Whatever it was, it hadn’t been Tisarwat’s fault. Or mine. Everyone was relieved at that. Sitting in my quarters the next day, drinking tea—still from the rose glass, even I myself hadn’t yet rated the best dishes—Seivarden’s desire to ask me what had happened was palpable, but instead she said, “I was thinking about what you said the other day. About how I never saw you… I mean…” She trailed off, realizing, probably, that the sentence wasn’t going anywhere good. “Officers have their own quarters, so that’s easy, but I hadn’t even thought about if my Amaats… I mean, there’s nowhere private, is there, nowhere they could go if they wanted… I mean…”
Actually, there were quite a number of places, including several storage compartments, all of the shuttles (though lack of gravity did make some things awkward), and even, with enough desperation, under the table in the soldiers’ mess. But Seivarden had always had her own quarters and never had to avail herself of any of them. “I suppose it’s good you’re thinking about these things,” I said. “But leave your Amaats what dignity they can afford.” I took another swallow of tea and added, “You seem to be thinking about sex a lot lately. I’m glad you haven’t just ordered one of your Amaats.” She wouldn’t have been the first officer on this ship to do that.
“The thought crossed my mind,” she said, face heating even further than it already had. “And then I thought about what you would probably say.”
“I don’t think Medic is your type.” Actually, I suspected Medic had no interest in sex to begin with. “Lieutenant Tisarwat is a bit young, and she’s not up for it right now. Have you considered approaching Ekalu?” Ekalu had thought of it, I was sure. But Seivarden’s aristocratic looks and antique accent intimidated her as much as they attracted her.
“I haven’t wanted to insult her.”
“Too much like a superior approaching an inferior?” Seivarden gestured assent. “Kind of insulting in and of itself, thinking of it like that, wouldn’t you say?”
She groaned, set her tea on the table. “I lose either way.”
I gestured uncertainty. “Or you win either way.”
She gave a small laugh. “I’m really glad Medic was able to help Tisarwat.”
In Lieutenant Tisarwat’s quarters, Bo Nine tucked in the blanket for the third time in the last hour. Adjusted pillows, checked the temperature of Lieutenant Tisarwat’s tea. Tisarwat submitted with drugged, dispassionate calm. “So am I,” I said.
Two days later—something less than a third of the way to Athoek—I invited Lieutenant Ekalu and Lieutenant Tisarwat to dine with me. Because of the way schedules worked on Mercy of Kalr, it was my own lunch, Ekalu’s supper, Tisarwat’s breakfast. And because my Kalrs were scraping paint off the walls in my quarters, it was in the decade room. Almost like being with myself again, though Mercy of Kalr’s decade room was a good deal smaller than my own Esk decade room, when I had been Justice of Toren and had twenty lieutenants for each of my ten decades.
My eating in the decade room produced a sort of confusion of jurisdiction, with Kalr Five wanting very much to establish her own authority in what was normally the territory of the officers’ staffs. She’d agonized over whether to insist on using her second-best porcelain, which would show incontrovertibly that it was her meal and also show off the dishes she loved, or whether she should let Etrepa Eight and Bo Nine use the decade room’s own set, which would protect the precious porcelain from accidents but imply the meal was under Etrepa and Bo’s authority. Her pride won in the end, and we ate eggs and vegetables off the hand-painted dishes.
Ekalu, who had served nearly her whole career as a common soldier on this ship and likely knew Kalr Five’s peculiarities, said, “Begging the fleet captain’s indulgence, these plates are lovely.” Five didn’t smile, she rarely did in front of me, but I could see Ekalu had hit her target dead on.
“Five chose them,” I said. Approving of Ekalu’s gambit. “They’re Bractware. About twelve hundred years old.” For an instant Ekalu froze, utensil just above the plate, terrified of striking it too hard. “They’re not actually terribly valuable. There are places where nearly everyone has part of a set wrapped up in a box somewhere that they never take out. But they’re lovely, aren’t they, you can see why they were so popular.” If I hadn’t favorably impressed Kalr Five yet, I did so now. “And Lieutenant, if you start every single sentence with begging the fleet captain’s indulgence this is going to be a dreary meal. Just assume I’ve given my indulgence for polite conversation.”
“Sir,” acknowledged Ekalu, embarrassed. She applied herself to her eggs. Carefully, trying not to touch the plate with her utensil.
Tisarwat had said nothing yet beyond the occasionally required yes, sir and no, sir and thank you, sir. All the time those lilac eyes downcast, not looking at me, or Ekalu. Medic had tapered down her sedatives, but Tisarwat was still under their influence. Behind them, crowded back by the drugs, was anger and despair. Just noise, right now, but not what I wanted to predominate when she wasn’t taking medication anymore.
Time to do something about that. “Yesterday,” I said, after I’d swallowed a mouthful of eggs, “Lieutenant Seivarden was telling me that Amaat decade was obviously the best on the ship.” Seivarden had said no such thing, in fact. But the surge of offended pride from Etrepa Eight and Bo Nine, standing in a corner of the room waiting to be useful, was so distinct that for an instant I had trouble believing Ekalu and Tisarwat couldn’t also see it. Kalr Five’s reaction wasn’t nearly as strong—we’d just complimented her porcelain and besides, captain’s decade was in some ways above that sort of thing.
Ekalu’s conflict was immediate, and plainly visible to me. She’d been an Amaat until very recently, had, now, the natural response of an Amaat on hearing someone claim her decade’s superiority. But of course, now she was Etrepa lieutenant. She paused, working that out, working out, I thought, a response. Tisarwat looked down at her plate, probably seeing what I was up to, and not caring.
“Sir,” said Ekalu, finally. Obviously having to force herself to leave off that begging the fleet captain’s indulgence. Carefully navigating her accent. “All Mercy of Kalr’s decades are excellent. But if I were to be called upon to narrow it down…” She paused. Perhaps realizing she’d gone a bit too awkwardly formal with her diction. “If one were forced to choose, I’d have to say Etrepa is best. No offense to Lieutenant Seivarden or her Amaats, all due respect, it’s just a fact.” Slipping back closer to her own accent, at that last.