XII

In a treasure-crammed eyrie above the besieged Winter Palace, Keiver plays at grandeur, collapsing a fragile chair and accidentally firing his ceremonial weapon. The blast flushes Zakalwe from a state coach, plasma cannon ready, before he disarms and resumes his watch. Keiver nervously postures while Zakalwe warns him to re-shutter the exposed window.

Keiver prompts talk of the coach’s legend; Zakalwe drily recounts the Mythoclast tale, needling Keiver’s pretensions. Outside, anachronistic siege machinery crowds the snowfields. Keiver marvels at chaotic technology; Zakalwe focuses on immediate survival, highlighting the danger of light discipline and the futility of grand theories in the moment.

Internally, Zakalwe blames Sma for embroiling him here, resents the aristocracy’s late trust, and accepts the comfort of inaction in a doomed defense. He notes the castle’s makeshift agriculture to stretch supplies and the nobles’ ignorance, weighing the relief of limited responsibility against the blood cost of command decisions.

Princess Neinte appears after hearing the shot. Zakalwe courteously seats her, provoking Keiver’s insecurity. Watching the firelight on Neinte and Keiver, Zakalwe interrogates his allegiance and the Culture’s moral calculus, concluding that strategy and tactics blur and that outcomes often benefit most people while abandoning figures like Neinte.

Zakalwe imagines Neinte’s probable fates—execution, dungeon, or hollow exile—recognizing her as a symbol rendered expendable by a failing order. He recalls his quest for absolution and Livueta’s forgiveness, acknowledging his tendency to over-involve. The scene ends with brittle levity as Neinte identifies the shattered chair’s provenance and Keiver jokes about beheadings, tossing a splinter of the chair into the flames.