Work Text:
The headache was getting worse. He’d been aware of it, on and off, for a couple of days. It was strange; Cliopher would have thought, with the princes and their entourages safely on their way, that the strain would be lifting.
The conference had been a strain. It had also been – incredible. Like flying. Every part of himself fully engaged in his work. Every day starting before the dawn, when he reached his office and read through the summaries of the previous day’s meetings. Breakfast strategy sessions with his team. Preparations with Kiri, to ensure the right schedules and papers had been distributed for the day. The hour he set aside to run through the standard decision papers of the mundial government, which were fortunately reduced by the mysterious way his Radiancy had slowed time to facilitate the conference. The last minute with Conju, which always seemed to stretch to at least thirty minutes as they plotted together over the comforts and conveniences offered to the visitors, and the sops or challenges that could be provided to draw or prod a specific signatory into a desired concession.
Planning sessions with his Radiancy took the longest, so he always tried to start those immediately after the Lord of Rising Stars had broken his fast. Cliopher wondered, sometimes, how he managed to fit all those hours of labour in before the third bell of the morning. It was presumably a side effect of the peculiar anchor that had been set up in the centre of the Palace, which acted (so he had been assured) something like a sail dragged behind a boat, slowing the pace of time in a steady, even way across Solaara without putting too much pressure on any one person or place.
He rubbed his forehead, between his eyes where the ache seemed to have settled this morning. Perhaps it was so painful because his Radiancy had unwound that magic, the previous afternoon; he had been privileged to watch as the Lord of Zunidh stood enrobed in his majesty like a cape, dark arms raised gracefully in an arc against the dawn sky, and his priest-wizards paced a mysterious labyrinth around him.
The meetings with the rulers of the world had been, every time, a dance over the coals. All the challenge and peril of a performance; the imperative of never, ever, placing a foot – a word – wrong. The meticulous preparation. The impossible unplanned contingencies. The – the gift, of catching the tone, the thought, the trick, from his Radiancy, and turning it back –
He slumped forward to rest his forehead in his hand. His Radiancy had suggested that he take a few days’ rest. That was kind of him. Cliopher had done the same for most of his Private Office: they had been working long hours for weeks on end. Even Kiri had agreed to leave the Palace for a week, on the condition that Cliopher did not work while she was away.
Cliopher was not working. He was in his office to make sure someone had fed Inkstone. He was just tidying up the papers that he had left on his desk – he would get back to that, as soon as his eyes would focus again. Better to have them tidy, so that it would be easy to slide back into the routine next week when everybody got back. Better just to check the boxes that were still coming up from the mostly-empty offices, to make sure there were no nasty surprises lurking –
“I thought I’d find you here.” Cliopher pulled his hand away from his face and looked up. Conju an Vilius was standing in the doorway, hands on hips. “What are you doing at your desk?”
“Oh, I came in to feed Inkstone, and –”
“That sensible young woman you have as your deputy asked me to look after the furry abomination so that you would not have to come and feed it. I’m sure she will be delighted to hear how well that worked.”
That was right, wasn’t it? Kiri had arranged for the Household to look after Inkstone. Cliopher blinked. He had forgotten. This headache really was worse than usual. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
The Cavalier came further into the room, regarding him with narrowed eyes. “Cliopher sayo Mdang, have you slept?”
“Ye-es?”
“Are you ill?”
“I’m fine,” he said, automatically, and stood to go. The papers would wait; he had all week to come back here and tidy them when Conju wasn't looking.
Conju could raise an eyebrow with such devastating scorn that Cliopher felt it, even though his back was turned. “I see,” he said. “In that case, would you do me the honour of joining me for lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“The consumption of food shortly after the noon bell. I admit, perhaps I should not have presumed that the concept was familiar.”
“We do eat lunch in the Vangavaye-ve too,” said Cliopher, a slight edge creeping into his voice. The assembled rulers of Zunidh had looked hard for a way to browbeat their unexpected chair, and had made many and various comments about his origins and homeland in exactly that supercilious tone.
He rubbed his forehead again. The headache was making him grouchy, but he should not be so ungenerous. Conju had worked with him willingly from the first moment he showed up at the great doors of the Imperial Apartments. Conju had backed him, despite his hinterland ways, as he turned the routines of the Household and the Imperial Service upside down. It was true that Conju did, occasionally, make comments about barbarians that made Cliopher wince, but he had always known that it was not personal. He had even been beginning – tentatively – to think of Conju as a friend.
