Short Stories:

IMPERIAL RADCH

Ann Leckie

Copyright

“Night’s Slow Poison” copyright © 2012 by Ann Leckie.

Cover Copyright © 2014 Tory Hoke, "She Commands Me"

“She Commands Me and I Obey” Copyright © 2014 Ann Leckie

“Night's Slow Poison” available in http://www.tor.com/

“She Commands Me and I Obey” available in http://www.strangehorizons.com/

eBook version 1.0

Argonauta

Night’s Slow Poison

Tor.com is honored to reprint “Night’s Slow Poison,” a short story by Ann Leckie originally published in 2012 by Electric Velocipede. Ann Leckie’s debut novel Ancillary Justice (Orbit 2013) has taken the science fiction world by storm. So far it has won the Kitschies Golden Tentacle for best debut novel, the Arthur C. Clarke Award for best novel, the BSFA Award for Best Novel, and the Nebula Award for Best Novel. It is a finalist for the Hugo Award for Best Novel, which will be announced at Loncon 3 on August 17.

“Night’s Slow Poison” is from the same setting as Ancillary Justice, and tells a rich, claustrophobic story of a galactic voyage that forces one guardsman to confront his uneasy family history through the lens of a passenger with his lost lover’s eyes.

The Jewel of Athat was mainly a cargo ship, and most spaces were narrow and cramped. Like the Outer Station, where it was docked, it was austere, its decks and bulkheads scuffed and dingy with age. Inarakhat Kels, armed, and properly masked, had already turned away one passenger, and now he stood in the passageway that led from the station to the ship, awaiting the next.

The man approached, striding as though the confined space did not constrain him. He wore a kilt and embroidered blouse. His skin was light brown, his hair dark and straight, cut short. And his eyes… Inarakhat Kels felt abashed. He had thought that in his years of dealing with outsiders he had lost his squeamishness at looking strangers in the face.

The man glanced over his shoulder, and cocked an eyebrow. “She was angry.” The corners of his mouth twitched in a suppressed grin.

“One regrets.” Inarakhat Kels frowned behind his mask. “Who?”

“The woman in line before me. I take it you refused to let her board?”

“She carried undeclared communication implants.” Privately, Kels suspected her of being a spy for the Radchaai, but he did not say this. “One is, of course, most sorry for her inconvenience, but… ”

“I’m not,” the man interrupted. “She nearly ruined my supper last night insisting that I give up my seat, since she was certain she was of a higher caste than I.”

“Did you?”

“I did not,” said the man. “I am not from Xum, nor are we anywhere near it, so why should I bow to their customs? And then this morning she shoved herself in front of me as we waited outside.” He grinned fully. “I confess myself relieved at not having to spend six months with her as a fellow passenger.”

“Ah,” Kels said, his voice noncommittal. The grin, the angle of the man’s jaw—now he understood why the eyes had affected him. But he had no time for old memories. He consulted his list. “You are Awt Emnys, from the Gerentate.” The man acknowledged this. “Your reason for visiting Ghaon?”

“My grandmother was Ghaonish,” Awt Emnys said, eyes sober that had previously been amused. “I never knew her, and no one can tell me much about her. I hope to learn more in Athat.”

Whoever she was, she had been from the Ghem agnate, Kels was certain. His eyes, his mouth, the line of his chin… With just a little more information, Kels could tell Awt which house his grandmother had been born in. “One wishes you good fortune in your search, Honored Awt,” he said, with a small bow he could not suppress.

Awt Emnys smiled in return, and bowed respectfully. “I thank you, Honored,” he said. “I understand I must disable any communications implants.”

“If they are re-activated during the voyage, we will take any steps necessary to preserve the safety of the ship.”

Awt’s glanced at the gun at Kels’ waist. “Of course. But is it really so dangerous?”

“About three months in,” said Kels, in his blandest voice, “we will pass the last ship that attempted to traverse the Crawl with live communications. It will be visible from the passengers’ lounge.”

Awt grinned. “I have an abiding wish to die old, in my bed. Preferably after a long and boring life tracking warehouse inventories.”

Kels allowed himself a small smile. “One wishes you success,” he said, and stepped aside, pressing against the wall so that Awt could pass him. “Your belongings will be delivered to your cabin.”

“I thank you, Honored.” Awt brushed Kels as he passed, awakening some unfamiliar emotion in him.

“Good voyage,” Kels murmured to the other man’s back, but there was no sign Awt had heard.

Ghaon is a moonless blue and white jewel orbiting a yellow sun. Its three continents provide every sort of terrain, from the great deserts of southern Lysire, and the rivers and gentle farmlands of the north and west of that same continent, to the mountains of Aneng, still fitfully smoking. Arim, the third continent, is arctic and uninhabited. Aside from the sorts of industry and agriculture that support the population of any world, Ghaon produces pearls and ingeniously carved corals, which, when they find their way outside the Crawl, are highly valued. Flutes carved from the wood of Aneng’s western forests are prized by Gerentate musicians.

According to legend, the first inhabitants of Ghaon came from a world called Walkaway, the location of which is unknown. There were thirteen original settlers, three agnates of four people each plus one eunuch priest of Iraon. The three agnates parceled out the world among themselves: Lysire, Aneng, and the surface of the sea. The priest blessed the division, and each agnate prospered and filled the world.

The legend is only that, of course. It is impossible that thirteen people would possess the genetic diversity required to populate a planet, and in any case studies show that the first human inhabitants of Ghaon, whose descendants now populate Lysire and Aneng, derived largely from the same populations that eventually made up much of the Gerentate. The ancestors of the sea-going agnates arrived several thousand years later, and their origins are obscure.

In any case, the first colonists must have either known about the Crawl before they arrived, or constructed it themselves. The latter seems staggeringly unlikely.

Gerentate explorers found Ghaon some years after that entity’s expansionist phase had run itself out, and so the only threat they presented was a trickle of ill-bred, bare-faced tourists.

But the Radch was another matter. Every soul on Ghaon, from the smallest infant at the breast to the most ancient Lysire matriarch in her tent on the edge of the drylands, believed that the nefarious Anaander Mianaai, overlord of the Radch, had cast a covetous eye on Ghaon and contemplated how he might make it his own.

Fortunately enough, the ships and seemingly endless armies of the Radch, which had been the downfall of a thousand worlds and stations, could not traverse the Crawl. Only it stood between Ghaon and the Radchaai. Spies regularly probed this defense, the Ghaonish were certain, and the acquisitive minds of the Radchaai continually planned and plotted how best to breach it.

In vain did more sober minds point out that the worlds of the Gerentate were a larger and in some ways easier target, that the reward for defeating the Crawl was far outweighed by the difficulty of the task, that the sweeping ambition of the Radchaai could hardly notice this one, small, somewhat obscure world. The people of Ghaon knew these arguments were specious. The overlord of the Radch had set his mind on acquiring Ghaon—so its inhabitants believed.

Third watch was on duty, guarding the pilot’s station and pacing the corridors of the Jewel of Athat. First watch was asleep. Second watch had finished their supper, and the small table held cups of tea and the remains of the bread. Inarakhat Kels leaned forward, elbows on the table. Ninan and Tris, his fellows on second watch, leaned against the bulkhead.

“A spy!” said Ninan, trying not to sound jealous. “Well, we were about due for another one.” He leaned an elbow companionably on the table beside Kels’.

“How is it,” asked Tris, “that their attempts are so obvious, and yet the Radchaai are so rich and powerful?”

“They are naturally perverse.” Ninan picked up a teacup and peered at its contents.

“So one imagines,” said Kels. “In any case, Anaander Mianaai must find some other way to pass the Crawl.”

Tris grinned, teeth showing beneath the mask that covered his upper face. “And the others? What do we have to look forward to this time?”

“Chis Sulca,” said Kels. He leaned back, feeling crowded by Ninan. They knew the Ghaonish merchant from previous trips. “A few others.” He thought of Awt Emnys. “The usual sort. A tourist from Semblance.” Ninan and Tris each made derisive noises. “A Faunt clanswoman on her wander. A young man from the Gerentate.”

“Another tourist,” groaned Ninan.

“No!” said Tris, half-laughing. “I spoke to that one. He’s searching for his Ghaonish grandmother!”

Ninan laughed. “He’ll find some runaway or some whore was his ancestress, and to what end?”

“Whoever she was, her grandson has money and time to indulge his curiosity,” said Kels, stung.

Ninan shook his head in disapproval. “He expects to find some ancient, noble agnate, whose matriarch will acknowledge him as her cousin.”

Tris nodded. “He’ll hang an overpriced, tasteless mask on his wall and brag to his neighbors about his exotic and aristocratic blood.”

“What if his blood truly is aristocratic?” asked Kels, knowing what the other two did not know. The Ghem agnate was among the most ancient, most prestigious of families. He reached forward, poured himself more tea.

“It hardly matters,” said Ninan. “No agnate would be pleased to find a barefaced brute on the doorstep.”

