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their own sister carried T’En blood? Perhaps it was because Imoshen confronted them with something they wished to deny.
    ‘Our mother bad the wine-dark eyes, as well as the six fingers,’ Cariah explained, seeing Imoshen’s confusion.
    ‘Your... your mother?’ Imoshen faltered.
    ‘Long dead. Father would never bond again.’
    The conversation was much too personal for Old Empire protocol, but then Imoshen had always had trouble containing her unruly tongue. Her own mother had despaired of her.
    The enormity of her loss hit her.
    ‘My mother is dead too. They are all dead!’ Even as tears threatened, shame flooded Imoshen. But she could not contain the soul-deep sobs which shook her. She had not let herself grieve. There’d been no time, and now it was as if a dam had broken. Unable to contain the fury of her tears, Imoshen turned away, covering her face in despair.
    Surely this worldly woman would despise her.
    But Cariah slid her arms around Imoshen’s shoulders, offering unconditional comfort, and for a few moments Imoshen knew the peace of compassion as she weathered the storm of her loss.
    Then she pulled away.
    Ashamed to have revealed her weakness, she walked to a mirror. As she composed herself she was acutely aware of the shocked noblewomen and their maids reflected behind her. They had been silenced by her social solecism.
    ‘Forgive me.’ Imoshen turned to face them, giving the lesser bow of supplication. ‘I am here to invite you to the celebration tonight.’
    ‘You honour us,’ the Lady Cariah said, and though Imoshen searched that beautiful face, she could read no mockery.
    Imoshen took formal leave of them and even as the door closed she could hear the buzz of comment behind her. Her cheeks flamed with humiliation.
    Though they were stubborn Keldon nobles, poor cousins of the prosperous T’En court, they were still steeped in its traditions. The expression of grief, love, all strong emotions had been highly ritualised in the court.
    Imoshen castigated herself. To weep in the arms of a stranger was unheard of. The Fairban sisters would think her as uncouth as the Ghebite barbarians. How could she look the Lady Cariah in the eye tonight?
    But she had to. Somehow she would hide her discomfort, for she could not leave the General to host the evening alone. Bracing herself, she set off to ask the cook to prepare Keldon delicacies.
     
     
    ‘T’I MOSHEN ?’ AN ANXIOUS voice called. ‘Where is the Empress?’
    The cook looked to Imoshen, who summoned a smile, even though the sound of running feet made her stomach cramp with fear. Hopefully, it was simply a crisis of protocol precipitated by an unthinking Ghebite.
    A youth thrust the door open and stood there panting. By his dress he was one of the outdoor servants, and by his state he had searched the endless corridors of the palace for her.
    ‘I am here.’ Her voice sounded calm. Only she could feel the pounding of her heart. Absurdly, her first thought was for Tulkhan’s safety.
    ‘The Ghebite priest has gone mad,’ the youth announced. ‘He’s destroying the hothouse!’
    This was the last thing Imoshen had expected. A laugh almost escaped her. The hothouse supplied the palace with year-round fresh vegetables. Why would that pompous self-important priest object to fresh carrots?
    ‘Come and see!’ Even in his agitation, the youth did not dare touch her.
    Imoshen marched out of the kitchen, followed by the kitchen staff. Human nature being what it was, they welcomed any excuse to stop work, and besides, this promised to be entertaining; for no one liked the Cadre.
    She smiled grimly, but the smile slipped from her face when she heard the sound of smashing glass. Even in T’Diemn glass was valuable, especially glass crafted for large windows.
    She caught the arm of the nearest scullery maid. ‘Fetch General Tulkhan.’
    The girl gave the Old Empire obeisance and hurried off.
    With the youth dancing in front of her like an agitated