Today Conju huffed and swept out of the room, somehow drawing Cliopher into his wake. The Groom of the Chamber had, as a perk of his job, a small suite of rooms for entertaining adjacent to the Imperial Apartments. This was not the first time he had invited Cliopher into them, although it was perhaps the first time they had eaten here without a work-related matter to discuss.
Cliopher got through the meal, somehow, without wincing away from the light or falling into a stodgy silence or losing the thread of Conju’s conversation. He was learning so much about court culture just from listening to Conju’s ready stream of gossip, and from watching the way the man moved and spoke.
The headache was definitely getting worse; by the time the last remove had been cleared away, it was powerful enough that Cliopher was feeling nauseous. He made his thanks, and his bows, and did not faint, and managed to walk down and out of the central tower of the Palace without falling over his own feet once, or staggering.
It was only when he stepped into the full light of the equatorial afternoon sun that he realised he had started shivering. He could feel his body unwinding as the warmth washed over him.
This might be more than a stress headache.
If he was going to be ill, this week was the right time for it. His Radiancy was not expecting him.
He had meant to go back to his room and write some letters, and stroll down into Solaara to post them. Perhaps he could do that tomorrow. Perhaps today he could stop here, in the gardens, on this bench tucked into the arbour by one of the little pools, and lean back, and close his eyes.
He was feeling tired today. The ceremony to ratify the treaty had been extremely long, between the Ouranatha’s blessings, his Radiancy’s acceptance of fealty from every ruler present, and the endless speeches. Cliopher had had a role to play in all three parts: he had coordinated the materials for the blessings, stood as his Radiancy’s Hands to receive the oaths of loyalty, and ceremonially held the original signed treaty while the signatories congratulated themselves over his head on their wisdom, their munificence, their restraint, and their Sun on Earth.
The sound of running water rippled pleasingly. The wind had died away almost to nothing, after whipping up in great curls and curtains of air when his Radiancy released the spell… yesterday. That had been yesterday, and today he had been told to rest, and he was tired. Perhaps he could drift, here, where the air was full of the faint spray and the whir of hummingbird wings.
He did not realise that he had fallen asleep until he was shaken awake by – he peered, bleary. “Hiscaron?”
“Are you feeling all right, sir?”
“Mm,” he said, trying to collect himself. The sun was lower in the sky than it had been. His back and legs were stiff. The black linen of his work robes was sticky and uncomfortable against his skin.
“Sir?”
“I’m fine,” he said, straightening up. The spots of pain behind his eyes pulsed, briefly, and he thought he was going to throw up. He swallowed. “Just tired.”
“Is that so. Sir.” Hiscaron helped him up. Cliopher saw, out of the corner of his eyes, the expressive glance he exchanged with his partner for today – his partner –
The pain in his head tightened as Cliopher reached his feet, and he gave both guards his best mild smile. It was frustrating, sometimes, the way they fussed over him. “Thank you.”
“We’ll come with you, sir,” said Hiscaron, and pretended not to hear Cliopher’s protest.
It was, to his shame, a good thing that he had company. After a couple of steps and a wave of renewed dizziness he conceded so far as to take Hiscaron’s offered arm for support. They steered him out of the garden and into the cool marble interior of the Palace, where he shivered. As thrilling as it had been to watch his Radiancy recover the potency of his magic and begin to restore the arcane landscape of Zunidh, Cliopher occasionally found himself pining for the days when the spells that cleaned and cooled the air were still uneven. Everything was so cold in here now.
He was so thankful to be supported along that he did not even realise that Hiscaron had tricked him until they were walking into the nearest outpost of the Palace infirmary. There was a general impression of salmon-pink paint, rubber flooring, and crisp white robes that filled him with a painful kind of longing for his sister Navalia, who had died long ago. She had dragged him off to the healers with persistent duplicity, too.
“I’m fine,” he objected, pulling away, as he had always pulled away from her. The room wavered around him as he moved, and he caught himself with difficulty on the edge of a desk. “‘m jus’ tired.”
“Why don’t you have a lie down, sir?”
The suggestion seemed reasonable enough, however much he blinked suspiciously at it. He was tired, and the world was spinning in a disconcerting manner, and it would be nice to close his eyes over this headache for a while.
