In a situation like this, a hold full of Valskaayans ought to have been either parceled out over dozens of different plantations and whatever other places might welcome their labor, or held in suspension and slowly doled out over decades. There should have been, maybe, a half dozen Valskaayans here. Instead there appeared to be six times that. And I’d have expected to see some Samirend, maybe even some Xhais or Ychana, or members of other groups, because there had certainly been more than Xhais and Ychana here before the annexation.

There also shouldn’t have been such a sharp separation between the outdoor servants—all Valskaayan as far as I’d seen this morning and the day before—and the indoor, all Samirend with a few Xhais. Valskaay had been annexed a hundred years ago, and by now at least some of the first transportees or their children ought to have tested or worked their way into other positions.

I ran as far as the workers’ residence, a building of brown brick with no glass in the windows, only here and there a blanket stretched across. It had clearly never been as large or as luxurious as Fosyf’s lakeside house. But it had a lovely view across its valley, now filled with tea, and a direct road to that wide and glassy lake. The trampled dirt surrounding it might well have been gardens or carefully tended lawns, once. I was curious what the inside of it was like, but instead of entering uninvited and very likely unwelcome, I turned there to run back. “Fleet Captain,” Mercy of Kalr said in my ear, “Lieutenant Seivarden begs to remind you to be careful of your leg.”

“Ship,” I replied, silently, “my leg is reminding me itself.” Which Mercy of Kalr knew. And the conversation with Seivarden, that had produced Ship’s message, had happened two days before.

“The lieutenant will fret,” said Ship. “And you do seem to be ignoring it.” Was that disapproval I detected in its apparently serene voice?

“I’ll relax the rest of the day,” I promised. “I’m almost back anyway.”

By the time I crossed the ridge again, the sky and the valley were lighter, the air warmer. I found Citizen Sirix on a bench under the arbor, a bowl of tea steaming in one hand. Jacketless, shirt untucked, no jewelry. Mourning attire, though she was not technically required to mourn for Translator Dlique, had not shaved her head or put on a mourning stripe. “Good morning,” I called, walking up to the terrace. “Will you show me about the bathhouse, Citizen? Maybe explain some things to me?”

She hesitated, just a moment. “All right,” she said finally, warily, as though I’d offered her something risky or dangerous.