Lord Pitor Magara was late. Jeshen pursed his lips in exasperation. His father never had thought Jeshen's time was valuable, and he wasted it frequently. While Jeshen appreciated the finer things in life, spinning his thumbs in his father's study was not one of them. Lord Pitor liked his clutter; Jeshen despised the haphazard juxtapositions. Not that any of the clutter was déclassé; no, it was just all thrown together with no thought for the visual appeal, and Heavens help the poor maid who thought to straighten things up in here.

An evil idea sparked in Jeshen's mind, tugging a sly grin onto his face. He arched an eyebrow at Markus, his armsman on duty, who stood by the door. Markus, recognizing incipient rebellion, shook his head and pointedly checked the fit of his energy pistol in its holster. Jeshen felt his grin stretch to bare teeth. Sure, it was petty vengeance, but sometimes petty was all a man had.

Now, that illiarium dragon statue would peak nicely from behind the replica Ming vase, but not next to the jade Budda -- their greens clashed. Buddah and the Tzimzi reflecting pool would look much better by the window ....

Jeshen was perched on his seat edge and playing with the cuffs of his morning suit when his father's armsman opened the door. The armsman's step hitched and her shoulders twitched with suppressed mirth as she took up a position opposite Markus at the door. Her jaw quivered as she sent a silent comm to Markus. "Your pip squeak looking for more troubles?"

"My 'pip squeak' hears all my comm traffic, route's his through my net. Discretion, Niv, even among friends."

"Why would he do that?"

Jeshen dipped his head. Markus answered, "An armsman's Recall is always on, more tamper-proof. It's a way to cover your ass at court."

Lord Pitor paused in the door frame, taking in the changes his youngest had made in his study. The only pieces not moved were the collection of rare geodes locked behind his desk. His nostrils flared and lips tightened, but all he said was, "Good, you're here."

Affecting ennui, Jeshen continued his adjustments. "You did summon me, Father."

Pitor snorted. "That hasn't brought you running in the past."

"Well, as it turns out, I have some matters to attend to in Maga."

"So I've been informed." Pitor gave a slight shake of his head and moved behind his desk. "Where ever did you -- No. No, I don't really need to ask how you came to meet that Rittar ... person, now do I? Isabey."

"Her Imperial Highness Heir Minor Princess Isabey did play some small part in the introduction."

"He's not exactly armsman material, Jeshen. Don't be foolish."

"If I'm being foolish, well, it certainly won't be the first time. However, Johann comes very well recommended."

Pitor drew himself up and clasped his hands behind his back. Jeshen recognized the familiar lecturing pose. He didn't bother to mask the boredom it evoked.

"Armsmen are an extension of their liege. They speak with our authority and act with our imprimatur. They are more than simple guards. You can hire muscle, you can hire intelligence, you can even hire discretion, but you cannot hire loyalty or integrity. An armsman lacking any one of those is unfit to bear our crest. This Rittar boy, he's trouble, a jumped up thug and a washed out Marine."

Jeshen interrupted, "I'd hardly call taking early retirement from the Imperial Guard to enter my service 'washing out'."

Pitor leaned forward, braced on his desk. "And when he's convicted, you will be officially censored!"

"And what will he be convicted of?"

"The IIB has their finger dust all over Rittar's file -- especially on his med scans."

The angry tension drained out of Jeshen, and he settled back into his seat. Tapping a finger to his chin, he mused out loud, "How ... interesting. ImpVest runs backgrounds at random on all the Guard, but not usually on the med scans. What would they be looking for that wouldn't show up in the regular subversion checks?"

Pitor straightened, some tension draining from his shoulders, and resumed his lecturing pose. "Isabey is still under age."

"And her Imperial Highness won't come of age for another five years, so?"

"It's two more for her to reach the age of consent."

Jeshen blinked at his father, then burst out laughing. "Is that the latest rumor?"

Pitor raised his eyebrows and bestowed a sardonic look upon his child.

"Rittar would have demolished Johann if that was the case! He'd hardly be putting in a good word for him!" Seeing his father's confusion, Jeshen explained, "Konstance Rittar, Princess Isabey's Armsman. You do recall me mentioning him before?"

"And his nepotism is to be trusted? Jeshen, you have to learn to think things through."

Jeshen shrugged and flicked his fingers to the side. "People will believe what they will, despite any evidence before them. If that's all, I have an Assignment to go file." He pushed himself up from the chair.

Pitor waved Jeshen back. "That is not all. Oh, it is the reason I summoned you, but that disgraceful ... prank of your gang's has since reached my ears."

Jeshen, still standing, rolled his eyes and heaved a dramatic sigh. "Margot's a bit over-enthused with the princess, true, and the High Lord Chamberlain is definitely not. If he stuck to his job and ceased attempting to undermine Isabey, he'd never have made himself a target for the girl's devilry."

Pitor folded his arms across his chest. "Don't try fobbing all the blame off on diSinley's little hell spawn. From all accounts, you had something to do with it."

"I was speaking with Timbon at the time her little stink bomb went off. Took three trips through the cleaners to get the stench off my suits." Jeshen sniffed in affected annoyance, but the twinkle in his eye ruined the charade. "Of course, it's rather difficult to put a living body through the cleaners."

