It was early morning, mere hours after my talk with Sanjeet in the garden. Pigeons cooed from the window of my keep study, where I sat shoulder to shoulder with Dayo. Thaddace sat across from us at my kneeling desk, rolling his sharp green eyes at Dayo’s attempt at a joke.

Two of the Emperor’s Eleven visited Yorua Keep every month, overseeing the studies of the heirs who would replace them. The High Lord Judge and High Priestess had arrived from Oluwan City only an hour ago. The idea of meeting with High Lord Judge Thaddace had made me nervous, but I had been excited to meet with Mbali. I felt horribly underprepared to assume her position as Swana Delegate, and so Mbali had scheduled time this morning, offering to tutor me in Swanian economy and customs. But when I had arrived at my study, she wasn’t there.

“Oh—forgot to tell you,” Dayo had said, yawning and patting the cushion next to him. “I rescheduled your meeting with Aunt Mbali. You don’t want to discuss stuffy Swanian politics this early, do you? Besides, I want to hear what you have in mind for your First Ruling. I’ve invited Uncle Thaddace to consult.”

Surprised, I had put away my notes on Swana, pulling a stack of court cases from beneath the desk instead.

As Crown Prince, Dayo had the authority to dictate our schedules at the keep, though it was unlike him to wield it. This was the second time Dayo had rescheduled my lessons with Mbali. Strangely, when she had visited months ago, Dayo suddenly needed my assistance on a trip to Yorua Village.

I shook my head, dismissing my annoyance. Dayo was right. The years leading up to my First Ruling would pass quickly, and I needed all the preparation with Thaddace I could get.

High Judge Apparents were granted a coming-of-age ceremony called the First Ruling: a way to foster the empire’s confidence in the young new judge. In the palace Imperial Hall, the High Judge Apparent would hear a controversial case, weigh the evidence, and bestow an official ruling. By imperial law, a High Judge Apparent’s First Ruling was irreversible—even by the emperor. Thaddace had written to Yorua Keep, asking that I review court cases backing up the pipeline and pick one to consider for my ruling.

“I see,” the High Lord Judge intoned, shrugging off his tartan-lined council cloak, “that the goodwill tour hasn’t made you children less incorrigible.” He looked wan; traveling by lodestone had probably wreaked havoc on his stomach. I was surprised he could sit upright at all.

“I’m sorry I’m behind in my studies, Anointed Honor,” I said, stifling a yawn. “We’ve had some trouble sleeping.”

“Yes. Well.” Thaddace adjusted the red mourning sash he wore around his neck for the lost citizens of Ebujo. “I can only imagine, after what happened in the temple. Your council made quite a mess, though it has also done an impressive cleanup. When Ai Ling gave her speech last month, she made Arit citizens feel safe again. Riots are at a minimum. You could learn from your council sister’s methods.”

I frowned. “How would Ai Ling’s speeches help me solve cases? Beg your pardon, Anointed Honor, but I’m not trying to make people happy. I’m trying to be fair.”

“Fair.” The overhang of Thaddace’s brow deepened. “I often find that term … short-sighted. But you will learn in time. Have you selected a case for your First Ruling?”

I produced a dog-eared stack of pages. I had spent weeks looking for a case that didn’t bore me, and once I had found one, I had worked into the small hours of every morning, determined to come up with a flawless ruling. I might have failed Ye Eun, but this was my chance to change something, to help people. At last I would shake off this deep, ugly feeling that for reasons I could not remember … I was a threat to everyone who trusted me.

Thaddace frowned over my chosen case, then made an incredulous noise as he read the title. “‘Bipo of Nyamba versus the Imperial Council of Aritsar’?”

I nodded. “I thought it was a joke at first. But I checked the laws. If a citizen can prove that anyone—including the council—has hurt them unjustly, then they can submit a case to the Imperial Court.”

Thaddace’s brow wrinkled with amusement as he leafed through the pages. “I would be lying,” he said at last, “if I said I wasn’t impressed.”

“As you can see, Bipo is a beggar. He’s accusing our councils of being responsible for his life on the streets. When his parents died, he was kept at an orphanage workhouse, and never had a chance of learning a trade, or having a family.”

