Chapter Nine

Her suit was wonderful. This was good. Because it was about to see some serious use. She'd gone to the same tailor as Hull, on the grounds that he knew more tailors than she did, and there was something uniquely unpleasant about shopping around for a new tailor. Tailors prodded and poked her, they invaded her personal space, they put needles in terrifying proximity to her skin - and while usually she'd be entitled to howl and smack them, in this case it was entirely necessary for them to alter a suit for her. Same reason she'd found one barber and had stuck with her forever, no matter what - because it was bad enough letting someone she knew and vaguely trusted to poke her scalp repeatedly while gossiping about the latest pregnancies around the Court of Ivory while also speculating on the identity of the fathers (in every case - not the person the mother claimed it was). That was bad enough. But finding a stranger to do it would just be... no. No no no. So... tailoring, suit, she loved it. The suit. Not the tailoring. That was hit-or-miss. Hull had politely told her that she shouldn't try and get a matching suit to him - that would be odd. So, instead she'd gone for a similar style. Reinforced, heavyweight tweed - based on imported patterns that were used in military uniforms elsewhere in the world.

Which felt... appropriate, given how far they were likely to go.

Heavy trousers, several pairs as backups. Designed to fold easily upwards in case they needed to wade through water, with spare brace buttons sewn into the inner lining, just in case she needed replacements and a haberdashery wasn't in convenient walking distance. Sturdy braces which looked like they ought to be suspending cargo containers down at the trainyard. A waistcoat that could do double duty as a heavy cardigan if necessary - it had clips for a replaceable lining, meaning she could thicken it if things became truly, truly cold. Jacket was much the same, with leather-wrapped buttons and an array of functional pockets. Martingale built into it - a strip of tweed at the back, clipped on with buttons, that gave the appearance of a belt. Oh, it had a purpose - it could be undone to allow her to spread the slightly long jacket out like a blanket. But really, she just liked the way it looked. A solitary concession to vanity. The overall suit moss-green, thick, but surprisingly fashionable. Suits had only arrived to ALD IOM a few decades ago, starting as an eccentric fashion choice before evolving into something more... well, more standardised. Carza understood that in other kingdoms, it was largely for men - which felt very silly to her. They were sturdy, had pockets, had an air of exoticism to them... but apparently in foreign countries women wore dresses, or specially tailored clothes which were distinctly feminine. ALD IOM hadn't quite caught up with the idea.

Regardless, she now had a suit.

She liked it.

A lot.

And now she had to do something much worse than getting a suit tailored to fit her infuriatingly skinny frame - she was eating so many beef sandwiches, she could taste beef on her breath in the morning, at this point she loathed beef and all beef affiliates, but none of it was changing anything. Still thin, no matter how many sandwiches she ate, or how many slices of tea cake she was compelled to eat. Doubted that was going to change, sadly. But... she had a research proposal to have reviewed by an assemblage of her peers. And that meant a robe, a suit, her hair combed back to expose her forehead tattoo, and a small litany of rites to make sure that she was properly blessed with luck. Carza wasn't very superstitious, at least, until something stressful happened. Then she became very conscious of the invisible signs of the world. She woke early - not on purpose - and stared out of the window in the beginnings of her suit, trousers donned, but her nightshirt still hanging loosely around the waistband, the braces dangling below like fallen flags from some defeated nation. Her room was small, quiet... an old metal stove sat in the corner, brooding in a soot-stained way, the creaking iron occasionally releasing a belch of sulphur into the air.

