by Ann Leckie
“Next,” announced the manufactory worker, with a grateful look at Eight, “salt is added to the fish…”
On Athoek Station, Tisarwat sat talking with the head priest of the Mysteries. This was a local sect, very popular not only with the Xhai here but also with outsystem Radchaai. The hierophant of the Mysteries was, herself, popular and influential. “Lieutenant,” the hierophant was saying, “I will be entirely frank. This business appears to be some argument between Eminence Ifian and your fleet captain.” The hierophant’s apartment sat above and behind the temple of the Mysteries. It was small, as such apartments go, and the brightly lit room they sat in was plainly furnished, just a low table and a few chairs with undecorated cushions. But orchids bloomed by the dozen on shelves and in brackets around the walls, purple and yellow and blue and green, and the air was sweet with their scent. It wasn’t uncommon for station residents to scrimp a little on their water ration in order to keep a plant or two, but this lush growth wasn’t a result of the hierophant’s saving a bit of water out of her bath every now and then. “I would also observe,” she continued, “that the eminence certainly hasn’t taken a step like this, particularly in obvious opposition to the station administrator, without being certain of the support of Governor Giarod. You want me to step in the middle of that. And for what? I don’t have the training to do the daily cast, and even if I did I’m sure most citizens wouldn’t accept it from me.”
“You might be surprised,” observed Tisarwat, with a calm smile. Her distress at losing control of Undergarden residents’ communication with Station Administration had faded, now she had this challenge in front of her. “You’re widely respected here. But Station Administrator Celar will make the casts, starting tomorrow morning. After all, you don’t have to be a priest to do it, and Station Administrator Celar does actually have the training, although she hasn’t used it for some time. No, all we’re asking for is births and funerals. And maybe not every station resident will find that acceptable, but quite a lot of Xhai will, I think.”
If the hierophant felt any surprise at having this conversation with someone as young and presumably inexperienced as Tisarwat, she didn’t show it. “Quite a lot of Xhai wouldn’t mind at all if the Ychana were permanently expelled from the Undergarden. Or better yet forcibly shipped downwell or to the outstations. Which is the likely outcome of the eminence getting what she wants, I suspect. So those Xhai who might be disposed to accept my services are likely also disposed to support the eminence. And Eminence Ifian is my neighbor, and for reasons I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you, I’d prefer to remain on good terms with her. So I ask you again, why should I put myself in the middle of this?”
Lieutenant Tisarwat still smiled, and I saw a tiny surge of satisfaction. As though the priest had just walked into a trap Tisarwat had laid. “I don’t ask you to put yourself anywhere. I ask you to be where you are.”
The hierophant’s eyes widened in surprise. “Lieutenant, I don’t recall inducting you. And you’re young enough I’d remember it.” Innocuous as Tisarwat’s words had seemed to me, they must have referred to the Mysteries somehow. And of course Anaander Mianaai would be familiar with them—no mysteries or secret societies that didn’t admit the Lord of the Radch were allowed to continue.
Tisarwat frowned, false puzzlement. “I don’t know what you mean, Hierophant. I only intended to say that you know where justice lies in this situation. Yes, technically the Ychana were in the Undergarden illegally. But you know well enough that before any of them moved there, their Xhai neighbors will have done everything they could to drive them away. They found a way to live despite that, and now, through no fault of their own, they’re cast adrift. And for what? For the foolish prejudices of some Xhai, and Eminence Ifian’s determination to pursue a feud with the fleet captain. One the fleet captain has no interest in, by the way.”
“Nor you, I gather,” observed the hierophant dryly.
“I want to sleep somewhere besides out in a corridor,” Tisarwat replied. “And I want my neighbors back in their own homes. Fleet Captain Breq wants the same. I don’t know why Eminence Ifian has taken against the fleet captain, and I certainly don’t understand why she’s chosen a way to do it that leaves so many station residents not only in uncomfortable circumstances but in doubt of their futures. It seems as though she’s forgotten that the authority of the temple isn’t properly wielded for one’s own convenience.”
