Rakal turned on their own wristband briskly, a sign the interview was coming to a close. “A representative from Press Office is waiting to speak to you,” Rakal said. Press Office also came out like a piece of radioactive waste in a pair of tongs. “A local newslog in Braska ran a report on Prince Kiem’s failure to attend the school graduation. Whatever story you give them must contain nothing that points to the investigation. Do I need to invoke the Imperial Voice?”

“No,” Kiem said. He pushed himself up from his slouch just to slump forward, his head bowed over his knees. “I’ll do it. I can handle them.”

Jainan had long ago realized that anger was an unsuitable emotion for diplomats and suppressed it, so it took him a moment to recognize the low, cold sensation at Kiem being given a further set of orders. “I hope this has given you what you need, Agent Rakal,” he said. “Kiem is suffering from stim hangover; may we leave? You know where to find us.”

“You could say that.” Rakal gave a tight, unreadable smile. “And if not, I’m sure the newslogs will tell me.”

Jainan rose and had to stop himself from reaching a hand out to help Kiem.

Kiem would find that embarrassing; Jainan himself would have rather given a tell-all interview to a newslog than accepted physical support in front of Rakal.

Kiem was fine, in any case, even if he moved more slowly than usual.

Bel met them at the door to Internal Security’s offices, which let into a wide hallway with curved stairs leading down to the entrance of the staffing

headquarters. She cast a glance over Kiem that was somewhere between impatient and worried. “There’s a palace medic waiting for Kiem downstairs,”

she said—to Jainan, as if Jainan could do anything about it. “Make him get checked. Press Office as well, but I’ll try and head them off.”

“I’m okay,” Kiem said. “All I want is a shower.” When they rounded the curve of the stairs and he saw who was standing at the bottom, he groaned and collapsed on Jainan’s shoulder. “Nope, scratch that, I’m definitely too ill to talk.”

Jainan offered his arm without thinking. Of the two people waiting for them, one was a palace nurse. The other was someone Jainan had only had very brief, unpleasant dealings with and did not particularly want to be debriefed by.

“Trust you,” the chief press officer said. Hren Halesar had his arms crossed and was standing in Kiem’s path. “Trust you to fuck up a school visit. You really crashed?”

Kiem stumbled down the last of the stairs on Jainan’s arm and stopped.

“Urgh,” he said. “Yes, we crashed. I fell in a river. Jainan fought off a bear.

There were flights of angels. Alien invasions. Can I get my checkup and go to bed?”

“Angels my ass. Have you been talking to any journalists?”