“Helping me pay off zhings.”
There it was.
No theatrical phrasing. No joke about creditors. No reference to legs.
Kimia watched him.
Vehm looked faintly embarrassed.
This was rarer than sobriety.
“Yes.”
He shifted the water glass between his hands.
“How serious?”
“Serious.”
“All of it?”
“If zhat's what you need.”
Vehm looked down.
The corridor lights were low enough that his face became difficult to read.
For once Kimia did not try.
“I might take you up on zhat.”
She had expected resistance. Expected laughter. Expected Vehm to transform the matter into a philosophical argument about debt and freedom.
Instead he simply stood there looking tired.
Kimia felt something soften.
“Just say zhe word.”
Vehm nodded.
Not immediately.
A few seconds later.
“Zhank you.”
“You haven't asked yet.”
“I know.”
“Zhen don't zhank me yet.”
“I am practicing.”
Kimia smiled slightly.
There he was.
Better.
Vehm drank water.
“What are you doing?”
“Going outside.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't trust myself indoors.”
Vehm considered this as though it made complete sense.
“Where outside?”
“Gardens.”
He looked toward the windows.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“It's almost four in zhe morning.”
“Correct.”
“Cold.”
“Good.”
Vehm glanced down at himself. His waistcoat was still unbuttoned.
Kimia said: “Do you want to come?”
He looked at the water, then at Kimia.
“Yes.”
They went.
The palace garden occupied the rear slope behind the oldest wing.
In daylight it was formal without becoming geometrical. Peshtulan plants had been arranged according to climate rather than court fashion. Flowering shrubs. Low silver grasses. Dark-leafed trees adapted to cold nights and hard soil. Beds of medicinal herbs that nobody in the palace used anymore because pills had replaced them centuries ago.
Stone paths ran between everything.
At the center stood a gazebo.
Old stone. Green copper roof. Benches built into three sides.
Around it stood statues of monarchs or people of note who had ruled some version of this territory, or contributed something significant, before the present political or social vocabulary existed.
Some human. Some yinglet. One baxxid, who is probably still alive, that contributed some major scientific advancement and then faded into obscurity. His or her sculptor had apparently hated both stone and anatomy, getting most of his or her baxxid-specific features wrong.
Kimia descended the steps.
Cold air touched her face.
Immediate. Clean.
No stale palace air. No kilcane. No whiteblood. No kitchen steam.
She inhaled deeply.
The headache remained.
The cold helped anyway.
Above them lay the Heavenly Veil.
Pale. Immense.
The distant accumulation of stars and luminous dust gave the night a strange second light. Not enough to make day.
Enough to make darkness incomplete.
The garden paths shone faintly beneath it.
Vehm looked up.
“Pretty.”
“Yeah.”
“Zhat was profound.”
“I've had a long day.”
“So have I.”
“You spent half of yours drunk.”
“Labor is labor.”
Kimia entered the gazebo.
She sat.
Stone bench.
Cold even through the kaftan.
Good.
Vehm sat beside her with less grace.
The indrel took position several paces beyond the gazebo opening.
Even here, one of her shadows stayed with her.
Kimia rested both hands in her lap.
For a while nobody spoke.
The garden made its own sounds.
Leaves moving.
A night insect.
Some distant machine from the city.
Vehm drank water.
Kimia looked toward one of the statues.
A forgotten duke stood with a stone hand extended toward a future that had ignored him.
The Diet returned.
Of course.
Kimia sighed.