by K. Eason
Iari’s guts stopped their clenching and dropped, stone-hard, stone-cold, through the floor. Vashtat had been a prison ship during the Expansion, before the treaties and the Weep. A specifically vakari prison.
Keawe snorted. “Su’seri’s in a knot because we won’t let him have that riev chip, and he’s gone whining up the chain. Tell me you’re not going along with this.”
Quellis turned completely around in her chair now, to look at Keawe. “Knight-Marshall, however . . . suspect . . . the accusation, the wichu are members of the Confederation. They have a right to bring charges.”
“Provisional members. All this neefa-shit about self-governance and independence they keep spouting. Separate ships. Separate districts. There isn’t even one of them in the Aedis.” Keawe pointed at Quellis, half accusatory, all anger, no deference. “The wichu are on their own side.”
Iari had heard similar sentiments over the years. Muttering in the regular army, mostly, and most of that from Corso, who saw wichu self-segregation as evidence of assumed superiority. They think they’re better, the fuckers, which, truth, was Corso’s litany about near everyone.
Tobin, Iari noted, was just watching. Saying nothing. Letting her and Keawe come at Mother Quellis from both sides. Now it was her turn. Reason to Keawe’s force.
“We can’t honor that request, Mother. Gaer didn’t assassinate anyone. First, Jich’e’enfe attacked us. Second, we’re not even sure she’s dead. And third, Gaer’s a diplomat. There’s immunity from prosecution.”
Quellis turned her head slowly, as if she wanted Iari to reconsider saying can’t to an Aedis Mother. “To your last point, Lieutenant: ordinarily, yes. But these are exceptional circumstances. The ambassador volunteered to assist with the investigation into Pinjat’s murder in his capacity as arithmancer. Then he specifically retained the services of Corso Risar to locate Jich’e’enfe. And yes, Lieutenant, I read your report, and I know that Jich’e’enfe’s true identity was unknown at that point—to you. But there is no proof she wasn’t known to Gaer.” Quellis shook her head. “I think we’re all forgetting that, no matter how fond we may be of him, how charming he seems—Gaer is a SPERE operative.”
Hrok’s breath, did everyone know that? Was it just common knowledge around the Aedis now, hey, the ambassador’s Five Tribes special operations, pass me the cream? Iari knew her face was loud, shouting; but her voice came out cool, even, flat as the cover of Meditations on Tobin’s desk.
“Mother, there were Brood in that warehouse. Jich’e’enfe was responsible for the deaths of templars.”
Quellis looked like Iari imagined Iffy might, on the far side of middle age. Silver threads in her hair. Fine lines. Except please, gentle Mishka, Iffy’s eyes never got that hard. “That in no way changes the fact that the ambassador was responsible for killing a Confederate citizen.”
“Allegedly,” Tobin murmured. “The lieutenant has pointed out that there is no body. We assume Jich’e’enfe is dead, but what we may have is a fugitive.”
“Perhaps. But we can’t just ignore the charges.”
“No one’s saying ignore them,” Iari said. “Deny them. Jich’e’enfe was acting against the Aedis. Gaer was acting in the Aedis’s defense. In my defense. On my orders. It’s my responsibility. That altar—”
“That altar is missing.” Quellis raised her voice. “And the only record we have of it are Gaer’s notes—”
“And my testimony. And Char’s. And Luki’s. And Corso’s.” A breath. A beat. She had just interrupted the Mother. Void and dust. “Gaer didn’t make up the Weep fissures. I certainly didn’t. Lieutenant Peshwari is dead because of them.”
“I am aware. But we cannot say for certain that the altar, or Jich’e’enfe, created the fissures. We have only Gaer’s word on that, as an arithmancer.”
“We asked him to help us, as an arithmancer. Why would we doubt what he says?”
Quellis pursed her lips. Not angry, Iari thought, but unhappy. “Despite what you may think”—and she included Tobin and Keawe in that you, unspoken, with a dagger-sharp side-eye—“I am aware that there may be ulterior motives for the charges against the ambassador. Gaer has, after all, discovered a flaw in wichu artificing.” And when Iari blinked, “Sawtooth’s chip. The wichu have requested that, too—a request we have outright denied—and all of Gaer’s data.”