Pitor slammed his palm on the desk top. "I will not have it!"

Jeshen raised his eyebrows at his father's temper display. "No, that would be a rather nasty way to kill someone, now wouldn't it?"

"I will not have it anymore, Jeshen!" Pitor closed his eyes, fury blotching his skin. "It's damn time you grew up, and those heathens you run with are not helping matters! As your liege, I forbid you to maintain contact with those outrés."

Jeshen resumed adjusting his shirt cuffs, studiously not looking at his sire. "And here I thought you wanted me to cultivate imperial favor, my lord."

"Don't you 'my lord' me!" Pitor ran a palsied hand over his bald plate. "Now, none of this 'cultivating favor' nonsense! You may be a third son, but you are a man grown and one of the public faces of Fife Magara, and you will act like it! Since you seem to have so much free time on your hands that you can spend collaborating on elaborate pranks, you should find ample time to take over our House's charity works. I will personally introduce you to the heads of the foundations we support. Do not disappoint me." The implicit "again" vibrated between them.

Jeshen paused in his fidgeting, frozen for a moment, before he assumed an insipid air. "And when her Imperial Highness Princess Isabey requires my attendance, what then shall I do? Am I to refuse an imperial summons ... my lord?"

"I told you -- "

"My father cannot command me. Does my liege require me to refuse an imperial summons?"

Pitor's lips whitened, and he turned, pacing behind the desk. "Of course not, but you will not initiate such contact. She's the ringleader of your set and the worst of troublemakers, protected as she is by her rank. Thank the Heavens that Prince Maynor and Prince Drew are both of sound character and stand between her and the Imperial Throne! I doubt I'd much care to live in an empire ruled by Princess Isabey!"

Pitor, his back turned, missed seeing the fury that flashed across his son's face. "My lord, one of these days you will find yourself eating those words, and, as you so adroitly pointed out, I am a man grown and not the willful child who would once have delighted to see that come about. I pray you survive the shock of it."

Jeshen spun on his heel and sailed out of the room, ignoring the sputtering rage he left behind. Choking on his anger, he stalked off to the stables.

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Horses were the wealth of Fife Magara. The illiarium mines, which mostly produced the green-shaded diamonds at an industrial grade, provided luxuries for the fife, but the horses bought the staples. Their Thoroughbreds consistently placed well in the race circuits, and Fife Magara Clydesdales and Charlemagnes were sought after by low-tech colonies for draft horses. Historical reenactors paid well for Magara-trained warhorses, both for heavy and light cavalry. Their Andalusian and Lusitano lines were currently second-string with entertainment troupes, but that was a new venture. With Jason's recent acquisition of the rare Moyle stock, they would soon have unicorns to add to the offerings.

To Jeshen's mind, though, the Charlemagnes were the current pinnacle of horseflesh. Specifically bred for fierce spirits and fiercer loyalties, they did well on the newer colonies where the native fauna had yet to learn to fear humanity. A herd of Charlemagnes -- especially those schooled by Fife Magara's trainers -- were some of the most effective guards available to low-tech worlds. The breed traced back to a Clydesdale and Arabian mix that sacrificed a bit, though not that much, of the Clydesdale's brawn for agile grace. Careful disposition breeding forged a line of loyal warriors out of the early gentle giants.

Sparing a curt nod at a brown Arabian gelding for Markus to ride, Jeshen grabbed his riding tack and approached his personal mount, a bay Charlemagne mare he had named Emma. Markus sighed and saddled the horse Jeshen picked out for him.

Jeshen took a moment to lean into Emma, burying his nose in her shoulder and breathing in her musty horse smell, a smell part dust, part fur, part sweat, and warm with the memories of childhood comfort. He wondered, not for the first time, what would have been different had he, and not his older twin, been given the responsibility of managing the Magara herds. There was never any question about Jason's appointment as Herd Master; it was too firmly the traditional role of the House Magara Heir Major. But still, Jeshen gave himself a moment to imagine a world in which his father respected and appreciated his youngest son.

Emma nibbled at his hair, and the wuffling of her breath blowing across his face and thundering in his ears brought him back from his day dreaming. He saddled up and mounted. Seeing Markus walking his horse away from the mounting block, Jeshen started Emma jogging off to the far pastures, hoping the ride would settle his emotions.

While Lidari was one of the first planets colonized in this portion of the galaxy, xenoformology hadn't matured as a science until a few centuries after the colony's incorporation. The early terraforming efforts had mostly consisted of dumping chemicals and filtering toxins from the soil until it was capable of nourishing terrestrial plants. Hydroponic gardens had sustained the colonists for the first dicey decades, and they were still a mainstay of civilized farming. However, hydroponics could not provide as much bulk nutrition as soil-based farming, especially not for humanity's herbivore cattle.

Despite the harsh measures taken to carve out a niche for the human immigrants, Lidari shared enough similarities with Earth's biosphere that much of the native species adapted surprisingly well to the alien invasion. House Magara took pains to clear away the poisonous plants, which kept most of the native insect-equivalents away. Lord Pitor found the imalat vines particularly offensive. Jeshen sometimes wondered if it was a sign of his father's back handed love that he felt so strongly about the native weed. He hadn't liked it much before Jeshen had discovered how to refine the juice into an intoxicant, and liked it even less now.

