said Gyaar. “Who,” said Father. “Who has been doing such a thing?” “I do not know.” “You do not know. I would know. I would know everything, everything!” Father struck the table with his palm and the tea bowls rattled. “Every single thing that can be known about every living body in this place, but see it done so that they know as little as possible of it.” He leaned back, flicked his hand. Where they usually wandered out in twos or threes, chatting, the councilors stalked out singly, in silence. In his notebook Gyaar drew circles and spirals until his inkstone dried. “And I would start here, in this keep.” Father looked at him. “In this room.” Gyaar laid his inkbrush down, closed his notebook. He thought, but did not dare say, You know that I kept some secret from you. Why do you not ask me? Why do you order me, come at it from behind? “I . . . I have an odd ritual, that I have recently come into.” Every morning, before sunrise, he went to the guard tower, to watch the man that everyone called Gyaar’s Downlander (never, though, to Gyaar’s face) watch the keep.
