Julien Camille Élie Cotonnet isn't in the habit of attending aristocrats' dinner parties – as he'll tell anyone who'll listen. ("I can't think how you could be," Félix says, "seeing as you've never been invited.") Then again, even among his friends – 

     "Litran's a Chelish running dog," says Charles-Alexandre, who ought to know, though he's not at the moment on speaking terms with his own equally illustrious family. "I'm sure there's some   little busybody at the viceroy's palace who'd just love to know where you'll be for an evening."

          "Don't flatter the boy." That's Gabriel, or at least Gabriel's the name he's going by at the moment. "I promise you, the palace doesn't take notice every time some little nobody comes out with a moderately popular pamphlet." 

"More than moderately popular. If Artenay's read it – " 

          "Artenay's probably never heard of you. He has a secretary for that sort of thing. You should go, if you want to meet the right sort of people" 

     "The right sort of people? For what?" 

"You heard the man – for that sort of thing." 

     "Artenay, a rebel. Imagine. I can just see him smashing windows in with that absurd little gilded cane – " 

Charles-Alexandre can continue in that vein for some time, so he turns to Lucien. "Do you think I should go," he asks, though he knows what answer he'll get. Lucien will tell him that virtue resists flattery, or that good wine is the death of patriotism – 

– but instead, he smiles, and asks him: "Would you like to?" 

And as it happens, Julien very much would. 

The Artenay house - and there's only the one - may not be the grandest residence in Isarn, but it still seems rather excessive, to his eyes. There are gardens in front and presumably gardens behind and ballrooms and dining rooms lit through the night with enchanted chandeliers. Most of the guests, all finely dressed, arrive in carriages; some fewer fly or teleport in; Fewer still are on foot. At the door, the footman looks Julien up and down, immediately identifies him as one of the Master's "artist" "friends", and asks, "How shall you be announced today, monsieur?"

Excess is in the eye of the beholder, and one day this beholder hopes to have his own demiplane. He smiles brightly. "Why, any way you like!" 

This is not the first time the footman has gotten that response, or one like it. He announces 'Monsieur Très Intelligent' to those already in attendance.

As it happens, the Comte's younger sister is in attendance tonight, and the Intelligents are some of her very favorite guests to meet.

"Monsieur Intelligent! I believe I must have met your cousin here the other week. I'm charmed."

"Please don't judge me too harshly on his account – I think he's rather a bore. My friends call me Julien."

"Catherine. I promise to withhold judgement. Tell me, what brings you here this evening?"

"Monsieur le comte seems to think highly of a little thing I wrote. Or possibly his secretary does."

"Oh did he now? He is quite the avid reader, at times - What did you write, or is it secret?" Sometimes it's secret. Sometimes, she's pretty sure, people claim it's a secret just to seem mysterious rather than because it really is.

"Oh – nothing at all – La Galt Libre – I'm sure you haven't heard of it." 

He's totally sure she's heard of it. 

She's heard of it! "Really. How absolutely thrilling to make your acquaintance, in that case. I must make sure you are introduced to Charles-Louis, he'll be delighted you could make it."

Charles-Louis? 

"...And who, exactly, do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Catherine Marianne Euphemia Aspexia...de Litran. He's my brother. But please, just Catherine."

"Oh, dear, I'm afraid you have the better of me. If you'd introduced yourself properly to being with I could call you Catherine to show what a good revolutionary I am. Now I'm simply accepting your gracious condescension. ...I suppose I could start calling you Citizeness, but I've always thought it sounded silly – don't you? – and besides inappropriate while we're all still subjects."

"My apologies! If you would prefer, I can insist that you call me 'the lady de Litran,' and you can make your best revolutionary arguments for why 'Catherine' should suffice. Or call me citoyenne, it may not be appropriate but neither was La Galt Libre, no?"

"Appropriateness is a matter of circumstance, is it not? What's appropriate for the theater might not be appropriate for the temple – what's appropriate at home may not be appropriate at de Artenay's mansion – and what's appropriate for Egorian certainly isn't what's appropriate for Isarn." 

"Are you telling me that most of what's preached in the temples these days is not farce?"

"That would be speaking too highly of the clerics."

"Well, if the main difference between the theater and the temple is that the priests lack self-awareness and a sense of humor, and the main difference between home and the de Artanay residence is Charles-Louis' gambling problem... I still take your point about Egorian, though maybe some day we will bring culture to the poor souls there too."

"A humanitarian! I don't think my sort of culture would suit them at all in the west, but you might endow a theate or a circulating library or something of that nature."

"You write, do you not? I suppose someone would have to do a translation - possibly import some loanwords - What is the Chelish word for libre, I wonder? Do they have one?" They both know it, of course. Even if they speak Galtan in the markets, in their homes, at parties and in the cafés, everyone is required to learn Chelish Taldane.

Beaten for speaking anything but Chelish Taldane in school, in fact.

"Oh, I'd hardly think it's necessary." He puts on his best Longmarch accent, after a particularly reviled tutor – "How hard can it be for them to learn to speak properly?"

She gives an exaggerated shudder. "Perhaps you are right, and even in Egorian the people can learn to appreciate proper culture. Though I still think that a translation may be in order - We cannot expect a people to love the writings of another tongue above those of their own, or to love tales of a distant people over tales of home. La Galt Libre, yes, but why not - " she affects her own accent, and switches to Chelish "A free Longmarch? Or Ravounel?"

"I hope to see them both before I die. But it's as you say – Cheliax must have its own patriots, not just poor Galtan scribblers."

"Oh, I'd hesitate to call your scribblings poor - I really must introduce you to my brother. Do you play Brelan?"