After the arrival of the Voracious Curiosity, Jora’h had spoken to commerce minister Klio’s, requesting to have first look at the exotic off-world goods. The Prime Designate had bought half of Rlinda Kett’s cargo for himself, primarily as gifts to divide among his many lovers and offspring. He had not even argued with the merchant’s asking price, simply tapped into the Ildiran treasury and paid it.

Afterward, the other noble kithmen had fallen like ravenous animals upon the rest of the cargo and quickly bid the prices far higher than the human merchant had ever hoped.

Now, as Jora’h bowed formally, the Mage-Imperator acknowledged his son’s presence. The Prime Designate counted the attenders clustered around his father’s soft bulk. Fifteen! The attenders performed tasks that were more necessary to their own self-esteem than to their leader’s true comfort.

Small, nimble-fingered members of the servant kith massaged the Mage-Imperator’s pale skin, rubbing lotions and ointments into his joints, removing any hint of a callus or blemish. Other attenders fed him soft sweetmeats, pickled vegetables, spicy berries, and crunchy salted fish. They fluttered about, straightening his robes, stroking his long braid.

Tolerant of these ministrations, the Mage-Imperator lay back in his chrysalis chair, his generous lips frowning. Jora’h knew that his father didn’t require such worshipful attention, but allowed the attenders to fulfill their inbred need to pamper him. Today, though, the Mage-Imperator grew impatient with the excessive attention. His father’s glorious braid twitched and thrashed like the tail of an annoyed Isix cat.

“Leave us in peace,” the Mage-Imperator snapped, to the shock of the attenders. They groaned deep in their throats and backed away in dejection, eyes averted. The leader growled, “And don’t let me hear more nonsense about any of you committing ritual suicide. If you must tend someone, go into the city and find a weary, downtrodden worker and massage him. Do it with my blessing.”

Delighted again, the attenders jabbered to themselves and scurried out of the private chamber. Jora’h knew they would work themselves to exhaustion trying to pamper unsuspecting laborers in the workyards.

When they were gone, the Mage-Imperator turned his sleepy-looking eyes to his son. “Jora’h, one day you will grow as impatient with being coddled.”

“I can already see the disadvantages.” He smiled warmly at his father. “But that will not be for a great deal of time yet.”

Traditionally, a Mage-Imperator ruled for more than a century, and Jora’h’s father had many decades remaining to him, during which the Prime Designate could continue his vigorous lifestyle. The Mage-Imperator’s own father, Yura’h, had been the Ildiran leader during the first encounter with human generation ships, 183 Earth years earlier.