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There is a stranger in Cliopher's sitting room.
Or no, perhaps it is a ghost.
Lady Jivane is dead, after all, for all she is standing here in the First Receiving Room in Cliopher's apartments and eyeing the ornamental tiger-shaped wine decanter on the side table judgementally. He recognizes her from back in the day, with her elaborate blue and bronze robes and careful posture. He had not remembered that she was quite so young- but he himself is not as young as he had been.
She turns upon his entrance to the room and frowns at him. “You've changed the decor,” she says. “I don't like it.”
These used to be her apartments as Lord Magus of Zunidh, Cliopher is reminded. Perhaps that is what brings her here.
“I'm afraid you will have to take it up with my household.” He examines the decanter, which he has never had the occasion to notice before- it appears to uncork at the tail, and is filled with a white wine that must be intended to evoke the white tigers sprawling across the wallpaper. He shrugs. “Court fashions tend to shift, and I confess that I myself had very little to do with it.”
She eyes the blue and bronze of his half-court robes, so similar to her own, then peers at his face. “Hmm. Are you my successor, then? You're garbed in enough magic for it.”
Are his robes imbued with magic? Cliopher can't imagine any other magics she'd be picking up on- but one cannot rely on ghosts for their accurate perception.
He uncorks the tiger's tail and pours a measure of wine into two of the adjacent glasses, maneuvering the awkwardly shaped decanter carefully. Franzel will be horrified, of course, but Cliopher will not be an unwelcoming host, even to whatever sort of apparition is visiting him today. He does not try to hand her the glass- an apparition would not be able to take it from him- but places it on the table in front of her so as not to be rude. “I am not any sort of a mage, Lady Jivane. My Lord has granted me these apartments and this livery as a sign of his favor.”
She narrows her eyes at him for a moment, then gestures magnanimously to the couch. “Have a seat,” she says, making herself comfortable in the armchair.
Bemused, Cliopher accepts the invitation to sit on his own couch. He holds his glass of wine and leans forward, giving her his attention. “What brings you here today, Lady Jivane? Are you in need of some assistance?”
She takes a sip of her drink, then asks, “Who are you to think you can so easily help me?”
It is not quite the first of the three questions, but it is close enough that he has to carefully hide a smile. “I am Cliopher Mdang, my lady,” he says. “My lord has seen fit to appoint me Lord Chancellor, and now Viceroy in his absence as he leaves to find his successor.”
“Ah,” she says, “I am on the hunt for my successor myself. It is gratifying to know I will succeed.” She swirls the drink in her glass, idly contemplating it. “I don't suppose you will tell me who he is?”
Cliopher inclines his head politely. “My lady, I believe the identity of your successor will be made clear to you soon enough.”
She looks unimpressed. “Well, you're no help whatsoever, Lord Mdang.
“Indeed,” Cliopher says, and decides to leave it at that.
Lady Jivane sighs. “Does he do a good job, at least?”
Cliopher cannot hide a smile at this. His lord has worked wonders for their people, and the world, and they are all better for it.
“The best.”
She drains her glass, then places it on the table and stands, resettling her skirts. Cliopher makes to rise with her, but she waves a dismissive hand at him. “No, no, don't rise on my account. Make yourself at home, Lord Mdang, I know the way out well enough.”
And without further comment, she sets her shoulders and leaves through the main door.
Cliopher waits a moment, watching the door fall closed behind her. He drinks the last of his own wine- as good as any other he has ever been served in these apartments, despite the unusual container. Then he rises and goes to the door Lady Jivane had just left through. Ewan and Baion stand at attention outside, and salute him formally as he looks around.
The hallway is empty.
He turns to Baion. “Tell me, did someone just pass this way?”
“No, Lord Mdang,” says Baion, unbothered. “Just yourself, a handful of minutes ago.”
Cliopher thanks Baion, then goes back into his tiger-ornamented first receiving room to contemplate the remaining wine in the decanter, and the empty glasses that have been left out on the table.
Well. Perhaps not a ghost after all.