Ancillary Sword

by Ann Leckie

  It had been twenty-five years since I’d seen combat. Or at least the sort of combat where bombs were likely to go off. Still, I had been a ship filled with bodies for fighting. So it was due to two-thousand-year-old habit that without any sort of effort at all, nearly the instant I saw the flash in the bathhouse window, and almost (but not quite) instantaneously saw the window shatter and its pieces fly outward, I was on my feet and my armor was fully extended.

  I suspected Sword of Atagaris had never seen ground combat, but it reacted almost as quickly as I had, extending its armor and moving with inhuman speed to put itself between the flying glass and its unarmored captain. The front of glittering, jagged glass swept out from the window, tearing leaves and branches from the trees shading the stones, reached the ancillary, knocked it to the ground, Captain Hetnys beneath it. The barest moment later a scatter of small bits of glass and leaves and twigs reached me and bounced harmlessly off my armor. A quick thought told me that although Kalr Five had only just finished raising her armor, she was quite safe. “Give me your medkit,” I said to her. And when she’d done that, I sent her to call for Medical, and for Planetary Security, and then went to see if Captain Hetnys had survived.

  Flames licked the edges of the shattered bathhouse window. Shards and fragments of glass littered the ground, some snapping or crunching underfoot as I went. Captain Hetnys lay on her back, awkwardly, under Sword of Atagaris. A strange, misshapen fin protruded from between the ancillary’s shoulder blades, and I realized that it must be a large shard of glass that had embedded itself before Sword of Atagaris could completely raise its armor. Its reaction had been fast, but not quite as fast as mine, and it and Captain Hetnys had been some twenty meters closer to the window than I had.

  I knelt beside them. “Sword of Atagaris, how badly injured is your captain?”

  “I’m fine, sir,” replied Captain Hetnys before the ancillary could answer. She tried to roll over, to shove Sword of Atagaris off her.

  “Don’t move, Captain,” I said sharply, as I tore open Kalr Five’s medkit. “Sword of Atagaris, your report.”

  “Captain Hetnys has sustained a minor concussion, lacerations, an abrasion, and some bruising, Fleet Captain.” Its armor distorted Sword of Atagaris’s voice, and of course it spoke with the expressionlessness typical of ancillaries, but I thought I heard some strain. “She is otherwise fine, as she has already indicated.”

  “Get off me, Ship,” said Captain Hetnys, irritably.

  “I don’t think it can,” I said. “There’s a piece of glass lodged in its spinal column. Lower your armor, Sword of Atagaris.” The medkit held a special-made general-purpose corrective, designed to slow bleeding, halt further tissue damage, and just generally keep someone alive long enough to get them to a medical facility.

  “Fleet Captain,” said Sword of Atagaris, “with all respect, my captain is unarmored and there might be another bomb.”

  “There’s not much we can do about that without killing this segment,” I pointed out. Though I was sure there had only been the one bomb, sure that blast had been meant to kill one person in particular, rather than as many as possible. “And the sooner you let me medkit you, the sooner we can move you and get your captain out of danger.” Uncomfortable and annoyed as she clearly was, Captain Hetnys frowned even further, and stared at me as though I had spoken in some language she had never heard before and could not understand.

  Sword of Atagaris dropped its armor, revealing its uniform jacket, blood-soaked between the shoulders, and the jagged glass shard. “How deep is it?” I asked.

  “Very deep, Fleet Captain,” it replied. “Repairs will take some time.”

  “No doubt.” The medkit also included a small blade for cutting clothes away from wounds. I pulled it out, sliced the bloody fabric out of the way. Laid the corrective on the ancillary’s back, as close as I could to where the glass protruded without jostling it and maybe causing further injury. The corrective oozed and puddled—it would take a few moments (or, depending on the nature and extent of the injuries it encountered, a few minutes) to stabilize the situation, and then harden. Once it had, Sword of Atagaris could probably be moved safely.

