Musicians changed to a lighter mode. Laughter loosened. The master of ceremonies lifted his tablet and called, "Wine for the performers of peace!"
Servants stepped from the shadowed wings carrying slim-necked ewers. Their movements were trained to disappear: pour, incline, retreat. The Eastern troupe—six dancers whose silk had been fire one hour, river the next—knelt gracefully at a long side table to receive the liquor.
"On behalf of the Eastern Realm," the lead dancer said, voice bright enough to carry, "we salute the two emperors and bless the river between us. May it never run red again."
The hall clapped, pleased at the tidy poetry of it. Cups were set before the dancers. A pale-gowned maid at the back of the line reached for the decanter, lifted it to fill the lead dancer's cup, then set it down with hands a little too careful and eyes a little too lowered.
No one saw—no one human saw—how her thumb trembled after the pour.
