He raised his voice in embarrassment. Difri bowed his head low and stepped away. Septima crossed her arms, watching it all with half-lidded eyes as if it were a play that was too tedious to behold.
Then he had an idea. “I guess I am in your hands, Subdirector Septima. Difri!”
The butler looked back.
“Subdirector Septima shall escort me around the city. You have the house while I’m gone.”
Septima blinked. Difri’s face was so wrinkled his grimace was just barely perceptible. But he finally seemed to give up and bowed.
Emere quickly stepped out the door and, turning to Septima, said, “Let’s go.”
He led the way. Septima followed, her pace quick. They reached Victory Square, which featured the large marble fountain of Domitius and Aristomache, the heroes of the Northern Conquest, and Septima had not uttered a word. It made Emere nervous. Was she really here to guard him or had she some other purpose?
Emere had always suspected that his sister’s sudden retirement and his appointment to the Commons Council was a form of punishment for his anti-Imperial activities. Keeping the wayward member of the royal family of a province in the Capital under watch was a common enough practice. But he had wondered if the assassination attempt that almost took his life was someform of extrajudicial execution on the part of the Ministry of Intelligence.
He sat down on the ledge of the fountain. The day was clear and the sunlight warm. Septima sat down next to him and eventually spoke.
“I wonder if the esteemed councillor cares at all.”
“Pardon? About what?”
“That he may die.”
Emere didn’t answer.
“The… work, that I do,” continued Septima, “allows me to become acquainted with a great variety of persons. The ones who are reckless with their own lives usually have no purpose in life, so they don’t care if they live or die. But there are also those who are reckless because their purpose istooclear. So clear, they don’t care if they die pursuing it.”
Emere smiled. “And which am I?”
“Judging by that scene with your servant just now, I should say your purpose is too clear.” Septima paused before continuing, “That is a most dangerous person.”
“What’s a little danger if I’m going to die soon?” Emere joked.
Septima shook her head. “You’re dangerous for the people around you.”
“How?”
“You eventually endanger them.” Septima stared into space. “Two years ago, there was a rebel from a province who made an attempt at something in the Capital. You were not in the Capital back then, I don’t think. But you must’ve heard of the Great Fire.”
Emere nodded. Rakel had said her husband had died in that fire.
“The one responsible for that fire was killed, and their people and a mercenary too. Hundreds of innocents, having nothing to do with provinces or politics, died as well. And if we hadn’t stopped it from happening, the loss would’ve been greater.”
An unreadable expression crossed Septima’s face. Emere didn’t know where the conversation was headed.
“I heard it was you, Subdirector, who stopped it?”
Septima’s expression turned into a hard grin. “You can say that. And you can also say it wasn’t.”
Emere stared at her, and when she didn’t elaborate, he turned to the crowd. There were many people around the fountain. Through the many Imperial heartlanders, he saw a group of Rammanians who had covered their heads with black cloth, revealing only their eyes. A huddled group of Thiopsian aristocrats wore elaborate red clothing and kept looking at the clock tower. Emere found himself trying to find Loran in their midst. How could there be so many people here but not the one person he most longed to see and speak to?
Septima sighed and stood up. She unfastened the buttons of her coat, revealing the black stola she wore underneath. Pinned on her stola was a brooch with a green gemstone.
“That’s enough rest. We should get going.”
A completely different tone from before—completely devoid of annoyance or irritation. He was taken aback.
“Get going where?”