  The fire in the bathhouse had taken hold, fed by that beautiful woodwork. Three servants were standing by the main building, staring, aghast. More were running out of the house to see what had happened. Kalr Five and another servant hastened toward us, carrying something flat and wide—Mercy of Kalr had told her there was a spinal injury. I didn’t see Raughd anywhere.

  Captain Hetnys still stared at me from under Sword of Atagaris, frowning. “Fleet Captain,” said the ancillary, “with all respect, this injury is too severe to be worth repairing. Please take Captain Hetnys to safety.” Its voice and its face were of course expressionless, but tears welled in its eyes, whether from pain or from something else it was impossible for me to know. I could guess, though.

  “Your captain is safe, Sword of Atagaris,” I said. “Be easy on that score.” The last bit of cloudiness cleared from the corrective on its back. Gently I brushed it with a gloved finger. No streak, no smudge. Kalr Five dropped to her knees beside us, set down the board—it looked to be a tabletop. The servant carrying the other end didn’t know how to move people with back injuries, so Kalr Five and I moved Sword of Atagaris off of Captain Hetnys, who rose, looked at Sword of Atagaris lying silent and motionless on the tabletop, the shard of glass sticking up out of its back. Looked, still frowning, at me.

  “Captain,” I said to her as Kalr Five and the servant carefully bore Sword of Atagaris away, “we need to have a talk with our host.”

  16

  The explosion had put an end to any mourning proprieties. We met in the main house’s formal sitting room, a broad window (facing the lake, of course), scattered benches and chairs cushioned in gold and pale blue, low tables of dark wood, the walls more of that carved scrollwork that must have occupied the entirety of some servant’s duties. Over in one corner, on a stand, sat a tall, long-necked, square-bodied stringed instrument that I didn’t recognize, which suggested it was Athoeki. Next to that, on another stand, was that ancient tea set in its box, lid open the better to display it.

  Fosyf herself stood in the center of the room, Captain Hetnys in a chair nearby, at Fosyf’s insistence. Raughd paced at one end of the room, back and forth until her mother said, “Sit down, Raughd,” ostensibly pleasantly but an edge to her voice. Raughd sat, tense, didn’t lean back.

  “It was a bomb, of course,” I said. “Not very large, probably something stolen off a construction site, but whoever placed it added scraps of metal that were meant to maim or kill whoever might be close enough.” Some of that had reached Captain Hetnys but had been blocked by Sword of Atagaris. It had arrived just the barest instant after that shard of glass.

  “Me!” cried Raughd, and rose to her feet again, gloved hands clenched, and resumed her pacing. “That was meant for me! I can tell you who it was, it can’t have been anyone else!”

  “A moment, Citizen,” I said. “Probably stolen off a construction site, because while it’s easy to find bits of scrap metal, finding the actual explosive is of course more difficult.” Quite deliberately so. Though sufficient determination and ingenuity could find ways around nearly any restrictions. “Of course, explosives aren’t generally left lying around. Whoever did this either has access to such things or knows someone who does. We can probably track them down that way.”

  “I know who it was!” Raughd insisted, and would have said more except the doctor and the district magistrate entered just at that moment.

  The doctor went immediately to where Captain Hetnys sat. “Captain, no nonsense from you, I must examine you to be sure you are unhurt.”

  The district magistrate had opened her mouth to speak to me. I forestalled her with a gesture. “Doctor, the captain’s injuries are fortunately minor. Sword of Atagaris’s ancillary, on the other hand, is very badly hurt and will need treatment as soon as you can manag
e.”

  The doctor drew herself up straight, indignant. “Are you a doctor, Fleet Captain?”

  “Are you?” I asked coldly. I couldn’t help but compare her to my own ship’s medic. “If you’re looking at Captain Hetnys with your medical implants turned on, it should be obvious to you that she has sustained little more than cuts and bruises. Sword of Atagaris, which sees her even more intimately, has said its captain is largely uninjured. Its ancillary, on the other hand, has had a twenty-six-centimeter shard of glass driven into its spinal column. The sooner you treat it the more effective that treatment will be.” I did not add that I spoke from personal experience.

