“I checked our theology archives,” Markus said, pulling up a file of notes on the lounge console. “That phrase, ‘a truth of the eyes,’ is a reference to Merisite doctrine. Basically, there are things that are perceived to be true, and things that are true no matter what you perceive. Eyes is the first category. The second category is ‘truth of the hand.’ Val didn’t get clarification on that during the interview, so I don’t know why it’s called that.”

“Come on, Val,” I said. He didn’t respond, as he was still working on the translation engines and had his comm set to emergency communication only. It was the safest time to make fun of him.

“Hand,” Abby said slowly. “Semiotically interesting. Grasp, acquisition, manipulation. Maybe violence.”

“That doesn’t contradict anything in our notes, but keep in mind we don’t have that much on the Merisites,” said Markus. “The point is, Lirian told you she was a Merisite and that she was using a fake name.”

“Kinda defeats the purpose,” I said.

“Not if the goal was intimidation,” said Abby. “I’d assume a normal person in your position would back down if the cult of Meris threatened them.”

“Val’s interview wasn’t with a Merisite, so it’s safe to say this is common knowledge,” said Markus. “That is, as long as he wasn’t a secret Merisite spreading his cult’s doctrine around for some reason.”

Abby drummed her fingers on her chair, thinking. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s proceed under the intimidation hypothesis. Lilith, next part.”

I thumbed a control on the console, playing my perspective of the conversation as captured by my ocular implants. Onscreen, Lirian explained why Markus couldn’t possibly succeed in any of the events.

“Oh yeah,” I said, pausing again. “Why the fuck does he need political connections to compete in massaging?”

“We’ll need to ask around,” said Abby. “As for the rest, I agree with her that the combat events might be tricky, at least without causing lasting bodily harm to the opposition. Her assessment for the footraces is less reliable, given Markus’s augments. Markus, you’re using Einvorak, right? The fifteen percent boost?”

“Yes’m,” he said, knocking on his bicep. “I’ve got a body with twenties in the crypt, but the metabolism requirements are a pain in the ass.”

“Even if we did it immediately, reincarnation sickness would keep you out of two competitions at minimum,” said the commander. “Three in the worst case. Let’s just race with your current body.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Markus. “I’ll try wrestling, too.”

“We need to understand the significance of the pentathlon in all this,” said Abby. “And Lirian’s comments about the massage event also require investigation. Meeting adjourned. I’ll figure out what’s going on with the massages. You two figure out how to get Markus into the competition in two days.”

*

The senior priest of Kabiades was like the man we’d seen at the entrance to the arena grounds, dressed in a skirt with the same style of shoulder pads. There were markings on it, different from the other man’s, whose significance we could not read, but which probably signified his importance. He was an old man—still in surprisingly good shape—and we’d been directed here after some inquiries on the arena grounds.

“And who sponsors you?” he asked Markus.

“Arguel of Salaphi,” I said with just a moment of hesitation.

“Ah,” said the priest. “A lady of great repute in Salaphi, I’m sure.”

She was, I thought silently.

The priest continued. “I regret that she is not known to the arena of Vitareas. Nor, were it so, would her word be as compelling as one of the honored ladies who have volunteered to judge the contest of massages. Theirs are the backs which shall grace his hands.”

“Understandable,” I said, looking at Markus, who looked untroubled by this turn of events. “If we can get a recommendation by tomorrow, can he still compete?”

“By the toll of evening’s bell, I should think,” the priest said neutrally. He looked appraisingly at us. “Should you, ah, fail to procure one, the pentathlon is of course open to all. In fact, it’s customary for those without your connections to begin there.”

“We’ll try to have that recommendation by tomorrow, then,” I said.

“Either way, if he intends to enroll as a contender for glory, do return at midday tomorrow,” said the priest. “It is not necessary if he merely contends to honor the god. But he will need to be assessed to be slated among the contenders for glory, and tomorrow at midday is when the panel convenes.”

“He needs to be a contender for glory to compete in the Kabidiad, right? The big event in Bulcephine?” I asked.

The priest cleared his throat disapprovingly. “The ‘big event,’ as you term it, requires a sight more. Thala must earn laurels in any two events, one of might and one of passion. No less than three pairs are required to pass the Pallastine Gates as a contender. Although, should you be excellent enough to stand the rostrum as the overall victor in an event, a matching set of laurels may be provided should you fail to earn it in the course of competition.”

“So basically,” I said, looking at Markus—well, technically “Thala” for the moment—“if he’s good enough, he’s only got to win one event in either passion or might?”

