday. We had been watching and praying for a world ending Anmureise flood from the oriel of the nohecharei’s apartments, but could only be left to proceed, disappointed, through the wet streets to our kinsmen’s residence in the city. On the way, we passed the Mich’Anmur’theilean Quarter, and stopped to look in the window of the presumable headquarters of Cats That Cough— a squat, unremarkable little red-brick building, the windows plastered with pleas to the kind general populace to help the poor afflicted felines. We have copied a portion of one of them here for the benefit of posterity;

…WE SHOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO INTEREST THE KIND READER OF THIS PAMPHLET IN THE WELFARE OF THE FELINES BROUGHT INTO THIS INSTITUTION’S CARE, WHICH SUFFER WITH SUCH AFFLICTIONS THAT THEY ARE BROUGHT ON TO COUGH MOST PITIABLY. IF POSSIBLE WE WOULD PREVAIL UPON THE GOOD PEOPLE OF CETHO TO DONATE WHAT THEY CAN TO THE UPKEEP AND CARE OF THESE POOR CREATURES, THEIR CONDITIONS NECESSITATING DAILY POULTICES, NOT TO MENTION FOOD, BEDDING, ET CETERA. TO COUNTENANCE THE SUFFERING OF THESE PROUD CREATURES OF IMPERIAL PROVENANCE WOULD BE THE WORST SORT OF INDIGNITY…

Someone had enticed some of the cats to sit in the window-bay, which, in the indulgent laziness of all cats, they were doing with some enthusiasm. A white emperor-cat turned its pale eyes to look balefully at us; we recall thinking it was below the dignity of the feline species, particularly the emperor-cat, to participate in confidence games in return for food. The cat did not appear to particularly care what we thought; we shook our head at it anyway, just in case it understood disapproval. It ignored us, and so we walked on to our kinsmen’s residence, a Cetheise townhouse on the edge of a square which had been fashionable back when our father had first been buying property, and not since; we have not moved, partially because the family has not the funds, and partially because our mother has accumulated so much in the way of trinketry, fabric swatches, and fashion plates that hiring a carter to move it all would kill several mules and collapse the axel.

We think at this point it must be necessary to provide a brief history of our direct kinsmen. Before now it has been of scant relevance; but in the circumstances we should be remiss an we were not to explain the specifics.

As we say, we are the second of six children born to Osmer Teris Beshelar and Osmerrem Reliän Beshelaran, and our father is of a long line of petty gentry, minor Cambeshada bannermen. Our mother came from a somewhat diminished branch of the Alchenada, and when the match was made it was considered a good one. 

Our elder brother, Tera, seven and twenty, will of course inherit our father’s tenant farms and properties. He spends most of his time plumping for a court appointment, and we fear extremely for the hypothetical day he gets one and we are stuck with the risk of seeing him at court. He lacks tact or sense, which is not an unusual affliction amongst the courtiers, but they do at least generally know when to hide it under a veneer of manners. He also has a tendency to laugh outright at people, regardless if it is polite or not. 

We, their second son, five and twenty, were dedicated to Anmura when we were sixteen and sent to the Steppes, then the Thu-Cethor Principate guard, after which we were transferred to the Untheileneise Guard, and then to our current position as nohecharis to Edrehasivar VII Zhas. We would go so far as to say this proves a moderately impressive career, but our kinsmen have not cared overmuch, beyond wishing to know bloody stories of skirmishes on the Steppes — of which we have few, and we were certainly not inclined to share them when we acquired them. We have not probed for their thoughts on the Eshevis Tethimar matter, and do not intend to. Nobody has thought to offer them independently, since our mother bought another badly behaved and poorly trained lapdog about the same time, and that quite eclipsed anything that might have been happening in the political landscape. 

Our first sister, Relio, three and twenty, was married to the second son of a merchant, almost three years past, and became Osmerrem Feresharan; a monetarily good match, but not personally beneficial, since the couple have never taken a liking to one another and most likely never will. Mercifully, Osmer Fereshar did not attend tonight. He would never have missed an opportunity to parade himself before the emperor, had he been given it; we can only presume our sister, hating her disinterested husk of a husband and looking for a way to spite him, neglected to tell him. We decided early on not to question it, since we would have gladly pitched Fereshar into the Chadevan Sea dressed in plate armour in exchange for… well, nothing, really. As it happens we think we would do it for free.

Our younger brother Naris, one and twenty, has only been a prelate for a year, but one would have thought he was the most pious man in the world by the way in which he comports himself in public. In sooth, he has only chosen the Osreise in the thought that in the service of the goddess of the earth, earthquakes, disasters, and artisans, he would have to do very little work, short of a mighty incident like an earthquake or a flood — neither of which have occurred in Cetho in decades. Prelates of Osreian are expected to be, above everything else, compassionate listeners and thoughtful speakers; in this, the emperor would be a better prelate of Osreian than our brother, who wouldn’t have known tact if it bit him and shook him about.

Our second sister, Chrysiän, nineteen, is lately married to a milliner of no real defining characteristics in the slightest—although the match seems relatively happy, as she herself is something of a vague character who has no real persuasions of any kind, and they remain in mild and vaguely confused matrimony together. She does as our mother tells her and tries her best to keep everybody pleased, although with some limited success. 

And of course there is Teralo, the youngest at fifteen, whom our mother favours with some conspicuous enthusiasm (and to the chagrin of her elder sisters). Awkward and overexcitable as many girls of her age are, salvageable yet, interested in all things and yet too embarrassed to commit to a single one. The day she learns to say no to our mother will be a happy one indeed.