  “Fleet Captain,” the doctor replied, just as coldly, “I don’t need you to lecture me on my own assignment. An injury of that sort will have a long and difficult recovery period. I’m afraid the best course will be to dispose of the ancillary. I’m sure it will be inconvenient for Captain Hetnys, but really it’s the only reasonable choice.”

  “Doctor,” interposed Captain Hetnys, before I could reply, “perhaps it’s best to just treat the ancillary.”

  “With all respect to you, of course, Captain Hetnys,” said the doctor, “I am not subject to the authority of the fleet captain, only my own, and I will rely on my own judgment and my medical training.”

  “Come, Doctor,” said Fosyf, who had been silent so far. “The fleet captain and the captain both want the ancillary treated, surely Captain Hetnys is willing to deal with its recovery. What harm can there be in treating it?”

  I suspected that the doctor, as was common in this sort of household, did not merely work for the tea plantation but was also a client of Fosyf’s. Her continued well-being depended on Fosyf, and so she could not answer her in the same terms as she had answered me. “If you insist, Citizen,” she said with a small bow.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” I said. “Five.” Kalr Five had stood silent and straight by the door this whole time, in case I should need her. “Find a proper doctor in the town and have her come and see to Sword of Atagaris as quickly as possible.” Sooner would have been much better, but I did not trust this doctor at all. I didn’t wonder that the field workers would rather bleed to death than consult her. I wished very much that Medic was here.

  “Sir,” replied Five, and turned neatly and was out the door.

  “Fleet Captain,” began the doctor, “I’ve said I’ll…”

  I turned away from her, to the district magistrate. “Magistrate.” I bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, sadly in unfortunate circumstances.”

  The magistrate bowed, with a sidelong glance at the doctor, but said only, “Likewise, Fleet Captain. I’m here so quickly because I was already on my way to pay my respects. May I express my sorrow at your loss.” I nodded acknowledgment of this. “As you were saying when we came in, we can probably find whoever made this bomb by tracking the materials it was made with. Security is even now examining what remains of the bathhouse. A sad loss.” She directed that last to Citizen Fosyf.

  “My daughter is unhurt,” Fosyf replied. “That’s all that matters.”

  “That bomb was meant for me!” cried Raughd, who had stood fuming all this time. “I know who it was! There’s no need to go tracking anything!”

  “Who was it, Citizen?” I asked.

  “Queter. It was Queter. She’s always hated me.”

  The name was Valskaayan. “One of the field workers?” I asked.

  “She works in the manufactory, maintaining the dryers,” said Fosyf.

  “Well,” said the magistrate, “I’ll send—”

  I interrupted her. “Magistrate, your indulgence. Do any of the people you’ve brought speak Delsig?”

  “A few words, Fleet Captain, no more.”

  “As it happens,” I said, “I’m fluent in Delsig.” Had spent decades on Valskaay itself, but I did not say that. “Let me go down to the field workers’ house and talk to Citizen Queter and see what I can discover.”

  “You don’t need to discover anything,” insisted Raughd. “Who else could it be? She’s always hated me.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “She thinks I’ve corrupted her baby sister. Those people have the most unreasonable ideas about things.”

  I turned to the magistrate again. “Magistrate, allow me to go alone to the field workers’ house and talk to Citizen Queter. In the meantime your staff can trace the explosive.”

  “Let me send some security with you, Fleet Captain,” said the magistrate. “Arresting this person all by yourself, surrounded by Valskaayans—I think you might want some help.”

  “There’s no need,” I replied. “I won’t need the help, and I have no fear for my safety.”

  The magistrate blinked, and frowned, just slightly. “No, Fleet Captain, I don’t suppose you do.”

  I walked to the field workers’ house, though Fosyf offered me the use of a groundcar. The sun was going down, and the fields I passed were empty. The house sat silent, no one outside, no movement. If I didn’t know better I might have thought it abandoned. Everyone would be inside. But they would be expecting someone—Fosyf, Planetary Security, the district magistrate. Soldiers. There would be a lookout.

  As I came in earshot of the house I opened my mouth, drew breath, and sang:

  I am the soldier

  So greedy, so hungry for songs.