The priest frowned at me, then fixed Markus with a stern glare. “I hope you aspire to more than that. We are creatures of passion and strength. A man possessing passion alone is weak; whose arm shall maintain his home? A strong man lacking passion is aimless; whose spirit shall warm his family?”

During this whole impromptu sermon, Markus was nodding with the kind of obedient enthusiasm found only in interviewees and people who have been pulled over for speeding.

“Absolutely,” said Markus. “I aim to prove my excellence in both areas.”

“I am glad of it,” said the priest. “You would be hard-pressed to succeed, otherwise. Most thessim, Cades puts forth a marvelous effort to establish a one-man colony on our rostrum. Without a sponsor for the private events, you would have to choose between dance or song.” His gaze became analytical as he examined Markus’s body. “No man’s worth is known but through action, of course, but one hopes your singing voice is outstanding.”

“You’ll think you’ve heard an angel,” Markus promised him.

“We’ll get that recommendation,” I said. “Put him down for singing either way.”

“I shall,” said the priest with a venerable smile. “Godsmile. I pray good fortune for you both.”

I was halfway through thanking him before it dawned on me which goddess was probably being invoked there, but I didn’t flub it too badly, I think. We walked out of the office with a clear objective: we had less than 24 hours to get Markus in bed with the local bigwigs.

*

The commander worked fast. Within a couple hours, she’d gotten the names of the judges who would ultimately decide whether Markus would receive the laurels he needed to make it to the end of the tournament. There were five families of repute in the city, including the House of Jeneret, whose matriarch currently served as the weirdly-named mayor of Vitareas. “Visionary” or something. Elsinat had had a governor instead; I wasn’t sure what the distinction was. Anyways, it turned out that while the contests of might were pretty straight-forward to judge, the contests of passion were all super subjective, so there was enough wiggle room for the judges to support their favorite champions and punish the champions of their rivals.

“The Kessim are Gamalites, so they’re bound to be more traditional,” the commander briefed us as we rushed back to the disguised entrance to the Ragnar’s cavern. “We’ll need to pick up some songs that will appeal to them.”

“Do we even know what traditional formal wear looks like around here?” I asked, panting.

“It’s the pattern-J shawls,” said the commander. “The ones that go wide. I’ll scout out a hairstylist.”

“Please don’t tell me we’re stealing hair again,” said Markus.

“Who’s stealing?” laughed the commander. “We’ve got a chest of drobol to burn.”

I threw a thumbs-up at Markus, who reciprocated with a grin.

“The Jeneretti own the copper mines. They’re economically important to the city, which is probably how they got Kovius appointed as Visionary. Conservative, but not too much to alienate the other factions. We can expect their judge not to rock the boat. The Kessim will probably follow their lead during the Renathion. The Jeneretti will be a poor choice for Markus to approach; all the other brown-nosers will have the same idea.”

“I mean, we’re talking about the who’s who of Vitareas here,” I said. “This ball is gonna be one giant human centipede of brown-nosing.”

“I don’t know what that is and I forbid you from elaborating.”

“Yes’m,” I laughed. Markus and I rounded a corner, the city walls growing higher in our view.

“One of the better-looking choices is the Vitares family.”

“City’s named for them?” Markus asked.

“Yes. Old family, absent from city politics except for a few token gestures. Judging at the Renathion being a relevant example. Strong connection to the local temple of Androdaima. I’ve heard the woman judging is a bit of an experimenter.”

“Hell yes, let’s team up with mad science lady,” I said.

“She’s also a recluse. She won’t be at the ball. You’ll have to find her younger sister. The sister’s name is Roel.”

“Got it,” said Markus. “I’ll grab some magnets back at the ship or something to get her attention.”

“Good idea. Another possible option is the Voranetti. They’re a highly ambitious family. They’re sitting on a lot of local political appointments. The Jeneretti are most likely wary of them, so don’t try to befriend both sides.”

“Hold on, commander, we have to clear the area,” said Markus. We’d pulled off into an alley near the gates. After the encounter with Lirian, we’d need to be cautious about being followed.

Markus started a comm scan, but apparently our comms weren’t powerful enough to punch through Meris’s blessing. Fair enough. Ragnar would have no such problem. I pinged Val.

“Hey, nerd,” I said. “Light ‘em up!”

“With pleasure,” came the reply. “Give me ten minutes to get this pylon sealed again.”

“So you’re telling us we should have given you more warning,” said Markus.

“That must be one of those lessons on friendship you keep telling me about,” said Val.

