"No," I said. "No, I live in the city, out of the ambit of such areas."

"Come, then," she said. "Let me show you where we work."

So I followed her into the laboratory, where several other Ai-Naidar were at work, analyzing the properties of the petals with instruments suited to that task. Perhaps you imagine us without technology, or without science, but we have both. Our attitude toward them differs from yours, though. The ubiquity and intrusiveness of your machines strikes me as bizarre; among us, we minimize the use and view of such things. Thus, the observer's term: "exposed," agarath, which is what we say when technology must be obvious to be useful. And here it was distinctly obvious: the machines that studied the properties of the plants, their genetics, their reactions when combined with our biology. It was a place of great rigor and surprising elegance, and I surprised myself by enjoying the tour very much... even though I had ample opportunity to see the agitation of the observers, which was even more notable than it was in the kitchens.

At the conclusion of the tour, the observer led me into the senior's office and shut the door behind her. She looked at me with more directness than was strictly polite and said, "You are here to help us. You and Shame."

"That is correct," I said, trying not to admire the lines of her face.

She sighed out gustily and sat at the chair beside mine, in front of the desk—it still bore the name of her senior, I noted. "Shame was here yesterday," she said. "He wanted to know what had happened."

"And you told him...?"I asked.

"That I didn't know," she said, crestfallen. "Baran would not say what had upset him. But he and the lord... there was friction there for weeks, osulkedi. And that was bad enough. But then... then they fought...!"

"They did what?" I said, startled.

"They fought. Aloud. With strong words. With yelling!" She rubbed her face. "I caught part of it..." She trailed off, then said, chagrined. "Well, no. I didn't catch it by accident. When I realized what was happening, I listened. I had to, because who would take care of the others if something happened to Baran and I didn't know what had caused it? Except... that I learned nothing! I had come too late. The lord wanted something of Baran, and he was refusing, over and over. He gave many reasons for his refusal: it was perverse, it was wrong, it would lead to Qenain's destruction, it would shatter the lord's soul, it would violate every tradition... that it couldn't be done, and shouldn't be. But he did not again say what it was."

"Perhaps understandable," I said, her words finally penetrating my reverie. "If what he spoke of was so disastrous, he would hardly want to hold it in his mouth more than necessary."

"But it means I don't know what the lord asked of him," she said. "And that means I don't know the source of this rift that has been unsettling us all." She sighed and looked at me. "Calligrapher...." And stopped, narrowing her eyes; I had forgotten how accurately a woman could perceive a man's distraction. "Calligrapher?"

"Pardon me," I said, abashed. "I was merely..." Admiring her? When was the last time I'd admired a woman? I stopped, at a loss for words.

Her brows lifted. "Oh!" she exclaimed. And then, softer, "Oh!" And she flushed, just a pink tint at the delicate flesh on the inside of her ears. "I see. I would have thought a man like you would be... attached."

"I was," I said. "But I have been widowed for some time."

"A long time, apparently, to find me interesting!" she said with a laugh. "My parents told me if I wasn't careful I'd end up wedded to my work, with nary a child to comfort me in my old age."

I could see it... it was her passion that was so attractive. It was hard not to be drawn to someone so engaged with her life. "And are you? Wedded to your work."

"I love it more than anything," she said, and a hint of nostalgia touched her smile then, one that made me aware of the years she'd lived, that seemed so light on her otherwise. "ij Qenain laughed when I told him that story. He said I'd find my way into a family eventually, even if I had to be tricked into it with a promising sperm sample on a slide." She looked at me. "He had such an unusual esar, osulkedi. He had the kevej, the passion, the zest, the daring."

"Kevej," I murmured. "The one that can become recklessness."

"Every esar has its dangers," she said with regret. "I fear we are living in its shadow-side now. I miss the sunlight." She glanced at me. "Will you bring it back? You and Shame's priest?"

"Maybe," I said, and then, looking at her, "We will." Because we had to.

She grinned at me. "Do that, and perhaps I'll give you a slide to smear."

That made me laugh. "I think I like a little more permanence than you are suggesting, Observer!"

"Everything has to start somewhere, ah?" She rose and touched her hand to the door handle. "Can I tell you aught else?"

"Not yet," I said, and then thinking better of it, "Your name."

"Seraeda," she said, smiling.

