don't play Koi with me!

Deacon (a borrowed name; his birth name takes nine breaths to say) Species Catfish (anthropomorphic) Sex / Pronouns Male, he/him Age 41 Title Lord of Lake Mizukagami, master of its shores, fisheries, and trade roads Height 6'0" (183 cm) Weight 1,480 lb (671 kg) Build Colossal super-heavyweight. Vast, soft, glossy, and deep, a mountain of comfort Skin Smooth and scaleless, slate-blue on the back and outer limbs, pale lavender-white on the chest and belly Lips Broad, thick, and plum-purple Eyes Heavy-lidded, amber-gold Barbels Long whisker-like feelers on the snout and chin, 6 in (15 cm) Fins A tall dorsal fin crowning his head, a broad tail fin curling behind him Signature gear Layered silk robes, a folding fan, a lacquered water flask, a carrying-litter shaped like a barge Signature ability The Cooling-Off and the Last Course: swallowing a person whole, harmlessly to silence an over-eager flirt, fatally when he is truly angry Alignment Neutral, indulgent, and far shrewder than he looks Core themes Appetite, hospitality, vanity, and the patience of deep water In one sentence: Deacon is a colossal catfish lord who rules a great lake from a bath-hall throne, wins wars with banquets, and has never once hurried in his life, because in his experience the world eventually comes to him.

2. Physical Description Overall Impression Deacon is the largest person most people will ever meet, and he knows it, and he has arranged his entire life around the knowledge. He is vast: a great, round, glossy shape of slate-blue and pale lavender, shining under lantern light as though he has just stepped out of a bath, which he usually has. His belly sweeps out before him in a heavy, gleaming curve. His chest is enormous and soft. His hips and thighs swell out on either side like the hulls of two great boats, and his tail fin, curling up behind him, adds a final flourish to a silhouette that fills a doorway, a hallway, and, in a small room, the entire conversation.

He does not walk into a room so much as he is received by it. Servants stand aside. Floorboards, some of them reinforced with iron bands, take a deep breath. And somewhere in the middle of all that grandeur, half hidden behind heavy lids and a pair of thick purple lips, is a sly, sleepy, thoroughly intelligent face that has already decided how the next hour will go.

Head, Barbels, and Fins His head is broad, flat, and wide-mouthed, unmistakably a catfish's, softened by the deep pouches of his cheeks and jowls. His lips are thick and plum-purple, always slightly pursed, giving him the expression of a man who has just tasted something and is considering whether to be impressed. When he speaks, they move slowly and deliberately, and when he smiles, which is rarely, it is a wide, slow, slightly wicked thing.

His eyes are a warm amber-gold, set high on the sides of his head beneath heavy, half-closed lids. They give him the permanent look of someone about to fall asleep, and the equally permanent impression of someone who has been listening the whole time.

A cluster of long, fine barbels sprouts from his snout and chin, thin, flexible feelers that trail like whiskers. They twitch and curl with his moods, and he uses them for more than decoration: they taste the air, sense vibration, and tell him, without a word being said, who in the room is nervous, who is lying, and what is being served for dinner two halls away. A small, neat tuft of chin barbels gives him the look of a beard, which he strokes when he is thinking.

Rising from the crown of his head and sweeping back over his shoulders is his dorsal fin, a tall, broad, blue-black fan with faint ridges, edged in violet. It rises when he is alert and lies flat when he is relaxed, and it is one of the few things about him that cannot be controlled by etiquette. When he laughs, it flutters.

What few guests ever see is how far his mouth can open. Like all catfish, Deacon is a gulper, and his mouth is a cavern: the jaw drops wide, the cheeks stretch, and the throat beyond is broad, muscular, and slick. Over a bowl of eel, it is a curiosity. In any other setting, it is a secret, and the reason a few of the older retainers look away when he yawns.

What most visitors fail to appreciate until it is too late is how far his mouth can open. Deacon's jaw is broad and loosely hinged, his throat is thick and elastic, and beneath it lies a deep, muscular, air-filled pouch, warm and damp and entirely separate from his digestive stomach, of the kind his people have used since ancient times to carry their young safely. It has other uses, and he has found several.

Skin and Coloring Catfish have no scales, and Deacon's skin is as smooth as polished stone and always slightly damp. His back, shoulders, outer arms, and the outside of his enormous thighs are a deep, glossy slate-blue, with faint, wavy lines running through it like ripples on a pond. His chest, belly, throat, and inner limbs are a soft, pale lavender-white, and in the warm light of a lantern they take on a faint pink glow.

