Ancillary Justice (Imperial Radch #1) - Ann Leckie Page 0,68
are we here?”
“To hear the music.”
She raised an eyebrow. “This is music?”
I turned to look at her directly. She flinched, just slightly. “Sorry. It’s just…” She gestured helplessly. Radchaai do have stringed instruments, quite a variety of them, in fact, accrued through several annexations, but playing them in public is considered a slightly risqué act, because one has to play either bare-handed, or in gloves so thin as to be nearly pointless. And this music—the long, slow, uneven phrases that made its rhythms difficult for the Radchaai ear to hear, the harsh, edged tone of the instrument—was not what Seivarden had been brought up to appreciate. “It’s so…”
A woman at a nearby table turned and made a reproving, shushing noise. I gestured conciliation, and turned a cautioning look on Seivarden. For a moment her anger showed in her face and I was sure I would have to take her outside, but she took a breath, and looked at her beer, and drank, and afterward looked steadily ahead in silence.
The piece ended, and the audience rapped fists gently on their tables. The string player somehow looked both impassive and gratified, and launched into another, this one noticeably faster and loud enough for Seivarden to safely whisper to me again. “How long are we going to be here?”
“A while,” I said.
“I’m tired. I want to go back to the room.”
“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.