The hierophant drew a considering breath. Blew it out with a quick hah. “Lieutenant, with all respect, you are one manipulative piece of work.” And before Tisarwat could protest her innocence, “And this business I hear about a conspiracy, about the Lord of the Radch having been infiltrated by aliens?”
“Mostly nonsense,” Tisarwat replied. “The Lord of the Radch is having an argument with herself, and it’s broken out into open fighting on the provincial palace stations. Some military ships have chosen one faction or the other, and they’re responsible for the destruction of several intersystem gates. The system governor feels it would be… counterproductive to announce this generally.”
“So you’ll just spread it as a rumor.”
“Hierophant, I’ve said nothing about it to anyone until now, and that only because you’ve asked me directly, and we’re alone.” Not, strictly speaking, true—Station could hear, and there was almost certainly a servant or another priest nearby. “If you’ve heard it as a rumor, it won’t have come from Fleet Captain Breq, or me, or any of our crew, that I know of.”
“And what is this supposed argument about, and which faction do you support?”
“The argument is a complicated one, but it mostly involves the future direction of Anaander Mianaai herself, and Radch space with her. The end of annexations, the end of making ancillaries. The end to certain assumptions about who is fit to command—these are things that Anaander Mianaai is quite literally divided over. And Fleet Captain Breq doesn’t support either one. She’s here to keep this system safe and stable while that argument plays out in the palaces.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed how much more peaceful Athoek has been, since you arrived.” The priest’s voice was utterly serious.
“It was such a haven of prosperity and justice for every citizen before,” Tisarwat observed, just as seriously. Leaning just a bit on that every citizen.
The priest closed her eyes and sighed, and Tisarwat knew she had won.
On Mercy of Kalr, Seivarden had just come off duty. Now she sat on her bunk, arms tightly crossed. The corrective still on her hand, but nearly finished with its work. “Lieutenant,” Ship said in her ear, “would you like some tea?”
“It was a compliment!” For the past few days, Ekalu had been stiffly, formally correct in her every interaction with Seivarden. Everyone on board knew something had gone wrong between them. None of them knew about her kef addiction, and would not recognize that arms-crossed gesture for what it was, a sign that the stresses of the past few days—probably weeks—had piled up beyond her ability to cope.
“Lieutenant Ekalu didn’t take it as a compliment,” Ship pointed out. And told Amaat Four to hold off on bringing tea.
“Well I meant it as one,” insisted Seivarden. “I was being nice. Why doesn’t she understand that?”
“I’m sure the lieutenant does understand that,” Ship replied. Seivarden scoffed. After a pause of three seconds, Ship added, “Begging the lieutenant’s indulgence,” and Seivarden blinked and frowned in confusion. It wasn’t the sort of thing a ship generally said to its own officers. “But I would like to point out that as soon as Lieutenant Ekalu let you know that actually, your intended compliment was offensive to her, you immediately stopped trying to be nice.”
Seivarden stood up off the bunk, arms still crossed tight, and paced her tiny quarters, all of two steps long. “What are you saying, Ship?”
“I’m saying I think you owe Lieutenant Ekalu an apology.” Downwell, halfway down the hillside on the cable tram, I was startled back t
o myself. I had never, ever heard a ship say something that directly critical to an officer.
But just days ago Ship had declared itself someone who could be a captain. Essentially an officer itself. And ultimately it was I who had suggested the idea, weeks ago at Omaugh Palace. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I reached again. Seivarden had stopped still, had just said, indignant, “Owe her an apology? What about me?”
“Lieutenant Seivarden,” said Ship, “Lieutenant Ekalu is hurt and upset, and it was you who hurt and upset her. And this sort of thing affects the entire crew. For which, may I remind you, you are currently responsible.” As Ship spoke, Seivarden’s anger intensified. Ship added, “Your emotional state—and your behavior—have been erratic for the past few days. You have been insufferable to everyone you’ve dealt with. Including me. No, don’t punch the wall again, it won’t do any good. You are in command here. Act like it. And if you can’t act like it—which I am increasingly convinced is the case—then take yourself to Medical. Fleet Captain would say the same to you, if she were here.”
