"And the lords have no objections?"

  "Of course they mind." Portilo clasped his hands behind his back. "The lords' armies were drastically reduced to mere symbolic forces of a thousand men, and taxes they once collected almost entirely now flow mostly to the imperial treasury. Powerful nobles—like Duke Wellington of Hilmo—could summon nearly twenty thousand soldiers with a single command, almost half of them knights. During active warfare, their iron furnaces alone outproduced all of Monowe's annual steel output today. But with Godma's rise, they all recognized that centralization was inevitable. No one dares challenge an empire with hundreds of thousands of well-equipped soldiers, and Emperor Davidow's grand vision has earned many lords' admiration. His Majesty Davidow's method of consolidating military power was quite graceful: allowing lords to maintain personal guards and other non-military privileges, preserving their feudal titles, and providing generous stipends—all ensuring their cooperation. Even with governors acting as proxies, lords remain the nominal masters of their domains." The secretary paused. "This way."

  The two slipped into a side alley like rats. "That was the Chief Justice and jury foreman blocking the road. They remember everything. They still remember the six cents I lost to them two years ago." He shivered. "Terrifying."

  (You're not much better yourself.) Elisa thought with disdain. "Where exactly are we going, sir?"

  "The Governor's Mansion—Lord and Lady Ancard's residence. He's long finished work by now." Portilo motioned for the maid to follow. "Anyway, you need to know a few things so you don't get your head chopped off." His tone carried the pride of one showcasing valuable knowledge. "As for Lady Ancard—" He stopped abruptly, his expression suggesting he'd swallowed a live rat.

  Elisa collided with his back, her nose bumping against his head and turning pink. "What are you doing, sir?!"

  Portilo clamped his hand over the girl's face, stifling her questions and outrage. "Quiet, quiet!" The secretary pushed her into a hidden alcove. Despite her struggles, Elisa couldn't pry his rat-like hand away. "Not a sound, not a sound. Listen," he hissed, "Lady Ancard is right in front of us, outside that house." The secretary peered around the corner, and Elisa followed with half her face and one eye visible. She frowned—perhaps from being nearly suffocated. But she experienced a peculiar sensation, like a vaporized dislike rising from heat. Not directed at Lady Ancard, but at the man facing her.

  She recognized this man. Lady Ancard's attire was sumptuous and befitting her status, perhaps excessively so. Her vividly colored dress seemed to drag a rainbow from heaven to earth, and her radiant smile could rival a fallen goddess—a goddess fallen into a brothel. Elisa understood immediately: this was youth's radiance, the glow of a woman beyond fifty who still exuded the fragrance of eighteen. It was the brilliance of a face etched with time's wrinkles yet filled with magical techniques that bridged the gaps—cosmetics enhanced with elven magic extracts and alchemical potions. This was the glow that made women of all ages believe traversing between past and future was effortless, simple, even pleasurable. Elisa, however, focused more on the man.

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  He leaned halfway out the doorway, glancing furtively around. Lady Ancard showed no such caution. She wrapped her arms around his neck with serpent-like speed, pulled him close, and kissed him. He returned her passion. After their entanglement, they separated, and he knelt on one knee to kiss her hand.

  "Why haven't you invited me in yet?" The woman's voice was theatrical and affected.

  The man spread his arms, eyes curved in a smile, shuffled to one side, and stepped away like a palace statue. Lady Ancard lifted her chin proudly, haughtily, trailing what seemed like the entire sky behind her as she disappeared into the dim interior. (I will never again sell wine to lying men, especially those whose daughters lie sick with fever while their wives wait in vain for their return.)

  "That was Lady Ancard, Baroness Rolisa," Portilo wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

  "Baroness?"

  The secretary pulled her deeper into the shadows. "Yes, Baroness. She's the daughter of Marquess Weber, lord of Monowe."

  Elisa felt a sudden clarity. "So that's why she wields such power."

  "Exactly, young lady. Mind your volume." He peered out again, confirmed they were alone, then signaled the maid forward. "Marquess Weber is at death's door, and his two sons died suppressing rebellions. Baroness Rolisa is the family's sole heir and already exercises her father's authority."

  As they passed the man's house, they instinctively ducked low. "But," Elisa whispered, "even with a lord's authority, surely she can't control the governor's decisions?"

  "That's her brilliance," Portilo replied scornfully. "She has Governor Ancard completely captivated. Their first meeting was coincidental, almost dreamlike. Her first glance was seductive yet promising. Her first greeting steady yet passionate. She pierced his heart with Cupid's first arrow. Now the arrow wounds in his heart are more shocking than stalactites. Medloski Ancard loves her so deeply he offers his power like dessert after dinner. He obeys her every word, wishing he could replace prayers to the Triad of Destiny with her night-time sighs, bedtime whispers, dream murmurs, and dawn mumblings. She gained the power she craved; he received what he mistook for diamond-like love."

  "As Lord Ancard's secretary, you should warn him."

  "He's in love." The secretary glanced back. "This battlefield is no easier than clashing swords. Even now, with Baroness Rolisa taking a lover, he chooses to admire flowers in his dreams. She blames him for her actions, and he knowingly accepts it."

  "If he truly believes in love, he shouldn't seek mistresses."

  "That's his proof," Portilo interrupted. "A man's final attempt at self-redemption."

  The Governor's Mansion stood not far from other buildings—understated and modest, with only a small garden. They walked in silence for some time. "Will you tell him about what we just saw, sir?"

  "Trained crows sing only when necessary."

  "I wonder where your loyalties lie—with the governor or the baroness?"

  "There are no sides to choose in matters like this, young lady. This is life, not theater." Portilo slowed his pace. "I sing for whoever wishes to hear me. However—" he hesitated, "when the crucial moment arrives, I believe I'll stand with him."

  Elisa didn't ask why. She felt he wasn't a rat anymore—at least not in this moment.