Kasimir

Sorry ah, I otang RP again. Add to my tab, add to my tab. Action One:

Backdated: Anaximander Heron #4: Heat of the Moment There were many things she shouldn’t have done. She shouldn’t have gone straight from Aldan’s party, with the heat still in her blood. Curling, prickling, pressing tight against her skin. There were days this skin, this body felt too small for her. Too different. She felt it in her bones. Wystan had taught her many things. Fighting in the alleys and slums and illicit rings in the underbelly of Luthadel had taught her other things. Things like that if you went out looking for a fight, you got one. And sometimes, if you kept going on, kept fighting, one day, you wouldn’t come home. Nax wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She neatly placed it aside, with the many things she didn’t think about. Trickle of blood from the corner of Len’s mouth…”Get that off my floor,” Aldan had said, crisply. It was, of course, an inconvenience, more than anything else. Dirt on his floor; beneath his boots. People who fought in a rage died in a rage. She knew that. And yet it didn’t seem to matter at all. Perhaps she hadn’t been the only one with the fever in her blood, that night. Many of the patrons--mostly labourers, with the occasional craftsman--had been restive. When the eventual fight broke out, it had seemed more a dam breaking: a release of the inevitable. Someone groaned. A criminal, by the looks of him. He had the knife-scars you associated with a man who lived a life of violence. Nax strode across the strewn floor of the tavern, hefting the broken stool-leg in her hand. She barely remembered smashing the stool over the head of one man; the sound of splintering wood as a jagged leg ripped free and she clubbed the next attacker with it. Many of those on the floor had been beaten insensible; Nax foresaw many labourers showing up late, or missing work the next day. The survivors, like her, nursed bruised knuckles, or were stealthily slipping out of the tavern before the owner returned with more hired help. She brought the makeshift club down. The man fell silent. Tossing it aside negligently, Nax walked out of the tavern. There was no sense in waiting for the owner and his thugs, she concluded. She hadn’t been burning tin--had, in fact, pointedly avoided doing so, in the press of the tavern brawl. She hadn’t needed the distraction that enhanced senses would’ve provided. She hadn’t needed pewter either. Scrapes and bruises were beginning to make themselves felt. She felt a twinge of pain and rotated her shoulder experimentally. Felt like she’d pulled something there. That shoulder had never been the same since the fight last month. She’d been too greedy, Nax thought. She shouldn’t have let them offer her extra if she’d agreed to fight Thran with staves instead of bare knuckles. It was a cool night. The mists curled, almost experimentally, around her. She walked on. It was a long way back to Keep Heron, and the rage, the restlessness had dissolved. It felt good. Or at least better. Violence was the opposite of burning tin; it clarified. While tin flooded you with sensory information, violence reduced everything to the primal basics and burned out that helpless rage and restlessness in a single moment of sharp, furious clarity where it was only skill, luck, and awareness that stood between her and being beaten unconscious in a tavern brawl. Sparring Ani was different. It had always been. Ani fought in clean crisp lines; with a sort of fluid precision, always siphoning off the grace that using pewter lent him. Noble and skaa. These two worlds were always so different, always so separate. She sometimes felt like a stranger in both of them. Something caught her attention; she thought she heard a distant sound in the night. Nax frowned, and burned tin. Immediately, her tin-enhanced ears caught what sounded like shattering glass. She immediately took stock: she was heading away from the slums towards the sector of the city where several noble keeps dominated the area, including… Intuition, sharp, like glass breaking: Shattering glass. Keep Malreaux. Len hadn’t just been a plant, he’d been getting ready for the crew to move. Mists, Nax thought. They’d planned the job for tonight, when there was the distraction of a ball going on at Keep Malreaux and most of the guards would be drunk or at least less wary by this time of the night. She knew what the consequences were. Perhaps it was easier to stop caring, in the heat of the moment. Nax ran. Her metal reserves were mostly high: fortunately, she hadn’t burned anything during the tavern brawl, and tin burned relatively slowly. She would need the metals.