The world beyond was blue and silent, only very slightly kissed by the dawning sun - a sun which hadn't even emerged, but the outer bounds of its existence were starting to creep their way through the world. A seemingly sourceless illumination, so dim that it couldn't even cast proper shadows, simply added a liquid-like gradient to the world - a shimmering of greys and blues giving way to fuzzy blacks. Like being at the bottom of the ocean, an effect aided by the lazy convolutions of the clouds above, which seemed like ragged strips of silk being blown with agonising slowness over a sky the colour of faded cornflowers slowly returning to full flush as the minutes crept onwards. Her hair drooped in a single forelock which hung, scraping the tops of her vision. Like a scrap of the night that was beating a slow, dignified, stately retreat from the world beyond. She liked the world when it was like this. There was something... paralysing about this. A kind of knowledge that she shouldn't be awake at this time, and that she was violating an otherwise universally-held rule. It was her time, then. Her little fiefdom. Her void, where things obeyed her own rules and did what they were meant to. A vague smell of liquorice came over the breeze... or star anise, perhaps caraway. No idea where it came from.

Someone else was awake at the moment.

And she began her rites, the paralysis of the slow dawn fading from her limbs.

First, thanks given to the Founder. This was accomplished by removing her finest hairpin, and slowly, painstakingly caring for it. A brush was used to remove dust from the faded golden metal, and then she began the anointing. She didn't wear perfume - distracted her from work. But the needle required it. To properly honour the Founder's legacy. There were no words in this - the Founder hadn't bothered with speaking after a while, simply drew shapes in the sand with a single outstretched finger, forming whole languages to express a range of new, brilliant ideas. To prevent himself from being caged in by one form of grammar - or any existing grammar, really. She spread oil over the needle, then scented perfume, and finally, she brushed it with a silk handkerchief extracted some a lacquered wooden box - a gift for her womanhood rites by Melqua, who had never disclosed how much she spent on it. Carza only used it for two things - the anointing of the needle, and for tying her hair back once or twice a year. Melqua had bought it for that purpose, after all - and Carza had always treasured it.

Then, more rites. These ones were simply for luck. A coin was balanced on its edge and wedged into an imperfection in the wood of her small writing desk - of course she had a desk in her bedroom and her office, she never knew when the urge to scribble something down or type something out would strike her. A glass was filled with water, a slice of old bread was set out on a plate, and both were placed right in the centre of her desk - the Court of Wax did this, apparently. They said that there was a mind in the swarms they tended, and that you ought to leave out appropriate food for it - not the usual stock, something human. And she wasn't going to turn down more luck, right? Finally, she reached hesitantly into a bottom drawer, and took out a calfskin bag, filled with small knuckle bones she'd stolen from the refuse heap at the back of a butcher's shop years and years ago. With practised, careful slowness, she tossed the bones up... and caught them on the back of her hand. The trick was to get the angle just right, to ensure they wouldn't fall. One bone, two bones, three... she managed four before she felt unstable, and the fifth sent an earlier bone clattering to her desk.

Four bones.

Good omen.

...really, any amount of bones was a good omen. As long as it wasn't nothing. That was just awful. But she'd known an old man who thought getting more than four bones was deeply negative - you were wasting all your luck on knucklebones, that was just irresponsible. But she'd found four - not five, not three. And that seemed to be a good sum.

Melqua knocked sharply on her door. Carza knew it was Melqua. Because it wasn't Hull, who generally slapped the door with his palm before swinging his way in. Melqua was significantly more polite, and-

And she was being hugged.

Oh.

How had that happened?

Carza stared blearily at the ceiling as Melqua squeezed her like she was afraid Carza was about to flutter away. For a second, Carza thought this was going to be the start of another weeping session where Melqua talked about how wonderful she looked, and how successful she was, and all manner of lovely things... but instead, the woman pushed her way, tucked her dirty blonde hair behind her ears, adjusted her glasses (with special gold chains dangling from the rims, a gift from her newest employer), and let out a short, businesslike whuff from her nose.

"Now. Let's talk technique. Stand up straight, for one - brace your shoulders... no, no, not quite that much, you look like you're about to fall over. Try not to look them in the eye, that seems confrontational. I recommend staring at their noses - unless they're very close to you, then you can go for eye contact. But do not let your eyes slide from place to place, that will make you seem unassertive and unconfident."

