* * *

"We, cronies, friends, servants of Artigo the Indomitable and Ottovio the Valiant, those who had ignited the War of Wrath, we hated each other, fiercely, overpoweringly. But, amazingly, that same hatred brought us closer together. To destroy the enemy, we had to know his strengths and weaknesses, to know him better than a moneylender, who lends gold and studies his future debtor. And knowledge leads to understanding. And, in the end, the sworn enemy became closer and more understandable than another comrade-in-arms.

My friends and my enemies have long since rested in their graves... those fortunate enough to have found a grave or crypt for a skull with God-fearing engraving. But in my memory, they are all but silent shadows now. Shadows that wait patiently beyond the brink of death to finally welcome the last soldier of long-dead armies into their ranks"

Gaval Sentry-Poton-Batleau.

"A ninth letter to my son, about our enemies and hatred."

* * *

"Wine?" Curzio was rather performing the ritual than asking, but the sudden answer confused him a little.

"Water," Yulo, the head of the Council of Gold and Silver, said dryly and coldly, like a killer winter wind.

"Please," Curzio thanked himself for his foresight and moderation. He drank little wine, preferring southern beer and pure water, so a carafe of water from the deep well was always within reach.

The islander's tableware was inferior to Wartensleben's, of course, but it was also worthy of dignitaries, so there was no shame in handing Yulo an exquisite silver-braided glass. The woman took a slow and shallow sip, staring at Curzio with a heavy and impenetrable gaze. It looked truly evil and creepy, considering the woman's right eye was wide open and the left one was covered by turtle eyelids, and visibly squinted. Yulo changed her habits and instead of a huge wig, with no less huge ribbon, she cut her hair almost bald, leaving only a short hedgehog. In public, the defiant hairstyle was concealed by a dainty cap, but now, in the afternoon sunlight, the first gray of her head was silvery.

Why doesn't she fix her face with magic, Curzio thought? Yes, it's not cheap, to put it bluntly, not more than ten mages in the entire Ecumene can do it. But someone of her level could afford it. And, obeying a certain naiveté, the islander decided to break the long-standing tradition, as well as the pre-checked plan of heavy conversation. Curzio smiled slightly and asked bluntly:

"Do you speak now as the head of your Council, as the extraordinary envoy of Saltoluchard, or as an old friend of mine?"

"Frankly," Yulo said with the same dryness as before, blinking her heavy eyelids like a wise turtle of the open sea. "And blunt. Not like you."

"Alas," Curzio replied with the same smile. "Perhaps I've been on the mainland too long and have been in contact with the people of the Great Land."

"Yes. It has spoiled your manners," Yulo agreed, tapping the tip of her long fingernail against the giant pearls gathered in an elaborate necklace.

Curzio suddenly remembered that such curiosities were only obtained in very deep crevices, where predatory octopuses lived, and there was even an unspoken knowledge that each silver ball was paid for with the lives of at least three divers. In other words, Yulo has worn at least three dozen dead men around her long, graceful neck. This echoes the continental aristocracy's custom of wearing clothes made from the yarn of man-eating spiders.

"Count me in three roles at once," she continued, folding her arms across her stomach, covering the gold buckle of her woven belt.

"It would be necessary to specify which spiritual substance prevails," Curzio remarked. "But that would probably be unnecessary."

"Exactly. But since we've accepted the decline of your manners as fact, I think I'll allow myself the luxury of-" Yulo wiggled her fingers in the air, as if selecting the right word from the dust dancing in the yellow light. "Straightness."

She stood up, rustling the precious fabric of her continental-style dress tailored in a straight silhouette, with no fancy bows or wide skirts that looked like loose sails. She approached a tall floor-to-ceiling glass window that spanned the entire wall of the large room. Curzio stood a little behind; he already knew he could see Yulo.

The Emperor had five residences traditionally named after the colors of the rainbow, and it was believed that the Lord of the World alternated between them according to mood, season, and general hardships. From Red - for festivities and days of general prosperity - to Purple intended to govern the realm in times of great calamity and war. Only three - Yellow, Green, and Blue - were actually used, the rest having been given over to archives and other auxiliary services of the Court for many years. One had become the center of the postal service, and the other had not long ago burned to the ground, reducing to ashes the account books of the great fairs of Milvess and the registry of the Crown's forests.

