WHEREAS THE LEGION’S CARRIAGE had been a rattling, rambling, tottering thing, the carriage of the Hazas was sleek, soft, and smooth. I felt not a bump and caught not a bruise as we hurtled along, my backside pressed into the powder-blue cushions.

But this did not mean the ride was comfortable. On either side of me sat two Haza guards, enormous men with wrists as thick as my neck, and nearly twice as broad as I. Their eyes did not leave my figure. Cold gazes, chilly and remote. Fell hands with a sword, surely.

Across from me sat Fayazi’s two Sublimes. The engraver looked upon me like a surgeon might a septic limb. The axiom remained totally unreadable, but her dark, needle-like eyes did not move from my person. I felt my skin crawling the more she stared.

Between them sat the woman herself: Fayazi Haza, draped over her cushions like a coat tossed over a chair. She watched me carefully yet inscrutably, her wide amethyst eyes alluring but unreadable. It felt like being watched by an enormous doll.

And yet I was still drawn to her. To the luminous paleness of her skin, to her delicate neck. I had not felt drawn to a woman like this before, and I knew enough to know it was unnatural. Yet I also felt damned silly to be seated before her in my muddy Iudex coat, and my straw cone hat askew upon my head.

“You,” Fayazi said finally, “are very tall.” She said it in tones of slight offense, like I had chosen an inappropriate piece of wardrobe for the occasion.

I waited for more. When nothing came, I bowed and said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Is it natural?” she said.

“My height? It is.”

“And your face? Your features? Those are natural, too?”

“Ah. They are, ma’am.”

“Hum. How audacious.”

“Afraid I had little say in the matter, ma’am.”

She studied me with that enigmatic doll’s gaze. “You have things, Signum,” she said, “you wish to ask me.”

I looked at her. Then I looked to the right and left, at the guards on either side of me, and then the Sublimes on either side of her. All of them watched me silently. This was not how I’d expected to do the interview.

“I do, ma’am,” I said. “But I had thought I’d question you at your home.”

She waved a hand, bored. “Ask me now.”

I hazarded another glance at our audience. Then I slid open my engraver’s satchel, slid out a vial, sniffed it—this one aromatic of mint—and said, “Tell me about the day before your father died, please.”

“Mm.” She narrowed her eyes very slightly. “We had a party. A big one. We had planned it for some time. Many come to our celebrations. Some wish to, others feel they must. Some of them were colleagues of yours, as you no doubt know.”

“How many came?”

She waved her hand at the engraver. His eyes shivered, and he quickly said, “Out of a list of one hundred forty-six invited, we had one hundred twelve attend.”

“Can you provide me with a list of all the attendees?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Fayazi. “But not now. I am not going to fill my day listening to two engravers recite memories. But I will make sure you receive the appropriate information, in full.” I noticed she seemed a great deal less breathy and innocent now. “It was a rare event, you know. We used to open our halls many times a year—once a month, or more. But contagion has put an end to that. So much is brought in from the Plains of the Path, why, I almost hesitate to breathe the air in Talagray proper.”

“What is the purpose of these events, ma’am?”

“What is the purpose of any celebration?”

“Usually to celebrate something, ma’am. A betrothal. A birth. A sacred day.”

“Oh, no. Those things—the birth of famous folk, or the dates of their deaths—those are merely excuses to celebrate. People celebrate because they are desperate to reaffirm fellowship and remember what it is to be alive. It is at my halls that any officer in Talagray can come and hear the singers tell tales of the first Khanum coming to the Valley of the Titans. Or of the Sublimes Prificto, the first whose minds were altered. Or of the Third Emperor, Ejelgi Daavir, and his march along the Titan’s Path.” Her eyes shone bright with a queer energy, one I did not find wholesome. “My great-great-grandfather was there, you know. He was among the Legions that slaughtered the beasts and first cleared the path to the sea, and was awarded our first fief. That was before the cantons. Before the building of the third-ring walls.”

An uncomfortable beat.

“Very impressive, ma’am,” I said. “Can you tell me of your father’s movements? During the party?”

A glimmer of resentment in her eyes. Then she waved her hand again, bored. “He moved as one does during such a thing.”

“Can you describe that, though?”

“He entered on a palanquin carried by six men,” she said, “and waved to the attendees from its window before being taken to his antechamber.” She described such grandiose ostentation like I’d asked what size sandals he wore.

“I…see. Did he interact with many of your guests?”