Carza blinked a few times. Right. Yes. Melqua was... very good at this sort of thing. She'd prepared more than a few proposal bundles for her father - bound up in special pink string, printed on the best paper they could afford. She was a damn good proof reader, too. Helped spot more than a few small mistakes in their proposal which simply made it... unprofessional-looking. Like a pair of obsolete young academics who were trying to graft their way up to a position of safety by any means necessary. Which they were, but it was a bad look to have.

"Like this?"

"Yes, yes, that's it. Now, Carza, darling, they're going to be drilling you on everything to do with this proposal. Three basic areas which are often weak - the ramifications of your research, the follow-ups to your research, and the cost of the whole thing. Everyone over-promises with the first two, and it can look thoroughly incompetent. So, what are you going to say if they ask: 'what do you think will result from your research, if performed successfully and with no sudden changes?'"

Carza hesitated only for a second, getting her sleepy thoughts in order.

"This research will, hopefully-"

Melqua interrupted.

"No, no, don't say hopefully, sound confident. Start again."

"This research will update and expand our stores of anthropological and linguistic data on the culture which emerged from the same origin as the Court of Horn. Previous research has been complicated by difficulties in data collection, a reluctance by-

Another interruption.

"Good, but they might have someone from the Court of Horn along to keep an eye on things. It's possible that that might occur, and you never know if a boring-looking observer is actually from an outside Court, or is reporting to them in some capacity. Imply, don't directly insult or accuse them."

"Yes, of course. So... previous research has been complicated by difficulties in data collection, and has often been rendered obsolete by the passage of time. This is a field which has been understudied for some time, and this proposal outlines a means for us to break through cultural barriers and achieve a more complete understanding of ourselves. The Court of Horn has had a substantial influence on the broader city, and despite this, their own originating culture has often been falteringly understood. By repairing this deficiency in our records, we can open areas of research previously rendered inaccessible by the aforementioned problems."

Melqua hummed.

"First, detach your hands from your sides, you look mechanical. Second, you're trying to fill up the silence. Don't. They don't want you to ramble - they want you to tell them what they want to hear. The easier you make their job, the better. So, for instance, cut out 'by the aforementioned problems', or the sentence ending 'a more complete understanding of ourselves'. A good amount of that was simply air. Be quick, be concise, and don't waste their time."

She steepled her fingers thoughtfully as she perched on the edge of Carza's bed.

"And finally... cost. I compared your expedition to some other similar proposals I've been able to dig up, and... I'm afraid to say that you're on a knife's edge. Now, they don't expect you to plan out everything from train fares to the purchase of individual meals... but the cost of this is high. And they'll want some assurance that they'll get something back for this investment - because it is an investment. These days the advice is to see proposals like products, and if they don't stand to pay you back, then they're no good."

Carza felt a pulse of fear in her stomach. Been there for a while - but growing louder.

"...well, Melqua, this isn't meant to be hugely profitable, it's... academic, I mean, so..."

"I know, but there's a hundred wonderful proposals that will fill our shelves with good research, while costing much less - and they'll take less time too. You'll be gone for a while, meaning you won't be around to help with menial duties, or to serve as an assistant. They're losing two students for upwards of a year. That's a messy business. So..."

She reached under her robe, and brought out a small packet, wrapped up in crisp brown paper and tied shut with string. Carza stared.

"...what's that?"

"It's... well, it's a proposal. I have an acquaintance who works for an accounting firm which, in turn, works for the Court of Salt. And she said that the Court of Salt has been interested in financing an expedition out beyond the mountains - to see if they can open a small trade route with either the steppes, or anything beyond, if at all possible. Now, this is... something to mention if they look uncertain about the funding issue. I'm sure you have good justifications for all your purchases. But if things seem unlikely, you can give these papers to them. They're a bundle being passed around the Court of Salt at the moment talking about the criteria for an expedition."

"...would they be financing it?"