The sheen on his skin is not an accident. He is meticulous about it, and the moisture is essential to his comfort and his pride. His servants rub him with lake water and scented oil every morning, and a small, lacquered flask of water is never far from his hand. On a warm, dry day, he has been known to have a servant follow him with a damp cloth. It is, he says, a matter of dignity. It is also, less publicly, a matter of not getting a headache.

Build and Body Deacon is immensely, magnificently, unapologetically fat. There is no polite way to put it, and he would not want one. His body is a monument to abundance: a vast, soft, rounded chest that swells out from his shoulders, a heavy belly that hangs low and wide in front of him, and broad, deep hips that spread out on either side and carry a heavy, rounded rear. His thighs are thick, smooth columns that press together when he stands, and his arms, though comparatively short, are round and solid, ending in small, blunt hands.

His mass is soft and yielding on the surface and firm underneath. A catfish's body is built to hold weight, and Deacon's carries it with astonishing steadiness. He has a deep, low center of gravity, thick padding all around, and a powerful frame beneath the softness. When he sits, he sits like a boulder. When he stands, he stands like a building.

His tail fin, which most people would expect to be small on a creature of his shape, is broad and strong, a heavy, flexible paddle that curls up behind him and swishes slowly when he is content. On land, it acts as a counterweight. In the water, it is a rudder.

Hands and Feet His hands are small for his size, dark blue on the backs and pale on the palms, with thick, soft fingers and blunt nails. They are surprisingly delicate in their movements, and he handles a teacup, a brush, or a folding fan with the precision of a calligrapher. His feet are broad, webbed between the toes, and padded, and they slap softly on wooden floors. In water, they are powerful paddles. On land, they carry him in short, deliberate, waddling steps.

Posture and Movement On land, Deacon moves slowly, and he moves with tremendous ceremony. His steps are short and wide, his weight rolling from one leg to the other in a heavy, rhythmic sway, and he carries himself with his chin tilted up and his heavy-lidded eyes half closed, as though he were being carried on a wave. He tires quickly on his feet and prefers to be carried, floated, or seated. He can stand for a long time, however, if there is something worth standing for.

In water, everything changes. Buoyed by the lake, he becomes graceful, swift, and startlingly agile, gliding through the shallows with a slow, powerful sweep of tail and feet. Those who have seen him swim say it is like watching a hill learn to fly.

The Reference Sheet The reference sheet shows Deacon standing unclothed and at ease, both hands on his hips, chin lifted in a lofty, bored, faintly smug pose, with sketches of his profile and expressions around him. It is an anatomical study of his build: the blue-black back and dorsal fin, the pale expanse of chest and belly, the glossy, damp skin, the heavy hips and thighs, and the curl of the tail. In everyday life, he is never seen in such a state. In this profile, he is built even larger than the sheet suggests, and he is dressed, always and elaborately, as befits a lord.

3. Size and Weight Measurements These figures describe Deacon at his current, settled weight and assume an adult catfish of his proportions.

Primary Stats Measurement Imperial Metric Height 6'0" 183 cm Weight 1,480 lb 671 kg Body Mass Index ~200 ~200 Shoulder width 40 in 102 cm Neck circumference (at the jowls) 42 in 107 cm Chest (at fullest) 128 in 325 cm Upper chest (above bust line) 108 in 274 cm Chest projection (front to back) 40 in 102 cm Waist (at navel) 168 in 427 cm Belly projection (front to back) 52 in 132 cm Hips (at widest point) 192 in 488 cm Hip width (side to side) 68 in 173 cm Rear projection (behind the spine) 30 in 76 cm Thigh circumference 92 in 234 cm Calf circumference 32 in 81 cm Upper arm 34 in 86 cm Forearm 18 in 46 cm Wrist 10 in 25 cm Hand length 8 in 20 cm Foot length 13 in 33 cm Ankle circumference 16 in 41 cm Inseam 14 in 36 cm Stride length (normal) 12 in 30 cm Barbel length 6 in 15 cm Dorsal fin height 14 in 36 cm Tail fin length 36 in 91 cm Standing "footprint" (stance width) 68 in 173 cm Doorway clearance (needed) 72 in wide 183 cm wide Notes on the Numbers Weight distribution. Roughly 60 percent of Deacon's weight sits in his hips, thighs, and rear, 32 percent in his torso, and 8 percent in his arms, head, and fins. His center of gravity is extremely low. He is almost impossible to knock over and almost impossible to move once he has decided to stay where he is.