The young Emperor had chosen the Blue Palace as his residence for the time being, formally for the winter and in fulfillment of the mourning for his predecessor who had died prematurely. In fact, it was more of a house arrest, so the boy would not interfere with serious business and would be somewhere out of the way, but at the same time close to Milvess, in easy reach of couriers with papers for the highest approval and lordship's signature. The Blue Palace was smaller than the rest and looked more like some primator's manor house in a dense park. It was considered a "mournful" place, but Curzio liked it - relatively sparse, quiet, and a real forest around, though not a forest. Among other things, there was a good training ground with a small arena and a crossbow range. All the body arts could be practiced here, from horse racing to wrestling. But right now, the excellent destrier was bored, digging the sand of the arena with his hoof. The guards froze, halberds pointed toward the sky. On a green rectangle planted with a special "everlasting" grass, two figures were converging and diverging in a foot sword fight. The thick yet transparent glass muffled the clang of metal, so the fight was silent. It was obvious, however, that the smaller figure was very poor with his weapons, but he was trying hard.

Yulo watched the contraction and said without turning around:

"So? I'm ready to hear you out. And mind you, I'm not waiting for your excuses, I'm inviting you to speak up. Appreciate that and don't abuse the last few drops of my trust."

Curzio took a step back, hands behind his back. At such moments, the deliberate pretentiousness and uncomfortableness of Saltoluchard's ceremonial dress were particularly acute. It looked silly, too, considering that the woman was dressed in continental fashion.

"You know... It's funny," the man said. Curzio knew he was running on waves that weren't even covered in ice, but he decided: in this case, he could take a risk like Prince Gayot. If they expect one thing from you, do another, but carefully, without overdoing it.

"What's so funny about this?" the woman asked without turning around.

"How many years have passed…" Curzio said thoughtfully. "Once upon a time, a boy and a girl, and then a young man and a young woman dreamed. Alone, unwanted, outcasts in their own families. And where did those dreams lead? To the capital of the world. I would say it is poetic."

Yulo turned a quarter turn and measured Curzio with a stern look, in which there was irony bordering on sarcasm.

"My friend, you were the outcast. And I was just an ugly child, the result of five generations of cousin and second cousin blood. And it was you who dreamed, I only listened, because you were the only one who was kind to the long-necked, slant-eyed freak. On the other hand, the slant-eyed ugly woman was the only one who was friends with the young and beggarly Malt...."

She sighed, this time with a sincerity that God knows was feigned or genuine.

"Well, I'll take that as a successful bow on the nostalgia string. I will not be merciful, but I will listen to whatever you have to say. But don't waste my time."

Yulo sighed again and took a step towards her interlocutor.

"Curtz, why are you so stupid?" she asked, almost like a real person. "Everything was going so well... A couple more years and you would have become my assistant, the second man in the Council of Gold. And then... who knows... A woman could never be a Doge, but you could. And the two of us."

She waved her hands eloquently. Curzio sadly repeated her gesture and said:

"Because sometimes you should stick your principles where the toilet rags are. And sometimes you don't. I made a choice then, and maybe Two guided me."

"I'm listening. What kind of pathetic conspiracy have you organized?"

The woman's face turned into an inexpressive mask, her eyes frozen like painted balls of marble. It became clear that the string of sad nostalgia had frozen, and it was time to talk strictly business.

"This is not a conspiracy," Curzio said seriously and judiciously. "It is rather an association of intelligent and caring people who want to look into the future. To anticipate it, and if possible to sculpt it, like sculptors."

"Pretentious. So far you have only angered a worthy teacher, whom, by the way, we sent from the far south, the best of the best. He's about to challenge the boorish earl to a duel of honor."

Curzio snorted sincerely, not holding back a smile.

"A false god to help him," the man said cheerfully. "If you value this mentor, you'd better talk him out of it. Shotan will use his right to choose the weapon and kill the fool."

"Yes?.." Yulo thought for a moment. "You seem to appreciate this upstart."