"Possibly, but it's equally possible that the Court might want to simply outdo one of their rivals. Get some academics out there before the merchants muck it all up or, worse, start laying down train tracks. If they do that, then we're rather doomed - a permanent trading mission there would likely drag us into wars with the natives, which is ghastly for anyone trying to do research in that region. Now, take this packet, and hand it back to me like I was reviewing your research proposal."

Carza hesitated.

"...this has recently come into my hands, it's a-"

"Don't explain what it is, simply say that it'll interest me. Imply, encourage them to read and come to their own conclusions, it makes you seem respectful of their intelligence."

"Alright. Hm. This has recently come into my hands, and I believe that it'll interest you. It's currently being passed around the Court of Salt."

She passed the packet over. Melqua hummed.

"...alright, that's good. And if they ask you where you got it from, tell them the truth - they dislike the Court of Salt at the moment, and that means there's unlikely to be one of them observing. Tell them that a secretary friend who has a friend in a Salt-affiliated accounting firm so happened to find this packet, and thought it was interesting. Gossip, that's what's important - no direction, this was simply gossip. Not some kind of concerted act of espionage."

Carza nodded rapidly. This was... this was better than anything she could've imagined. This gave her research proposal some bite. She paused for a moment... then lunged into Melqua, wrapping her in one of the rare hugs that she initiated. Her 'aunt' froze for a second, before pulling her closer, and slowly patting her hair, like she was a child all over again.

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"Oh, you poor little duck... you're going to do wonderfully. I'm sure of it. Just remember to-"

"Thank you. Really. Thank you. This is... wonderful."

Melqua clucked slightly.

"Don't be daft. You'd have succeeded without me, you've got your father's eye for study, you just don't have enough wrinkles to get a bucket of secretaries and a nicer office. I have to ask, though…"

She drew back, and looked solemnly into Carza's eyes.

"...are you sure this is the right choice for you? It's a big expedition. A very big expedition. At least you've confined it to one location, but... it's possible that you won't be coming back for some time. And you love it here, I know you do."

Carza let out a long, shuddering breath.

"I know. But... the world's catching up with us. Need to make my own niche."

"Do you remember when I told you that you could stay here forever if you wanted to?"

"...yes."

"That's still true, you know. You'll always have a place here, I'm certain of it."

She pursed her lips.

"And your father is still being a blockheaded fool who can't see the wonderful girl that the Court has raised for him. But I can see, clear as day, that you're a lovely young lady who could make a perfectly good career here, instead of... going off to..."

A pause.

"No, no, I won't reprimand you for this, it's your life, and I know how careful you are with these things. I'll respect your intelligence - you got further than I did at the studium, you're probably smarter than me."

Carza shuffled uncomfortably.

"I didn't get that dossier."

"Yes, that's because you're busy thinking about big things, not that nice lady who goes to your bridge club."

"...thank you, though. Really. You're a wonderful aunt."

"And you're a delightful niece, you skinny little thing. Now, go on, and find that Hull boy before he falls into a fountain or something. Let him talk about what he's good at, and you take over the rest - you're responsible, and you're decent. Oh, and..."

She started poking at Carza's hair with a pair of wetted fingers.

"Just... let me get that under control."

Ordinarily, Carza would have hissed like a startled cat and started slapping at the offending digits like an angry cat. But Melqua was different. Melqua had been... well, there. Carza had barely seen her father during her time at the studium, but Melqua's room had always been open to her, with a fresh pot of tea, a hearty amount of food, and a shoulder to lean on while Melqua worked on some cover letter or proof-read a document. Some of Carza's happiest memories from those times were sitting on Melqua's bed reading, while Melqua tapped away at her typewriter with the stately rhythm of someone compelled to become used to it. Or curling up into Melqua's side while she proof-read something, both of them eventually falling asleep together, a blanket awkwardly dragged to protect them from the heat. The root chandelier had hung above, and Melqua had surrounded Carza, turning the world into a small, soft certainty that no amount of modernity could take away. And it was petty, but... Melqua seemed to have taken classes that Carza never knew existed. She'd learned how to actually live. She had a bridge club, she had friends, she had career ambitions and somehow balanced it all with a functional social life. Carza had struggled to make a single friend by the age of twenty-one, and Melqua seemed to effortlessly handle anything that came her way - friends were automatically acquired, she simply knew how to turn a cloud of vague acquaintances into a circle of definite friends.