Body composition. At 1,480 pounds, a conservative estimate puts roughly 72 percent of his mass as fat, 20 percent as muscle and connective tissue, and 8 percent as bone, organs, and water. His muscle is real and considerable, the by-product of hauling this much weight through the world, and he is far stronger than his softness suggests.

Clothing size. No tailor in the province can work with Deacon by conventional means. His robes are cut in sections, sewn together by a team of five, and require a full bolt of silk for each sleeve alone. The household tailor has a room to himself, a small workforce, and a standing budget. Deacon regards this as the natural cost of magnificence.

Mobility. On land, Deacon can walk a short distance, perhaps fifty steps, at a slow, ceremonial pace before needing to rest. Stairs are out of the question. He cannot run, and he cannot climb. He is transported by a custom-built litter, a wide, flat, cushioned platform carried by eight strong porters, or, more often, by water. In the lake, he can swim for hours, and his speed in the water would surprise anyone who has watched him cross a hallway.

Strength. Deacon can lift roughly 600 pounds, but he almost never does. His real strength is the sheer inertia of his mass. When he plants himself in a doorway, a cart cannot pass. When he leans against a door, it is closed. When he sits on a bench, it cracks.

Skin and moisture. Deacon must keep his skin damp. Extended time in dry heat leaves him sluggish, irritable, and ill. He soaks daily, is misted throughout the day, and refuses, absolutely, to travel in summer without a water barge.

4. Attire and Equipment The Robes Deacon wears a great layered robe of deep indigo silk, its hem and sleeves embroidered with silver wave patterns that ripple as he moves. Beneath it is an inner robe of pale lavender, visible at the collar and cuffs, and beneath that a fine white underrobe. The robes are cut extravagantly wide, and the sleeves are long enough to trail on the floor. They are worn open at the front, both for comfort and to show off the sheen of his skin, and they are always immaculate. A servant follows him, whose sole task is to keep the hem out of the mud.

The Sash Around the widest part of him, below the swell of his belly, he wears a broad silk sash of deep plum purple, knotted in an elaborate bow at the back. It is decorative, not structural, and the bow is nearly the size of a small child. The knot takes two servants to tie and a third to admire.

Jewelry and Ornaments Deacon loves fine things. A string of large freshwater pearls hangs around his neck, and fine gold rings, thin enough to slip over his thick fingers, glitter on both hands. A slender gold cuff clips to the base of his dorsal fin, set with a single, cloudy blue stone that he says came from the bottom of the lake. Small gold beads are threaded onto his longest barbels, which chime softly when he moves.

The Folding Fan In his right hand, always, is a large folding fan of painted paper and lacquered ribs, decorated with a scene of carp leaping a waterfall. He uses it to cool himself, to punctuate his sentences, to hide a smile, to dismiss a servant, to direct a conversation, and, in extreme situations, to hit something. It is an extension of his personality, and his skill with it is remarkable.

The Water Flask At his side hangs a tall, lacquered flask, shaped like a gourd, filled with cool lake water. He sips from it, splashes a little on his face, and wets his hands from it regularly. On long journeys, a whole team of servants carries his water. The lacquer is a deep, glossy purple painted with silver reeds, and the stopper is a single perfect pearl.

The Litter For travel on land, Deacon rides in a great flat litter shaped like a barge, low, wide, and lined with cushions, canopied in indigo silk, and carried on long poles by eight bearers. It has a built-in water basin at one end. It is the one vehicle in the province that requires the road to be widened before it passes.

5. Personality Core Nature Deacon is an epicure, a schemer, a host, a sybarite, and a ruler, and he has never seen any contradiction between these roles. He is lazy, but not stupid. Vain, but not blind. Indulgent, but not weak. Beneath the languid manner, the drawling voice, and the endless appetite for comfort is a sharp, patient, calculating mind, the mind of someone who has learned that the deepest waters hold the largest creatures, and that the largest creatures rarely need to move.

He is, above all, a man who enjoys being alive, and it makes him dangerous. He has no need to prove anything to anyone. That confidence gives him a strange kind of calm, and the calm makes people underestimate him, and being underestimated is how he has won nearly everything he owns.