Under the mask Kels’ eyes narrowed. “He can hardly be blamed for the customs of his people,” he said in his most even voice.

Ninan turned to regard him more closely. “No doubt.”

“It’s been a long day,” said Tris, conciliatory. “And Inarakhat has spent it dealing with passengers. But now we rest, at least until tomorrow.”

“And a dull tomorrow it will be,” said Ninan. “For which, thank Iraon.”

“Thank Iraon,” Tris and Kels echoed in agreement.

Ghem Echend was the most beautiful girl Inarakhat Kels had ever seen. Echend’s mouth was firm and full, her skin a warm dark brown. Her hands were square, and strong, and graceful, as were all her movements. She seemed to laugh even when she merely spoke. But her chief beauty was her eyes, wide and gray and luminous. She never took to the fashion for masks that obscured them. Indeed, she had skirted the outer edge of acceptability, preferring masks that exposed and emphasized her eyes as much as possible.

She had kissed him on a moss-covered hillside by the river. The summer stars had been thick and silver in the sky, no other lights but the city below, and the boats passing, colored lanterns hanging in their masts, red and blue and green and gold. She tasted of flowers. It seemed to him that his heart stopped, and everything bled away from his awareness but her. He lifted a hand to touch her cheek, hardly able to believe his daring. She kissed him again, and taking that for approval he placed a single finger tentatively on the lower edge of her mask.

With both hands she shoved him hard in the chest, and he found himself lying on his back in the soft moss, with only the stars in his vision. “Not yet,” she said, and ran away laughing.

He could hardly breathe with happiness. Not yet!

Never.

Within six months, the extent of his agnate’s debts had been revealed, as well as the lengths to which his aunts had been willing to go to support their lifestyle, which had been beyond their means for quite some time.

When the expected letter, sealed in red and gold, had arrived, it had contained not an offer of marriage but a few curt lines informing him that if recently certain expectations had been raised, they were unfounded and it would be best if he realized this. It was not from Echend, but from the matriarch of her agnate.

He had stuffed a single change of clothes into a sack and gone down to the docks intending to offer his labor to whatever ship would take him farthest away from Athat. No ship would have him, so he made his way to the precinct employment bureau, where the civil servant on duty had judged him a fit candidate for the Watch. Next morning he was on a shuttle for Ghaon’s orbiting station. He had not set foot on Ghaon since.

The Crawl is not detectable by sight, nor by any scanner yet devised. It is, however, ineluctably there. Its outer boundary is littered with the wrecks of ships whose captains disbelieved the warnings. Sometimes these are whole ships, with no sign of damage except their aimless drift. Some are collections of fragments, shining eerily in the light of the warning beacons placed at intervals along the limits of the Crawl. Occasionally a ship traversing the Crawl will come across a human body, rigid and frozen, spinning in the vacuum.

In order to survive the passage through the Crawl a ship must go slowly; it takes nearly six months. In another system it would be a matter of hours. And it is well known that the use of communications equipment within the Crawl has disastrous results.

It is less well known that the Crawl may only be safely crossed by particular routes, which the Ghaons had not recorded or marked in any way. Careful of their one defense, they had been at pains to be sure that knowledge existed only in the minds of pilots authorized to make the trip. The Watch was founded not only to prevent spies from boarding the ships and to enforce the ban on communication, but to ensure that no one meddled in any way with the pilot.

The lounge on second deck was small and narrow, a few tables and chairs along the wall on one side, ports for viewing on the other. Two travelers, one in the brightly-dyed, draped robe typical of the world Semblance, the other bare breasted and skirted in ochre, sat at one table, hunched over a game board, scooping counters out of hollows and placing them around, quickly, with a quiet word every few moves. At the other end of the space Awt Emnys stood, looking out on the void. His face was shadowed, a matter of both relief and disappointment to Kels.

The eyes were Ghem Echend’s. He could not have been more certain if the two genotypes were laid out before him. Echend had not been Awt Emnys’ grandmother, but certainly some aunt or cousin of hers had left Ghaon, gone to the Gerentate.

If Kels had married Echend, he would have had children. Or his co-husbands would, it was all the same. For the first time in years he allowed himself to wonder what that would have been like. He couldn’t imagine an infant Awt with any clarity, but the dark-haired, gray-eyed young boy… a memory flowered in his mind, Kels and his father (so very tall and imposing then!) walking hand in hand down to the riverbank to see the boats come in.

Awt Emnys turned his head, displacing the shadows. He smiled as he saw Kels. “It’s you again.”

“One is always oneself,” said Kels, unaccountably disturbed by the younger man’s words.

“But you’re not always on duty,” said Awt, and came closer to where Kels stood at the other end of the viewing ports. “You all wear the same clothes, and the same masks, and I’m never quite sure who is who.” He smiled, slightly, made an apologetic gesture. “I was speaking with the Honored merchant Chis,” he said, as though it followed naturally on his previous words. “She is most gracious. She advises me to give up pursuing my ancestor and instead rent a boat and visit the coastal towns of Western Aneng, where she assures me I will find the most exquisitely beautiful scenery in all known space. Not to mention the finest arrak and the most reasonable prices on cultured pearls.”

“Ah,” said Kels, somewhat disdainfully. “She is from Western Aneng, and biased as a result. All of those are to be found in the vicinity of Athat.”

Awt gave a wry smile. “I suspect her intent is to divert me from embarrassing my grandmother’s agnate with my existence. But you advise me to tour Athat?”

“Certainly.” Athat was the loveliest city on Ghaon, spread over the mouth of the river like an exquisite mask. “There is also a forest preserve, to the south of Athat, that you may be interested in visiting. Though,” he said, frowning, thinking of Awt’s luggage, “you may need to purchase some equipment if you intend to stay there long.”

“I rarely camp on worlds I’m not entirely familiar with.”

“Doubtless a wise policy. One would not advise doing so alone, anywhere on Ghaon.”

“And why is that, Honored?” asked Awt.

“The vondas.”

“Vondas?”

“They range from very small to… ” Kels made a wide and shallow cup of his hands. “This large. With the tiny, common ones, a bite will itch for a few days afterwards. Some of the larger ones may affect a person more. Indeed, some of them are in demand for the intoxicating effects of their venom.” He thought of the vonda-bars in the northern precincts of the city and made a soft, disgusted sound. “One doesn’t recommend it. But the one you should be careful of is the tea vonda.”

“It’s dangerous?”

“It’s called a tea vonda because from the moment it fastens itself on you, you have just enough time to prepare and drink a cup of tea before you die.”

Awt raised an eyebrow. “That is, perhaps, not the wisest way to spend those few minutes. Have you ever encountered one?”

“I was bitten,” said Kels. He had been fifteen, and his uncle had been to the market in Athat and bought a basket of berries and left them on a counter in the kitchen that ran long and narrow across the back of the house. The berries were at the height of their season, huge and dark purple, and when Kels had seen them he had reached out without thinking. Almost before his fingers had touched the fruit he’d felt an icy sting.

“What did you do?” asked Awt Emnys. “Not put water on to boil I presume.”

“I panicked,” said Kels. For a few, blinking moments he’d stood trying to understand what had happened, coldness creeping up his hand towards his wrist, and then his mind had registered the tea vonda fastened to his hand, berry-purple bleeding away from it. Its center was dead white, shot with streaks of silver. Its surrounding membrane pulsed and fluttered, the convoluted edges turning pink and then red as it dug its proboscis deeper into his hand. As he watched, his hand went numb, and the ice continued to inch past his wrist towards his elbow. He tried to scream, but no sound would issue from his throat. “I froze.”

“What should you have done?” asked Awt Emnys.

“I should have taken the largest knife in the kitchen and cut off my hand.” And he’d thought that far, had run along the length of the room to open the cabinet and draw out the knife, heavy-handled, with a blade three inches wide and fifteen inches long. Then he stood there unable to do what needed to be done, no coherent thought settling out of the whirl of fear and panic in his mind. His sister came into the kitchen then. She closed the distance between them at a dead run, grabbed the knife out of his hand and shoved him against the counter. Then, as though she were dressing game for a feast, she jerked his arm straight and swung the knife down in a fierce blow, crunching through bone and severing his arm just below the shoulder.

Then he’d screamed.

“What happened?” asked Awt.

“My sister found me and cut my arm off. It was very fortunate. I had been very foolish.”

“Indeed.” The skirted woman, from Faunt, spoke up. “Had I been your sister I would have left you to die.”

“Come now, Honored,” said her opponent. “Surely not. Anyone might panic in such a situation.”

“Not anyone fit to survive,” said the woman, with a curled lip. “It speaks poorly of the Watch that such a one would be selected.”

“Surely your people would not be so cruel,” said the man. “Surely not.”

“Cruel? We are practical,” she replied.

“I can’t blame him,” said Awt Emnys. “It’s easy enough to tell yourself the doctor can replace it, but when it comes to actually doing it… ” He shook his head. “It only makes sense that we should be reluctant to injure ourselves so grievously.”