“Not many. His time is precious—or…or was, I should say. He was very old, and frail. He spent his time carefully and spoke only to the most important folk. Commanders and the like. One or two from the Apoths…but none from the Engineers. Not that day.”

“And the Legion? Or the Iudex?”

A cold smile. “We rarely see their kind. And when they visit, it is short, and perfunctory. They consider themselves above such entreaties. They govern the world—but it is the Apothetikals and the Engineers who make it.”

My eyes fluttered. A voice swam up in my memories: Princeps Topirak, bruised, weeping in the healing tub, and whispering—The Engineers make the world. Everyone else just lives in it.

“You just remembered something,” said Fayazi’s axiom.

It was the first time she’d spoken, and her voice was soft and husky. I found it startling. “Beg pardon?” I asked.

The axiom was watching me carefully now. “You just had a memory—yes? What was it?”

I chose to ignore her question, and instead turned to Fayazi. “Tell me what your father did after his arrival, please, ma’am,” I said. “Did he encounter any steam or hot water during the party?”

If my rudeness offended the axiom, I noted, I could not see it in her face.

“Not during,” said Fayazi. “But after. He took his steam bath, directly after the party ended in the middle of the afternoon. It’s important for his joints.”

“Had anyone tampered with his bath?”

“The porters and attendants, surely. But they would have mentioned it if they had seen anything.”

“Then what?”

“He went to bed. As I said, he is very old and frail.”

I asked her more questions then, about the party and the grounds and the defenses at the gates (“We employed tarsa plants and clothseed vines at the entry,” her engraver said, “which should have alerted us to any contagion present, be it of the fumic or verdant variety”); about the comings and goings of the attendees (“We had three hundred ewers of mulled sotwine at the start of the event,” Fayazi said wryly, “and only sixteen at the end, so things got rather muddled, yes”), and on and on. When I was satisfied, I asked her if anything suspicious had happened at all during the event.

“Nothing suspicious,” she said, shrugging. “Not that I can recall.”

Her engraver twitched. “There was the fire, ma’am,” he said with a slight cough.

“A fire?” I said.

“Oh, that,” Fayazi said. She waved her pale hand again—her favorite gesture, apparently. “That seemed as nothing, to me.”

“We had blackwood burning in the fireplaces,” explained the engraver. “Laced with silverdust, so the fires burned silver and green. One popped and sent an ember onto the carpet.”

“And then?” I asked.

“It caused a flare,” said the engraver. “A very small fire. Smoke and a stir in the crowd. It is not uncommon. The madam and I attended to it ourselves, and it was quickly dealt with.”

“The greater damage was probably done,” said Fayazi, “by me showing up with porters and guards and starting everyone’s tongues a-wagging.”

“When was this?” I asked.

A flicker to the engraver’s eyes. “At two in the afternoon.”

“And did you account for the presence of all your guests after this?”

“It took time,” said Fayazi. “But yes.”

“How much time?”

“An hour, perhaps.” Her face changed as some thought struck her, a sudden sadness coursing through her eyes: real grief, real sorrow. “You…you think that’s when they did it, don’t you. That’s when they…they planted the poison.”

I studied the gleam of grief in her eyes, surprised by it. “How close were you and your father, ma’am?”

“Why?” she asked. “You don’t think I am the plotter behind this, do you?”

“I’m obliged by my role to ask about all relationships.”

She looked me over. “You are young. And altered recently. Probably for the pay, yes? Sending your dispensations home to your family, like so many Iyalet officers do?”

I did not answer.

“And yet,” she said, “you have a fell hand when it comes to battle. Two men I am told you killed, just hours ago, and grievously wounded others. Perhaps beyond the medikkers’ mending. Yes?”

Again, I did not answer. But I did not like how she knew such things so quickly. I wondered who in the Iyalets had talked.

“Well. You will likely find it all familiar, then.” She gazed out the window as the gentrylands rose around us. “Born into systems beyond our control, into relationships and organizations that obligate us to change, all so our families may prosper…That’s what the Empire is, isn’t it? You wear your colored cloak, and I the vestiges of my station, but we are both compelled to do things we can hardly comprehend.”

“Don’t say such things, ma’am,” whispered her axiom. “It is not as bad as all that.”

Fayazi shuddered, as if the woman’s words disturbed her. Yet then the emotion was swallowed in her face, and she became as cold and beautiful as polished silver once again.

“My father knew what the Empire was,” said Fayazi quietly. “He knew it very well.” Then she sat forward. “We are here.”