Markus gave Jeshen a semblance of space, of privacy, by remaining a few body lengths behind his liege. Jeshen appreciated the gesture as he focused on the feel of the mare beneath him, the wind blowing over them, and the warmth of the sun overhead. He needed that physical grounding. If he allowed himself to dwell in his emotions he would spend the day in a childish tantrum, railing at the unfairness of the world. He let himself get so caught up in the present that he nearly rode over the burn scar marking the boundary between terraformed and native lands.

As tempting as the rebellious youth inside him found the idea of riding off the terraformed lands, the responsible adult he had grown into turned Emma aside to pace along that boundary. He had no need to risk the health of the horses by leading them into the temptation of the selenium saturated native flora.

Despite the determination, when Jeshen spotted the blue-gray bark of a star tree decorated in dark blue ropes, he took note, and when he saw that the vines had grown across the burn scar, he dismounted and dropped his reins. The flowering imalat vines, trailing indigo coils, dangled from the branches of a copse of elder oaks. Their petals (Jeshen thought they looked more like long bladed scales, but the xenos called them "petals") gleamed with an opalescent violet.

He walked over to one of the vines and picked off a bud. The vine trembled and spat out a fine mist from the fresh wound. Jeshen inhaled deeply of the mild euphoric spray. He sauntered back to his horse and tucked the bud into Emma's bridal. The mare shook her head and butted her nose into his chest. His tensions eased as the imalat's breath spread through his bloodstream.

"My lord?" Markus asked, his gaze searching the horizon.

"I'm -- I will be fine," Jeshen said. "Peace blossoms are a good sign, aren't they?" The nectar of the vine would be unsuited for distillation while the buds grew.

"So they say, my lord," Markus said. His words were tight, clipped, and Jeshen could sense Markus's upset almost as much by the tone of his voice as by the armsman's sudden refusal to look at Jeshen.

"So they say," Jeshen echoed, letting his words slur just a touch, a reflexive provocation. Even as he did it, exaggerating the effect of the imalat's breath on him, he felt the urge to apologize. Markus wasn't one of his detractors. He was one of Jeshen's few allies on his father's estate.

They were far enough from the main house that Jeshen was tempted to linger here, but even if the words choked in his throat, he could offer Markus the apology of leaving the imalat patch behind. "Would you please comm the grounds keepers, let them know that the wilds are encroaching here?"

Markus nodded. "Yes, sir."

Jeshen mounted again and let Emma pick her pace while he headed them away from his own temptation. Upset with himself, with falling into the habits of his childhood, Jeshen lost the fight to stay focused on the present.

He had bitterly resented the twenty minutes that made his twin the Heir Major and Jeshen the Heir Minor before meeting Princess Isabey. He snorted in private amusement as he realized how thoroughly her Imperial Highness divided his life. "Before Isabey" was a series of disappointed keepers: nurses, tutors, his distant father and his father's armsmen. It was a lifetime of "never-good-enoughs": never smart enough for the tutors, never thoughtful enough for the nurses, never obedient enough for his father, and never strong enough for the armsmen. At some point, every one of his keepers held Jason up as an example of what Jeshen should be, but no one ever allowed him to try living up to his brother's example. Every attempt to take on responsibility either ended in failure or scoldings for overstepping his bounds.

Jeshen hated that life, and he hated how simply filing the flight plan back to his childhood home had dropped the weight of all that frustrated disappointment on his shoulders. If not for the requirement to file the official Assignment of his new armsman in person at the Fife Magara District Office, he would have cheerfully continued to blow off his father's summonses.

Her Imperial Highness Heir Minor Princess Isabey Delores Li May of the House of Smytter knew all too well what it was like to be the unwanted child of a powerful liege. Her audacity had drawn his attention and his wistful envy when he was first sent to court.

Jeshen tied his reins to the saddle horn and gave Emma her head while he tried to remember every detail of that first meeting with her Highness.

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Jeshen's first meeting with Princess Isabey had been at an evening ball, one Jeshen had been hoping to turn into his last at court. Thankfully, he had failed in that endeavor.

Lord Pitor's latest admonishment to not fail him (again) had rained all over Jeshen's hopes for making a success of becoming the Fife Magara courtier. Those words had presaged every major failure in Jeshen's life to date. Figuring that if he was doomed to screw up royally (again) he might as well get it over with, Jeshen absorbed himself in the process of making Keistie's Gin with the oddament of liquor's that Lady Anagne had so kindly provided her guests.

Their hostess held a minor cachet with the courtiers. Her personal rank was barely sufficient to warrant an Assignment of armsmen, but she was considered on the rise socially. She had even been seen flirting with the Imperial Heir Major His Highness Prince Maynor. Or so the rumor mill said.

Jeshen privately thought she had started that rumor herself. He had told enough lies in his life, trying to make himself sound interesting and useful, to spot the tightness around the eyes, the slight quiver at the corner of a smile that gave away the anxiety of the lie.

A stir at the entrance to the ballroom dragged Jeshen's attention from the wet bar.

"What's she doing?"

"How inappropriate!"

