I sat on one of the cushioned benches against the wall, waiting for my eyes to acclimate. The ceilings were lower than I expected, and the plan more open: there were great open doors leading into the rest of the house, and no halls, only more of those jeweled windows. Breezes, also, soft as sighs, probably from thin slits near the floors. I heard Ajan drink from the fountain, and splash his face to wash the dust from it. I would have done the same, had I not been enjoying sitting quite so much.

Nevertheless, I stood when the lord of House Qenain arrived, as I must. His was an arresting presence, his vitality so intense it was almost aggressive. Even when he came to a halt before us, he gave the impression of still moving; I half expected his rich, dark robes to continue rustling.

"The Emperor's osulked attend, as promised," he said in greeting. "Shame, Calligrapher. Thank you for coming." He smiled. "But ah! A little too late. We no longer have need of your services!"

"My lord?" I asked, Abased. "How so?"

"Come, come," the lord said, stepping back into the next room and gesturing—grandly, I thought, as if well-pleased with himself—to one side. "As you can see, we have taken care of the matter ourselves."

We followed him into the next room: there, through the wall of glass doors, two of which were open, we saw a little stone courtyard, dappled with petals and shadows, and there, an old man tied to the Vines, gagged and bound and dripping what I fervently hoped was merely sweat.

I knew better when my eyes grazed the pattern of dark petals on the ground and saw that some of them were not petals at all.

Stillness, for a moment. Utter stillness.

"You see," the lord said, "I have attended to his Correction personally, according to the Book of Corrections. He is just within the age that may be whipped, and I have done it the exact number of times prescribed by his offenses...."

Shame was already moving.

No, not moving. I had seen a weapon swung once, bright steel in sunlight, shock of wind. Shame moved with that finality, such that no one would have dared intercept him. Through those open doors into the sun- and shadow- and petal-strewn courtyard, to the side of the elderly Ai-Naidari whom, without asking consent or giving warning, he touched intimately on the face, turning his cheek so he could look at his eyes.

Then with fingers sped by experience and gentled by something I could not so easily name, he worked the plate of the gag free and threw it from him, droplets of spittle darkening the stone. He untied the bindings, feet first, then arms and neck, until at last the stranger rolled limp into his arms, cradled there as tenderly as any child in his father's arms.

I am no judge of injuries. Whipping is something reserved for great offense, and I have never seen it done. But our skin is frail, aunera. We do not weather injury well, and in our elders it is far worse.

"Send for a physician," Shame said, curt—without Abasement... to a lord! Who nevertheless inclined his head and said, "It will be done." And faltered, for none of us could speak further, confronted by that tableau. I thought to paint it once: the stygian folds of Shame's robes, his dark head bent over the thin, wintry gold of the elder's body. The streaks of blood. The too-red petals, the moving shadows over their faces as the branches of the ornamental trees swayed in the Gate-wind. But all of that, you must understand, was merely visual ornament over the thing that held us transfixed: the way Shame held an Ai-Naidari, giving himself entirely to that embrace, so careful of another's frailty.

I had seen his brusqueness and his humor. The expression of his compassion was shattering. We speak amongst ourselves of esar: of the quality that makes one a compelling leader. It is something applied to those above the Wall of Birth, for it is their duty to lead, and in their ascension rituals they are required to name their esar and so give us some hint of the tenor of their reign. But it did not occur to me until that moment, in Qenain's courtyard, that those of us beneath the wall might also have esar of our own... not until I felt in my heart that a man who could show such naked compassion could lead me anywhere and gladly would I follow.

I understood then, a little... what it took to be accepted as Shame to Kherishdar, what such a man would have to inspire. For without love, there can be no shame.

What compelled me to look away, I will never know; ancestors know it was hard to tear my eyes away. But I did, and in so doing caught the expression on the face of Qenain's lord before it fled. In his eyes, in his ears so tensely pointed forth they trembled, I sensed a terrible excitement, far too passionate for what we witnessed. We are not opposed to passion, aunera, but there is a time and place... and too much passion, we always consider with wariness. Passion here? Confronted with this scene worthy of pity and awe? Was surely inappropriate.

Perhaps I espied wrong. At the time, I prayed it.

In silence then, both the lord and I waited for the physician, who arrived not long after in great haste. He joined Shame in the courtyard and they spoke briefly—the curt speech of two professionals exchanging information—and then Shame released the elder to the physician's care. As he rose, the physician said, "Osulkedi—your expertise may be needed. I do not have much call, healing wounds such as these."

The lord interjected then. "He will be staying, Physician. You may consult him if you require."

Shame glanced at him, and glad I was his eyes were not leveled at me, for I would not have liked to be pierced by them. He bent down once more to touch the elder's shoulder, then rejoined us.

"For," the lord finished, seeking—seeking!—Shame's gaze again, to the point of bending his head in an attempt to meet his eyes, "if the Correction does not take, and it may not, surely you will know how it is to be amended."

