For the recent questions about plumbing, sanitation, and maintenance, I think that the right person to approach is ij Elidzin, the Regal who’s been the most forthcoming with us in former meta-conversations. So I go outside on a bright but brassy afternoon to await him, peering up at the sky where the gusts are pushing and tearing puffs of clouds and whispering of tropical disturbances. It’s warm and moist, but the wind is bracing.

When he arrives, I am glad to see him—my fondest memory of him is holding all his pewter-gray hair in my hands while deciding how to brush it—and that is the foremost memory of him until he comes closer, and I see not just him, but his ancestor, whom I also love a great deal and can see echoed forward in time into Jael Thoron: the same intellect, and the same self-control, and even some of the same mannerisms. My love for them both blends, and for several long heartbeats, I’m not sure who I’m looking at, or if it’s only one person or if I’m merely in love with a generation of people who keep calling back to one another, resurrecting as an eye color or a length of a palm, or a timbre of voice.

I’m thinking I should apologize for my woolgathering, but ij Elidzin is staring at me in a fault of courtesy I’ve never seen in him. He almost looks… shocked.

And then he bows, more deeply than he has ever, and says, “Datyani. I did not know what to think of your attempt at the story of Kherishdar’s inception, but now I doubt no longer.”

“W-what?” I say.

“You look at me,” he said. “And it reminds me of Thirukedi.”

“Oh,” I say softly. “Please, ij Elidzin, pay it no mind.”

“I will try,” he says. And then, with a slight smile, “though I doubt I will be able, entirely. You will forgive me?”

“God,” I said. “You don’t need forgiveness from an aunera, no matter how good a job she’s doing of channeling your emperor. Please, no, don’t even start to object. Just accept that I can’t accept it.” I draw in a breath. “And tell me about sanitation.”

“I’m sorry?” he says again, but no longer seeking forgiveness, but asking for conversational repair. The tangent surprised him. “You mean… the dissolution of waste?”

“My people wonder who cleans your streets and hauls your garbage,” I say.

“Individual Ai-Naidar take their waste to the neighborhood recycling facility,” he says, now puzzled. “That is only waste when a thing can no longer be repaired, datyani. Compostable waste is used for gardens and flower beds and fields. The waste from relieving rooms is destroyed cleanly. We repair most other things. What else?”

I forget that they’re not some medieval society, but a post-scarcity high-tech civilization with permanent wormhole-like gates between planets. “So… city streets, when there’s detritus on them… I suppose that’s things like leaves and mud.”

“And Public Servants, mostly, handle such duties, as well as landscaping. Or Land-workers outside of cities.”

It’s hard for me to imagine a world where a household doesn’t generate entire bags of waste, most of which is packing material. But if your society is built around local-everything, then… I suppose you have a bag you take to market, to bring home items. Or someone comes ‘round to offer them. Especially if you value heirlooms and items in the process of becoming heirlooms—I bet that’s a word—things that remind you of your family and generations past.

“I guess the Public Servants also handle things like power and water and waste systems,” I say. “Each within their district. And all of them chosen because they enjoy mechanical systems and exposed technology.”

“Yes,” he says.

I start to ask what they use for power and realize I don’t really want to know. Fission? Fusion? Why do I have a word for ‘stellar tap’? If you can open a Gate to another world, what’s to stop you from opening it into deep space, to toss your hazardous waste, or onto the surface of a star, if you need to power your world-spanning wormholes?

“I like this about you,” is what I say suddenly. “That you look to us like primitives but are actually operating on technology levels we’re not yet. It’s an interesting juxtaposition.” And then, realizing I’m talking out loud, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, ij Elidzin. That must have sounded ridiculous. The artist opining on why your society is worthy of examination. Hubris!”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But I am not an artist to know what attracts the attention of artists, so hearing your explanation interests me.” I am just breathing out with relief when he finishes, more quietly, “What was he like? My ancestor.”

“Delightful,” I say. “He made a man laugh who had not laughed enough in generations.” The Regal’s ears flick backward, and that, I think, is a struggle between self-control and awe and a yearning to know more. So I finish, “You’ll see.”

This book is taking so very long to write, but I’m resigned to it. All things in their time, and some things make demands about time that you bow to, or you suffer.

“We say edorelet,” he says. I look up at him and he finishes, “That look Thirukedi bestows on those whom He loves, when He sees us as part of the chain of emethil. When we see the meaning of our existence ratified, sealed forever in time because He has remembered and will remember us. Edorelet.”

‘Ocean eyes.’ “It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Yes,” he says, and bows to me, and goes.