"Just like her mother, no sense of decorum!"

"Her poor father!"

"I'll lay odds she's only here to embarrass her family again."

The sussaration of quiet asides rolled over Jeshen like a tidal wave. The snark and priggishness of his fellow guests offended him, and Jeshen found himself aligning with the object of their scorn without a moment of consideration.

In the doorway a black haired child flanked by an armsman in the imperial colors of green and silver greeted their hostess. The child's body was still androgynous with youth, but she wore her hair in an elaborate cascade of braids and an evening robe in tones of pale gray. The armsman's patch was a sapphire blue and gold dragon perched on his right shoulder, the insignia of the Imperial Heir Minor.

The bastard princess was twelve, barely old enough to enter the day lit social scene. To arrive, apparently without invitation, without the escort of a family member, at a ball was a huge social blunder for the Families. For an imperial heir to do so was a potential riot, considering that every armsman not in the Imperial service was required to disarm immediately.

Jeshen watched the calm, confident manner with which her Imperial Highness surveyed the room. He met her gaze when it swept over him, saluting her with his drink. Her gaze returned to him briefly before she took their hostess by the arm and began making the rounds. Jeshen couldn't help noticing that Lady Anagne's complexion had taken on the sickly pallor of someone forced to eat their own words.

Armsmen began cycling their charges out of the room for a controlled disarming. When Jeshen and his armsman Trent returned, Elwin Todd of House Yarrowbaugh waved him over. Jeshen found himself trapped into a conversation with several younger sons and daughters, complaining about the status quo and speculating about the Princess Isabey's purpose among them. He would happily have walked away, especially when he noted the presence of Karles Frerd, Heir Major Brachst, but Todd was one of his few genuine friends at court.

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"Do you really think this isn't something the emperor put together? It's a demonstration of imperial power," Todd's current romantic interest, Miss Xingah, said.

"You're obviously new to town, dearie. The emperor hates her. Why he didn't just have her flushed, I don't know." That came from Frerd, a condescending arse if ever Jeshen had met one.

Jeshen knocked back the last of his alcohol and shook his head, not bothering to keep the disgust off his face.

"Did something I say offend you, Lord Horsefly?" Frerd asked, his eyes narrowed by the pseudo pleasant snarl on his face.

Smirking simply to annoy the man, Jeshen said, "Master Bore-st, I'm hard to offend, but your stupidity pushes the limits. Her family life has no bearing on what sanctions her family will impose on those who forget that she is still an Imperial Heir. If you can't keep a kind thought for her on your tongue while she's in the room, just be silent. I have no wish to be painted with your political failings."

Frerd opened his mouth and started sputtering, but Jeshen just kept going, "It would also do you well to remember you're talking about a child. Seriously, what kind of monster do you have to be to say something that heinous about a child? And, you have to give her this, whether she should or shouldn't be here, she is, and she's acting with a lot more decorum and grace than you have so far managed."

A throat cleared to the side of them, garnering Jeshen's attention.

Lady Anagne, still arm in arm with the Imperial Heir Minor, said faintly, "Oh, dear."

Frerd didn't pay as much attention. "You--! How dare you, you upstart little horse--"

"MISTER Frerd!" Lady Anagne said, cutting him off, her voice breaking with horrified shock.

Frerd turned his head, saw the crowd they'd gathered, and went through several shades of red as he bit down on the rest of what he had been about to say.

Her Highness held out her hand to Jeshen. "Magara, yes?"

"Jeshen Chambret, Heir Minor Magara, at your service, your Highness," he said, bowing over her hand.

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The princess held him to his word. The next day, a young man in green and silver livery hand delivered an invitation to join her Highness at tea in her private garden. It was the first time he met her Highness's Knight Errors.

Lucien and Gwendolyn were the oldest, the siblings being untitled cousins of Princess Isabey's great uncle Lord Haizmin. Jeshen found himself next oldest after them, with Beatrice, Joseph, and Ahrin much closer to her Highness's age. They had yet to meet Margot or Rhessa.

It was an interesting affair, and as Ahrin calmed down, his nervous stuttering easing, Jeshen felt that he had, perhaps, for once, maybe, managed to avoid being dismissed out of the gate.

He soon became a frequent guest at the Princess's teas. She enjoyed holding them in her garden, their armsmen distant enough to give them the illusion of privacy. She slyly suggested as he left the second tea, "Should someone ask, it might be best if you tell them I'm just asking you about horses."

And she did. Occasionally. In between questions about how the people of his fife fared and how he was fitting in at court. Her questions about the Magara herds were the kind of informed questions that pushed Jeshen's ability to answer, and gave him interesting topics to discuss with his twin.

Two months after Lady Anagne's ball, Princess Isabey asked him, "Do you enjoy feeling powerless?"

The question came out of the sun for Jeshen. "I beg your pardon, Highness?"

"Yes or no: do you enjoy feeling powerless?" she reiterated.

"No! Absolutely not! What sane person would?" And with those words, Jeshen sealed his fate.

"Then tomorrow at sunrise, in your grubbiest, get dirtiest, workman's clothes, your most loyal and trusted armsman similarly dressed, you will meet Rittar on the city side of the southern garden gate. Here are the coords. I have an adventure for you!" The smile she gave him was echoed by the Knight Errors, and it was an eager, charming smile, full of innocent mischief.

