“Datra,” called a shrill, soft voice. “Datra, mom says breakfast”—knock, knock, knock knock!

Datra twisted on his pillow and squinted at his bedroom door. The shadow of two tiny feet fanned out under the gap, then turned long and thin as his caller rose up on her toes. “Datra…”

“Mom’s not the boss of me, sweetie.” Datra said. “I’ll be out in bit. Go eat your breakfast.”

The doorlatch rattled as Enya knocked again. A heavier set of feet stamped down the hallway and settled behind her, their stark outline swallowing up the girl’s delicate silhouette. “But Datra, mom sai-.”

A crack rang out. Enya jumped, squealed, and pattered down the hall, her assailant marching behind. The whimpers faded, and Datra settled back into his mattress, feeling each of his forty-seven years as he watched the first sunrays creep across the ceiling. He tried to savor these restful minutes, but Enya’s invitation intrigued him, especially if he’d gotten it by mistake. Eventually, the smell of charred meat tipped the scales, and Datra stretched himself awake.

He shimmied back until his shoulders rested on the headboard, then Datra reached between his buttcheeks and found the thin strip of tape he’d placed there the night before. He tore it free and held it up to the window: no larvae, no eggs. Datra flicked the tape into his wastebin, then he swung out his legs and hopped upright. His ankle popped and crumpled beneath him, sending Datra headlong towards his dresser. He caught himself on the varnished rim, cursing.

He yanked out the top drawer, and a wave of loose subungula piled up against the front panel. Beneath them, a rectangle of parchment sat flat on the bottom. It’s header read “Paetro Lec” in colossal black letters, with “Datra Gaelo T’nay” penned out in flowing script just below. A dozen colorful seals peppered the yellow-white body, all keeping their distance from the black square in the center: the stamp of The Archives, filled with a pen and a scroll. Datra whipped out a garment—linen, not silk—and twisted it about his loins. He moved to leave, then paused and reached to the very back of the drawer, pulling out an immaculate pair of cold-weather socks. Datra shook them by the toes and a jar of wine-red liquid dropped out, looking like a robin’s egg in the crater of underwear. He donned a robe, tucked the jar into his sleeve, and set out for breakfast.

Datra wound through the long hallway towards Operations, hardly rounding the first corner before he heard the clatter of silverware. “He didn’t tell me either,” echoed a deep voice. “Who cares what Customs thinks?” a lighter one followed. The chatter blended together as Datra drew close, and when he reached the doorway, Datra leaned in the frame, pausing to test his ankle and ponder his subordinates.

Dozens of people crowded around the massive oak table, with many more waiting in the wings. At one end, Tremaine stabbed his finger into an unrolled building plan. “I think we can fit a third line,” he said in his wispy, hen-pecked voice. “But I expect them to pay for a cistern. I don’t trust drip-feed, not with that many people.” The builders around him nodded in agreement, and Tremaine leaned back to sip rootwater without endangering his precious charts. Levine walked by with a fresh carafe, and tapped Tremaine on the shoulder. “Not that you need it,” said the older man, topping off his junior’s drink.

In the far corner, Anya faced the wall with crossed arms, staring at the row of iron hatches set into the bricks. Next to her stood D’rar, holding a brass platter in front of his navel. A dull screech sounded from the nearest door, and Anya wrenched open the latch. She craned in with a pair of tongs, pulling out a coil of sausages, a stack of flatcakes, a sheet of freshly beaten egg. With each addition, D’rar leaned a little farther back to cope with the weight; and when Anya pulled out a sizzling brown chicken, the boy’s knees began to buckle. Datra looked on as Anya slid a second, bigger bird to the front of the oven, and D’rar gave in, swinging the platter up as he dropped to a crouch, then standing with his burden balanced on his head. Anya added the final portions, then relatched the door and knocked three times—a hatch clanged open on the other side of the wall.

The young man walked his burden to the table, where Levine concealed a smirk by rubbing his face, and Tremaine’s people snickered. As he drew near, Datra leaned over and snapped up a sausage, causing the whole pile to tilt sideways and spill across the edge, the chain dangling next to D’rar’s ear. Datra took a bite and chuckled. He didn’t want to torment the boy, but next his Sudran head the meat looked so much like a tassel.

“Don’t do that!” D’rar yelled as he knelt to unload the platter. After the nearest eaters helped him slide it onto the table, he spun round ready for a fight, only to fall placid upon seeing his harasser’s face. He snapped to attention and bowed. “S’morro, don!”

