gachituli (n.) one who knows a lot of people, a person with has good connections, a networker.

It was a triumph. The Gjöll Imperial was alive with applause and hollers and whistles; it would have been all the more overwhelming if they had been permitted to attend something other than the matinee, of course, when the wine would be flowing and the gossip would be good, but Mirabelle Yannis had not made it this far in life – or this high up the ladder of Ganzir high society – by complaining when the situation didn't call for it. So instead, she applauded like her life depended on it, and noted with a smile that Evanne and Eunbyeol had followed suit; Evanne had produced an admirable wolf-whistle that bounced off the gorgeous golden chandeliers of the stage, while Eunbyeol clapped politely and looked askance at the furs and silk surrounding her. Mirabelle didn't stop her from staring; it must have been strange, migrating from the outer rings – places of poverty and destitution – to a place like this: a place of full of wealth, steeped in what some would call culture, a place full of comfort and food and warmth.

She would warn her, Mirabelle decided, she would warn them, both of them. This was a ladder without an end in sight; there was always someone wealthier, more powerful, more connected than you were. Mirabelle had started from a comfortable position, but if she tilted her head up… oh, there was still so much further to go. If you wanted more, then you would spend your whole life seeking to consume, and consuming, and still coming up empty. She remembered the dinner last month, when the pretty mezzo-soprano from the bel canto choir had opined that life was probably better in the outer districts, where life meant something, where the druj forced it to mean something. Wolfram hadn't liked that; poor Adelaide Almeida had not been welcomed back to another dinner since. She would be hungry now, Mirabelle mused, particularly when Mirabelle had taken her place in rehearsals the days following – yes, the girls deserved a warning. Evanne and Eunbyeol deserved to go in with their eyes open.

And then she remembered that she was thinking about two members of the Selected, in line for the throne and the crown and the prince, and she decided that a warning probably wasn't required.

"Did you enjoy that?" Her voice was swallowed up in the applause that went on, echoing, bouncing off the cavernous golden walls of the theatre, long after everyone in the audience had stopped clapping. "Could you follow it okay?"

Evanne said, "was it the story of Ignacja and Ezer?"

"A reimagining," Mirabelle replied with a smile, biting her words off short to wave enthusiastically at the lead actress as she moved off the stage. There were some stories in Illéan culture which were ingrained – more instinct than narrative, shorthand for whatever drama or romance or traged was occurring in your life. Ignacja and Ezer was just one of those: an ancient king of Illéa and the lover who had thrown herself from the Wall rather than live without him when he married another. Mirabelle's first nanny had always said that Ignacja had become the first druj as a result of her heartbreak, but that didn't make sense, did it? Why would the walls have been there, if there were no druj, if the world still existed beyond the remit of the kingdom? No; Ignacja must have been torn to shreds by the druj beyond the walls. But that wasn't a detail that you could put into a fairytale. Even in a tragedy, that went past the pale. "A reimagining."

"But not a happy ending," Eunbyeol said, softly.

"No," Mirabelle agreed, "not a happy ending."

When they departed the theatre, the stars had ignited against a dusky navy sky; the winter was drawing close, such that the night seemed to begin in early afternoon. Despite that, the lamplighters kept their usual watch and typical routine, so the streets were left shrouded in the curious speckled gloom that came from individual lanterns flaring up in the windows overlooking the street, bouncing off the marble and onyx statues that distinguished the heart of Gjöll.

Evie said, in the tone of one who has held back the question for longer than they would like, "are the other girls being let out for such excursions?"

"Depends on their chaperones." Mirabelle smiled. "Depends on how badly they want their girls to win."

"Why," Eunbyeol said, "is this meant to have taught us something about the Selection?"

Evanne's voice was droll. "It was clearly an instruction manual in blank verse, Eun-ah."

"My apologies." Eunbyeol's tone dripped with soft sardonicism. "I understand now. If we're eliminated, we are to throw ourselves from Wall Schreave immediately."

"Wall Szymańska," Mirabelle corrected her, at the same moment that Evie said, solemnly, "and so the pact is made."

In the tight throngs of people gathering on the steps of the Gjöll Imperial, it was being determined if they had time for dinner before preparing for that night's ball. There were no tagma among their number, but attend they would; they were the backbone of the court.

"Miri," Wolfram was saying, waving her over. Even in this crowd, the patron of arts stood out – tall and broad-shouldered and somehow brutish-looking, despite his high birth, despite his wealth, despite the twenty-four karat gold wedding ring burnishing his left hand. He didn't seem to care who heard him calling her by the little pet-name, even though it made her skin crawl slightly, even though it sounded oddly delicate coming from a man with a nose thrice-broken. "Miri, shouldn't you have departed already?"

"Fashionable lateness," Mirabelle said, waving off his concern to the plain delight of their assembled friends. "It's all a part of the strategy."

"Don't let us down, Miri!" Ulrich Heiser called from the crowd. "I have a lot of money put on your girls for this!"

There was a ripple of laughter. Mirabelle just smiled.

It was determined that they did, in fact, have time for dinner. Carriages were called for and filled, but Mirabelle and her girls decided to walk instead, wandering through the streets towards the banquet hall. It was a meandering route, but Mirabelle couldn't find reason to fault it as an idea – the ball would be high-pressure as it was. Evanne was the only member of the Selected who was actually tagma, in the way that anyone who was tagma once was tagma forever; that created expectations of a particular kind, put eyes on her that might not otherwise have been on her. And for a girl like Eunbyeol – quiet, with a tendency to fade into the background if you didn't keep your eyes on her – well, this could be her only true chance to make her mark. Get some eyes on her to start with.

