Everything about this is odious. Misery’s least favorite part of church service was its million and one observances and protocols. This is bound to be worse. She imagines the heat of the amphitheater, the roar of its hungry spectators, the unadulterated arrogance of its Emperor. His sister, insufferable as she is, can only be a preview of what to expect. Misery’s blood preemptively boils at the idea of encountering someone more irritating than she is.

What’s to stop her from assassinating the Emperor when she meets him? Besides the consequences and all that. Security in the Grand Amphitheater is holystone-based. Aegises and holy ruby. That won’t stop her.

“Are you clear on the plan?” asks the Archbishop.

Startled from her murderous ruminations, Misery just nods. They’re banking a lot on faith, these pillars of the religion. Putting her, an uneducated, voidmad criminal-type, in front of the Emperor himself. Fools.

After lunch it’s Lord Argan’s turn. The Duke of Apis brings a buzzing flock of palm-sized drones with him. “It’s my tailor,” he explains as they harass Misery, nipping at her boundaries, documenting the width of her joints and midsection. Each one bristles with sensors, and a fillet of holy tigereye bisects their chrome exoskeletons along the bottom. The animal half of Misery fumes in full flight mode; the other half forces her body to remain very, very still. They’ve taken over a general-use room, which appears different from Misery’s breakfast venue. Lord Argan sprawls across one of the deadmarble tables with an enormous dresser parked before him, thin and glassy and rimmed with metal. With a dismissive finger he flicks through sartorial confection after sartorial confection. A parade of suits, dresses, capes, veils, armor, jumpers, sarongs, coats, scarves, hats, and more pin themselves upon Misery’s silhouette. To a strawberry confection that’s more ruffle than seam he scowls and says, “Void no.” In its place appears something white, fluted, covered in cream piping. “Oh, come on. If you want to get us laughed out of the chamber…”

If he’s nervous, she can’t tell. He could be; sometimes people respond to stress by masking it with obnoxiousness. She tests him. “Do you think it’ll work? That the Emperor will be swayed by the transformation of one little stone piece?”

“He better,” says the Duke, not quite looking at her. “It’s a miracle and he should be grateful he gets to witness it.”

“He doesn’t sound like the believing type to me.”