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Jeshen didn't have much time to consider the implications of Princess Isabey's command. His father's comm chime sounded on his neural network almost as soon as he left her Highness's garden.

"Jeshen, where the hell have you been?" Lord Pitor didn't even bother to say hello.

"Father! A pleasure to hear from you. How are you today?" Jeshen responded, hoping his sub vocal microphone would pick up the sarcasm in his response.

"I do not appreciate the mockery, boy! Now, where were you?" Jeshen watched his knuckles turn white in his lap as his father snapped at him.

"At tea, sir." Perhaps if he pretended his father was simply his liege this would be over sooner.

"With whom? Where?" Lord Pitor asked again.

Nope. Jeshen couldn't hold back his frustration. He snapped back, "You have my agenda, Father. You know exactly where and with whom I just took tea. What is the problem?"

"Oh, so you've really had tea with the Imperial princess about three times a week for the last two months? Really? What in the world would you even talk about with a twelve year old girl?"

"Horses," Jeshen answered, his voice flat. "She's interested in horses, wants to know what it's like to race them. She and her friends have some good questions. They've started a few long talks with Jason for me."

"I want your armsman's Recall for each of the teas," Lord Pitor said.

"Excuse me?" Jeshen asked, the severity of that privacy violation shocking him numb.

"I want the Recall in my comm link in the next ten minutes," his father ordered.

"No." The denial was instant and instinctive. There was no thought to it. The betrayal Jeshen felt at his father's demand pushed out all room for thinking.

"As your liege, it is my right--"

"No." Jeshen said, cutting his father off. "No, it's only your right if you think I am committing treason against you or the Imperial family! And if you think that little of me, why the fuck haven't you disowned me already?"

Jeshen cut the link.

He knew his father didn't think much of him, that Jeshen often fumbled around in life, didn't really have any place he belonged. He thought his father had just considered him incompetent, but he hadn't even considered that his father would ever treat him like a traitor, like the worst, most dishonest, villainous scum possible.

Markus was his armsman on duty then, and even then, Jeshen had been routing his comm traffic through his armsmen's nets. The shocked sympathy in the older man's gaze had been unbearable. He only vaguely noted Markus reminding Trent, Kell and Mattau that it was illegal to answer questions about Jeshen's activities, or to provide their Recall without either a warrant for treason or Jeshen's permission.

Jeshen refused all comm requests for the next hour while he processed the shock, and he blocked comm requests from his family for the week following.

Markus gave Jeshen peace and solitude only until they got back to the Fife House of Magara in Lidarii City. As soon as the transit was safely parked in its hanger, he dragged Jeshen into the guard's training center and turned him loose on the fight simulators.

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Konstance Rittar, Senior Armsman to the Imperial Heir Minor, had to be at least six feet tall. It was an entrance requirement for the Home Guard of the Imperial Marines, from whom almost every Imperial armsman was recruited. In his imperial uniform, he was a big and imposing man.

On the street, in well worn casual overalls over a baggy tunic shirt, he looked ... unnoticeable. It was eerie, to say the least.

Worse, Princess Isabey, her hair in pig tail braids and wearing her own faded pink overalls, could easily have been anyone's child. A grin covered her face, squeezing her eyes together so much that Jeshen couldn't see the color of her pale green irises.

She looked him and Markus over, shaking her head at the crisp brightness of their canvas leggings and summer tunics. "Yeah, I guessed you wouldn't have workman's clothes. Well, Ritter guessed it first, but he let me work my way to the same guess. So! We brought spare overalls. Oh, Markus, Rittar's going to talk with you on the comm link. Try not to move your lips or make audible noises when you answer him from your sub-v. Where we're going, people will get weird about that. And, Jeshen, you'll need to unlink your comm from Markus's. You have to hear what's around you and not be distracted by the comm chatter."

"Where are we going?" Jeshen asked.

The princess smiled brighter. "You'll see," she said, turning and leading the way into the city.

Two blocks over, she directed Markus and Jeshen into a public restroom to don the spare overalls. The pale tan fabric was soft from many washings and covered their leggings and most of their tunics. Isabey nodded then glanced to Rittar for confirmation.

"They will do," Rittar said.

Jeshen timed their walk. Twenty-three minutes, forty-seven seconds. Then they waited two minutes, twelve seconds. Rittar nodded and they took off again. Another nine minutes, fifty-two seconds later, they got onto a public transit, leaving the Imperial District of Lidari City.

They got off in Kharman's Wharf. Sea trade wasn't a particularly booming business on Lidari, and Kharman's Wharf faced the rougher waters of the Gray Sea. Pleasure boats and their owners mostly kept to Phalen's Bay, on the opposite side of the capital city where the natural bay made for much smoother sailing. The water was protected enough in the bay that several high-end merchant-zoned towers had been built in the bay, more a testament to the increasing population density of the peninsula Lidari City had grown onto than the eccentric tastes of the untitled wealthy.

Jeshen hadn't been to the Wharf yet, but he had slipped out to the poorer side of Maga, the capital city of his father's fife. The difference between Maga's poor and Lidari City's stood in stark relief for him.

