“You know,” Pel-Thenhior said, “you could come every night we perform if you wanted to. It’s my box, after all.”

The echo of my thoughts made me start. “When would I sleep?”

He laughed. “That’s right. You can’t sleep in the mornings. Or, well, I suppose you could, or are you much busier with petitioners than I think you are?”

“Busy enough,” I said. I did not add that I knew, from experience, that my office was a miserable place to try to sleep.

“I meant no insult,” Pel-Thenhior said, “merely that I did not think that that many people would need to speak to the dead.”

“You would be surprised,” I said, thinking of Mer Osthonharad. “But I took no insult.”

“Good,” said Pel-Thenhior, and then the curtain began to rise, and his attention was fixed on the stage.

The third act of General Olethazh is the evening of the long day of the opera’s duration. The Valet helps the General to bed, the Granddaughter writes a letter of farewell to her suitor, and the General dreams of glory. The appeal of the opera was not in its plot, but in the richness of its score and the depth of characterization it gave its three main characters. Pel-Thenhior might be dissatisfied with Min Rasabin’s performance, but I could hear no flaw in it, and Mer Dorenar and Mer Pershar were excellent both together and singly. The chorus sang the final passage, the General’s dreams of his ancient triumph, with such beautifully intertwined harmonies that I shivered.

Applause when the curtain lowered was enthusiastic. “Well,” Pel-Thenhior said, “no hiccups, anyway.” He went backstage, and I hesitated. The reasonable thing to do was to go home and try to go to sleep. Unreasonably, I wanted to stay, to see if Pel-Thenhior would come back and talk to me.

And what if he does? What then, Celehar?

I had no answer for myself. I did the reasonable thing and went home.

And did not sleep.

In the morning, Tomasaran was waiting again in front of my office. She looked less miserable than she had yesterday, which seemed like progress of a sort.

She came in and sat down across from me.

“Were you comfortable last night?” I asked.

“More comfortable than the novices’ dormitory,” she said. “But the journeymen’s quarters are very austere. I suppose the clerics don’t want to encourage them to linger.”

“We can go to Cemchelarna this afternoon,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your help.”

“Of course,” I said. “I have business in Cemchelarna anyway.”

“Where is Cemchelarna from here?” she said. “Amalo is very confusing.”

I was about to answer her when I had a better idea. “Come with me,” I said. I risked leaving my office unattended for five minutes and led her to the cartographers’ office, which was empty except for Merrem Bechevaran, a young elven widow who preferred clerk’s work to remarriage. She was instantly sympathetic to Tomasaran’s plight, and I left them standing in front of the biggest wall map and Merrem Bechevaran saying, “The easiest landmark to remember is the Mich’maika, the canal.”