The woman scoffed. “I am now convinced that the Gerentate will fall to Anaander Mianaai the moment he turns his attention that way. You are all of you far too sentimental. Ghaon as well, despite the Crawl and the efforts of the Watch.” Here she looked directly at Kels.

“Honored,” said Kels. “There is no need to be rude.”

“I say what I think,” said the woman. “My people don’t hide behind masks.”

“You certainly do,” said Awt, equably. “Your mask is rudeness and offensively plain speech. We only see how you wish to appear, not your true self. Mask or not, Watchman Inarakhat has been more honest than you.”

The woman made her disgusted noise again, but said nothing further.

Kels looked out the viewing port for a moment, gathering his thoughts, settling himself. He wanted to leave the lounge, but felt that it would be a retreat of some kind. “Honored Awt, do you intend to approach your grandmother’s agnate?” It wasn’t what he had intended to say.

Awt Emnys seemed unsurprised by the question. “I don’t know. Do you advise it?”

Yes and no and I didn’t mean collided, tangled, blocked his speech. Ghem, who had balked at any association with his own ruined agnate, would be no more charitable towards Awt, and the thought distressed Kels. And also pleased him. Let Ghem see what they rejected!

Or perhaps they would be at least courteous to him. “One could hardly say, Honored. Only… ”

“Yes?”

“If you do, buy a mask. Not at the shops near the shuttle port, nor even along the riverbank. Find a place on the third hill, behind the jeweler’s district. And be sure to choose one that is neither very elaborate, nor very brightly colored.”

“That would have been my own inclination,” said Awt. “I thank you again for your advice.” He paused a moment, as though undecided about something. “The merchant Chis is an inveterate gossip.”

Behind the mask, Kels frowned.

Awt continued, quietly. “She tells a fantastic and romantic story of your youthful disappointment in love. Not, I’m sure… ” Awt made a small, ironic gesture, “out of any disrespect for you, but to further discourage me from approaching my grandmother’s agnate. Whichever that might be. But when I heard your story just now, I wondered. Have you held to something you should have let go? The daughter of a wealthy, noble agnate might not have chosen her first husband, or even her second. But the third would have been her heart’s choice. Perhaps you didn’t know her as well as you thought. She certainly behaved very badly, if what Honored Chis says is true.” He bowed slightly, apologetic. “Forgive my presumption.”

“Her agnate,” Kels began, and Awt raised an eyebrow. Kels was glad of the mask. “It was a long time ago, Honored.”

“I’ve offended you. Please believe it wasn’t my intention.”

“No, Honored,” said Kels, in his most even voice, and then, at a loss, bowed and left the lounge.

Six months on a small ship is a long time. The view out the ports of the Jewel of Athat was the same as any ship. One can only play at counters so much, and one has only a limited number of potential opponents. Even betting on the games loses its charm a month in.

“It’s fashionable to have a Ghaonish ancestor six or seven generations back,” Awt said to Kels near the end of the first month. The Faunt woman had retreated in silent pique, Awt having defeated her at counters the third time in a row, and they were alone in the lounge. “Even farther back is better. Too near—and poor—and you’re half-foreign, an outsider in your own family. My mother’s relatives always suspected my half-Ghaonish father of mercenary impulses. They cared for me when my parents died, but more out of their sense of propriety than anything else.”

“How different your childhood would have been, had your grandmother never left Ghaon!” Kels said, thinking as much of himself as of Awt.

“True, but then I wouldn’t have been Awt Emnys.”

By the second month of the voyage, the library of recorded entertainments that seems so large and varied at the start of the voyage becomes monotonous and dull. Fellow passengers who had seemed either exotically foreign or companionably familiar lose all their charms and become objects of irritation. The small spaces become ever-narrowing traps.

Ever since he had known them, Ninan and Tris, Inarakhat Kels’ fellow Watch officers, had been more or less pleasant company, despite a certain distrust on their part; even ruined, his agnate was far superior to theirs. Near the end of the second month, their dismissive observations about the passengers became a burden to Kels, particularly their assessment of Awt Emnys. It was no different from jibes directed at previous Gerentate travelers looking for Ghaonish ancestors, and those had amused Kels in the past. But now he realized that his disdain had a different source and direction than theirs.

In the third month it seems as though there has never been any world but the ship, and the endless progress through the blackness. Life before the voyage is a distant memory, unreal and strangely textured. The idea of disembarking at some final destination seems untenable. During this month the wreck of the last ship to defy the ban on communications takes on an interest out of proportion to its significance.

“Just as you promised,” Awt said to Kels as he watched the dead ship drift. Quietly, because the others—the fierce Faunt, the tourist from Semblance, even Chis Sulca, who had seen it before, were silent. “I wonder why they did it.”

“They were fools,” said Chis.

“They were driven mad by isolation,” said the tourist from Semblance, by his tone of voice meaning a joke, but it lacked conviction.

In the fourth month desperate boredom sets in. The beige, undecorated walls, the black view out the ports, the nourishing but unvaried diet, become an undifferentiated background, and sensory deprivation forces the mind to produce all sorts of fantasies in an attempt to ward off starvation.

“Have you read Thersay?” asked Kels. He and Awt were alone in the lounge.

“The Consolation of Insanity?” Awt smiled. “No, I never have. And I’ve probably never met anyone who has, either, highly regarded as it is.”

“I’ve tried,” confessed Kels.

Awt smiled. “That bored?”

“You laugh,” Kels said. “She began the work here, on this very ship, at that table, there, at just about this point in the voyage. What a strange and sprawling thing it is! She must have been half mad.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Awt said.

The fifth month is much the same as the fourth, time having contracted into a single eternal moment.

In the sixth month, the mind awakes slowly to the realization that there will indeed be an end to the endless voyage. When the Watch announces that only one day remains before the ship will exit the Crawl and increase speed, feverish excitement runs through the passengers. The day ahead, and the few days after that it will take to reach the station orbiting Ghaon, seem unbearably long. In vain do passengers remind themselves that the time will surely pass without their watching. Everyone, whether openly or surreptitiously, will mark each interminable second and anxiously await the thunk and jar of docking.

It was during the last day inside the Crawl that disaster struck.

Kels had endured his shift, and a silent, tense supper with Ninan and Tris. He’d retired early, but after several hours of uncomfortable tossing he rose and dressed and went to the lounge. It was empty; he was vaguely surprised and disappointed that Awt Emnys wasn’t there, though he’d known that the passengers were likely asleep at that hour.

Once Awt disembarked Kels might never see him again. It had been true of every passenger over the years, but it had never mattered to him before. This, then, was why he couldn’t sleep. There were things he wanted to say, that he didn’t know if he should say, or even if he possibly could.

He traced the path he would have on his rounds, but met no one, not even his counterpart on third watch. The passengers’ cabins were shut, the ship felt deserted and lonely. He wished someone would come out and nod, or give some perfunctory greeting, just to break the unsettling feeling that he was invisible, a disembodied ghost alone on an abandoned and drifting ship.

It was because of this feeling that he did something he almost never did—he approached the two Watch officers standing outside the door behind which the pilot guided the ship.

He raised a hand in greeting, expected the same gesture in return, and questions about why he roamed the corridors at this hour. A perfunctory sentence or two about not being able to sleep was on his tongue, ready for the question, but the two officers stood masked and unmoving at the end of the narrow corridor.

He stopped, bewildered. “The days are longer near the end, are they not?” he essayed.

No answer. The feeling of invisibility increased, and for a moment Kels wasn’t so much alarmed at the thought that something might be wrong with the guards as he was despairing of his own substantial existence. But common sense exerted itself. He put a hand on one silent watchman’s shoulder. “Honored!” Nothing. He pushed gently, and the man turned slowly to the side, as though he were in some sort of suggestible trance.

Kels drew his gun, and pushed past the two unresponding men to open the door to the pilots’ station.

The pilot was in his seat, back to the door, and before him were the ship’s controls. A dark-haired figure in kilt and embroidered blouse bent over him, a small recorder in his hand. They were both close enough that Kels might have reached out to touch either man. Kels was on the verge of firing when Awt Emnys straightened and looked at him with Ghem Echend’s eyes.

The moment of hesitation was enough. Awt grabbed the gun, pulling it upwards and away, twisting Kels’ arm around painfully until he was forced to let go his weapon. Awt pointed the gun at Kels, and pushed him against the bulkhead.

“Why?” Kels gasped, his arm still hurting from Awt’s grip.

“It’s my job,” Awt said. “Did you think warehouse inventory suited me?”

“Have you no regard for your own people?” asked Kels. “Or is the Gerentate truly our enemy?”

Awt smiled, a little sadly. “The Gerentate is not your enemy. The Radch, on the other hand… ” He shrugged.

“Radchaai,” Kels whispered in horror. “We are destroyed.”

