I left the mortuary shrine for last. Partly because it was the part of the temple most likely to be crowded with tourists, and partly because I knew it would make me unhappy. It was larger than the other subsidiary shrines, nearly half the size of the vast main hall, filled with shelves and cases crowded with offerings for the dead. All food or flowers. All glass. Glass teacups holding glass tea, glass steam rising above. Mounds of delicate glass roses and leaves. Two dozen different kinds of fruit, fish and greens that nearly gave off a phantom aroma of my supper the night before. You could buy mass-produced versions of these in shops well away from the main concourse, and put them in your home shrine, for gods or for the dead, but these were different, each one a carefully detailed work of art, each one conspicuously labeled with the names of the living donor and the dead recipient, so every visitor could see the pious mourning—and wealth and status—on display.
I probably had enough money to commission such an offering. But if I did so, and labeled it with the appropriate names, it would be the last thing I ever did. And doubtless the priests would refuse it. I had already considered sending money to Lieutenant Awn’s sister, but that, too, would attract unwelcome curiosity. Maybe I could arrange it so that whatever was left would go to her, once I had done what I’d come here to do, but I suspected that would be impossible. Still, thinking it, and thinking of my luxurious room and expensive, beautiful clothes, gave me a twinge of guilt.
At the temple entrance, just as I was about to step out onto the concourse, a soldier stepped into my path. Human, not an ancillary. She bowed. “Excuse me. I have a message from the citizen Vel Osck, captain of Mercy of Kalr.”
The captain who had stared at me as I made my offering to Amaat. The fact she’d sent a soldier to accost me said she thought me worth more trouble than a message through Station’s systems, but not enough to send a lieutenant, or approach me herself. Though that might also have been due to a certain social awkwardness she preferred to push off onto this soldier. It was hard not to notice the slight clumsiness of a sentence designed to avoid a courtesy title. “Your pardon, citizen,” I said. “I don’t know the citizen Vel Osck.”
The soldier gestured, slight, deferential apology. “This morning’s cast indicated the captain would have a fortuitous encounter today. When she noticed you making your offering she was sure you were who was meant.”
Noticing a stranger in the temple, in a place as big as this, was hardly a fortuitous encounter. I was slightly offended that the captain hadn’t even tried to put more effort into it. Mere seconds of thought would have produced something better. “What is the message, citizen?”
“The captain customarily takes tea in the afternoons,” said the soldier, bland and polite, and named a shop just off the concourse. “She would be honored if you would join her.”
The time and place suggested the sort of “social” meeting that was, in reality, a display of influence and associations, and where ostensibly unofficial business would be done.
Captain Vel had no business with me. And she would gain no advantage in being seen with me. “If the captain wants to meet citizen Seivarden…” I began.
“It wasn’t Captain Seivarden the captain encountered in the temple,” the solder answered, again slightly apologetic. Surely she knew how transparent her errand was. “But of course if you wanted to bring Captain Seivarden, Captain Vel would be honored to meet her.”
Of course. And even houseless and broke, Seivarden would get a personal invitation from someone she knew, not a message through station systems, or a this-edge-of-insulting invite from Captain Vel’s errand-runner. But it was exactly what I had wanted. “I can’t speak for Citizen Seivarden, of course,” I said. “Do please thank Captain Vel for the invitation.” The soldier bowed, and left.
Off the concourse I found a shop selling cartons of what was advertised merely as “lunch,” which turned out to be fish again, stewed with fruit. I took it back to my room and sat at the table, eating, considering that console on the wall, a visible link with Station.
Station was as smart as I had ever been, when I had still been a ship. Younger, yes. Less than half my age. But not to be dismissed, not at all. If I was discovered, it would almost certainly be because of Station.
Station hadn’t detected my ancillary implants, all of which I had disabled and hidden as best I could. If it had, I would have already been under arrest. But Station could see at least the basics of my emotional state. Could, with enough information about me, tell when I was lying. Was, certainly, watching me closely.
But emotional states, from Station’s view, from mine when I was Justice of Toren, were just assemblages of medical data, data that were meaningless without context. If, in my present dismal mood, I had just stepped off a ship, Station would possibly see it, but not understand why I felt the way I did, and would not be able to draw any conclusions from it. But the longer I was here, the more of me Station saw, the more data Station would have. It would be able to assemble its own context, its own picture of what I was. And would be able to compare that to what it thought I ought to be.
The danger would be if those two didn’t match. I swallowed a mouthful of fish, looked at the console. “Hello,” I said. “The AI who’s watching me.”
“Honored Ghaiad Breq,” said Station from the console, a placid voice. “Hello. I am usually addressed as Station.”