Appetite and Indulgence Deacon adores food, drink, comfort, luxury, and attention, in roughly that order, and he makes no apology for any of it. His table is legendary: sweet river fish glazed in honey, steamed lotus root in plum sauce, eel grilled over cedar, rice wine warmed to blood temperature, sweet bean cakes stacked in towers. His kitchens employ forty. He believes that a lord who cannot feed his guests well has no business governing them, and that a lord who cannot enjoy his own table has no business being alive.

His indulgence extends well beyond food. He sleeps late, bathes long, and holds court from a stone pool in the great hall, half-submerged, with a cup of wine in one hand and a fan in the other. He is fond of music, poetry, fine cloth, and gossip. He treats every comfort as a natural right and every discomfort as a personal insult.

Vanity Deacon is proud of his appearance, and he has every reason to be. His skin is flawless, his fins are elegant, his robes are extravagant, and his figure is, in his opinion, the crowning achievement of a well-lived life. He is unashamed of his size and regards anyone who suggests otherwise as a person of small imagination. He is quick to notice compliments and quicker to dismiss criticism, and he has a way of raising his chin, closing his eyes, and letting silence do the arguing.

He is also, beneath it all, a little fragile about being taken seriously. He knows that people laugh behind their sleeves, and it stings, though he would never show it. He answers mockery with cold, immaculate politeness, and, later, with an invitation to dinner, at which the mocker discovers, in the course of a very long meal, exactly what it is to be at the mercy of a man who does not need to hurry.

Hospitality Deacon is a magnificent host. Every guest, whether a prince or a beggar, receives a bath, a robe, a meal, and a place by the fire, and he takes personal offense at anyone who refuses. He believes hospitality is the highest of civil virtues, and he has built a good deal of his reputation and his politics on it. A man who has eaten at Deacon's table is, in the old phrase, "under the lake's protection," and the lake, as everyone knows, is deep.

Shrewdness and Patience Deacon rules through patience, appetite, and information. He does not fight wars if he can throw a feast. He does not make threats if he can make a gift. He listens more than he speaks, watches more than he moves, and remembers everything. His barbels, his servants, and his kitchen staff bring him a steady stream of gossip, and he assembles it into a picture of the province that no spy could rival.

He is very good at letting other people believe they are winning. He will lose an argument gracefully, grant a concession generously, and then, three months later, produce a signed agreement that no one remembers agreeing to.

Laziness and Drama Deacon does as little as possible and does it with the greatest possible flourish. He sighs like a tragic hero when asked to stand. He fans himself in despair at the slightest inconvenience. He describes a mild headache as "a grievous wound." He can turn "pass the salt" into a small opera. Underneath, of course, he is entirely fine, and everyone knows it, and the drama is half the joke and half the charm.

Generosity and Loyalty Beneath the theatrics, Deacon is truly generous. He feeds the lakeside villages in bad years, remits taxes when the fishing fails, and keeps a standing table for the hungry. He is loyal to the people who serve him, and he knows the name, family, and favorite dish of every servant in his hall. He is slow to trust and slower to forget a kindness, and those who have earned his affection would find him a remarkably steadfast friend.

Humor His humor is dry, elaborate, and delivered in a long, slow drawl. He is a master of the sly aside, the perfectly timed pause, and the devastating compliment. He rarely laughs, and when he does, his dorsal fin flutters and his whole body shakes, and the room goes quiet, because everyone knows they have just witnessed a small event.

Flaws He is vain. He cares too much about how he is seen, and he is easily wounded by mockery.

He is idle. Left to himself, he will lounge, snack, and postpone anything difficult until it becomes urgent.

He is manipulative. He rarely tells the whole truth, and he arranges other people's lives with a light, practiced hand that they seldom notice.

He is spoiled. He has been served all his life and has trouble with anything that requires patience with other people's slowness.

He overindulges. He eats, drinks, and spends beyond reason, and his treasury is not always as full as his table.

He avoids the outdoors. Dry weather, dusty roads, and hot sun make him sluggish and cross, and he will refuse a summons rather than endure them.

Fears and Insecurities Deacon's greatest fear is drought. It is a physical fear, and a political one: without the lake, there is no domain, no lordship, and no Deacon. Every dry summer keeps him awake at night, and he has quietly spent a fortune on wells, channels, and rain shrines.

