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The name the man had chosen, it turned out, was Thirty-Six All-Terrain Tundra Vehicle, a revelation that produced in both Mahit and Three Seagrass a kind of stunned silence. “No one would actually name a child that,” Three Seagrass complained after a moment. “He has no taste. Even if his parent or his crèche was from a low-temperature planet with a lot of tundra in need of all-terrain vehicles.”
This was the most animated Mahit had seen Three Seagrass be so far, and it was really making it difficult for Mahit not to like her. She was funny. Thirty-Six All-Terrain Tundra Vehicle was funnier.
Paranoia was a very understandable response when a multitude of people were, in fact, out to get you.
Poetry is for the desperate, and for people who have grown old enough to have something to say.
<It is lonely, being Teixcalaanlitzlim and without all of Teixcalaan,> Yskandr whispered to Mahit. <It is the one thing I do not envy, without a shred of regret.> We’re never alone, Mahit thought. You and I. Never again in this life. <Or the next.>
Empire was empire—the part that seduced and the part that clamped down, jaws like a vise, and shook a planet until its neck was broken and it died.
