This was not Darj Tarats at all. This was a small, spare woman with grey bubbles of curls and high, windburned cheekbones. Three Seagrass bowed to her and waited for her to introduce herself. Safest—simplest. Let the other person lead, until you can take control of the conversation. That was one of the earliest lessons she’d learned as an asekreta cadet. She used to practice on Twelve Azalea. (She didn’t want to think about Twelve Azalea.)
“I was not aware that a Teixcalaanli delegation had been approved to land, let alone wander around a public market,” said the authority. “And yet here you are. I would have you understand, whoever you are, that Heritage does not allow individual trade agreements between Lsel merchants and Teixcalaanli ones.”
“To be sure,” said Three Seagrass. “I have no interest in violating your local laws. I assume you are from Heritage, then?”
“That’s Councilor Amnardbat,” said the kelp beer merchant, behind her. He sounded like he was worried he was about to be given a truly massive fine, and possibly have his kelp confiscated.
What had Mahit told her about the Councilor for Heritage, back in the City? Three Seagrass couldn’t remember anything specific. Certainly she hadn’t mentioned Heritage being a trade-protectionist faction of the Lsel government. “Councilor,” she said. “I merely was interested in sampling local products. I am not a member of a trade concern.”
“What are you a member of?” asked the Councilor.
It sounded rather like saying I’m from the Ministry of Information would be as poor a choice of stated allegiance as I’m a traveling merchant looking for something peculiar enough to surprise even the Teixcalaanli markets. Someone who disliked trade-that-wasn’t-under-her-control this much was also going to dislike what she would doubtlessly interpret as a spy.
“I am on my way to the war,” Three Seagrass said instead, somewhat grandly. “I am a translator and a diplomat. I will shortly be leaving on the Jasmine Throat.”
All true.
Councilor Amnardbat was unimpressed. “Ah,” she said. “I must have missed an arrival manifest.” Her smile was extremely unpleasant, and Three Seagrass sincerely hoped she’d be off this Station and safely on a Teixcalaanli warship being attacked by mysterious aliens before the Councilor finished looking for that manifest which would explain how Three Seagrass had arrived.
“Have you paid for your drink?” asked the Councilor.
“Not yet,” Three Seagrass said, as breezily as she could manage, which was getting less breezy all the time.
“It was a free small drink,” said the kiosk operator, which was rather brave of him, especially since he clearly didn’t know the Teixcalaanli word for sample. “If the—visitor?—wants a big bottle, I will charge her.”
Amnardbat said, “I’ll cover it. I doubt the Teixcalaanlitzlim has anything by the way of local currency.”
Three Seagrass had plenty of local currency—well, not plenty, not after Esker-1 and the cargo barge bribe, but she had some, and this was quite insulting, but also—useful. Interestingly useful. Perhaps she could make the Heritage Councilor believe she owed her. “I’d appreciate that, Councilor,” she said. “As I mentioned, I am only here briefly, and I had no intention of making purchases outside of our already-extant trading contracts…”
The kiosk operator held out a hand-sized scanner, and Amnardbat waved a credit chit at it until it made a pleasant chime. “That’s done, then,” she said. “Now, Three Seagrass—diplomat and translator or whatever you are—might I walk you back to the main transport hangar? I wouldn’t want you to get lost and miss your shuttle.”
You wouldn’t want me to see more of your Station. Or talk to any more unsuspecting citizens. You’re very angry with Teixcalaan, aren’t you, Councilor. And here we didn’t even annex you—“Of course,” Three Seagrass said, and bowed again. “I am honored that you’d spend your time on such a simple errand.”
“It’s so rare that I see a Teixcalaanlitzlim on this deck,” said Amnardbat, still with that very unpleasant smile. “I wouldn’t miss the chance for the world. Come on, then.”
When Eight Antidote climbed out of the tunnels and into the basement of the Ministry of War this time, Eleven Laurel wasn’t waiting for him; it wasn’t time for their weekly meeting. Eight Antidote hadn’t finished the strategy exercise he’d been given after they’d talked about Kauraan, either—he’d looked at it, seen the complex shape of it, and left its cartographs mostly unopened on his cloudhook and kept thinking about Kauraan instead. But even so, being here without having solved his puzzle first made Eight Antidote feel guilty and worried. He always did his assignments. Even the unofficial ones.
But Eleven Laurel wasn’t expecting him, and he was here to—maybe talk to Eleven Laurel, if he saw him, but more to watch the war with the aliens. He’d started thinking of it as Nine Hibiscus’s war, which he definitely wasn’t going to say out loud in the Ministry of War. He wasn’t dumb.
He just wanted to see a real strategy room, with real communication with a real battlefront, and try understanding that the way he understood the puzzles and exercises. See whether the war was going badly, or well, or unexpectedly. Maybe—if he was lucky—he’d talk to someone here in the Six Outreaching Palms who would like having a maybe-someday-Emperor to show off to. That kind of thing worked on adults all the time, even if he was still eleven. It was only going to work better as he got older. He should get in some practice now.
When he passed the first set of camera-eyes that he knew about, the ones that he thought Nineteen Adze watched for him through, he waved at them and smiled, eyes wide, and went on as cheerfully as he could imagine. Walking cheerfully was kind of complicated—what he wanted to do was break into a run. Not to escape—there wasn’t any escape, some official had probably already sent Her Brilliance a note about where Eight Antidote had gone this time—but to get to more populated places of the Ministry faster. To get away from his usual paths, and see something new.
The Ministry of War was laid out in a six-pointed star (how could it be anything else?), and a long time ago each Palm had probably lived in its corresponding sector. Now, because bureaucracy was more efficient if teams were near each other no matter who they ultimately reported up to (this was something his tutors liked to repeat a great deal, which just told Eight Antidote that they were bureaucrats and didn’t like the thought of moving offices), the six spokes of the star were much harder to find one’s way around in. If a person was looking for a specific individual, that was. Eight Antidote wanted to find the central command room. He wanted to look at a real strategy table for a real war. And all that would be in the middle of the star.
Security increased considerably as he turned toward the center of the building, which meant he was headed the right way. There were all sorts of soldiers in a variety of uniforms: the Ministry uniform, like Eleven Laurel wore, was on most of them, but Eight Antidote saw members of at least seven different legions as well; he recognized the diving-hawk patch of the Eighth on one woman’s shoulder, and the star-shower of the First on another’s, plus emblems he couldn’t place immediately. The first person to stop him—four corridors and one security check that he got waved right through later—was carrying a shockstick half as long as Eight Antidote was tall, grey to match his grey War Ministry jacket. The point of the shockstick rested just above Eight Antidote’s breastbone.