Cool hands helped him shift out of his robes, but if they were Navalia’s hands that was all right, she was his sister, she was allowed. A bed turned up beneath him: where had that come from? It was more comfortable than the sleeping platform he would have expected. “‘m fine,” he mumbled again, to the ceiling, which had floated away above him to an incredible height.
He was not fine. He had a fever, even he could tell that much; he felt weak and floppy and confused and everything hurt. How was he going to pay for this treatment? Hospitals were so expensive, and his mother would purse her lips if he came back again with yet another medical bill, so soon after… so soon after Navalia’s, which had been difficult. He had helped pay for Navalia’s care, with the money he got for sailing on that velio ship, but he would not be able to do the same to pay for this, not while his muscles were knotted and his bone burning from the inside out. He could, at least, refuse any medication: that would save something.
There was a bustle, and a briskness, and then Conju an Vilius was there beside him. Conju was glaring at him. “The next time you tell me that you are fine, Cliopher Mdang, I will tie you to a bed. And not in a fun way. Take. Your. Medicine.”
Conju did not appear to understand about the cost; that tracked, Conju was a scion of one of the great families of Astandalas, and had the elaborate tattoos to prove it. Cliopher admired the lines of them, the way they curled up his – his friend’s? – he did think Conju was his friend – his friend’s narrow neck, and fanned out in intricate whorls across his bare skull. Had he ever complimented them? He did not think he had. He mumbled some appreciation.
“All taste has not deserted you, I see.”
The medicine was bitter in his mouth, but Conju glared some more and he managed to gulp it down. It did help, a little. He fell into fitful sleep.
When Cliopher woke the curtains had been pulled closed and the magelights brought up. Conju was still there, to his surprise. The little man was frowning over some kind of embroidery, his needle plunging viciously into the fabric.
This was a cold and uncomfortable place, and no doubt expensive. He had a home, didn’t he? If he couldn’t find the Mdang household, Bertie would surely let him stay. He had stayed at Bertie’s many times when he felt too – too woozy to make it all the way back from the waterfront to the Tahivoa lagoon.
Conju looked at his fumbling with the side of the bed for a few moments, then put the embroidery hoop down on a table with a decisive click, planted his hand in the middle of Cliopher’s chest, and pushed him back down into the bed. “You are staying right here.”
Cliopher returned his glare with full Mdang fire, and tried to explain about Bertie. Conju shook his head.
The attempt to sit up had perhaps been premature; Cliopher could feel the ache all over, in his bones. He lay back to ride it out, breathing heavily through his nose, and considered his next move.
There was a discussion of some kind going on. Conju was talking to one of the healers.
“Is there any medical care he cannot receive in my apartments?”
“No, sir. He will need to be closely monitored, but I can set up a rota.”
A different voice, a rumbling one Cliopher didn’t recognise, said, “There have been threats. It would be easier for us to watch him somewhere less public.”
The discussion concluded and apparently he had won. He was being taken away from the infirmary. To his disgust, the means of conveyance was a wheeled wicker chair. He tried to protest that he could walk; he tried to stand. Conju defeated him on both counts, aided by his own traitor legs which wobbled until he sat down.
It was some time later, after the pain of the movement ebbed away, when he realised that he was not in Gorjo City after all. He was in the Palace: the beautiful proportions were instantly recognisable. He was in the Palace, and he should be working.
Cliopher managed, this time, to get his legs over the edge of the bed and throw up messily onto a carpet that was probably worth more than his annual salary. What idiot left that there, in a sick room where naturally it was going to get soiled?
He asked the question of the stout dark woman who came in and manoeuvred him adroitly back into his pillows. She did not answer, just asked sir to please stay where he was comfortable, and summoned an assistant to clean up his mess.
Conju, sweeping in a few moments later, cast a jaundiced eye over the situation. “Thank you, Zala,” he said. “Cliopher, you’re ill. You have bonebreak fever. Stay where you are, please, and stop making trouble for my staff.”
Why Conju’s staff were in his bedroom was a problem for another day: Cliopher was in the Palace of Stars, and he had just woken up, and he knew what happened next.
“G’ng get dressed,” he muttered, rebelliously, “‘s work.”
