“No promises.”

The title amused her because Ieronim Val Salia occupied that strange political space where a person became indistinguishable from an institution in the public imagination.

Man. Lord. Dynast. Symbol. The living point at the center of the Ivenmoth machine.

Kimia wondered whether he ever looked into mirrors and had to check what was there.

Probably not.

Unfair thought.

Perhaps everyone did.

Vehm's amusement faded.

He looked at Kimia properly.

Not duchess.

Kimia.

“Are you going to be alright until zhen?”

The question entered differently from Tarkhe's.

No diagnostic purpose. No professional implication.

Vehm was asking because he wanted to know.

Kimia looked down at her hands.

They rested together in her lap.

One pad still carried the tiny nick from her claw.

She rubbed it.

“I don't know.”

Vehm said nothing.

“I’m going to try.”

The words sounded inadequate.

Also true.

Vehm nodded.

“Good.”

Kimia frowned.

“Zhere zhat word is again.”

“What?”

“Good.”

“What should I say?”

“I don't know.”

“Zhen good.”

Kimia let it go.

Cold air moved through the gazebo.

She breathed.

The lingering whiteblood warmth had almost disappeared now.

Alcohol too.

Her body was returning.

Groggy. Headache. Tired in the wrong way.

Still herself.

Whatever that meant.

Vehm looked toward the statues.

“Which one is zhat?”

“No idea.”

“Your ancestor?”

“No.”

“Important?”

“Presumably.”

“Still?”

“No.”

Vehm nodded.

“Comforting.”

Kimia followed his gaze.

The statue had probably once represented power so immediate that people trembled before the living person.

Now neither of them knew the name.

Stone face. Stone robes. Stone confidence.

Time had reduced governance to landscaping.

Kimia liked this.

She said: “You know what Kalgkur was showing me earlier?”

“No.”

“Privateers.”

Vehm looked interested.

“Ivenmozh?”

“Mostly.”

“Legal pirates.”

“Yes.”

“Zhey were better zhen.”

“No zhey weren't.”

“Zhey had hats.”

Kimia thought.

“Fair.”

Vehm leaned back.

“Everyzhing becomes respectable if it lasts long enough.”

Kimia looked at him.

“Or historical.”

“Same disease.”

The Heavenly Veil made the edges of his fur pale.

Kimia's mind returned briefly to the Akalosi philosopher.

Mass egregores. Tradehouses. Countries. Titles. The Val Salian Diet itself.

Hundreds of people would gather because an imagined thing called the Heart required them to.

Yet the aircraft would be real. The fuel real. The food. The guards. The decisions. The consequences.

Imaginary structures producing material weight.