All of Bo had understood more or less immediately what the actual purpose of the contest was, and undertaken their practice with serious-minded determination. Etrepa as well—Etrepa, who approved my goal (as they understood it) but had not on that account held back their effort. But the prize went to Bo. I handed the three bottles of (very fine, and very strong) arrack to a virtually sedative-free Lieutenant Tisarwat, in the soldiers’ mess, with all of Bo standing straight and ancillary-expressionless behind her. I congratulated them on their victory and left them to the serious drinking that I knew would begin the instant I was in the corridor.

Less than an hour later, Seivarden came to me, on behalf of her Amaats. Who had mostly tried to be understanding about the whole thing but now couldn’t walk past the soldiers’ mess without being reminded that they’d never even had an opportunity to try for that arrack. And I’d ordered fruit to be served to all the Etrepas and Bos with their supper that day—I had a store of oranges, rambutans, and dredgefruit, all purchased by Kalr Five and carefully stored in suspension. Even after supper was cleared away the sweet smell of the dredgefruit lingered in the corridor and left Seivarden’s Amaats hungry and resentful.

“Tell them,” I said to Seivarden, “that I wanted to give Lieutenant Tisarwat some encouragement, and if they’d been part of the contest she’d never have had a chance.” Seivarden gave a short laugh, partly recognizing a lie when she heard it, partly, I thought, believing that maybe it wasn’t a lie. Her Amaats would probably have a similar reaction. “Have them pull their own numbers up in the next week, and they’ll have dredgefruit with supper, too. And Kalr as well.” That last for always-listening Five.

“And the arrack?” asked Seivarden, hopefully.

In the soldiers’ mess, the drinking, which had begun in a very focused, disciplined manner, each communal swallow accompanied by an invocation of one of the ship’s gods, the sting of the arrack carefully savored on the way down, had begun to degenerate. Bo Ten rose, and just slightly slurrily begged the lieutenant’s indulgence, and, receiving it, declared her intention to recite her own poetry.

“I have more arrack,” I told Seivarden, in my quarters. “And I intend to give some of it out. But I’d rather not give it out wholesale.”

In the soldiers’ mess, Bo Ten’s declaration met with cheers of approval, even from Lieutenant Tisarwat, and so Ten launched into what turned out to be an epic, largely improvised narrative of the deeds of the god Kalr. Who, according to Bo Ten’s account, was drunk a lot of the time and rhymed very badly.