“On the contrary. To destroy any part of the world would be to destroy its value. No one who submits will be harmed. Those who don’t submit… ” He shrugged, gun still aimed at Kels. “They choose their own fate. But if you mean some indefinable quality of being Ghaonish, or that splendid pride and isolation… I would have thought that you of all people would have understood that it wasn’t worth preserving.” He cocked an eyebrow, sardonic. “It wasn’t only you the Ghem agnate treated badly. I know more of my grandmother than I said.”

Kels was dizzy, and breathing was difficult, as though the air had turned to water and he was drowning. Awt had understood, had already known the things that Kels had so wanted to say to him.

“I owe Ghaon nothing,” Awt continued. “Nor the Gerentate. And the Radchaai pay me well for my services.” He let go of Kels, who didn’t move, still frozen with the revelation, and the threat of the gun. “Don’t accuse yourself. Nothing would be gained if you had killed me. Do you think this is the first successful attempt? None of you will remember anything, just like every other time an agent has made this run.” Awt put a hand on Kels’ shoulder, gave a consoling squeeze. “I won’t kill you unless you make me. And I would regret that very much.” Then he turned away, gun still in hand, and resumed his quiet questioning of the pilot.

Kels’ arm hurt, but distantly, as though the pain was part of some dream he would wake from shortly. He tried to make his breaths deeper, but only felt even more starved for air. Had he himself ever stood entranced beside the pilot’s station as a Radchaai spy carefully probed for the keys to Ghaon’s strongest defense? How many times? His failure was galling, even more so the thought that he had failed over and over again, and never known it. He was afraid to die, afraid to risk his life and indeed his death might well be purposeless, as his life had been. But what difference would it make? If what Awt had said was true, Ghaon was already doomed, and he himself would have no memories to reproach himself with.

Awt spoke to the pilot, quietly, and the pilot murmured in response. He recalled Awt speaking to him in the lounge, six months back. Have you held to something you should have let go? Awt had judged him well. It speaks poorly of the Watch that such a one would be selected.

“Awt Emnys.”

Awt turned, one ear still towards the murmuring pilot.

“Don’t do this. Destroy the recording, return to your cabin. I will tell no one.” Without answering, Awt turned back again.

No more hesitation. This was the moment. Kels shoved himself away from the bulkhead, grabbed Awt’s arm as he turned. The gun fired, the bullet grazing Kels’ ear and burying itself in the bulkhead behind him. Alarms sounded, faint and distant beneath the pounding of Kels’ heart. He brought his knee up hard between Awt’s legs, yanked the gun from his hand, brought the muzzle up to Awt’s head, and fired.

The alarms brought first and second watches. Blood was splattered on Kels, the still senseless pilot’s body, the deck. Ninan was speaking but Kels could only hear the roaring silence that had followed the gunshot.

“… in shock,” said a distant voice. But Awt wasn’t in shock, he was dead.

“He’s not injured.” Ninan’s mouth moved with the sound. Ninan speaking. His mask was askew. “None of this blood’s his. Iraon! Look at it all!” Someone made retching noises, and the need to vomit was overpowering for a moment, but Kels managed to suppress it.

“Lying bastard!” Tris. Kels couldn’t see him. “I bet there’s no Ghaonish grandmother at all. I knew he was no good, that kind never are.”

“Inarakhat Kels, you’re a hero!” said Ninan, and patted Kels lightly on his jaw. “Caught a spy!”

Kels drew in a long, ragged breath. Ninan was saying something about promotions and pay raises, and someone said, “Now they’ll know they can’t fool the Watch.” They were all familiar and foreign at the same moment.

“Let’s get you to your bunk,” said Ninan.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Kels.

Ninan was pulling him up by his arm. “What?”

“It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t worth it.” Ninan looked at him, uncomprehending. “None of you are worth it.” Kels shook his head. Ninan would never understand, or Tris, or any of them. Awt Emnys might, but Awt Emnys was dead.

“Of course,” said Ninan reassuringly. “It’s upsetting. But he chose his own fate. You did nothing more than your duty.”

“He wouldn’t submit,” said Kels.

“Exactly. A fatal mistake.” Ninan clapped Kels on the shoulder. “But enough of this. Let’s get you to your bunk. And something strong to drink.”

“One thinks,” said Inarakhat Kels, “that a cup of tea would be sufficient.”

She Commands Me and I Obey

Residents of Noage Itray could look up and see the ballcourt hanging ten miles overhead, four meters wide and fifty long from goal line to goal line. Stands stretched along each side, row upon row of seats slanting up and back. For the station's entire thirty-five-mile cylindrical length, buildings and gardens clung to its curving interior walls, bright with reflected sunlight. Noage Itray was the largest and wealthiest of the four stations in its Precinct—the second oldest of the four Precincts.

Under the ballcourt stands, proof of that antiquity, stood ranks of life-sized statues serving, crouching, springing to meet the ball. Elaborately painted wristguards, jewels on necks and arms, shimmered faintly in half shadow, each statue the result of the septennial elections decided on Noage Itray's Blue Lily ballcourt.

They were called the Hundred, though Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe had counted three hundred and seventy-two of them. On game days flowers decked each statue. The air would be heavy with their scent and the muttered prayers of worshipers as they streamed past, into the stands. Today the space echoed coldly, the stale remains of incense barely perceptible, the Hundred staring into empty, silent space.

Back in a dim corner stood Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe's favorite: a woman, rare but not unheard of. Her-Breath-Contains had entered Blue Lily Monastery at the age of four (he was older now, nearly twelve) and even then she had attracted his sympathy. She wasn't particularly pretty. She wore no jewels, only the short trousers of a ball player and an undecorated armguard that covered her from wrist to elbow, her hand curled into a fist to hold it in place. She wasn't jumping or crouching, only standing, her arms at her sides, her head tilted just slightly, as though she were listening to a voice only she could hear. But to Her-Breath-Contains she seemed imbued with personality. The name on the pedestal under her feet was She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey. She had been a friendly face to a small boy missing his nurse, surrounded by strangers in a cold, unfamiliar place.

Every day one of the monks—or more usually a minor novice like Her-Breath-Contains—would stand in the portico with an offering of boiled fish and recite their names. By the time Her-Breath-Contains was nine he'd learned the entire list by heart, but she wasn't on it. So he had counted. Three hundred and seventy-one names, three hundred and seventy-two statues of deified ballplayers.

It troubled him that she was left out of the daily offerings. She had been abandoned, forgotten. It wasn't fair.

But Her-Breath-Contains knew her secret. If he stood just right, with his fingers on the base under her bare feet, and bowed his head just the right amount, he could hear what she heard—voices in a room three hundred meters from where she stood, where monastery officials often held conferences. As far as Her-Breath-Contains could tell, no one else knew the room was bugged.

The abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death had taken an unusual interest in Her-Breath-Contains' education. Had said to Her-Breath-Contains more than once, Knowing what another does not know gives you the advantage. Had implied more than once that having any advantage at all could be a matter of life and death. Her-Breath-Contains had only recently understood why the abbot should be at pains to teach him such things, but even as a small child he had taken the lesson to heart. Once he had made his discovery, he visited She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey as often as he could, without raising suspicion.

Sometimes there was only silence. Other days dull, nearly incomprehensible theological discourse. Today it was about the Game.

" . . . woman they say. The Harime ship docked this morning." The voice belonged to Qefahl Brend, governor of the station, and the Precinct's representative to the Council of Four. Three days from now, the Game would either end or renew Qefahl Brend's tenure as tetrarch, depending who won or lost. Her-Breath-Contains had often heard his voice on broadcast. And though he wasn't supposed to know it, the tetrarch was Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe's much older brother.

"Well," said the abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death. "If she's pretty no doubt she'll be popular in the Hundred." A short silence. Her-Breath-Contains stretched aching shoulders, where he stood bowed before She-Commands-Me. "What troubles you?" asked the abbot.

"Blue Lily is undefeated in the past ten elections, nearly undefeated in regular play. White Lily is good, but not as good as Blue Lily. It's obvious how the game will come out. The governor of Harime can have no illusions, he knows he's not going to be seated on the Council, he knows whoever captains White Lily will die at the end of the game. He might as well use this as an opportunity to be conveniently rid of someone. I knew the names of the four likeliest candidates. But instead we get . . . this woman."

"Ah. You dislike surprises."

"Surprises," said Tetrarch Qefahl Brend, "are a symptom of faulty information."

"Or faulty premises," said the abbot. "Shall I tell you what Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns has discovered?" A pause. "He went to meet them as they disembarked. For the last year and a half this woman has played for an obscure Harime convent. Very small stuff, but she's a real ballplayer for all that. Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns says she has the look of a fanatic." The voice of the abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death changed slightly, became a touch too smooth and even, a tone Her-Breath-Contains knew well. It meant the abbot was saying something beyond just what his words meant. "Our captain, the monk Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns, is perhaps not as pious as he might be."

Whatever Her-Breath-Contains' brother the tetrarch had to say in response was lost. A voice among the Hundred startled the boy's head up, his heart racing. "You didn't waste any time!" Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns said, his confident tenor echoing around the statues.