Kharman's Wharf was a modern slum. The sanitation drones kept the streets free from litter, but they couldn't keep the buildings in good repair, the graffiti off the walls, or money in the pockets of the desperately poor. They could not fix cracks in the walk ways, or replace the monitors and public lighting when people who were angry with the idea of living under constant surveillance broke them.

The drones that could maintain the lighting and monitors were broken just as quickly as the monitors, so the city officials left the people of Kharman's Wharf to live with the graffiti and the cracks. Debates over cutting off sanitation services to the Wharf district flared up every few years, but came up against the hard line of Imperial law and the good sense of the medical profession.

In Maga, with its smaller population, the city watchmen were better able to protect the monitors and repair drones. Lord Pitor took pride in the beauty of his capitol and had a freer hand to enforce building maintenance. Their poor might be forced to grow their own food in a commons garden, but they didn't have to fear the garden's walls would fall down around them.

Rittar and her Highness led the way down a street marked by graffiti, mostly blue and white chem coat, the symbols like complex hieroglyphs Jeshen could not read. Isabey and Rittar were alert, but otherwise appeared relaxed. They moved like they belonged on that street, but even with their best effort, Jeshen thought they were easy to spot as outsiders. The people they passed on the street bore the marks of chronic fatigue, even those with an air of happiness. Her Highness and Rittar were too much in the present.

Even as he thought it, Isabey's shoulders rounded and her movements came a little stiffer. Ritter glanced at her before sweeping his gaze over the street and similarly stiffening his movements, as if he muscles wouldn't know how to relax.

The walk from the transit station to their next stop took another eleven minutes, sixteen seconds.

They spent two minutes, thirty-eight seconds waiting in line before the man at the coffee counter smiled and said, "Hi, Sissy, Conner. Let me get your order."

"Thanks, Peri," Ritter said, laying down a curious coin. Lidarii's monetary system was purely electronic. Jeshen couldn't see details well, but the coin was a dull silver with some kind of imprint, and about as wide across as the first two joints of his index finger.

When Peri returned with a small case he glanced at the coin and rolled his eyes. "Take that back and spend it on something nice. You know your coin's no good here. And let me know how the repairs go."

Ritter left the coin on the counter. "I am spending it on something nice. You think there are all that many human staffed coffee shops left?"

"Conner," Peri said, putting his hands on his hips and looking sternly at the armsman.

Her Highness, affecting the mannerisms of a younger child, said, "You'll get Niveah a nice reader with that, right? My poppa, he said, if you have a couple of the credits you can get a reader, and you can get the public school on the reader."

"Honey. Sissy, Niveah can't use a reader. The ALS is too advanced. It got too strong. She can't hold anything now." Peri's shoulders slumped as he spoke.

"Doc Eucips got a blood filter at the clinic two days ago," her Highness said. "He said he got a grant to work with an uptown clinic. He said that some of the uptown clinkers, they're willing to pay the cost to do the medicines for ALS. So I bet you that coin Niveah's going to be able to use a reader. I bet you, and you gotta take the bet!"

Peri exchanged a speaking look with Ritter before he took the coin. "Thank you. I'll talk with Barry, but don't get your hopes up. That kind of stuff, those deals, they usually only last long enough for the uptowners to get their fancy pics in the broads."

Her Highness took the case off the counter. "Doc's usually the guy who's all doom and gloom, Peri, but he was excited this time. Maybe it's a one shot, but he said he has the blood filter now and a counting thing for buying medicines and it's got money the Imperial Bank said's good. Bet stands."

Peri's shoulders lifted, his posture straightening with hope. "Fair enough. You guys take care and tell me how the repairs go!"

"We will," Rittar said, leading the way to the exit.

On the street, Jeshen asked, "Would you like me to carry that?" He extended his hands for the case.

"Nope," she said, smiling up at him. "You'll spill if I give it to you."

Jeshen shrugged, turning his reach into a foppish hand wiggle and pretending the princess's teasing hadn't felt like a punch to the gut.

Her Highness continued talking, not seeming to pay attention to him. "Everyone spills the coffee case when they try to take it out of my hands. It'll be fine all the way to the site, but if I don't set it down, at least one cup topples. Ritter's the only who ever managed not to spill more than a little sloshy-slosh, and then he dropped the whole case to pull me away from a sparker."

"A sparker?" Jeshen asked, trying to believe her Highness over his personal demons.

Ritter said, "Exposed conduit."

Jeshen blinked. His jaw dropped, but no words came out, and he looked around again. The cracks and chips in the buildings around them took on a more sinister tone as the danger of their disrepair struck home.

"That's criminal," he whispered.

Princess Isabey stopped. "Yes. Yes, it is. These are my people, Jeshen. I have no voice with the bootlickers in City Governance. I have no voice with my father. I have only my own two hands and what the law says my title must have. But I am not powerless, and you aren't either. When we get where we're going, call me Sissy. Don't call me a princess."

"Yes, m--. Sissy," Jeshen said, unconsciously responding to the precocious authority of the Imperial Heir Minor.

She grinned. "If you do that, exaggerate it. You can be the most outrageous person you ever dreamed of being, you know. No one there is going to know your fife or your father."

