The Tea Master and the Detective

by Aliette de Bodard

  “Problem? Nothing unexpected.” Long Chau knelt by the corpse’s side. Her own bots crawled out of her sleeves, legs clicking on the floor before they connected with frozen flesh. She slipped on thin gloves, snapping them onto her long and elegant fingers in a seamless gesture. Her face set again. Her movements became languid and slow again as she lifted one hand, then the other; and then bent over the mottled, loose skin of the face. With the same slow deliberateness she touched the filaments of shadow skin; gathering them in a dark fistful, she examined them with the attention of a scholar piecing together a lost book.

  When Long Chau looked up again, her face was utterly expressionless. “Exactly what I thought. That corpse wasn’t aboard the ship.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m not sure, but—”

  Long Chau stretched, slowly, lazily. “Be sure. Given the state of decomposition, the shadow skin held for at least a few days, providing her corpse with air. More, I think. Five years ago, shadow skins were in their infancy, so this means this particular shadow skin would have been unusually efficient, and expensive.”

  That wasn’t the only explanation. “She could have bought that shadow skin herself.”

  “A woman with nails this short and this damaged? Not unless she’d recently become wealthy and invested in one. And she could afford travel aboard a mindship. Possible but very unlikely,” Long Chau said. She didn’t look at the corpse again—everything she recited, she obviously did from memory, her tone taking on the sharp cadences of a school master. “She didn’t have rejuv treatments. You can see it on the skin. Rejuved skin clings to bones, even after bloating. She was in manual labour. Her wrists bear the repetitive strain of controlling bots with her hands, which means she couldn’t afford implants, or was in an occupation where hands were more convenient. Mining, or possibly orbital maintenance—the fields there tend to interfere with implant technology. No one in those fields makes money, or remains in them.”

  All compelling arguments, but surely there had to be a flaw in them. “She might have been doing this out of passion.”

  Long Chau snorted. “Shortening your life for menial, ill-considered and ill-paid work? Possible, but improbable.”

  “So what?”

  “So she wasn’t on board the ship. I’d say she died a year ago, perhaps? At most. I don’t have enough samples of corpses in deep spaces to compare. That was supposed to be the point of this expedition.” She sounded annoyed again, as if the corpse had personally offended her.

  “What did she die of?” The conversation was now flowing effortlessly; and The Shadow’s Child was more curious than she’d have liked to admit.

  “I don’t know,” Long Chau said. “It was a long way away from here—the currents of unreality carried her a long way: you can see it in the way the shadow skin got shredded. And I could speculate, but it’s an unhealthy pastime. We need certainty, not smokescreens.”

  “How—” The Shadow’s Child started, stopped. “How did you know? She was too far away. You can’t have seen it.”

  “She stood out,” Long Chau said. “It was obvious, and would have been to you as well—but you let emotion get in the way of simple observation.”

  “Emotion?” The Shadow’s Child breathed, feeling her heartroom constrict around her. She wouldn’t achieve anything if she got angry.

  “You felt sorry for the mindship.”

  “Don’t cheapen it.”

  “I’m not. There is a time and place for everything, and this was neither,” Long Chau said, curtly. A pause, then, in a different tone: “I was right.”

  “In general?” The Shadow’s Child didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  Long Chau shook her head. “You are very good at what you do.” She turned away from the body, as if closing a door in a mental space somewhere. “I can think almost as well as if I were on-habitat.”

  Almost better, in fact, if The Shadow’s Child had to guess. Her current activity map, all lit up, was certainly suggestive. “Thank you.” She tried very hard to make it sound sincere, even though she didn’t want to be polite, or kind, to Long Chau—not after what she’d done. “What now? We should contact the magistrate—”

  “Of course,” Long Chau said. “I wouldn’t dream of obstructing the Empire’s justice.” Something in the way she moved, in the way she stood, caught The Shadow Child’s attention. Her profile was the lean and sharp one of a tiger on the prowl suddenly sighting prey. “But I’d like to make a few inquiries of my own in parallel.”