"Farren," I said.

"Well, then, Farren," she murmured, and opened the door for me.

For some time, I stood silently in the back of the laboratory by the door, watching the observers at work... absorbing their unease, their sharp, abbreviated motions, the curtness of their conversation. Unlike the kitchen staff, they were aware of their troubles, and worse, they knew their senior had been directly involved in it. That they could continue work despite that knowledge spoke strongly of them as people, but I could not imagine them sustaining their discipline and morale long in the face of that unresolved conflict.

Seraeda returned to their number, and her presence eased their tension somewhat. But she was carrying her own burdens. I watched a little longer and then departed, frowning over both the situation and the sudden rebirth of a part of my spirit I'd thought long buried. I had become comfortable with my own numbness; to suddenly remember I was male and not yet dead was a nuisance.

This, I felt sure, I could blame on Shame.

I was still nurturing this grievance when I opened the door on our suite and found Ajan in the common room, pelt still damp and a towel around his hips as he set out something clean to wear.

"Penokedi?" I said, surprised. "Where is Shame?"

"Off on his own business," Ajan said. "I went nosing around the back halls and then came here to have a bath before dinner." He turned to me and I drew in a long breath. He had one of the most unusual set of ribbons I'd ever seen, a yoke around his shoulders, leading to a fanged hook-shape below the cleft of his collarbones. I think some of you know about the ribbons: that each year our lords mark us with a dye or a bleach (depending on the darkness of our pelts), in a personal ceremony that confirms the relationship between lord and people. Those marks are called enaril, "ribbons," after their most common design motif, which is long and curling.

Seeing the direction of my gaze, Ajan smiled and twisted so I could see how the ribbons flowed to his back, dipping slightly at the shoulder-blades and meeting over his spine, just below that most sacred place, the sen, the nape of the neck. "You like it?"

"I have not seen any like them," I said, admiring. The lines were crisp, almost as if they'd been drawn with a brush; the ribbons on an Ai-Naidari are often visible, and so I have seen ample evidence that not all lords have steady hands when drawing them. "Who did them? I fear I don't know the lord who has your jurisdiction."

"Shame did them, Calligrapher," Ajan said, glancing at me. "Did I not say I was penokedi? He is my master."

I stared at him. "That is..."

"An exception," Ajan said. "And duly recorded so in the Book of Exceptions. The servants who pledge to Shame are marked either by the priest himself, or by Thirukedi, for they serve a Public Servant whose lord is the Emperor and who moves throughout all jurisdictions in His service. And it is their choice, Calligrapher. Which will mark them."

"And you chose Shame," I said.

"Of course," Ajan said, pulling on his shirt. "Thirukedi is... well, Thirukedi. But I serve Him by serving Shame." He grinned. "Vekken—that's our teacher from the Guardian school, he's one of us now—he told Thirukedi himself 'A man can serve two masters, but he has time to love only one.'"

"He did not say that to the Emperor!" I breathed.

"Oh, he did!" Ajan said, chortling. "Don't worry, Thirukedi didn't smite him or anything."

"What did He do?" I asked, torn between horror and curiosity.

"Oh, actually, He laughed," Ajan said. "And said that if we were determined to choose the harder course, that was our privilege as Guardians." He grinned. "So no, he didn't get into trouble. You know what they say about Guardians and speech."

"Yes," I said; there's a word for it, even, "Guardian-talk," which is to say outrageous in every particular. We grant a great deal of latitude to those who feel called to give their lives for us. "So, Shame puts your ribbons on every year."

"Every year," Ajan said. And then, more quietly, "To be honest, Calligrapher, while it was our choice to have him do it, I don't know that it would have been his."

"I'm not surprised," I said. "You ask him to take on a lord's responsibilities to you, with all their concomitant intimacy, but he is not a lord."

"I know," Ajan said. "We all know. But... we love him as we would a lord, Calligrapher. What should we do? To bow our heads to the Emperor would diminish us—" He lifted his hand at my protest, and surprised at the insolence of the gesture I let him continue, "—it would. I grieve to say it. But if your love is specific, osulkedi, how does it serve you to deny it and pretend your allegiance is to some more distant figure? We all left the work we could have done to be Shame's helpmeets. And we are his helpmeets. We ask in return that he honor our feelings."

"And he does," I surmised.