“I have less practice pretending than you.”
Kimia looked at him.
The words had not been cruel. This made them worse.
Kalgkur returned his attention to the papers.
Kimia saw Tarkhe watching from the shelves.
She ignored him.
“What are you working on?”
“Old irrigation agreements.”
“That sounds unbearable.”
“Well.. they are.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody else wanted them.”
This was such a Kalgkur answer that Kimia nearly smiled. Kalgkur had become considerably world-weary over the years, but still did his work earnestly. He was still a bit skittish, but conducted himself far more professionally, having centuries of experience to fall back on for social situations.
He had seen and done much, preferring to spend his time working as a sage as part of Kimia's court now, working on the obscure. Any drive for excitement or adventure left him years ago.
“What period?”
“Third consolidation. Before the eastern boundary revision that Tsar... Demyanyuk the Third implemented in 1561.”
“Useful?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
The old baxxid looked down at the documents.
“Because they happened.”
Kimia did smile then.
Only slightly.
“Of course.”
She left him to his dead irrigation districts.
The revenue officer had not yet arrived. Kimia selected a table near the terminal reserved for House administration and sat.
Twenty-four minutes remained.
She checked the watch again.
Twenty-four.
The number entered memory.
There were people who waited by doing nothing. Kimia had never understood them.
She requested the preliminary revenue file from the terminal. The machine took several seconds to acknowledge her credentials. Text appeared line by line in pale green.
HOUSE CHITYALA - CONSOLIDATED REVENUE ESTIMATE
Quarterly. Revised.
She read.
Numbers were sometimes easier than people.
A number did not disguise itself unless somebody had instructed it to.
There were ways to lie with numbers, of course. Entire ministries had been invented for this purpose. But once a figure was honestly stated, it remained what it was.
Three hundred twelve million dalasi remained three hundred twelve million whether Kimia slept or prayed or spent the previous night chemically fleeing herself.
There was comfort in this.
She was reading the agricultural subsidy projections when the revenue officer arrived.
He was human. Middle-aged. Thin, but not delicate.
His suit was plain gray and carried no visible ornament besides a small House service pin at the lapel. He had dark hair combed backward and the faintly pale complexion of someone who spent more time with offices than weather.
Nothing about his appearance announced Dinnlan. His voice did.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
The vowels did it first, then the consonants.
Kimia had heard enough Dinnish officials over the years to identify the region before the man had spoken five words.
“Good morning.”
He set a heavy binder beside the terminal.
“Apologies. Records sent an amendment late.”
“Zhey always do.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
There came the faintest ghost of recognition.
Then: “Fekking records.”
Kimia allowed herself half a smile.
There it was. Dinnlan.
The man sat.
He switched on the neighboring terminal and waited while it performed its startup sequence. A line of diagnostic text crawled across the screen. Storage check. Memory check. Network authentication.
The revenue officer opened the binder while waiting.
Kimia watched him arrange several papers in front of himself.
“You’re far from home.”
He looked up.
“Your Grace?”
“Dinnlan.”
The man became mildly embarrassed.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only when you speak.”
“I thought I’d lost most of it.”
“You haven’t.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“People hear Dinnish and assume I know how machinery works.”