Her eyes lighted on a young man whom she’d seen on the way in. He was clearly Administratum: middle-ranking, to judge by the shade of grey of his robe, although Chetta couldn’t keep up with the almost indeterminable levels of nuance in their system. He wasn’t wearing the black robes of the menials or the ice grey of the prefect, but was probably closer to the latter than the former, so far as her eyes could tell. He was pleasingly plump, with a pale complexion and sandy hair that was just starting to thin at the temples. Most importantly, he didn’t look to have yet had the soul sucked out of him by his work. Most of the Administratum scribes that Chetta encountered bore the haggard expressions of people who’d been the channel for so many words and numbers that it was as though some of their essential personhood had been taken along for the ride, leaving them a hollow husk that could spell and add up, but little more besides.

This one, checking his data-slate, looked like he cared about whatever it was he was doing. Caring was important. Chetta knew full well that if she’d presented Prefect Gurrit with a squalling, naked infant, he could have told her its length and weight and estimated its age, but wouldn’t think to ask where its parents were, whether it needed feeding or why no one had put any clothes on it.

She tutted. She’d tried to do things the right way; now she’d have to do things her way. As usual.

‘Goodsire!’ she called, angling her progress towards the adept. She sensed more than saw her guards exchange a glance. They were smart enough to know that proper protocol here was for her to leave forthwith, since she’d been dismissed by the prefect and this was very much his domain, and they were also smart enough to keep their mouths shut about that fact.

The adept automatically looked up from his data-slate, one finger still poised over it, and his brow furrowed in confusion when he realised that he was indeed the person being addressed. Chetta saw his eyes skim over her – taking in the richness of her black mourning attire, the presence of her guards and the House Brobantis heraldry pins that she was wearing prominently on each breast – and watched him very rapidly come to the conclusion that he was dealing with someone far above him in terms of social station.

‘High lady,’ he said with a bow of surprising fluidity, and unlike Prefect Gurrit he sounded both honoured and slightly overawed. ‘How may I assist you?’

‘What is your name and title, goodsire?’ Chetta asked him. ‘I must confess I get lost with all these shades of grey.’

‘I have the honour to be Junior Sub-Prefect Tekoa Yunn,’ the adept said, rising from his bow.