The Director’s office at the Academy was where two worlds collided: the realm of pure science and the dirty pit of politics. Walls of smoked crystal dampened all sound from the outside, and the view of Aethergard from here made it seem as though the entire city lay at Anaris's feet.

  In the center of the room stood Princess Lyrahel. Without her Mother present, she looked as if she were carved from ice. Her posture was perfectly erect, chin slightly raised, hands clasped at the precise angle prescribed by protocol for "informal visits to lower institutions." She was the embodiment of the Law.

  "Pursuant to Article 4, Section 12 regarding the funding of educational institutions," Lyrahel recited in a cold voice directed at Sinthia, "the Academy cannot accept donations from private entities without the oversight of the Royal Treasury. It constitutes a security risk."

  Sinthia, sitting on the edge of the desk peeling an ether-apple with a knife of Damascene steel, merely smirked. "Lyra, darling, relax. We aren't in the Council Chamber. This is where real business gets done."

  At that moment, the doors burst open. Anaris walked in. With a protective gesture, she guided a young student—a boy from the Pillars Class (the common populace)—who was trembling so hard the crystals on his tunic chimed. In his hand, he clutched a small, pulsating prototype.

  Behind them strode Lord Malakor, representative of House Aethelgard (The Builders and Architects). He was a massive man, his skin the texture of polished granite. He wore a smug expression, like someone who had just found a diamond in the gutter while the owner wasn't looking.

  "Director, let's not drag this out," Malakor boomed, seating himself in the guest chair without being invited. "The boy has developed an interesting compound for sealing joints. House Aethelgard offers him a generous five thousand Credits for the patent. That is a fortune for someone of his station! He can buy his own apartment in the lower sector and live out his days in comfort."

  Anaris sat the terrified student, Tyren, into her own chair behind the massive desk—an act which visibly offended Malakor—and turned to the Lord. The maternal warmth she had shown the boy vanished instantly.

  "Five thousand?" Anaris repeated quietly, walking over to the window. "For a Self-Mending Nano-Seal? For technology that can seal micro-fractures in building hulls within three seconds of their origin?"

  "It is merely a student project, Anaris," Malakor waved his hand dismissively. "Untested. Risky. And frankly, the savings are marginal. I am doing him a favor."

  Anaris spun around sharply. "Marginal? My analysts ran the numbers, Malakor. Your House spends 18% of its annual budget solely on maintenance crews manually repairing facades damaged by ether storms. Tyren's sealant will reduce the need for these deployments by 12 percent."

  Silence fell over the room. Twelve percent. On the scale of Silvaria, an infinite city, this wasn't just "savings." This was hundreds of billions of Credits annually.

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  Malakor froze. His smile turned to ice. "Your data is... optimistic. In reality, it will be barely five."

  "Even five percent is money this boy has never dreamed of," Lyrahel interjected icily. "Lord Malakor, if you are attempting to exploit the ignorance of an Academy student, you are in violation of the Fair Trade Codex, Article 20. As a member of the Royal Family, I would be obligated to report this attempted fraud."

  Malakor looked at her and shrank back slightly. Lyrahel wasn't Anaris. Anaris was a player. Lyrahel was the Law.

  "Your Highness, no one is robbing anyone," Malakor defended himself, though beads of silvery sweat broke out on his forehead. "We are merely... negotiating."

  Anaris walked over to Tyren and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Tyren, tell the Lord what happens if we apply that mixture to the hull of a ship flying through an asteroid belt."

  The student swallowed, looked at Anaris, and squeaked: "It seals... it seals cracks before decompression occurs. It is... automatic."

  Anaris smiled at Malakor. "Did you hear that? House Stardrift incurs massive costs repairing the hulls of their ships. I recently negotiated with Patriarch Orion; we have... very good relations. I think they would kill for those 'marginal' 12% savings. They’ll pay double, and give Tyren a scholarship."

  Malakor paled. "You wouldn't dare," he growled. "Stardrift are pirates with licenses."

  "And you are a miser," Anaris said calmly. "So here is the new offer. We will follow the Academy's standard patent rules. Lyrahel, explain to the Lord how it works."

  Lyrahel took a step forward. Her voice was like a razor. "According to the Technological Heritage Act, Section 8, no House may hold essential technology for the public good indefinitely. The patent will remain the property of the Academy. House Aethelgard will receive an exclusive license for ground structures for a period of..." Lyrahel looked at the ceiling as if reading invisible text, "...exactly five years. After that, the technology will be released into the public domain so the entire race may benefit."

  "Five years?!" Malakor yelped. "That’s nothing! We’ll barely implement it!"

  "That is enough time for you to gain a lead over the competition and make billions," Anaris said hard. "Technology isn't just for you, Malakor. It is for all Sylvarians. You cannot lock it in a vault for a hundred years just to keep prices high."

  "And if you refuse," added Sinthia, who hopped off the desk to stand beside Anaris, "we will offer the license to Stardrift. They have faster ships. They’ll implement it in a month. And in five years, you’ll be buying that sealant from them."

  Malakor was surrounded. On one side, the predatory Anaris; on the other, the icy wall of protocol in the form of Lyrahel; and from the third, Sinthia's cold calculation.

  "What else?" Malakor asked suspiciously. "Besides the five thousand?"

  "Keep the five thousand for tipping your waiters," Anaris said with disdain. "We want the land in Sector 7 that your House owns and 'forgot' to develop. The Academy will build new dormitories there for students from lower castes. For free."

  Malakor laughed, but it was a nervous sound. "Land in Sector 7? For a five-year license?"

  "And Tyren receives 0.5% of every Credit saved as a lifetime royalty," Anaris added relentlessly. "Half a percent, Malakor. From every building you repair faster. For the rest of his life."

  Malakor did the math. Half a percent of billion-credit savings was a fortune, but compared to what he would save, it was nothing. And five years ahead of Stardrift? That was priceless.

  "Half a percent," Malakor repeated, looking at Lyrahel, who watched him like a hawk. "And exclusivity for five years. No one else."

  "No one. Until the term expires," Lyrahel confirmed, her eyes flashing. "Then it belongs to the people. Do we have an accord, My Lord?"

  Malakor gritted his teeth, pulled a data-quill from his robe, and signed the holographic contract hovering between them. "You fight dirty, Director," he spat as he rose.

  "I fight for the future," Anaris corrected him. "Don't forget to send the deed to the land by morning."