Her father had achieved everything she wanted to as an academic - respect, a good office, a comfortable life, and seeming contentment with all of existence. And because of that, she could never really dislike him.

And Melqua had achieved everything she wanted as a person - friendly, approachable, effortlessly functional...

So she allowed her hair to be attended to.

And a small smile crossed her face.

* * *

Hull met her just outside the audience chamber. This was an odd corner of the Court of Ivory - part of the great swirling chaos of the south wing. This place had been the domain of the weirdest architectural students the Court ever produced, who were too unsafe to be let out into the world to practice their arts on the unprepared and sane. So here they had dwelt, and here they had expanded with ego on their minds and the world ready to be shaped according to whatever twisted visions blighted them on that particular day. It was the Experiment. The Experiment was a jumble of structures, some of them rough-hewn and rugged, and others so spindly and delicate that it seemed a miracle none of it had collapsed. One was simply a vaulting rectangular tower, one corner rising higher than the other three, and on the inclined roof rested a huge stone lion's head with opal eyes that flashed when the sun rose. Another was a low, flat building consisting entirely of pillars, some of them hollow. At one point the hall of pillars had been an actual building... but it was wide, and flat, and seemed stable. So it had been built on top of by succeeding Experimenters. More pillars had to be added to stop it all from collapsing. And now the two of them waited amidst these silent giants, each one too thick to wrap their arms around, each one groaning under the weight of all the ambition they were holding up.

And even then, there were books. Always, books.

Some of the pillars were old. And when they were too old, then stronger pillars took up the weight, and their elders could be hollowed out and turned into tiny alcoves, illuminated by small gas lamps, with a small shelf carved into the stone for resting a book, or a pot of tea... and a luxuriously comfortable chair which could be sunk into with ease. It was a hive of scholars - hard to squeeze between the pillars, even for Carza, but every so often she'd glance... and a startled face would look back at her, squinting from focusing on small letters. And between each and every strange building of the Experiment grew pines from the scraggly earth, and from the parapets dangled long metal wires, red with rust. Scented with strange chemicals that attracted and killed moths. The wires hummed in odd weather - they were humming now, and some were grey with bodies where there hunting had been good.

They met in silence. Carza shared the dossier... and they ran through their proposal in hushed tones. Both were nervous, both were sober, and Carza hadn't even smoked yet - seemed like a poor idea to stink of tobacco before she went to see her superiors.

The audience chamber was wooden, and set in te midst of the Experiment, surrounded on all sides by coniferous pines that lightly scented the breeze. Once, this room had been an aviary. Now, there were no birds... but a whole forest had been sculpted in the wood, branches exquisitely carved hung overhead, scratched where long-gone birds had been at work. Even the desk in the centre followed the woodland theme - life-sized wooden badgers were carved all around it, and the table was thick and heavy, like some antique slab you might find in an ancient woodland. The badgers piled high, and in thrones of owl feathers and intertwined branches bristling with sculpted needles and the occasional drop of delicately placed amber... sat the four who would judge them. Four scholars. An anthropologist, a linguist, a specialist in Horn-Era studies, and a very sleepy-looking man who presumably had some role with the treasury. The anthropologist - one that Carza recognised but couldn't name - looked up from a handful of papers. Beside her, the linguist stared melancholically at his tea, and Hull's peer nodded in acknowledgement, his fingers drumming impatiently.

Four.

And all of them had copies of their proposal.

The badgers stared at them with gleaming glass eyes.

The anthropologist, one from fine-featured armchair-dwelling breed of her particular academic species, smiled over a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Good of you to join us so promptly. Now, this proposal of yours..."

