“It’s not half, Majesty.”

  Countess Wenzai of Korak presses a button and a roster readout appears across the command deck table.

  She’s calling from a Korak Refinery boardroom on Qarnaq II. A hex on the command deck’s main monitor shows her at the center of a congregation of her sisters, associates, and assistants, all in Korak black. Corska Ondai’s bright sapphire sash is a pop of color in one corner. Mavakai sits silently in Wenzai’s lap, drawing in chalk on a little slate board that rests next to her mother’s tablet.

  The Eqtoran High Council occupies the other: a halfscore of murmurers in monochrome-and-gold at a longhouse table crowned by Governess Qilik-mek-Eqtor.

  “We’re looking at a third at most,” Wenzai says. “Closer to a quarter. But the majority of our Eqtoran colleagues remain at-post. What’s really alarming is that it’s entire teams en masse.”

  “Alarming is right.” Grant scrolls down the list of names. “What happened here? The crews were doing great, I thought.”

  “They were,” Wenzai says. “The union’s even got its first Eqtoran members. Some of our leavers were mid-application.”

  Grant looks up from the list at Corska Ondai. She shakes her head. “It’s like the Countess says. They weren’t all union yet, but they were getting there. This isn’t my doing, Majesty.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “Sure. But I swear to you.” She raises her right hand. “The Eqtorans, that’s good people. Eat twice what everyone else does at all the cookouts, but the tunes and the tenacity make up for it.” Her hand lowers again, to drum on the table. “All that’s to say if you’ve got a hole in your labor force, my boys are ready to fill it.”

  “Tarry your throoks there, Representative,” Wenzai says. “They’re furloughed, not fired.”

  Ondai grins and shrugs. “Can’t blame a broad for pitching.”

  “What was it that sent so many of them home, then?” Grant asks. “What happened here?”

  “We asked,” Wenzai says. “Only thing they kept saying was due to my personal beliefs et cetera. You hear anything more specific, Corska?”

  Ondai tilts her head to one side. “Well, understand I don’t speak Eqtorish. But I did hear a name come up a lot, I think. Mortak. Something like that.”

  Ruaq raises her hand. “It wasn’t Multraq, was it? Ecclesiast Multraq?”

  “Multraq?” Ondai rubs her jaw. “That’s familiar.”

  “Apqar’s hairy asshole,” Ipqen says. “I figured qer celebrity would kinda just fizzle out after annexation.”

  “Okay, so.” Ruaq sucks air in through her carnivorous teeth. “Ecclesiast Multraq is a keeper on Eqtor who leads a pretty significant Uvaniqist sect.”

  “Uvaniqist.” Grant tries to remember if he’s heard that before. “Is it a cult?”

  Ruaq laughs musically. “No, Majesty. Not a cult. We’re Uvaniqist. It’s one of the biggest sects in the Children of Eqt.”

  Grant’s face reddens. “Oh.”

  “Multraqi Uvaniqism is a little culty, babe,” Ipqen says. “Be fair.”

  Ruaq’s fringe ripples. “Sorta but not really. It’s like—they don’t believe anything the rest of us don’t, not exactly. It’s just they believe it harder.”

  “Great,” Wenzai says. “Zealots.”

  “That’s probably the better word,” Ipqen says. By her side, Ruaq grimaces. “The Uvaniqists believe that keepers are the direct voice of the Gods.”

  “I thought you all believed that,” Grant says.

  “Not all of us,” Ruaq says. “The line outside of Uvaniq’s teachings is an ecclesiast is… interpreting, right? Uvaniq attested that when qe put on the ceremonial robe qe was straight-up establishing a connection. Lotta xhurr mysticism, lotta real big personalities. But the services are really energetic and the songs are tight and there’s a lot of stuff about, uh—multiplying. As part of the faith. So historically we sorta bred ourselves into the majority. Most Uvanaqists are born into it.”

  “And some Uvaniqists convert because we got real big crushes on keepers,” Ipqen adds.

  “If I was a hardcore Uvaniqist,” Ruaq says, “I’d be out here wearing the robes all the time and insisting you all use my temple signifiers and acting like Ipqen was my, uh—”

  “Servant,” Ipqen says.

  Ruaq bats her lashes. “Yes?”

  “I was finishing your fuckin’ sentence.”

  Ruaq titters at her mistress’s sour face. “The point is, Majesty, that submitting oneself to a venture like yours, an alien-led one, would be unthinkable to the Multraqi.”

  “They think that the word of the Gods resides on the tongues of the keepers,” Ipqen says. “Any venture not run by them is necessarily Godless.”