Chalk up another on my tab; I don't have the time or energy to RP at the moment. I'll pay it back eventually along with the Aniketos and Anaximander RPs I've yet to finish in the set of ten. Action One:

On one of the characters: All in all, I enjoyed The Aeronaut's Windlass--it was a good read for a short break that might have stretched longer than it was supposed to.

Possible, but the dispute would have to be considered to have been resolved to everyone's satisfaction. Otherwise, the clerics aligned with Hel would object to Roy being resurrected if this would just bring up a fight again. (Recall the guy who threatened to unload all his buffs on Durkula if anyone waded in to help.) Not to mention they may simply decide that as Durkula's bodyguard, Roy is aligned (at least officially, for the purposes of the Godsmoot) with Hel, and so it is her/her representative's decision as to whether Roy ought to get resurrected or not. I'm less hopeful of a Belkar/Elan intervention, but I do wonder what the odds are that Varsuvius might be taken over by the IFCC and walked in there again to interfere. From Loki's disagreement with Hel, I'm assuming alignment doesn't dictate where people stand on the issue of destroying the world. It's not impossible that the IFCC decides against for reasons of their own--perhaps they want a bigger slice of the pie?

No time or energy to RP of late. May put something up later. Action One:

This, and probably the same way one finds out that one's heterosexual rather than homosexual or bisexual: I mean, it's possible you just haven't yet found the right person, right?

[Maybe RP later; too burned out right now.] Edit: I was supposed to be doing my homework for German 5. I procrastinated. Instead, here, have some RP: Es war spät in der Nacht. Als er einen Brief zum Kyrus schrieb, zögerte Aniketos Heron. Die Kerzenflamme flackerte. Er machte einen kleinen Pause, und trank seinen Wein. Es gab fast keinen Urbain-Wein mehr, dachte Ani, wegen der Zerstörung ihrer Brennerei. Aus diesem Grund bremste die Produktion ab. Im Keller des Bergfrieds blieben nur ein wenig Flaschen Wein. Vielleicht trank er gerade den letzten Wein. Ani wusste, dass Kyrus oft beschäftigt war. Seitdem Kyrus bei Meister Tormod in die Lehre gegangen war, kam seine Briefe seltener und seltener. Es gab, sagte er, bei Meister Tormod immer viel zu tun. Ein Lehrling hatte mehrere Aufgaben, darum er sich kümmern müsste. Allerdings nahm es Kyrus die Energie. Deswegen schlief er unregelmäßig und war oft müde. Er hatte auch wenig Zeit, damit er einen langen Brief zu seinem Vater schreiben konnte. Aber er las immer Anis Briefe. Das wusste Ani. Was sollte er denn schreiben? Vielleicht sollte er das Geschehen in Luthadel beschreiben. Oder vielleicht interessierte Kyrus sich besser für die Ereignisse der Familie Heron? Er hatte, dachte Ani, voraussichtlich großes Heimweh. Er dachte dann an seine Kindheit und Erziehung mit Familie Wilson. Damals vermisste Ani seine Familie eine schöne Menge. Trotzdem hat sein Vater Kyril Heron ihm nie einen Brief geschrieben. Die Beziehungen. Er befürchtete, dass die Söhne immer dieselbe Fehler als die Väter machen. Wie pflegt man eine gute Beziehung mit seinem Sohn? Wie wird man ein guter Vater? Die Antworten wusste Ani nicht und er beunruhigte sich. Er las wieder die Wörter, die er soweit geschrieben hat. „Lieber Sohn, ich hoffe, dir geht es gut. Wie findest du Meister Tormod? Er hat mir letzten Monat einen Brief über dich geschrieben, und sagte, dass deine Lehre...Ich reise nächste Woche eine Reise nach Tremredare, um…“ Er runzelte die Stirn. Nein, dachte Ani. Das geht überhaupt nicht… Er strich die ganze Sache aus. Und dann begann er wieder, den Brief von Anfang zu schreiben. Action Two:

I love it too! And...because it's a Bad Description?

Yes! Yes!

Nope to both. A subplot concerns bullying: the boy begins to understand another boy who once pushed him around when he was younger, and eventually, they become friends.

