CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On Thin Rock
Pyaras gaped at his small cousin. Had Adon really just said . . . what he’d just said? Caste insults were one thing, but this was something else entirely.
“Varin’s teeth!” he swore. “No wonder you tried to beat him up.” He caught Tamelera aiming a steely-eyed reproach at him, and quickly added, “Not that it was the right thing to do. Just—I understand it.”
Adon glowered up through the dark fringe of his hair, and dropped both palms to the surface of the table. “You don’t understand anything! My cousins never told me to Fall. Someone asked me if I wanted to. Did you realize you can Fall without taking a partner? All you need is a sponsor. It shouldn’t be allowed to be that easy. What about the future of the Race?”
Every bit of his own indignation vanished instantly, and Pyaras swallowed. That wasn’t insulting, it was frightening. Someone tried to take my cousin from me. “But why did they ask you, Adon? Who would ever do such a thing?”
Adon huffed and glared. “I don’t know.”
What an Imbati thing to say. Twins knew he wasn’t going to call Adon on it, though, when he was already so upset. Pyaras grunted, and looked down at his Jarel’s hand as she took the empty plate from his place.
“I suppose your friend Veriga has never asked you?” Adon said.
Pyaras looked up at his cousin. “Heavens, no. People don’t ask questions like that—and besides, you don’t know Veriga. He constantly reminds me I’m a nobleman.”
Though he might never do it again.
A plate of roast galiya and greens appeared by his shoulder; Imbati Jarel lowered it to the table in front of him. It smelled delicious, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Veriga slamming that plate down on the aluminum table.
“Actually, I think he might hate me now.”
“This has been a difficult time for all of us,” said Lady Tamelera. “With Tagaret and Della moving away, and your new job, Pyaras, on top of everything else. I just hope some good things can come of it.”
Melín leapt into his mind, grappled him, her mouth on his, her voice ordering, Get your clothes off.
Worst, absolute worst thing to think of at your cousin’s mother’s dinner table.
Pyaras grabbed his glass and took a gulp of cold water. He speared a mouthful of galiya and greens with his fork, and crossed his legs.
“Good things,” he said. “Yeah, that would be great.”
“Mother, do you have writing paper I could use?” Adon asked. “I’d like to write to Tagaret.”
Tamelera looked over at Pyaras, meaningfully.
Pyaras tried to smile. Hopefully, he wasn’t blushing too hard.
She said, “Maybe you could write one together, Pyaras.”
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Sure, of course.”
After lunch, Tamelera sat them down together and they composed something friendly and meaningless. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to help Adon. He just wasn’t good at this. He couldn’t be the father Adon had never had, and it made him ache. Adon didn’t much seem to want his help, anyway. He might have given up if the horror of what had happened to Adon hadn’t remained, clinging in corners of his heart. Someone asked my cousin to Fall.
Tamelera seemed remarkably composed, considering.
When the letter was finished, Adon returned to his rooms, and Lady Tamelera walked with him politely to the entry vestibule. She put a firm hand on his arm before he could walk out.
“Pyaras. You’re on thin rock.” Her eyes were sharp, her tone icy. “Watch Nekantor. You’re the only one who can at this point.”
He swallowed, but couldn’t argue. “I know. Lady, you’ve known him longest. What do you think I should do?”
“Get help,” Tamelera said. “If no one knows he’s pressuring you, no one can help you. Learn as much as you can about why he requests what he requests. There are ways to influence him, but not many, and most aren’t safe. Ignorance won’t help you. No one can tell him what to do.”
“Wait.” Pyaras frowned. “What about Herin? The Eminence can tell him what to do.”
“That’s not a bad thought.” She nodded. “But Herin tends to err on the side of caution, and I can’t really blame him. He’s got all twelve Great Families to balance.”
“Maybe Herin’s Argun could convince him this was important.”
“Or his partner, Lady Falya. I’ve spoken with her, and she has a good head. Find as many allies as you can, Pyaras. Don’t stand alone.”
Don’t stand alone.
