Ancillary Mercy (Imperial Radch, #3)

by Ann Leckie

“Well,” I remarked, quietly, to Governor Giarod, who had stopped cold, three steps out of the lift, “you did tell Station that your assistant could handle anything that came up while you were busy with the translator.” Who had stopped when I and the governor had stopped, and was gazing curiously and openly around at the people, the windows on the second level, the huge reliefs of the four Emanations on the façade of the temple of Amaat.

“One or two, actually,” I replied. “Though generally not temples with priests that needed supporting. It’s possible this one didn’t have a resident priesthood.” The district magistrate gestured acceptance of my point. “Let me be frank, Magistrate. It’s you who are under pressure here.”

“At war with herself, you say?” asked the magistrate. “And the Presger here, as you yourself have just pointed out? I’ve heard rumors, Fleet Captain.” “This

thought of my own crew’s obvious fondness for their ship, and Ship’s obvious care of them. Of Ship’s obvious care for Seivarden. And of Sphene, furious at the reminder that it had no captain or crew at all, and no possibility of one. “You’ve

At the same time, the fact that people were living there, the fact that her opponent had already searched several times and found nothing—that might mean it was a very good place to hide things. As long as she never made it seem like she cared about what happened there. As long as nobody ever thought to do any work there.”

“With the utmost respect and deference, begging your very generous and proper indulgence,

“In a thousand years, Lieutenant, nothing you care about will matter. Not even to you—you’ll be dead. So will I, and no one alive will care. Maybe—just maybe—someone will remember our names. More likely those names will be engraved on some dusty memorial pin at the bottom of an old box no one ever opens.” Or Ekalu’s would. There was no reason anyone would make any memorials to me, after my death. “And that thousand years will come, and another and another, to the end of the universe. Think of all the griefs and tragedies, and yes, the triumphs, buried in the past, millions of years of it. Everything for the people who lived them. Nothing now.”

“When you’re doing something like this,” I said, “the odds are irrelevant. You don’t need to know the odds. You need to know how to do the thing you’re trying to do. And then you need to do it. What comes next”—I gestured, the tossing of a handful of omens—“isn’t something you have any control over.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I still don’t understand exactly why what I said hurt you so much. But I don’t need to. It hurt you, and when you told me it hurt you I should have apologized and stopped saying whatever it was. And maybe spent some time trying to understand. Instead of insisting that you manage your feelings to suit me. And I want to say I’m sorry. And I actually mean it this time.”

“Then, Translator, we insist on a conclave. In the meantime we demand that Anaander Mianaai leave this station—leave our territory altogether, in fact, now she knows her treatment of us is in potential violation of the treaty.”

besides, those were all human governments and not one of them was protected by the treaty with the Presger.” “We aren’t, either,” Seivarden pointed out. “And there’s no guarantee we will be.” “True,” I agreed. “But determining our treaty status will take a few years at the least—likely longer. And in the meantime it’s just much safer for everyone else to leave us alone.