It could not be said that we were in high spirits as we exited the carriage at the Alcethmeret’s staff entrance that night. We had attempted to lecture our kinsmen extensively on the necessities of sense and agreeability when addressing the emperor, and the impropriety of gabbling at him, making arch, unkind, or harsh remarks, or approaching him without being invited to, but it did no good; our mother merely laughed at us, our father ignored us, and our siblings seemed offended that we insinuated they were improper. Teralo, for her part, made a good effort at paying attention, but seemed to struggle to remember everything we told her, which was not unfair, but nonetheless dispiriting. 

Our kinsmen, thus unprepared, proceeded to wander around, complain about the comparative inelegance of the entrance, and try doors at random; we herded them furiously in the correct direction, through the Prince Tezhiris Gate and into the kitchen garden, which is so extensive it could comfortably hold the great many people milling around inside it. At which point, our mother and eldest sister switched to their favoured habit of critiquing everybody else’s mode of dress, as if theirs are not frequently the subject of whispering behind fans and arch looks between our neighbours. Today they were both wearing unfortunate confections of coral pink and spring green, and our mother had on her ‘best’ hat, which was adorned with a spray of pheasant feathers which wafted and drooped aggressively in the breeze. 

“Mama, you must remember, these are not courtiers,” said Tera scornfully. He had chosen to wear one of his pale orange doublets, excessively slashed with the puffy underlayer pulled through, and a great deal of tiger’s eye which was so close to the Drazhadeise amber it was making us uncomfortable. “We are sure to be the only family of rank in attendance.”

This was not entirely true— a number of the Lieutenants and Captains in the Alcethmeret branch of the Untheileneise Guard were of a similar birth to us, and indeed we could see Lt. Serevar gawking at us from across the mint bushes— but before we could contradict him, our mother took to eyeing one of the women coming our way.

“Well, now, that is true— I am sure I never saw a woman such as this. Didst thou, Relio?” 

Said woman was of vague middle age — immensely tall, and wearing a purple skirt and brown blouse, huge sunflower earrings made of clay, and a dozen bracelets and rings of hugely varying quality and repair on each arm. Her shoes did not appear to fit her very well; her braids were falling out, slightly. She was considering the gargoyles on the far wall with a damnably familiar thoughtful distance. In the face, she looked absolutely nothing like her son, but we knew her at once.

We snarled, “Mother.”

“What? Oh Deret, don’t tell me thou knowst her.”

“That’s—” Even an we had not noticed Cala leading her in our direction, we would have tried with equal fervour to defuse her, and we fell back hastily on our kinsmen’s assumptions of us as a dour martinet. “You know very well it is improper to pass judgement on attendees at a soirée—”

“Yes, it’s always best done in the carriage home,” said Tera, which made them all laugh. We  moved away in shame of them all, already agitated beyond all comprehension.

“Deret, it’s not like thee to be late.” Cala stopped, peered over our head (since we were physically blocking the path to the kinsmen with our body), and said, “Anmura.”

“Do not.” 

“Well, all right.” Much like us, Cala was set to be on duty and thus had not dressed up, but we do sometimes wonder if he actually owns anything which are not his ragged Athmaz’are robes (we generously pluralise robes, even if we have never seen proof of existence of more than one). There are vows of poverty, and then there is ‘we have forgotten to go to the tailor’s every day for the last ten years’, and we suspect Cala is the latter.

“Athmaza, we warned thee.” At some length, and at two in the morning, when we had woken from a stress dream, shaken Cala awake by the ankle, and availed him at some length of the inevitable disaster that would be the Beshelada and the emperor.

“Thou canst not have expected me not to succumb to temptation,” said Cala conspiratorially, as his mother wandered up behind him. He gestured with his spoon — evidently he had already been perusing Ebremis’s provisions — “Mama, this is Lieutenant Beshelar, our partner.”

Her given name was Viveän — she did not give a surname, although we were not certain if this was because she did not want to violate the Athmaz’are’s habit of eliminating family names, or if she was simply unconcerned with formal address. It agitated us to be obliged to refer to her by her given name, but she did not seem to mind one bit. She was just as vague and easy-mannered as her son, although with a touch less frivolity — but it may have just been that she was not shaming a great office with every arch comment. She had used to work as a scholar’s assistant at the Ceth’university (which we took to mean she did the work and the scholar put his name on it), but moved to live with her kinsmen and teach in a rural michen-schoolhouse after her husband, Cala’s father, had died. We forebore to ask what had happened to him, although we said we were sorry, and asked how she found teaching compared to the university.

Viveän thought about it. “Stickier,” she said. “Less hierarchy.” That done, she took to showing us which of her myriad jewellery-pieces had been made by her students. She also had with a sheaf of children’s letters in unpracticed but determined secretarial hands — most children in most schoolhouses played at writing to the emperor as an exercise in formal address and the secretarial hand, but in this case they would actually be conveyed to the emperor, since Cala seemed to think he would like them.

At that point, our father came sauntering up behind us. His mode of dress was salvageable, if dour (wearing tan to Springnight was rather downbeat), but we knew his manners were not to be rescued so easily. “Ah!” he said. “The… Athmaza.”

He managed to pack a great deal of doubtful disdain into that pause, as well as the distinctly slow once-over he gave Cala’s frayed mazei robe and peeling court slippers. 

“The same,” said Cala happily, but we noticed the slight inclination of his head. One of his eyes — in the interest of security we do not say which — is weaker than the other, and when he really wishes to assess something, he will move his head to favour his dominant eye. (His eyesight in general is terrible, although we are certain he could fix it with maz, he seems for some incomprehensible reason to prefer to wear spectacles that do not fit him, constantly slide around, and make him look like a bug at certain angles.) 