The treasury man rumbled, his voice low, growling, and profoundly disinterested. He stank of stale beer, and seemed irritated with his current position. Like he'd wanted to be a 'real' scholar, but this was the best he could do. Managing the finances of more successful people.

"Before we get on with any of this business, tell us about your funding. It's the opinion of the treasury that we can't piss money away on any expedition a barely-graduated student finds interesting. So, how d'you intend to get over that, before we talk about any other problems."

Carza silently handed over the dossier.

"This recently came into my possession. I imagine you'll find it interesting. It's being passed around the Court of Salt at the moment. They seem interested in it."

Crap, improvisation. Bad move. Hull kept his chin up and his eyes calm as the four gathered together like a bunch of jackals crowding over a fresh kill. The treasury man narrowed his eyes at the sight of the thing, and as his colleagues flipped slowly from page to page, he lost patience and grabbed the whole thing, flicking through with easy speed - he knew where the sentences would end and begin, he knew the template, he just needed the subject that template was now directed towards. With a thump, the dossier was pressed back into the table. The treasury man looked markedly less sleepy now.

"How did you get this."

"A friend of a friend."

"Fine. Be coy."

Oh, crap.

"No, no, it's literally from a secretary friend who has an accountant friend who... works for the Court of Ivory."

Very glad that Melqua had given her permission to say that. She would've instinctively tried to keep her aunt out of trouble by any means necessary. The four glanced at one another... but the treasury man slumped back in his enormous chair, clearly losing interest. His eyes were focused on a point on the wall - nothing remarkable there, but his attention was evidently directed to things other than Carza at the moment. Plans, perhaps. Schemes, even. And then... the scrutiny. The three regular academics were mostly interested in ramifications and opportunities, much as Melqua had said. And Carza did her best to make life easy for the people on the other side of that enormous desk. Hull cottoned on to the her methods pretty quickly - and noticed how the linguist was tapping her pen impatiently when he rambled on too long. They discussed Hull's experience with the Court of Horn, and to Carza's delighted surprise, he was able to recite a few stanzas of Tralkic poetry in an accent which evidently satisfied the Horn-Era specialist across the desk. He'd been practising. It only took a few minutes for the scholars to decide the academic worthiness of the expedition... but the practical issues remained.

The linguist, a woman with her hair tied into a severe bun and her near-luminous green eyes fixed on Carza, spoke in short sentences, each one clipped with a slight 'hm', as if to say 'and that's that'.

"The difficulty of transport remains. A train can convey you as far as Krodaw, beyond that you're on your own. Neither of you has left the city before - how do you expect to journey through the mountains with your lack of experience?"

Carza spoke calmly and firmly.

"Our intention is to hire some help here in ALD IOM, then to hire guides in Krodaw."

A second's pause.

"Furthermore, I'm given to understand that the Court is on positive terms with the colonial administration, and we believe that this research will be of diplomatic importance to the governor and those who appointed him. Once we arrive in Krodaw, we hope to make this clear to him, and thereby gain more support - ideally, support we won't need to fund ourselves."

She cut herself off forcibly, despite the clear urge to ramble about the possible help they could acquire, or to expose her own weaknesses by saying that 'yes, she'd considered the issue of...' over and over. Being wrong was one thing, being right but sounding wrong or being assumed as wrong due to not immediately saying the right thing was worse. Made her teeth itch. Well, that or the longing for some baccy right about now. The academics glanced at each other... then at the treasury man, who presumably knew more about this. He did nothing. This wasn't quite approval... but it definitely wasn't denial, and that was, apparently, good enough for them. Carza just now noted that they didn't like the treasury man. Likely, all of them had had to deal with funding issues in the past, and it didn't tend to make them very favourable towards any of the bean-counters who lived in that squat counting-house on the far north side of the Court of Ivory's central campus - but there'd been calls to send them off to a quiet office across the city, supposedly to 'take advantage of the advanced facilities and abundant space', but really just to make them go away before the scholars murdered them en masse.

