“I can’t help.”

“I understand. You have standards. But it will break his mother’s heart if he’s sent to Trampello; it might spell the end of her engagement, as well. That single fragile chance to bring some happiness into her life. I only mention this because he’s family.”

“Then why don’t you offer to help your family if it’s so important?”

“If only I could. I don’t have any spare cash right now. All my money is tied up in new enterprises, investing in the future for my own children.” She smiled lecherously and turned back to the lad sprawled across the couch. “Are you going to watch now?”

A furious Edeard wrenched his farsight away, but not before her vicious amusement had infiltrated his perception. “FucktheLady!” he spit.

Salrana! The one name he could never mention again in the Culverit ziggurat. Kristabel’s patience on that topic had run out decades ago. Salrana: He’d tried to help her time and again over the years. He’d watched and waited, believing that her old self would one day reassert itself, that Ranalee’s mental damage would wither away. It was never to be. Ranalee had been too skillful at the start, while his opposition was too crude, helping the new false emotions establish themselves in her thoughts until they were no longer false. Salrana hated him.

The battle had lasted for years before he admitted defeat. Eventually even Ranalee had moved on to more rewarding endeavors. The five children Salrana had borne for men Ranalee selected proved unspectacular, especially their psychic ability. So Ranalee administered the final indignity by discarding her. Now Salrana was engaged to Garnfal, a carpentry Guild Master more than sixty years her senior. Edeard was fairly sure Ranalee had nothing to do with it, so the attraction (whatever that was) might just be genuine. Ranalee could have been truthful; it was a chance for Salrana to be happy on her own terms.

I can’t interfere.

But Salrana was his fault. She always would be. That meant she was his responsibility, too: a charge that would never end.

Just for a moment he thought of going back a couple of weeks, warning Vintico off whatever ridiculous deal he’d gotten himself involved with. That would mean another two weeks of electioneering, of parties he’d already been to, of reliving the whole livestock certificate debacle.

Edeard groaned at the notion of it. Impossible. He directed his longtalk toward a specific little house in the Ilongo district. “Felax, I have a job for you.”

Edeard sensed Kristabel’s thoughts while she was only on the sixth floor. He grinned at the tone. She was in a foul mood again, something he found amusing now that his own temper had abated. He had good reason to be confident again: Felax was clever and discreet, and the Vintico problem would vanish before dawn. Not that it would ever do to let Kristabel know of his reaction to this particular temper, but the predictability was entertaining. Their children must have known of their mother’s disposition, too. All of them had contrived to be out of the Culverit ziggurat this evening, at parties or just “meeting some friends”; even Rolar and his wife were absent with their children. Don’t blame you, he blessed them silently.

“What are you doing out there?” Kristabel’s longtalk lashed out, suffused with anger.

“Stargazing,” he replied mildly. When he looked into the study through the tall external doors, she was silhouetted in the doorway from the hall. The fur-lined hem of her purple and black ceremonial Grand Council robes was held off the floor by her third hand, and its hood flopped back over her shoulder. That allowed her to jam her hands on her hips.

Edeard remembered the first time he’d seen her strike that pose: the day Bise refused to sign their wedding consent bill in the Upper Council. She had stormed out of the chamber with a face set in a mask of fury. Nervous district masters crept out of the door behind her and got the Honious out of the Orchard Palace as fast as they could. Even Bise had looked apprehensive.

“Well, that’s useful just before an election,” Kristabel snapped as she walked through the study. “And why is it so dark in here?”

“Light sewage,” he told her.

“What?”

“It needs to be properly dark out here for the telescope to work at its best. Something to do with the eye contracting. You can’t pollute the night with light.”

“Oh, for Honious’s sake, Edeard. I’ve got real problems, you’ve got obligations, and you’re out here wasting time with this genistar crap.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She reached the hortus. Her hair was shorter these days, and her maids had their work cut out each morning to try and rein it in. Tonight it had frizzed out of the elegant curls and ringlets arrangement she’d started the day with, as if the sheer heat of her anger had pushed it into rebellion. “That little tit, Master Ronius of Tosella, slapped a whole lot of amendments on the trade bill. Five months I’ve steered that through the Council. Five Lady-damned months! Those tariff reductions were vital for Kepsil province. Has someone stolen his brain?”

“The bill was never popular with some merchants.”

“There were balances,” she growled back. “I’m not stupid, Edeard.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Don’t patronize me!”

“I-” He made an effort to calm down. You know she’s always like this after an Upper Council meeting. And a lot of other times, too, these days, he added regretfully. “I have something to show you,” he said, with the excitement rising in his voice and mind. “Come.” He led her across the strip of hortus to the telescope. It was truly dark now. Makkathran was laid out below them, a beautiful jewel of glimmering light stretching east toward the Lyot Sea, where the orange-hued buildings sketched their amazing shapes against a cloudless night sky. The canal network cut rigid black lines through the illumination. He could see the gondolas in the Great Major Canal at the foot of the ziggurat, their bright oil lanterns bobbing merrily across the water. Occasional snatches of song slipped up through the balmy night air. The city was a vista he never tired of.

Kristabel bent over the telescope, her third hand pushing her hood aside as it slid around. “What?” she said.

“Tell me what you see.”

“Alakkad, but it’s off-center; you haven’t got the telescope aligned properly.”

Every second sentence is a criticism these days. “It is centered correctly,” Edeard persisted stoically. He permitted a hint of excitement to filter through his mental shield.

Kristabel let out a sigh of exasperation and concentrated on the image.

“There’s a … I don’t know, it’s like a little white nebula.”

“It’s not a nebula.”

She straightened up. “Edeard!”

“An hour ago it was several degrees farther from Alakkad. It’s moving. And before you ask, it’s not a comet, either.”

Kristabel’s anger vanished. She gave him a shocked look, then bent to the telescope again. “Is it a ship? Has it come from outside the Void like the one which brought Rah and the Lady?”

“No.” He put his arms around her and smiled down into her confused face. “It’s a Skylord.”

Mayor Trahaval was throwing a large party every second night, moving through the districts with a relentless pace to drum up support for himself and the local representative candidates who endorsed him. The Seahall was the only place in Bellis grand enough for such an occasion. With its unusual concave walls shaded a deep azure supporting a roof that was made from clashing wave cones, it really did have a marine theme, even down to the unusual ripple fountains that curved around the ten arching doorways. This evening the usual seating had been removed to make room for the tables laden with food, and a small band was playing at the center. The guests had been chosen with almost as much care as had gone into the lavish canapes. There was a broad mix of Bellis citizens to socialize with Trahaval and his entourage of stalwart supporters, from the smaller merchant families desperate for political influence to street association chiefs, local guildsmen, and ancient Grand Family patriarchs and matriarchs, as well as a vetted selection of “ordinary working folk.” The idea was the same as it was for every party in every election. Trahaval and the Upper Councillors would mingle with and talk to as many people as possible so they would spread the word among their friends and family that he wasn’t aloof after all, that he understood everyday problems, that he had a sense of humor and knew a good bit of gossip about his rivals and some Grand Family sons and daughters.