The sound of someone elsediscreetly clearing her throat made Zhaneel raise her head again, wondering if she was ever going to get that nap.

But when she saw who it was, she was willing to do without the nap. "Makke!" she exclaimed, as the old, stooped human made her way carefully into the garden. "Can it be you actually have nothing to do? Can I tempt you to come sit in the garden?"

Makke was very old, and Zhaneel wondered why she still worked; her closely-cropped hair resembled a sheep's pelt, it was so white, and her back was bent with the weight of years and all the physical labor she had done in those years. Her black face was seamed with wrinkles and her hands bony with age, but she was still strong and incredibly alert. Zhaneel had first learned that Makke knew their language when the old woman asked her, in the politest of accented tones, if the young gryphlets would require any special toilet facilities or linens. Since then, although her assigned function was only to clean their rooms and do their laundry, Makke had been Gesten's invaluable resource. She adored the gryphlets, who adored her in return; she was often the only one who could make them sit still and listen for any length of time. Both Zhaneel and Gesten were of one accord that in Makke they had made a good friend in a strange place.

"I really should not," the old woman began reluctantly, although it was clear she could use a rest. "There is much work yet to be done. I came only to ask of you a question."

"But you should, Makke," Zhaneel coaxed. "I have more need of company than I have of having the floors swept for the third time this afternoon. I want to know more about the situation here, and how we can avoid trouble."

Makke made a little gesture of protest. "But the young ones," she said. "The feather-sheath fragments, everywhere—"

"And they will shed more as soon as you sweep up," Zhaneel told her firmly. "A little white dust can wait for now. Come sit, and be cool. It is too hot to work. Everyone else in the Palace is having a nap or a rest."

Makke allowed herself to be persuaded and joined Zhaneel, sitting on the cool marble rim of the pond. She sighed as she picked up a fan and used it to waft air toward her face. "I came to tell you, Gryphon Lady, that you have frightened another gardener. He swears that you leaped up at him out of the bushes, snarling fiercely. He ran off, and he says that he will not serve you unless you remain out of the garden while he works there."

"He is the one who entered while I was already here." Zhaneel snorted. " Youwere in the next room, Makke," she continued in a sharp retort. "Did you hear any snarling? Any leaping? Anything other than a fool fearing his shadow and running away?"

Makke laughed softly, her eyes disappearing into the wrinkles as she chuckled. "No, Gryphon Lady. I had thought there was something wrong with this tale. I shall say so when the Overseer asks."

Zhaneel and Makke sat quietly in easy silence, listening to the water trickle down the tiny waterfall. " Youought to be the Overseer," Zhaneel said, finally. "You know our language, and you know more about the other servants than the Overseer does. You know how to show people that we are not man-eating monsters. You are better at the Overseer's job than he is."

But Makke only shook her head at the very idea, and used her free hand to smooth down the saffron tunic and orange trews that were the uniform for all Palace servants, her expression one of resignation. "That is not possible, Gryphon Lady," she replied. "The Overseer was born to his place, and I to mine, as it was decreed at our births. So it is, and so it must remain. You must not say such things to others. It will make them suspect you of impiety. I know better because I have served the Northern Kestra'chern Silver Veil, but others are not so broad of thought."

Zhaneel looked at her with her head tilted to one side in puzzlement. This was new. "Why?" she asked. "And why would I be impious for saying such a thing?"

Makke fanned herself for a moment as she thought over her answer. She liked to take her time before answering, to give the question all the attention she felt it deserved. Zhaneel did not urge her to speak, for she knew old Makke by now and knew better than to try to force her to say anything before she was ready.

"All is decreed," she said finally, tapping the edge of her fan on her chin. "The Emperors, those you call the Black Kings, are above all mortals, and the gods are above them. The gods have their places, their duties, and their rankings, and as above, so it must be below. Mortals have their places, duties, and castes, with the Emperors at the highest and the collectors of offal and the like at the lowest. As the gods do not change in their rankings, so mortals must not. Only the soul may change castes, for each of the gods was once a mortal who rose to godhood by good works and piety. One is born into a caste and a position, one works in it, and one dies in it. One can make every effort to learn—become something of a scholar even, but one will never be permitted to becomea Titled Scholar. Perhaps, if one is very diligent, one may rise from being the Palace cleaning woman for a minor noble to that of a cleaning woman to a Chief Advisor or to foreign dignitaries, but one will always be a cleaning woman."

"There is no change?" Zhaneel asked, her beak gaping open in surprise. This was entirely new to her, but it explained a great deal that had been inexplicable. "Never?"

Makke shook her round head. "Only if the Emperor declares it, and with him the Truthsayer and the Speaker to the Gods. You see, such change must be sanctioned by the gods before mortals may embrace it. When some skill or position, some craft or learning, is accepted from outside the Empire, it is brought in as a new caste and ranking, and remains as it was when it was adopted. Take—the kestra'chern. I am told that Amberdrake is a kestra'chern among your people?"

Zhaneel nodded proudly. "He is good! Very good. Perhaps as good or better than Silver Veil. He was friend to Urtho, the Mage of Silence." To her mind, there could be no higher praise.

"And yet he has no rank, he offers his services to whom he chooses, andhe is one of your envoys." Makke shook her head. "Such a thing would not be possible here. Kestra'chern are strictly ranked and classed according to talent, knowledge, and ability. Each rank may only perform certain services, and may only serve the noblesand noble households of a particular rank. No kestra'chern may offer his services to anyone above orbelow that rank for which he is authorized. This, so Silver Veil told me once, is precisely as the kestra'chern first served in the north, five hundred years ago, when the Murasa Emperor Shelass declared that they were to be taken into our land. I believe her, for she is wise and learned."

Zhaneel blinked. Such a thing would never have occurred to her, and she stored all of this away in her capacious memory to tell Skan later. No one can rise or fall? So where is the incentive to do a good job?

"We are ruled by our scribes in many ways," Makke continued, a little ruefully. "All must be documented, and each of us, even the lowest of farmers and street sweepers, is followed through his life by a sheaf of paper in some Imperial Scribe's possession. The higher one's rank, the more paper is created. The Emperor has an entire archive devoted only to him. But he was born to be Emperor, and he cannot abdicate. He was trained from birth, and he will die in the Imperial robes. As I will be a cleaning woman for all this life, even though I have studied as much as many of higher birth to satisfy my curiosity, so he will be Emperor."