They were coming past the house of mercy; there, along the gardens that surrounded the infirmary, some of the walking wounded – and some who weren't walking at all – were sitting on low wooden benches. People-watching, Mirabelle supposed, looking at what they had fought for. Deciding if it was worth it? Gjöll was a district of paqudus and royal guards; people in the inner circle were typically only exposed to the tagma so: those who were broken and damaged and finished. Like Evanne. Like the men and women sitting on these benches, staring at the world passing around them. Mirabelle nonetheless thought that she could distinguish between their types: the lean, pretty blonde, nearest the gate, was an excubitor, with that distinctive narrow shape, built for quick movement and stamina; the skinny red-head beside her would probably have been a scholar. Sitting alone on the bench next to them, head bowed, a behemoth blonde – a watcher, without a doubt, a watcher.

Evanne was watching the same group, familiarity flickering in her eyes. "Do you mind if I…?"

"Not at all," Mirabelle said, "please do."

She watched Evie closely as the Selected girl crossed the road cautiously, searching the darkness for any carriages that might apparate from the gloom, and went to sit beside her injured soldier. He had taken her hand to help her sit as elegantly as possibly, despite her prosthetic leg; they began to speak softly almost immediately. Mirabelle was careful to keep her smile to herself. It was never a bad idea to have a backup.

And Evanne would understand how he felt, like no one else in Gjöll could. Wasn't that what everyone hoped for? There was something decidedly queenly about the whole affair. Asenath would have approved. Asenath would have approved very much. Mirabelle had to check herself from considering the competition won already – particularly when she had lost Tereza in only the first three days. There were thirteen Selected; it was still all to play for.

"Eunbyeol?" Mirabelle turned to her. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." The girl from Mønt was unsmiling. "Just thinking."

She was watching the storefront of a nearby tailorshop; Mirabelle followed her gaze, and found nothing extraordinary waiting there for her attention. There were candles in the window, signifying continued toil in the workrooms, but, then, every tailor in the city would be hard at work, fingertips bleeding, until the ball came to its conclusion late tomorrow morning. A trio of shadowy figures were sitting on the roof, eating their dinner – that was common enough in Gjöll as well, due to the premium on space. The poorer part of the district extended upwards and downwards as far as they could, living on their roofs or in their basements so that profitable work could be done in the beautiful spaces.

"Are you nervous about the ball?"

"Nothing to be nervous about." Eunbyeol turned to Mirabelle, and shrugged. "They'll either like me, or they won't."

No, Mirabelle thought, you can make them like you. You could make it happen. You could worm your way in. Be who they want you to be. Make them love you, or, rather, who they thought you were. As she had with Wolfram Sauer. As her mother had with her father. As Queen Kasimira had with King Aviram.

But she didn't say that. She just nodded, and said, "words to live by."

"How did you get picked as a chaperone?"

"Because they knew I'd be good at it." Mirabelle was slightly taken aback by this line of questioning, but did not feel that she could complain; a girl like Eunbyeol was so hard to talk to, Mirabelle could hardly look this particular gift horse in the mouth. "I love love." She smiled. Eunbyeol looked doubtful. "Is that so wrong?"

"Why didn't you enter the Selection?" Eunbyeol asked it bluntly; Mirabelle almost appreciated her for that. It was rare, in these parts, to say what you meant.

"I did," she said.

"You weren't picked?"

"Gjöll is the most competitive district," Mirabelle said. Yes, that was easier than the truth – the simple truth that Wolfram had not wanted her to compete, though he was permitted to keep his other house with his other woman, though Mirabelle had to avert her eyes from his wife in the street, though she had always warned him of how temporary she considered their arrangement. "Every girl – and even some of the boys."

Eunbyeol looked thoughtful. "Which one is the least competitive?"

"Obušek," Mirabelle said, "maybe Kelch."

"Why's that?"

"Because on the outer walls, most people make their choices long before the Selection ever gets announced." Mirabelle grimaced. "And don't live long enough – or stay pretty enough – to compete."

There was a long silence. A cold wind, the aftermath of the storm that had torn through the district the previous night, ghosted across the flagstones and the black statues that littered the streets.

"Devilish," Eunbyeol said, "it's slightly devilish, don't you think?"

Mirabelle frowned, but before she could say anything, Evie had rejoined them. Her face was aglow; her eyes were shiny. She was smiling. Oh, that was sweet – she was smiling!

"Okay," she said, "thank you for waiting for me. Thank you for indulging me."

"One more thank you should do it," Eunbyeol said, drily, "I don't think you've quite said it enough..."

Evie pushed her shoulder, but gently, gently; she was laughing.

"Did you at least," Mirabelle said, resisting a laugh, "get his name this time?"

"Petja," Evie said. She was rolling her eyes at Mirabelle's reaction, but her smile did not fade; Eunbyeol was watching her closely. Evanne corrected herself – "Pjotr."

"A nickname already! Oh, you two are adorable. Does he want to come to dinner?"

"He does not," Evie said, "he most certainly does not…"

"Hmm," said Mirabelle thoughtfully. And then again, drawing it out like a song: "hmmmmmm..."

Evie grabbed Eunbyeol's hand. "Quickly," she said, "quickly! Before Mirabelle can do something that I'll regret."

Eunbyeol laughed as Evie pulled her down the street. Mirabelle paused, just to wave to the poor injured soldier – "good night, Pyotr!" – and then followed her girls down the street. She was smiling. She wasn't sure she could have stopped, even if she wanted to.