Peril can tell just by looking at her, without even asking. The normal sharpness to her gaze is somewhat weighted, and her movements are slower and less precise than usual. The outer robe she is wearing is slightly askew, and there are red marks on her fingers from a day spent making too many notes, and revisions, and citations, no doubt.

Peril is not often one for rumours. Much of her time is spent out in the ranges, digging stray scouts or the occasional stray Wisp Mother out of more dangerous parts of the territory. But she had heard the news of some scandal befalling one of the architects working on the big city project. Revelations of abuse and coercion, and of course if that is the case, then Nialas would have been among the first to confront the matter.

She lets out a breath as she comes into the front room of their chambers, and Peril puts down the little bell she had been working on charming. Ghilan’eth has been most insistent that some of the far paths in the wasteland be marked with bells that summon wisps, but small tasks tend to fall behind when the professional crafters of the city are still busy with construction matters. Peril does not mind it, though, it has been a long time since she has had an excuse to simply sit at home and do fiddly work.

“I cannot believe I missed it,” Nialas mutters.

“Missed what?” Peril asks her, and reaches out to start carefully undoing the buttons of her askew outer robe. Nialas sighs, and then tsk’s and catches her fingers.

“I am not done for the day,” she insists. “One of the architectural assistants whom I appointed has been…”

She hesitates to finish. Her lip curls; and Peril supposes that it must have been particularly bad, to have Nialas this out-of-sorts.

“What do you need to do, then?” she tries, and settles for straightening her robe, instead. “If it is just yelling at more people, I can do that on your behalf. Just tell me who to yell at and why.”

Her lover waves her off, though. Fingers twitching, a little, as if still itching for a quill, or possibly the opportunity to claw someone’s eyes out. Though Nialas is not a violent type, there are matters she will make an exception for.

“I need to find a new architect, for starters,” she declares. “And review the vetting process. Others might have also been involved, although if they were, it seems they were smart enough to cover up the obvious tracks. Still, that does not mean they have accounted for everything, and there are records that might shed some light on the situation. I need to tackle the archives, but reparations also have to be made, and Ghilan’eth is returning from Arlathan early because of this mess. She will likely want a full accounting of my own failure, as the person responsible for appointments in this field. If I am going to be punished, I will need to take measures to make certain that things do not collapse in my absence.”

Peril frowns, as Nialas’ expression wavers somewhat.

“I may lose my rank. I would not blame her ladyship…”

“Is it so bad?” she wonders. Though she knows many would be incredibly alarmed at the prospect – and Nialas herself obviously is distressed – Peril has never cared much for rank. Out in the wilds it does not mean as much, and if her lover loses hers, well. Peril will look after her, still. Less work and less refined accommodations are not so bad, and Ghilan’eth is far less tolerant of abuses than most any other leader out there. Peril knows things, anyway. Information that the good lady would not like seeing the light of day. So even if she were to take a dim view of Nialas – and that seems unlikely, in and of itself – the consequences would not be so dire.

Nialas looks up at her, though, and seems as if she cannot decide whether she is furious or whether she is going to burst into tears. Her throat bobs as she swallows, and her shoulders tremble just a little as she straightens them.

“Uthvir uncovered the traps,” she says. “They were catching wanderers looking for refuge, Peril. Catching them and keeping them in that… that place, that I signed for them to use as a workshop, for dangerous prototypes. Ghilan’eth was so clear! No breaking spirits, no using sacrifices, no abusing those who come to the refuges looking for help, that is the essence of what she has been saying ever since she ascended, and I appointed someone who has broken every… broken every…”

Her voice wobbles.

Peril cups a hand around her cheek, and remembers when she was a spirit. When she could have felt the sense of danger and doom that is clouding the air around Nialas even more clearly. The threat – not of retribution from Ghilan’eth, even, but that there are more such people who have been overlooked. More transgressors, finding a way past the rules to do terrible things.

There always are.

A tear escapes the corner of Nialas’ large and beautiful eyes, and that is enough for Peril. She scoops her lover up into her arms. Despite what she has said about having things yet to do, Nialas came here. She came here because she knew she was on the verge of breaking down, Peril suspects, and perhaps she needs to. In some place where she feels free to do so. She protests, a little, but subsides as Peril carries her over to the soft bench upon their balcony, and settles into it with her. Holding her close as Nialas’ words dissolve into ugly tears and deep, wracking sobs that shake through her whole frame.

“It was not your fault,” Peril tells her, when her shirt is soaked through, and the sundial on the balcony shows almost an hour has gone by, and Nialas has become an exhausted heap in her lap.

When her lover makes a sound of protest, Peril brushes a hand to her cheek. Her skin is smudged, some of the light powder she wears going muddy beneath so many tears. NIalas sniffs.

“Of course it was,” she says. “I appointed-“

“Yes,” Peril interrupts. “But you did not appoint them knowing or even suspecting they would do such a thing. You are not infallible. I have wandered the regions of this territory for a long time, and sometimes the ground still gives way beneath my feet, my heart. Everyone can fail. You know that.”

Nialas sighs, and pinches her. A slight scolding for being lectured, most likely. That is usually her prerogative, after all.

“I know that,” she agrees. “But something of this level… to have missed it…”

Peril considers. Her love does not have a weak constitution, by any means, and despite being very adorable, is not delicate. To be so upset, she must have seen what was being done. Or gotten a very thorough accounting of it. And it must have been something beyond the pale, something that would have probably upset even the managers of other leaders, in other lands, where abuses and exploitation were more persistent and encouraged. She has spent enough time, now, in their lady’s service, to know what this will bring. And it is less likely to be punishment and recrimination towards Nialas, she suspects, than the dismal gloom of cynicism, and the pervading sense of futility that always comes when exceptional atrocities rear their heads in the presence of moral souls.

With a sigh, Peril tilts Nialas chin upwards. She drops a careful kiss onto her lips. Nialas’ lips are thin, and somewhat ragged from her have chewed them in distress, and dry from the cold wind that has been blowing out of some of the riverways, despite the city planners’ best attempts to quell it. But Peril likes them, and kisses them sweetly, as if to soothe.

Nialas’ lower lip wobbles, just a bit. Then she turns and presses her face against Peril’s shoulder, and seems to breathe her in for a long, quiet moment.

“Nothing to do except clean up the mess, now,” Peril finally muses, when her love’s grip on her shirt is no longer death-like.

Nialas sighs.

“Yes,” she agrees. “Yes, I… I should change, and get back to it.”

“Shall I go with you?” Peril offers. “I did not have much to do today. I could stand by your side and look grave and humourless while you flay people, if you think it would help.”

Nialas is quiet for a moment.

Then she nods again.

“If you would not mind,” she says. And that, more than anything, is probably a testament to how distraught she is.

Peril only nods, however. There are few evils in the world that shock her, and even her anger is a slow thing, these days. But she does not think that is a virtue so much as a simple fact. It is goodness that surprises her, always. Even now.

Nialas is good, whatever she might doubt. However often others might fail to live up to her standards. Might openly spit on them, even. Nialas is good.