“We all think we’re special, and in a way we are, but, at the same time, that feeling of being special is one of the things that’s common to us all, that unites us and makes us the same as each other. And when that feeling of … specialness is questioned, we feel threatened, naturally. We all do. I do. We have the Subliming drawing near, and we seem to be collecting alien warships, with Culture ships already arrived – two more this evening, the Empiricist tomorrow – and the Liseiden and the Ronte arriving in days, both seeming to think the other is the interloper while we feel they both are. The eyes of the galaxy are on us, and this ought to be a time of quietness and reflection and measured preparation, a time of looking back with gentle pride on all we’ve achieved, and yet … we have a regiment HQ attacked and thousands killed, and an undignified scramble going on over our heads over our spoils, and all sorts of absurd rumours and stories swirling about, but we—”

“I just worry. I worry that we’ve swept ourselves along somehow, got all too excited over something we haven’t thought through, that … that … people have persuaded us to do something we’re still not ready for.”

“Well, Septame Banstegeyn is a very persuasive man, I’ll give you that.”

“I didn’t just mean—”

“No, you did. And I know what you mean. But you have to see that we become … symbols for ourselves. One person can seem to be the instigator, the power behind some … great powerful current within a society, but they’re not necessarily producing it; they may be at the front, and they may have some small, immediate influence over its direction hour by hour or day by day, but really they are swept along by it too, by the force of all those people behind them, by the idea they all represent and are all borne along by. But, Virisse, what talk is this for the bed? We have so few of these opportunities, my love, let’s not waste this one in worry. Let’s sweep each other away, like this … and this … and this …”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll be your spoils, fight over—”

“Ow! What—?”

“What?”

“I don’t know. My finger. A jab, like a thorn. My love, there? Of all places? Why, what have you been doing?”

“What? Don’t laugh! No, what? Let me see!”

“Here. My finger. See? Poor finger.”

“Let me see, let me see!”

“Ah, so pleasantly engaged, so sharply interrupted.”

“Let me—”

“Oh. Worth one tiny injury for such a sweet kiss. You make me swoon … Oh, wait a moment, you really are. I really am … swoon. My. My head is quite … quite …”

“No!”

“It’s all right. I’m just, it’s just … Oh … I’m glad I’m lying dow—”