I peeked around the corner and didn’t see anyone suspicious. That was expected. I also didn’t see anyone who was so unsuspicious it wrapped around to being suspicious again, which was less expected, but still good. I absentmindedly reached for my cloak but stopped myself, metaphysical hand still on the metaphysical switch. I mean, I didn’t need to, right? I was properly dressed. There wasn’t really any reason to doubt my disguise. Just… it wasn’t, like, perfect. There was a chance I’d mess things up. People might see through me.

I tried pulling the familiar meditative mindset over my thoughts before pulling the switch. I let myself fall into the clarity of it, like I used to do when I was a kid and thought I could learn magic by opening myself to the Force or whatever. Being aware of the world, but also being aware of my soul.

The cloak pulsed gently under my attention. Like a ticking clock, or a heart beat. It was a part of me, but the beat belonged to the world. It was the wake I left in the ether—and the aura that the ether left on me. One tug and the augment would invert, presenting a perfect null, erasing me from the ether. Just a dream.

Wait, if I was a hole in the ether, wouldn’t a blessed Merisite also be one? I scrutinized the heartbeat of the universe, looking, precisely, for nothing.

“Lilith? You good?” said Markus some time later.

“I got nothing,” I proudly announced.

“What?” asked Markus.

“I went looking for nothing, and I didn’t find it,” I said.

“You’re gonna have to run that by me again,” he said.

“We’re not being watched,” I said. “I inferred it from my cloak.”

“That’s… okay, I think Val’s ready to go, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Scanning now,” came Val’s voice. He’d been less on edge the past couple of days, which made it less stressful to be in the same room as him. “You’re clear. Welcome home. I’m going silent again.”

“Thanks, Val,” I said. Markus focused on the cobblestones in front of him, probably pinging the remote lock, and lifted them up with a grunt. I checked the street to see if anyone was watching. They weren’t; the remote lock produced a field that radiated unimportance. Not a stealth field—we didn’t want to attract Meris’s angels with eau de hidey place. We descended the ladder to the cavern.

“Commander, we’re good to go,” said Markus.

“Excellent work,” said the commander. “We’ve covered Kessim, Jeneretti, Vitares, Voranetti… yes, the Henadim. They’re more of a neutral family, but apparently they lean more toward the Voranetti. They’re our best target, I think.”

We rounded a corner and beheld the cavern that contained the Ragnar. In complete monochrome, of course—we’d strung up lighting that only worked under night vision. Something in me relaxed upon seeing it. We were home.

The commander continued the briefing.

“Among the families, the Henadim are the most recent to power. Due, I’m told, to the efforts of a demigoddess, reportedly born of Androdaima. She moved the family here, as Vitareas is sacred to Androdaima. They should be more receptive to outsiders like us; the migration was several generations ago, so any performative xenophobia has had a chance to die down.”

“Performative xenophobia?” I asked as we reached the ship’s door.

“They would have faced opposition when they moved here,” said Markus. “It’s adaptive to turn around and project that opposition onto other individuals. Makes you look more like one of the in-group. Once you’ve been around in a community for a while, it’s less useful.”

“So we’ve got a shot with the xenophobes,” I said, squinting as the door opened, bathing us with light.

“They’re all xenophobes,” said Markus. “It’s pretty common. Might be our fault in this case.”

I connected the dots in my head. “Kives tells everyone we’re coming, they learn to distrust strangers as a rule?”

“Humans don’t need an oracle to distrust strangers,” said Abby. “Get dressed, both of you, we’ve got two hours to get you embedded.”

*

Val took a break from engine maintenance to get us dressed in the fanciest clothing we’d been able to manufacture. I wore a full-length dress with the fancy wide shawl that extended a foot from either shoulder. The dress itself was unadorned. The shawl used abstract patterns, a fact that would probably not endear me to the Kessim, but we still didn’t know enough about the shawl patterns to pass at a high-society ball.

Markus, on the other hand, went with a wrap and an abstract shawl of his own. Men’s shawls got thinner the fancier they got, and in this case we also clasped a belt around his torso to define his muscles a bit more. It was a whole thing. His skirt was long enough to make him respectable without claiming parity with some of the people we’d be talking to. Male arrogance was expected but not respected in this culture.

We whipped up something for my hair that was high-class but clearly temporary. I had a hair appointment in an hour. About our persons, we each secreted a disruptor pistol, a pulser, and a hand amplifier.

That just left the ladder out of the cavern, and let me just say that I hope everyone who designed this outfit gets trapped in a ladder factory where the only exit is on the ceiling. So I can set it on fire.

Rather than look out of place in the neighborhood, we each donned a traveling cloak. Under my shawl, I thumbed my hand amplifier to the same frequency as the cavern exit—nonthreatening, unimportant. Markus did the same. We’d have to scrub it off as we entered the fancier part of town, but for now it would let us avoid attracting attention.

