“Your Worship, may we begin?” the head steward said to the judge.

Kiem wanted to ask who was dealing with Thean affairs if Iskat hadn’t

appointed anyone, but before he could say anything, the Ambassador gave him a brisk, impersonal nod and stepped back to join the other spectators. Jainan was still looking intently at his contract, as if wanting to get the whole thing over with. The judge made a careful gesture over her wristband.

The sound of a gong rang through the room. All thoughts of Thean politics fled Kiem’s brain as the judge started a rolling declamation of the standard wedding spiel. Kiem swallowed hard.

He’d never been the focus of a ceremony before. The sound of a gong heralded things like the arrival of someone important, or a marriage, or an official appointment. Kiem had screwed up enough exams and had a bad enough reputation with the Emperor—not even counting the nightclub scandal—that nobody had ever considered giving him an important post. He’d always thought that had been for the best, but here he was, and there weren’t only his own concerns at stake. He heard the Emperor’s voice in his head: I have very little appetite for another war.

Half the press corps had cameras up. Kiem tried to look appropriately solemn but felt it came out as something of a grimace, so he settled for normal. He sneaked a look at Jainan to see how he was managing it. Jainan’s face was still pleasantly blank. Kiem wondered how he did that.

In spite of the clear solarium roof, no sunlight made it through the muted gray of the clouds. The judge’s voice was a sonorous rumble. Traditions from the foundation of the Empire, valued alliance with Thea and so on, until finally she reached the end and wound up with some nondenominational blessings that wouldn’t offend anyone’s sect. She solemnly folded her hands on the table in front of her and said, “Your Highness, Your Grace, you may now agree to the terms and seal the contracts.”

Kiem grabbed his quill and leaned over to dip it in the inkpot, offering Jainan a quick smile. Jainan wasn’t looking at him. Instead he reached for the inkpot himself—nervous and too fast—accidentally nudged Kiem’s hand, and knocked the pot over.

A flood of red splattered over the table, pooling on both the documents.

“Shit!” Kiem said, blocking a rivulet with the side of his hand in a helpful gesture that on second thought was no help at all. The pot itself rolled, smearing a dark crescent of red over wood and paper. Jainan lunged after it. It hit the carpeted floor with a faint thud.

That broke up the frozen moment among the onlookers. “Careful!” the steward said, bustling up with even less idea of how to be helpful than Kiem.