“Well,” said Grandfather after a few moments more of silence. “Well. I suppose we’ll have to give you supper, Radchaai.”

“If you would be so kind, Grandfather,” I said.

17

Queter and I walked to Fosyf’s house before the sun rose, while the air was still damp and smelling of wet soil, Queter striding impatiently, her back stiff, her arms crossed, repeatedly drawing ahead of me and then pausing for me to catch up, as though she were eager to reach her destination and I was inconsiderately delaying her. The fields, the mountains, were shadowed and silent. Queter was not in a mood to talk. I drew breath and sang, in a language I was sure no one here understood.

Memory is an event horizon

What’s caught in it is gone but it’s always there.

It was the song Tisarwat’s Bos had sung, in the soldiers’ mess. Oh, tree! Bo Nine had been singing it to herself just now, above, on the Station.

“Well, that one’s escaped,” said Queter, a meter ahead of me on the road, not looking back at me.

“And will again,” I replied.

She paused, waited for me to catch up. Still didn’t turn her head. “You lied, of course,” she said, and began walking again. “You won’t let me speak to the district magistrate, and no one will believe what I have to say. But you didn’t bring soldiers to the house, so I suppose that’s something. Still, no one will believe what I have to say. And I’ll be gone through Security or dead, if there’s even any difference, but my brother will still be here. And so will Raughd.” She spat, after saying the name. “Will you take him away?”

“Who?” The question took me by surprise, so that I hardly understood it. “Your brother?” We were still speaking Delsig.

“Yes!” Impatient, still angry. “My brother.”

“I don’t understand.” The sky had paled and brightened, but where we walked was still shadowed. “Is this something you’re afraid I’ll do, or something you want?” She didn’t answer. “I’m a soldier, Queter, I live on a military ship.” I didn’t have the time or the resources to take care of children, not even mostly grown ones.

Queter gave an exasperated cry. “Don’t you have an apartment somewhere, and servants? Don’t you have retainers? Don’t you have dozens of people to see to your every need, to make your tea and straighten your collar and strew flowers in your path? Surely there’s room for one more.”

“Is that something your brother wants?” And after a few moments with no reply, “Would your grandfather not be grieved to lose both of you?”

She stopped, then, suddenly, and wheeled to face me. “You think you know about us but you don’t understand anything.”