It is the first book of a series. While a Evil Sorcerer-type Big Bad is named, he is not directly encountered in this book; instead, the boy contends with his dreaded assassins. Also, when in doubt, set things on fire.

But there's Arondight, Durandal, Excalibur, Harvest, Fidelacchius, Amoracchius, Esparacchius, Griffin, Nehima, Curoch, Retribution, The Way, Light At The Heart of The Mountain, Tiger On The Mountain, Glorious Victory (Unsought), Beautiful Singer-- Okay, point taken

Bah. Semester's started and it's been one disaster after another. Turns out the Dean's Office and my department don't count workload credits the same way, so while I was told it was okay to do four classes and a thesis at the same time, my department threw a hissy fit--at the last minute--and refused to let me be officially registered as doing a thesis. Which is real bad since you have to stay on for a year after being officially registered, so if I couldn't be registered this semester, I'd have to stay on for an extra semester, during which I have to pay unsubsidised school fees (my subsidy would've run out) and/or risk being expelled as I'd be considered to have overstayed candidature. Oops. So I went to the Dean's Office to get a workload waiver so I could do one extra class and a thesis. (My department insisted I stick with three.) Dean's Office instantly granted me the waiver, said they'd let my department know. Hahanope. Department said it wasn't possible; the mess expanded to include my supervisor, the Head of Department, the admin office, the manager, and the Dean's Office, and still no one could get the mess resolved. So I gave up and tried to drop the offending class, since that was the other alternative my department offered me. ...Our online module system refused to let me drop the class because it said that by dropping the class, I was contravening the minimum workload policy. So basically, I couldn't be registered as doing a thesis because I exceeded the maximum workload policy with the thesis added, and I couldn't drop a class because by dropping the class, my workload was so light that it broke the rules on minimum workload. Finally got that sorted out, and was about to show up to German class today, happy and relaxed... Only to find out I have a group video project (I hate both group and video assignments), 5 assignments due next week, and most importantly, the textbook I got last year when auditing the German class? It's now no longer used because there's a new edition, just published this year. I have to go fork up for the new edition. ...I want a refund on today :/

Yeah, no. It's the first book of a series and it's set in a faux-medieval world that's low on magic. The boy is an orphan. He also doesn't actually know what his father's career was; he made a good guess but turns out to be wrong.

It's Darkened Blade by Kelly McCullough :/ A boy wants to follow in his father's footsteps, but when a career placement exercise goes terribly wrong, he finds himself doing a job no one wants to do and ends up saving the life of the guy who runs the career placement exercise.

