“How horrible,” Min Tozharharad said, and wept.

On our return journey from Penchelivor to the Prince Zhaicava Building, once we were sure we were on the right tram, Tomasaran asked me, “How did you know that they could have a funeral for a suicide? I didn’t think that was allowed.”

“It isn’t in Ploraneise custom,” I said. “But they follow a Barizheise cult that is a little more forgiving.”

“But how did you know that?”

“He was laid out in their main room, rather than at the ulimeire, and they had dressed him in his best clothes. Those aren’t Ploraneise rites.”

“You could tell all that just by looking at the corpse? How can you possibly say I’m ready to take your place?”

“You can do what I did and ask Othala Chanavar. And I’ll teach you as much as I can.”

“You keep saying being a Witness for the Dead is simple,” Tomasaran said. “Do you really believe that or have you been lying to keep my spirits up?”

“It is simple, far simpler than the responsibilities of having a benefice. I’m sorry. I forget that you haven’t really had any training.”

“I really haven’t,” said Tomasaran.

“Go to Ulvanensee this afternoon,” I said. “Othala Chanavar will be happy to help you, and he’s a better teacher than I am.”

“I think you do very well,” she said, smiling, “but I will take any help I can find.”

When we returned to my office—Tomasaran’s office—there was a part-goblin courier waiting for us. The Amalomeire’s colors. “Othala Celehar?” she said. “The Amal’othala wants to see you at once.”

“At once?” I said disbelievingly. The Amal’othala never wanted to see me “at once,” even when he’d summoned me.

“Those are my instructions,” said the courier.

“But I can’t,” I said in horror. “My coat of office is still being mended.”

“You can borrow mine,” said Tomasaran.

“That is very kind of you,” I said. “But you have a canon’s coat, not a prelate’s.”

“It’s better than your frock coat,” Tomasaran said, undiplomatically but accurately.

“Will it fit?”

“Let’s try,” she said. She unbuttoned her coat and took it off. She was wearing an unimpeachably correct shirtwaist, with the faintest possible white-on-white pinstripe, and a plain black waistcoat with her sweeping black skirt.

I took off my rusty black frock coat and laid it carefully on the desk. Just because it was old and shabby did not mean I could afford to treat it carelessly. Then I tried on Tomasaran’s coat.

It was not a terrible fit. The sleeves were a little too long and the shoulders a fraction of an inch too narrow, but I could wear it.

“Are you sure?” I said to Tomasaran.

“Yes. Don’t fret about it. I can wear yours and we can trade back tomorrow. You need that coat far more than I do today.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The courier, who had watched all this with some sympathy, said, “If you are ready? The carriage is waiting outside.”