“Meaning nozhing.”
“Meaning exactly enough.”
Rimil nodded.
Trokhym turned one page.
“Intelligence?”
“Watch money.”
“I already am.”
“Watch families.”
“I already am.”
“Military leave.”
“Already.”
Kimia stared at him.
“Why am I here?”
“Legal authority.”
Garang laughed once. Even Rimil showed the beginning of a smile.
Kimia allowed it.
Good.
The room could still contain humor. That mattered.
They moved on.
Domestic matters.
A labor dispute in a machine district. An argument between two municipalities over water rights. A school funding shortfall. Counterfeit dalasi notes appearing in three markets. A minor scandal involving an agricultural official who had used public machinery on his brother's estate.
Each problem possessed its own scale.
The world refused narrative hierarchy.
War abroad and stolen tractor hours at home existed simultaneously and both generated paperwork.
Kimia listened. Asked questions. Made decisions.
At one point she forgot she had taken medication.
At another she forgot Vehm existed.
Then she remembered both and continued anyway.
The council lasted nearly two hours.
Near the end, Garang closed the third binder.
Trokhym had stopped pretending simplicity. Rimil had spoken perhaps forty sentences all afternoon and wasted none.
Kimia checked the watch.
Four fifty-three.
She had survived another unit of time.
“Anyzhing else?”
Trokhym looked at Garang. Garang looked at Rimil. Rimil looked at Kimia.
“No,” he said.
Kimia knew enough to ask again.
“Anyzhing else you're choosing not to raise?”
Trokhym smiled.
“Always.”
“Anyzhing relevant?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She stood.
Everyone else did.
The servants had long since removed most of the food. Ice that melted into water remained in the shellfish bowl.
Kimia looked at it.
Ice becoming water.
Nothing more.
She told herself this.
Garang gathered his binders. Rimil collected three sheets. Trokhym took only the folder he had arrived with.
As he passed Kimia, he stopped.
“You really do look tired.”
“Trokhym.”
“I mean it kindly.”
“Go away.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He went.
Rimil bowed and left.
Garang followed.
The door closed.
Kimia remained at the head of the table.
The council chamber became merely a room again.
Tarkhe approached.
“How are you?”
Kimia looked at him.
The correct answer would have required deciding which Kimia he meant.
The duchess had performed well. The patient had remained stable. The animal wanted food. The addict wanted reward. The tired person wanted bed. The frightened person wanted someone else to become responsible.
“I don't know,” she said.
Tarkhe nodded.
For once he, did not ask her to clarify.
Behind them, the indrel's pheromone mask clicked once in the silence.
Kimia drew out the pocket watch.
The formal obligations of the day were largely finished.
This should have brought relief. Instead, she watched the second hand travel.
Five o'clock approached.
Evening.
Vehm would still be somewhere in the palace. Kilcane would still be where she had left it. Whiteblood would still exist. The medication would eventually wear off.
Kimia closed the watch.
The dangerous part of the day had changed shape.
It had not ended.