Kyrus Heron #1: Light and Shadow Kyrus wasn’t sure what he was supposed to expect. According to his father, Tormod was one of the younger masters in the Artisan’s Guild--only recently promoted from journeyman status. He’d asked his father what that meant. His father had sighed. “He’ll explain it to you,” Aniketos Heron had said, then. Now, he eyed Kyrus and said, “Stop fidgeting.” He stopped playing with the pebble in his pocket. It was a smooth, dark stone, and a curiosity: one his father had brought back for him from one of his business trips into the Western Dominance. He’d liked to imagine it had come from a river--perhaps the Seran, although his father had sighed and informed him that if he’d been paying attention to his geography tutor, as he should’ve, then he would’ve known that the Seran was on the other side of the Empire entirely. Maps. He never trusted them. Tathingdwen was probably a conspiracy of cartographers, anyway. How did they know it was there if no one left Luthadel and checked? The door to the workshop swung open. “Tell them this isn’t red!” someone was shouting. “Lord Ruler’s sack, Lord Tethys wants those fish red, not some muck-stained yellow! Even a blind beggar could tell you this isn’t red!” He added a series of increasingly-crude suggestions as to what he was going to do to ‘them’ with the defective sheets of glass, whoever ‘they’ were. As the stream went on, Kyrus’s father very firmly covered his ears. Kyrus tried to squirm away, but his father didn’t relent until the stream of profanities was over. The youth working the door, a harried-looking boy scarcely older than Kyrus was, blanched. “Master Tormod,” he tried, “That’s just what the glassworkers got this time around. They’ve been having difficulties--” “They’ve been having difficulties all blasted year!” Tormod--for that was the person who was shouting--snapped. “First, it was the sun. ‘Gold’, I asked for, not piss-yellow! Then there was the pond-scum when I said the ocean needed hints of emerald. And that’s when the glass is fine, not blackened or irregular with bubbles and not fit for anything except being stuck up their--” His father reached over for him again. Kyrus shrugged away. “Incompetence!” Tormod fumed. “Incompetence is what it is!” Aniketos Heron stood up, crossed over to the door and looked at the increasingly-hassled youth. “I am Lord Aniketos Heron,” he informed the boy. “I believe we’re expected.” The boy gulped. “Master Tormod, there’s someone to--” “Well,” Tormod said, flatly, “I suppose this is just as well, since we’re never getting anywhere until the glassworkers clean up their act. This is the fifth order they’ve ruined this month.” His father beckoned, and Kyrus moved over to join him. The other boy eyed him and murmured, “Good luck.” Kyrus looked at him. “Master Tormod’s in a real temper,” the boy whispered, making a face. “But he’s one of the most gifted mosaicists in the Guild, they’re saying. He just...gets a bit hard to handle, when they give him substandard materials.” “Why do they do that, then?” The boy shrugged. “Who knows? The glassworkers have been going through hard times of late, and even the masters can’t get good sheets of working glass anymore. ‘Course, what the ‘prentices have to deal with are worse.” “Are you one of them?” The boy sighed. “I wish,” he said, glumly. “I’m with the Guild, but I haven’t been taken on by anyone yet. They’ve sent