But he did stand alone—just as he sat alone now, at a table with a pristine white tablecloth in the middle of Society Club Four. He had cousins here; he could see a couple of them over at the bar. But they didn’t treat him like family. Tagaret had been the only one who understood Veriga; and now Veriga was gone, and so was Tagaret.
Tagaret had left, and taken Della, his perfect partner, with him. Nekantor was threatening, and Tamelera warning; and Adon wanted nothing to do with him. He and Adon had never much connected. Why should it be bothering him so much now?
But someone had tried to take Adon.
The healthy child.
Pyaras shuddered, and took a last large swig to empty his glass of yezel.
Society Club Four was precisely the sort of place where he was supposed to do his drinking. Silk curtains, brass tables, carved wood centerpieces. Recorded music. Ordinary lights. He wasn’t going to argue that the Trao Falls mixer he’d drunk first hadn’t been exceptional. But.
The Lake Club had been a brothel, and he hadn’t even noticed.
You weren’t looking, Pyaras.
Veriga was right.
And now, here he was, alone.
And his drink was gone.
Pyaras got up and wandered past tables of late-night diners over to the bar. It was crowded, all the chairs full, lots of men standing around talking while Household Imbati served them. He angled between a pair of backs in velvet jackets, and sidestepped around the side of a chair.
“Is that Pyaras? Cousin!” A curly-haired man on elbows at the shiny brass bar, who’d been talking to someone, turned and grinned at him. He knew him: Lady Selemei’s son.
Pyaras managed a smile. “Corrim, nice to see you.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Not that long,” Pyaras said, although he had. Three drinks long, now.
“I heard about your new job,” Corrim said. “Mother’s disappointed to lose you, but I can’t complain, because she hired me instead.”
“Congratulations.”
“Hey, do you know Odil of the Eleventh Family? Odil, this is my cousin Pyaras.”
“A pleasure.” Odil had the kind of face you’d never mistake for anything but Grobal, with a prominent nose and sharp cheekbones; he wore his black hair partially pulled back. Pyaras took the hand that Odil offered him, and shook it.
“I’m buying this round,” Odil announced. “Join us?”
After two more drinks, he could feel the loneliness subside just a little. Talk at the bar had gotten louder, and pushing against it was harder. He wandered back to the bathroom, the door to which was in a back hall where the walls were all green leather stamped with Grobal insignias. He used the toilet, washed his face with a bit less coordination than would have been ideal, splashing water in some places he shouldn’t have, but managed not to hurt his injured head. As he walked out, he discovered Odil about to walk in.
“Hey, Pyaras, funny meeting you here.”
“Really?” He shrugged. “Hazard of the evening’s activity.”
“It’s an activity I like, though.” Odil pressed his lips together. “Corrim told me about your head. Sorry.”
“Eh, could’ve been worse.”
Odil leaned closer to him. “Are you in the cold and dark?”
Oh, gods. He’d heard that verse fragment a hundred times, but somehow, he was never ready. Loneliness rose again like dead air, suffocating. Life would be so much easier if only he could teach himself to like men! What reputation of duty to the Race did he really have to protect? But the Song of the Twins wasn’t his verse; he replied with Sirin’s Lament. “I’m waiting to glimpse my lover’s hair.”
Odil turned and walked away.
Gnash this.
He didn’t go back to where Corrim was sitting. At a different section of the long bar, he set down his expense card, ordered a straight double chatinet from a stone-faced Imbati bartender, and downed it in one gulp. Then he wandered to the exit. His Jarel had been waiting in the manservants’ anteroom; she joined him with the faintest look of disapproval.
He stubbed his toe on the threshold on the way out, and stumbled a few steps before righting himself again. On the front walk, a thin woman with a blue dress and gray coat waved to him.
Kartunnen, offering company. They were common enough outside the Society clubs. Why shouldn’t he talk to her?
“Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening to you, sir.”
“Care to tap?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Lights flashed. Not surprising, since a prostitute with bad health would quickly be run out of this neighborhood. She was fine-looking. But she wasn’t Melín.