“S’morro, prim,” Datra said. “Well done saving the food, although next time I’d make two trips, or tell the sergeant to mind your limits.”

“I will, sir.”

“I will, Datra,” the Chief corrected. With his sausageless hand, Datra pinched one of the boy’s sleevecuffs and lifted it into the space between them. “We’ve all been impressed by your progress, boy. Don’t make me cut these off.”

D’rar looked from Datra to the fine cotton sleeve to the ground. “I will… Datra.” The young Sudra stood tense, as if waiting for a scourge to land across his back. The blow never came, so the boy kept talking.

“Are you feeling well then, Datra?” asked D’rar.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I heard you had an accident last night.”

“Sounds like you’ve been listening to stories,” Datra said with a smirk. “You should know better.”

D’rar blinked and looked towards the table, but Datra put a hand on his temple like blinders on a horse, then tapped him back forward. “I didn’t say rat our your sources. I said you’ve been listening to stories.”

“D’rar answered the door last night,” Levine said over the din. “Ran for me and kept his mouth shut. Did everything right.”

“And you wasted that discretion on Anya.”

“Hey. It worked.”

Datra took his place at the head of the table and reached for one of the ceramic horns lying point-up on the table. Levine offered the carafe and dolled out rootwater while Datra made a plate with his free hand—pickled onion, sweet breads, pies filled with egg and curdled cream; Datra took a sample of each, only passing on the charred slab of “piss pork” which Levine had slid to his corner of the table. He sprinkled some hash on his pie and took a bite, feeling the sting of vinegar mellow out as it mixed with the soft, white filling. As usual, the cooks had done well: strong green herbs and a generous portion of salt; however, he couldn’t stop his eyes from darting up and down the table, as though a basket of apples might have materialized in last five seconds.

That reminded him.

Datra scooted sideways and turned to find Enya. The girl scowled up from beneath Anya’s desk, hands clasped on her sore bottom. Datra waved her over, slapped his knee twice. Enya side-eyed the ovens, then jumped up and ran to Datra, tunic fluttering as she sped across the polished floor. She leaped into Datra’s lap, and he squared up to the table, sliding a saucer of hotcakes right under the girl’s nose. She grabbed one bare-handed, and Datra swatted her wrist, then he reached into the folds of his robe and fished out the jar. He broke the seal, and the pop drew every eye upon him. Datra make a show of ladling berries out onto Enya’s cakes, then he slammed the jar in front of Tremaine. “Pass that around,” he said.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Should I need one?”

The preserves made their way down the table, with most diners taking cautious spoonfuls, and a few passing entirely. Enya made bug eyes at her own plate, but kept her hands down and waited. Datra leaned in with an exaggerated whisper. “I’ll share, but only if you promise not to tell anyone.” The girl nodded and pressed a finger to her lips. Datra did the same, then put a fork into Enya’s fist and helped the girl carve a little wedge out of her cakes. She paused to sniff the morsel, and her eyes lit up when she ate it. The jar made it’s way back, and Datra spun it round, looking for the dates on the import stamp.

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“I didn’t realize how long it’s been,” he said, mostly to Levine. “She might not remember the last time she had it.”

They sat and ate as people came and went, some stopping to sit at the table, others stuffing a roll with chicken and hash before they trudged off toward their stations—or bedrooms, for those who worked nights. As the minutes wore on, the room’s balance shifted from field staff to scribes, thinning out out until Tremaine waved away his builders, leaving only the officers and Enya, whom Anya sent off with D’rar before deadbolting the hallway. Tremaine raised an eyebrow, as if the sergeant had locked herself on the wrong side of the door, but he had the sense to keep quiet. Anya attended to a stack of papers on her desk. Datra cleared his throat.

“We’re down two,” he said.

“He’ll make it,” said Levine.

“I’m not worried about him.”

Datra glanced at the clock in the corner, watching the rhythmic drops fill the cylinder, so close to the top he could hardly see the gap. The last driblet fell, and the counterweight snapped sideways, purging the water from the tube. As it drained, the door swung open, and Lieutenant Barlow strode in, swinging his greatcoat over a chair and sitting in one big motion. He slid up to the table just as the clock clicked back into place.