Thaddace’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “And what exactly,” he asked, “do you propose we do about it?”

I sucked in a breath. “Rule in his favor,” I said, producing another stack of paper. My heart beat with excitement as I pushed the stack toward Thaddace. “We’re the wealthiest empire in five oceans, so why do we still have children wandering the streets? I call it the Lonesome Child Edict. Think: If we give Arit families silver for adopting orphans and teaching them a trade, then orphanages would empty overnight. We’ll send Imperial Guard warriors to check on each family, making sure the adopted children aren’t harmed. The reward would be higher for older children and misfits … I’ve written out all the details here.”

“Am’s story, Tar,” Dayo exclaimed, flipping through the pages. “This is brilliant. Uncle Thad, why didn’t we think of it sooner?”

A deep V had formed on Thaddace’s brow as he glanced over my edict and shook his head. He sighed, making a tent with his hands. “It is an admirable notion,” he said at last. “But ultimately, a foolhardy one. Do you know how many millions of greedy hovel-dwellers would swarm the orphanages in hopes of silver? Do you think they’d care a whit about a child’s well-being?”

“That’s what the guards are for,” I countered. “They could check.”

“How often? Every month until the child is grown? Every week? How much would that cost the crown? Would Imperial Guard warriors travel to every smallest hut in every farthest village, to check if a farm boy is too thin?”

“We could just …,” I began, but stopped, biting my lip in embarrassment. I hadn’t actually calculated the cost of sending warriors to every village in Aritsar. The lodestone fare alone could vastly outweigh the price of running orphanages.

“But we have so much money,” Dayo blurted. “Surely the crown can do something.”

“I understand your objection,” Thaddace murmured. “Believe me, I do. When given the power of a High Judge, one wants to heal every wound in the empire’s body. But authority is not power. Not completely. It takes resources, sustainability. Popular support.”

“What about what’s fair?” I demanded. “For the children? For everyone?” I crossed my arms, staring at the notes I had worked on for weeks.

Adopted children must be permitted to call their carers “Mother” and “Father.” No caretaker shall be absent for more than one week, unless the child is informed of the caretaker’s whereabouts.

The child’s room must have a window, never to be boarded up.

The kindness did not leave Thaddace’s gaze, though the lines around his mouth deepened. “It took me many, many years to learn this, Tarisai. But justice is not about being fair. It is about keeping order.”

Wrong. Immediately, fire blazed in my chest, and I winced in surprise. The mysterious heat had rarely assaulted me since we left the Children’s Palace. What was wrong with me? I struggled to maintain my posture, breathing evenly. “If my ruling is impractical,” I asked, “what would you suggest instead, Anointed Honor?”

Thaddace considered for several moments, then sat up and rapped the table. “I have it,” he said, brightening. “You’ll rule in favor of Bipo, and win the hearts of every Arit noble in An-Ileyoba. But instead of the Lonesome Child Edict …” He took a new leaf from my desk, and a faint burning smell hung in the air as words appeared rapidly on the paper. I had never seen Thaddace use his heat-precision Hallow in person, though I’d received plenty of his calfskin letters before, inkless script tanned neatly into the hide. “You will introduce the Edict of Orphan Day,” Thaddace announced, and a new title smoldered at the top of my case notes. “A festival for family dreams. Decree a holiday in which all nobles take orphans into their homes for a day and a night. The nobility won’t require payment. They’ll do it because it’s fashionable, and to curry favor with the crown.” He snorted. “Hell, they’ll probably compete with each other. Who can lavish their orphan with the most luxury? It’s neat. Decorous.”

Useless, I thought glumly.

He put down the quill, wiping the ink from his fingers. “Children like your Bipo get a temporary family. A night in a villa, and a cartful of sweets. And no family is stuck with a child they won’t care for. Who knows? Maybe the nobles will get attached. They can be very sentimental.”

The ruling barely solved anything. But he had made my plan feel like fishing for the moon, while his looked so … plausible. Was it better to have a perfect solution that I couldn’t enforce? Or a weak solution that everyone loved?