The intendant slid out of his chair to kneel. Everyone in the hall except for the prince’s attendants knelt as well. It must be imperial protocol, Elen thought as she settled onto her knees. In his office the intendant had a copy of the ten-volume edition of Imperial Rites and Courtesies, but she’d never read it, even though he made his library available to his staff. It had seemed staggeringly unlikely she would ever see a member of the imperial household in person, much less have them mount the dais not a body’s length from her. The prince examined the empty throne as if considering whether to sit in the only seat in the hall truly worthy of his eminence. Yet for any person except the emperor to sit on the throne would be to announce open rebellion against the empire; everyone knew that from The Five Scoundrels Who Were Each Worse Than the One Before.

The prince then considered the intendant’s chair of office. He pressed his fingers to his eyes as if the sight of the plain cushion on the seat of the plain wood chair hurt him physically, then heaved a sigh so heavy Elen felt it burden her shoulders with its weight of displeasure. With a wince of distaste, he sat in the intendant’s chair, forcing the old man to shuffle hastily aside on his knees. When Elen put out a hand to steady the intendant, one of the imperial menials flicked at her hand with a fly whisk, another stinging snap. The intendant flashed Elen a warning gaze, and she gritted her teeth, removed her hand, and lowered her eyes.

The prince spoke, his tone cultured, his accent precise in its heartland diction, no emotion in his voice except for a sheen of contempt.

“I am surprised, Intendant. I was told you are a Karis Manor official who has prospered for many years in service to the empire. Yet this sorry welcome is all you can manage.”

Since the prince had addressed him directly, the intendant was allowed to reply directly. “The fault is mine, Your Highness. I humbly offer no excuse for the fact we were taken by surprise.”

“Messages were sent!” The prince raised a hand, and the theurgist-interlocutor stepped forward. “Luviara, were messages not sent?”

The woman’s gaze flickered with an expression Elen could not read. Alarm? Shame? Fear?

“Messages were sent,” agreed the theurgist, again with that flicker of the eyes. Not a lie, Elen thought. Something else was going on. Maybe it wasn’t fear or shame. Maybe it was mischief. Or malice.

The intendant glanced between the prince and the theurgist. As nervous as the old man had been, he calmed now. He’d seen a splinter, some manner of disjunction between what the prince was asking and what the theurgist was saying, and if anyone could manipulate a splinter to his advantage, it was the intendant.