“Can you be . . . active?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“No, no. I mean . . . assertive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you tell me what to do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir?!” Varin’s teeth! He managed not to swear in her face. “No thank you, never mind.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Jarel,” he said. “Please—please get me out of here.”
Imbati Jarel was better than he deserved. She wordlessly escorted him to their skimmer, nudging him straight when his feet lost their direction. The skimmer hummed and lifted.
“Jarel, can we go somewhere?”
“Where do you have in mind, sir?”
Melín. He flushed with desire, and shivered. Plis’ Playground. The crowd—the drums—the barracks—oh, Sirin and Eyn . . .
No. No one would be there, tonight. Melín wouldn’t be there.
He could still hear her voice, exactly the tone she’d used. I’d sure like to kiss you. How would you feel about it? Direct. Unashamed. The way she’d told him to take his clothes off. And softly, her delicious lips right in his ear: Melín.
He closed his hands on the edge of his seat so he wouldn’t do something indecent with them. Arousal wrestled with guilt. “If she saw me right now she’d hate me.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t. Don’t think about her.” Jarel had asked him where they should go. “Lake Club, Jarel. No, it’s not there. Gnash Nekantor! No, let’s go anyway. It’s a fun neighborhood. Veriga can’t blame me if I’m not going to a brothel.”
“I understand, sir.”
The wind of the skimmer’s passage felt good. Jarel skimmed them up the rampway. Of course, when they got to the Lake Club neighborhood, there was no Lake Club. The streets were just as busy, but people crossed the sidewalk before the old building without even looking up. Jarel pulled up to it. If there had been windows to look inside, he’d probably see new construction, but it didn’t matter. Veriga had already broken the illusion.
“They’ll put something new here, Jarel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s nice, at least. Twins, I’m lucky Veriga’s not here.” He shook his head. “Did you know? That was all my fault. I didn’t know they were fake. I should have known, I didn’t know. But oh, boy, they knew I was. I was fake, Jarel. The costumes. All of it. Fake!”
The Descent monitors didn’t know I was fake.
She didn’t know I was fake.
“Mai help me, Jarel! I can’t go to a Descent. I’m fake. No wonder Veriga hates me.”
“Sir,” said Jarel. “Please, be fair to yourself.”
“You should hate me, too.”
“Of course not, sir.”
It was all clear, suddenly. Fake, everything was fake. “I’ve never had good sex in my life, Jarel. All that sex, and it wasn’t real, and the one time it was, I wasn’t. It will never be, unless I Fall. No one’s going to ask me to.”
She didn’t respond.
“Varin’s teeth. Nekantor sent police here. Where’s the police station?”
“I believe there’s one along the circumference and to the left, sir.”
Pyaras got out of the skimmer. Walking along the sidewalk was a lot harder than walking out of the Society Club. His feet kept disobeying. Whenever he came near, Lowers dodged away, or crossed the street. And they were right, too; he could only hurt them.
“Yeah, stay away from me,” he announced. “I got all those people arrested. I’m the worst. They should arrest me.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Jarel.
The red lamp of a police station wavered up out of the night. Pyaras pulled on the door twice, and then Jarel pushed it, and he half-fell in.
“Sir,” said an older Arissen woman in a police uniform, from behind the metal counter. “May I help you?”
“Rivai,” he said. The name was so sad. One had been so beautiful—arrested and fined because of him. “The arrests at the Lake Club. Did you arrange them, from this station?”
She hesitated. “Sir?”
“I’m Grobal Pyaras of the First Family.” He leaned one elbow on her counter. “Please find . . . a Lake Club employee, name, Rivai. I’ll pay one’s fine.”
“One moment, sir.”
While she looked, Pyaras leaned his back against the counter. He couldn’t see the old Lake Club building through the windows, but there was a shinca tree out there, glowing silver.
A jingling sound behind him, keys opening a file drawer, sounded like bracelets.
Distracted tonight?
Sirin and Eyn, you’re beautiful.
Get your clothes off.
“Sirin and Eyn,” he mumbled.