“Well, we can’t say we thought you’d be taller,” said Naris, as the rest of our kin turned their attention to Cala. Cala, mercifully, decided to find this amusing, although nobody seemed to know how Naris had meant it. 

“We thought you’d be… older,” said Relio, arms folded. 

“Cala Athmaza has the distinction of having made the first and, Anmura willing, only kill in the emperor’s defence,” we snapped. 

Our mother, who had still been studying Viveän’s skirt — Cala’s mother had been blatantly staring back, amused — suddenly looked around, surprised. “But we thought thou hadst killed the Duke, Deret.”

We said, “What?” before realising that was terribly inarticulate, and hastily added; “It was the Duke’s son who made the attempt, Mother— and why would you think that?” 

“Well, you know—” our mother tittered vaguely, and patted our scabbard. “That’s thy manner of operating, no?”

We have killed but four people in our career, and we still remember all of their faces — not that our mother would be cognizant of such a thing as that. 

Chrysiän blinked. “Didst thou not tell us?”

“We didn’t tell you anything of the matter,” we said, hastily. Perhaps said is a mild word for the way we delivered it, but we choose not to debase ourself in recounting this by picking an exaggerated verb. 

“Well, Deret, why not?” said our mother.

“Mother,” we said, with as much dignity as we could muster, “You did not ask.” In the pause, we added, “Besides, we believe it was… in the newspapers.”

Everyone looked at our father, who seemed affronted that we all believed he might have noticed such a thing. “You know very well we only read the stock prices and shipping forecasts. Perhaps it was buried in those political articles in the middle somewhere.”

Cala, unhelpful and gallant in equal measure, said, pointedly, “You didn’t tell your kinsmen you took the knife?”

We fixed our gaze on the beanpoles over his shoulder, which arguably was still much akin to looking at Cala in terms of resemblance, but at least they did not dig for an explanation. “No.”

Cala and his mother seemed amazed. We remember seeing Cala scrawling a letter that next day, presumably assuring his mother that he was hale and not dead; we also remember using the excuse that our dominant arm was unsuitable for writing to get out of doing the same. 

Further discourse on this matter was thankfully prevented by a sudden stir inside, which indicated to us that the emperor had arrived. His Serenity had tried several times to propose ways in which the ‘imposition of his presence’ might be ‘measured’ (his words); at each, we had reminded him he was the Ethuverazhid Zhas, and to ‘keep to the fringes’ (again, his phrase) was not only inappropriate, but further, impossible. Thus, we reasoned, he would only make himself (and everybody else) confused and dismayed by attempting it. He had eventually acquiesced, although not happily.

Now, our kinsmen took to shoving and jostling, trying to peer through the doors to see; Teralo took the opportunity to whisper; “We knew, Deret. About Dach’osmer Tethimar. We saw the article in Papa’s paper.” She paused. "It was on the front page."

We looked down at her in surprise; Cala, overhearing, did too. Teralo had seemed unusually pleased to see us when we had visited after Winternight, but given she had immediately followed it up with attempting to convince us to take her to see the acrobats on Princess Tazharin’s Walk, we had presumed it was a ruse. (Although we did go to the acrobats in the end, as Naris had informed us that she had been suffering from nightmares and we thought it might prove a tonic.)

“Oh,” we said — then we noticed our mother immediately proceeding down the garden path to go inside, and hoping to mitigate disaster, hastily followed her, as did everybody else. That included Cala and Viveän, who trailed cheerfully after us, apparently unabashed to be associated. 

But because social disasters attract couriers like carrots attract rabbits, Csevet Aisava — who else? — was lurking near the doors, watching us approach, tapping his beautifully lacquered nails on his arm in thought. At least he had dressed up sensibly, we noted in despair; in a nice but understated pale blue velvet. Standing with him was his… his…

We settled uneasily for a moment on kinswoman. She was a little elven woman, so neat it was verging on unsettling; that was familiar in itself, we might own. So was the shiny milk-white hair and the sweet, noble face with the pronounced cupid’s bow. She was dressed immaculately, but very simply, in red linen that looked so new we suspected it was its first outing; her hair was arranged carefully, but it was not particularly long, with the look of having only recently grown out of a servant or manufactory worker’s crop. She had a single good pair of garnet earrings, startlingly green eyes, and the look of a woman quite distinctly out of her depth. 

“That must be his mother,” said Cala, following our gaze. While it was true that she resembled Csevet so immensely it was impossible they weren’t close kin, as we pointed out to Cala Athmaza with some vehemence, she was far too young to have a son of five and twenty. 

Cala proceeded to quietly but enthusiastically heap doubt upon Csevet’s age, accusing him with some gusto of lying upon his imperial papers, arguing he was a “Courier’s Thirteen”, the term for the boys who lie about their age to join the courier fleet earlier. Cala capped off this barrage with a blasé, “Never mind, Edrehasivar won’t care,” and, what was worse, laughed about it.

“Never mind?” we said, horrified. “That is official paperwork—”

“No doubt if he’s caught he’ll blame Osmer Orimar’s shoddy record-keeping,” said Cala happily. “No, that’s certainly his mama, he has her face entire, and we’ve noticed him sending money home a time or two. Although she still must have had him quite young—”

“Quite young?” We repeated faintly. 

“Well yes, Deret, for you see, that is the polite way of putting it,” said Cala, a touch pertly. 

Unhelpfully, Relio had spotted Csevet too; bored, she had given up on trying to see past our brothers, and now she said, “Deret, who is that?”

We replied that he was the emperor’s secretary, Mer Aisava, in a tone designed to dissuade her from doing what we suspected she was going to try. She ignored it, and proceeded to do exactly what we had feared; she whipped her fan open and minced over, dragging us behind her and causing most of us to descend on the Aisavada at once. It is somewhat hard to blame Relio for wishing to have beaus other than her hateful husband, but it is shockingly improper to make a try of it at court, and we wish that she would not coquet with our colleagues. Especially not while wearing her oath-ring.