  “Inquiries?”

  “You never did ask me what I did for a living.”

  “Because it was hardly relevant!”

  She’d expected a quick, amused glance upwards, but Long Chau didn’t even blink. “I’m a consulting detective.”

  “A what?”

  “An adviser,” Long Chau said. “A solver of people’s problems, especially when such problems involve lawsuits and magistrates.”

  A consulting detective. So many thoughts pressed themselves in The Shadow’s Child that she was hard-pressed to pick one. “You really think you can do better than the magistrate to find out how that woman died?”

  “I know I can.” It’d have been unbelievably conceited, but Long Chau’s voice was completely emotionless: it was a statement of fact, and not even one she took particular pride in. “Even if I weren’t smarter than the magistrate, the tribunal is overwhelmed and understaffed, and unlikely to expend much energy trying to solve a nameless woman’s death.”

  “I don’t understand why you would bother,” The Shadow’s Child said. “No one is going to pay you anything for this.”

  This time Long Chau did smile, and it seemed to illuminate her entire face. “Why? Because I can.”

  * * *

  They dropped off the body to the magistrate’s tribunal—rundown and overflowing with clerks so harried they gave them a cursory interview, promising them to be in touch and obviously lying about it. It all proved Long Chau—infuriatingly—right again. She wasn’t smug about it. Fortunately, or it’d have crossed the line from annoying to unbearable once again.

  When The Shadow’s Child got back to her small office, she saw that Long Chau had paid her for the blend. She hadn’t expected Long Chau to be that fast, but she wasn’t about to complain. She put the money aside in her account, earmarking it for the rent; and, after a brief hesitation, granted Bao viewing access to the transaction. It wasn’t enough to cover the rent, but it was a good enough sum: it should reassure Bao and the Western Pavilion Le that The Shadow’s Child’s business was broadly profitable.

  Then she settled down to research. Not the corpse or its history—as, no doubt, Long Chau was doing. She had little doubt Long Chau would be back; and she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do, if that happened.

  One thing she did know. She didn’t intend to be defenceless. If Long Chau could effortlessly pry into her past, then The Shadow’s Child could pry into hers.

  It was much harder.

  Her name was a style name, that much was certain—except that it appeared to be used, insofar as The Shadow’s Child could determine, only for treatises on utterly obscure subjects, ranging from the evolution of bruises in the vacuum to the effects of certain substances on creativity. The face itself, run through the hours of recordings on the habitats, didn’t appear to evoke anything unusual, except that Long Chau, as expected, didn’t have much of a social life: no sightings in poetry clubs or tea houses. Her compartment was in the same habitat as The Shadow’s Child, but not as well placed, the network there sluggish. Her bots were the older kind: slow, and requiring a lot of attention to be commanded.

  On her past, there was nothing. Long Chau had sprung into activity six years ago, shortly after the uprising. But before that, nothing. Her accent and demeanour were those of scholars—not only that, but of one used to power. Most likely? A missing scion of an Inner Habitat family, playing at poverty while still supported by her family’s money.

&nb
sp; All the checks on that came back negative. There were a handful of rebel children from the Inner Habitats, but all much younger than Long Chau. A minor scion from a numbered planet, closer to the centre of the Empire? She wasn’t nearly high-handed enough for that.

  Consulting detective.

  The Shadow’s Child would have dug deeper—never minding that her time would have been better spent trying to gain customers rather than pointlessly obsessing about one. Her only obligation was in a few days: a dinner with two of her relatives, Dieu and An Giang—faraway descendants of Mother who always had hilarious anecdotes about their times in the ministries of the Scattered Pearls belt. But Sharpening Steel into Needles intervened.

  In the small shipmind community, Sharpening Steel into Needles was a living legend. They were one of the eldest ships in the Scattered Pearls belt, who remembered a time when the Empire had been so small the planets didn’t need to be numbered or classified. And they knew exactly what they wanted, and didn’t let anyone’s objections stand in their way for long.