“Sir,” said a voice behind him. He turned around. The Arissen had a paper in her hand. “Arrest record of a Melumalai Rivai. Fine levied, four hundred orsheth, of which sixteen have been paid.”
Pyaras blinked. “Are you serious?” He’d paid that much for drinks! “That’s stupid.”
The Arissen looked nonplussed.
“Find the rest,” Pyaras said. “The Lake Club fines. I’ll pay them all.”
Bang-bang-bang-bang!
Ohhhh, owww . . . Pyaras turned over in bed and unstuck his eyelids, slowly. His head throbbed with his heartbeat.
Bang-bang!
Nobody knocked like that. Father hated it when he knocked like that—who could be knocking like that? Shouldn’t his Jarel have answered the door?
Pyaras curled, slowly, and got his feet down on the floor. Standing up hurt, and his stomach didn’t like him at all. He shuffled to the door of his rooms, and leaned on the handle to open it.
Veriga???
“It’s seven forenoon,” Veriga said gruffly. “We’re going jogging.”
“We are?” Pyaras blinked up at Veriga’s pockmarked, scowling face. “Do you hate me?”
Veriga crossed huge arms. “Well? You coming?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“In your pajamas?”
“Oh. Give me a minute.”
His head and stomach still hated him, but he went and found his clothes. While he only had one leg in his pants, he found a glass of water held in front of his face.
“Sir.”
“Jarel, I’m in a hurry.” He turned, wobbled, and put his other leg in.
The water reappeared. “Sir, please.”
Pyaras grabbed his undershirt and pulled it over his head.
There was the water again.
“All right, fine,” Pyaras said, though right now he had less than zero interest in putting anything in his mouth. He sipped the water, which tasted just like the medicine Veriga had given him. “Ugh.” But his Jarel was still looking at him. He drank as much of it as he could before his stomach threatened to rebel. “Thank you—ugh.”
He stepped out of his room. Veriga looked him up and down, turned his back, and walked out through the house to the vestibule. Pyaras tried to keep up. Every step made his stomach lurch, but he made it out of the Residence. When they hit the gardens, Veriga stopped beside the pole at the edge of the gravel walk where they usually met up.
Evvi was leashed to the pole.
“Oh, Evvi,” Pyaras sighed. “Hi, pup.” Just to sit and hold her—his knees nearly buckled with the impulse.
Veriga untied Evvi’s leash and attached it to his belt. With one glance over his shoulder, he broke into a jog. The tunnel-hound bounded at his heel.
Here we go.
Oh, urrgh.
Running made him slosh like an overfull bucket. Heile help him, this was not going to end well.
He did it anyway, for Veriga. If he could just make it to the arena by the Arissen Section, he might be all right. But ohhh the bouncing. He misstepped in the gravel, caught himself, and his stomach lurched.
Nope, not going to make it.
He ducked behind a bush, doubled over, and emptied his stomach onto the ground in three body-shaking heaves. He straightened slightly, shivering. At least he’d managed not to make a mess of his clothes. He tore a handful of leaves off the nearest bush and used them to wipe his mouth—their smell was strange and green.
“Sir.” Jarel sounded exasperated. She pressed a silk handkerchief into his hand.
He wiped his mouth, then rubbed the handkerchief over the back of his neck. He was still shaky, but his stomach felt vastly improved. “Gods, where did he go?”
“He’s gone to the Ring, sir.”
Pyaras nodded, and started to run again. He spat once into the gravel to clear his mouth, but this time running was much easier. He was panting hard when he reached the Ring and ducked through the gap in the wall surrounding it. Veriga was waiting, sitting on the low barrier of the arena, with Evvi on the sand between his feet. He buffeted her head playfully with his hands.
Pyaras staggered to a stop. His mouth was still disgusting—he stuck out his tongue and rubbed it with the silk handkerchief.
“There’s a drinking fountain over there,” Veriga said, pointing.
“Ah.” Pyaras flushed, but went and sucked at the water, and rubbed some of it over his face before returning to the wall. “Thanks. Much better.”
