“Awn never knelt.” Basnaaid seemed not to notice the strangeness of Lieutenant Tisarwat’s words or demeanor, so much older than her apparent age. Had become accustomed to it, perhaps, over the past few days. “She never would have. If she made friends like that, it was because of who she was.”
“Yes,” said Tisarwat, simple agreement. “The fleet captain has said so.” Basnaaid didn’t answer this, and the conversation turned to other things.
Three days before we were to leave, Captain Hetnys finally broached the topic of the daughter of the house. We sat under the arbor, the doors of the house wide open behind us. Fosyf was attending something at the manufactory, and Raughd of course was away at the field workers’ house. Sirix had gone down to a shady section of the lakeshore, she said to watch for fish but I suspected she just wanted to be by herself, without even Eight hovering behind her. There was only Captain Hetnys and myself, and Sword of Atagaris’s ancillary, and Kalr Five nearby. We sat looking out at the shaded stretch of mossy stone, the ridge, and the black, ice-streaked peaks beyond. The main building was off to the left, the bath ahead, where it was in easy reach of the main house but would not obscure the scenery, one end of its glass wall curving into view. Despite the brightness of the afternoon, the air under the trees and the arbor was damp and cool.
“Sir,” said Captain Hetnys. “Permission to speak frankly.”
I gestured my assent. In all the time we’d been here, Captain Hetnys had not once mentioned what had brought us here, though she had daily put on the mourning stripe and said the required prayers.
“Sir, I’ve been thinking about what happened in the Undergarden. I still think I was right to give the orders I did. It went wrong, and I take responsibility for that.” Her words were in themselves defiant, but her tone was deferential.
“Do you, Captain?” One of the household groundcars came over the ridge, along the road. Either Fosyf returning from the manufactory, or Raughd from the field workers’ house. That situation could not stay as it was, but I hadn’t managed to come up with a solution. Perhaps there was none.
“I do, sir. But I was wrong to have Citizen Sirix arrested. I was wrong to assume that she must have done it, if Raughd was the only other choice.”
The sort of thing I had always liked, in an officer. The willingness to admit she was in the wrong, when she realized it. The willingness to insist she was in the right, when she was sure of it, even when it might be safer not to. She watched me, serious, slightly frightened of my reaction, I thought. Slightly challenging. But only slightly. No Radchaai officer openly defied her superior, not if she wasn’t suicidal. I thought of that priceless antique tea set. Its sale was almost certainly meant to cover illegal profits. Thought of the implausible death rates of transportees to this system. Wondered, for just a moment, how these two things could coexist in Captain Hetnys, this courage and integrity alongside the willingness to sell away lives for a profit. Wondered what sort of officer she would be if I had had the raising of her from a baby lieutenant. Possibly the same as she was now. Possibly not. Possibly she would be dead now, vaporized with the rest of my crew when Anaander Mianaai had breached my heat shield some twenty years ago.
Or perhaps not. If it had been Lieutenant Hetnys commanding me in Ors, on Shis’urna, and not Lieutenant Awn, perhaps I would still be myself, still Justice of Toren, and my crew would still be alive.
“I know, sir,” said Captain Hetnys, emboldened further, perhaps, by my not having answered, “that prominent as this house is here at Athoek, they must seem like nothing to you. From such a great distance, Raughd Denche looks very little different from Sirix Odela.”
“On the contrary,” I replied evenly. “I see a great difference between Raughd Denche and Sirix Odela.” As I spoke, Raughd strolled out of the main building, on her way to the bathhouse, all studied unconcern.
“I mean to say, sir, that from the great elevation of Mianaai, Denche must appear as no different than other servants. And I know it’s always said that we each have our role, our given task, and none of them is any better or worse than another, just different.” I had heard it said many times myself. Strange, how equally important, just different always seemed to translate into some “equally important” roles being more worthy of respect and reward than others. “But,” Captain Hetnys continued, “we don’t all have your perspective. And I imagine…” The briefest of hesitations. “I imagine if ever your cousins committed some youthful foolishness or indiscretion, they were not treated much differently than Raughd Denche. And that is as it is, sir.” She lifted her green-gloved hands, the vague suggestion of pious supplication. All that was, was Amaat. The universe was God itself, and nothing could happen or exist that God did not will. “But perhaps you can understand why everyone here might see the daughter of this house in that light, or why she herself might think herself equal to even a fleet captain, and a cousin of the Lord of the Radch.”
Almost. Almost she might have understood. “You see Raughd, I think, as a nice, well-bred young person who has somehow, in the past few weeks, made some inexplicably unfortunate choices. That I am perhaps being too harsh on someone who does not live under the military discipline you or I have been accustomed to. Perhaps the daughter of the house has even spoken to you of enemies of hers who have whispered accusations into my ear, and prejudiced me against her unfairly.” A brief change of expression flashed across Captain Hetnys’s face, nearly a plain admission I was right. “But consider those unfortunate choices. They were, from the beginning, meant to harm. Meant to harm residents of the Undergarden. Meant, Captain, to harm you. To harm the entire station. She could not have anticipated the death of Translator Dlique, but surely she knew your ancillaries went armed, and knew how uneasy you were about the Undergarden.” Captain Hetnys was silent, looking down at her lap, hands empty, her bowl of tea cooling on the bench beside her. “Nice, well-bred people do not just suddenly act maliciously for no reason.”
This would clearly go nowhere. And I had other things I wanted to know. I had spent some time considering how someone could remove transportees from the system without anyone knowing. “The Ghost Gate,” I said.
“Sir?” She looked, I thought, not quite as relieved at the change of topic as she might have.
“The dead-end gate. You never met another ship there?”
Was that hesitation? A change of expression, gone from her face before it could be read? Surprise? Fear? “No, sir, never.”
A lie. I wanted to look toward Sword of Atagaris, standing stiff and silent beside Kalr Five. But I would never catch, from an ancillary, any subtle reaction to its captain’s lie. And the glance itself would betray my thoughts. That I recognized the lie for what it was. Instead I looked over toward the bathhouse. Raughd Denche came striding out, back the way she’d come, a grim set to her expression that boded ill for any servant who might come across her path. I almost looked around to see where her personal attendant was, and realized, with surprise, that she hadn’t followed Raughd into the bathhouse.
Captain Hetnys also noticed Raughd. She blinked, and frowned, and then shook her head slightly, dismissal, I thought. Of Raughd’s obvious anger, or of me, I couldn’t tell. “Fleet Captain,” she said, glancing toward the bathhouse, “with your indulgent permission. It’s very warm today.”