“There’s no fancy hotels here,” replied the person who had spoken so rudely. “Nobody comes here to stay. People come here to drink, or eat authentic Ychana food.”

“Soldiers come here to beat the crap out of people minding their own business,” muttered someone behind me. I didn’t turn to look, sent a quick, silent message ordering Kalr Five not to move.

“And the governor’s always got room for important people,” continued the person who had been speaking, as though that other voice had never even existed.

“Maybe I don’t want to stay with the governor.” That seemed to be the right thing to say, for some reason. Everyone within earshot laughed. Except one, the carefully silent, Radchaai-attired person. The few pins she wore were generic and cheap—brass, colored glass. Nothing that spoke of family affiliation. Only a small enameled IssaInu at her collar suggested anything specific about her. It was the Emanation of movement and stillness, and suggested she might be an adherent of a sect that practiced a particular sort of meditation. Then again, the Emanations were popular, and given they fronted the temple of Amaat here, might be stand-ins for a set of Athoeki gods. So in the end even the IssaInu told me little. But it intrigued me.

I pulled out the chair opposite her, sat. “You,” I said to her, “are very angry.”

“That would be unreasonable,” she said after a breath.

“Feelings and thoughts are irrelevant.” I could see that I’d pushed her too far, that in a moment she would rise, urgently, and flee. “It’s only actions Security cares about.”

“So they tell me.” She shoved her bowl away from her and made as if to rise.

“Sit,” I said, sharply. Authoritative. She froze. I waved the proprietor over. “Whatever it is you’re serving, I’ll have one,” I said, and received a bowl with some sort of powder in it, which, once steaming water was poured onto it, became the thick tea everyone was drinking. I took a taste. “Tea,” I guessed, “and some sort of roasted grain?” The proprietor rolled her eyes, as though I’d said something particularly stupid, and turned and walked away without answering. I gestured unconcerned resignation and took another taste. “So,” I said to the person across from me, who had not yet relaxed back into her seat but had at least not gotten up and fled. “It will have been political.”

She widened her eyes, all innocence. “Excuse me, Citizen?” Ostensibly, technically polite, though I was sure she could read the signs of my rank and ought to have used the highest address I was entitled to, if she knew it. If she truly meant to be polite.