And then went broke two seconds later, because of course they would. If they could manage money, there wouldn't be a treasury to begin with.

"Hm. And as for yourselves..."

The anthropologist leant forwards, something approaching concern crossing his features.

"You understand the risks?"

"We do."

"Do you? Really? Let's see... you will be hungry, or you'll eat things you would otherwise consider awful. You're likely to be living off hard tack, salted fish, and all sorts of varieties of jerky - nothing remotely palatable. The travel will be difficult, and most likely exhausting to the point of being fatal. Can you both ride?"

The two glanced at one another, and answered, in unison.

"We're currently learning."

By a given definition, they were. Honestly, it was hard to find horse-riding lessons. They were intending to hire some good help, and then use them to learn on the road. The road out of Krodaw would be easy enough, so... yeah, they could manage to gain enough experience before they hit the mountains, and if not, well, the mountains were probably so difficult that riding would be impossible, so the whole question would be moot.

Probably.

They were reasonably certain, and that was enough. The anthropologist seemed to only partially agree... but then again, he also seemed to be basing his knowledge of life on the road on the work of other anthropologists. He didn't look like he'd left the Court in... ages, maybe forever. Lucky bastard. Here she was, slaving away to get a position of some respectability, and he just sauntered in during happier times and meandered through life with his own secretary and his own reputation, and good tea, and all the cigarillos he could ever want to-

She was getting too far ahead of herself.

"And... there's some ugliness involving rebels in that region, you're going to need an escort, but... well, I'm sure you'll get one from the governor out there, he won't want an incident on his hands... but the real issue here is mutation."

His face was stern.

"You will be passing through some dangerous territory, Miss vo Anka, Mr va Trochi. You'll need gas masks and protective gear if you're going to come back with your minds intact. Furthermore, any medication will need to be adjusted to a very long journey without much chance of a resupply."

He spoke confidently, like he really knew what he was talking about. Carza was aware. Gas masks, yes, medication, yes, gear, yes. And things he hadn't mentioned at all - the right weaponry for the hired help, and a proper guide to take them around any possible trouble areas. Mutants were dangerous, yes, but they were stupid. If one was careful, one could stay far away from them. Furthermore, they hated each other more than they hated any human - humans were just prey or threats, but mutants competed for the same food source. And that made them worse than any predator. So... well... she doubted mutants would be an issue. Just had to wear the right mask and take clippers in case she saw any skin tags forming - very common in the wilds, she heard.

"I understand. We both do. And we'll take the necessary precautions."

"Hm."

At long last, the Horn-Era specialist leant forwards, eyes slightly glazed with boredom, hands fixed around a steaming mug of tea set in front of him.

"Take guns."

And with that, he slumped back.

The four glanced at one another.

The treasury man grumbled.

"One more thing, before we decide. The funding situation could be worked with. But, we're expecting cost-cutting from all our academics at present. You'll be receiving a single lump sum - if you get funded - and then you'll be expected to work within those limits. There'll be no liberty for claiming additional funds, not that that'll be relevant after you leave Krodaw. Your receipts will be scrutinised, and we expect every penny of those funds to be properly spent, and that which isn't will be returned. Are we clear?"

The two nodded.

"Good."

The other academics seemed to be readying themselves for a debate... and the treasurer made a strange motion with his hand. Some kind of signal. The other three locked up, glanced around...

And the linguist spoke in her short, clipped way.

"The... premise of your research proposal has been accepted. You appear to have an acceptable command of the risks and opportunities. The funding situation remains to be seen. Until funding is secured via the treasury, you will remain in the Court of Ivory and wait for our final ruling. Any preliminary purchases made during this time will not be considered eligible for remuneration. Do not discuss this with others until the ruling has been made - any breaching of confidence will be treated as grounds for termination of any research contract, and you will be penalised."

Her expression softened slightly.

"Good luck."