"Ancestral precepts," Curzio said meaningfully. "To know the usefulness of every tool, to consider it, and to use it for good. You may have noticed that our... miserable conspiracy has brought together a very interesting circle of people. But before I turn to it, I will allow myself to ask a question."

"Ask."

"How much money is in Saltoluchard's coffers? At the moment."

"Curtz, are you crazy?" Yulo asked in no uncertain terms. "I remind you that you are in disgrace and, given your recent behavior, you have a good chance of coming home with a scarf around your neck."

"Formally, I am still a member of the Privy Council, albeit as a special counselor. No one has relieved me of my duties and rights. They have been enumerated quite clearly. I could ask such questions, at my own risk, with the expectation that their validity would be approved after the Council... or its representatives."

"That's clever," the woman agreed. With a barely audible rustle of her dress, she walked to the back of the room and gracefully lowered herself onto a banquette chair. In front of Yulo thus appeared a graceful table with a board for playing "Galleys", a very popular accessory this year. Milvess was quick to adopt the habits of his new hosts, from clothing and viands to fashionable trinkets.

"Well, ask," the woman allowed. "With full understanding of the possible consequences."

"Honorable Madam, head of the Council of Gold and Silver, how much of the yellow and red metal is now stored in the cellars of Saltoluchard?"

"Two hundred and thirty-nine full 'dry' barrels," Yulo answered without delay.

Curzio closed his eyes for a moment, translating the pure weight of the noble metal into standard "good" coins, then swallowed, the only thing that gave away his feelings. But that didn't escape Yulo's gaze.

"Yes," she replied briefly to the unspoken question. "The treasury is a little... overstretched."

"Half a million gold," Curzio said, more to himself. "I thought we had at least a million. At least. So Rule of Five is broken, then?"

"Formally broken," Yulo said with the coldness of strict knowledge. "We have about eighteen percent of the world's gold under our thumb."

Curzio poured a glass of water, masking a moment of confusion behind the natural movement. Of course, Yulo understood his interlocutor's maneuver perfectly, smiling sarcastically.

"Well," Curzio said, taking a tiny sip. "I guess that's even better."

Yulo raised an eyebrow over her bulging eye, the left, squinting, remained motionless, as if her entire orbit was paralyzed.

"I see," Curzio rubbed his palms together like a potter preparing to put his fingers on a lump of clay. Or a masseur warming cold hands.

"The motives are really very simple," he said with the same businesslike manner and sat opposite Yulo so the Galley board was between the two interlocutors.

"By the way... funny," grinned the man, unfolding a board in the shape of two ships tied together by their sides. "We see this game as a friendly competition between oarsmen who jump from oar to oar. The mainlanders have turned it into a violent boarding game. Does that speak to their inferiority and malice, or to our reputation in their eyes?"

Yulo remained silent, hypnotizing the man with an unblinking stare.

"So," Curzio picked up a palm full of chips and placed one on the table. "One. The change of power has not gone smoothly, the swamp of the mainland nobility has been stirred up from the bottom to the top. That's a problem and a costly one at that."

Yulo smiled very softly at the outsider. Curzio was not an outsider, so he placed the next checker a little faster.

"Second. Famine is coming. More like the Famine," he emphasized the capital letter. "And I suppose the first problem is that the "famine" warehouses are empty, aren't they? They're probably being emptied by now, and what's left will be looted by spring. The committees are not doing their duties because they are afraid to pressure the highborns and merchant guilds into an unstable situation. If the next "eye and hand" of the imperial crown gets a hint about how easy it is these days to get poisoned by stale mutton or fall on his own dagger a few times, who will protect him? No one. Am I right?"

Yulo was silent, but that silence was quite... eloquent, shall we say.

"Third," the wooden circle clattered to the polished tabletop. "To hold on to power, to keep the Empire from collapsing into separate kingdoms, to somehow organize the distribution of bread, you need troops. Numerous troops must be well paid or they will be overbought for bread and gold. You need an army. And there is one."

Curzio shook his fist thoughtfully with the clenched chips, as if to give the woman time to think about what she had heard, then put out a fourth checker.

