At midday, servants came in with trays of food—more bread, which could be a luxury on stations but was still considered a plain, simple kind of food, and various pastes and mixtures meant to be spread on it, all of which would be lightly seasoned, if at all. Even so, judging by last night’s supper I was sure they would only technically qualify as austere eating.
One servant went over to the wall and, to my surprise, pulled it aside. Nearly the entire wall was a series of folding panels that opened out onto the arbored terrace, admitting filtered sunlight into the room, and a pleasant, leaf-scented breeze. Sirix took her lunch to one of the benches outside—though the wall-wide doorway also made the division between inside and outside an ambiguous one.
On Athoek Station, Lieutenant Tisarwat sat in a tea shop—sprawling, comfortable chairs around a low table littered with empty and half-empty arrack bottles. More than her pay was worth—she’d bought them on credit, then, or they were gifts based on her presumed status. Or mine. One or the other of us would have to find some way to make a return, but that was unlikely to pose a problem. Citizen Piat sat beside Tisarwat, and a half dozen other young people sat in the nearby chairs. Someone had just said something funny—everyone was laughing.
On Mercy of Kalr Medic raised an eyebrow, hearing the Kalr assisting her singing softly to herself.
Who only ever loved once?
Who ever said “I will never love again”
and kept their word?
Not I.
On Athoek, in the mountains, Captain Hetnys stopped pacing, took her own lunch to the table. Sirix, on the bench out on the terrace, seemed not even to notice. One of the servants walked by her, paused, said something quick and quiet that I couldn’t quite catch, or perhaps she’d spoken in Liost. Sirix looked up at her, serious, and said quite clearly in Radchaai, “I’m just an adviser, Citizen.” Not even a trace of rancor. Odd, after her unhappiness that morning, that indignant sense of injustice.
Above, in the tea shop on Athoek Station, someone said, “Now that Captain Hetnys and that really quite frightening fleet captain are downwell, it’s up to Tisarwat to protect us from the Presger!”
“Not a chance,” replied Tisarwat. “If the Presger decide to attack us there’s nothing we can do. But I think it’s going to be a long time before the Presger ever get to us.” Word of the split in the Lord of the Radch had not yet gotten out, and problems with the gates were still officially “unanticipated difficulties.” Somewhat predictably, those who didn’t merely accept that found the idea of alien interference to be a more plausible explanation. “We’ll be fine.”
“But cut off like this,” someone began.
Citizen Piat said, “We’re fine. Even if we were to be cut off from the planet”—and someone muttered a gods forbid—“we’d be fine here. We can feed ourselves, anyway.”
“Or if not,” said someone else, “we can grow skel in the lake in the Gardens.”
Someone else laughed. “It would take that horticulturist down a peg or two! You should see to it, Piat.”
Tisarwat had learned a thing or two from her Bos. She kept her face—and her voice—impressively bland. “What horticulturist is this?”
“What’s her name, Basnaaid?” said the person who had laughed. “She’s a nobody, really. But, you know, an Awer from Omaugh Palace came and offered her clientage and she refused—she’s got no family, really, and she isn’t much to look at, but still, she was too good for Awer!”
Piat was sitting on one side of Tisarwat, and on the other was someone Ship told me was Skaaiat Awer’s cousin—though not, herself, an Awer. Tisarwat had invited her; she wasn’t usually a part of this group. “Skaaiat didn’t take offense,” the cousin said now. And smiled, almost taking the edge off her tone.
“Well, no, of course she didn’t. But it can’t possibly be proper to refuse such an offer. It just tells you what sort of person the horticulturist is.”
“Indeed it does,” agreed Skaaiat’s cousin.
“She’s good at what she does,” said Piat, in a sudden rush, as though she’d spent the last few moments nerving herself to say it. “She should be proud.”
A moment of awkward silence. Then, “I wish Raughd was here,” said the person who had brought the topic up to begin with. “I don’t know why she had to go downwell, too. We always laugh so hard when Raughd is here.”
“Not the person you’re laughing at,” pointed out Skaaiat’s cousin.
“Well, no, of course not,” replied Raughd’s partisan. “Or we wouldn’t be laughing at them. Tisarwat, you should see Raughd’s impression of Captain Hetnys. It’s hilarious.”
On Athoek, in the house, Sirix rose from her seat and went upstairs. I shifted my attention to Five, saw that she was sweating in her uniform and had been bored watching me and Captain Hetnys. Was thinking about the food on the sideboard, which she could smell from where she stood. I would need to go upstairs myself soon, pretend, perhaps, to nap, so Five could have a break, so she and Sword of Atagaris could have their own meals. Captain Hetnys—unaware of having just been mentioned upwell—went out to sit on the terrace, now Sirix was safely away.
One of the servants approached Kalr Five. Stood a moment, debating, I suspected, what sort of address to use, and settled finally on, “If you please.”
“Yes, Citizen,” Five said to the servant, flat and toneless.
“This arrived this morning,” the servant said. She held out a small parcel wrapped in a velvety-looking violet cloth. “It was most particularly requested that it be given directly into the fleet captain’s keeping.” She didn’t explain why she was giving it to Five instead.
“Thank you, Citizen,” said Five, and took the parcel. “Who sent it?”
“The messenger didn’t say.” But I thought she knew, or suspected.
Five unwrapped the cloth, to reveal a plain box of thin, pale wood. Inside sat what looked like a triangular section of thick, heavy bread, quite stale; a pin, a two-centimeter silver disk dangling from an arrangement of blue and green glass beads; and underneath these, a small card printed close with characters I thought were Liost. The language so many Samirend still spoke. A quick query to Athoek Station confirmed my guess. And told me at least some of what was on the card.
Five put the lid back on the box. “Thank you, Citizen.”
I rose, without saying anything, and went over to Five and took the box and its wrapping and went up the stairs and through the narrow hallway to Sirix’s room. Knocked on the door. Said, when Sirix opened it, “Citizen, I believe this is actually for you.” Held out the box, its purple covering folded beneath it.
She looked at me, dubious. “There’s no one here to send me anything, Fleet Captain. You must be mistaken.”
“It certainly isn’t meant for me,” I said, still holding out the box. “Citizen,” I admonished, when she still did not move to take it.