"There" turned out to one of the damaged buildings a few streets over. A team of eight rough looking men and women along with several slender youths greeted Ritter and the princess. Their easy familiarity made it obvious to Jeshen that none of them even suspected Isabey might be a noble, let alone a part of the imperial family.

Jeshen wasn't averse to hard work. When he had tried to impress his father with how helpful he could be with the herds, he had spent longer days learning the skills of their soil cleaners, burners, paddock maintainers, and he had liked it. Not the subtle condescension of the professions, but the work itself had been enjoyable -- until his father decided he was interfering with the Fife's operations.

This labor, working to restore a tenement to a habitable state, he found he loved it. The work itself felt good, whole-making, not just making whole the building, but also something Jeshen hadn't known he needed. Unlike at home, here the crew treated him like one of the striplings: someone who didn't know what he was doing simply because they hadn't taught him yet. There was no pressure to be perfect and no censure for making mistakes, and at the end of the day, Jeshen found a friendly respect in the gazes of the men and women they had worked with as they shook his hand and thanked their quartet for volunteering.

Eben, the project's foreman, passed out one of the curious coins to each person.

Jeshen smiled and thanked him, waiting until they were on the transit back to the imperial district to ask, "What are these?"

The coin had a nice weight to it, a flexible resiliency that Jeshen thought might be some kind of steel alloy. The imprint on one side was of the imperial dragon, but as an ouroboros wrapped around a scaled egg. The opposite side had a crowd scene, with the people in front arm in arm and the words "Stronger United" filling the bottom third of the disk. An inscription chased the edges. "Awarded for Service in Our Community."

"Service credits," Princess Isabey said. "The Kharman Wharf Center for Community Development gives them out to volunteers. The volunteers can keep them, give them away, or redeem them at the Center's Commissary. They prefer for people to redeem the tokens because they get some extra funding for the program."

"And two of these will get a reader at the commissary?" Jeshen asked.

Isabey nodded. "It's part of a program to make it easier for people to study at home. Almost no one in the Wharf District has auggies, no links, no comm nets. The readers are a way they can still catch the public broads. Problem is, readers are the kind of old tech that no one likes to make. People who can pay for the nicer ones already have auggies and the makers say the lower end ones are about worth the cost of their parts. Which is more than most of the people who need them can pay."

Jeshen kept that first coin, choosing instead to make a modest donation to the Center.

Over the course of the next several years, Princess Isabey drew him deeper into her anonymous charities, and he earned many, many more of the coins, but that first one remained special to him.

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Jeshen reined in Emma and pulled out that same service token. He ran the pad of his thumb over the surface, a gesture that had become his quiet reminder that he was finally enough. He needed that reminder while he gazed out over the pastures of his childhood home.

Over the years, Princess Isabey, with the help of her Rittar, taught him more about the principles and integrity at the heart of the ancient concept of noblesse oblige than he ever thought he could learn. While she and Konstance Rittar taught him how to respect himself and how to value the people who did see him as more than some poor, failed clone of his brother, they also taught him how to forgive the people who chose not to.

Forgiveness, however, didn't mean forgetfulness. Though Lord Timbon's disregard for Princess Isabey was not much more than the classic reaction of an experienced courtier to the attitude of his liege, none of Isabey's Knight Errors found that an acceptable reason for the Lord Chamberlain to show open contempt for the Imperial Heir Minor.

At the same time, ensuring Lord Timbon stank of vinegar and hurrash musk probably wasn't the best way to remove that contempt. Even if the old skunk deserved the dunking, Isabey didn't need more hard feelings directed her way. More importantly, she didn't need to lose her supporters, and the so-far unofficial censure they were all receiving rather neatly separated the Knight Errors from their princess.

With a wry twist of his lips, Jeshen found that he still despised being the Magara Heir Minor, but now he wished he were fourth-born instead of second. A fourth child could swear Armsman's Allegiance while an Heir Minor could only swear allegiance to his House, his liege, and his emperor. As far as Jeshen was concerned, his lifetime's service was a paltry repayment for the meaning Princess Isabey had given his life.

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Jeshen, accompanied by both Markus and the newly bonded Johann, met Lord Pitor at the Fife Governance Building in downtown Maga. The Assignment of Armsman's Rights and Responsibilities had gone off without issues, and the medic who linked Johann into Jeshen's private net gave them the all clear. Markus smiled every time Johann jumped at the new data flowing through his neural networks, though he did reassure the new armsman that the life-sign monitors would soon become white noise. With a few years, he would even be able to discern Jeshen's moods off the monitors.

Pitor didn't say much in the way of greeting, and they headed off to the Ipsberg Medical Clinc, the sole charitable medical center in Maga. One of the clerical volunteers, Abigail, met them in the front lobby. A look of relief crossed her face on seeing Jeshen, which his subtle head-shake quickly wiped away. Lord Pitor gave his Heir Minor a narrow look out of the corner of his eyes. However, all he said was, "Is Administrator Durgish ready to see us?"

Abigail flashed a bright, nervous smile and gave the guests a stiff half bow. "Right this way, my lord, sir, Armsmen."