“Oh, for the love of the Four. That little neefa Su’seri.” Keawe grimaced. “Tobin, tell me we’re not going to comply with any of this.”
“We are certainly not giving up any of Gaer’s notes.” Tobin was still dead-faced, full spacer-lockdown. “On that, Mother Quellis and I are in complete agreement.”
“Well, then we can’t give up Gaer, either.” Iari leaned forward. The edge of the chair bit the back of her thighs. Bright line of pain, something to keep the syn busy. “He knows what’s on the chip. He’s got information locked in his head.”
“Which is exactly why we can’t just return him to his embassy, either,” Quellis said. “He would report what he knows to his superiors. The wichu request saves us a major diplomatic incident.”
Keawe made a slicing gesture. “Except the wichu are going to want what Gaer knows about that chip, too. And they’ll get it, unless anyone thinks they’ll follow Confederate interrogation laws with no oversight on their own fucking ship, on someone they’ve accused of a capital crime.”
“And then once they get that information,” Iari said, as the syn sensed her distress, her anger, and sent sparks and lightning down her limbs, “you have to ask who will see it and what they will do with that data. Unless Jich’e’enfe was acting totally alone, she’s aligned with people who are using arithmancy no one’s seen yet. Gaer’s familiar with all of that. Hand him over to the wichu, and we lose access to all of that knowledge. It’s bad strategy.”
Tobin’s left brow had climbed. He had probably never heard her say that much at once—well, fair enough. Especially without a sir or a mother to buffer the honesty.
Quellis was frowning now. “You think the wichu are a threat to the Aedis, Lieutenant?”
“I think some of them are, yes. Jich’e’enfe. Others like her.”
“More of a threat than SPERE?”
“More of a threat than Gaer. Mother, you’ve read the reports. You’ve seen the comm-logs. Gaer hasn’t sent anything about the corrupted chip back to SPERE. He said—that knowledge would be worth a lot to people in his government, but it was dangerous, too, if it got out. It could destabilize the treaties. He’s been loyal to us—”
“Don’t know about loyal, but that vakar has to stay in our custody.” Keawe sat back in her chair. “Let me take him up to Windscar. If we let Seawall have him—their embassy or ours—someone down there will turn him over to the damned wichu.”
“No.” Iari looked directly at Keawe. No sir. No Knight-Marshal. “Gaer stays here. I’ll take responsibility for him.”
Keawe’s jaw slid and locked forward, eyes down to slits. Mother Quellis frowned, and looked at Tobin with a clear expectation that he’d intervene and discipline his lieutenant.
He might. He could. Iari swallowed a rush of panicked what if, and had faith.
Tobin took a slow, deliberate breath. Let it out. “The ambassador is in my Aedis, and as this is a military matter, he is under my jurisdiction. He is involved in this at all because I asked him. Lieutenant Iari is correct. We are not going to arrest Gaer. Nor are we relocating him.” He glanced at Iari. Now, now, she saw a faint, grim smile. “I have something else in mind.”
* * *
—
The hospice hallways were cool, dim, after the courtyard. Empty, too, after the furious closeness of Tobin’s office. Mother Quellis had yielded, finally—had to, because Tobin knew the intricacies of Aedis authority and treaty subsections and because Keawe had, after some sputtering, backed his plan. Templar response to Brood was th
e province of Knight-Marshals, not Mothers.
Iari’s presence hadn’t loaned any weight to his arguments, but she was the reason for their shape, and for the result. And so it was her duty (not pleasure, oh no) to deliver that result to Gaer.
Vakari dorsal spines didn’t lend themselves well to lying flat. Healthy vakari, according to Iffy, slept on a sort of perch, leaning forward onto a cushioned surface or into a sling, for support. But given the extent and placement of Gaer’s injuries, they—Iffy and Diran—had rigged up a sort of sling in place of the usual hospice bed. Iari could see the apparatus hanging off the ceiling, sharing space with the med-mecha tracks.
She stopped outside the curtain.
“Gaer?”
