Surit paused. “We’re not here to accuse any more people.”

Birimi blinked up from their seat on the bed. “Aren’t you?” they said. “Your colleagues seemed fairly keen on that, after the protests.”

“Did you do it?” Tennal asked abruptly. “The theft? The embezzling that got you deposed?”

“Well,” Birimi said. “I realize this doesn’t sound very credible, but no.”

“You don’t seem very upset about it.”

Birimi scratched their head, dislodging the short curls. “I find you have to take politics as it comes,” they said. “I’m sure General Oma can’t keep up martial law forever. We had some very vicious exchanges in the historical fabrics society, and that was all smoothed over eventually.” They glanced over at the cell door. “Of course, craft societies don’t have the same facilities.”

Tennal finally pinned down why Birimi annoyed him. Everyone Tennal knew had an edge or a hard shell. Even Surit. Even Zin, who had spent as much time around the legislator as Tennal had. But this ex-governor seemed soft through and through. They didn’t feel like someone who could survive division politics. And they had somehow managed to get themself elected governor as a known reader? It was infuriating.

Surit shot an agonized glance over at Tennal. He recognized Surit in the grip of an ethical quandary. Surit believed Birimi, the same way he’d believed Tennal.

Lights lose it. Tennal cleared his mind and focused his reading more closely on Birimi.

Tennal had only meant to push his way in a little to see if he could pick up any clues. Birimi’s mind felt like any normal person’s: no flares of architect light, just the baseline of a living being. As Tennal focused, he caught fragments of thought and memory, in unhelpful formless snatches, and then—

—it was like someone had opened Tennal’s brain with a crowbar. Something had changed in Tennal’s head when he’d used his brain for piloting; a muscle had been used until it strengthened. He’d only meant to push a little way in. Instead he blinked and fell into space.

The room blurred. Only the life-forms in it were visible: Surit, a dim shape; Birimi, like a clear glass vessel filled with light. Tennal reached into Birimi without any effort. It was as easy as breathing.

A mistake. A torrent hit him: incomprehensible images, colors, emotions. And beyond it, a deep well of quiet anger, the knowledge of injustice, and—

“Goodness,” Birimi said, the outlines of their mouth moving in Tennal’s vision. Their thoughts closed. “You’re a reader.”

The shock made Tennal lose his grip. His vision snapped back to normal. “You felt that.”

“You went very deep. It was almost … loud,” Birimi said. A frisson of discomfort went up Tennal’s back. He understood instinctively what Birimi meant: loud in the way architects were loud. “It’s quite intrusive, how you do it. And illegal, of course.”