Then: “That Peshtul is a place where survival became culture.”
Kimia went still.
The sentence sat cleanly.
No ornament. No romance. No insult.
She repeated it quietly.
“Survival became culture.”
“Yes.”
“Zhat sounds too clever.”
“It is why you should not use it verbatim.”
Kimia looked offended.
Kalgkur's infrasonic amusement trembled through the table.
She asked: “What about zhe people?”
“Which?”
“All.”
Kalgkur's delay lengthened.
“That is more difficult.”
“Good.”
“Young people will tell you Peshtul is changing.”
“It is.”
“Old people will tell you it has changed too much.”
“Yes.”
“Visitors will tell you it is cold.”
“It is.”
“Peshtulans will tell you the visitors are weak.”
Kimia smiled.
“Yes.”
Kalgkur continued.
“House Chityala?”
“What about us?”
“They may ask why a Minor House that originated from an yinglet enclave became politically central in a region historically dominated by human Peshtulan dynasties.”
Kimia's ears shifted back slightly.
“Zhey might.”
“What will you say?”
Kimia thought.
“Because we lasted.”
Kalgkur waited.
Kimia added: “And because people let us.”
“Better.”
“And because we became useful.”
“Better.”
“And because after enough generations nobody remembered zhe arrangement being strange.”
Kalgkur nodded.
“There.”
Kimia looked at him.
“What?”
“That is an answer.”
She considered it.
Perhaps.
The interview came closer.
Eleven.
Eleven thirty.
Noon.
Kimia took a short nap in one of the quiet rooms adjoining the library.
Forty-eight minutes.
Enough.
She woke before Tarkhe came to find her.
That felt like victory.
Then she immediately wondered whether thinking of waking from a nap as victory indicated that things were going badly.
She refused the thought.
Lunch was small.
Water. Fruit. A little cheese she could tolerate.
No alcohol. No whiteblood. No kilcane.
The fact that she needed to count these absences irritated her.
At twelve thirty a palace clerk arrived.
“Your Grace.”
Kimia looked up.
“They're here.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“What time is it?”
“Twelve thirty-two.”
They were early.
Of course they were early.
People from the center of the Heart arrived early because punctuality became easier when one possessed enough infrastructure to enforce it.
Kimia stood.
Tarkhe looked toward her.
The indrel shifted.
Kalgkur had agreed to remain nearby.
Not participate unless needed.
Nearby.
Kimia appreciated this enough not to say so.
They received the Ivenmoth Herald crew in one of the palace's middle salons.
Not the formal reception hall.
Too large.
Not Kimia's study.
Too intimate.
The salon had tall windows, old rugs, two rows of chairs, paintings selected more for pleasantness than dynastic intimidation, and enough space for equipment.
The equipment altered it immediately.
Voxcameras.
Three.
One large unit on a wheeled tripod. Another smaller one for close work. A third held by a human operator with a shoulder brace.
Lights. Cables. A portable sound recorder.
A baxxid technician carrying equipment harnessed along one flank. Two human assistants. One yinglet.
And the interviewer.