“Ambassador,” Ten Pearl said. “Congratulations on your investiture.”
Mahit bowed over her fingertips. “Much appreciated,” she said, a full level of formality lower than she ought to have kept to at court. But she’d planned to play the wide-eyed foreigner at this meeting and she was going to go through with it, even if she was still buzzing with imago-induced neurochemicals—the oxytocin rush from meeting the Emperor, the echo of Yskandr’s conversation with this man fifteen years ago. The subway. The City as a mind, an algorithm that watched where everyone was, and ran seamlessly in response.
“I’m terribly sorry for the unfortunate incident that befell your predecessor,” Ten Pearl went on. “I feel personally responsible; I ought to have inquired after his biological sensitivities.”
His biological sensitivities! What a way to phrase it. Mahit hoped fervently she was not about to dissolve into hysterical giggling; it would wreck the play for the newsfeeds. “I’m sure there was nothing you could have done about it,” she said, managing to stay straight-faced. “Lsel Station bears no enmity toward the Science Ministry, of course.” Even a barbarian would know enmity; it was a rote diplomatic phrase. It was what you had before you started a war.
“You’re quite understanding,” Ten Pearl said. “A credit to your government. They’ve certainly made a solid choice with you.”
“I hope so,” Mahit said. Fawning, wide-eyed, a credulous provincial. Not a political threat. Not at all, not even with how the Emperor had greeted her. Of course it wouldn’t hold up for long—Ten Pearl was the only one she was playing this particular game with—but this was the game for the newsfeeds, and it might give her some cover. A few days. A week, before someone tried to kill her like they’d killed Yskandr, who had clearly been quite dangerous.
She hadn’t really thought of it like that before. That she was buying time.
It knocked the remains of the neurochemical high right back down to baseline.
“Ambassador Aghavn did not leave very many notes,” she went on, shrugging as if to say what can be done about the errors of the dead, “but I would of course like to continue to explore whatever projects he was working on with the Science Ministry.” A quick breath, and then she let her face fall into the pattern of Yskandr’s expressions, the familiar-unfamiliar stretch of wider muscles, deeper-set eyes, and said: “Automated systems—without error and without conflict—such algorithms have certainly persisted.”
Ten Pearl looked at her a fraction too long—had she been too obvious, leaving bait for a more private meeting than this? Using what Yskandr had said, so long ago—but it had felt correct—and then Ten Pearl nodded, saying, “Perhaps we can resurrect a little of what Ambassador Aghavn wanted to achieve, between the two of us—he was so interested in our automated systems, and how they might be applied on your station. I’m sure you are as well. Have your liaison arrange a time and place. I’m sure we can fit you in sometime this week.”
Resurrect was a terrible choice of word. “Of course,” Mahit said. She bowed again. “I hope for many future accomplishments for both of us.”
“Naturally you do,” said Ten Pearl. He stepped closer, a fraction past the norms of Teixcalaanli personal space, into that precise zone of closeness that Mahit was most comfortable with: how friends stood on Lsel, where there wasn’t enough space to be standoffish. “Do be careful, Ambassador,” he said.
“Of what?” Mahit asked. She wouldn’t break the illusion of incompetence.
“You’re already attracting a thousand eyes, just like Aghavn did.” Ten Pearl’s smile was perfectly Teixcalaanli, mostly in the cheeks and in a widening of the eyes, but Mahit could tell it was a show regardless. “Look around. And think of the eyes of that automated system you and your predecessor so admire.”
“Oh,” said Mahit. “Well. We are in front of the imperial throne.”
“Ambassador,” said Three Seagrass, materializing at Mahit’s side, “I recall you wanted to watch the oration contest. It is about to begin. Perhaps Minister Ten Pearl would also like to hear the newest compositions from our court’s poets?”
She’d spoken very slowly and clearly, as if she didn’t know that Mahit could understand Teixcalaanli at full speed. Mahit could have picked her up and spun her around in gratitude for understanding and participating, without instruction. Was this how she’d been supposed to feel all this time, if Yskandr had remained with her? How an imago should make their successor feeclass="underline" two people accomplishing one goal, without needing to consult. Perfect synchronicity.
“I wouldn’t want to distract the Ambassador,” said Ten Pearl. “Go on.” He waved a hand at where Nine Maize and a cluster of other courtiers had begun to assemble, off to the left of the dais. Mahit expressed her gratitude to him again—tripped deliberately over the pronunciation of the most formal thanks, even though she knew she was pushing her luck, but it was so satisfying to see him try to figure out if she was lying. And how she was lying.
When she and Three Seagrass were safely out of his earshot, she leaned down and murmured, “I thought that went well.”
“I thought you said you needed to sit down and rest, not that you needed to play at uncivilization with the Science Minister,” Three Seagrass hissed, but her eyes were glittering-bright.
“Did you have fun?” Mahit said, realizing as she said it that she wasn’t as done with the neurochemical imago-effect as she’d thought—she still felt sparkling, giddily pleased. She hadn’t exactly felt that way during the conversation with Ten Pearl, but now, with Three Seagrass hanging on her arm—
“Yes, I had fun! Are you going to be like this all the time? He isn’t a fool, Mahit, he’ll have you figured out by the time I set up that meeting.”
“It’s not for him,” Mahit said. “It’s for the audience. The court and the newsfeeds.”
Three Seagrass shook her head. “No other job is ever going to be this interesting, is it?” she said. “I promised I’d get you a drink. Come on. They’re about to start.”
Somewhere in the middle of the second oration, an acrostic ode that simultaneously spelled out the name of the poet’s hypothetical lost beloved via the opening letters of each line and told a heart-wrenching story of his self-sacrifice to save his shipmates from a vacuum breach, Mahit had the sudden realization that she was standing in the Teixcalaanli court, hearing a Teixcalaanli poetry contest, while holding an alcoholic drink and accompanied by a witty Teixcalaanli friend.
Everything she had ever wanted when she was fifteen. Right here.
She thought it should probably have made her feel happy, instead of abruptly unreal. Disconnected—depersonalized. Like she was happening to someone else.