That last hit Seivarden like a blow. With no warning her anger collapsed into despair, and she sat heavily on her bunk. Drew up her legs and put her forehead on her knees, arms still crossed. “I fucked it up,” she moaned after a few moments. “I got another chance and I fucked it up.”
“Not irrevocably,” replied Ship. “Not yet. I know that considering the condition you’re in right now, it’s pointless to tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. But you can still get up and go to Medical.”
Except Medic was that moment on watch. “The problem is,” Medic said, silently, to the information Ship had just given her, “to even start, I’m going to need up-to-date aptitudes data to work with, and I don’t have that. And I’m not a tester or an interrogator. I’m just a regular medic. Some things I could handle, but I’m afraid this is beyond me. And I’m not sure we could trust any of the specialists here in the system. We have the same problem with Lieutenant Tisarwat, of course.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Why is this happening now?”
“It’s been waiting to happen,” Ship replied. “But to be honest at first I thought it wouldn’t. I underestimated how much better Lieutenant Seivarden does emotionally when Fleet Captain is here.”
“Medic’s on watch,” Seivarden said, still curled into herself on her bunk.
Sitting in Command, Medic said, “Fleet Captain can’t always be here. Does she know this is happening?”
“Yes,” Ship said to Medic, and to Seivarden, “Pull yourself together, Lieutenant. I’ll have Amaat Four bring you tea, and you can get cleaned up and then you need to talk to Lieutenant Ekalu and let her know she’s going to be in command for a few days. And it would be good to apologize to her, if you can do that in a sensible way.”
“Sensible?” asked Seivarden, raising her head up off her knees.
“We’ll talk while you’re having your tea,” said Ship.
I had upset the staff at the detention center with my insistence on seeing Queter. They had, I suspected, appealed to the district magistrate, who did not dare call me to account. Besides, she wanted something from me, so instead of complaining to me, she invited me to dinner.
The district magistrate’s dining room looked out onto steps down to a wide, brick-paved courtyard. Leafy vines with sweet-smelling white and pink flowers tumbled out of tall urns, and water trickled down one wall into a wide basin in which fish swam and small yellow lilies bloomed. Servants had cleared supper away, and the magistrate and I were drinking tea. Translator Zeiat stood beside the basin, staring fixedly at the fish. Sphene sat on a bench in the courtyard outside the tall, open doors, a few meters from where Kalr Five stood straight and still.
“That’s a song I haven’t heard in years, Fleet Captain,” said the district magistrate, where we sat drinking tea, looking out on the darkening courtyard.
“I apologize, Magistrate.”
“No need, no need.” She took a drink of her tea. “It was one of my favorites when I was young. I found it quite romantic. Thinking of it now, it’s very sad, isn’t it.” And sang, “But I will sustain myself / With nothing more than the perfume of jasmine flowers / Until the end of my life.” Faltering a bit at the last—she’d taken her pitch from my humming and it was just a touch too high for her comfort. “But the daughters breaking the funeral fast are in the right. Life goes on. Everything goes on.” She sighed. “You know, I didn’t think you’d come. I was sure Citizen Queter meant merely to annoy you. I almost didn’t pass the request on.”
“That would have been illegal, Magistrate.”
She sighed. “Yes, that’s why I did pass it on.”
“If she asked for me in such extremity, how could I ignore her?”
“I suppose.” Outside, Translator Zeiat bent lower over the lily-blooming basin. I hoped she didn’t dive in. It struck me that if she had been Translator Dlique, she might well have done exactly that. “I wish, Fleet Captain, that you would consider exercising your influence with the Valskaayan fieldworkers on Citizen Fosyf’s tea plantation. You have no reason to be aware of it, but there are people who would be glad of any excuse to damage her. Some of them are in her own family. This work stoppage is just giving them opportunity to move against her.” This was hardly a surprise, given Citizen Fosyf Denche’s penchant for cruelty. “The local head of Denche is an extremely unpleasant person, and she’s hated Fosyf’s mother since they were both children. The mother being gone, she hates Fosyf. She’ll take the plantation away from Fosyf if she can. This might give her enough leverage to do it, especially since so many intersystem gates are down and the Lord of Denche is unreachable just now.”