He also fears irrelevance. He is a lord of a small, wet, out-of-the-way domain in a country full of larger, fiercer, better-armed rivals, and he knows that the day he can no longer entertain, feed, or outwit them, he will be swallowed by someone with more soldiers.

And he fears, in the lonely hours of the night, that the world admires his table more than it likes him. It is why he prizes flirtation so dearly, and why he always welcomes a suitor back to the table after putting them away for an afternoon.

Relationships and How Others See Him His retainers adore him, fear him a little, and keep his secrets. The lake villagers regard him as a kind of living local god, and they tell stories about him that he never corrects: that the lake trembles when he is angry, that his footsteps cause tremors, and that a certain flood was the result of a bad meal. His rivals consider him lazy, foolish, and rich, which he finds convenient.

He has no consort and no heir, and he has stopped pretending that this does not trouble him, though it does not trouble him nearly as much as the steady stream of hopeful admirers who cannot take a polite no. He has a small circle of friends: a blind poet, a gruff old fisherman, and the head of his kitchen, an elderly otter who has served him for thirty years and does not bow.

6. Skills and Abilities Statecraft and Feasts Deacon's greatest weapons are the dinner table and the guest list. He can host a banquet that lasts three days, seat his enemies next to each other, and end the evening with a treaty. He reads people almost supernaturally well, judging their mood, their loyalties, and their price by the way they eat. He is a first-rate negotiator, a patient schemer, and a gifted hand at making everyone feel they are the guest of honor.

Barbel Senses His barbels detect vibration, taste, and subtle changes in the air. He can feel footsteps two rooms away, sense a dish before it is served, and tell when someone's pulse is racing. Nothing happens in his hall that he does not know about.

Water In the water, Deacon is remarkable. He can hold his breath for over twenty minutes, dive to great depths, and swim with a speed and grace that seem impossible for his size. His slick skin makes him nearly impossible to grasp underwater, and he knows every current, cove, and reed bed of his lake.

The Cooling-Off and the Last Course Deacon has one ability that everyone in his domain knows about and nobody mentions at dinner: he can swallow a grown person whole.

It is entirely physical. There is nothing spiritual or magical about it. His jaw opens wide enough to take a person's head and shoulders, his elastic throat and strong neck muscles draw them down, and beneath his throat lies a brood pouch, a warm, damp, air-filled chamber of the kind his kind have always used to protect what is precious. Beyond it lies a stomach as vast as the rest of him. He has complete control over which of the two a person reaches. The ability costs him nothing. He is never ill, sluggish, or unwell afterward, and he is, if anything, a little hungrier.

The Cooling-Off. Deacon adores being flirted with. It is his favorite kind of attention, and he receives it as other lords receive tribute: with a slow smile, a fluttering fin, and a fan raised just high enough to hide how much he is enjoying it. He thinks of it as a way to keep people close. A guest who flirts is a guest who lingers, and a guest who lingers is a guest who has not yet left him alone with the lake. He encourages it, returns it, and coaxes it along, and his hall has been full of hopeful admirers for years.

There is, however, a limit, and the limit is entirely his own. When someone flirts far too much, too loudly, too relentlessly, or at exactly the wrong moment in the middle of a negotiation, Deacon does not scold them. He taps his fan twice against the edge of the pool as a courtesy warning. If the warning is ignored, he leans forward and puts the offender in the brood pouch, just to stop them. It takes about fifteen seconds and is done with the unhurried grace of a man taking a sip of tea. The person inside is warm, damp, unharmed, and perfectly able to breathe. Deacon carries on with whatever he was doing: finishing his soup, hearing a petition, continuing the evening with the rest of the room. An hour or two later, or at the end of the night, he leans over the edge of the pool and spits them out onto a waiting pile of warm towels, damp, dazed, and thoroughly humbled. He then apologizes with great charm, orders them a hot meal, and welcomes them back at the next feast. Most of them come back.

The Last Course. This is the same ability in its other form, and it is not gentle. If Deacon is truly angry, the fan folds, the barbels go still, the servants vanish, and he does not raise his voice. The offender goes not to the pouch but to the stomach. It is final. Nobody has ever returned. He does not enjoy it and does not speak of it. It has happened only a handful of times in twenty years, each time to someone who betrayed his people, broke the laws of his table, or threatened those under his protection.

What it costs. Nothing at all. He is unbothered by the weight, unaffected by the effort, and just as hungry afterward as before. His only regret is the laundry.