  “You can’t remain cooped up in this office for long,” Sharpening Steel into Needles said. “Come, let’s have a tea together.”

  The Shadow’s Child put up a brave but doomed front. “I’m not really here. I’m in space.”

  “That’s a trivial part of you. The majority of your processing powers are in the habitat,” they said.

  To her surprise, Sharpening Steel into Needles took her, not to a teahouse, but to their own compartment: a riot of colours and display cabinets filled with fine porcelain. Their own hobby was collecting rare pieces, and several of the bowls were exact replicas of ones used in ceremonials at the Imperial Court, made in the exact same workshops. The cabinets were interspersed with holos of space: the overlay Sharpening Steel into Needles reserved for other shipminds, though The Shadow’s Child had a suspicion the other ship had removed all the vids and paintings involving deep spaces. She’d have been embarrassed at needing to be taken care of, but just the thought of deep spaces was enough to make her core clench.

  On the low table was an overlay of various dishes from caramel pork to noodle soup, and green tea the colour of verdigris. None of it was real, and neither of them ate, per se, but food for them was memories—of feasts and places and people, accumulated and refined through the centuries of their lives.

  The Shadow’s Child picked at the caramel pork. For a brief moment she was a child again, watching fireworks go off in the habitat, and she fell asleep curled up in Mother’s lap. And then the memory passed, and she was an adult again, her human parents since long ashes.

  “You’ve been making inquiries,” Sharpening Steel into Needles said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  A pause, then, “You’re angry.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Don’t be unreasonable, child.” Sharpening Steel into Needles sounded amused. “That one annoys everyone.”

  “Long Chau? You know her?”

  “Not I, no. But a few of the younger shipminds. None of them in your—ah. Line of work.”

  They disapproved, though of course they would never put it in so many words: they thought shipminds should serve the Empire and not seek to profit.

  As if there was much profit in brewing blends for humans.

  The Shadow’s Child thought for a while, trying to keep her feelings leashed. “These other ships—”

  “Yes?”

  “Do they know who she is?”

  Sharpening Steel into Needles shifted closer. Their avatar was small and perfectly formed, hovering over the table—the sharp, flowing designs of the Empire centuries ago. “They were referred to her by an agency. She has quite a reputation by now.”

  “But no life—”

  “Before the uprising? No. Why do you want to know? Surely your business with her is finished.”

  “We—we found a body,” The Shadow’s Child said. “A woman who died in deep spaces.”

  “And you have some sympathy. That’s understandable.”

  “She has none.” And then she realised what she’d said and fell silent, horrified. Because it wasn’t true. True, Long Chau had never shown any emotion. But she’d never called the corpse “it”, always “she”. And of course she might think the death an abstract problem to be solved, but she was looking into it, all the same. And—before she’d started dissecting The Shadow’s Child’s past, she’d been trying, however awkwardly, to show consideration, to check that The Shadow’s Child was doing fine in deep spaces. “I don’t know what to think of her.”

  “She fascinates you?”

  The Shadow’s Child wanted to say no, but it would have been a lie. Long Chau was an expanding star, burning loud and bright, mesmerising in her relentlessness, and ultimately one that would swallow you whole.

  Sharpening Steel into Needles was very still, watchful. Their bots were perched on the porcelain bowls in the display cases, all sensors turned towards The Shadow’s Child. Sharpening Steel into Needles was going to take that opportunity for a tongue-lashing rebuke, words that had reduced other ships to weeping. But when they spoke, their voice was slow, thoughtful. “She’s not an outsider to the belt. In every interaction she had with other ships, she was very cognisant of families and customs that most outsiders never grasp.”

  “She’s a fast learner,” The Shadow’s Child said.

  “Not that fast. Don’t make the mistake of granting her magical powers.” A pause, then, “Pomegranates Buried in Sand thinks—and I’m inclined to agree—that she’s too familiar with the tribunal.”

  “Surely, as a detective—”

  “Not that kind of familiarity,” they said. “She was arrested, at some point. I’ve seen the other ships’ vids of her. The scans show scars on both her arms, in a pattern that’s characteristic of militia bots.”