  “Multraq is a hardcore Uvaniqist, then,” Grant says.

  “Hardest of cores. Qe never drops qer temple signifier, qe refuses to acknowledge the new trio ways… basically qe’s a keeper supremacist.”

  Ruaq laughs uncomfortably. “Babe.”

  “I mean, qe is.” Ipqen raises an eyebrow. “I’m Uvaniqist, too. I get to say that.”

  “This qe word,” Grant says. “You called that a temple signifier?”

  Ruaq nods. “When a keeper ecclesiast is speaking for the Gods, they put on this golden robe and swap from she and her to qer. I’ve done it a couple of times on, like, ceremonial stuff. Like when I first got my nquiuk I was a qe for the afternoon. Most of the time, we just go with female signifiers. It’s easier that way. But Multraq goes to fuckin’ sleep in the robe. So it’s qe and qer all the time.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “So why is a person like, uh, like qer getting such influence over our people?” Sykora asks.

  There’s not many Multraqi, but their words carry the weight of a kind of… guilt. Another councilor is speaking, a man with broad, geometrically scarified forearms. It’s sort of a thing where you know you can’t live that way, but you know you’re supposed to, and you admire that someone is. I don’t know if that makes sense.

  The Taiikari look blankly. Sykora squints. “Not exactly.”

  “It does to me,” Grant says. “Guilt is a heavy hitter in the religion my family had.”

  “Interesting.” Wenzai perches her chin on her wrapped-around tail. “Sometimes I think Maekyonites are closer to Eqtorans than to Taiikari.”

  “Has this Ecclesiast Multraq not been on your radar, Qilik?” Sykora asks. “I would consider clamping down, if I were you.”

  We didn’t—er. Qilik looks to the other councilors. We had always presumed that it would be simpler and more harmonious to simply keep qer broadcasts… controlled. Not to crush, per se, but to quarantine.

  “So how’s qer proselytizing spreading?” Sykora asks.

  Independent radio signals, perhaps, Qilik says. Or even handed-off materials. It certainly bears investigation, Majesty.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Sykora squares her shoulders. “This is your first Imperial exigency. Multraq’s message, as I understand it, goes expressly counter to Taiikari doctrine. Would anyone here disagree with that?”

  Tense silence across the Eqtoran council.

  “You have a great deal of trust and goodwill thanks to your diplomacy during the annexation, Governess,” Sykora says. “But if the Empress were made fully aware of this sect and its operation with relative impunity, she would authorize a severe response, and expect to see it executed. So we will have to act decisively.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Wenzai raises a hand. “At a guess, Governess, you were already dealing with this stuff during the era of the republic. Keeper supremacy was surely against your doctrine, too. Right? And you counterprogrammed Multraq then.”

  Yes, Countess.

  “And you’ve been given more power to keep it tight post-republic. Not less.”

  We have. There is perhaps a certain reluctance to use it—

  “Sure. Sure.” Wenzai waves a hand. “But Multraq’s resurgence is unorthodox, right? Proven methods breaking down. Now, part of that might an increasing fundamentalism in the face of the new Imperial order, but… I dunno. Isn’t it odd that this is the project where it first rears its head? Why aren’t the Multraqi breaking through about the Omnidivine, or the military integrations?”

  “You suspect she—uh, qe—is receiving a boost, don’t you?” Grant says. “You think this is another piece being played against us.”

  “Can’t say for sure,” Wenzai says. “But it’s the pattern. Subtle and deniable, and leaving someone else to shoulder the blame.”

  “A certain Marquess,” Grant says.

  “A certain Marquess,” Sykora agrees.

  A certain Marquess? Qilik furrows her heavy brow.

  “Just our private suspicions, Governess,” Sykora says. “Not quite ready for public divulgence. We’ve planted false intelligence in some quarters, feigning poor relations with the Eqtoran council. This is a wedge seeking a crack. Let us agree, Qilik, that it will find none.”

  You have my oath that it won’t, Qilik says. If this certain Marquess believes us to be a feckless flock of god-botherers to be wielded as a bludgeon, they are in for a rude reaccounting.

  A faint approving smile tints Sykora’s face. “I want the names and faces of whatever group is amplifying this Multraqi sect. I want a detailed plan of previous mitigation efforts and a preliminary adaptation to fit your world’s new status as an Imperial protectorate. You needn’t silence qer completely, but I want to be confident that you have the situation in-hand and I won’t be dealing with qer brand of zealotry again any time soon.”

  Ruaq’s squirming in her seat; Ipqen’s hand is resting on her shoulder. Qilik, on the other hand, is showing no such reluctance. We will begin immediately, Majesty.

