Ancillary Sword by Ann Leckie Read Free Book Online Page A

matter what because their minds were complicated.”
    “Yes.” She had said that. At a time when other, more urgent matters pressed, so there could be no real discussion of it.
    “But Ships do love people. I mean, particular people.” For some reason saying that made her nervous, triggered a tiny spike of apprehension in her. To cover it, she picked up her tea, drank. Set down the lovely deep rose bowl, carefully. “And that’s a breaking point, isn’t it? I mean, it can be. Why not just make all the ships love
her
?”
    “Because that’s potentially a breaking point.” She looked at me, frowning, not understanding. “Do you love randomly?”
    She blinked in bewilderment. “What?”
    “Do you love at random? Like pulling counters out of a box? You love whichever one came to hand? Or is there something about certain people that makes them likely to be loved by you?”
    “I… think I see.” She set down her utensil, the untasted bit of fish it held. “I guess I see what you mean. But I’m not sure what that has to do with…”
    “If there’s something about a certain person that makes it likely you’d love them, what happens if that changes? And they’re not really that person anymore?”
    “I guess,” she said, slowly, thoughtfully, “I assume that real love doesn’t break for anything.”
Real love
, to a Radchaai, wasn’t only romantic, between lovers. Wasn’t only between parent and child.
Real love
could also exist between patron and client. Was supposed to, ideally. “I mean,” Seivarden continued, inexplicably embarrassed, “imagine your parents not loving you anymore.” Another frown. Another surge of apprehension. “Would you ever have stopped loving Lieutenant Awn?”
    “If,” I replied, after a deliberate bite and swallow of breakfast, “she had ever become someone other than who she was.” Still incomprehension from Seivarden. “Who is Anaander Mianaai?”
    She understood, then, I could tell by the feeling of unease I read in her. “Even she’s not sure, is she. She might be two people. Or more.”
    “And over three thousand years she’ll have changed. Everyone does, who isn’t dead. How much can a person change and still be the same? And how could she predict how much she might change over thousands of years, and what might break as a result? It’s much easier to use something else. Duty, say. Loyalty to an idea.”
    “Justice,” said Seivarden, aware of the irony, of what used to be my own name. “Propriety. Benefit.”
    That last, benefit, was the slippery one. “Any or all of them will do,” I agreed. “And then you keep track of ships’ favorites so you don’t provoke any sort of conflict. Or so you can use those attachments to your advantage.”
    “I see,” she said. And applied herself silently to the rest of her supper.
    When the food was eaten, and Kalr Five had returned and cleared the dishes and poured us more tea, and left again, Seivarden spoke again. “Sir,” she said. Ship’s business, then. I knew what it would be. The soldiers of Amaat and Etrepa had already seen Bo, up well past their sleep time, all ten of them scrubbing desperately, taking fittings apart, lifting grates, poring over every millimeter, every crack and crevice, of their part of Ship’s maintenance. When Lieutenant Ekalu had relieved Seivarden on watch she’d stopped, dared a few words.
Don’t mean to offend… Thought you might mention to Sir…
Seivarden had been confused, partly by Lieutenant Ekalu’s accent, partly by the use of
Sir
instead of
the fleet captain
, the remnant of Ekalu’s days as Amaat One, the habit this crew had of speaking so as not to attract the captain’s notice. But mostly, it turned out, confused by the suggestion she might be offended. Ekalu was too embarrassed to explain herself. “Do you think, maybe,” Seivarden said to me, doubtless knowing I might well have overheard that exchange, in Command, “you’re being a little hard on