We’d yet to run into any stupid coincidences, so Kives was either biding her time or honoring the truce. I’d been suspicious that my run-in with Cades was a coincidence, but according to the gossip he spent all his time at the arena and hit on anything that moved and had boobs. Meris, on the other hand, was definitely taking an interest in us, and the fact that she’d warned us away from the hit probably meant that Kives had forewarned her. That made our truce look a little more like a cold war, which, honestly, it was.

We still weren’t sure what to expect from Meris. She definitely had angels—it’s kind of a given for ascendant gods, they start to take over anything that bumps into them—but stories about her “messengers” never had any account of supernatural abilities. She didn’t have temples, at least publicly known, and her cult was secretive to the point that all their official representatives blatantly used fake names and showed up in disguises for official functions. But there were tales of people acting on her behalf, and they kinda read to me like all those Old Testament stories about the judges. God(dess) maneuvers the right person into the right situation, person stabs the tyrant or overhears the plan or something, day is saved. Bit of a networker, our Meris.

At least she wasn’t exploiting causality like some goddesses I could name.

We arrived at the place of a stylist named Oloren, a woman barely into her thirties with razer-sharp eyes, endless enthusiasm, and absolutely no patience. Her hair was streaked through with almost fluorescent blue dye, which gave me pause for a moment, because they should not have that level of materials science here with a pre-industrial economy.

“You’re not on the schedule,” said Oloren, applying wax to a swirl of hair while combing it with the other hand. The woman in the seat had her eyes closed, and was in a fancy-enough dress that I suspected we’d be seeing her again tonight.

“We’re desperate, honored Oloren,” I said. “We’ve nothing left but prayer now. My ward and I rode ahead in hopes of making it to the ball on time. We asked for the best stylist in Vitareas—”

“Hsst!” A finger waved at my face. Oloren dabbed a bit more wax onto the curve, holding it just so. The woman appeared to have a horn now. Satisfied, Oloren nodded to herself, moving to the other side. I stood there uncertainly.

“Please continue,” said Oloren. “Something about the best stylist in Vitareas?”

“I’m willing to pay,” I said.

“And Geremine of House Fer has already done so. If she cancels, it’s yours.”

“How should I know if she cancels?” I asked, calling up the commander’s feed.

*

The charioteer lay motionless, the horses unchained. The commander looked around, checking the unconscious attendants for signs of movement, then met the terrified gaze of Geremine Ferades. She drew her knife as suddenly and as violently as she could manage, eliciting a flinch from the prone noblewoman.

She leaned in.

“I apologize for your rudeness,” said the commander, “but you’re staying home tonight.”

From her position on the ground, Geremine nodded frantically.

*

“I’m sure your prayers have been heard,” said Oloren.

“Lady Ajarel, was it?” said the woman in the chair, not opening her eyes. “You may be in luck. Oloren is persnickety.”

“And you’re a bag of slugs,” said Oloren fondly.

“One-wheeled chariot.”

“Cheese sculpture.”

“Cheese sculpture?” I said.

“It would melt in the sunlight and look terrible,” the stylist said defensively.

“I look stunning in the sunlight, thank you very much,” said the woman. “Lady Obol Jeneretes, by the way. Godsmile on you.”

“Godsmile,” I said deferentially.

“What this corkscrew of a hairstylist should have told you is that if the lovely Geremine does not deign to grace us with her presence on time, her appointment is forfeit. Oloren will not brook disrespect.”

“Except from you, apparently,” I couldn’t help saying.

Lady Obol merely smiled.

“She’s a misshapen loaf, but she arrives on time,” Oloren conceded.

“Unlike the Lady Geremine, who is usually so conscientious about arriving early, and which surely has nothing to do with her habit of eavesdropping by the door,” said Lady Obol. “You may be in luck, Lady Ajarel.”

“My luck is usually pretty good,” I said, pretending like any of this was news to me.

Halfway across the city, my luck finished exfiltrating from the Ferades estate and headed for the mission site.

I spent the next twenty minutes making friends with Lady Obol and her bizarre stylist. Most of it was my natural charm, of course, but I also tuned my hand amplifier to look more friendly, with a hint of mentorable. Lady Obol hung around after Geremine tragically missed her appointment, giving me all the gossip on the other families and sniping back and forth with Oloren.

By the time my hair was done, I had an invitation to accompany her to the ball. I guess my luck was pretty good. Unless it wasn’t luck, in which case...

“Commander,” I subvocalized. “We might have a problem.”