  So many I’ve swallowed, they leak out,

  They spill out of the corners of my mouth

  And fly away, desperate for freedom.

  The front door opened. The lookout who had sung those words, that first morning when I had run past the workers picking tea. I smiled to see her, and bowed as I came closer. “I’ve been wanting to compliment you on that,” I said to her, in Delsig. “It was nicely done. Did you compose it that moment, or had you thought about it before? I’m only curious—it was impressive either way.”

  “It’s only a song I was singing, Radchaai,” she replied. Radchaai only meant “Citizen,” but I knew that in the mouth of a Valskaayan, speaking Delsig, in that tone of voice, it was a veiled insult. A deniable one, since she had, after all, only used an always-proper address.

  I gestured unconcern at her answer. “If you please, I’m here to speak with Queter. I only want to talk. I’m here by myself.”

  Her glance flicked to over my shoulder, though she had, I knew, been watching, knew that no one had come with me. She turned then, without a word, and walked into the house. I followed, careful to close the door behind me.

  We met no one as we went through to the back of the house, to the kitchen, as large as Fosyf’s, but where that kitchen was all gleaming pans and ranks of freezers and suspension cabinets, this one was half empty: a few burners, a sink. A rumpled pile of clothes in one corner, faded and stained, doubtless the remnant of what had been provided as the field workers’ basic clothing allowance, picked over, altered to suit. A row of barrels against one wall that I strongly suspected were filled with something fermenting. Half a dozen people sat around a table drinking beer. The lookout gestured me into the room, and then left without a word.

  One of the people at the table was the elder who had spoken to me, the day we’d arrived. Who’d changed the choice of song, when she’d seen that we were in mourning. “Good evening, Grandfather,” I said to her, and bowed. Because of my long familiarity with Valskaay, I was fairly sure my choice of gender—required by the language I was speaking—was correct.

  She looked at me for ten seconds, and then took a drink of her beer. Everyone else stared fixedly away from me—at the table, at the floor, at a distant wall. “What do you want, Radchaai?” she asked finally. Even though I was quite sure she knew why I was here.

  “I was hoping to speak to Queter, Grandfather, if you please.” Grandfather said nothing in response, not immediately, but then she turned to the person at her left. “Niece, ask Queter if she’ll join us.” Niece hesitated, looked as though she would open her mouth to protest, decided otherwise, though clearly
she was not happy with her choice. She rose, and left the kitchen without a word to me.

  Grandfather gestured to the vacant chair. “Sit, Soldier.” I sat. Still, no one else at the table would look directly at me. I suspected that if Grandfather had told them to leave, they would have gladly fled the room. “From your accent, soldier,” said Grandfather, “you learned your Delsig in Vestris Cor.”

  “I did,” I agreed. “I spent quite some time there. And in Surimto District.”

  “I’m from Eph,” Grandfather said, pleasantly, as though this were nothing more than a social call. “I never was in Vestris Cor. Or Surimto, either. I imagine it’s very different these days, now you Radchaai are running things.”

  “In some ways, I’m sure,” I replied. “I haven’t been there in quite some time myself.” Queter might have fled, or might refuse to come. My coming here, approaching like this, had been a gamble.

  “How many Valskaayans did you kill while you were there, Radchaai?” Not Grandfather, but one of the other people around the table, one whose anger and resentment had built beyond the ability of her fear of me to contain it.

  “Quite a few,” I replied, calmly. “But I am not here to kill anyone. I am alone and unarmed.” I held my gloved hands out, over the table, palms up.

  “Just a social call, then?” Her voice was thick with sarcasm.

  “Sadly, no,” I replied.

  Grandfather spoke then, trying to steer the conversation away from such dangerous territory. “I think you’re too young to have been in the annexation, child.”

  I ducked my head, a small, respectful bow. “I’m older than I seem, Grandfather.” Far, far older. But there was no way for anyone here to know that.

  “You’re very polite,” said Grandfather, “I’ll give you that.”

  “My mother said,” observed the angry person, “that the soldiers who killed her family were also very polite.”