You take a deep breath and get up, going to the entrance of the apartment. The comm is quiet, as far as you can tell. Some people are going about their usual business, but there are fewer of them around than usual. The ones following routine are no proof of peace; people went about their business in Tirimo, too, right before they tried to kill you.
Tonkee didn’t come home again last night, but this time you’re not so sure that she’s with Hjarka or up in the green room. There is a catalyst alive in Castrima now, accelerating unseen chemical reactions, facilitating unexpected outcomes. Join us and live, the gray one had told them, but not with your roggas.
Will the people of Castrima stop to think that no Equatorial comm really wants a sudden influx of mongrel Midlatters, and at best will make slaves or meat of them? Your mothering instinct is alive with warning. Look after your own, it whispers in the back of your mind. Gather them close and guard them well. You know what happens when you turn your back for even a minute.
You shoulder the runny-sack that’s still in your hand. Keeping it with you isn’t even a question at this point. Then you turn to Hoa. “Come with me.”
Hoa’s suddenly smiling again. “I don’t walk anymore, Essun.”
Oh. Right. “I’m going to Ykka’s, then. Meet me there.”
He does not nod, simply vanishes. No wasted movement. Eh, you’ll get used to it.
People don’t look at you as you cross the bridges and walkways of the comm. The center of your back itches from their stares as you pass. You cannot help thinking of Tirimo again.
Ykka’s not in her apartment. You look around, follow the patterns of movement in the comm with your eyes, and finally head toward the Flat Top. She cannot still be there. You’ve gone home, watched a child turn into a stone eater, slept several hours. She can’t be.
She is. You see that only a few people are still on the Flat Top now—a gaggle of maybe twenty, sitting or pacing, looking angry and exasperated and troubled. For the twenty you see, there are surely another hundred gathering in apartments and the baths and the storage rooms, having the same conversation in hushed tones with small groups. But Ykka is here, sitting on one of the divans that someone has brought from her apartment, still talking. She’s hoarse, you realize as you draw close. Visibly exhausted. But still talking. Something about supply lines from one of the southern allied comms, which she’s directing at a man who is walking in circles with his arms folded, scoffing at everything she says. It’s fear; he’s not listening. Ykka’s trying to reason with him anyway. It’s ridiculous.
Look after your own.
You step around people—some of whom flinch away from you—and stop beside her. “I need to talk to you in private.”
Ykka stops midsentence and blinks up at you. Her eyes are red and sticky-dry. She hasn’t had any water for a while. “What about?”
“It’s important.” As a sop to courtesy you nod to the people sitting around her. “Sorry.”
She sighs and rubs her eyes, which just makes them redder. “Fine.” She gets up, then pauses to face the remaining people. “Vote’s tomorrow morning. If I haven’t convinced you… well. You know what to do, then.”
They watch in silence as you lead her away.
Back in her apartment, you pull the front curtain shut and open the one that leads into her private rooms. Not much to this space to indicate her status: She’s got two pallets and a lot of pillows, but her clothes are just in a basket, and the books and scrolls on one side of the room are just stacked on the floor. No bookcases, no dresser. The food from her comm share is stacked haphazardly against one wall, beside a familiar gourd that the Castrimans tend to use for storing drinking water. You snag the gourd with your elbow and pick from the food pile a dried orange, a stick of dry bean curd that Ykka’s been soaking with some mushrooms in a shallow pan, and a small slab of salt fish. It’s not exactly a meal, but it’s nutrition. “On the bed,” you say, gesturing with your chin and bringing the food to her. You hand her the gourd first.
Ykka, who has observed all this in increasing irritation, snaps, “You’re not my type. Is this why you dragged me here?”
“Not exactly. But while you’re here, you need to rest.” She looks mutinous. “You can’t convince anyone of anything—” Let alone people whose hate can’t be reasoned with. “—if you’re too exhausted to think straight.”
She grumbles, but it is a measure of how tired she is that she actually goes to the bed and sits down on its edge. You nod at the gourd, and she dutifully drinks—three quick swallows and down for now, as the lorists advise after dehydration. “I stink. I need a bath.”
“Should’ve thought of that before you decided to try to talk down a brewing lynch mob.” You take the gourd and push the dish of food into her hand. She sighs and starts grimly chewing.
“They’re not going to—” She doesn’t get far into that lie, though, before she flinches and stares at something beyond you. You know before you turn: Hoa. “Okay, no, not in my rusting room.”
“I told him to meet us here,” you say. “It’s Hoa.”
“You told—it’s—” Ykka swallows hard, stares a moment longer, then finally resumes eating the orange. She chews slowly, her gaze never leaving Hoa. “Got tired of playing the human, then? Not sure why you bothered; you were too weird to pass.”
You go over to the wall near the bedroom door and sit down against it, on the floor. The runny-sack has to come off for this, but you make sure to keep it near to hand. To Ykka you say, “You’ve talked to the other members of your council and half your comm, still and rogga and native and newcomer. The perspective you’re missing is theirs.” You nod at Hoa.
Ykka blinks, then eyes Hoa with new interest. “I did ask you to sit on my council once.”
“I can’t speak for my kind any more than you can for yours,” Hoa says. “And I had more important things to do.”
You see Ykka blink at his voice and blatantly stare at him. You wave a hand at Hoa wearily. Unlike Ykka, you’ve slept, but it wasn’t exactly quality sleep, while you sat in a sweltering apartment waiting for a geode to hatch. “Speaking what you know will help.” And then, prompted by some instinct, you add, “Please.”
Because somehow, you think he’s reticent. His expression hasn’t changed. His posture is the one he showed you last, the young man in repose with one hand upraised; he’s changed his location, but not his position. Still.
The proof of his reticence comes when he says, “Very well.” It’s all in the tone. But fine, you can work with reticent.
“What does the gray stone eater want?” Because you’re pretty rusting sure he doesn’t really want Castrima to join some Equatorial comm. Human nation-state politics just wouldn’t mean much to them, unless it was in service to some other goal. The people of Rennanis are his pawns, not the other way around.
“There are many of us now,” Hoa replies. “Enough to be called a people in ourselves and not merely a mistake.”
At this apparent non sequitur, you exchange a look with Ykka, who looks back at you as if to say, He’s your mess, not mine. Maybe it’s relevant somehow. “Yes?” you prompt.
“There are those of my kind who believe this world can safely bear only one people.”