"She doesn't celebrate Christmas, unfortunately," the Spirit says to whomever they've dragged along for the ride, "So... this will have to do, I suppose."
The air is thick and muggy and humid and smells of salt and seawater and rotting vegetation; there's the sort of cloying heat that sticks to the skin. All around them is a sprawling city. One and two-story buildings with large, open walls, with rolled-up storm shutters. There are chattering children and flower petals are strewn everywhere. The city is full of a press of people in loose clothing. Pilgrims all flowing toward a grand temple that sits here. There are trees and water plants and a great expanse of swamp or marsh and somewhere the calling of seabirds.
Stock still among all of the movement are figures clad in grey uniforms, their faces perfectly blank. Their bodies absolutely still. They are on the edges of the crowd - a half dozen or more watching them come and go. Most of them have closely-cropped hair and at a glance, it's hard to tell whether they're male or female. All they do is stand there and watch.
"She wasn't participating. Not really. But she was here to see it."
Somewhere, a chorus of rough voices rises in song. A religious chant or homily, some sort of celebration. Bells and gongs accompany it and through the crowd comes another person - again, difficult to tell if male or female, androgynous, wearing loose clothing in the local style and wearing a pin of some sort. A badge of rank. With her is another of the grey-clad figures, moving easily and smoothly, expression perfectly blank. A child approaches them both, ducking out of the throng with a slightly worried expression.
None of these people actually wear Breq's face. Or her face as those on the Rig might know it, anyway.
"Good day, Citizen," says the grey-clad ancillary to the child, "What seems to be the matter?"
"I - I was wondering-" The child starts, hesitates, and the lieutenant makes an encouraging gesture, "...if you need another flower-bearer? For the mornings, I mean."
The lieutenant glances at the ancillary, who says nothing. Looks as blank as ever.
"...I think we might be able to work something out."
Past
The air is thick and muggy and humid and smells of salt and seawater and rotting vegetation; there's the sort of cloying heat that sticks to the skin. All around them is a sprawling city. One and two-story buildings with large, open walls, with rolled-up storm shutters. There are chattering children and flower petals are strewn everywhere. The city is full of a press of people in loose clothing. Pilgrims all flowing toward a grand temple that sits here. There are trees and water plants and a great expanse of swamp or marsh and somewhere the calling of seabirds.
Stock still among all of the movement are figures clad in grey uniforms, their faces perfectly blank. Their bodies absolutely still. They are on the edges of the crowd - a half dozen or more watching them come and go. Most of them have closely-cropped hair and at a glance, it's hard to tell whether they're male or female. All they do is stand there and watch.
"She wasn't participating. Not really. But she was here to see it."
Somewhere, a chorus of rough voices rises in song. A religious chant or homily, some sort of celebration. Bells and gongs accompany it and through the crowd comes another person - again, difficult to tell if male or female, androgynous, wearing loose clothing in the local style and wearing a pin of some sort. A badge of rank. With her is another of the grey-clad figures, moving easily and smoothly, expression perfectly blank. A child approaches them both, ducking out of the throng with a slightly worried expression.
None of these people actually wear Breq's face. Or her face as those on the Rig might know it, anyway.
"Good day, Citizen," says the grey-clad ancillary to the child, "What seems to be the matter?"
"I - I was wondering-" The child starts, hesitates, and the lieutenant makes an encouraging gesture, "...if you need another flower-bearer? For the mornings, I mean."
The lieutenant glances at the ancillary, who says nothing. Looks as blank as ever.
"...I think we might be able to work something out."