The police officer grunted and nodded. “Pyaras, do you know what the Captain’s Hand at my station says whenever I mention you?”
Pyaras braced himself. “What?”
“Nobles are like tunnel-hounds. You can’t keep them past a certain age; they grow claws.”
“Oh. How old is Evvi?”
“Well past that age. Some people would have given her to the ashers by now.”
“Seriously? That’s horrible!”
“I’m smart about some things,” Veriga said.
Pyaras raised his eyebrows at the silent implication that he was one of the other things. He sighed. “I like Evvi a lot.”
“I like her a lot, too.” Veriga stroked her head gently, betraying the depth of his understatement. “That’s why I keep toys and pumice wheels. And I give her a lot of my time.”
Pyaras swallowed. “So . . . I’m a tunnel-hound.”
“Sorry, no,” said Veriga. “You’re much more dangerous.” He was silent for several seconds. Finally, he shuffled his feet against the sand. “You know, a friend of mine works at that station near the Lake Club.”
Pyaras rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Ah.” Maybe that was why he deserved to resume morning jogs. “Um, Veriga.”
The police officer looked over. “Yeah?”
“You’ve always given me good advice. You were right about the Descent. I couldn’t handle it.” He glanced back to Jarel. “I’m sorry.”
Veriga sighed. “I’m sure you are.”
Again, a silent implication. Pyaras squirmed a little. “I should have met you, like you said.”
“I’m not your father.”
“True. Though I don’t obey my father, either.”
“Ha,” said Veriga mirthlessly. “You really aren’t all that Arissen, in case you had any doubts.”
“The reason I didn’t meet you was—” Sirin and Eyn, that thought flushed him hot every single time. “I met a woman named Melín. A Specialist.”
Veriga raised his eyebrows. “And she was interested? Specialists are supposed to have sharp eyes.”
Pyaras breathed a ha, opened his mouth to say more, and—Melín climbing him, her mouth locking on his—could only shrug.
“Well. Hard to resist when you find what you’ve been looking for all this time.”
All this time. Something in his mind shattered, as if an enormous stone had fallen from above. For several seconds, he couldn’t even speak. “So,” he said shakily. “I have to go to work. Are we back to jogging in the mornings, then?”
“Meet you at the pole same time tomorrow,” said Veriga, and stood up. “Goodbye, Imbati Jarel.”
“The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” said Jarel.
“To me, Evvi.”
Once they were gone, Pyaras walked toward his office, very slowly. He tried to pick up the broken pieces of himself, but they escaped him. Empty as he felt, he still had important things to do—support Adon and Tamelera, work with Commander Tret, look for allies against Nekantor. He pushed open the door to the Arissen Section. When he walked into his office, his Jarel presented him with a large silk bag. Had she been carrying it all this time?
“A change of clothes before you see the Commander, sir.”
“Thank you, Jarel.”
He refused to consider whether he’d actually made a mess of himself without noticing, just quickly changed clothes in the Executor’s private bathroom. He thought about sitting down at his desk, then imagined what he’d do if Nekantor walked in right now.
“Jarel, I’m going to talk to the Commander.”
“Yes, sir. Permission to wait here, sir.”
She asked every time, though it had quickly become their usual arrangement. “Of course.”
He walked into the Arissen offices. The officers in the maze of desks no longer showed surprise to see him. He knew maybe five of them by name; more work to do. Duty rotation had taken away the Captain’s Hand who first helped him, and it hadn’t brought Melín here—but that was a worry more than a hope. He didn’t know what he could say to her with the lights on.
He knocked on the jamb of the Commander’s door.
Commander Tret looked up. Didn’t smile to see him—he hadn’t given a real smile yet—but at least he’d stopped making that other face, cranking up his mouth-corners. “Executor Pyaras. How can I help you?”
Look for allies. He took a deep breath. “Commander, I need to talk to you about something. The Heir Nekantor’s been by four times in the last two days, with new demands he wants to place on the Division.”
Tret tensed.