  So not only arrested, but interrogated under mind-probe drugs. “Is that the reason—”

  “That she keeps drugging herself? You’d have to ask her.”

  She’d almost have felt sorry for Long Chau, if she didn’t remember the casual arrogance and high-handedness with which she’d acted throughout.

  “What will you do, if you find out who she is?” Sharpening Steel into Needles asked.

  She’d never quite stopped to consider. Would she really throw Long Chau’s past at her, with the same casual lack of consideration? “I—” she started, then stopped. “She’ll be back.”

  “Of course. She attacks problems the same way crocodiles attack prey, with relentless abandon. Giving up would be physically painful.” They sounded amused again.

  The Shadow’s Child reached for rice. She inhaled the fragrance, thinking of a kitchen filled with the laughter of children. “I don’t know what I’ll do. I just—”

  “Need to know?” A silence. Then, “Control. It’s a currency you’ve always been short of.”

  “Don’t.” She’d see them again, if Sharpening Steel into Needles insisted—all of her living and her dead, Captain Vinh and Lieutenant Hanh and all the ones who’d thought they knew better than her, that a ship didn’t need to know the larger picture—that had led her, inescapably, into the ambush—and from there to hang, wounded and broken, in the deepest places, where time kept stretching and snapping, like claws drawn again and again against her hull. “Please don’t.”

  This time, there was pity in their voice. “I won’t.”

  * * *

  The Shadow’s Child was in the middle of a tricky assessment on an Outer Habitats bots-handler when Long Chau walked into her office.

  “We need to talk,” she said. “When convenient.”

  The Shadow’s Child pointedly didn’t move. “It’s not.”

  “We need to talk all the same.” Long Chau lounged against the wall with the ease of someone who owned the compartment. Bots hung on the back of her hands—gilded and ornate like jewels, the needles on the tips of their bodies almost invisible. As The Shadow’s Child watched, they withdrew, l
eaving beads of blood pearling on Long Chau’s dark skin.

  “Elder aunt—” the bots-handler was looking nervous, and the activity maps were starting to bleed into stress. Useless.

  “Come back later, please?” The Shadow’s Child asked. “I’m sorry, but I have to deal with this.”

  After her customer was gone, the room reverted to its neutral configuration: not her office with its tasteful decoration of modern paintings of starscapes, and statues of ships and bots. It was now a grey and white space with the polished sheen of metal, and the number and habitat reference of the compartment inscribed on every wall. The only ornaments were her physical bookshelves, crammed full of works Long Chau would no doubt disapprove of.

  Long Chau had driven the bots-handler away. Wasted time, a process of mapping The Shadow’s Child would have to start from scratch again; wasted money, because the bots’ needles would need to be sterilised again. She didn’t have money to waste. Or time. “If you want to see me, make an appointment.”

  “It seemed inefficient. And inappropriate. I’m not here to get a blend. Though I will of course pay you for your time. I wouldn’t want to cheat you of your living.” A pause, then a look that was no longer nonchalant, but as piercing as a spear’s point. “Unless you would deem that offer offensive.”

  “I don’t,” The Shadow’s Child said, less sharply than she’d meant to. Long Chau’s payment had been good, but Bao was right: at the rate things were going she’d default on the rent next time it was due. Long Chau seemed to alternate between flashes of singular consideration, and complete disregard of others’ feelings. “I don’t do misplaced pride.”

  A pause again; as if Long Chau meant to say something and hadn’t. “Fair enough. Anyway, I thought you’d be interested in knowing more as soon as I had it. It’s not every day you find a corpse.”

  Not insofar as she was concerned, for sure. A nudge on The Shadow’s Child’s implants: an authorisation access limited to sharing data. She hesitated—she didn’t like to grant access since she often forgot to revoke it—but accepted. A portrait of a woman—an old-fashioned one in a watercolour style, obviously bots-drawn—the sweeps of colours were too clean, too regular—shimmered on visual. The resemblance was obvious. “Your corpse?”