Most of the hostages did not look at him. Most of the few who did, did so with alarm, as if they suspected he was somehow heralding some new punishment. Only one or two, the youngest, would glance at him with pleading, as if begging him to take them away from this.

If only he could . . .

Not now. Not yet.

He’d finally had enough, and moved back to the Gate at the back of the room, with Star and Beltran in silent, faithful attendance. Not one teacher had asked why he was here. It took him a moment to figure out why.

They don’t know why I’ve come, and they don’t dare ask. They’re as ruled by fear as the hostages are. They’re afraid if they challenge me, I’ll bring about some sort of punishment for them.

He couldn’t take another moment. He held up his bracelet to the Gate and said, “The Copper Apartment.”

When they were back in the antechamber, he ground his teeth and carefully schooled his voice to sound neutral. “Well. A lot has certainly changed.”

Star froze a moment.

He waited.

Star unfroze. “It is safe to speak, my Lord,” the Doll said.

“I hate that place! I hate it. I absolutely despise it. It’s—it’s sabotaging their futures, all of them. I hate it,” Kordas raged. “Did you see it? The—they were making children into things. Into—into functions.”

Beltran backed away. He was pale, and he’d never seen Kordas like this before. “Maybe it isn’t—permanent,” he offered, but received only a glare from the Duke.

Kordas was stripping his jacket off, as if it was a fetter he was desperate to escape. “It has to stop,” the Duke panted. “It has to stop. It is wrong. It’s heartless. But the point of an Empire isn’t to be kind, is it? It’s to maintain itself. Did you see? By all gods great and small, the Empire is a living thing now. It’s turning everyone into its bones and belly. This is Hell. This is Hell.” He stood sweating, shaking, and then upturned a pitcher of water over his head, soaking his hair and the storm shirt, before shaking his head like a dog casting rain off. “It has to stop. It has to be stopped,” he trailed off, wiping his face and beard down with both hands.

Nobody said anything for a long few minutes, and Rose retrieved hand towels from the bathroom for Kordas to dry off.

“We need a signal for when it’s safe and not safe,” Beltran hesitantly offered, to break the tension. “To—to be—expressive.”

“Hah!” Kordas replied, immediately. “Diplomacy at its finest, right there, Beltran. The Duke of Valdemar, cursing and raging, and you call it being expressive.”

“I’m trying, my Lord. I’ve never seen you like this,” Beltran replied, rubbing his own face in sympathy.