"I have, now and then," I said, startled by the change of topic.

"Then let us while away the dareleni," Shame said, meeting my eyes with amusement.

There was nothing for it, then, but to bring out the board and the playing pieces and settle to the game. As expected, I did better playing the river side than the bridge; the rules for the rivers seemed more natural to me, with their evocation of fluid and predictable reaction. Shame played both sides well, which I also expected. What else from a man who could think so like a Noble he could Correct one, imitate a Noble well enough to inspire allegiance from his servants... and then turn around and give surcease to the lowest Servant?

Setting up for a fourth game, Shame said, "We have learned nothing new from this, have we."

I snorted. "The game? No, of course not. Were we supposed to?"

"Everything," Shame said with some of that focused intent of his, "tells you something about a person."

I thought of his exchange with Ajan about the ribbon bleach and watched him place the pieces. "Doesn't it become burdensome? Forever examining everything that way?"

"Can you look at the world without subconsciously trying to mix a palette for it?" Shame asked.

I paused, then flicked my ears outward. "That was well-played." Rallying myself, I added, "And suggestive."

"Of what?" he asked, and turned the board to face me.

"Of how you believe others perceive the world," I said. "As a series of... biased perceptions."

"Bias implies untruth," Shame said, taking up a bridge. "I would say that how we perceive the world is colored by our ishas. Is that not the way of Kherishdar?"

I sat back, eyed him. "Philosophy."

"Unavoidably," he answered. "Life is philosophy, Farren. Even when we give it no name and don't examine it, it permeates our lives, our beliefs, our choices."

"So is your task an adjustment of people's philosophies?" I said.

"No," he said, quiet. "My task is a reminder of the philosophy that joins us all. That is the key to everything, osulkedi. We are wedded by our common beliefs, a philosophical underpinning that rules us all. Without it, we would be... isolate."

I quelled a shudder.

"I bring people home," Shame said.

"Then what do I do?" I wondered, voice low.

He smiled. "You make people glad to live there."

I fell silent, holding one of the river pieces between my long palms, fingers folded to enclose it. He waited courteously for me to place it, as the river-player traditionally went first, but I did not.

"There's something on your mind," he said.

"Divined that, did you," I murmured.

He chuckled. "It wasn't particularly difficult. So, what is it?"

"You have been..." I trailed off, wondering what word I might choose that would fail to give offense. Kind? Warm? "Forthcoming. With yourself. I would not have expected it of Shame; indeed, you were not so in the first days of our acquaintance."

He studied me with his clear eyes. "You think your words hurtful."

"They are not intended that way," I said, apologetic.

"I know. Perhaps then you will not be offended when I say, likewise, that I was unaware of your talent."

I sat back, returning his regard. He bore it without hardship, as one might expect a person of his notoriety would. Only one Shame in Kherishdar, and so starkly colored; of course, he was accustomed to stares. But there was no tension in the yoke of his shoulders, and I wondered at it... as much as I wondered at myself for noticing it.

"You are not surprised at the direction the conversation is flowing," Kor said. "Perhaps, then, you have also longed to have discussion with a true peer."

He used a distinct word: kava, "peer" rather than hharane, "caste-peer." The latter is what one calls other Ai-Naidar sharing your caste with you... the former, however, is something altogether different. More intimate. More presumptuous. More implying things I was not at all prepared for.

"I have known other Public Servants," I said finally. "My studio was not far from the physician's abode. We were acquainted with one another."

"But somehow, he did not strike you as a peer," Kor observed, beginning to line up his pieces in rows, little gray and white arches. "You are perhaps aware of your own talent."

"Osulkedi," I said, and could not stop my voice from sounding quelling.

He grinned at that, easy as a youth, and looked up at me without lifting his head, the effect of the uncanny eyes mitigated by his lashes and brows. "You fear I am about to reveal that you have some pride in your talent. Why shouldn't you, Farren? I have not yet seen your equal. There may be other artists with a hand as deft, but they are rare."

"Kor," I said, trying now to bring him back from his Shame eyes.

"It makes you uncomfortable," he said, quieter. Dare I say, with more understanding. "To feel so alone in your talent."

"I am not the only one who can paint!" I exclaimed.

"But you are the only artist I have met whom the Emperor has marked, permanently, with the signs of empire."

I fought the urge to hide my hands with their betraying marks in their sleeves.

"Do you not trust His judgment, if not your own?"

I looked away.

"Farren," he said, in that quiet voice. "You are not the only one who feels discomfort at being at the pinnacle of a particular ability."

"And that is why you have warmed to me," I said with a clipped voice, looking at him. "In my talent, you have decided you have found someone who also must stand alone as a master of his craft."

"Am I wrong?" he said.

"About your genius?" I said, and could not help but laugh a little, though the laugh was bitter. It was not so good a thing among us, to be set apart, even for positive reasons. "Certainly not. About myself—"

"Not something you are comfortable with," he said. "I understand."

"You," I said, "are accusing me of arrogance."

"After a fashion," he agreed, without distress. Indeed, with what I suspected, grouchily, was a touch of merriment.

"Shame," I said.