009. azem, at kalathios karyon.

“Elidibus! You’re here!”

“I am,” you manage. out shoots a laugh you fail to catch in your throat. “You wanted to see me, yes? I just suppose…”

today, bunches of robes flood kalathios karyon, and you manage to be one of them. as small as you are compared to most, even you find difficulty in simply passing the front doors. at this rate you might have been better suited teleporting into the room directly. regardless, two minutes before your appointed meeting time, you make it through the doors, and you spot the traveler in seconds.

for once, they’ve arrived before you. you are quick to ignore that and pull out a seat opposite them, where you notice their mask has been long discarded. the palms of their hands and their hair frames their eyes, and the edges of their bangs wisp around a wide, catlike grin. you try not to let your surprise show, and you steel yourself instead as you meet their gaze. “I do not see the purpose of traveling all the way out here to do so. Could we not have hosted it in my office or yours just as easily?”

“We could have,” azem sighs, uncrossing their legs and crossing them the other way, “but where’s the fun in that? It’s more interesting to talk about it here. And less conspicuous.”

you cannot help but lean forward, like you intend to whisper frantic, torrid secrets to your coworker. even if you speak a little loudly, there are too many people present for anyone to overhear anyway. “We are both members of the Convocation dressed in our workwear at a bakery, Azem. Where is the inconspicuity in that?” you laugh.

azem gestures to the rest of the room—by the windows, by the kitchen, by the exceptionally long line today—in a lazy shrug. “Here it is,” like that answers things. “No one will overhear. And no one will particularly care. For all intents and purposes, our exchange here shall transpire in total secrecy.” they stop, then their eyes widen, and they add: “Sans a line or two, perhaps.”

a line or two. your laugh dies and you pull back against the cushion of the booth. you’re meant to discuss about matters of grave import here. “What if ‘a line or two’ is all they need to know?”

“Truuust me,” they scoff. “They won’t.”

you raise an eyebrow and you don’t say a word. azem easily crumples and unfolds through a shaky laugh.

“I’ll just speak quieter, or… whatever you want! Or… I can make the booth soundproof and no one else will hear a peep. They’ll just wonder what on the star I’m doing, waving my hands around like a headless ornis.” but azem doesn’t even wave their hands around or dawdle, just lifts a finger and lets a thin sheen of aether envelope the two of you and the cozy plush booths, a half-spherical dome that only ends a few finger-lengths beneath your shoes by the ground. “Thank you,” you respond, the little emphasis you give placed on the thank, and azem grins back with pride.

“We’ve settled that. Now, I have a question to start us off proper, dear Emissary. Do you prefer to hear good news or bad news first?” the absence of one key word makes you frown, but before you can open your mouth, azem has escaped you. they return in seconds with one tray full of piping soup and vegetables in a bread bowl and leavened flatbread over ceramicware on the other. you answer before they set the trays down: “I do not think I ought to have a preference if I do not know what kind of news it is, or what it entails.” you ignore the roll of their eyes. “It would be a subjective definition, as well; what one person considers good might be the opposite to another.”

“Well, I like the good, so this blows,” they sigh. “I suppose so, but I was asking you for your preference. You, if that needs to be clear.“ for emphasis, they rip a strip of bread from the bowl, dip it in the vegetable broth, and point finger and bread both at your nose. “Not you, career edition. Okay?”

you cannot help but sigh back just as miserably. “Okay, I understand.” you even add in the faux eyeroll, even if azem cannot see it through your mask. “I would prefer to hear the ‘bad’ news first. Does that help you?”

you bite at the flatbread. cheese, seeds, and herbs decorate the bread whole. at least azem knows you well enough to order food you enjoy—even if that does not bode well for the conversation’s path.

“—Yes, yes, a lot more,” they manage past their bread. you end up laughing at that, too, swallowing the rest of your next bite down. they grin and sit their chin in their hands again, crumbs dotting the edges of their face. “Well, yes, sadly. It does. How do you eat with your mask on, by the way?”

“Move on, Azem, I want to hear the news before I finish my meal.” you are a quarter of the way through the bread now. azem has nothing to fear, but they give in regardless.

“Alright, well, ill news for Pandaemonium first,” azem huffs, pushing their tray aside. “I can’t accompany you there.”

you save your flatbread from an early demise. it falls limp onto its plate; you wipe your hands clean, place them in your lap, and sit up straight. “What? Why not?”

“I’ll make it far too suspicious,” they groan. you’re doubting this already. “Really, consider it, Elidibus: if I investigate, it ought to be on my own. If the two of us travel together, then what will they think when we disappear? How quick might they find out that we’re both of the Convocation?!”

you frown. okay… “Are you sure they would recognize us?”

“I am!“ they cry, ”I really am! I mean, I get around. Maybe more than you. What if one of them knows me? Or if they’ve heard of me?”

“I’m sure they’ve heard of all of the Convocation and Azems,” you respond. your tone stays level, with only your brow showing signs of concern.

“Yes, but I mean me! ‘Tis unfortunate enough that they’re being audited by the Emissary in secret, you know. But the Traveler, too, appealing to her?” they throw their hands up in the air. “Bah, we’re straying so far off-course! I mean it, Elidibus. I can’t go with you now, it’ll be too obvious. I’ll just have to cover for you while you’re gone.”

you hold your stare, even as you adjust in your seat. you already know azem has a tendency to leave out the fine details despite their acuity; it isn’t hard to assume you still lack the full truth. you consider the reasons, azem’s character—then, softly, you ask: “…Were you reported for something of late? Is that part of the reason why?”

azem drops back in their booth, dragging their hands down their face and spilling crumbs on the table. “Uhghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I was telling you we were going off-course, Elidibus. You didn’t have to press about it…” their hands cover their whole face now like a makeshift mask. bright eyes peek between their little and ring fingers. “I did, I did. They threatened me with censure again. It wasn’t even as big as the volcano, so I don’t know why, but I think they’re just at their limit.”

“You do get on their nerves quickly,” you mumble. “I know that!” too quickly in return; “But that’s exactly why. ‘Tis not just that I would prefer not to be censured for something ridiculous; I don’t wish to get you implicated for it, either. You know me, Emissary: I get into trouble so the rest of you do not have to.”

they give you a pout only an ailouros should make. you are not as easily swayed as emet-selch is to their outburst, but you relent in the face of reason. “I suppose you have a point. In regards to the conspicuity of our investigation, not your troublemaking.” you rush on before they can object to the latter. “Are you at least implying you can cover my duties and any notes I receive while I am gone?”

“Of course!” azem brightens then, folding their hands by their bowl. “Worry not, dear Emissary. I shall take care of everything while you’re gone with nary a spot of trouble. You need only investigate and report back to me, and we can discuss when you’ve returned! And if you ever worry something should go wrong, then you ought not to fear—for in my absence, a star shall fall before you. I saw it and all; your journey shall go perfectly, and all shall be well! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“I don’t think it is appropriate to call matters like this fun,” you warn. azem shrinks back and slouches. “Still,” you add, “If you say you can handle that, then I trust you. I will do my best, and I shall not let you down.”