me to do fetching and carrying for Master Tormod. I guess they hope that he’ll take me on eventually.” “What happens if he doesn’t?” The boy shrugged. “Some other master takes me on, no doubt. There’s no shortage of them, what with the latest batch of journeymen being conferred their mastery.” Kyrus tried to hide his confusion. He felt the slightest trace of guilt: he wasn’t as interested in learning to create mosaics as the other boy appeared to be, and for all of that, he’d ended up with an apprenticeship under Tormod because of who his father was. He looked down at his hands. They’d spoken, before they’d left for the workshop, about what Tormod’s expectations would be. No slacking, his father had said. Treat this seriously. It’s an enormous opportunity you’ve been given, Kyrus. Don’t squander it. “Kyrus!” his father called. There was a hint of irritation in his voice. Kyrus realised that they’d been talking at the door while his father had gone on in and was already conferring with Tormod. He offered the boy an apologetic shrug and went into the workshop. His first impression of the mosaicist’s workshop was that it was so bright. There were parts of it that were dark and shadowed, but light flooded in through immense glass windows, and he noticed lamps everywhere, probably for the night. On the far wall, he saw a mosaic being slowly pieced together; the wall was half-empty, but he could see where the tiles were already being set. He wondered what it was supposed to depict. Maybe fish. Tormod was a large man, with a beaky nose and raggedly-cut dark hair. His hands were cut and bleeding, while a shattered sheet of murky-brown glass sat on the workbench before him. Blood stained the glass. Tormod looked at him, as though sizing him up. Kyrus looked back at him. “Well,” Tormod said, at last. “So that’s the boy.” “That’s Kyrus,” his father agreed. An unspoken agreement seemed to pass between the two men; his father nodded, and said, “Well, then. I leave him in your capable hands, Master Tormod. And I’ll have a look at the glassmakers’ to see what’s happening with the glass.” “Best that you do,” Tormod said. His voice was rough, with a hint of a Southern accent. Kyrus recognised that: his tutor had pointed it out to him, once. The people from the Southern Dominance, particularly the Isles, spoke in a distinctive way. He was surprised he had noticed it here. His father paused, for a moment, beside him. “Be good,” he said. That was all. He left. They looked at each other, still. The master mosaicist and the boy. It was Kyrus who broke the silence first. “Why is the workshop so bright?” he wanted to know. Tormod grunted. “Good question. This is your first lesson of being a mosaicist: light is important. So is audience. You have to keep in mind who you’re making the mosaic for, who is meant to see it, from what angle, in what light. Light matters when you’re setting the tiles. A sloppy mosaicist just sticks tile after tile to a wall. A clever mosaicist uses the light to create the illusion of depth, of shade, of texture…Sometimes, you can even convey movement. I’ll show you.” “All right,” Kyrus said. “The next lesson of being a mosaicist: right now, you’re an apprentice. My apprentice. That means you shut up and do what you’re told until I say you’re good enough to try experimenting on your own. And that means I’m ‘Master Tormod’ or ‘sir’. Understand?” “Yes, sir.” “Good.”

