I must be taken as I have been made. The success is not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me. -- Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

It usually took Irímé only a few minutes to decide what he thought of someone and whether they were trustworthy or not. It was an survival skill he had developed very early in life, made essential by three facts. One, his mother was notoriously neglectful and dismissive of his feelings, and had a habit of showing him off to her friends as a future member of the royal family. Two, her menagerie cost money, more money than her income, so she constantly invited richer people to her dinner parties without any regard for their character. Three, as his mother was so fond of reminding everyone, he was... Well, unusually beautiful to put it bluntly, even though the thought made his skin crawl. Not because of his looks on their own, but because of how certain adults behaved towards him because of them.

While still just a child he had developed the ability to sense when someone was an ordinary, decent person and when they were a pervert waiting for him to let his guard down. He had encountered far too many of the latter sort to ever feel comfortable in large groups of people. As an extension of that, by watching someone when they didn't know they were being watched he had learnt how to make an educated guess at their general character. Therefore he knew no one here was a threat to him -- even if they were a threat to others. And that was why he was so confused when he finally met Siarvin face-to-face.

Basic decency said that someone who murdered a baby was the vilest of the vile. Yet as Irímé watched Siarvin out of the corner of his eye, he saw only a perfectly normal man who treated Shizuki like his own son and was polite -- if somewhat cold and distant -- towards Koyuki. For several minutes Irímé tried to reconcile what he saw with what Ilaran had told him about Haliran's first child and its tragic fate. He failed. In despair he gave up and moved on to the other three.

Shizuki was the easiest to understand. Snake spirit or not, he was just a normal child. A bit more blood-thirsty than most, perhaps, but considering his upbringing that was hardly surprising. Then again, Irímé had met plenty of children who adored anything full of blood and gore. So perhaps Shizuki's excited descriptions of how much the bitten man bled wasn't entirely thanks to Haliran's influence.

It took Irímé only a minute's observation to tell Koyuki was uneasy here and felt badly out-of-place. He carefully avoided looking at Siarvin -- or anyone else for that matter -- if he could help it. In Irímé's experience that was usually the sign of someone with a guilty conscience. He stopped himself before jumping to any rash conclusions about Koyuki hiding something from Ilaran. What he'd heard at the trial was a good enough explanation of it. Anyone would have a guilty conscience after sleeping with a married woman, acting as a spy in the house of one of her enemies, and hiding stolen goods for her.

Besides, if the events in the crypt and the courtroom had proved anything, it was that Ilaran was no fool. Eccentric and with a flair for the dramatic, yes, but not a fool. If even Irímé had noticed Koyuki's behaviour, then Ilaran certainly had.

And that brought him to the last member of this strange group. After their dramatic previous meetings Ilaran should have been the easiest to figure out. Instead Irímé found himself unexpectedly baffled. The only new thing he'd learnt about Ilaran in the last few minutes was that he found assassination attempts bizarrely entertaining. That was the sort of weirdness Irímé would expect from Abi, not from someone who had previously seemed sane and relatively normal.

It didn't help that Ilaran listened to the others' conversation with a disturbingly blank expression. Irímé couldn't guess what he was thinking. He wasn't even sure he was thinking of anything at all. A few unpleasant past experiences had taught Irímé to be wary of anyone who was so hard to read. Yet he already knew Ilaran was... "Trustworthy" was the wrong word when he knew Ilaran was here for his own reasons and would act in his own best interests. But for the minute at least they were on the same side. And that state of affairs was likely to continue for some time.

That reminded Irímé of what he had been planning to ask. Yes, there was the chance he would just exchange one set of problems for another. But he was sick to death of living with his mother, and right now putting up with Abi for much longer was the last thing he wanted.

"Er, Ilaran?" he began, then stopped. What was the best way to continue?

Ilaran looked over at him with a bemused expression, as if he'd forgotten Irímé was there. "What is it?"

"I was wondering..." Irímé stopped again. None of his favourite books or operas gave him any advice on how to ask this sort of question. But then, none of their heroes ever had to go begging for work. They generally had enough money to not need to do any work at all. "Would... Would you give me a job?"

Ilaran blinked slowly. His expression reverted to blankness, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking again. But this time Irímé was almost sure it was because his mind really had gone as blank as his face. "...What?"

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Well, it wasn't a blunt 'no'. Irímé took courage from that and continued. "You see, I'm still living in my mother's house. But I've had enough of it. She treats me like a child!"

"You are still very young," Ilaran pointed out.

"But she behaves as if I can't think for myself! She chooses my friends for me, chooses what books I'm allowed to read, chooses where I'm allowed to go and how much money she'll let me have. I can't keep a diary any more because she read it and when she didn't like what I said she yelled at me for hours. I have to hide my writing because she found some of my stories and complained they were too dark. She drags me along to meet all her horrible friends. She never even listened when I tried to tell her I don't like the way the look at me! She told me I was imagining it and-- and--"

To his horror Irímé found his eyes burning and a tell-tale tightness at the back of his throat. Surely he wasn't going to start crying! That was all he needed! Especially after he'd already embarrassed himself by ranting like that in front of complete strangers.