Carza ducked her head respectfully, Hull murmured a quiet 'thanks'... and the two departed, bundles of papers under their arms, beyond the hall, into the pines, into the hall of pillars, back into the winding corridors of the main body of the Court... and then they did, to put it bluntly, go a little mad. Carza squealed, and Hull grabbed her around the waist, spinning her in the air as his face broken into an enormous, crooked smile. Not that things ceased there. On returning to the ground, Carza poked him in the nose for picking her up unprompted, then the realisation crashed home once more, and she had to stuff a fist into her mouth to prevent another squeal... but the energy was too much, and she had to hop from foot to foot, robe flapping around her like a bat's wings. Hull was sweating freely, relief having undone all his stress in a truly explosive fashion, and he ran his hands over and over through his well-groomed hair until it was a ragged mess, simply to exert some kind of physical catharsis. Then he gave up on being civilised, and he roared to the quiet corridor.

"We did it!"

Carza whooped, fist escaping her mouth, and she immediately jumped up and down a few times, whoop escalating to a shriek.

"We did it, we did it, we did it!"

"We've got a job!"

"We're employed!"

"We're not useless!"

"Our education had value!"

They were vindicated!

Suddenly, Hull's hands locked around Carza's shoulders, and he drew her close. For a second she thought something profoundly awkward was about to happen... but his grin remained, and his eyes burned with frantic energy.

"We're going to get very drunk, Miss vo Anka."

Carza glowed with happiness, and murmured with bleary contentment - the universe was a good and just place, its arc bent towards wondrous happiness and boundless delight,

"I'll get a fruitcake."

"That's the old man I know and work with!"

The two burst out laughing, and Carza's eyes rolled as she declared loudly:

"We're colleagues!"

"We're work colleagues who do work together!"

"Let's have ourselves a work gathering to discuss our work!"

A handful of scholars passed by, deep in thought, and the two froze mid-revelry. They stared silently, both of them red in the face with hair all over the place. The scholars paused, and stared at them. Carza nodded solemnly, and Hull bowed at the waist like he was honouring a supreme authority. The scholars seemed unsure of what was the right call... but they kept moving. That felt workable. They maintained a wide berth around the two celebrating individuals, their eyes wide and their hands wrapped firmly around whatever books they were carrying (because of course they were carrying books, it was part of the uniform). Ready for combat if necessary. By hitting them with large books on crystallography. They kept nodding, too. All of them were nodding at each other like very large, strange birds.

Carza felt her lips trembled.

Hull's face was turning red.

They both looked utterly mad.

And as the scholars turned the corner, still nodding...

They burst out into peals of echoing laughter, and Carza spluttered out.

"We should... we should really stop, I have... have a reputation to... to uphold."

Hull cackled.

"Well, I don't. I'm going to get some jugs, we're getting slammed tonight."

"Our... our funding hasn't come through, we ought to be cautious before celebrating, and... and... oh, Founder, I need to tell my aunt about this, I really need to tell her. She'll be thrilled."

"You... you do that, I'll get alcohol."

"Get snacks! I prefer the snacks, honestly."

"Splendid idea, truly splendid. And now I... actually want that fruitcake."

"My aunt will already have some ready."

"Your aunt's amazing."

"You've never even met her."

"If she just has fruitcakes lying around, she's amazing."

"I'll... let her know."

And with that, the two went their separate ways... but not before exchanging a quick, utterly professional hug. The kind born of ecstatic energy and glee, a quick, tight hug that ended with them staggering away back to their chambers to attend to their various tasks. Carza could barely remember what that man had said in the bar... what had been his name again? Could hardly recall. Good. She'd done it - she had fieldwork in front of her, she had business, she had a job. Her subject was being vindicated, her life choices were being validated, she was a real anthropologist, and she was doing it beside her one and only friend who wasn't also a pseudo-family member.

With an involuntary grin plastered on her face, and her deep eyes gleaming with excitement, she stuffed a cigarillo in her mouth and puffed away happily.

Life really was coming up Carza.