This is the last hint: the trio are going to bring chaos to many kingdoms because they are attempting to assassinate an Emperor. ...I really need to be better at picking books people've actually heard of

The aforementioned three characters do not have shadows.

The main characters are all ninjas.

Aniketos Heron #4: Scattered Leaves Ani wished he didn’t feel so...tired, so dead inside. The tea was pleasant enough, having been steeped for just the right amount of time, and it made him feel a little more up to the task of discussing banal pleasantries with Lady Ostlin. The garden was sculpted to be pleasing to the eye, with an austere aesthetic generated from the carved rocks, the black-and-white stones, and the handful of leaves scattered across the worn path. Water ran somewhere, in the distance. He could hear it; a soothing murmur to the ear. And there was no ash. It had been swept up in heaps by the villa’s gardeners, no doubt, where it would eventually be dumped somewhere where it would not look out of place. Privately, Ani suspected that they took the ash to the junk heaps and just left them there. “”Well,” Lady Ostlin smiled, and set down her cup, as the matter turned away from the latest news from Luthadel (he suspected it was a test; word travelled slow on the road, but travel it would, and nobles like the Ostlins would have heard about the latest declarations from the capital, no matter what Lady Ostlin professed.) “What can I do for you, Lord Heron?” He considered the question. The Ostlins were considered a minor noble family, in the eyes of the capital, for they didn’t have a Keep in Luthadel, and they weren’t particularly influential outside of the Western Dominance. Within the Western Dominance, however… “Do I have to want something, Lady Ostlin?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral. “Everyone does,” she shrugged. “I hardly think you travelled all the way out here for a pleasant conversation with an old lady over a cup of tea. Did you know your father had considered a marriage contract with us, once?” That peculiar knot in Ani’s gut clenched, again. Every single time, without fail. “No, I hadn’t heard,” he said, with an effort. “He had thought of it,” Lady Ostlin said, perhaps blissfully unaware. “For Mirabelle--my heir, you know? She’s off negotiating a contract in Fadrex City at the moment. A pity, that. You might have liked to meet her. Of course, Kyril decided to marry you off to the Estvaril girl, after all. What was her name again?” “Araminta.” “Quite a name,” Lady Ostlin mused. She looked at him. “Perhaps it’s for the best. I’m told you already have an heir to the Lordship. You weren’t thinking of negotiating a contract this early, were you?” “I’m told some families prefer to start early,” Ani said, “But in Kyrus’s case, I prefer to leave things open and to allow him to grow a little older.” She nodded approvingly. “A wise decision, I’m sure.” “I would hope so,” Ani murmured, and drank his tea. “Mm. I’ve heard that your House has gone into the glassworks industry,” Lady Ostlin said, at last. She gave him an arch glance. “There are many glassworkers of late in the West, wouldn’t you say?” “It was time to begin to diversify our investments,” Ani replied. “A prescient move on my father’s part, one would have to say, considering that he intended for us to significantly move into glassworks and other enterprises before the Canton of Finance was formed.” “Kyril Heron was an...interesting man,” Lady Ostlin said. Was that a fond smile he caught? “And don’t you worry about the Cantons. They’ll settle, soon.” He inclined his head in agreement. “Even so. Diversification is, I expect, for the best. I hope to eventually apprentice Kyrus to one of the artisans, actually. Finding a willing and skilled mentor is proving somewhat of a challenge, however.” “Oh? He looked at the garden; the path, with its cloak of scattered, artful leaves, brightly-coloured in the afternoon light. “Beautiful things matter,” Ani said, simply, by way of explanation. “It seems a worthwhile venture. And it would be immensely useful for Kyrus to learn a trade so closely-tied to the fortunes of House Heron.” “Your father had similar plans for you,” Lady Ostlin said. “It was, I expect, why he had you fostered.” “He could have taught them, had he been so minded,” Ani said. Ignored the almost-buried stab of pain. Lady Ostlin shook her head, firmly. “No,” she said. “He could not. Kyril Heron, you must understand, was never a warrior. It didn’t lie in him to understand training or military logistics and tactics, and he never bothered with them.” “I didn’t know you knew my father well.” The corner of her mouth curled in a small smile. “My dear,” she said, and he allowed the diminutive, “You will allow us this: we know the Houses that come and go in the West. Your father among them.” “I know you were contemporaries. I didn’t know you were closer than I expected.” Lady Ostlin shrugged. “It was inevitable, I think. He sought to establish connections. House Ostlin was a natural choice. He spent a few weekends here, over the years.” He didn’t know that. He knew little enough about the details. His father had explained to him the important points, over breakfast: ‘this is the state of the current market, this is what we are going to do, do you have any input, Ani?’ and that was that. He’d shown Ani the list of contacts he’d made in the Western Dominance, informed him that it would be his task to keep up with them. He’d taken Ani with him to inspect the banks, shown him the newly-acquired glassworks and introduced him to the things that needed to be done. He felt like a stranger; being shown the ropes, but not quite...not quite… “Lord Heron?” Lady Ostlin was glancing at him. She crumbled one of the leftover pastries and carelessly strew them over the grounds. Moments later, the nearby sparrows came; dark wings flecked with ash. They pecked eagerly at the crumbs, fighting over bits and pieces of the pastry. Had Lady Ostlin become accustomed to the birds? Or, he wondered, had they become accustomed to her? “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I was lost in thought.” “Save that for when you’re older,” Lady Ostlin informed him. “A young thing like you shouldn’t be trapped in the past so early on.” The sparrows flew away, shedding crumbling leaves like dirt. Action Two:

