“I wouldn’t have,” she admitted. “If you hadn’t shown me…” She gestured forward, meaning to indicate the recording that had just played in her vision, in her ears.
“That’s why I showed it to you,” I said, “despite the impropriety of doing so.”
“Nothing just can be improper,” replied Station Administrator Celar.
“There’s more, Station Administrator. As I said, Station has been keeping things back that you have not explicitly asked for. There was at least one occasion on which Citizen Piat reported to Medical with bruises on her face. She said she’d been drinking in the Undergarden and tripped and stumbled into a wall. The bruises didn’t look like the right sort for that, not to my eye. Not to Medical’s either, but they weren’t about to get involved in any personal business of yours. I’m sure they thought if it was really a problem, Station would have said something.” And no one else would have noticed. A corrective, a few hours, and the bruises would be gone. “There was no one around, at the time, except Raughd. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Raughd will have apologized and sworn never to do it again. I strongly suggest asking Station explicitly about each and every visit your daughter has made to Medical, no matter how minor. I’d also ask Station about her use of first aid correctives. I queried Station directly, with the intention of finding this sort of incident, because I’ve seen this sort of thing before and knew it was almost certainly there. Station only answered me because System Governor Giarod ordered it, at my request.”
Station Administrator Celar said nothing. She barely seemed to breathe. Maybe watching the record of her daughter’s visit to Medical. Maybe not.
“So,” I continued after a moment. “No doubt you’re aware of the difficulty this morning that ended in the death of the Presger Translator Dlique.”
She blinked, startled at the sudden change of topic. Frowned. “Fleet Captain, this morning was the first I’d heard the translator even existed, I assure you.”
I waved that away. “Station was explicitly asked who had stood near that wall, in the right time frame, for long enough to paint those words. Station answered with two names: Sirix Odela and Raughd Denche. Security immediately arrested Citizen Sirix, on the assumption that Raughd wouldn’t have done such a thing. But Station was not asked if either citizen had paint on her clothes. And since Station was not asked, it did not volunteer that information.” I was not connected to Station at the moment, though I thought it very likely Station Administrator Celar was. “This is not something I think you should blame Station for. As I said earlier.”
“Surely,” said Station Administrator Celar, “it was a prank, something done for amusement. Youthful high spirits.”
“What amusement,” I asked, my own voice carefully even, “could youthful high spirits have anticipated? Watching Sword of Atagaris Var arrest completely innocent citizens? Putting those completely innocent citizens through interrogation to prove their innocence, or worse not interrogating them at all, convicting them without any evidence beyond Raughd Denche could never have done that? Further alarming you, and the governor, and Captain Hetnys at a time when things were already tense? And if, for the sake of argument, we pretend those are harmless amusements, then why has no one said of Citizen Sirix, It’s nothing, it must have been a prank?” Silence. Her fingers twitched, just slightly, the station administrator speaking to Station no doubt. “There’s paint on Citizen Raughd’s gloves, isn’t there?”
“Her personal attendant,” acknowledged Station Administrator Celar, “is even now trying to wash the paint off of them.”
“So,” I said. This was going to be even more delicate than the problem with Station. “Citizen Fosyf is prominent, and wealthy. You have authority here, but it’s just easier to get the things you want done when you have the support of people like Fosyf. And, no doubt, she gives you gifts. Valuable ones. The romance between your daughter and hers is convenient. When you sent Citizen Piat downwell to keep Raughd company, you were already thinking of this. And you might be wondering if you’d noticed that your daughter was unhappy. Or how long ago you’d first seen the signs of it, and maybe you told yourself that it was nothing, really, that everyone has to put up with a little stress, for the sake of family connections, family benefit. That if it was ever really bad, surely Station would say something. To you, of all people. And it’s so easy to just go along. So easy not to see what’s happening. And the longer you don’t see it, the harder it becomes to see it, because then you have to admit that you ignored it all that time. But this is the moment when it’s laid before you, clear and unambiguous. This is the sort of person Raughd Denche is. This is what she’s doing to your daughter. Are her mother’s gifts worth your daughter’s well-being? Is political convenience worth that? Does the wider benefit to your house outweigh it? You can’t put off the choice any longer. Can’t pretend there’s no choice there to make.”
“You are very uncomfortable company, Fleet Captain,” observed Station Administrator Celar, her voice bitter and sharp. “Do you do this sort of thing everywhere you go?”
“Lately it seems so,” I admitted.
As I spoke, Kalr Five came silently into the room, and stood ancillary-stiff. Very clearly wanted my attention. “Yes, Five?” She wouldn’t have interrupted without very good reason.
“Begging the fleet captain’s indulgence, sir. Citizen Fosyf’s personal attendant has inquired about the possibility of the citizen inviting you and Captain Hetnys to spend the two weeks after Translator Dlique’s funeral on her estate downwell.” Such an invitation was properly made in person—this sort of inquiry beforehand, through servants, prevented any inconvenience or embarrassment. “She has more than one house on her land, so you’ll be able to spend the mourning period in proper fashion, very conveniently, she says.”
I looked over at Station Administrator Celar, who gave a small laugh. “Yes, I thought it was odd, too, when I first came. But here at Athoek, if you can afford it, you don’t spend your two weeks in your quarters.” After the initial days of fasting, after the funeral, residents in a mourning household did no work, but instead stayed mostly at home, accepting consolatory visits from clients and friends. I’d assumed that Captain Hetnys and I would stay here in the Undergarden for that time. “If you’re accustomed to have things done for you,” Station Administrator Celar continued, “especially if you don’t pick your meals up at the common refectories but rather have someone in your household cook for you, it can be a long two weeks. So you go to stay somewhere that’s technically its own house, but servants nearby can cook and clean for you. There’s a place right off the main concourse that specializes in it—but they’re filled up right now with people who just need someplace to stay.”
“And that’s considered entirely proper, is it?” I asked doubtfully.
“There has been some suspicion,” Celar replied wryly, “that my not being familiar with the practice when I arrived indicates that my upbringing wasn’t what it might have been. Your not being familiar with it will be a shock they may never recover from.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had known officers from nearly every province, had known that the details of funeral practice (among other things) could differ from place to place. Things widely considered mandatory were sometimes only actually available to citizens with sufficient resources, though that was rarely acknowledged. And beyond that, I knew that small details often went unmentioned, on the assumption that of course all Radchaai did things the same way and there was no need to discuss it. But I was used to those being fairly small details—what sort of incense was appropriate, prayers added to or subtracted from the daily observances, odd food restrictions.