"Are you so certain of failure, then?" Shame asked.

"I cannot know!" the lord said. "These Corrections from the Book, they work, but to be sure they lack a certain subtlety. They have no nuance, you understand? A Correction should have nuance, particularly for those more apt to understand it. Complicated men need complicated Corrections."

I wondered if he had gone mad, for to my ears the lord babbled... and when I looked closely, I found the stole draped off his shoulder trembling, as if beneath it his body shook. This was not lost on Shame either, no doubt, for he regarded the lord with the force of his coronal stare, and beneath it the lord's tremor increased.

If I had not known better, I would have thought that he was enjoying it.

Shame looked away then, and the lord of Qenain took that as a signal to lead us into the house personally, as if we were guests well above the Wall of Birth. Ajan trailed us at a polite distance. "Please, come this way and I shall have quarters prepared for you. I see I erred... how could I have thought of turning you away! I am but the most callow of instruments. I have so much to learn."

"Forgive me, sir," I said, carefully Abased—I was no Shame to speak above my station—"but do you have so many in need of Correction that you require... ah... more understanding than you already have? Surely the Book is sufficient for most Houses."

"Oh, but it is a most vexing situation," the lord said with a sigh. "The senior overseer of our laboratory—the man I have just whipped, you will understand—refuses to work. And because he refuses, the rest of the laboratory workers also begin to lag and grumble, and soon enough I will have a revolt. And then who will do the research?"

Surprised, I said, "It is a serious thing, to refuse one's work. Did he give no reason?"

"None I understood," the lord said, mournful. "But the work must be done."

"Of course," I said, wondering what could possibly have driven the senior overseer to such a thing.

"Here you may wait," the lord said, bringing us to a solar. "The rooms will be prepared..." He trailed off and smiled. "Ahh, there you are, my dear."

The room was a beautiful, round with half its circumference empaneled in long narrow windows with black fretwork, the faceted edges slicing rainbows from the light and spangling the room with them. But for all the loveliness of the room, it receded in view of the Decoration who lay recumbent on the center divan.

She was gray as brume entirely, a light velvety color from toes to ear-tips, with a wealth of gray curls that darkened ever-so-slightly at their tips. And her limbs: such an elegance, and so perfect in proportion! But beauty, even supernal beauty, is not unusual in the fathriked, who are chosen for it. It was her face that set her apart, for even in repose there was a sweet wickedness in the curve of her lips. And when she opened her eyes, it was like a slap: they were bright as flame, orange with flecks of shocking scarlet, and as impish as her smile.

It was hard, hard not to stare at her. It was a little like trying not to turn one's face toward the sun.

The lord held out a hand to her and she rose, stretching languorously, unhurried despite his summons. She came to him, stepping over a sleeping hunting beast, and slipped her hand into his, lifting her chin. Her only ornament was a single jeweled collar, rose pearls on watered white gold.

"My Decoration," the lord said, introducing her to us. "My only Decoration... for as you can see, I need no other."

She looked upon us with a sensual interest I found unsettling in one who was probably of an age with my daughter. I know there are Ai-Naidar for whom such considerations matter less, but having lost my own daughter to the fathriked caste I was more sensitive to it. I could not suffer such attention without wondering who my daughter was touching at that very moment, and though this inability to give her away to that great every-love marks a substantial flaw in me, I cannot seem to rise above it.

She knew it too: there was a flicker in her eyes, and her smile lost some of its invitation and became a gentler thing, for which I was grateful.

Shame, though, she found quite intriguing, though from his look I wondered if he was absent desire at all. My late wife had once turned such looks on me, and I pledge you, aunera, I did not remain unmoved by them for long...! Indeed, when Shame looked away, back toward the divan, I thought his rejection alarming, and awaited the lord's reaction with trepidation.

But that worthy only laughed. "Ah, is she not a little much? But so exquisite! Such boldness, so much fire! I look into her eyes and often wonder what she would say, if she could talk... but we all know that Decorations must not speak, do we not, my pet, my coddled lovely? Shall I have her wait on you?"

"Unnecessary," Shame said. "But thank you."

"Of course," the lord said. "You brought an attendant with you. Well, it shall not be long."

And with that he took himself away, his elegant creature following him, and as she passed him Ajan, still waiting just outside the door, looked after her with lifted brows. In the silence that followed the lord's departure, he said to Shame, "Unnecessary!"

Shame ignored him. He had gone into the room in a whisper of cloth and was now crouched alongside the divan... which is when I realized he hadn't been looking at it at all, when he looked away from the fathrikedi. He was looking at the beast.

"Why, there is a beast in the house," I said, perplexed.

"Why is there a beast in the house, more like," Ajan said.

"Yes," Shame said to him in the tone of a teacher. "What else?"

Ajan tilted his head. Then his ears strained forward. "He's wearing a collar, just like the fathrikedi's."