"But there is no money to pay them."

Curzio, in turn, raised an eyebrow at Yulo.

"It all sounds pretty reasonable so far," she agreed.

"Then let's continue."

A new chip has been added to the overall lineup.

"Fifth. Our ancestral home will not pay. Even if the Council decided to break the rules there would be no money to cover the shortfall. And then there's six. I remember a conversation not so long ago about the universe going up in flames. Judging by the fuss we're all making here, the obvious must have become clear - now is not the time to be hiding out across the Strait. Is it? If the continent doesn't keep up its supply of bread and ship's timber, the Aleinsae family will lose a lot of its luster. We can't survive on fish, the sea around the Island has been devastated by centuries of unrestricted fishing."

And again Yulo remained eloquently silent.

"Seven. The Primators are lying in wait to see how it all ends. The "old" aristocracy demonstrates that it does not deny, but does not accept the new power unconditionally. Thus, they are pushing us to pay our old debts. It's a hook from which, unfortunately, we can't get off," Curzio continued to lay out the rounds. "The conclusion is simple and obvious: we must get the money. At any price. And it must be planned for several years at once. So no one-time levies will help. We must raise taxes. But if the Court and the Council of Regents simply send out an imperial edict to the towns and cities to raise the old taxes and introduce new ones, the Ecumene will immediately explode into a general revolt. And our great army will drown in it like a grain of sand in the sea."

Yulo gave silent and slow applause, her squinted eye almost so that the head of the Council of Gold and Silver now seemed like a wise and sinister frog. Curzio tossed the ninth and final chip, caught it, and put it in with the others, closing the row.

"Which means you'll be calling the Senate. And quickly, very quickly. You need to gather them, explain what's going on, work with the elected representatives, distribute threats and bribes with all generosity, and get united consent, at least nominal. And approve the new taxes by the votes of all the classes."

"The last time the Senate met was more than two centuries ago," Yulo said with a vague intonation that didn't sound like denial, anyway. "And even then, it sounded like a travesty."

"So this will be the first real convocation since the Disaster," Curzio summarized. "God willing, it will be a year. And even then we'll have to delay the soldiers' salaries."

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"You're out of chips," the woman remarked.

"Yes, indeed," Curzio agreed. "But there were still some clever thoughts in store. Do I interest you? Shall I continue?"

"Please. I still don't see the connection between the possible convening of the Senate and your dubious machinations. It seems more like trying to pull fish out of other people's nets in a storm. And rest assured, dozens of denunciations are already flying to the Council."

"In the hour when the Aleinsae must unite in the face of danger," Curzio said, eagerly. "The prodigal son is conspiring behind the Regents' backs."

"That's right."

"In fact, they are wrong. You are mistaken," clarified the suspected conspirator. "My considerations are purely practical and noble."

"Wow, what an original combination," the woman marveled. "Nobility and practicality combine like water and oil. Or are you an alchemist who found a way to combine the incongruous?"

"Yes," the man waved his hands. "I'm a wizard. Look."

He stood up and walked around, gesturing as he went.

"Getting the Senate together is not easy. Getting it to come to a common decision is doubly difficult, and since we're talking about taxes, it's easier to get the moon out of the sky. The main obstacle is our reputation. After everything that's happened, it won't be easy to convince everyone that the Board of Regents wants money for the greater good, not to fill the coffers of the Island. Especially since that's exactly what the Board wants, among other things. And that's where we need the Emperor."

"We have one."

"No, we have a puppet that everyone is already openly saying is a puppet on strings strung from fishing line. We have a boy who has not yet hated the Regents solely by virtue of God's handiwork. We have an eighth son who can't do anything and primarily can't look, talk, or just walk like the Emperor, Lord of the World."

"So what?"

"You will ask and demand money for the good of the Empire and the Ecumene because these entities are inseparable... for the Great Land, but we will modestly keep silent about such a small thing. So we have to show the Emperor not from afar like a rag doll on a stick. He will have to communicate with the elected, give them some guarantees, and promise them privileges, after all, symbolizes power. And what if the guy suddenly complains, or at least blabs someone about his dissatisfaction with his position? If he just happens to be insecure, timid, and fearful? If he ends up openly resenting it?"