Csevet’s kinswoman seemed a little affrighted, but Csevet did not so much as tilt an eyebrow; he slid on the best, and most insincere, of his court smiles. We could not really blame him. Our brash gaggle of kinsmen in aggressive spring colours looked disastrous next to the two of them, who were both little and graceful and neat. 

Relio forced introductions, which Csevet made courteously — initially. He managed to put it off until the end, but eventually he was forced to confirm; she was indeed his mother, and he stumbled slightly, before he set his face to marble and introduced her as Min Dalero Aisaveth

The horrified words Min Aisaveth? were almost to our lips before we remembered ourself and forebore; dismayingly, our father had no such qualms. 

“Min Aisaveth,” he repeated drolly, eyebrows raised, eyes swinging between mother and son pointedly. Our mother hastily took to whispering to a confused Chrysiän behind her fan; Naris and Tera looked at each other significantly. The word courier was muttered from somewhere.

We coloured, mortified; so did Min Aisaveth, blotchily, awkwardly. Csevet’s ears pinned back like a dog about to lunge, but his face, comparatively, was bloodless and still. We thought he had expected it; nonetheless, it was a frightening look on him, not one we had seen since Winternight, and we resisted the urge to step away from it. 

He began to say something, but, abruptly, his mother clenched her jaw. “As our son says, Osmer.”

Our father snorted and held his hands up; “No no, we merely wondered— no need to look like that, Mer Aisava—”

Csevet remained looking exactly how he had — as if he was wont to take a chunk out of our father, but Min Aisaveth was gripping his arm rather tightly, and he had moved very close to her. We had all known Csevet’s background was likely not exactly genteel, but he is so rabidly private that no one had dared probe. For his mother to not even be married — and for Csevet to have the matronym for a surname — well, it was no wonder he had not wished for the emperor’s presence tonight. 

“You look passing alike to your son, Min Aisaveth,” we butted in hastily, despairing at the stiltedness of it. “Have you— come very far?”

She smiled at us, but it was sagging with obvious fright. “We… took the stage-coach from Nelozho yesterday morning.” Nelozho produces airship parts, and is only really populated by the mill-workers; we glanced briefly at her hands, and found them, as expected, bearing burn scars, nicks, and calluses. Her son’s were white and pristine, by comparison; but then, couriers tended to have scars elsewhere. Her gaze did not sit steadily on any of us; it skittered between us all ceaselessly. We noticed again that she had very green eyes; we can only imagine that Csevet’s colourless stare must have come from his mystery father… who does not bear thinking about. In lieu of further information we have decided to imagine that he was upstanding, but is now dead. 

“What about the airships?” said Chrysiän vaguely. “That would have been faster.”

It was very apparent to us that she thought Min Aisaveth could not afford it, and we kicked her discreetly in the ankle; however, Min Aisaveth seemed to understand it as a critique of her son, and frowned defensively. “Csevet offered to buy us passage on an airship, but we… did not much like the idea.” 

People generally do not, we note; even before the Wisdom of Choharo, the public have always viewed the airships with dubiousness — besides, up until very recently, they had not been permitted to travel on them. The emperor’s idea of letting the common people buy passage on them has been greeted with vague unenthusiasm thus far (although passed, since the Corazhas could not find it in them to care enough to block him), but he insists it will take eventually. Even we have never been on one; no one has, except Csevet and the emperor himself. We all dread the day we will have to travel as a household.

“They’re terribly loud,” our mother agreed affably, for once being useful. “We travelled upon one just last month to visit our cousin, who is of the highest regard to the Prince of Thu-Cethor, and lives in a very fine manor just north of the capital—” (We promptly took back the useful part.) “...and we were sure we would go quite deaf from the engines, we told our cousin as much and she agreed…”

“That sounds very fine, Osmerrem,” said Min Aisaveth politely; since it was not particularly difficult to lead our mother on, soon enough she was encouraged to talk at length about all the fine people she knew hither and thither across the Ethuveraz, the matter of Min Aisaveth’s name utterly forgotten. 

On her other side, our brothers were getting more than they had bargained for with Csevet; Relio had gotten bored with his marble courtesy and wandered off, but Tera and Naris, thinking they had an easy win with the ex-courier (for our brothers feel the relative irrelevance of the Beshelada very keenly), had started trying to score social points over him. Unfortunately, anyone they knew, Csevet knew better; he was easily running rings around their attempts. We suspected he could have told them a great deal of unsavoury things about their friends in Cetho—

At that point we noticed a great deal of white becoming conspicuous in our peripheral vision; Edrehasivar VII Zhas, who had a great many virtues but an unfortunately bad sense of timing, had started approaching us.

Csevet and Cala, both merciless when they had the motivation, took the opportunity to flee — Csevet out of view of his lord, and Cala back towards the food, and the likely preferable company of Avris and his magnificent wife — leaving us to pray to the Fivefold Harmony for patience, luck, and deliverance.

“Oh!” said our mother, in a very carrying whisper. “The emperor! Teris! Look! So splendid! How fine he is! And so tall! Deret, thou never didst say that he was so tall—!”

The emperor — or rather, the emperor’s edocharei — had done the job in giving her something to admire; he was dressed in white silk trimmed with green, jewelled in jade and emerald, and next to our bumbling relatives he looked crisp and elegant and suitably… well, imperial.