An unfamiliar voice answered. "Why waste time, Brother?" A woman's voice, the accent old-fashioned-sounding, the words oddly precise. It made Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe think of singers, though he didn't think it was a singer's voice.

Seven-Brilliant-Truths laughed. Her-Breath-Contains stood still at the feet of She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey, hardly daring to breathe. Seven-Brilliant-Truths was the hero of the minor novices. He'd had his teeth replaced with moissanite, which shone glittering in his dark face when he smiled, and he smiled often. He wore the humble monastic coverall as though it were the embroidered and jeweled gown of a tetrarch. He'd always been condescendingly kind, even indulgent, towards the boys of Blue Lily Monastery, but the thought of him finding Her-Breath-Contains like this, at his private devotions, and worse, eavesdropping, made Her-Breath-Contains’ face heat uncomfortably.

"Introducing yourself, I take it," Seven-Brilliant-Truths said to the woman, blessedly still unaware of Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe. "Oh, glorious Hundred, numerous as suns, brilliant and brief as comets, children of the goddess, guarantors of Her mercy, I introduce to you Sister Ultimately-Justice-Shall-Prevail, who will join you three days from now."

The woman must be the captain of the White Lily team, from Harime Station. Her-Breath-Contains made a cautious movement, and the abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death spoke in his ear. "Of course we'll watch her."

The tetrarch Qefahl Brend made a dubious noise. "She's not the problem. Women . . . " Her-Breath-Contains shifted just a bit, lost the thread of the tetrarch's voice.

"You should go, Sister. Take the transport back to the Harime quarter and talk to people, bless some babies. They'll buy your icon in the market and brag to their children that they met you personally before I took your head off in the ballcourt." Her-Breath-Contains knew that Seven-Brilliant-Truths was speaking the literal truth—everyone knew that Blue Lily would win and White Lily's captain would die on the ballcourt at the conclusion of the game. But hearing it said so baldly, so boastingly, gave Her-Breath-Contains an odd feeling of revulsion. He shifted again.

" . . .urely, Tetrarch, your departed mother . . . "

"On that topic, what are you teaching my brother?"

"As I understand it," said abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death, "your brother Qefahl Aresh is on retreat."

"We're not overheard here? You assured me."

"We are not. This is, in fact, one of the most securely private places on the station, let alone the monastery." A pang of mixed guilt and exultation overcame Her-Breath-Contains. He had never told the abbot about his discovery at the feet of She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey. He told himself the abbot would approve, if only he knew. Would have been disappointed if Her-Breath-Contains had so obviously failed to learn what the abbot had tried to teach him.

"So," said the tetrarch Qefahl Brend. "Dispense with your pious fiction."

Her-Breath-Contains' back ached, and the conversation between Seven-Brilliant-Truths and Sister Ultimately-Justice continued, but at this moment nothing could distract him from the conversation between the abbot and the tetrarch.

"A monk," answered the abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death, "is severed from all family and social connections. When one takes vows one takes a new identity. I should not have to explain this to you."

An exasperated sigh. "What are you teaching the minor novice Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe?"

"Only the usual."

"Don't toy with me, abbot. I studied with you myself, back in the day. My younger brother's death was less convenient than sending him here. Let him learn his prayers and no more, or I might have to re-consult my convenience."

A strange feeling passed over Her-Breath-Contains, a shivery sensation that seemed to start both at the back of his neck and in his stomach, half a moment before he consciously understood what Qefahl Brend had just said.

"Don't look so shocked," continued the tetrarch. Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe's brother. "You play politics as much as I do."

"You learned a great deal from me," said the abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death. "But some things I was never able to teach you. You believe any display of piety must be either insincere or foolish. But no matter how ruthless I am, no matter how political—and I must be ruthless and political, for the sake of this monastery—I remain a servant of the Go—"

A hand landed forcefully on Her-Breath-Contains' shoulder and he dropped his hands from the statue base, straightened and spun, to see Seven-Brilliant-Truths frowning down at him. Her-Breath-Contains blinked at him stupidly. "Ah. . . ."

"Leave the child be," said Sister Ultimately-Justice. Her-Breath-Contains turned and saw her finally, a woman in the plain brown coverall of a monastic, her hair cut short. Her dark face looked just slightly odd in a way Her-Breath-Contains couldn't place. She seemed precise as her speech, and so solidly where she was, as though wherever she placed her feet she was rooted to the ground. He wondered if that was what Seven-Brilliant-Truths had meant when he’d said she had the look of a fanatic.

Seven-Brilliant-Truths was looking at him strangely, unsmiling. Not as though he were angry, but something else. "She your favorite?"

Her-Breath-Contains’ face went hot again. "Yes."

An expression flashed across Seven-Brilliant-Truths' face, quick and disquieting. He dropped his hand from Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe's shoulder and looked as though he wanted to step back.

"Very commendable," said Sister Ultimately-Justice, each syllable dropping exactly. "Can you tell me about her game?"

"She's not a player," said Seven-Brilliant-Truths, sparing Her-Breath-Contains from admitting his ignorance. "Not one of the Hundred. She's a, what do you call it, a symbol, an idea . . . "

"An allegory."

"That." The strange expression remained on Seven-Brilliant-Truths' face. He looked at Her-Breath-Contains. "But you didn't know that."

Her-Breath-Contains gestured no, mortified. He didn't want to explain, didn't want to show anyone what a baby he was, had been. Didn't want to say, she was my friend when I was little. He waited for Seven-Brilliant-Truths to ask why her, or to mock him. Instead, the monk said, "She's more for visiting teams than for us, these days. When She-Who-Sprang-From-The-Lily commands . . . " He made a slicing gesture across his throat. "One obeys. You understand me, Sister." He grinned again, a flash of moissanite.

"I do," she answered, utterly unperturbed.

"She was the special devotion of the abbot Hold-Her-Commands-As-A-Mirror-To-Your-Heart, did you know that, boy?"

"No."

Seven-Brilliant-Truths turned to Sister Ultimately-Justice. "Surely you've heard of him, Sister. Hold-Her-Commands-As-A-Mirror-To-Your-Heart was meditating by the monastery fishpond with two of his disciples when he bodily transcended this world and was received by the Goddess. He physically stepped from this world to the next. A genuine saint."

"One of the disciples who witnessed it," Ultimately-Justice said, "became abbot in his place. The other died soon after."

"You're a student of Blue Lily history."

"No," she said. "It was obvious."

Seven-Brilliant-Truths blinked, frowned, stepped away from Ultimately-Justice. "I'll leave you to your prayers. Brother. Sister." He bowed slightly, turned and left. Her-Breath-Contains would have sworn he was unnerved. It frightened him.

"He's afraid of you," said Ultimately-Justice, with that careful, slightly rough voice, as though she had read his mind. "Tell me, are you ambitious like your brother?"

"Wh—" What little balance Her-Breath-Contains had gained was knocked away from him again. "How. . . ?"

"When was the last time you looked in a mirror?" Her-Breath-Contains didn't answer, and Sister Ultimately-Justice continued. "It is an unsuitable position for a child to be in. I will give you advice. Be aware of your surroundings. If you are ambitious, be also silent. Or you may find yourself a genuine saint at the bottom of the monastery fishpond."

Suddenly Her-Breath-Contains understood the implications of the story Seven-Brilliant-Truths had just told, and of Sister's confident it was obvious. Though he'd heard of the abbot's translation hundreds of times, the idea of murder had never occurred to him before. He thought of his brother saying I might have to re-consult my convenience and felt nauseated.

Sister Ultimately-Justice smiled mildly, rooted in stone. "What do you learn, contemplating She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey?"

She knows, he thought, knowing at the same moment that it was unreasonable. She couldn't possibly. He opened his mouth to speak and then remembered what she had just said to him.

"A quick learner." Her smile did not alter.

###

On game day, Noage Itray was an endless vista of blue, except for the irregular patch near one end and spinward, where residents of the Harime quarter had covered their roofs in white. The abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death had ordered Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe to accompany him down onto the court, and so he stood just behind the Blue Lily goal line, holding a gently smoking censer. Tetrarch Qefahl Brend was just on the other side of the abbot—tall, his dark face long and angular, hair braided back with embroidered satin ribbons, apparently completely unaware of Her-Breath-Contains' existence.

Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns stood ready to receive the abbot's blessing. He wore a loose robe of scarlet satin, covered in tiny blue lilies edged in gold thread. Gold hung from his ears and in layers around his neck, under wreaths of blue and orange flowers. The three other Blue Lily players were similarly decked, but not quite so resplendent as Seven-Brilliant-Truths. He received so many gifts, and such luxurious ones, that even when he had given the monastery its share he was awash in money.

