To surround anything, however monstrous or ridiculous, with an air of mystery, is to invest it with a secret charm, and power of attraction which to the crowd is irresistible. False priests, false prophets, false doctors, false patriots, false prodigies of every kind, veiling their proceedings in mystery, have always addressed themselves at an immense advantage to the popular credulity, and have been, perhaps, more indebted to that resource in gaining and keeping for a time the upper hand of Truth and Common Sense, than to any half-dozen items in the whole catalogue of imposture. -- Charles Dickens, Barnaby Rudge

The atmosphere in the palace was stifling. Zafadin felt a thousand invisible eyes fixed on him every minute of every day. It made his skin crawl. But he pretended not to notice. This was what his future life would be if his plan succeeded. And why wouldn't it succeed? He had spent years crafting a respectable image while forging connections with powerful people. Then he had dreamt only of becoming an important official. But now he stood a chance to become Iqui, and he would not let it pass.

He suspected why he had been so abruptly summoned to palace, even though no one had told him so directly. He'd overheard some of his acquaintances gossiping that the Iquisaal intended to choose a new husband from her late husband's distant cousins. If that was why he was here, his hopes would be easily fulfilled with very little effort on his part. The presence of many third and fourth cousins, most of whom he barely knew, confirmed his suspicions. He needed only to ensure he made no mistakes over the next few days.

Lower-class people in many parts of Malish practiced a custom called brakhīd'mahya. Roughly translated, it meant "marriage market"[1]. Almost all the unmarried young women in the hafiruz[2] were gathered together on certain days set aside for the purpose, usually once or twice a year. One of their male relatives would list their family background, dowry, virtues, and skills. A man seeking a new wife or concubine would go and select a woman to marry. This practice never happened in reverse, with a woman choosing a man. Yet Zafadin couldn't help thinking that this current situation was just such a reversal of the common custom.

The imperial palace, the Palace of the Six Crystal Gates, was as grand as its name suggested. Some long-dead Iqui had built it to display his empire's glory -- and to gratify his ego too, of course. Its endless wide halls, the ornate mosaics on the floors, the brilliantly-coloured geometric designs on the ceilings, the paintings of history and mythology on the walls; all were designed to make the visitor feel small and insignificant. The only impression they made on Zafadin was that it was impossible to keep this place warm when night fell or a cold wind blew.

All of his glory and pride hadn't stopped that long-ago Iqui being murdered by his son. His grand palace with its many gates had done nothing to keep Death out. More people would do well to remember that, in Zafadin's opinion.

No matter how high he climbed, there was always a chance he might fall.

