That is life. Just one long succession of misunderstandings and rash acts and what not.
-- P. G. Wodehouse, A Damsel in Distress

With the chaos of moving the royal court, many other things were temporarily forgotten about. Things like appointing more people to the High Council. That was the last thing on Kilan's mind until the court had properly settled into Risungau Palace. First there were endless grumbles about misplaced luggage, and people who realised they'd left something behind, and difficulty finding enough space to store all the clothes, furniture and other belongings that the court had brought with them.

At last the mayhem settled down and everything returned to almost normal. Kilan remembered then that he had to write to the people he had definitely selected, and to carefully consider the ones he hadn't chosen yet. He didn't have much time. The upheaval of the renovations and relocation had delayed Nimetath revealing the scandal. But it couldn't possibly be put off past the end of the week.

Qihadal had gone to temporarily stay with his parents. She would then return to Esergot, to a manor she had purchased, where she could continue to give the evening parties and social events the empress was required to host. He couldn't ask her advice on this, even if she had been likely to give it. So he asked Nadriet instead.

"I've written to Prince Girinwe of Istogu," he said, "and four others: Earl Kyoyao of Aliloken, Baroness Shilau of Billaeter, Baron Einom of Heikushi, and Princess Yashirn of Gankolzasques. I just need to choose another eight. Any ideas?"

"Countess Hiakim of Liukaizen," Nadriet said promptly.

Kilan gave her the exasperated look that could only be managed by put-upon older siblings. He knew perfectly well why Nadriet suggested the countess, and it had nothing to do with how suitable she would be for the High Council. Nadriet was "unofficially engaged" -- in her words -- to the countess's son Yashiren. The course of true love did not run smooth in this case, as the countess strongly disapproved of the royal court -- "a bunch of pompous old fools" was her favourite description of them -- and did not want her son to become part of it. Not even the privilege of becoming an in-law of the royal family could conquer her prejudice.

"Helpful suggestions, please," he said dryly. "Only helpful suggestions."

Nadriet shrugged. "I think it's helpful."

She might actually have a point, now he thought about it. The countess, whatever else could be said of her, was not the sort of woman who would put up with Chief Counsellor Dilves' antics. But even if he offered her a seat on the High Council, what under heaven would ever induce her to accept it? The chance to make the royal court less pompous and slightly less foolish, perhaps?

"I'll consider asking her," he said, and pretended not to see Nadriet's triumphant grin. "Do you think five -- maybe six -- selections is enough, and the Chief Counsellor can appoint whoever else she wants? I've shown her she can't get her way in everything. She can make life very unpleasant for everyone when she wants to. Allowing her to choose the other seven would pacify her for a while." 'A while', in this case, likely meant no longer than ten minutes. "And the other Counsellors will have their own thoughts, so she won't have everything her own way."

"Good idea," Nadriet said. "Now I'm going to write to Yashiren. He might be able to make his mother accept the seat even if no one else can."

~~~~

Life as Jalakanavu's lady-in-waiting was less accompanying the Iquisaal when necessary and more acting as a spy, translator, go-between, occasional assassin, and now a matchmaker. Lalkasam had learnt over the last years to keep her head down, say nothing and see everything, and pretend to be harmless. People who utterly dismissed her existence as unimportant would say or do things in front of her that revealed their true character. Very few people ever realised she was watching them, or that she saw the things they wanted to hide.

She wasn't sure if Zafadin was as innocent as he seemed, or an excellent actor. Most of the other men said they had no interest in politics or ruling. None of them managed to look and sound as convincing as he did. If he truly was indifferent to politics, he would be an excellent choice of husband for a woman who had no intention of letting anyone else rule for her. But if he was lying...

Lalkasam reported back to Jalakanavu. She told the Iquisaal all the questions she had asked the men, and each of their reactions.

Jalakanavu insisted on hearing her ladies' reports in one of the lesser-used prayer rooms. Those rooms were almost completely devoid of furniture and ornaments, leaving nowhere for a spy to hide. The door was always locked and guarded, with a curtain pulled across the inside to muffle any sound. No one could hear any conversation here. This was the only place in the palace where it was certain there were no eavesdroppers or hidden watchers.

"Half of them are openly only in search of power and prestige," Lalkasam said, kneeling on the floor at a respectful distance from the Iquisaal. "A few of them are absolute idiots. There's only one who passed all the tests you told me to give them, your Majesty. I don't know if he is sincere or simply cleverer than the rest. His name is Zafadin, your Majesty. A distant cousin of our young Iqui, may he live forever."

The only item of furniture in the prayer room was a low ijaalmur[1]. Behind it was a painting, rather old and faded, of the goddess Diyaqir[2]. Jalakanavu sat on the ijaalmur with her back to the painting, an act of disrespect that would have given the priests heart attacks if they knew. Her crown hid the goddess's face from view.

"Zafadin," she repeated with a cold, wry smile. "I don't expect he's like his name[3]. People rarely are. Bring him to me tomorrow, and I'll judge him for myself."

Lalkasam bowed. "Yes, your Majesty."