Ahead, over the goal line, stretched the ballcourt. Atop walls four meters high, The Blue Lily and White Lily sides of the stands faced each other across the court. Both sides were already packed tight, except for seats in front above the center line, held open for the abbot, and for the tetrarch Qefahl Brend. And across the court, on the White Lily wall, the seat for the governor of Harime. The crowd was bright with colorful clothing, with flowers. The monks of Blue Lily Monastery, a swath of brown at the center line on the Blue Lily wall, had been fasting since yesterday, would still fast until the game was well over, but the secular spectators had broken their fasts that morning. Even over the incense the smell of the cakes and dried fruit they passed to each other made Her-Breath-Contains slightly dizzy with wanting.

"Brother Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns," said the abbot. "I have something to say before we step over the goal line." Behind the goal line teams could speak in private. Step over, and every word, every sound, was amplified for the spectators, broadcast to everyone watching in those blue-draped houses curving up and around, to the ships hanging outside the station, and eventually to every other station and Precinct under the Council of Four. Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns grinned, his moissanite teeth glittering.

"This is your first election game," said the abbot. "As you know, I captained Blue Lily before I became abbot. Three times, I put the mother of Tetrarch Qefahl Brend on the Council of Four. The first time was the most difficult." He stopped, looked up at the people crowding the stands, and shook his head. "We spoke last night of the allegory of She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey." Seven-Brilliant-Truths' gaze flickered to Her-Breath-Contains, then back to the abbot, who continued speaking. "You don't understand her significance. Ultimate obedience is not only required of the losing captain, but also of the winner."

"Of course, abbot," said Seven-Brilliant-Truths.

"You don't understand me. You won't until you put the blade to her throat, and see her blood pump out, see her expression as she dies. Maybe not even then, although I hope for all our sakes that's not the case."

"Sister is devout enough for ten of us," said Seven-Brilliant-Truths. "She's not afraid."

Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death sighed. "I will pray for you, during the game and after. I, and Brother Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe." The abbot put his hand on Her-Breath-Contains' shoulder, and Her-Breath-Contains was suddenly frighteningly aware of his brother, the tetrarch Qefahl Brend, standing on the other side of the abbot. "Let us begin, since you are so eager to see blood shed."

They all walked to the center line, to meet White Lily. Sister Ultimately-Justice wore only plain, short trousers, an armguard, and a single, broad wreath of white lilies that covered her shoulders and breasts. She stood silent at the center line, her arms at her sides, expression bland, head slightly tilted.

The Harime governor stood beside her, a smaller man than Qefahl Brend, round-faced, and older. He also wore his hair braided back, but the governor's robe he wore hung limp around him, as though it didn't quite fit him properly. Sister's teammates stood behind her, all wearing the same sort of embroidered satin, jewels, and flowers that Blue Lily's players wore.

Qefahl Brend stepped up to the center of the court. "Who will play for me?" he asked, the ritual question, his voice resonant and sure.

"I, Brother Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns, will play for you!" announced Seven-Brilliant-Truths, the ritual answer. He flashed his moissanite grin, and the Blue Lily side of the stands erupted into cheers and applause.

The Harime governor stepped up to the center, across from Qefahl Brend. But instead of asking the question, he said, "There was a time, Tetrarch, when you and I would have had to play this game ourselves." Silence, and then a puzzled mutter from the stands. "Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be best to take our own risks. Or perhaps to abolish the death altogether. Is it right to ask our captains to take the burden we should bear ourselves?" He shook his head, sadly Her-Breath-Contains thought. "Who will play for me?"

Ultimately-Justice spoke, in her precise way. "I, Sister Ultimately-Justice-Shall-Prevail, will play for you." Polite applause followed. Her-Breath-Contains found himself distressed. This was the Game, the one that all other games were a rehearsal for. It was, the abbot had once told him, the place where planning and maneuvering fell before the will of She-Who-Sprang-From-The-Lily. Captaining a team was the ultimate surrender to Her desire. The people in the stands knew they had come to see Sister Ultimately-Justice die, and that scattering of applause was all they could muster. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

For the next ten minutes, the abbot prayed, blessed the captains, blessed the middle court and back court players, asked the blessing of She-Who-Sprang-From-The-Lily on the spectators, the station, the Precinct, the territory of the Council. He took the censer from Her-Breath-Contains and wafted smoke towards the tetrarch and the Harime governor, the two captains. Still smiling, Seven-Brilliant-Truths held out his hands, rings three and four to a finger, the smoke curling around them. His middle court player stepped forward and did the same, and then his back court.

Sister Ultimately-Justice's hands were square and plain. She held them briefly in the smoke and then stepped aside for her middle court player. When he reached forward Her-Breath-Contains was struck by the contrast between his elaborately jeweled hands and Sister Ultimately-Justice's plain ones. A network of gold links and gems covered the back of the middle court's right hand from knuckle to wrist, and then fanned out into a series of jeweled chains that hung from there to a band around his upper arm, just above his elbow. It sparkled through the smoke, red and yellow and green. It was arresting and strange, almost barbaric-looking. Her-Breath-Contains had never seen anything like it. The middle court looked up, saw Her-Breath-Contains looking at him, and smiled. Her-Breath-Contains found himself resenting the man. This was one of the most important games of his life, and his team's captain was doomed to die at the conclusion of the game, and yet he smiled so casually.

###

Abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death sat in the front of the Noage Itray side, on the center line. Beside him was Qefahl Brend, directly opposite the governor of Harime, across the court in the Harime stands. On the other side of the tetrarch was a stranger, a pale, odd-looking man who spoke with a harsh accent. Behind the abbot, Her-Breath-Contains turned to his neighbor, an older novice. "Who is that?" he asked quietly.

"He's an out-system merchant. He wants contracts and concessions. He wants discounted docking fees and lowered tariffs. He's been positively pouring jewelry and imported luxuries onto the tetrarch since he arrived. I heard . . . "

But Her-Breath-Contains didn't learn what his neighbor had heard. The game was beginning.

Both teams had put off their satin and jewels—in Ultimately-Justice's case, she had removed the wreath of lilies—and now wore only trousers and armguards. Middle and back courts took their places, and the two captains faced each other across the center line.

The first serve was White Lily's, and Ultimately-Justice slammed the ball with her armguard powerfully enough to send it towards Blue Lily's goal line at a speed the back court player didn't anticipate. The ball grazed the side of his armguard and bounced off the Harime wall.

Blue Lily's middle court dove for it, landing face down, and hit the ball just before it bounced, driving it in a wide arc across the center line. Ultimately-Justice, with one hard, fast swing of her arm, drove it angling towards the Noage Itray wall, where Blue Lily would have to scramble to reach it, since they had all been trying to catch the ball in its bounce off the opposite wall.

But Seven-Brilliant-Truths was fast. He reached the ball and slammed it hard, back across the center line. White Lily's middle court tried to return it, but it flew into the stands, a foul.

The spectators on the Harime wall were sluggish at first, but after a few plays they realized that Sister Ultimately-Justice was playing to win. White Lily's middle court seemed to be having a bad day—he fouled twice while Her-Breath-Contains watched. But Ultimately-Justice was going to give Blue Lily as good a fight as she could, better than anyone had expected. Even as Blue Lily scored three goals in succession, the Harime spectators' enthusiasm strengthened. Her-Breath-Contains was pleased to see Seven-Brilliant-Truths, so grinning and sure of himself at the start of the game, compelled to fight for points.

The merchant leaned over to the tetrarch Qefahl Brend, raised his hand and gestured towards the ball as it flew over White Lily's goal line.

Draped across the back of his hand was a piece of jewelry nearly identical to the one Ultimately-Justice's middle court man had worn before the start of the game. Her-Breath-Contains' eyes followed the dangling chains that led to the same upper armlet. He frowned. Had the merchant been giving gifts to White Lily players?

"Blue Lily must score next," said Qefahl Brend to the merchant, answering a question he had asked but Her-Breath-Contains had not heard, absorbed as he was by the merchant's jewelry. "If White Lily scores, then both sides return to zero and the game begins again."

"Every time? Even if it keeps happening?"

"There was a game," said the abbot, "centuries ago, that lasted two months and six days."

"I hope this one won't be so long!" exclaimed the merchant. "I enjoy sports, but not to that extent."

It was clear the merchant knew virtually nothing about the game. And he was here currying the tetrarch's favor, so if he had given gifts to players, they would likely have been to Blue Lily's. So where had White Lily's middle court gotten his jewelry?

Her-Breath-Contains' seatmate had said, He's been positively pouring jewelry and imported luxuries onto the tetrarch since he arrived. The merchant might very well have given such a gift to Qefahl Brend.

"It doesn't matter how long it lasts," said the abbot. "Only that we do the will of She-Who-Sprang-From-The-Lily."

But, Her-Breath-Contains realized, Qefahl Brend cared nothing for the will of She-Who-Sprang-From-The-Lily. Sister Ultimately-Justice—or for that matter Her-Breath-Contains—was only a potential obstacle between Qefahl Brend and what he wanted. Her-Breath-Contains was protected by the abbot, so it seemed. Who would defend Sister Ultimately-Justice? Her own teammate had been bribed to help destroy her. "I have to go to the bathroom," Her-Breath-Contains said, rising, and excused his way out of the crowd of novices and took the stairs down to the cold and silent portico, and the staring Hundred.

