The next morning they made their way to the elegant chapel that lurked off to one side of Fifth Star Court. As was customary on Holy days, there had been no breakfast, and Alyn's stomach rumbled, unimpressed by its absence. Alyn sighed. Looking around at the other lords assembling outside the chapel, she felt distinctly underdressed, and her lord looked positively dowdy in his dusty black waistcoat, the smartest item that had been packed. If Anitia was to be believed, it was the best one he had, and it looked like it had played host to several generations of moths over the years.

The ornate chapel doors opened at daybreak, and the crowd filed in, still silent. Before the altar burned the Emperor's flame, lit from a torch which had been lit by his hand on the hour of his accession to the throne. Each lord made his way to the front with solemn tread, bowed ponderously to the flame, then made his way to his accustomed seat. As visitors to the Court, Miervaldis and Alyn came last; standing through the interminable queue of Fifth Star Court lords, she looked up and saw he was watching them keenly. She watched them herself, but saw nothing unusual. The outward show of piety and loyalty, at least, was flawless.

The service was all but identical to the last two she had attended at Fourth Star Court, although she had been without her lord then, of course. At the front, the First Sage pontificated on the meaning of the Holy day (this time, the anniversary of the first Emperor's birthday), and she let her mind drift, not paying attention to the words. The Sage did not speak for long, thankfully, but by the time he was done, her behind was numb from the cold stone seat. The congregation stood as they were bid, and dutifully chanted the obligatory paean, then joined in desultorily with the choir-led canticle. It was clear that most lords were expecting to leave by now; one elderly man actually started for the aisle, but the First Sage cleared his throat and the embarrassed page bolted from his chair to tug his lord back to his seat. The Sage bestowed a firm glare on the congregation and let the silence linger for a while before clearing his throat again and starting on the funeral service. Alyn wondered how many people were cursing Jaquan for having the indecency to die so close to a Holy day; had it been more than a week away, he'd have had a private funeral, and nobody would have had to turn up.

After he had enjoyed himself silently rebuking the crowd, the First Sage gave the signal and the doors opened. Heads turned as three figures crept into the chapel; Jaquan's family and friends would be permitted in at this stage, but from her seat near the back, Alyn could see clearly that only two of the three were Jaquan's fellow scribes. She wondered where the other one was. The third figure was an austere-looking woman with a disapproving expression. She, at least, walked as though she had a right to be there, striding confidently to her seat. The scribes crept after her, ashamed. Theoretically, of course, the chapel should be open to everyone, but Court chapels were unofficially recognised as special cases. Alyn felt sorry for them and their obvious discomfort.

The First Sage coughed again and drew all eyes to the front. For all the fuss he made over it, the funeral was very short. Four burly sages carried in the coffin, and the First Sage ran through the prescribed rites over it, touching the sacred ash to the centre, and consigning Jaquan's spirit to the gods. The choir sang a dirge, one of the standard ones, and the congregation surreptitiously shuffled their feet. When the time came for the call for a witness, Alyn was pleasantly surprised that one of the scribes came forward. He spoke very quietly, nervous in the silence and overawed by the company, but the chapel was well-designed and its lofty arches carried his words to everyone there, brief though they were.

"Jaquan worked hard, and served well. He was our colleague for ten years in the service of Lord Cassian. He will be missed."

The only emotion in his voice, Alyn thought, had been anxiety. He did not sound particularly sad, and no-one else got up to speak. She realised she had not seen Lord Cassian at any point during the service.

After the scribe's witnessing, the First Sage waited an almost embarrassingly long time before resuming the service. There was another canticle, and then the blessing, and then, finally, the release. Alyn sighed with relief. By her side, Miervaldis glanced down with a slight smile, then, as the woman who had come in with the scribes got up to leave, he hastened to join her. Alyn scrambled after.

"... if you don't mind?" her lord was saying as she joined them. The woman sniffed, managing somehow to look down her nose at him, for all his height and status. Alyn thought with a pang of shame that she was better dressed than he was.

"If you're quick," she said, leaving out the correct address. Miervaldis didn't seem to mind.

"I just wanted to know what relationship you have to Jaquan," he said mildly. The woman looked affronted, Alyn thought, at his lack of reaction to her deliberate rudeness.

"I'm his cousin," she said stiffly.

"Did you know him well?"

"Hardly at all."

"Yet you came to his funeral."

"It is the proper thing to do."

"Indeed it is."

"Some of us still pay attention to the correct ways." Her tone was icy.

"I see that you do, madam." He bowed, far lower than necessary, and she flushed, taking it for mockery, then turned her back and swept away. Alyn watched her go, then looked back at her lord. He grinned ruefully at her.

"I don't think our scribe had many friends," he said. "Come on, or we'll miss breakfast."