The name was Valskaayan. “One of the field workers?” I asked.

“She works in the manufactory, maintaining the dryers,” said Fosyf.

“Well,” said the magistrate, “I’ll send—”

I interrupted her. “Magistrate, your indulgence. Do any of the people you’ve brought speak Delsig?”

“A few words, Fleet Captain, no more.”

“As it happens,” I said, “I’m fluent in Delsig.” Had spent decades on Valskaay itself, but I did not say that. “Let me go down to the field workers’ house and talk to Citizen Queter and see what I can discover.”

“You don’t need to discover anything,” insisted Raughd. “Who else could it be? She’s always hated me.”

“Why?” I asked.

“She thinks I’ve corrupted her baby sister. Those people have the most unreasonable ideas about things.”

I turned to the magistrate again. “Magistrate, allow me to go alone to the field workers’ house and talk to Citizen Queter. In the meantime your staff can trace the explosive.”

“Let me send some security with you, Fleet Captain,” said the magistrate. “Arresting this person all by yourself, surrounded by Valskaayans—I think you might want some help.”

“There’s no need,” I replied. “I won’t need the help, and I have no fear for my safety.”

The magistrate blinked, and frowned, just slightly. “No, Fleet Captain, I don’t suppose you do.”

I walked to the field workers’ house, though Fosyf offered me the use of a groundcar. The sun was going down, and the fields I passed were empty. The house sat silent, no one outside, no movement. If I didn’t know better I might have thought it abandoned. Everyone would be inside. But they would be expecting someone—Fosyf, Planetary Security, the district magistrate. Soldiers. There would be a lookout.

As I came in earshot of the house I opened my mouth, drew breath, and sang:

I am the soldier

So greedy, so hungry for songs.

So many I’ve swallowed, they leak out,

They spill out of the corners of my mouth

And fly away, desperate for freedom.

The front door opened. The lookout who had sung those words, that first morning when I had run past the workers picking tea. I smiled to see her, and bowed as I came closer. “I’ve been wanting to compliment you on that,” I said to her, in Delsig. “It was nicely done. Did you compose it that moment, or had you thought about it before? I’m only curious—it was impressive either way.”

“It’s only a song I was singing, Radchaai,” she replied. Radchaai only meant “Citizen,” but I knew that in the mouth of a Valskaayan, speaking Delsig, in that tone of voice, it was a veiled insult. A deniable one, since she had, after all, only used an always-proper address.

I gestured unconcern at her answer. “If you please, I’m here to speak with Queter. I only want to talk. I’m here by myself.”