Reasonable statements.

That was why they worked.

Kimia opened her eyes.

“Water.”

The indrel's head moved slightly.

“Yes,” Kimia said. “Water.”

She left the archive.

The palace at three in the morning belonged to other people. People whose existence the daytime court rarely acknowledged.

Guards walked quiet circuits through the halls. A human janitor pushed a cart along the lower gallery while his yinglet co-worker was using a vacuum cleaner on a segment of carpet. Somewhere, an engineer had opened a wall panel and was examining electrical wiring under a portable lamp.

The palace did not sleep. 

It merely changed staff.

Kimia crossed through it with her bodyguard following.

Nobody stopped her.

A guard at the eastern junction bowed.

“Your Grace.”

“Morning.”

The guard glanced toward the black windows.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Kimia realized the word had been technically correct.

This annoyed her.

The kitchen was awake too.

Only partly.

Three people occupied it.

One worker sat peeling roots with mechanical patience. Another chopped vegetables into a large basin. A broad pot simmered on the rear stove, producing a smell of tiplod stock and herbs intended for people who would not know it had begun at three in the morning.

And Vehm was there.

Kimia stopped.

Vehm sat at a preparation table with both hands around a glass of water.

His hat was gone. His hair pointed in several directions. His ears hung low.

He looked like someone had recently explained mortality to him in person.

Vehm looked up.

“Oh.”

Kimia stared.

“You're alive.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Good.”

“No.”

Kimia approached.

Vehm's water glass was nearly empty.

A second stood beside it. Also empty.

“How bad?”

Vehm contemplated the question.

“I have been poisoned.”

“You poisoned yourself.”

“Zhat is an administrative distinction.”

One of the kitchen workers glanced toward Kimia.

“Your Grace, would you like anything?”

“I can help myself.”

The worker accepted this with the resigned expression of someone who had learned that aristocrats occasionally invaded kitchens after midnight.

Kimia went to the cupboards.

Cup. Water. She filled it. Drank half before moving away from the tap, then refilled it.

The water helped immediately, though only because dehydration had evidently been contributing enough misery to make improvement easy.

Vehm watched.

“You look terrible.”

“So do you.”

“Yes, but mine is intentional.”

“No it isn't.”

“Retrospectively intentional.”

Kimia ignored him.

Coffee. She wanted coffee. She didn't want to deal grinding fresh beans with a hand mill or use some loud electric grinder while some servant heated water in a kettle. 

Ground coffee existed in a can beside the stove, some mildly expensive brand from the Green Reach.

Kimia found a small brass rakwa with a long handle.

She spooned grounds into it, added water, and set it over flame on a stove.

Vehm watched from his table.

“You know how to do zhat?”

“Yes.”

“You're nobility.”

“I have hands.”

“Debatable.”

Kimia looked at him.

Vehm drank water.

The coffee began rising.

Kimia caught it before overflow, lifted the rakwa, lowered it, returned it briefly, then extinguished the stove burner.

She looked for another cup.

Stopped.

The water cup remained in her hand.

Good enough.

She poured the coffee into it.

The mixture tasted faintly diluted because several drops of water remained at the bottom. Kimia didn't care.

She took a long drink.

Hot. Bitter. Immediate.

Her eyes watered slightly.

Better.

The headache remained but now had competition.