Silence. What might’ve been a faint sigh. “Iari. I thought I recognized your stomping.”
Take that as a come in. She twitched the curtain aside. Gaer hung in his sling, a familiar book cradled between his hands. Meditations. Her copy. Iari squinted. Looked like he was somewhere in Chapter Three.
He closed the book carefully and set it aside. “How do I look? Sister Iphigenia will not give me a mirror.”
“Better than you did. And she says, call her Iffy.”
Gaer’s eyes narrowed. Amusement, she thought, not ire. “Now I know it’s serious. You’re being diplomatic. Help me out of this setatir sling, will you?”
“Why?”
He poked his chin—carefully, no sudden movements—at the side table. “I need my optic. I trust you’ve repaired it.”
“You have a concussion. No optic allowed.”
“I suppose Sister Iffy told you that?”
“She didn’t. I read the report.”
“Sss. Patient confidentiality doesn’t mean much, does it?”
Iffy had made much the same argument, very briefly, before Iari had pulled out the words official and report and Hrok’s breath, Iffy, Tobin knows, fifteen people in the Five Tribes embassy know, let me read the slagging thing.
Iari shrugged. “You’re not supposed to be arithmancing. Not for another day, at least.”
“Which is exactly why Seawall’s sending a ship for me now. Oh, don’t look at me that way. I’m a spy.”
“You mean Iffy came in and told you.”
“Yes. But she wouldn’t help me out of this sling. For that, I need you.” He stretched out a hand. “Please, Iari.”
Oh, ungentle Ptah. Iari gave him her forearm. He smelled like antiseptic. Like metal and blood. And under that, faintly, the scent of burnt sugar that she thought was vakari sweat, or maybe just Gaer.
The med-mecha whirred unhappily and shuttled back and forth on its track. “I have him,” she told it. “Don’t worry. Gaer, about Seawall—”
“I know. They’ll be sending Karaesh’t to collect me. My direct superior. Very polite, and very SPERE. Very arithmancer, yes? Karaesh’t will probably insist on a transfer back to the main embassy. I think I can talk my way back up to B-town eventually, but if not—ss. I don’t know, if not. Karaesh’t might reassign me to a listening post on the edge of alwar territory and assign you some other vakar less susceptible to B-town’s charms. The point is—as soon as she gets me alone, she will have questions. My condition will allow me some, ah, liberty in the depth and accuracy of what I report. I’ll try to stay focused on Jich’e’enfe and that setatir altar, but the chip might come up. Will come up.” He craned his head around until he could pin her with both eyes. “You do have it in custody?”
“It’s in a stasis-chest down in quarantine.”
“Good. It’s Aedian property. No one from the embassy has a right to even look at it. Just don’t touch it. You heretics and your nanomecha. You could be contaminated.”
“Gaer. We know.”
“You should also take custody of my tablet and my notes.”
“They’re in Tobin’s office.”
“The embassy will demand their return. My advice is wipe them. After you copy the data. You have copied the data, yes?”
“Yes. But we haven’t wiped anything yet.”
“Tobin’s having a conscience about it, is he? Worried about offending the Five Tribes? He won’t. Karaesh’t will expect him to destroy the data. If I had you in custody, and your tablet full of sensitive data, that’s what I’d do. Although I suppose I’m not technically in custody, whatever evidence I see to the contrary.” He plucked at his hospice robe. “It might be better if I were. You should arrest me. Really. Iari, I’m telling you. Arrest me. Destroy my notes.”
He must be feeling better. So many words. Or he was more scared than he was in pain. At least he’d stopped for breath.
“Shut up and listen. I just came from a meeting with Tobin. The wichu reps to the Synod are charging that the Five Tribes—that SPERE—put a bounty on Jich’e’enfe. They’re saying that SPERE—that you—assassinated her, on orders. They’re demanding we arrest and detain you, pending extradition.”
Gaer recoiled, damn near let go of her arm, damn near dumped himself on the floor. His chromatophores washed vivid crimson. “They are full of neefa-shit.”
“I know. Tobin knows. Mother Quellis knows, too.”