A monk was standing at the door to the White Lily end of the court. Above, the noise of the crowd following the play, and from the court the thwack of the ball hitting the walls, the occasional grunt of a ballplayer. "What do you want, brother?" asked the White Lily monk.

"I have to talk to Sister."

"Go away."

"You don't understand. I have to talk to her."

The play ended in a foul; Her-Breath-Contains heard the call. The White Lily monk sighed, took a step back and made a sign. A moment later Her-Breath-Contains heard the timeout call, and Ultimately-Justice-Shall-Prevail came to the door.

Her-Breath-Contains routinely looked on the nearly naked She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey without embarrassment, but she was just a statue. Sister Ultimately-Justice was a real woman. Her arms and legs were well-muscled and streaked with grime, from diving for the ball. Her-Breath-Contains looked up towards her face quickly, because the close sight of her bare breasts was disturbing him, but so was the smell of her sweat, her very solid presence. She said nothing, only stood and waited, face expressionless.

She frightened him. He swallowed. "There's a merchant from out-system," he said, willing his voice not to shake, feeling slightly unreal. "He's been giving the tetrarch presents. He wants contracts." A pause to swallow again. "He's wearing this weird bracelet-thing. It goes all over his hand and up his arm and. . . ."

It was as though he wasn't speaking. Her expression didn't change at all, there was no acknowledgment of his presence. "And your middle court man was wearing one just like it before the game. Except it was a different color. I've never seen anything like it before."

She didn't ask him what he meant, or if he was sure, or what he thought he was doing. She just turned and walked back out to the ballcourt without saying a word.

Her-Breath-Contains turned as calmly as he could and walked away, into the middle of the Hundred, reluctant this time to look squarely at She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey. He closed his eyes, took three deep breaths, wishing there weren't so many flowers, opened his eyes, and climbed the steps to the top of the wall, where the Blue Lily monks sat. As he took his seat, Seven-Brilliant-Truths served, and Ultimately-Justice was poised to return it—until her middle court man, running for the ball, tripped and fell into her, and knocked the ball backwards, straight towards his own goal. Her back court knocked it away at the very last moment, sending it up into the stands.

The spectators on the Harime side groaned in unison, engaged in the game's outcome as they had not been at the start. The Harime governor seemed not to react at all. "What was that?" asked the novice beside Her-Breath-Contains. White Lily's back court strode towards the mid court player, seemed about to speak angrily, but then must have remembered that what he said would be audible both here and to people watching in their homes, because he stopped abruptly and returned to his position. The Blue Lily players laughed outright.

Ultimately-Justice gestured for a timeout. All three White Lily players walked behind the goal line, where they could speak without everyone on the station hearing. Ultimately-Justice spoke calmly, briefly. Her middle court replied, emphatically, gesturing negatively three and four times, no, no, no, no. Back court tried to speak but Ultimately-Justice raised her hand and spoke again, still calm. Middle court gestured again, no, spoke at length, presumably explaining.

They returned to the court. Ultimately-Justice seemed unfazed. As she walked past her middle court man, she suddenly spun around and slammed her armguard hard against his knee. The crack of bone breaking was audible over the whole ballcourt, and the scream of the injured ballplayer echoed in the momentary shocked silence of the spectators.

The noise rose. Qefahl Brend seemed paralyzed in his seat. The novice next to Her-Breath-Contains said, "She can't do that! Can she do that?" Meanwhile, Ultimately-Justice strolled unconcerned to the center line, looked at Seven-Brilliant-Truths, and gently, sweetly, smiled.

She stood there for ten minutes, quietly humming the ninth hour's devotional chant (Her-Breath-Contains had been right, she did not have a singer's voice), while monks and the governors' assistants searched centuries of precedent. But there was, it appeared, no rule forbidding one to cripple one's own teammate.

The fourth White Lily player, who probably had not expected to play at all, took middle court, and the game resumed. Ultimately-Justice moved with astonishing precision and speed, sending the ball crashing from wall to wall. Her own team barely kept pace with her—though there were no more comic mishaps, no more inexplicable ineptness.

It wasn't until the score reached four to four that the people sitting on the Harime wall realized that Sister Ultimately-Justice might actually win. The sound coming from across the court shifted subtly and it set the hair on Her-Breath-Contains' arms standing. He didn't know if anyone else could hear the change, or if he was imagining it.

White Lily scored their fifth point—Ultimately-Justice leaping a meter off the ground to slam the ball straight past Seven-Brilliant-Truths and his bewildered middle and back courts—and suddenly the Harime were on their feet and screaming. The Harime governor sat calmly, as though nothing had happened. He knew from the start, thought Her-Breath-Contains. She came and said she could win it and that's how she got the position. He wouldn't have had anything to lose, all the risk would have been Ultimately-Justice's. Everyone had been so sure, but now Qefahl Brend might lose the seat on the Council of Four, and . . .

Suddenly Her-Breath-Contains saw what he had done. On the court, Seven-Brilliant-Truths grimaced, moissanite teeth flashing briefly.

Her-Breath-Contains didn't want anyone to win. He wanted the game to stop, and now. He'd known from the beginning that someone would die, that at the end of the game he would watch an actual human being killed on the ballcourt, but it had been so abstract. "Six!" said the novice next to Her-Breath-Contains, in an anguished voice. Six against four. White Lily only needed four points more to win. "If we can score next . . ." This was another moment when the game could be reset. If Blue Lily could score next, both would start all over at zero. Ultimately-Justice hefted the ball, ready for the serve.

She hit it straight and hard. Seven-Brilliant-Truths, apparently unnerved, brought his arm up an instant too late. The ball slammed into his mouth—a foul. Play stopped. Seven-Brilliant-Truths put his hands on his knees, breathed. Spat blood on the court. Straightened. Ultimately-Justice watched him impassively. She took the ball when it was given to her, served again.

Something had gone out of Seven-Brilliant-Truths, out of Blue Lily. White scored three more times in quick succession—nine to four, another precarious moment. If Blue Lily could score, both sides would return to zero. If White scored, the game would be over. The noise from both sides of the court was louder than Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe had ever imagined any sound could be. Everyone, it seemed, was standing, shouting, screaming. Except for the out-system merchant, who might well be preparing to direct his bribes elsewhere. Except the abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death. Except Tetrarch Qefahl Brend, and the governor of Harime Station. They sat silent and still in their seats.

For two more serves, the score stayed where it was. The sound, impossibly, increased. Then White Lily's new middle court knocked the ball up and over. It arced long and high the length of the court. The three Blue Lily players stopped, arms at their sides, and stared at the ball as it landed just behind their goal line. The sound of the spectators—Noage Itray crying out in dismay, Harime in triumph—was like a solid object filling the air.

Sister Ultimately-Justice walked up to Seven-Brilliant-Truths and spoke. It should have been audible, but the sound in the court was so loud that Her-Breath-Contains could only see her mouth move. Her-Breath-Contains looked across to the Harime wall—the Harime governor's seat was empty.

The monk who had been guarding the doorway to the White Lily end of the court came before the abbot and the tetrarch. He bowed and spoke. The noise was still too loud for Her-Breath-Contains to hear anything, but he saw the monk's lips move.Messages, he saw, and the monk held his hands out, one to the abbot and one to Qefahl Brend.

Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death brushed his fingers across the monk's hand and then his own ear, leaving a gauzy, barely visible membrane. Qefahl Brend waited a moment before following suit.

After a few moments Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death raised his hand and wiped the device away, and turned to look at Her-Breath-Contains, eyebrow raised. He made a beckoning gesture and Her-Breath-Contains leaned forward. "Accompany me," said the abbot, and rose and strode away.

Her-Breath-Contains followed. The White Lily monk raised his hand casually, as though he were doing something entirely thoughtless, and touched Her-Breath-Contains' ear as he passed. Suddenly Her-Breath-Contains heard the careful, rough voice of Ultimately-Justice. "I would not have done this, but you chose to involve yourself." He started to raise his hand to touch the device, but stopped himself. The recording continued, her voice in his ear intimate in a way that made him shiver. "You are in great danger from this moment forward, no matter what you choose. The abbot will only protect you so long as you display no independence."

Under the stands the noise was muted somewhat and Her-Breath-Contains heard a step behind him. He turned, saw his brother Qefahl Brend. His Breath Contains looked forward again, quickly. "I will help you where I can," said Ultimately-Justice's voice. "But favors come with a price." The message-end tone sounded.

He followed the abbot to a room behind the White Lily goal line, where Seven-Brilliant-Truths and Sister Ultimately-Justice stood, and beside them the governor of Harime, who bowed to Tetrarch Qefahl Brend, but not deeply. Seven-Brilliant-Truths stared at Her-Breath-Contains as he came in behind the abbot.