The look of pleading dread we felt forced to give His Serenity as he approached did not sit well with our sense of propriety, but Edrehasivar just smiled — albeit with a touch of amused anticipation, which we misliked entirely. Perhaps we had been wrong to warn him; then again, he has a more developed sense of the ridiculous than he necessarily shows, and we had not trusted him entirely not to start laughing, had he encountered them without warning. We like to think his control of his expression has developed slightly since the very early days of his reign, but we thought it prudent not to test that unduly.

The emperor either did not hear our mother properly (unlikely; his ability to catch muttered comments behind him was excellent) or kindly pretended not to have done so (far more likely), but either suited us at that point. Kiru Athmaza certainly heard her, because she carefully schooled each part of her face into something that was not amused, but had the overall impression of mirth all the same. 

“Beshelar— your kinsmen, we presume?”

There is, we must note, stringent etiquette that is to be observed when approaching the emperor (Al.IX.I.V describes it very well). Unsurprisingly, it all went not only unobserved but completely butchered. Our mother wasted no time in physically barging us out of the way and sweeping Edrehasivar the most overworked curtsey that has likely ever been performed — she teetered, slightly, in her ridiculous shoes, and the feathers in her hat nodded madly. She was far too close to him; an we were on duty we would have removed them all a step or two back, but perhaps out of a misplaced thought for our dignity, Telimezh did not do so. 

Everyone else belatedly copied her, Teralo tottering as well, albeit with nerves rather than overworked enthusiasm. Irritated, we said, “Serenity. This is our mother, Osmerrem Reliän Beshelaran.”

With as much reverent gusto as one could possibly pack into one word, our mother said, “Serenity.” 

She curtsied, again, the ridiculous feathers on her hat almost brushing the emperor’s front — Edrehasivar’s mouth was determinedly flat — and made a comprehensive and overlong matter of introducing her husband and children, which revealed every one of her biases in the process. Her husband was presented with a sort of worshipful wifely reverence that was entirely inaccurate to how they usually addressed one another, and made both Relio and ourself grimace; her elder daughters were passed over with little more than their names and the fact that they were both well-married; her sons received some more attention — correctly and blessedly assuming she did not need to introduce us, she wasted a great deal of the extra time exaggerating Tera’s importance to the family structure and Naris’s appointment in the prelacy. But it was really Teralo who took the crown; seeing an opportunity when it was presented, our mother pounced on it entirely.

“She is so admired, there is nobody like her, in our whole street— nay, our whole neighbourhood— she is not like her sisters, no, she is quite the prettiest little thing— we think she takes a little after us, when we were young we were a beauty indeed— were we not, Teris—?”

Our father ignored this hint completely. We were not sure he was even listening. Chrysiän and Relio had taken to outright glowering at the back of our mother’s head. 

Undeterred, our mother continued; “...all of the families we dine with— and indeed Serenity it is at least twenty—” (The emperor, who had never had a social life in Edonomee and now dined with the entire court constantly, clearly had no idea if twenty was an impressive number or not.) “...are so taken with her, she is quite our pride, we will make her a lady yet, we are sure!”

There was a pause as a visibly baffled Edrehasivar fumbled through his mental drawer of meaningless platitudes, and eventually yanked out, “...you have a very fine family, Osmerrem.” Bad even by his standards, but hardly the worst thing that had been hurled into the conversation, and it made our mother pleased indeed. 

By this point, we wished for death, but unfortunately did not have a sword arm free to exact it upon ourself, as nerves had failed Teralo — she seized our arm and shrunk in panic against our side, frightened to suddenly be pulled under the emperor’s attention. 

Luckily for her, and unluckily more generally speaking, our mother thundered onwards, only emboldened by the emperor’s thin encouragement;

“We hope indeed to make a great court lady of her when the time comes, an we can find a way of sponsoring a debut for her...” She twinkled aggressively, suggestively, at Edrehasivar — who met her, admirably, blow for blow with his mask of pleasant noncommittal nothingness. We do not think ‘pretending to be simple’ is a talent at all becoming of the emperor, and we passionately dislike the circumstances we presume he honed the skill under, but we have to admit he is very good at it, and has made some strong use of it.

Behind him, Telimezh was ostensibly neutral, but we know him of old, marched with him and lay in a ditch on watch with him on the Steppes — and his eyes and ears were conveying utter agog disbelief.

Our mother waited a second, received nothing except a vague mien of polite, confused, interest from the emperor, and pressed harder; “She is very good, she would be an excellent attending lady I dare say, she has been the picture of patience as her sisters have both debuted and gotten married—” (Simply untrue, since Terano had been desperate to go to a ball for years, and has often tried to sneak downstairs to our mother’s soirées.) “We admit she is still a little too young, but one must turn their thoughts to it… can you believe she has never been to a Springnight occasion before? She is the picture of composure, is she not?”

She turned to find that Teralo was scarlet and staring fixedly at the emperor’s left shoe. 

Our mother hastily added, “Although, still new to these things—” She prompted, in a stage whisper, “Teralo.”

Teralo jumped and looked up hastily, curtsied again (mostly to cover that her lower lip was starting to wobble), and did not appear to have anything to say for herself. We caught the emperor’s eye, but before we could attempt to say something, Edrehasivar said, “You need not worry, Osmin Beshelin— we have never been to a Springnight occasion either. We might be new at it together.”

Michen Terano would still have been more correct, but it was kind of him to afford her the woman’s address. We thought in apprehension of what saying such a thing about his undistinguished past in front of our indiscreet kin would mean, but Edrehasivar did not appear to care.

“Really?” said Teralo, then slapped a hand over her mouth, but the emperor just smiled. 

“We have only been on the throne for just under a year, and it was a very— small society, when we lived in Thu-Evresar.”

It was one way of putting it, we thought darkly, but Teralo seemed to have found her footing again. “We thought you might want to throw a Springnight ball, Serenity. For the court. We did not know you would be here.”