She led them past the examination rooms to a small cubbyhole office at the back of the building and knocked on the door jam. The dark skinned man skimming text feed on his desk reader jerked at the sound, and then jumped up to greet his guests. He bowed, a much more practiced maneuver than Abigail had managed.

"My Lord Magara, please, please be seated! Ah, Master Jeshen, I'll be happy to speak with you in a little bit. My lord, how may I or our humble clinic be of service to you?"

Pitor turned to his son, arching one eyebrow. "'Master' Jeshen?"

The Heir Minor shrugged his shoulders, adjusted his cuffs, and sniffed dismissively. "So I never bothered to use my titles; what of it?"

The clinic administrator asked, his voice cracking, "Titles?"

Pitor, still studying his youngest, answered with deliberate enunciation, "Administrator Durgish, it seems you are already acquainted with my son and Heir Minor, Jeshen Alexander Ramses Magara. Would you be so kind as to enlighten me as to how you came to know my son?"

"Mast -- I mean, Lord Jeshen is a regular contributor to the clinic and volunteers several hours a month with the clerical administration. He has provided education grants that allowed many of our volunteers to obtain nursing and doctoral degrees in return for service in the clinic." Despite the help Jeshen provided, the clinic only existed on the Lord of Fife Magara's sufferance. The tic jumping in the corner of Lord Pitor's mouth as he studied his son did not inspire the Administrator with confidence in the continued existence of his clinic.

"How long has this ... has he 'contributed' to the Ipsberg Clinic?"

"I would have to consult the records for a definitive answer, but I would estimate four years."

"Three years and seven months, give or take a few days, actually." Jeshen gave his sire a pointed look. "Whatever are we standing here for? I do believe we had some business to take care of, Father."

Administrator Durgish blinked, clearly shocked by Jeshen's behavior. A faint, "Oh, dear!" escaped his lips.

Pitor, too busy thinking and glaring at Jeshen, dismissed Durgish's exclamation. "Why?" he finally snapped out.

Jeshen glanced over at Durgish and squared his shoulders. He dropped the sneering quality from his words. "Ahmed, I apologize for bringing this scene into your office. Please, may Father and I take over the back break room for a private conversation?"

"Absolutely, Ma -- Lord Jeshen!"

"Father, the break room is this way. It's relatively soundproofed, though I wouldn't recommend shouting," Jeshen advised, striding off while discarding the pose of an arrogant, self-absorbed clothes horse altogether.

Pitor followed his son, trailed by the armsmen. Once behind closed doors, he set his face in the implacable lines that had made all his children confess their misdeeds within moments. Jeshen simply met implacable stare with imperturbable stoicism, a strange and somber something lurking in the back of his gaze. When it became obvious that silence would not draw out a confession, Pitor asked, "Why?"

"Which 'why' are you asking? Why did I start volunteering? Or why did I never tell you about it?"

"Both of those would be a good start."

Jeshen dialed a glass of water from the refreshment center, offering it first to his father, who declined, before taking a sip and answering. "The short answer would be Princess Isabey. She started dragging me around on her own charitable jaunts, and I found the experience to be ... exceptionally rewarding."

"But why keep it hidden, like some dark secret?"

"I've never hidden my actions. Since the day you demanded my armsmen's Recall, you never asked." Setting the glass down, Jeshen allowed his lips to twist into a wry smile. "You never once asked what I did with my time, where I chose to spend my retainer, or even what I thought of the weather. You lecture quite well; you've got that down pat. You give orders and criticism with pomp, but it has been quite clear from the beginning that you wrote me off. You have your heir and a spare, and I've always been the extra, damned to spoilage. Why should I put myself out for someone who wrote me off before I was even half grown?" Jeshen asked mildly, eyes clear and calm as he met his father's gaze. How he managed that when he gut twisted with nerves at finally speaking up, he didn't know.

Pitor opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned at his son. "When did you ever give me a reason to think you wanted more than to be some snotty dandy?"

"Oh, I don't know, how about every time I tried to get involved with the herds and you brushed it off because it was Jason's job? How about when I asked about the farms and you declared that was Paulson's responsibility? Then there was when I asked about our factors and you saying Sari had all that wrapped up. The only responsibility you allowed me was showing up at court and looking for a wife. Even then, the only lady I took a fancy to you decided was beneath us, though I have to admit you buying her off did prove to be the better course. So, when did you ever ask more of me than to be some 'snotty dandy'?"

Jeshen waved his own question off and heaved a great, big sigh. "Frankly, Father, we can sit here spitting recriminations and dissecting all the things we all did wrong. Somehow, I just don't think it's going to change the past. So the question really is, where do we want to go from here? If you want to keep the snot-nosed dandy around, that's up to you and how you choose to treat me. If you're as sick of the role as I am, then start treating me like your son and stop treating me like damaged goods."

The Lord of Fife Magara took a seat at the break room table. He studied Jeshen for a few moments, then asked, "Alright, well, let's start off with just what the hells have you been up to?"

Jeshen grabbed his water glass and took a seat at the table. "Oh, quite a bit of this and that. Isabey introduced me to a few good money managers, so most of my Heir Minor retainer's been going straight to a few of my pet projects, like expanding Ipsberg Clinic ...."