Gaer’s pigments bleached, then greyed neutral again, colorless as his voice. “If Jich’e’enfe’s figured out how to get through Aedian hexes and how to weaponize the Weep, then other people will, too. The Aedis will need arithmantic help—our help, Five Tribes help—” His voice dried up and came back as a ghost of itself. “The wichu will take me apart. You know that. They will know everything. You might as well just give them the chip.”
“Gaer. Ptah’s own sake. Will. You. Listen. Tobin knows his way around the treaties. He found a clause about seconding foreign assets to the Aedis if, quote, possession of those assets is deemed integral to sovereign defense, unquote. Jich’e’enfe had possession of a device that can open Weep fissures, and we’ve got neither her nor that device in custody. Therefore, we have a credible, acute threat to the Confederation, and you’re the closest thing to an expert we’ve got. So—you’re now a foreign asset, and we’re seizing you.”
She braced for a protest. An argument. Even a disapproving hiss. Gaer only looked at her. The socket work around his left eye glinted in the stark hospice teslas like tiny stars.
“I’m . . . property, now? A prisoner?”
“No. You’re free to leave the Aedis grounds, with an escort.”
“What, you?”
“I could assign Char, if you’d prefer.”
“I do not prefer.” He let go of her arm and lurched (threw himself) for the side table. Caught himself, by some miracle, and hung there. “Tobin found a way to refuse my embassy without causing a political incident. Clever Knight-Marshal.”
“Tobin has no intention of refusing any requests. If Karaesh’t wants to take you back to Seawall for questioning, then fine. You go. But we go with you. Me, Luki, and Char. And you come back here, afterward.”
“Oh, Karaesh’t will love that. I’ll end up assigned to a listening post for certain, once this is over.” His talons scraped across the table. Flex. Release. “Do I get any say in this?”
“Do you get a—no. You just said we should arrest you.”
“That was when I thought you wouldn’t.”
Void and dust, ungentle Ptah: this was the one time she wished he’d read her aura. She willed believe me (what color was that?) into her voice. “Listen to me. Tobin had me and Keawe in that office, arguing with Mother Quellis. We both said the wichu couldn’t have you. But Keawe wanted to take you to Windscar. I said she couldn’t. Tobin backed me.”
“You argued with Keawe?” Gaer’s plates (one plate, the one not meshed immobile) flared. “Jareth says it’s madness to attack that which is beyond your strength.”
Iari breathed past the weight in her chest. “Yeah, well. I wouldn’t’ve let the wichu have you, either. No matte
r what anyone said.”
Gaer reached for his optic. He flicked her a look, daring her to protest, and then he pressed it into place, fitting it over his eye socket, securing it to ridge and bone. The seals engaged, hiss and click. The optic blued translucent, then opaque. “Thank you for that, too. We would make terrible fugitives, you and I.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“You look terrible,” Karaesh’t said, which wasn’t a lie. Unkind, but honest, and clearly a poor attempt to unsettle him and set him on the defensive. Gaer expected better of Karaesh’t (a’ratakt’a Tirak, whose foremothers had come late to the Five Tribes heresy, and whose descendants had been trying to redeem themselves ever since). She was usually more . . . subtle. Barbed. Clever.
So read her clumsy insult-honesty as proof of her discomfiture, or perhaps her fury.
Gaer, who had just acquired permission to stand from Sister Iffy, absorbed the insult (it was the truth, really; he’d seen a mirror) without comment and told his first lie of the day.
“I’m glad to see you, Commander.” He gestured at the chair opposite his, across the solid expanse of a Tanisian wood table. “Will you sit?”
The invitation crossed into insolence, subordinate to superior, hedged up on treasonous, as if that were his table and not the Aedis’s. Then Gaer compounded the challenge and bared his teeth in, well, a dare. One of his foremothers had started the Five Tribes heresy: she had been the sub-commander on the Protectorate warship Sissten, and refused to start a war by breaking her word and murdering hostages, even if one of those hostages was contaminated by wichu-built nanomecha—nanomecha which was ancestor to the stuff floating in templars and priests. That might be something the Aedis didn’t know. Might be something they’d forgotten, except the scholars who made knowing obscure facts their business.