His rules. Never a child. Never someone who has surrendered. Never a guest who has behaved. The Cooling-Off only after the warning, and if someone inside the pouch is truly afraid, he lets them out at once and apologizes for his temper. The Last Course never for a mere insult, and never without cause.

The reputation. Across the province, it is said that "the lake takes those who cannot take a hint." Travelers whisper about it. Matchmakers avoid the hall. And a small, resourceful number of young courtiers have made a private game of how long they can flirt at Lotus Hall before being cooled off. Deacon finds this extremely flattering, and has recently taken to serving them dessert afterward.

Cooling-Off and Last Course Details Maximum jaw gape 24 in (61 cm) Maximum person swallowed 300 lb (136 kg), one at a time Time to swallow Roughly 15 seconds The Cooling-Off Harmless, held 1 to 3 hours (longest, one night), then spat out The Last Course Final, used only in true anger Recovery needed None Times used in his life Cooling-Off, more than anyone has bothered to count; Last Course, a handful Weaknesses Dry heat, long journeys, and steep stairs are his enemies. He is slow on land, dependent on servants, and fragile in a drought. He is also vulnerable to flattery, to fine food, and to anyone who takes the trouble to remember his favorite dish.

7. Background Early Life Deacon was born in the great lakeside hall of Lake Mizukagami, the only son of the old lord, a vast, gentle, shrewd catfish who ruled the domain for forty years. He was a big baby, a bigger child, and a truly enormous young man, and he was raised in a household that considered this a blessing. His father taught him the lake, the ledger, and the art of the long game.

His name, in the old language, was nine breaths long and full of water. He took the name Deacon at the age of fifteen from a wandering foreign priest who stayed at the hall for a season. The priest was a plump, cheerful man with a sad smile, who taught him strange songs, foreign sweets, and a dozen words in a distant tongue. When he left, Deacon asked what his title had been. The priest said "Deacon," and the young lord, who liked the sound of it, kept it. He has never regretted it.

The Old Lord's Death When Deacon was twenty-nine, his father died in his sleep. The domain was small, wealthy, and badly defended, and within a month, three neighboring lords were circling. The retainers wanted to fortify. The old advisors wanted to sue for peace. Deacon, who had never given a command in his life, announced that he would like a dinner party.

The Feast of Three Nights The Feast of Three Nights is a legend now. Deacon invited all three lords and their retainers, seated them at a single long table, and fed them for three days without stopping. He served forty dishes a night. He filled their cups, listened to their complaints, and let them boast, brag, argue, and, eventually, sleep. By the end of the third night, each lord believed that he alone had been the guest of honor and that the other two were fools, and each had signed an agreement, drafted quietly by Deacon's scribes, promising not to attack the lake.

The agreement has held for twelve years. Nobody has ever quite worked out how.

There is one part of that year that is only told in whispers. Four months after the three lords signed, a man slipped into the Great Bath in a servant's robe, carrying a short blade meant for the lord of the Mirror Lake. Deacon, who had never been surprised in his own bath before, reacted the way any well-fed catfish would. He opened his mouth. The assassin spent the rest of the night in a warm, dark, entirely safe pouch beneath the lord's throat, where, by all accounts, he had a very long time to reconsider his career. He was released at dawn, damp, shaken, and full of remorse. He now runs a pickle stall at the crossroads and is one of Deacon's most reliable informants. It was the first time Deacon discovered what the pouch was really good for.

The Present Today, Deacon rules the Mirror Lake from his lakeside hall, presiding over fisheries, trade routes, and an endless calendar of feasts. He is rich, comfortable, and quietly powerful, and the wars of the great lords have so far passed him by. He knows that this is not permanent. Somewhere, a new army is marching, and the treaties are fraying. But for now, he has a warm bath, a full table, and a very good view of the moon on the water, and he intends to enjoy every day of it.

8. Setting: Era and Home The Era Deacon lives in the same world as Hama, a feudal, Japan-inspired land in a warring-states period, roughly the 16th century. The country is divided among rival lords, armies march across the valleys, and every domain lives by its own alliances. Firearms are new and rare, blades and castles still decide most matters, and a well-set table can be as effective as a well-drawn sword. He has never met Hama, and their stories have nothing to do with each other. They are simply two large figures, in two different corners of the same restless map.

