“She’s an asekreta?” the man asked. “You should wait. The Sunlit will be here soon—the City will call them. It’s better if they take care of you.”
Mahit wondered if by take care of he meant finish murdering. She supposed it didn’t matter. She wasn’t about to run. There wasn’t anywhere to run to. “Thank you for the water,” she said.
“Where are you from?”
Mahit choked on a noise that wanted to be a laugh. “Space,” she said. “A station.”
“Really,” said the man. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t worry. No one will think the bomb is your fault. This isn’t that kind of neighborhood.” He reached out to pat her on the forearm and she flinched away.
“Whose fault is it?” Mahit asked him.
She hadn’t expected him to answer. But he shrugged, and said, “Not everyone in the City loves the City,” and then stood up again, leaving her with the water bottle.
Not everyone in the City loves the City. Not everyone in the world loves the world, civilization is not coextensive with the known universe for someone, someone with a bomb who doesn’t care about civilian deaths …
The water dripped through her fingers and onto Three Seagrass’s mouth; it rolled down her cheek like Fifteen Engine’s blood had rolled down Mahit’s. Mahit couldn’t watch it. She handed the bottle back to its owner like she’d hand back a knife, handle-first, careful not to spill. Three Seagrass made a noise like a thin hum in the back of her throat, and Mahit decided it was a good sign: she wasn’t dead. She might not even die.
Surrounded by Teixcalaanlitzlim, Mahit felt nearly invisible. Not a one of them knew that she ought to have been more Yskandr, or what Yskandr might or might not have done. Not a one of them, unless one was the bomber—and there was nothing she could do about that, except to wait.
The Sunlit arrived like planetrise over the Station: slowly and then all at once, a distant intimation of gold shimmering through the occlusion of the City’s confining walls, which crept closer and closer before resolving into a platoon of imperial soldiers in gleaming body armor, a vision out of every Teixcalaanli epic Mahit had ever loved as a child and every dystopian Stationer novel about the horrors of the encroaching Empire. The wall which had shocked Three Seagrass came down for them, sinking back into the plaza seamlessly, and Mahit remembered the man with the water saying the City will call them.
Mahit got to her feet, Three Seagrass tucked under her arm and propped on her hip. Her head lolled back, semiconscious, against Mahit’s shoulder. Her hands came up to nearly press fingertip to fingertip, an automatic gesture that seemed to Mahit to be more instinctive or—if such a thing were possible—imago-supplied than something that originated in Three Seagrass’s own mind. Neurological puppetry.
The leader of the Sunlit returned that half-gestured greeting with perfect and unconcerned formality. Their face, like all the faces of the troop, was obscured by a cloudhook large enough to cover them from hairline to jaw, an opaque reflective gold shield. Mahit could make out no distinguishing features, which she suspected was the point.
“Are you Mahit Dzmare?” the Sunlit asked. Behind Mahit, the man who had given her water, and all of his companions, had vanished. Fleetingly she wondered if somehow they’d been responsible, and were now hiding from law enforcement. Not everyone in the City—
“Yes,” she said. “I am the Lsel Ambassador. My liaison is hurt and I would like to return to my chambers in the palace.”
If the Sunlit officer reacted, favorably or unfavorably, Mahit couldn’t tell. “On behalf of the Teixcalaanli Empire,” they said, “we regret the physical danger that you were subject to within our territory. We are sure you’ll be pleased to know that an investigation has begun into the origins and purposes of the explosive device.”
“Entirely,” Mahit said, “but I’d be more pleased with medical help and safe return to my diplomatic territory.”
The Sunlit went on as if Mahit hadn’t spoken. “For your own safety, Ambassador, we request that you come with us into the custody of the Six Outreaching Palms, where the Light-Emitting Starlike Emperor Six Direction’s yaotlek, One Lightning, and the Minister of War Nine Propulsion can provide you with adequate protection.”
The Six Outreaching Palms was the Teixcalaanli military establishment: fingers stretched out in every direction to grasp the known universe and reach its farthest edge. The name was mostly archaic; even Teixcalaanlitzlim talked about “the fleet” or named a particular regiment or division epitomized by the great deeds of its yaotlek, the supreme commander of a group of legions. That the Sunlit used it now made Mahit think she was being formally arrested; arrested with appropriate procedure applied. Arrested not just by the City and the Emperor, but by the Ministry of War.
Not arrested; taken into custody for her own protection.
And how different were these two descriptions? Not different enough, no matter who was arresting her.
She pulled the most formal modes of address out of the miserable culture-shocked sludge of her mind, and hoped she sounded vicious and in all of the control she wasn’t. “The custody of the esteemed yaotlek One Lightning is not Lsel diplomatic space. If I am in danger, I’m sure someone can be assigned to guard the door to my chambers.”
“We are no longer sure such measures are sufficient,” said the Sunlit, “considering the unfortunate accident which befell your predecessor. You’ll come with us.”
Mahit was almost sure that had been a threat. “Or?” she asked.
“You will come with us, Ambassador. Your liaison will be taken to a hospital to have her cloudhook adjusted after this regrettable interface with the City, of course. You shouldn’t worry.” The Sunlit took a step forward, and the rest of the troop followed, like an echo. There were ten of them, each indistinguishable from the others. Mahit stood her ground. She wished Three Seagrass was awake and coherent enough to maneuver them around this—to tell her if this One Lightning was a petty military bureaucrat or a political force, whether the Sunlit were usually in the employ of the Ministry of War or if they were making an exception for acts of terrorism in high-end restaurants.
She was spending so much time wishing her sources of information weren’t incapacitated. Wishing wasn’t helping. She didn’t know. She knew enough to be sure she didn’t want to be taken into custody. Knew enough about the Teixcalaanli military to know she couldn’t run. Knew enough about herself to know that she would have to abandon Three Seagrass if she tried and that she wasn’t willing to do that.
How else to stop them?
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to go with you,” she said, to buy time. Used the extra few seconds to remember her technical diplomatic vocabulary, the most official forms, and then prepared—feeling as if she was about to deliberately step outside an airlock without checking the oxygen volumes on her vacuum suit—to claim sanctuary. “I am compelled by prior agreement to keep my appointment with the ezuazuacat Nineteen Adze, whose gracious presence illuminates the room like the edgeshine of a knife, this afternoon. I believe that she would be exceptionally displeased if I instead attended a meeting with the most respected and admired One Lightning without first fulfilling my obligation to her. The tragic situation in the restaurant should not be allowed to disturb the functioning of your government and its negotiations with mine.”