“Morning, boss,” the young man said, helping himself to a big spoon of preserves. “Ready for the meeting?” Anya worked around the table with bundles of paper. She tossed one to Tremaine, left another by the empty corner seat, and slid a third under Barlow. He looked back and grinned. “Morning Anya, did you get promot—.” Anya stopped him with a touch of the wrist and the faintest “shh”, then she squeezed his shoulder and continued around the table, giving documents to Levine and Datra. Barlow blushed and focused on his cakes.

“Where the hell is Birch?” muttered Datra.

“Oh, I’m supposed to tell you,” said Barlow, pouring himself a horn of boiled milk. “The desk lady said Birch is running late and start without her.”

“And what’s so important?”

“She’s down in the cove with some kid. Desk lady said he’s fighting a fine.”

Datra drained his horn, slammed it down, and stomped to the main door, snatching up a wad of black felt from the rack in his office. He looked back and saw blank stares. “You heard the woman, start!” he yelled. Datra walked through the foyer, and the city map stopped him dead. Irrigators were expected to trace their patrols in chalk, and someone had added Datra’s adventure from the night before, ending with several loopedy-loops and a vertical plunge into The Maine. Datra cursed and rubbed it away with his arm, then slapped the dust from his sleeve as he marched past the front desk—he looked at nobody—and continued down the stairs. “Bunch of children,” he muttered.

The bureau’s basement, the cove, was dim, humid, and nearly empty, a glorified hallway with iron bars on one side and windowless doors on the other. Datra rounded the corner and a few rankless jumped up to act busy, admiring the piles of equipment which filled most of the cells—none contained humans. He waved towards the interrogation rooms, eyebrow raised, and the workers pointed to the nearest one, right next to the lower exit. As Datra drew near, he heard “why should I?” and “it’s not fair” through the insulated door. He took a deep breath and sauntered inside.

A few feet before him sat Birch, one ankle tucked behind the other, plume of silverbrown hair spilling over the leather headboard. On the other side of the greasy green glass which split the room, within arm’s reach of an Irrigator escort, stood a young man of slight build and immaculate grooming, bone-white robe embroidered with crimson floss. There was an unfortunate roundness to his cheeks, and the lad’s skin was a shade past tan, but the heavy brow and strong nose were classically imperial—Datra suspected the boy’s grandmother had called in a favor; cousins make such convenient fathers.

“S’morro, Chief,” said Birch. A sweetness in her voice set Datra on edge.

“I heard someone requested me,” he answered in kind.

“I’m done talking to you people,” the youth said. “Send for my barrister.”

“Citations went out this morning,” said Birch, ”and young master Nicholas requested a hearing. I happen to know his family, so I took the opportunity to catch up while I gave him some information.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Datra. “Satisfied?”

“I want to speak to someone with authority,” said Nicholas.

“Funny you should say that…”

“I mean legal authority.”

“A judge, perhaps?”

“I would talk to a judge.”

Datra took the felt cap from his pocket, slapping it smooth before he slipped the black circlet over his head. Datra pushed the hair from his brow and reached for Birch’s tablet. “Sorry Lieutenant, but unless you’re a witness, I’ll ask you to leave.”

Birch handed over her papers and drifted towards the entrance. “Do give my regards to your mother, Nicholas. I don’t get out like I used to, but I hope to see you soon.”

“S’morro, Lieutenant,” said Nicholas, somber as the door swung shut, fierce after it latched. “I still want my lawyer.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no? I have rights.”

“What on Earth gave you that idea?” asked Datra.

The boy ruffled his feathers. “I’m a citizen. I’m on the Register. I get a lawyer.”

“In civil court, you would get a lawyer; or with the magistrate after appeal. Bureau fines are inquisitorial.”

“What does that mean? You’re cutting off my fingers?”

“It means the judge prosecutes. All a barrister would do is establish his client’s character, which you can do yourself. I’d start with a proper greeting.”

The young man tensed up, chewing his words. “S’morro, Paetr,” he spat out. “My name is Nicholas.”

“S’morro, prim. I am Chief Datra, acting judge. Please explain your issue. A summary: thirty seconds or so.”

“I was at my fiancée’s house, having dinner with her and her aunt. They’re fond of chilled wine, so I brought some ice. The next morning we realized I forgot the bucket, but when I went back your people had already taken it. Then I came home and found this.” He brandished a crumpled slip of paper, marked with Datra’s seal and signature (in Levine’s handwriting).