It was no use. For years and years he had buried all his bitterness and helplessness deep inside. They burned and festered there like a wound that couldn't heal. Now they were finally aired in public, and for the first time he allowed himself to feel all the pain and helplessness he had kept suppressed. He couldn't stop the tears that streamed down his face.

He choked back his sobs and struggled to regain control. The tears gradually stopped. Irímé took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered, not daring to look up. His face turned bright red. What an exhibition to make of himself!

"It's all right," Ilaran said quietly. He sounded oddly subdued. "I won't say I understand. I don't, because I haven't experienced it. But for what it's worth, I do understand how miserable life is in a dysfunctional family."

The other side of the sitting room was oddly quiet. Irímé risked a glance towards the table and was surprised to see Siarvin, Koyuki and Shizuki had disappeared. Muffled voices out in the hallway indicated where they'd gone. Well, at least he'd been spared some humiliation. Not much, but it was better than them being there the whole time.

"So," Ilaran said, with the air of someone changing an unpleasant subject, "what sort of job do you want?"

Irímé's head snapped up. He stared incredulously at Ilaran, searching for any trace he was being mocked. Nothing. Impossible though it seemed, Ilaran looked completely serious.

"I... I can write very quickly." That was an essential skill when you had only a few minutes of peace to write in each day. "And I'm good at organising things." He'd learnt years ago it was best to memorise where all his belongings should be and put everything in its assigned place. Then he could tell at once if someone had searched them. "I think I could be a good scribe or librarian."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realised how stupid he was being. A ruling prince like Ilaran would already have all the scribes and librarians he needed. Irímé blushed again. But to his surprise Ilaran nodded thoughtfully.

"Kivoduin's nagged me about the state of the palace archives for years," he said. "Would you mind sorting out endless minutes of council meetings full of trivial gossip? I warn you, it's terribly boring work."

Irímé's mind replayed those words several times before he understood their meaning. His first instinct was to ask incredulously, Are you really offering me a job? After I cried like a baby? He stopped himself before he said that. Unfortunately he spoke without consulting his brain, so what he actually said wasn't much less embarrassing. "I don't care how boring it is as long as you pay me well."

Ilaran actually laughed at that. A genuinely amused laugh, not the sarcastic laugh he'd used in response to Haliran's ridiculous attempts to defend herself. He looked much younger and less grim when he laughed. No one would ever call him pretty[1], but he wasn't quite as plain as he seemed at other times. Irímé blinked and revised his idea of how old Ilaran was. Until now he'd assumed he was at least as old as Irímé's mother. Now he wondered if that estimate was too high.

"You do know I live in Tananerl?" Ilaran said. "Do you have any objections to moving there? You'd have your own room in the palace, in the east wing with the other court officials."

Irímé did some mental calculation of how far Tananerl was from Neleth Ancalen. He smiled. It was over five hundred miles as the gryphon flies. "I don't care where I live as long as I'm far away from my family."

"How old are you?" Ilaran asked, unknowingly echoing Irímé's thoughts a few minutes ago.

"One thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven[2]," Irímé said.

Ilaran was silent for a moment. That strange blank expression was back, only now his brow was ever so slightly furrowed. Irímé was beginning to suspect the blankness was just Ilaran's natural resting face rather than a conscious attempt to conceal his thoughts.

"Legally you're of age and old enough not to be required to inform your mother before getting a job," he said. "But in the interest of not making a bad situation worse and causing what would likely become a very unpleasant argument, I think I'd better explain this to her."

Long and painful experience of his mother prompted Irímé to say, "You'd better not. Else she'll try to get you to pay my wages to her."

"I think it would be for the best if I did."

What?

Seeing the look on Irímé's face, Ilaran explained, "It's how we do things in Tananerl. When someone starts a new job their employer must provide their family with a tenth of their wages to show they can afford to keep a new employee. And since you told me your mother is constantly short of money, she's much less likely to complain about you getting a job if she gets some money out of it too."

You'll need to pay her a lot more than a tenth of my wages to stop her complaining, Irímé thought. "How much will you pay me?"

"Eight hundred mergin[3] a year. That's the usual wage for an archivist." Ilaran paused, apparently doing some mental calculations. "If your mother lived in Tananerl I'd give her eighty mergin, but as she lives in Saoridhlém I'll have to check the exchange rate."

He muttered something that sounded like "Twice-damned arithmetic." Irímé suppressed a smile and pretended not to hear.

"I know a magistrate who can draw up the contract for us[4]," he said. "Shall I get her now?"

"You might as well," Ilaran said. "And I'll go and talk to your mother."

From his voice anyone would have thought he'd just offered to walk into a basilisk's den.