Cleon I had finished dinner, which, unfortunately, had been a formal state affair. It meant he had to spend time talking to various officials--not one of whom he knew or recognized--in set phrases designed to give each one his stroke and so activate¹ his loyalty² to the crown. It also meant that his food reached him but lukewarm and had cooled still further before he could eat it. There had to be some way of avoiding that. Eat first, perhaps, on his own or with one or two close intimates with whom he could relax and then attend a formal dinner at which he could merely be served an imported pear. He loved pears. But would that offend the guests who would take the Emperors refusal to eat with them as a studied insult.
His wife, of course, was useless in this respect, for her presence would but further exacerbate³ his unhappiness. He had married her because she was a member of a powerful dissident family who could be expected to mute their dissidence as a result of the union, though Cleon devoutly⁴ hoped that she, at least, would not do so. He was perfectly⁵ content to have her live her own life in her own quarters except for the necessary efforts to initiate⁶ an heir, for, to tell the truth, he didnt like her. And now that an heir had come, he could ignore her completely.
He chewed at one of a handful of nuts he had pocketed from the table on leaving and said, "Demerzel!"
"Sire?"
Demerzel always appeared at once when Cleon called. Whether he hovered⁷ constantly in earshot at the door or he drew close because the instinct of subservience⁸ somehow alerted him to a possible call in a few minutes, he did appear and that, Cleon thought idly, was the important thing. Of course, there were those times when Demerzel had to be away on Imperial business. Cleon always hated those absences. They made him uneasy.

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