“Whose name is the bucket in?”

“My mother’s. She’s the one who noticed it was missing. The ice didn’t even have time to melt yet.”

Datra hmm’d and turned through Birch’s notes. One of the fiancé’s cousins was a Bureau auxiliary. After the party, she had emptied the bucket herself and sent a memo—subject line: “stagnant water”. Datra kept flipping and found the boy’s profile; he had been flagged as a future informant.

“Young man, your story lines up, but I’m not seeing a problem. The fine is for leaving a stamped vessel unattended.”

“And I admit I did that. I apologize, but our parents did nothing wrong.”

“Nick, did you take a registered vessel without permission?” Datra let the question hang as he squinted at the documents, then he flipped them shut and chuckled. “Ah, it’s neither here nor there. You aren’t quite sixteen yet, so it’s really a question of parenting.” Datra shook his head. “Leaving a bucket with teenagers…”

“My finance is twenty-seven.”

“However,” Datra pressed on. “I can drop the mother-in-law’s charge.”

“And ours?”

“That’s why I’m dropping it. Your mother is at fault.”

Nicholas stormed forwards, fogging the glass as he fumbled a response. The rankless at his side perked up, ready to pounce if the boy crossed a line. Datra stared into Nicholas’s eyes and raised a stern, open hand between them, then let it fall with the volume.

“Nicholas, I’m giving you my time, so try and appreciate my position. If Irrigation had to litigate every fine, I couldn’t run this place with every man in the bureaus. Your mother’s name is on the stamp: she’s liable. If you can’t move past that, this conversation is over.”

“Okay, but five hundred? My valet doesn’t charge that in a year. I thought fifty was normal.”

“And if your valet was behind the glass, I might charge fifty; but you aren’t your valet, are you?”

Nicholas gawked. Datra pressed on.

“Nick. Do you remember the last census? About three years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Thought as much. When the memos were circulating and everyone had an opinion on taxes and payroll. In all the bickering, did you ever once hear about Irrigation getting funded?”

“…no.”

“You can toss your notes in The Maine for all difference they make. What I need—what we need—is for me and you to walk away from this knowing we understand each other.”

Nicholas stared into the corner for a long moment. “I don’t have five hundred,” he said.

“Again, son. It’s your mother’s fine.”

“But I should be the one to pay for it. I have a few hundred in my account. Could I make payments on the rest?”

Datra held back a smirk. He was starting to like Nicholas.

“What’s your fiancé’s name?”

“Lila Novack.”

“Any relation to Jasper Novack?”

“Granddaughter.”

“And when’s the wedding?”

“March.”

Datra chuckled. “Slick; but if I allowed that I might as well wait for you to inherit. Either we resolve this now or not at all.”

“How, then? You keep saying ‘no’.”

“Tell you what. Sign over a hundred today, and I’ll rip up the fine: no courts, no record, no need to tell mother. We’ll write off the rest as a private debt and work something out. Answer quick and I’ll drop it to seventy-five. I don’t want to go upstairs, but I want to be here less.”

Nicholas stared at the door, the guard, then back at Datra. “When you say work something out, what does that mean?”

“There’s a chance you have some asset the department wants—appropriately valued, of course—but it usually means payment in kind: land surveys, updating registers, things like that. There’s no shortage of work in the clades.”

“I’ve heard of this,” Nicholas trailed off, then glared and stepped back from the glass. “No. I’m not doing this. I want my barrister.”

Datra held up his hands. “It was just an idea. If you don’t like it, that’s fine. It’ll be a standard fine through standard channels. Your mother can afford ice and a bucket to carry it in. I’m sure she’ll manage.”

“I said I want my lawyer.”

“Bye, Nick.” Datra reached for the door, hiding a grin.

“I want to see the Patriarch!”

Datra paused with his hand on the latch. He glanced back at the youth, at the rankless, then back to Nick, slowing to choose ever word: “Nicholas, in my experience, the odds are better in…”

“Are you denying my rights?”

The escort stood up straight and looked to Datra, who felt a dozen arguments flash into his mind, only to fade and wither under the boy’s determined sneer. “You heard the man,” Datra said. “Young master Nicholas is exercising his Right of Arbitration. Get him sealed and head for the Old Palace. You know the way?”

The rankless nodded, and Datra slipped outside. Just before the door slammed shut, he heard a single word:

“Seal?”