“We might have done, but we wanted to be here.” He threw us a very slightly sheepish glance, which we attempted not to notice. “Although, we are told that the Pashavada’s Springnight masque is the stuff of legend, so we are sure we should not look to compete.”

We believe Dach’osmin Ceredin had actually said it was the stuff of being sick in a topiary, but that was similar enough. That would presumably be where she was tonight; we hoped for the sake of tomorrow, when she was scheduled to help the emperor choose frippery for the wedding, she would not overindulge. 

At this point, Naris — Anmura help us, Naris, in his overworked coat of office — decided to say, “We dare say it serves very well, as an offering to the Goddess.” The flick of his eyes implied that he thought it must have served far better than this particular party, even though Isheian and the scullery boys had spent hours on the paper chains. “They must hire a great number of artisans for the execution of it.”

The emperor seemed interested, Anmura save him. “Is it Osreian you have a calling to, Othala?”

We desperately wanted to dissuade him — he was obviously hoping for someone like the Archprelate, his chaplain Sazanharad, or even the dilapidated Thara Celehar, the disgraced prelate of Ulis whom he had taken an inappropriate shine to. He would categorically not find it in Naris. 

But it was too late; Naris said, “Well, we do not really answer to Othala, Serenity, there is really no need; tis rather… provincial, and we like to think of ourself as a more modern prelate of Osreian, suitable for the city of Cetho today.”

The emperor looked very slightly hurt — he had only just picked Othala up from a few of the older courtiers, and it was antiquated, but he had obviously thought he was being respectful. “We see. But you keep a benefice in the city? Do you have many local parishioners?"

“Oh, yes, but none of note,” said Naris dismissively. “They are quite needy, Serenity. We remind them always that they should be grateful we have not been punished with flood or fire or earthquake, and in that they might perceive Osreian’s blessing, rather than doing nothing but complaining of their minor problems. They have very little perspective.”

“...perspective,” repeated the emperor. He seemed to be coming to the correct conclusion; that Naris performs very little in the way of rites, thinking only of rare, world-ending horrors, and failing to reckon with the dozens of tiny personal disasters that the people of Cetho experience every day, and seek the goddess over. 

“But with the Ceth’othala we often patronise the Ceth’opera and dance in the name of the goddess, Serenity,” Naris added, “For it is always heartening to the performers to see delegates of Osreian in attendance.” 

“We are sure it is,” said the emperor vaguely, the cool disapproval starting to glimmer in those pale eyes. If Naris had listened to us when we had described the emperor, he might have thought twice about this, but of course he did not, and now we would bear the consequences. Edrehasivar glanced at us, once; after a second, we looked away, abdicating responsibility for whatever was to happen. “...but you must tell us, Osmer, what you made of the Ceth’theliean’s reforms to the funding of the training for Osreise novices; the matter will reoccur soon in the Corazhas and we would hear about it from the local prelates.”

Naris hesitated; Edrehasivar folded his hands mildly and waited. He had guessed quite well that Naris had no opinion on the matter at all, being that he spent almost no time in the office and certainly less with the novices. 

After a second, we snapped, “Perhaps next year, Naris, if you might spend a little more time in your office, and a little less time at the repeat showings of the Dream of Empress Corivero, you might have an answer for His Serenity.”

After a second, Tera started to laugh, crassly and at some length; Naris coloured angrily. 

We did not stay long in the emperor’s presence after that.

We had a run-in with the Telimada, although thankfully not a protracted one; their prevailing trait was that they were sensible, ordinary people, which I envied to the point of despair, although our mother managed to irritate his mother quite spectacularly by making insinuations about our comparative ranks which we tried in vain to smooth over, and only really succeeded in making Merrem Telimezho annoyed at everybody. (Telimezh watched us from behind the emperor out of the corner of his eye in obvious bewilderment.) 

After that, we abandoned our family to their certain social doom, and nursed a cordial in the corner, behind a pillar where they were less likely to notice us. There, in odds and ends, we met Kiru’s brother, a dowdy little michen-book illustrator; a gaggle of Dachensol Ebremis’s grandchildren, who came to stare at us and ask if we had really been stabbed with a knife; and saw again Telimezh’s older sister, who came sauntering up, holding her plate on one hand like a waitress’s tray. She looked down at us with her other hand on her hip, then said, “We apologise, Lieutenant.”

She was a brisk, cheerful girl, built for farm work, and we had noticed her making fun of her sister for blushing when she had talked to the emperor. 

We asked what for; she said, “Mama shouldn’t have been cross at you. You tried to make your mama shut up.”

We replied that Merrem Telimezho had every right to hold us responsible for our kinsmen, and she need not attempt to absolve us. She looked amused, shrugged, crammed a pastry into her mouth, and went away again.

We overheard snippets of an argument between our father and Naris (“...thy job properly… it was easy to get thee that position…?”); the benches and tables had been pushed to the edge of the cavernous kitchen-hall so people could dance; we watched Csevet dancing with his mother and Ebremis with his daughter; we had very little to eat.

Eventually, Cala came and found us, and started putting things on our plate. We looked at him in consternation, but he ignored it.

“Well,” he said. “I had a more extended chat with thy mother.”

We shut our eyes briefly. Cala said, sitting himself down without asking if he might. “Osmerrem Beshelaran remarked on my height three times, made an ill-judged and frankly odd comment about how she was surprised my mother could afford to send me to the Athmaz’are for training, and asked in-depth questions about how my father died.” We practically recoiled in horror at this last detail; reading our face and ears accurately enough, Cala added; “In some scant defence of thy mother, Deret, I was not even born until three months afterwards. He was one of the early mazei engineers on the expanded pneumatic systems, and he got himself killed in a pressurised experiment gone wrong. It shouldn’t have been possible, but— well, his lab partner didn’t do the necessary checks, and—” He made a little explosive gesture with his hands, which coming from a maza was vaguely distressing. “Mama only let me come to Cetho to train if I promised to be a boring academic and not do anything ridiculous.”

