Kalgkur looked up. One of his eyes met hers.
Kimia nearly told him to come. She did not.
He gave the slightest inclination of the head.
It served.
Kimia crossed the library. Tarkhe joined her. The indrel moved last. The palace received them.
There were halls Kimia had known since childhood whose proportions sometimes became uncertain when she was unwell. Not visibly wrong. Merely capable of becoming wrong if she looked too closely.
Today she refused the invitation. She knew the route.
Library door. Western corridor. Down twelve shallow steps. Across the portrait gallery. Left at the carved pillar.
Foyer.
She walked from memory and permitted the world to follow.
The foyer stood nearly empty.
Two armed palace guards occupied their regular positions near the main doors. Another stood beneath the upper balcony. Their weapons were ceremonial enough to satisfy architecture and practical enough to satisfy Kimia.
Morning light entered through the high windows.
The room looked enormous after the library.
She checked the watch.
Ten fifty-one.
Nine minutes.
Kimia looked toward the reception chairs and decided against them.
She sat instead on one of the broad stone steps leading to the upper floor.
Tarkhe stopped.
“Your Grace.”
“What?”
“There are chairs.”
“I know.”
“Several.”
“I can see zhem.”
“Then why-”
“Because I want to sit here.”
Tarkhe accepted defeat before it became conversation. The indrel positioned itself several paces away.
Kimia rested her forearms upon her knees.
The kaftan gathered neatly around her.
Nine minutes.
There were short spans of time that felt larger because nothing had been assigned to them.
Nine minutes was enough for the mind to become inventive.
Strong front.
She looked toward the closed doors.
Stiff upper lip.
An old human phrase. Yinglets had no particular cultural relationship with upper lips, but the phrase had survived because it was affirming.
They won't blackguard you.
Why would they?
They're here to be cordial.
Yes. That was what delegations did.
They arrived politely carrying concerns arranged into sentences.
No one intended to humiliate her.
Probably.
Kimia caught herself.
Probably was poison.
She replaced it.
No one intended to humiliate her.
The thought held for perhaps twelve seconds.
Then came kilcane again.
Just enough.
Not enough to be noticeable.
Enough to smooth the edge.
She could take it after the delegation.
No.
After council.
No.
Tonight.
No.
She exhaled slowly through her nose.
Tarkhe was looking at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Zhen stop.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re standing judgmentally.”
“I was unaware there were varieties.”
“Zhere are.”
He looked away.
Kimia wished Kalgkur were there.
The old baxxid could make silence feel occupied rather than empty, and Kimia didn't forget when Kalgkur stayed with her when she thought insects were crawling all over her again in the dining room after overdoing kilcane on a bad day. He didn't leave her while Tarkhe was rushing to her to amend the situation. She scared Kalgkur senseless, but it meant everything to her that he stayed.
Five minutes.
She looked at the guards. Their rifles were spotless. One had a slight dent in the brim of his hat.
Another shifted his weight every thirty seconds, always from left foot to right.
This became temporarily important.