The governor of Harime spoke. "At this moment Brother Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns is more valuable than you, Governor of Noage Itray. Tetrarch for the moment. Your seat on the Council of Four is lost. You can't regain it without a good ball team. Or copious bribes, which, as you are no longer tetrarch, you may no longer find so easy to afford." Her-Breath-Contains expected an outburst from Qefahl Brend, but there was nothing. The governor of Harime continued. "Noage Itray, and Blue Lily Monastery, needs Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns if they are to have any hope of regaining what they have lost. But they don't need you in particular, Tetrarch."

"Your point?" asked Qefahl Brend, voice smooth and dangerous.

"I have no interest in seeing anyone die," said the governor of Harime. "Least of all Brother Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns. I have been troubled for some time over what seems to be to be our taking the Game's conclusion for granted. I speak not just of the populace but also ourselves, the governors. It was meant to ensure that anyone seeking office truly desired the will of She-Who-Sprang-From-The-Lily, but what does it mean, now we aren't risking ourselves? I suggest a return to something approaching the original terms of the Game. Not your death, Tetrarch, but your retirement to a life of prayer and asceticism. Surely that will satisfy She-Who-Sprang-From-The-Lily. What could be sweeter to Her than lifelong devotion?"

Qefahl Brend gave a bark of laughter. "Do as you like, I have no reason to retire." Silence for just a moment, Ultimately-Justice standing quiet and solid, Seven-Brilliant-Truths still looking fixedly at Her-Breath-Contains.

The abbot bowed towards the governor of Harime. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually imagined that Qefahl Brend might sacrifice his ambition for the good of Noage Itray. But we both know him too well. No more games, Governor, make your serve in earnest."

Unfazed, the governor of Harime said, "There is also the matter of the tetrarch's bribing White Lily's middle court to throw the game."

"We have proof," added Sister Ultimately-Justice. A dizzying wave of anxiety passed through Her-Breath-Contains. Did she expect him to admit what he'd done?

Abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death shook his head in dismay. "Tampering with election results! That's a serious charge. You have proof, you say?"

"The player confessed," said Ultimately-Justice. Her-Breath-Contains thought of the sound of the man's leg breaking, and swallowed back a small, distressed sound.

"Governor," said the governor of Harime, "if I make my accusation—and my evidence—public you will almost certainly lose most of your support. The matter will come before the Council of Four and you will ultimately be forced out of office in favor of someone else. Depending on who that is—and who your enemies are—you may end up imprisoned, or even executed." He paused, and then said, "You may avoid this by retiring to a hermitage, and appointing your brother Qefahl Aresh governor in your place."

Qefahl Aresh. Her-Breath-Contains barely remembered going by that name, it felt foreign to him.

"Qefahl Aresh is only a child," said Qefahl Brend contemptuously. "And besides, he's on retreat and cannot be found."

"It will be as She wills," said the Harime governor. "If you do not agree, or if you cannot find Qefahl Aresh, then I will bring my accusation and my evidence to the Council of Four."

Silence. Seven-Brilliant-Truths seemed not to have heard anything, was still looking at Her-Breath-Contains.

After a few heavy moments of silence Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death said, "Oh, if only Qefahl Aresh were here now."

"You have conspired against me!" Qefahl Brend accused.

"No," said the abbot, smiling. "But I know an opportunity when I see one." He put a hand on Her-Breath-Contains' shoulder.

Every favor comes with a price. Ultimately-Justice hadn't had to tell Her-Breath-Contains that, he'd already known it. But the balance wasn't so lopsided as she seemed to imply. He had already done her a favor. That would have a price that he could collect someday. He wasn't a child, wasn't stupid. In fact, everyone here would owe him—the governor of Harime, soon to be the tetrarch, Seven-Brilliant-Truths, the abbot. "I'm Qefahl Aresh," he said, and then, lightheaded and anxious, wished immediately that he hadn't spoken.

The governor of Harime did not so much as twitch an eyebrow. He was nearly as impassive as Sister Ultimately-Justice.

"Well, well," said abbot Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death. "Imagine that."

"Congratulations, abbot," said Qefahl Brend bitterly. "You have the governorship."

"No," said Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death, voice gentle. "Qefahl Aresh does." Her-Breath-Contains suppressed a shiver.

"You agree, then?" asked the governor of Harime.

"Not to a hermitage! Surely, abbot . . ."

"Tampering with election results," the abbot said sadly, "is a very serious charge."

"Damn you!" said Qefahl Brend. "Very well, let Aresh be governor, for whatever good it will do any of you."

"Governor," said Ultimately-Justice then, and with a start Her-Breath-Contains realized she was talking to him. "I wish to reiterate the proposal regarding Brother Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns."

Her-Breath-Contains quickly gestured assent. "Yes. I agree to it."

"Excellent!" said Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death. "I'm sure we can come up with a suitable ceremony, and Seven-Brilliant-Truths will live to play more games."

Seven-Brilliant-Truths, silent all this while, turned to Ultimately-Justice. "Sister!" he said. "You have more faith than I do, and I've mocked you for it. Will you forgive me?"

"I forgive you," said Ultimately-Justice, solid, even. Impassive.

"I was so sure it would be you who would die. So sure. I forgot . . ." he stopped, blinked. "I forgot it's Her will we do and not ours. Even though She showed me Herself, so often. I've spent my whole life, since I was a boy, telling myself I was devoted to Her, but I wasn't, I was devoted to myself. And now She makes my deception plain, even to myself." Seven-Brilliant-Truths stepped to where Her-Breath-Contains stood, with the abbot's hand still on his shoulder, and knelt. "Returned one!" he cried. "I should have paid attention, I should have listened to you and the abbot! Please forgive me!"

Both Qefahl Brend and the Harime governor looked nonplussed. "Brother Seven-Brilliant-Truths," explained the abbot, "believes that Her-Br . . . that Qefahl Aresh is the saint Hold-Her-Commands-As-A-Mirror-To-Your-Heart, returned."

Qefahl Brend scoffed.

"I should have asked your blessing before the game," Seven-Brilliant-Truths said. "I should have asked the blessing of She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey." He took Her-Breath-Contains' hands in his and kissed them. Her-Breath-Contains was appalled.

"I swore I would surrender to Her will, even to the point of losing my life," said Seven-Brilliant-Truths. "And if I walk away from this, I'll know that my faith is a lie. Plan your new ceremony for next time."

"What?" Her-Breath-Contains was having trouble understanding what it was Seven-Brilliant-Truths was saying, though suspicion had started a horrible feeling in his empty stomach.

"Are you sure, Brother?" asked the governor of Harime. "No one here would blame you."

"That's right," said Her-Breath-Contains hastily.

"And understanding the Goddess' will isn't easy," said the abbot. "We can all of us only do our best."

"She commands me," said Seven-Brilliant-Truths. "And I obey. Sister understands."

"Yes," said Sister Ultimately-Justice, not even blinking.

Seven-Brilliant-Truths' death was like everything Sister Ultimately-Justice did—sure and precise.

Afterwards Her-Breath-Contains and the abbot walked towards the Blue Lily goal line, followed by Blue Lily's middle court and back court carrying Seven-Brilliant-Truths' body. Her-Breath-Contains couldn't afford to make a sound until he was past the line. Seven-Brilliant-Truths' blood was still fresh on his clothes. He wanted to strip them off, wanted to erase from his mind the sight of Seven-Brilliant-Truths slumping forward, his head in Ultimately-Justice's hands.

He stepped over the goal line. Qefahl Brend, waiting there, said bitterly to Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death, "It doesn't matter what happens as long as you have what you want."

It took Her-Breath-Contains a sick moment to realize Qefahl Brend was talking about himself, not Seven-Brilliant-Truths.

"We're alike that way," said the abbot, with equanimity. How calm the abbot was! But Shall-I-Alone-Escape-Death had won three election games, done three times what Sister Ultimately-Justice had just done. "In other ways, not. I'll send you icons for your hermitage. Of the saint Seven-Brilliant-Truths-Shine-Like-Suns and one of She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey." He looked at Her-Breath-Contains. "I don't have to urge you learn from She-Commands-Me-And-I-Obey, do I, Governor."

Her-Breath-Contains thought of overheard conversations, of the saint Hold-Her-Commands-As-A-Mirror-To-Your-Heart, drowned before he could tell his successor that the most secure room in the monastery was, in fact, bugged. Of the abbot telling him there was power in knowing something others didn't know. Thought of Sister Ultimately-Justice, her strong arms, the smell of her skin, the knife in her hand, Seven-Brilliant-Truths . . . no, not that, not that . . . her voice in his ear, warning him to be careful of the abbot. I'll help you if I can.

"No, abbot," he said. "You don't."

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ANN LECKIE has worked as a waitress, a receptionist, a rodman on a land-surveying crew, a lunch lady, and a recording engineer. The author of many published short stories, and former secretary of the Science Fiction Writers of America, she lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband, children, and cats.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

NIGHT’S SLOW POISON

SHE COMMANDS ME AND I OBEY

About the Author