~~~~

A famine on a distant planet kept Death occupied for several months. When she had time to check on current events in Carann, she was just in time to witness a development that she had long foreseen, but hadn't expected quite so soon.

It began with a ball, a certain soon-to-be-former High Counsellor, and an unwise amount of alcohol. Counsellor Mixiu was not in a good mood. He knew he was being kicked off the High Council. He had just received news of Kilan's new appointments to the High Council. He wasn't feeling kindly disposed towards any of the royal family. And after a few drinks, he told his friends what he thought of Kilan -- and Qihadal.

The ballroom was large, and full of people. Dozens of partners waltzed around the room. Others stood at the sides, talking or eating or just looking around. Mixiu and a group of his friends were crowded around one of the refreshment tables. None of them noticed Prince Gialma sitting not far away. Nor did they notice Empress Qihadal walking towards them. Death stood on the other side of the table, where she had a good view of everything that happened.

"Who does the emperor think he is?" Mixiu said far too loudly for discretion, slurring some of his words. "What does he know about ruling an empire? Nothing! He's just an ignoramus from one of the provinces!"

Some of his more sober friends tried to shush him. Too late. Most of the guests hadn't heard, but he had attracted the unfavourable attention of both Gialma and Qihadal.

"He's naïve and incompetent," Mixiu continued.

Both were things Death had herself privately thought about Kilan on occasion. That didn't mean she liked hearing them from this self-important embezzler. It was beneath Death's dignity to throw a glass of wine over someone. But if she just happened to reach out, and if her arm just happened to push over the glass Mixiu was holding, and if most of the wine just happened to land on the High Counsellor's expensive silk coat... Well. Accidents happened.

"Damn," Mixiu swore, scowling at the bright red stain on his grey coat.

The shock had sobered him up enough to realise that bad-mouthing the emperor in public, surrounded by members of the aristocracy and royalty, was a most unwise idea. But he was in the sort of temper that demanded he must insult someone. So naturally he moved on to Qihadal.

"And that foreigner he married," he said, completely forgetting that he and the other Counsellors had insisted on the marriage. "She's a trouble-maker if ever I saw one. Makes no attempt to blend in with us! And her accent! She doesn't even try to hide it!"

This was base slander on poor Qihadal. Death didn't have to like the woman to acknowledge she did her best to blend in with the people she ruled. As for her accent, that would linger for the rest of her life, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Your accent is every bit as noticeable when you speak a foreign language, Death thought as Mixiu ranted on. You might at least have the sense to not talk about someone right in front of them.

"No one wants her here anyway!" Mixiu continued. "She's caused nothing but trouble. She's even worse than her husband. Of course he'd make such an awful choice."

Qihadal's face went through a series of expressions, beginning and ending at angry humiliation.

Death looked at the food laid out on the table. There was a bowl of soup there that would make an awful mess if it -- accidentally, of course -- spilled on someone's clothes.

She was spared the trouble of something "just happening". Gialma had finally had enough. He stood up with a grimly determined expression. Death almost expected him to throw something at the Counsellor. She was disappointed. He marched past Mixiu and his friends -- incidentally giving them the fright of their lives when they realised he had heard everything they said -- and walked over to Qihadal. He bowed to her, somewhat stiffly but less awkwardly than he normally did. He said something so quietly that Death couldn't hear it. Then, surprisingly yet not quite unexpectedly, he offered her his arm and they walked onto the dance floor.

Mixiu suddenly had nothing else to say. His friends, either more sensible or more sober than he was, realised that they had better leave, quickly, before he insulted anyone else.

~~~~

Qihadal could say with absolute certainty that she had never met anyone who confused her as much as Prince Gialma. Every time she thought she understood him, he did something that made her reconsider. She had thought he was extremely shy. But if he was, why would he walk up to the empress in a ballroom full of hundreds of people and ask her to dance? When he knew as well as she did that everyone in the room took note of who she danced with? She couldn't understand it at all. There was only one possibility that made sense.

"Do you pity me?" she asked, loudly enough for him to hear but quietly enough for no one around them to catch her words. "Is that why you asked me to dance?"

The prince shook his head. "No. It was-- You were--"

He broke off, a frustrated expression of near-despair on his face. At this point the waltz required the dancers to turn around, something more difficult than it sounded in a crowded room. For a minute both of them were too preoccupied with not bumping into anyone else to worry about talking.

Prince Gialma tried again. "I know what it's like, when people talk about you like that. I thought you'd want to... to get away from them."

Part of her had wanted that. But another, more morbid part had wanted to hear everything they said, to know what they truly thought of her.

"Thank you," Qihadal said. Once she said it she was surprised to realise she meant it. 

After the dance was over and the prince had bowed to her and left, she was even more surprised to realise she had quite enjoyed dancing with him.

~~~~

Death had quite a bit to think about when she left that party. The question was, should she tell Kilan about it now or later?

Chapter Footnotes:

[1] ijaalmur = A bench placed under an image of a god, used by worshippers to kneel in front of while they pray.

[2] Diyaqir = Malishese goddess of the sun.

[3] "Zafadin" means "honesty; sincerity".