So he must do his best to lessen that chance.

~~~~

Qihadal knew about the brewing scandal in the High Council. She briefly considered choosing a new Counsellor for Tinuviel to appoint. If someone owed their place on the High Council to her, they would be loyal to her out of gratitude. But after more thought she dismissed the idea.

If I chose someone who wasn't suitable, everyone would blame me, she thought. Far better to not meddle in politics.

So when Tinuviel -- through his sister -- asked if she had any suggestions for the High Council, she said no.

There were plenty of other things to occupy her time without worrying about politics. Renovation work had begun. She had to decide which parts of the old palace should be given the most attention, and which parts were not of any real historical interest. She had to consult with historians on whether a certain artifact was worth being put on display or if it was only old rubbish. She had an endless stack of recently discovered old letters from at least twenty different people. The letters were written in an old form of calligraphy that she could barely decipher. She would have to find someone else to look over them for her.

With all those things and more to do, Qihadal really had no time for politics.

She made a point of seeing both Linyie and Lethil every day until Lethil went home. Qihadal ensured she treated both of them exactly alike. Yet there was a coldness between her and her older daughter, a wall that one couldn't break through and the other was building higher and higher.

Was she happy? That was a question she refused to answer even in her mind. By all logic she should be happy. She was the empress, a position most woman would kill (perhaps literally) to reach. There was no reason to be unhappy. And yet...

Qihadal shook her head, banishing her melancholy thoughts. It didn't matter if she was happy or unhappy. She had work to do. And Prince Gialma was going to look over those letters. She'd never thought he was interested in calligraphy. But Nadriet said that of all the royal court he was most likely to understand it -- barring the scribes and official scholars, of course. The scribes were already swamped with searching for records of who lived where when and who might have owned this, that or the other.

The memory of their last conversation left both Qihadal and Gialma feeling rather awkward when they met again. If Nadriet hadn't been there, the meeting would have been exceedingly uncomfortable. Thankfully Nadriet was there, and she talked enough to hide any silences.

"I can't understand everything," the princess said, picking up one letter, "but I think this letter is from Grandmother Rangara. Look, isn't that her signature?"

Gialma looked at the letter. Qihadal, not paying much attention to this talk about people whose names she barely knew, organised the not-yet-read letters in a rough guess at chronological order. Only a few of the writers had been kind enough to put the date at the start of their letters. For the others she had to examine how old the paper was, and make an estimate at each letter's age that way.

"That isn't from Grandmother Rangara," Gialma said. "It's from Great-grandmother Ranoryin. She must have written it just after her coronation." He burst out laughing. "Listen to this!"

Qihadal looked up, only slightly interested. The remarks of someone she didn't know weren't particularly thrilling, but they were sure to be more amusing than a dozen sheets of paper that all looked about the same age.

The three royals were sitting on armchairs around a small table, covered in a disorganised pile of letters. Gialma was almost directly opposite Qihadal, while Nadriet was to her left. Nadriet was leaning out of her chair and craning her neck to see the letter her cousin held.

"'I cordially detest most of my relatives'," Gialma read.

"So do many other people," Nadriet said with a grin.

"'Aunt Gigejin is a sour old hag with an axe for a face.' I assume she doesn't mean literally. 'Sholei has the brains of a boiled sheep. And as for Kashiki, the overgrown lump of fat, if he asks me for money one more time I'll exile him.'"

Nadriet and Gialma both burst out laughing. Qihadal smiled. Whoever Ranoryin had been, she certainly hadn't minced her words.

"Here's one I don't understand at all," Nadriet said, poring over a letter she'd picked up from the pile. "'I hear Teokailin is staying with you. If he's...' Can't make this word out at all. '...a nuisance make him sleep outside. Put him in the entrance hall when you...' Something, something. What is that word?" Nadriet examined the offending word. "Oh, visitors. 'Put him in the entrance hall when you have visitors and he will be most decorative.' I can't tell if Teokailin is a person, a pet, or an ornament."

Qihadal's attention waned. She tied up a bundle of letters that she was reasonably sure were about the same age. Then she reached for more letters among the pile on the table.

Gialma reached out at the same time. Their hands brushed against each other. Gialma jumped back as if he'd been burnt, his face reddening. Qihadal stared at him. It was just an accident. Why react so strongly?

The prince carefully avoided looking at her. His face was still red.

He is truly strange, Qihadal thought bemusedly. She was beginning to realise his main problem was intense shyness and not anything as sinister as was sometimes rumoured, but his behaviour was not making those rumours go away.

"I think this is my favourite," Nadriet announced, ending the awkward moment. "'You may visit us if you wish. It doesn't matter how ugly you are. I am beautiful enough for all of us.' That was what Great-great-great-uncle Vanimion wrote to his cousin after he got married. I wonder what the cousin thought of it."

"Here's a more morbid one," Gialma said. "'I know I see the shadows move. I don't recognise my own reflection any more.' It's from Princess Julin."

Nadriet and Gialma exchanged a grim look. Qihadal knew she was missing something here.

"Who was Princess Julin?" she asked.

"A distant cousin who died a hundred years ago," Nadriet said. "She went mad and killed herself."

No one said why she went mad. Qihadal could guess. All the misfortunes the Caranilnavs suffered could be traced back to one person. Death.

~~~~

Zafadin's first meeting with Jalakanavu did not go quite as he hoped. He had hoped for an opportunity to speak to her in person, even if only to offer his family's salutations. Instead the Iquisaal greeted all the men who had been summoned to court, and then dismissed them for the day.

On the one hand this gave him an opportunity to plan. On the other he would have liked to have some idea, even if just a guess, of how to get the Iquisaal's attention.

No matter. He would simply have to wait. He had learnt years ago that waiting and not drawing attention to himself until he was sure he could gain something by acting was the best way to avoid trouble. Sooner or later he would get a chance to get her attention.

~~~~

Things had been astonishingly quiet in Nirne for almost a month. Most people would think that was a good thing. Instead the royal family waited in fear and trembling for the latest outbreak of Losradan's wild behaviour.

It came in a form they never expected.

"What do you mean, you've bought a newspaper?"

Drazenmira knew better than to think her daughter had gained a sudden interest in current events. There could be only one reason for her to buy a newspaper: to spread her version of any rumour about her.

"Royals aren't supposed to influence public opinion," King Volokan said, frowning and shaking his head.

Drazenmira glared at her husband. He knew as well as she did -- and worse, as well as Losradan did -- that the royal family did plenty of influencing opinions.

"Not supposed to, but we do," Losradan said flippantly. "I thought it would be interesting to try running a business. You're always telling me I should do more work."

This isn't the sort of work I had in mind, her mother thought. "And what do you intend to report in your newspaper?"

"Oh, lots of things. Stories from the provinces that generally only get into local papers."

That didn't sound too bad. But what were the chances that Losradan would confine her writings only to such stories?

"I want to see everything you publish," Drazenmira began.

Her daughter anticipated this request. "But Mother, I thought we had freedom of the press in this country. If you insist on reading my paper before it's published, people will start saying you're controlling what's printed."

Damn her. When faced with that argument, her parents had little choice but to give in. For now, at least. But the minute she began to spread gossip... That would be an entirely different matter.

Chapter Footnotes:

[1] A more literal translation would be "auction of wives or concubines".

[2] hafiruz = Originally meant a group of villages built within ten miles of each other. Over time its meaning broadened, and now it's better translated as "townland" or "shire".