  “Good,” Sykora says. “I’ll be watching to see how you do. But while you find whatever partners exist, the damage seems to have been inflicted on Qarnaq. We’ll need your help crafting our countermessage, and of course we’ll have to replace those furloughed workers.”

  “Wait. No.”

  Grant only realizes when the shock registers on Sykora’s face what he’s just done, how he just publicly countermanded her in front of her subjects and partners.

  “Uh, that is to say,” Grant says. “I may want to talk to this Multraq individual directly before we do anything that rash.”

  The Eqtoran council fall into murmuring with one another. One of them, an older keeper, crosses from the crackling fire at the council room’s hearth to cup a hand to Qilik’s stubby earhole and whisper into it.

  “Rash?” Sykora raises an eyebrow and beckons Grant into her own sotto voce conference. “This early in their careers they are replaceable, dove. Corska surely has plenty of unionists ready to step in. I wouldn’t want to hold onto an Eqtoran that doesn’t want to be held.”

  “I know,” he whispers. “But if we cut ‘em loose, that’s giving up ground on integration. And I’m not ready to do that yet.”

  Majesty, Qilik says. We would call your chosen course... She glances around the table, long enough that the subtitles clear out. Audacious.

  Grant folds his arms as he watches the display. “You think it’s a bad idea, huh?”

  I would only suggest a level of care, Qilik says. I fear that Multraq will offend you, Majesties. Qer faith burns hot.

  “It will surprise you to hear this, Governess,” Sykora says. “But my husband’s might burn hotter.”

  Is he a religious man?

  Sykora shakes her head. “There’s more than one kind of faith.”

  Sykora winches the seat back and puts her feet on the sledge’s dashboard as Grant coasts them across the ice. There’s a meteor shower tonight over Taiqan, and the Prince and Princess have taken a quiet getaway to watch them burn across the indigo sky, falling below the horizon.

  “You should give your first planetary address here,” Sykora says. “Relatively few people and they’d love you.”

  “A planetary address.” Grant thinks of the adoring ocean Sykora preached to on Aodok. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Grantyde.” She rolls over, with more effort than she’s used to. “You and these Eqtorans have an affinity for one another. You warmed up to them quicker than you warmed up to the Taiikari.” She grins. “Because they’re your subjects, dove.”

  “You’re the one who sang them into the Empire.”

  “I am,” she says. “But you feel a responsibility to them. That will to protect. It’s what makes you Princely.”

  “Wenzai said that Maekyonites seemed similar to Eqtorans,” he says. “I was thinking the same thing. In this case, anyway. That’s one of the reasons I want to try and sort it out on their level. It’s good practice, now that I’ve signed Maekyon away.”

  Sykora sighs.

  “No, I have. It’s okay.” He raises his palms. “I’m not going back on it. But if I’m giving Maekyon to the Taiikari, I’m giving it as a Black Pike world first and foremost. The same way I gave myself. Not to the Empress, Batty. To you.”

  He holds his hand out. He remembers what Ipqen told him during the Black Pike funeral. You feel that weight?

  There’s a version of Sykora—one he knew mere cycles ago—who would tell him not to say these things. This Sykora just takes his hand, solemn and silent, and runs her thumb across the wedding ring she placed on his finger.

  “These workers,” he says. “This ecclesiast who’s influencing them. I get that the easy thing would be to just stomp them back down to Eqtora. But this is the first religious conflict at a scale to snag on since the annexation. I want us to set a precedent.”

  “Still,” Sykora says. “I know I said otherwise in front of the servants, but perhaps Qilik’s right about this Multraq customer.”

  “I held my own with Corska, didn’t I?”

  “To a point you did,” Sykora says. “I can’t go releasing any more prisoners.”

  “I’d say we should go together, but I don’t want to give Multraq the opportunity to insult you to your face.”

  “Oh, come now.” Sykora nudges her elbow into his waist. “You needn’t fear for them on my account. I’ve gotten very good at being demeaned without follow-up evisceration. I have a big handsome Maekyonite husband who trims my claws these days.”

  “Yeah, well. I don’t know if I could take someone being sanctimonious or demeaning at my wife. Might have to pop ‘em in the mouth.”

  Sykora giggles. “Though I would risk a diplomatic incident to see that, I have a different proposition in mind.” She taps her temple. “If humility and religious know-how are to carry the day, I trust one person above all.”

  Grant takes a second to catch up with her, but only a second.

  “It is high time,” Sykora says, “to check in with Brother Tymar of Indrik.”