“...but thou’rt not an academic.”

“Well, I was,” said Cala. “At first.”

More than a little aghast, we said, “Athmaza, thou hast taken a job even more dangerous than thy father’s. Thou hast deliberately ignored thy mother’s entreaties—”

Cala looked at us severely over the top of his smudged, askew glasses. It is not, you must understand, usual to get a look that is anything except vague or deliberately frivolous from Cala; it made us uneasy.

Cala said, with supreme gravity, “There was nobody else.” 

“Yes, but—”

“But?”

We hesitated, then said, too primly; “An thou hadst a direct entreaty from thy mother not to put thyself in danger, Athmaza, it seems to us it was mighty bloodless of thee to simply ignore it.”

Cala stared curiously at us for a moment, in a manner we could not quite parse — then smiled. “Well, I did not expect this from thee, but… yes, maybe it was. Lucky I did, though, no?”

We were not sure what we thought. We had not been so privileged as to exactly choose to serve as nohecharis; we had of course been at liberty to refuse, but we were chosen by our superior officer, and we had thought it both dishonourable and cowardly to refuse. We do not regret it at any rate. But the mazei… well. It was not the same, but perhaps Cala had felt it was.

“We suppose so,” we said, eventually.

“Hmm. Have my tobastha or I shall be sick on duty,” said Cala, tipping it onto our plate. We did. 

Eventually, he said, “Isn’t that thy sister? The little one? What’s she sitting there on her own for?”

It was; we went to find out.

“Naris won’t dance with us, he’s in a mighty temper,” Teralo said to us, with feeble dignity, legs dangling from where she was perched on a window-seat. She had worn her favourite shoes, cherry-red leather which clashed slightly, although not too badly, with the pink of her dress. “And Tera says we shouldn’t dance at all because we are too young, even though we talked to Min Siru who is a year younger than us and she said her brother has promised when he comes off duty he will dance with her…” She added, scornfully, “And we have no hope of Papa.”

Indeed we do not really remember the last time our father danced; our mother usually chooses one of the three of her sons to kidnap. In fact, we could see her with Tera, not far away.

“I will dance with thee,” I said. 

Teralo stared at me as if I’d said I was going to send her to the Corat’ Dav Arhos to be a scullery maid. “But… thou’rt going on duty.”

“In ten minutes,” I said. “That is more than enough time.”

Teralo shot a nervous glance at where the emperor was knelt down, talking to Ebremis’s tiny and tenacious granddaughter, who was showing him a stick. “I will not look like a proper court lady… I have not practiced enough… Mama says an I am to be Osmin Beshelin I must have practiced everything…”

“Thou’rt not a proper court lady or Osmin Beshelin, thou’rt my sister,” I said. I looked at my watch. “Nine minutes, Teralo, or thou wilt make me late on shift.”

Teralo squeaked, leapt up, and grabbed my arm.

We only danced one quadrille, but Teralo was thrilled — and moreso, after we left the floor and the emperor managed the considerable feat of approaching us subtly. 

“We have to congratulate you, Osmin Beshelin,” he said from behind us, making us both jump. “We are sure we thought the world would end before your brother ever danced at anything.”

Teralo spun, looked at him, looked at us — and finally started to laugh, for the first time that night.

On duty, we had the blessed excuse of avoiding our kinsmen, and our night improved somewhat with the opportunity to prove impartial observer to everyone else’s. The emperor tactfully made no remark on his disastrous interaction with our kin, and we only hoped he would never.

Isheian’s grandmother, an elderly goblin woman who translated Barizheise adventure novels (ones that, we gathered, were unrepentantly violent, pulpy, and raunchy), had not been allowed anywhere even remotely near Merrem Esaran, since she was so loudly and constantly critical of Varenechibel and his treatment of Chenelo Zhasan. She was, however, a great fan of Chenelo Zhasan’s son, and got away with patronising him when she spoke to him, by seemingly doing most of the pet-naming in Barizhin and pretending to be senile, which she most certainly was not. We do not think Edrehasivar was fooled either, but it appeared to cheer him to hear the Pelanreise accent, and we have a great suspicion that she promised to deliver some of her dubious literature to the imperial hands.

“Serenity,” we said, as she left.

Edrehasivar said, unashamedly, “Well, we do not know very much about literature. Or the literary scene in Cetho.”

“We do not think you will learn very much about literature from the Dachenmaro’s… career,” we said stiffly. 

“Csethiro likes them, we think,” the emperor said vaguely. He has, for some reason, decided that an excellent way of beginning to venture his own opinion on topics are by hustling them into league with Dach’osmin Ceredin’s, thus using the Marquess Ceredel’s daughter as a bulwark to conceal his own attempts at developing taste — since we would rather he did not progress through life with a profound fear of ever having a preference, we did not press the point, even if it was not exactly a habit we had a great fondness of. 

More appropriate were the letters Cala’s mother brought to him; he smiled and flipped through them and promised to write a reply to her students, which made her happy, and he had the thought to introduce her to Kiru’s brother, who had worked on some of the books she used to teach.

Not long after, we noticed that Min Dalero Aisaveth had come to linger at the edge of the crowd, watching the emperor with a face of apprehensive resolve; but resolve, nonetheless. The emperor saw her, clearly realised right away whose relative she was (the resemblance really was very strong), and eagerly gestured for her to approach before we could. 