"That wouldn't be good," Yulo agreed.

"But that's where this is headed. You've locked Ottovio in the farthest residence, cut him off from all matters of Imperial governance. You've taught him things he has no interest in. You treat him like a petty nobleman of Saltoluchard. Whether you hide him from the Senate or show him as he is neither is good enough."

"But then you come on deck with daggers in your teeth?"

"Yes. Count Shotan. An example to poor nobles who dream of earning privilege and wealth through service. And by serving the Empire, not the tetrarchs and dukes ready to tear the Ecumene apart. Prince Gayot will please the lower classes because a Highlander is as savage as an ordinary shopkeeper or craftsman. Duke Wartensleben. An honorable and respected representative of the Bonoms. And at last, I, the humble son of Saltoluchard, known to all for my moderate views and kindly disposition toward the Great Land."

"It's like a fabulous entourage. The epitome of all virtues."

"Yes. We are wise educators who stand behind a young, but smart, strong, skilled in martial arts and sciences ruler. Who can go to a tournament and discuss difficult issues with his elected officials. For example, how to limit the interest on loans. Whether it is possible to replace "personal" taxes with levies on "smokes". How to curb the payoffs and ensure that the money collected for "famine" needs does not end up in the coffers of thieves. And so on. In our hands, Ottovio will become..."

"Stubborn," the woman finished in his place. "Arrogant. Uncontrollable. I mean a true emperor. We might have to negotiate with him, persuade him, justify him. Why should we?"

"The Aleinsae family is like a man who stands on two ice floes and can't decide which one to choose. But the ice is breaking up, and fast. The Council and the Doge want to do business according to the old ways, but they want the gold to pour into their coffers in a new way. That's not going to work. Or we stick to the old ways and keep our defenses against the world, milking gold and silver out of it. In this case, Ottovio, according to tradition, should be content to live in a good house, have servants, respect, and eat meat every day, not salted fish. Or we rule the Empire directly, but then we should act imperial. Like real rulers. And Ottovio is no longer the eighth son of a useless branch of the Aleinsae, but the leader and ruler of a united world. Primators, bonomes, lower classes, capital, merchant guilds, workshops, they look at us and see insanely rich, but still provincial nobles who walk out of rank. And soon they may realize that our ambitions are beyond us. This cannot be allowed to happen. We need a strong and intelligent Emperor, who will not grit his teeth in hatred at the word - Saltoluchard."

"And you will ascend to the imperial throne, having recouped all your losses."

"I am modest," Curzio said. "I am content with little. The opportunity to be a discreet counselor, a link between the Great Land and the Island, would suit me just fine."

The Head of Saltoluchard's treasury drank half the glass leisurely, savoring the taste of pure water. It was hard to get such water on the Island, and no matter how much it was purified, the liquid still tasted faintly of sea salt or was completely tasteless.

"I see your point," Yulo said, but she didn't sound approved. "By the way," she changed the subject abruptly. "How do you intend to instill in him an interest in the sciences? To speak freely with the negociants, to convince them of the necessity of new taxes, it is not enough to read Kleken of Rovia, although it is very useful. You must know their trade, books of account and money."

"Oh..." this time Curzio's smile promised a fascinating riddle. "I think we'll be able to interest Ottovio in a matter that at first glance seems boring, one might even say dreary."

Yulo looked at her interlocutor long and carefully, then suddenly hummed understandingly.

"So that's who you bought the emergency magical transfer for....."

* * *

"Now it's time to devote some time to books."

"Udolar-" Ottovio paused and corrected himself. "Your Grace. Or is it Lordship?"

"Your Lordship. But if you wish to emphasize respect for the interlocutor, to distinguish him from the others, and also to show his adherence to antiquity, you can say: "Most Serene and Powerful Sovereign".

Udolar caught himself looking at the young Emperor with an almost fatherly gentleness. I'm getting old, the Duke thought, or maybe it's the habit of living in a cage with spiders. After communicating with predatory creatures, who have only faces from people, it is enough to look at an ordinary good man, and the soul becomes softer than wax.

