A year or two younger than Sheldon, she had a wide, flat nose and a receding chin, or at least her overbite made it look that way. She kept her hair hacked short, and her lips always looked like they was frowning, so that lines had formed like ruts in a road. Her eyes were small, just two more blemishes on a pockmarked face. She stood hunched over, as if carrying an invisible weight. Her clothes didn’t help much. Most of the time, she wore a ratty shawl over a dress so frayed that she looked like a dog with mange. Still, she was the only woman he knew—the only one without white hair—who spoke to him. He’d fantasized about being alone with her, mostly because it was possible. They saw each other a lot, and he didn’t think her bar was too high. Because it could happen, that made it more exciting than daydreaming about someone like Princess Farilane, whose feet, he was pretty sure, never actually touched the ground.

Despite his desire to impress Rhapsody, Sheldon wasn’t about to tell her first. Lust was one thing, but his faith was more important. “Is the master here?”

She continued to scowl but nodded. “In the back.”

Proust didn’t have a nickname like the rest of them. He had titles: teacher, tutor, and mentor. Master was the most common, and Sheldon liked it best because he felt it showed the most respect. Proust deserved it. The man had changed his life.

Sheldon knew that Proust was right about the first emperor being human because that one truth answered a hundred questions; hearing it had made instant sense. The whole elf thing was a cover-up, a great lie, a conspiracy started by the Imperial Council, wealthy merchants, and of course, the elves themselves—all of them hiding the truth. That they had managed it just proved how cunning they were. Everyone knew the Great War was fought against the elves. Humans won, and yet everyone was expected to believe that the first emperor was an elf? Cow flop!

But they were pulling it off. Folks called Novron by the elven name, Nyphron. All the paintings and statues of the emperor were done up to make him look like one of them. All the genuine paintings must have been burned or buried in a pit outside Rodencia, or possibly a secret site deep in the Durat. All the public hearings and official businesses used that awful elvish language, and elves held all the important positions in the empire. After “mankind had freed themselves from elven tyranny,” the elves had “waged a reverse-revolution,” a quiet war. Now, they was in control again.