“We think Csevet has been avoiding us tonight,” he said to us, as she mounted the steps to the raised kitchen area we had been thinking of as something of a dais, and using it to tactically cut off people’s approaches to the emperor. “But we do not wish to be rude to his mother.”

We, with effort, said nothing, wondering how on earth he had divined she was Csevet's mother. He did not appear to find anything remarkable about her age; but then, it occurred to us that the emperor probably thought one’s mother being terribly young was not in fact remarkable.

“Oh,” said Cala, vaguely, belatedly, and unconvincingly. “We are sure he was not avoiding…”

Happily the emperor was not listening, since Min Aisaveth was making a much neater, and much more appropriate, curtsey than our mother had. In a voice which only faltered very slightly, she introduced herself to the imperial attention.

Mild, tactful Edrehasivar — his only response was a single blink as he briskly processed the implications, mentally filed them, and did nothing with them. Csevet should really have relied upon such a thing; clearly Min Aisaveth had gambled on it, although we did not know if it was down to something Csevet had said to her, or if she had hovered about and gleaned her own astute guess of the emperor’s character. 

“And,” she added, with very little preamble, “We think we must take advantage of our son’s absence to thank you, Serenity.”

Edrehasivar looked flummoxed, not for the first time this evening. “Yes?”

“We were never…” she hesitated. “We were never quite happy with Csevet going off to be a courier.” She rushed to add; “We know that his direct superior Captain Volsharezh was very honourable, and they’re all good boys, but it is not…” She stopped, biting the inside of her lip. “It is far away, and it is not…”

“Safe,” filled in the emperor grimly. We did not know what he was thinking of, but Csevet must have told him something of his career as a courier; we wondered if he had favoured his mother with the same information, or if he had done her the dubious kindness of keeping her in the dark. 

“As you say, Serenity,” mumbled Min Aisaveth. She seemed to brighten herself a little; “So we must thank you, for you have given him a job which will not keep us up at night.” And she tried, bravely, to smile.

Edrehasivar’s returning smile was a little anxious; we thought he might have been wondering if Imperial Secretary really was safer than being a courier. We do not mean to imply that Csevet is subject to the same risks that couriers face — not in the Alcethmeret, such a thing would be intolerable — but two attempts on the throne had been made, and he must have been cognizant that the only thing really protecting Csevet was him. 

We do not think it would be appropriate to reiterate the entire conversation, being that it is the Aisavada’s business and certainly not ours, but the emperor politely prodded at the matter of where she was from (Nelozho; we saw the emperor remember that Csevet had brought the card from them to his attention at Winternight, and half-smile). He asked if she often saw Csevet, in that case; he seemed dismayed when the answer was a tactful no. We suspected a clash of wills in the near future when Edrehasivar inevitably tried to shunt Csevet into either taking holiday or bringing his mother to Cetho, and Csevet tried to run rings around him so he would not have to relinquish his iron grip on the secretariat, or discuss finances and practicalities with the emperor. “But you might write to him, we suppose?"

Min Aisaveth stumbled on the response slightly. “Y…” She peered at him, hesitating. “Well… yes, Serenity, but we would not say our level of… literacy is very high. Our neighbour scribes for us. Or reads to us.”

Another festoon of implications the emperor would no doubt put away quietly. “Oh. Yes. We understand.”

Before he could let the awkward pause drag, Csevet exploded out of the crowd behind his mother, physically skittered like a nervous deer, then took the steps in one sweep and bowed to the emperor, looking very slightly panicked. “Serenity. M—”

His mother smiled at him, though not with any pretence of innocence. We could only assume the Aisavada had been split on the matter as to whether they should approach the emperor. “Didst thou find Merrem Esaran?”

“Yes, but—” 

She stared at him, mildly; his face did something odd. Then, spectacularly, Csevet Aisava gave up, and stood meekly next to his mother with his hands behind his back, apparently out of tricks. Min Aisaveth smiled and took his arm again.

Edrehasivar looked fascinated, and slightly amused; we felt sorry for Csevet. Couriers survive by their strict knowledge of court protocol and etiquette, by being so aggressively blameless they attempt to cancel out the inherent base reputation they gain from their profession; he can not really be blamed for trying to keep the knowledge he was a low-born bastard from his emperor, even if he had not quite needed to.

Once she had been nudged out of her shell slightly, Min Aisaveth turned out to be chipper and chatty, although she seemed to constantly remind herself who she was talking to; it was, we reasoned, probably difficult to feel awe and terror about an emperor younger than one’s son. She purposefully embarrassed Csevet at least twice, which the emperor kindly did not find too amusing, 

“How funny,” said the emperor innocently, after they had left him. “Min Aisaveth mentioned that Csevet was born in August, but we are sure Csevet’s files say his birthday is in April.” The barest pause; we thought he wanted to smile, although he didn’t. “We must have remembered wrong, we suppose. Or perhaps an old clerical error.”

Cala mouthed told thee. We ignored him.

The emperor went down the steps, actively seeking out someone else to talk to; we were obliged to follow him, although we hoped he would avoid our mother and father, who had cornered an odd trio of Avris’s affronted wife, Isheian, and a puzzled Esha.

At which point, although we were certain the agonies of the evening had to be over — until the emperor slowed, pulled something out of his sleeve, turned it over a few times, stopped walking, and said, in tones of great puzzlement, “Beshelar, what exactly is this Cats that Cough?”

It would have been inaccurate to say that we snatched our mother’s pamphlet from the emperor, as it is directly forbidden to do any such thing by Alchenar IX.III.IV and would have been vanishingly rude — but we may confirm it was removed from the imperial hand with some rapidity nonetheless.