Conju drew himself up. “There is not work. Not for you, not today. Not this week, I suspect. Perhaps not next week, either, unless you can restrain this urge to wander until you are fully recovered.”
“Wha’ if – his Radiancy,” Cliopher applied his full concentration to enunciate the important name, “needs me?”
“His Radiancy told you to take a week to rest. I was there. Lie down, Cliopher, and sleep.”
If that was an order from his Radiancy, he had to obey it. Cliopher lay down.
Time passed. The fever waxed, and occasionally waned. He dreamed of reports, and of arguments, and of waves rippling over his head. He dreamed of his Radiancy’s hands, stirring cool waters: long fingers, each one shaping the air, shaping the space, drawing golden sparks out of nowhere, drawing beauty from nothing, and giving it to Cliopher.
Conju, somewhere nearby, sighed. “It’s not as if I hadn’t guessed, my dear, but that doesn’t make this any easier to listen to.”
It was Conju’s hands that were holding a damp cloth to his forehead. Conju was being gentle, however barbed his tone. Cliopher might have taken that for a courtier trait, if it did not remind him so very much of Navalia, who was gone.
He missed Navalia. Conju seemed interested in her, so he talked about how annoying she had been, when they were children, and how funny, and how much he wished she was here to bully him into getting better.
There was an indeterminate, painful time when the room swayed in and out of focus. Sometimes Conju was there. Sometimes Zala. Sometimes a young healer, who took his readings with earnest attention. Everything ached: his arms, his legs, his head. He wanted to sit up, and find his writing kit, and make some notes on the situation. He wanted to write to his family, to tell them about Littleridge. He wanted to write to Basil, to ask whether it should be possible for fingernails to throb.
Then, eventually, there came a time when he woke and the pain had receded. He was weak enough, and sweaty enough, to know that it would not be a good idea to try to get out of bed, but fully capable of hauling himself up onto the plump pillows and pouring himself a glass of water from the exquisite crystal carafe set on the bedside table.
He surveyed the room. It was cluttered. It was decorative. It was stylish. It smelled incredible. It was very, very Conju an Vilius.
“Back with us, are you?” Despite the tartness of his tone, Conju was smiling.
“I hope so. What day is it? I should –”
“His Radiancy isn’t expecting you back at your desk until tomorrow, Cliopher, and you should really take longer to rest. I can tell him –”
Cliopher shook his head, marvelling at how free he felt without that pain hammering behind his eyes. “It’s been a whole week? I should get back to the office –”
“You should stay exactly where you are until the healers sign you off, Cliopher sayo Mdang.”
That sounded final. Cliopher subsided. “If they do say I’m fit, I’m going back tomorrow,” he said, with as much firmness as he could while wearing another man’s lace-trimmed nightgown and sitting in his much-pillowed bed. “Please don’t tell his Radiancy I’ve been – I’ve been ill. I don’t want to be a bother.”
Conju hesitated. Cliopher could see him thinking this over. The request was calculated to align with his interests; it was the Groom of the Chamber’s job to ensure that his Radiancy never had to deal with the slightest unease about any part of his existence.
“You’re not a bother, Cliopher, you're ill. Let me explain to his Radiancy –”
“Please don’t. I don’t want him to worry.”
There was another pause, and then Conju sighed. “No, then. As you wish, I’ll keep it from him. And if the healers agree to you getting up, I’ll have your robes brought over – and your writing kit. I am telling Kiri Kalikiri, though, that is not negotiable.”
Cliopher knew when to accept a capitulation with good grace. He was a meek and dutiful patient all evening, letting the healers poke and prod him; letting Conju lecture him on the proper care and feeding of the Hands of the Emperor, to wit, himself; even eating all of the thick, gloopy broth that Zala brought for him.
The next morning his robes and writing kit were, as promised, waiting for him when he awoke. The fever had definitely gone down, and by the time he had washed and dressed he was ready for the day, with only a little lingering nausea. Hardly surprising, after so long spent abed.
His Radiancy’s Private Office was full of energy and excitement as Cliopher swung through it to pick up the morning reports: the week of holiday had been an excellent idea to round off the conference, he thought, seeing how his bright young things were tackling the dispatch boxes. He strolled in through the seven beautiful anterooms to the Imperial Study with a sense of relief, and found the Emperor also in an ebullient mood.