“Honestly, the demands that aren’t unreasonable . . . are ridiculous. Do we have to obey?”
“Sir,” Commander Tret said stiffly. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
He was about to break a bunch of rules—but he’d far rather have Tret as an ally than Nekantor. Maybe he’d have had more courage if he had anything in his stomach.
“Nekantor asked the Division to stage a parade,” he said. “A fancy review before the Eminence. I’ve never heard of anyone doing that, and I don’t see why we should do it just to make him happy. Taking the Division away from its duties isn’t just frivolous. It’s potentially dangerous.”
Commander Tret stared at him. “That’s true, sir.”
“I haven’t told you the worst one. He wants to increase paper yields, without any increase in medical spending. That’s—”
“Not possible, sir,” said Commander Tret.
“Gnash it, I knew it.” Pyaras moved to a chair, and sank down on it. His hands were shaking; he closed them on his knees. “In every season’s paperwork you’ve shown me, it’s the same pattern. Paper goes up, medical goes up, regardless of what Our Precious Heir says.”
Commander Tret shook his head.
“Well? Am I wrong?”
“No, sir.”
“The thing is, he expects obedience. Can you help me figure out what to tell him?”
Commander Tret rubbed one broad hand across his mouth. “I’m not sure, sir. Can you speak to someone higher up the chain of command?”
“I can try.” There was the problem of Herin being Third Family; there was also the question of whether Herin would think he was trying to wreck the delicate balance of the Great Families. But this wasn’t a Family issue; it was about safety, and costs. Tret had access to information, and maybe he could find something there that Herin would find compelling. “From what I’ve seen, when paper yields increase, medical costs don’t go up as far as paper costs come down. But I bet it drives up costs in other places.”
Commander Tret said nothing.
“Commander, the thing is, I’m not sure why it happens, so I’d like you to explain that if you can.”
Tret exhaled. “I can explain it, sir. Paper is the most hazardous crop in the Pelismar fields. The Venorai recognize two cultivars of the plant, one of which is native to this area, the other to the Safe Harbor region. Both are associated with a high occurrence of wysp sightings, even in fields with few to no shinca trees. In recent years, there’s been a lot of pressure to use the higher-yield Safe Harbor cultivar, but that leads to more wysp attacks during harvest. Additional Specialist surveillance of each field becomes necessary. The number of burn victims nearly doubles. Disability pensions increase.”
“Heile have mercy.” Burn victims. He raised his fingers to his slowly healing head.
“I’ll be honest, sir?” said Tret.
“Please do.”
“It’s Varin’s teeth up there, sir. And I should also mention that committing more fields to paper reduces the number committed to grains and other food crops.”
“Well, I have to say no, then. Trigis stand by us.”
“Well, but—sir.” Tret pressed his lips together as if unsure how to continue.
“Yes? Commander, I would like to hear your thoughts.”
“This has not been the approach of previous Executors.”
Pyaras almost laughed. “No, I would guess it hasn’t. Can you imagine how Herin and Nekantor would react if someone said no to their faces?”
Commander Tret’s mouth pulled slightly to one side. “I’d prefer not to imagine that, sir. I—we, in the Division, sir, would prefer that you remain our Executor.”
That was sobering. “Excellent point, Commander. On the other hand, if Sirin is smiling, I can get Herin to understand a money argument. He wants costs down. If I can show him that increasing paper yields raises the total expense rather than decreasing it, that might work.”
“I hope you’re right, sir,” said Tret. “Here’s where I would look for the cost numbers: casualties, Arissen and Venorai; medical expenses, Arissen and Venorai; disability pensions; import costs; cost of doubling Specialist deployments.”
Specialist deployments.
“Commander,” he asked, “what’s the job of a Specialist?”
“Specialist is short for Wysp Specialist, sir,” Tret answered. “Specialists are sharpshooters who undergo special training. They survey the field, tracking wysp movements and agitation states. They assess the risk of wysp attack, and if that risk exceeds the risk posed by disruption—”
“Pardon me, Commander—disruption?”