It was common knowledge that the Aleinsae were very reluctant to dilute the thick ichor of the Lords of the Waves with the watery red water of the mainlanders. That is, they practiced close marriages, much closer than the Church of Pantocrator allowed. This is how the property and purity of blood of one of the oldest families of the Ecumene were protected. But everything has its price, and over the centuries of such practice, the Aleynsee's chosenness began to be clearly reflected on their faces. And not just their faces. It was whispered that in the noble houses of the Island, nearly half of the babies were born dead or died in the first days of life, while on the continent death took no more than a third of the motherless newborns and only one in five in wealthy families.

Ottovio, however, had been spared the harsh fate, probably because of the healthier blood of the side branch of Gotdua. The fourteen-year-old was unusually swarthy, but his hair was a rare shade of gold and dark red, and his eyebrows seemed almost white. His face was clean, and his gray eyes showed a natural intelligence that had not been sharpened by elaborate exercises. His nose seemed a little wide but within normal limits.

His wife will be unhappy, the Duke thought. If a drop of masculinity (as the bloody but skillful bastard Shotan was doing) were to be poured into this vessel, the first beauties of Milvess would mercilessly poison each other in the struggle for the ruler's favorable attention, and not only for profit.

But there is still a lot of work to be done to make that happen.

"You have such a strange double name in the Great Land," complained the young emperor.

"It has been so for a long time, my lord," explained Wartensleben, with a casual air. "In the Old Empire, there was originally no rank system of nobility. There were commoners, men of honor, and mages. That was the end of the division of society. Over time, however, everything became more complicated, and different kingdoms were formed differently. The Emperors sought to introduce a single statute but did not dare to abolish the established traditions. As a result, I am at once duke, nador and gastald. And dear Count Shotan is also a gastald, but a fo-ishpan. Lovag is a lowland warrior nobleman, but at the same time "Lovari" is also called a baroness, in memory of the times of the Calamity, when wives and daughters, left without husbands and fathers, themselves defended their possessions like real warriors."

"Difficult," Ottovio repeated with wistful hopelessness.

"Yes, that's true," the Duke didn't argue. "But you will have to learn these nuances, my lord. Them, and much more."

Ottovio looked up at the word "have to," but he remained silent, listening. He was used to the Duke's speeches being useful and reasonable.

"Great kingdoms are assembled by the swords of warriors. But they are held and preserved by the power of the quill and the spreadsheet. My lord, you stand on the shoulders of the Titans who united the Ecumene, but what has been gathered can always be destroyed. You are to rule the realm in difficult times. You must face them head-on."

Wartensleben took a breath watching the young man's reaction carefully. Ottovio listened, even though he did not like the concept of the Emperor-accountant.

"However, your new tutor will tell it better than I can," the duke smiled modestly.

"Okay," Ottovio snorted with undisguised irritation. "Where is that ... tutor?"

Wartensleben did not resort to the bell and clapped his hands loudly. The soft sound echoed through the enfilade of rooms in the palace, echoing off the carved panels, crystal, and precious furniture made of black oak that had long since disappeared. As if a continuation of the echo, heels clacked and a tall figure stepped into the library. Ottovio paid no attention to her at first, gazing longingly at the ceiling cabinets and the old-style record racks made of many meters of papyrus ribbons. The Emperor was horrified at the thought of having to leaf through all of this and, god forbid, memorize it. It was much more interesting to learn the wisdom of arms from a militant count... Then Ottovio did not see who had entered, for he stood in the doorway, behind which a glassed-in gallery opened and the afternoon sun shone, but the library had no windows, only clusters of magic lamps under the ceiling - the sunlight was harmful to old incunabula and papyrus.

"Your Imperial Majesty."

Hearing the soft female voice, Ottovio froze with his mouth open involuntarily.

"Let me introduce you to my eldest daughter," the Duke bowed graciously. "Biel ausf Wartensleben. She is so skillful in various sciences that she has earned the nickname of the Hermit from her admiring subjects."

"It is a great honor for me to be presented to His Majesty," with these words Biel Wartensleben stepped into the light of the lamps, and Ottovio with difficulty picked up his jaw.