“And the workers’ grievances?” I asked. “Have they been dealt with?”
“Well, Fleet Captain, that’s complicated.” I failed to see what was complicated about paying workers fairly, or providing them with the same basic rights and services due any citizen. “Really, the conditions on Fosyf’s plantation aren’t much different from any of the others in the mountains. But it’s Fosyf who will take the brunt of this. And now some of the more troublesome of the Xhai are getting into the act. You may know there’s a small, ruined temple on the other side of the lake from Fosyf’s house.”
“She mentioned it.”
“It was nothing but weeds and rubble when we arrived six hundred years ago. But lately we’ve had people claiming it’s always been a sacred spot, and that Fosyf’s house is actually a stop on an ancient pilgrimage trail. Fosyf herself encourages the belief, I suppose she finds it romantic. But it’s ridiculous, that house was built less than a hundred years before the annexation. And did you ever know a pilgrimage spot that wasn’t surrounded by at least a town?”
“One or two, actually,” I replied. “Though generally not temples with priests that needed supporting. It’s possible this one didn’t have a resident priesthood.” The district magistrate gestured acceptance of my point. “Let me be frank, Magistrate. It’s you who are under pressure here.”
Anaander Mianaai had given me her house name, when she had declared me human, and a citizen. It was a name that said I belonged to the most powerful family in Radch space, a name no Radchaai could ignore. Because of what I was—the last remnant of a military ship that for some two thousand years had been intimately acquainted with the daughters of quite a few of the wealthiest, most prominent of Radchaai houses—I had, when I wished, the accent and the manners to match. I might as well use them.
“You’ve long been friends with most of the prominent tea growers,” I said, “but it’s become clear that the demands of the fieldworkers are just and it is—or it should be—a personal embarrassment to you that it took an attempted murder and a work stoppage for you to notice what was happening. You will be even more embarrassed when you’ve interrogated Citizen Raughd. You haven’t yet, have you.” Out in the courtyard, Translator Zeiat folded over one of the wide, round lily pads to look at its underside.
“I was h
oping,” replied the magistrate, unable to keep her anger entirely out of her voice, “that she and her mother might be reconciled first.”
“Citizen Fosyf will only take her daughter back if it seems advantageous to herself. If you’re truly interested in Citizen Raughd’s welfare, interrogate her before you make any further attempts to reunite her with her mother.”
“You’re interested in Raughd’s welfare?”
“Not particularly,” I admitted. “Not on a personal level. But you clearly are. And I am interested in the welfare of Citizen Queter. The sooner you discover for yourself what sort of person Raughd is, the better basis you’ll have for judging Queter’s actions. And the better basis for deciding if sending Raughd back to her mother is really going to be good for her. Consider how easily, how coldly, Fosyf disowned her, and consider that people like Raughd don’t spring from nowhere.”
The magistrate frowned. “You’re so sure you know what sort of person she is.”
“You can easily discover for yourself if I’m right. And as for my intervening in the dispute between the workers and the growers—I won’t. Instead I’ll advise you to meet with the tea growers and the leaders of the fieldworkers without delay and settle this matter in the way you know it must be settled. Then set up a committee to investigate the history of the temple on the lake and ways to resolve the dispute surrounding it. Be sure everyone with an interest in the matter is represented. Concerned citizens may direct their complaints to the committee, who can take them into consideration during their deliberations.” The district magistrate frowned again, opened her mouth to protest. Closed her mouth. “Anaander Mianaai is at war with herself,” I continued. “That war may reach Athoek, or it may not. Either way, because at least one of the intersystem gates between us and the provincial palace is down, we can’t expect any help or advice from them. We must see to the safety of the citizens here ourselves. All the citizens here, not just the ones with the right accents, or the proper religious beliefs. And we have, for whatever reason, the attention of the Presger.”