“The explosion caused when an energy bolt hits a wysp, sir. As I said, if the projected casualties exceed those for disruption, they shoot.” He pointed out the office door, across the wide area of Arissen desks toward the door where Pyaras had entered, and then held up his smallest finger. “A Specialist could stand in the entry foyer on the other side of that door and put a bolt straight through my fingernail.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pyaras shook his head. He could ask the Commander to find Melín. It wasn’t even the first time he’d thought of it. But his gut just wouldn’t let him do it.
“All right, Commander,” he said. “If you can send me records, I’ll work on this.”
“Thank you, Executor.”
Pyaras returned to his desk in his comfortable room. “Jarel,” he said, “do you mind helping me go through the paperwork I’ve requested?”
“I’m at your service, sir.”
“Here’s the thing. We can’t disobey Nekantor, so someone else needs to say no to him. We’re going to figure out how to get the Eminence to say no.”
“No!” said a voice, dramatically, and started chuckling. “That was easy.”
Heile and Mai help me. Pyaras turned around; the Eminence Herin was standing just inside his door. Herin’s Argun must have opened the door so silently he didn’t hear it. How much had Herin just heard?
Not enough to dim his mischievous smile. The Eminence glanced about the Executor’s office as if enjoying the paintings on the walls. “Very nice,” he said, gesturing about. “You’re fortunate to work in such comfort.”
Pyaras swallowed. “Thank you, your Eminence.”
“No; have a seat, relax,” said Herin.
Relax, right. Pyaras obediently returned to sit in his comfortable chair.
Herin smiled again, maybe attempting to reassure him. “How are you enjoying your work?”
“Very well, thank you, your Eminence.”
“I’ve heard about the expertise you’re bringing to your position, and I’m impressed.” That was a dramatic change of attitude, considering that Herin hadn’t seemed to care about his most recent report. Had someone spoken to him about his ‘expertise’? Herin’s face was pleasant when he said it, but it could just as easily be read as an insult. “I can tell my Heir is taking some interest in you. Have you made any changes in the Division’s deployments?”
“No, sir,” Pyaras replied. “I can see no reason to question the Division Commander’s priorities at this time.”
Behind Herin, the door opened on a Captain’s Hand carrying a heavy file case, who stopped short at the sight of them.
“Sirs,” the young Hand said.
“You may enter, Arissen,” said the Eminence Herin.
“Set that here, please, Hand.” Pyaras waved the Hand to a spot to the right of his desk. The Hand approached, set down the case, briefly saluted, and left.
“You’re very sensible, Pyaras,” said Herin. “However, I’d like to propose something that might benefit everyone. The idea occurred to me this morning, and since it affects the Arissen, I thought I’d come by and share it with you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Pyaras replied carefully.
“The Variner government could pay a lot less for paper if we could produce more.”
What? Pyaras only just managed not to stare. “Have you considered how such a request might increase costs, sir?”
“No, no. This is about raising the supply to decrease costs.”
“Sir, permission to report to you on the precise change in costs before implementing such a proposal?”
Herin broke into another smile. “You’re diligent! I appreciate that. Have the report to me this time next week.”
Which would be fine, except if Herin treated this report like the last one, it would help nobody. “Actually, sir, if you’ll permit me . . .”
“Yes?”
“May we discuss it over lunch? I haven’t yet had the honor of admiring your lovely partner.”
“Ha!” said Herin. “I like your initiative. And, indeed, my Falya is the most lovely woman in all Varin. Why not? We eat at Society Club Five. Argun, arrange it.”
“Yes, your Eminence,” said Argun in his deep voice.
“Thank you very much for honoring me with your visit, your Eminence,” Pyaras said. But when they had left, he shook his head in dismay.
Herin coming in to propose some ‘new idea’ that Nekantor had just proposed yesterday, in this very office? That was disturbing. Most people had forgotten Nekantor’s school-time gang behavior, but he hadn’t—Nek had always been the one standing at the gang leader’s ear, whispering schemes that Benél would later claim as his own.
What else was Nekantor whispering to the Eminence?