“You don’t count! You get paid to dumb things down for me!” Kiem scrolled farther down the page. “This says he got a planetary award for a new fuel-injection method when he was eighteen. Do you think he could marry you instead?”

“Depends. Are you going to be able to stop talking long enough to sign the contract?” Bel said, with a trace of exasperation that meant she was trying to get work done. Kiem took the hint and flopped back to lie on the couch and read.

The light-screen floated over his head.

There was a short list of Jainan’s published work. He didn’t seem to have done much in the past few years, so perhaps after he’d married Taam he’d taken up something else. Maybe it was something Kiem could talk more easily about.

Like dartcar racing.

It didn’t seem likely, somehow.

Kiem scrolled farther down. There wasn’t a hobbies section. Why wasn’t there a hobbies section? Who compiled these files and left out the important bits, like what the hell they could talk about? Kiem ran a quick historical search on Jainan, which turned out to be a mistake: everything public on Jainan showed his golden marriage with Taam, from wedding footage to a depressingly perfect article about their winter holiday cabin. Jainan looked young and happy in the engagement vids, starkly different from the recent picture, which Kiem now realized must have been taken after his bereavement. He and Taam had been perfect figureheads for the alliance with Thea. No wonder the Emperor was sore about losing that marriage.

Kiem let the screen disappear and stared up at the sky through the windows, watching the clouds move above the skeletal trees outside. Jainan wouldn’t hold automatic rights to accommodation, so he’d be moving in with Kiem, at least until Palace Estates found them larger quarters. But that could take months.

They’d have to split Kiem’s living quarters for now. Jainan would probably want to have his own space as much as he could, to get away from Kiem. They’d have to figure out what to do with the bedroom. “Bel, can we put up a wall in here?”

he called. “I can just make another room, right?”

The door chimed. Kiem waved it open, then saw who it was and slightly wished he hadn’t.

The chief press officer was a stout, short man with a bald head that reflected the light and a presence like a bear in a room full of nanotech. He wore a thick wooden bracelet on each wrist and gave the distinct impression he would have preferred brass knuckles. “‘Morning, Kiem.”

“‘Morning, Hren,” Kiem said, somewhat warily. Hren was the Emperor’s direct appointee, and he and Kiem didn’t have the best of working relationships.

“Everything all right?”

“Yep,” Hren said. “Congratulations on getting hitched.”

At that moment, Bel came out from the study and said, “Another room? Oh—

Hren Halesar. Good morning.”

“Let’s try that again,” Hren said, ignoring her. “Congrats on your marriage.”