"Captain Promachos will be receiving a slightly less polite note, then.” Even at a quarter of his usual capacity and in the depths of despair, Palamedes can parallel process. Some part of his mind has been running on autopilot, noting interactions and making observations, even debating scholarship. He hadn’t become the Warden of the Library merely because he could date five-hundred-year-old manuscripts without resorting to psychometry.
But his heart isn’t in it—not the intellectual debate, not the careful observation of the Library’s personal dynamics, not even the opportunity to infuriate Captain Promachos. His heart has been broken and tossed into the volcano.
“I would never,” Palamedes says, throat tight. At last he looks at her, trying to summon indignation. But his eyes are too bright, too pained. “You know I wouldn’t; so does she.”
At last, though, he comes to the crux of the matter. With a petulant sort of huff that would be funny if it hadn’t been so tragic, he says, “And she talked of politics, of course."
no subject
But his heart isn’t in it—not the intellectual debate, not the careful observation of the Library’s personal dynamics, not even the opportunity to infuriate Captain Promachos. His heart has been broken and tossed into the volcano.
“I would never,” Palamedes says, throat tight. At last he looks at her, trying to summon indignation. But his eyes are too bright, too pained. “You know I wouldn’t; so does she.”
At last, though, he comes to the crux of the matter. With a petulant sort of huff that would be funny if it hadn’t been so tragic, he says, “And she talked of politics, of course."