I would say that the problem is that many people express their lived experience of being genderqueer in ways like, "I was interested in an early age in things the typical boy/girl isn't." or in talk about how they were drawn to some of the stereotypical behaviours associated with the other gender. I would generally consider that a legitimate way to express this experience; in our heads, gender can often be tightly linked with performance and expression, after all. And talking about experiences--especially for something as personal as gender!--is rather hermeneutically challenging. Hence the unsurprising tendency for that to overlap a little.

It's a book, published this year.

Anaximander Heron #3: Broken Glass Nax studied the stranger in the parlour-mirror carefully, for as long as she dared. She turned away. Her hands were shaking. She carefully slipped them in her pockets, and then remembered belatedly that this gown didn’t have any pockets. She slipped them behind her back, instead. There were metals. She’d swallowed a vial of them before leaving. She burned a little copper, more for the reassuring warmth than for any true desire to prevent herself from being Soothed or Rioted. Then again, Nax thought, you never knew. She’d certainly heard about unscrupulous nobles Rioting someone’s physical attraction for a night-- No. She corrected herself. Anaximander hadn’t heard about it. Nax had. They moved in two separate worlds, and at times like this, the edges grated, so badly, like the screech of a barely-oiled rusty door-hinge to a Tineye’s hearing. She shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have accepted the invitation. But she had to. She was about to talk herself into going out; back to the party, back to the limelights and wine and music and dancing and laughter, when the door handle turned and then the door slipped open. “By the Lord Ruler, Nax!” Aldan Malreaux was the first to respond. He took a few steps forward and swept her into a crushing hug. She was surprised. Perhaps time had mellowed him. Awkwardly, she reciprocated the gesture, finally slipping away. They studied each other; Aldan was shorter than she’d remembered, or perhaps she’d grown. He’d put on some weight, but some of it was muscle. He was grinning; none of that screamed someone who found skaa for a night’s fling and then casually murdered them. “It’s been a long time, m’lady,” he said, recovering, offering her a bow. “I didn’t expect to see you at one of our balls.” “Ani nagged,” Nax said. “I was tired of it.” “And how is your brother faring?” Aldan asked. “I was under the impression he was doing well, if a little busy.” “Aren’t we all?” she asked. Tried to smile. “I certainly haven’t heard from you in ages.” “Well, as you must know, I’m married now. And House Lord. That takes up quite a bit of time…I’m sure your brother must feel the same. Unfortunately, we don’t quite move in the same circles these days. And yourself?” “Busy,” Nax said. “There are many things to be done, after all…” He nodded. “I’m sure Philia would have mentioned you, but she hasn’t seen you at many of these.” “I don’t go,” Nax said. “And your husband? Who might that lucky man be?” “I didn’t marry,” Nax said, and watched him try to deal with it, with a certain sadistic amusement. “Whyever not?” She shrugged. Another thing you didn’t quite do, she thought, in the formal circles of Luthadel’s nobles. Fortunately, she had passed the point of caring--and of being marriageable. It was the one gift her father had left her, after all those years of differences. “But, Nax…” he spluttered. Finally, “You don’t want children?” “I have a nephew,” she said. “I’ll probably have to beat him up one day and teach him to defend himself. I’m afraid the family life isn’t for me.” For some reason, she found herself thinking of Len, Len, who hadn’t had a family, Len, who laughed and said there’d be plenty of time to settle down somewhere far from Luthadel in his retirement, far from where the Lord Despot’s grip had begun to tighten on the Dominances… “Well,” Aldan said, smiling, ignoring the past few minutes. “This calls for a drink. Nils! NILS!” he raised his voice at the last. The door swung open. “Milord?” A skaa servant. They stared at each other. She knew him. She wondered if that was a glint of recognition in his eyes. Perhaps all he saw was another noble lady, painted up, ornamented, and in a wine-red gown, slashed with Heron navy. The idiot. It wasn’t safe, he’d said. So he’d chosen to infiltrate the Malreaux keep on his own. The bloody, bloody, idiot. Tinkling of broken glass. The servant had been carrying a tray; the glasses on it tipped over, spilling whatever they’d been carrying--dark wine, possibly from the Malreaux vineyards--onto the tiled floor. A sharp sound. Aldan had casually backhanded the servant. “Stupid skaa,” he muttered. “By the Lord Ruler, Nils, you do something like this again, and I’ll have you strung up for my guests, mark my words.” He looked at her and managed a smile. “Sorry about that. It’s getting awfully hard to get competent help these days, ever since Weskil turned up in an alley the other day with his throat slit. That’s the skaa for you.” She wondered if he blamed Weskil for having the temerity to get his throat slit. Len babbled a thousand apologies, sprawled on the floor--had Aldan been burning pewter?--his hand to his face. She couldn’t tell if he’d been injured. It depended on the pewter. “Get someone,” Aldan ordered. “Clean up this mess. And be grateful I don’t have you flogged before the lady. Are we clear?” Len muttered something. But his eyes were smouldering with anger. She’d seen what she wanted to. Nax murmured something--what, she wasn’t sure--to Aldan, a few courtesies, something of that sort, at any rate, and then took her leave. She swept out through the party, brushing off the servants there with a brusque comment that she needed air. She’d not liked Aldan, but he’d been charming. Frustrating, but that was his flaw. He’d been earnest about the poetry he’d written his latest paramour, and that was all the more difficult to mesh with the casual cruelty he’d displayed to Len. She tore off the gown, as soon as she could, and slipped into the clothing she’d left behind in the Heron carriage. She thought of heading back to the Keep, but her blood was up, and she badly, badly felt like she needed something to take her mind off things. “Go back to the Keep,” she ordered the driver, who nodded and set off. Instead, Anaximander Heron shrugged on her cloak and headed into the shadows of Luthadel.