“Do you know where it is?”
She gestured assent. The woman at the other table eyed us disapprovingly. “Go,” I whispered, as quietly as I could and still, I hoped, be heard by Seivarden.
Seivarden left. Not my concern anymore, I told myself, whether she found her way back to our lodgings (and I congratulated myself on having had the foresight to lock my pack in the facility’s safe for the night—even without Strigan’s warning I didn’t trust Seivarden with my belongings or my money) or wandered aimlessly through the city, or walked into the river and drowned—whatever she did, it was no concern of mine and nothing I needed to worry about. I had, instead, a jar of sufficiently decent beer and an evening of music, with the promise of a good singer, and songs I’d never heard before. I was nearer to my goal than I’d ever dared hope to be, and I could, for just this one night, relax.
The singer was excellent, though I didn’t understand any of the words she sang. She came on late, and by then the place was crowded and noisy, though the audience occasionally fell silent over their beer, listening to the music, and the knocking between pieces grew loud and boisterous. I ordered enough beer to justify my continued presence, but did not drink most of it. I’m not human, but my body is, and too much would have dulled my reactions unacceptably.
I stayed quite late, and then walked back to our lodgings along the darkened street, here and there a pair or threesome walking, conversing, ignoring me.
In the tiny room I found Seivarden asleep—motionless, breathing calm, face and limbs slack. Something indefinably still about her suggested that this was the first I’d seen her in real, restful sleep. For the briefest instant I found myself wondering if she’d taken kef, but I knew she had no money, didn’t know anyone here, and didn’t speak any of the languages I had heard so far.
I lay down beside her and slept.
I woke six hours later, and incredibly, Seivarden still lay beside me, still asleep. I didn’t think she had waked while I slept.
She might as well get as much rest as she could. I was, after all, in no hurry. I rose and went out.
Further toward the medical center the street became noisy and crowded. I bought a bowl of hot, milky porridge from a vendor along the side of the walkway, and continued along where the road curved around the hospital and off toward the center of the town. Buses stopped, let passengers off, picked others up, continued on.
In the stream of people, I saw someone I recognized. The girl from Strigan’s, and her mother. They saw me. The girl’s eyes widened, and she frowned slightly. Her mother’s expression didn’t change, but they both swerved to approach me. They had, it seemed, been watching for me.
“Breq,” said the girl, when they had stopped in front of me. Subdued. Uncharacteristically, it seemed.
“Is your uncle all right?” I asked.
“Yes, Uncle is fine.” But clearly something troubled her.
“Your friend,” said her mother, impassive as always. And stopped.
“Yes?”
“Our flier is parked near yours,” the girl said, clearly dreading the communication of bad news. “We saw it when we got back from supper last night.”
“Tell me.” I didn’t enjoy suspense.
Her mother actually frowned. “It’s not there now.”
I said nothing, waiting for the rest.
“You must have disabled it,” she continued. “Your friend took money, and the people who paid him towed the flier away.”
The lot staff must not have questioned it, they had seen Seivarden with me.
“She doesn’t speak any languages,” I protested.
“They made lots of motions!” explained the girl, gesturing widely. “Lots of pointing and speaking very slow.”
I had badly underestimated Seivarden. Of course—she had survived, going from place to place with no language but Radchaai, and likely no money, but still had managed to nearly overdose on kef. More than once, likely. She could manage herself, even if she managed badly. She was entirely capable of getting what she wanted without help. And she had wanted kef, and she had obtained it. At my expense, but that was of no importance to her.
“We knew it couldn’t be right,” said the girl, “because you said you were only stopping the night on the way to space, but no one would have listened to us, we’re just bov herders.” And no doubt the sort of person who would buy a flier with no documentation, no proof of ownership—a flier, moreover, that had obviously been deliberately disabled to prevent its being moved by anyone but the owner—it might very well be a good idea to avoid confronting such a person.
“I would not presume to say,” said the girl’s mother, oblique condemnation, “what sort of friend your friend is.”