The Lord of Rising Stars was positively glowing with excitement as Cliopher made his obeisance, and launched into pacing and talking almost before his secretary had had time to settle to his desk. He was pleased with the success of the conference, full of sly anecdotes about the departing princes, delighted with the effectiveness of his magical anchor, and incidentally full of praise for Cliopher.
Cliopher, whose nausea had stirred uneasily as he knelt and rose, kept his face professionally bland and tried not to blush as his Radiancy commended his statesmanlike wrangling abilities. He accepted what compliments he felt he could with a duck of his head and a “Too kind”, and “I have an excellent team, my lord”. He was feeling rather more stretched than he had expected that morning, a little fatigued, and he was glad to know that his Radiancy disliked effusive speeches in his honour; Cliopher could not have collected his thoughts enough to deliver one.
At least taking dictation was a nice, restful activity, and most of the morning was given over to drafts of various letters and proclamations to follow up on the publication of the Littleridge Treaty. By the time their session drew to a close, Cliopher was decidedly woozy again, and he could feel an uncomfortable flush creeping back across his features. He made his final obeisances – just – and reached the first anteroom before he started staggering, and then crunched over his belly, clinging to his writing case and retched, and retched onto the beautiful inlaid floor.
Hands reached out to him. The guards were there. “Something’s wrong! Get the Cavalier!”
And then it was Conju who more or less hauled Cliopher upright, furious with worry. “I thought you were on the mend, you idiot. Come on, you need to lie down.”
Cliopher did not want to go back to bed. He was tired, certainly, but he had spent most of the past week asleep. He grumbled, and gagged, and grumbled again as Conju enlisted the help of the guards to manhandle him through to his little grace-and-favour apartment.
His stomach hurt. He didn’t want to lie down. His stomach really hurt, that was bad, but he had surely thrown up everything that was inside it by now so there really couldn’t be anything left.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
That was emphatic but not eloquent; it did not seem natural for Conju. Cliopher fidgeted, and retched, and worried about the mess he had made of Conju’s floor. Conju was angry about something, or perhaps he was scared, which was worse, but Cliopher could not for the life of him understand what it was, except that it had something to do with calling a healer, and something to do with stupid stubborn secretaries who wouldn’t take care of their fool selves.
Cliopher was lying on his back now, which also seemed strange, particularly since he actually had to curl up on his side around the pain in his belly. There was a strange ringing in his ears, and he was shivering, and before he could collect enough information to work out what was going on, he passed out.
When he came round there were two healers beside the bed. They were monitoring him with diligent care, and would not countenance him even sitting up. “You’ve been extremely ill,” one said. “The bonebreak fever recurred, and you went into severe shock.”
“Lord Conju left a message,” said the other. “He said: ‘tell Sayo Mdang that I have traded favours to get The Schedule filled up with rituals and court events for three solid days, and that he can thank me by going back to sleep until he is healthy enough to be left unsupervised, and that if necessary this is the bed I will tie him to, I mean it’.”
Cliopher lay back down, feeling some of the tension ease from his back and shoulders. It felt like a tremendous undertaking for Conju to carry out on his behalf, to fill his Radiancy’s schedule with the kinds of meetings that always bumped his secretarial sessions. It must have been difficult to arrange, and not to reveal why. He felt unexpectedly, unreasonably pleased to have found such a friend, here at the heart of the Imperial Household, in a man whose entire training and background were so different from his own.
Freed from his concern about his work, closely watched over by the healers, Cliopher slept. He drifted back towards wakefulness much, much later, feeling blearily and uncertain, and found Conju sitting once again beside his bed. “There you are, my dear,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” said Cliopher, honestly. “Thank you, Conju.”
“I will maintain your cover story, ridiculous man,” said Conju, with a sniff, “if you will lie still and drink fluids and go the fuck to sleep until you are fully recovered. Again.”
“His Radiancy really doesn’t know that I’m ill?”
Conju pushed Cliopher’s hair back from his forehead, gently. “What do you take me for, Cliopher? I am very good at my job”
“Thank you, Conju,” he breathed again. All was well. He could rest his eyes again.
As he slipped into sleep, he almost thought he heard his Radiancy’s sigh, and that beautiful voice, like the echo of an echo of a dream: “Unquenchable. Thank you for catching him, Conju. Thank you.”
And, on the edge of hearing, Conju’s soft reply: “Entirely my pleasure, my lord.”