The Marquesa was not beautiful. She was past the age of youth, some would even call her aging. But there was a strange combination of breed in Biel. A fusion of health, bodily and mental, majestic dignity, and a pride that did not turn to hubris. Her posture would have been the envy of a trained guard of the sovereign's body. Her dark dress was surprising in its deliberate simplicity and high collar with silver buttons instead of deep necklines in clouds of lace. The woman wore only red gold earrings and a thin arm bracelet with the Wartensleben coat of arms. Her face was perhaps a little pale and overly broad, and her eyelids somewhat puffy, but this was offset by the soft light of the lamps and the large, impenetrably dark eyes.

In general, the eighth son, frankly speaking, not spoiled by female attention, saw with his own eyes the quintessence of the concept of "high style".

Ottovio swallowed and pulled himself up as straight as he could. He swallowed again, trying to moisten his dry throat. He realized that if he tried to say anything now, it would only come out as pathetic, unworthy of the Emperor's bleating and wheezing. Biel smiled, and it was a surprisingly soft, friendly smile, and he wanted to wrap himself in it like a warm blanket, to drown in it like... like a mother's love, which gives everything without asking anything in return. Ottovio realized at once that he did not need to be ashamed of his imperfection, that this woman would not ridicule him behind his back or even think a bad thought.

"I-" He coughed, clearing his throat. "I am pleased to welcome..." He hesitated for a moment, remembering the duke's recent words. "You... Most Serene and Powerful Sovereign."

"Oh, you are courteous and familiar with the old ways," Biel stepped closer and curtsied impeccably. "I ask you to do me the honor of showing me the treasures of this library. I have dreamed of seeing them ever since I learned to read."

"Yes, certainly, certainly," Ottovio agreed hastily and held out his hand. "Let me show you... This... this... this..."

"The Parthid scrolls," the well-hidden fire of eager curiosity flickered in the woman's eyes. - Long ago, important records were written on sheets of papyrus, then glued together to make scrolls up to ten feet long.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes," Ottovio agreed quickly. "Here, let's have a look..."

"By the way, that's interesting," Biel let the hurried young man lead her toward the rows of racks with huge rolls in lacquered cases. "In the days of the Old Empire, scribes were not supposed to sit. All records were made standing up, which is why they're so hard to make out... Sometimes impossible."

The woman sighed with unconcealed regret, and the Emperor could hardly refrain from promising to make all the scribes of Milves parse the old letters day and night. Biel, as if imperceptibly, very naturally turned the conversation from the papyrus to the subject of Parthides and Diabalus, that is, the legislation of the Ecumene and its dual nature, the combination of the norms of the Old and Modern Empire. Wartensleben smiled inconspicuously and went out just as inconspicuously, intending to inform the unexpected allies that the problem of the young Emperor's fascination with the sciences was no longer a problem.

* * *

"Well..."

Yulo suddenly smiled, without the previous arrogant superiority or pity, with understanding and even a touch of approval.

"It could work. But!" she held up two fingers sternly "No kids! Not a shadow of a possible scandal! We need a speedy engagement, and that's out of the question. The dynasty should be nailed to the throne tighter and the heirs are the best nails. So the mourning will not last a day longer than decency dictates. Then the engagement, again as short as it can be. And children. Many children without stopping."

Curzio endured the image of the imperturbable schemer to the end, like a perfect actor, but in his heart, he rejoiced. Yulo's last sentences indicated that she was interested in the plan and that the island emissary had received approval to try.

"That's unlikely," Curzio shook his head. "If Ottovio even moves a finger in the wrong direction, he'll be left without an arm. In the figurative sense, of course. Wrong family, wrong woman."

"Ah," she nodded understandingly. "The beauty of an unattainable ideal. The desire to earn attention and approval in the only way possible, that is, through diligent study."

"And a real aristocrat who will teach a guy to at least not stutter in the presence of women of the appropriate circle."

"It's risky. But..." Yulo paused, very long, deliberately ominous, calculating the prospects again or keeping Curzio on the hook for fun and edification. "Try it out. Write your thoughts on the parchment, and I'll pass them on to the Council. We'll consider what might come of it."

* * *