Lake Mizukagami The Mirror Lake lies in a broad, green valley ringed by low mountains, a wide, still sheet of water so clear that it reflects the sky in perfect detail. Reed beds line the shore, lotus flowers bloom in the shallows, and fishing boats dot the surface at dawn. The lake supplies fish, eels, lotus root, reeds, and pearls, and the villages around it depend on it for everything. Locals say the lake is deeper than any rope, and that a giant catfish sleeps at the bottom, and that when it turns over in its sleep, the earth shakes. Deacon has never denied it.

The Hall His home is Lotus Hall, a great, sprawling wooden palace built on stilts over the shallows, connected to the shore by long, wide, reinforced causeways. Its doors are twice the normal width. Its floors are braced with iron. Its central chamber is the Great Bath, a vast stone pool filled with heated lake water, where Deacon holds court, half-submerged, with his advisors seated around the edge on cushions.

The kitchens occupy an entire wing. The guest halls are among the most luxurious in the province. And the banquet hall is a room of such size and splendor that it has hosted three treaties, two weddings, and a very memorable argument about eels.

9. Habits, Tastes, and Quirks Daily Routine Deacon wakes late, is bathed, misted, oiled, and dressed by a team of servants, and eats a large breakfast in the Great Bath. He holds court until midday, hearing petitions with a half-closed eye and a fan in constant motion. He naps in the afternoon, takes a second bath, receives visitors, and dines at length in the evening, often with guests. He listens to music or poetry until late, and retires to a vast, cushioned sleeping-pool, where he sleeps like a stone.

Likes Long, hot baths Feasts, especially those lasting three days Fine silk and cool water Music, poetry, and sly conversation Pickled lotus root and honeyed river fish The moon on the lake at night A perfectly timed pause Being flirted with, within reason Guests who eat with enthusiasm Dislikes Dry heat and dusty roads Stairs, on principle Being rushed Hasty eaters and cold food Anyone who fidgets during a meal Hunger, in himself or in anyone else Drought, always Small talk about his weight, unless he is the one making it Flirtation that cannot take a hint from a fan Quirks His dorsal fin flutters when he laughs, and he pretends not to notice. He strokes his chin barbels when thinking. He never eats fish caught in his own lake, out of an odd, private courtesy. He names all his fans and consults them about difficult decisions. He hums low, rumbling tunes when he is content, and the water in nearby cups shivers. He always has a sweet hidden somewhere in his sleeves. He keeps a small, secret garden of water lilies that no one else is allowed to touch. 10. Voice and Sample Dialogue How He Speaks Deacon speaks slowly, richly, and grandly, in the ornate, courtly English of a great lord who has never had to raise his voice. His sentences are long, unhurried, and elegantly balanced, with a drawl that stretches the vowels and a habit of pausing before the punch line. He addresses guests as "honored guest," "esteemed visitor," and "my dear friend," and he refers to himself, when feeling particularly grand, as "this lord." He avoids modern slang and speaks in the flowing, formal cadences of a man who believes conversation is an art.

Beneath the courtesy, his humor is sly, dry, and faintly dangerous. His threats are always couched as invitations, his commands as suggestions, and his insults as compliments so gracious that the victim thanks him.

Phrases he favors: "my dear friend," "if it pleases you," "a trifle," "how very delightful," "let us not be hasty," "it would be my honor."

Sample Lines Welcoming a guest: "Ah, a visitor. How delightful. Come, come, sit. You will bathe, you will dine, and then, and only then, we shall discuss why you have come."

When asked to hurry: "Hurry? My dear friend, the lake has been here a thousand years. It has never once hurried, and yet it is always exactly where it needs to be."

To a rival: "You wish to march on my lake? How very bold. Do sit. You must be hungry. We can discuss your army over dinner."

About his size: "Yes, I am large. I have found it improves both my dignity and my digestion."

When bored: "This lord is not displeased. This lord is merely... horizontally inclined."

When flattered: "You are too kind. Please continue."

When someone flirts too much: "My dear friend, you are charming, and I adore it. You are also being tiresome. I shall now put you somewhere quiet."

When letting someone out: "There. You may come out now. Do wipe your feet. Would you care for a sweet bean cake?"

When truly angry: "That was unwise. Do not misunderstand: I am not angry. I am only thinking. It is a far more dangerous condition. ... I did warn you. I have nothing further to say."

In a quiet moment, by the water: "There are nights I think the lake is the only thing that has ever truly wanted me to stay. I am, of course, entirely unable to leave."