We were on the edge of the galaxy, so the only planets—or pieces of planets—left to see were not populous enough to participate in the Assembly. We called them “peripheral planets,” or just “the brim,” more casually. My mother had urged the Shotet to regard them as our brothers and sisters in the same struggle for legitimacy. My father had privately scoffed at that idea, saying that Shotet was greater than any brim spawn.
I saw one of those planets from this vantage point, just a spot of light ahead, too big to be one of our stars. A bright thread of the currentstream stretched toward it and wrapped around it like a belt.
“P1104,” Yma Zetsyvis said to me, sipping from her mug. “That’s the planet you’re looking at.”
“Have you been there?” I was tense, standing beside her, but I tried to keep my voice light. Behind us the others erupted into laughter at something cousin Vakrez had said.
“Of course not,” Yma said. “The last two sovereigns of Shotet have not permitted travel to brim planets. They—rightfully—want to put distance between us and them in the eyes of the Assembly. We can’t be associated with such rough company if we want to be taken seriously.”
Spoken like a Noavek loyalist. Or more accurately, a Noavek apologist. She knew the script well.
“Right,” I said. “So . . . I take it the interrogations haven’t yielded any results.”
“Some low-level renegades, yes, but none of the key players. And unfortunately, we are running out of time.”
We? I thought. She so confidently included herself as one of my brother’s close associates. Maybe she really had begged him for forgiveness. Maybe she had found another way to ingratiate herself to him.
I shuddered at the thought.
“I know. The currentstream is almost blue. Changing by the day,” I said.
“Indeed. So your brother needs to find someone. Make it public. Show strength before the sojourn. Strategy is, of course, important for unstable times like these.”
“And what’s the strategy if he doesn’t find someone in time?”
Yma turned her strange smile on me. “I would think you already know the strategy. Hasn’t your brother been filling you in, despite your special assignment?”
I got the sense we both knew that my “special assignment” was a lie.
“Of course,” I said dryly. “But you know, with a mind as dull as mine, I forget things like this all the time. I probably forgot to turn off my stove this morning.”
“I sense it will not be difficult for your brother to find a suspect in time for the scavenge,” Yma said. “All they have to do is look the part of a renegade, right?”
“He’s going to frame someone?” I said.
I felt cold at the thought of an innocent person dying because Ryzek needed a scapegoat, and I wasn’t sure why. Months ago—even weeks ago—this would not have troubled me as much. But something Akos had said was working its way through me: that the thing I was did not have to be permanent.
Maybe I could change. Maybe I was changing, just by believing I could.
I thought of the one-eyed woman I had let go, the day of the attack. Her small frame, her distinct movements. If I wanted to, I could find her, I was sure of it.
“A small sacrifice for the good of your brother’s regime.” Yma bobbed her head. “We must all make sacrifices for our own good.”
I turned to her. “What kind of sacrifices have you made?”
She seized my wrist and squeezed it hard. Harder than I thought her capable of. Though I knew my currentgift must be burning into her, she didn’t let go, drawing me closer to her, so I could smell her breath.
“I have denied myself the pleasure of watching you bleed to death,” she whispered.
She released me and moved back toward the group, sashaying as she went. Her long pale hair hung to the middle of her back, perfectly straight. She was like a pillar of white from behind, even her dress such a light blue it almost matched.
I rubbed my wrist, my skin red from her grasp. I would bruise, I was sure of it.
The clatter of pans stopped when I walked into the kitchens. A smaller selection of our staff worked on the sojourn ship than in Noavek manor, but I recognized some of the faces. And the gifts, too—one of the scrubbers was making the pots float, suds dripping on the backs of his hands, and one of the choppers was doing the task with her eyes closed, the knife strokes clean and even.
Otega had her head in the coldbox. When silence fell, she straightened, and wiped her hands off on her apron.
“Ah, Cyra,” she said. “No one makes a room quiet like you.”
The other staff stared openly at her for her familiarity, but I only laughed a little. Even when I hadn’t seen her in a while—I had surpassed her capacity to teach me last season; now we saw each other only rarely, in passing—she fell back into our old rhythms without trouble.
“It’s a unique talent,” I replied. “Can I speak with you in private, please?”
“You phrase it like a question when it’s really an order,” Otega said, waggling her eyebrows. “Follow me. I trust you don’t mind chatting in the garbage closet.”