Grail by Elizabeth Bear

dogsbody, and—occasionally—a friend.
    He frowned at her now, studying her face—the sharp jaw and small nose, the high forehead over deep-set eyes, the architecture of pride and knowledge and competence that the sharp lines of grief could not diminish. She drew her chin back, straightening so he could imagine the stubsof her wings working under her tunic. “What are
you
looking at?”
    “The best Captain on the ship,” he answered. “Who needs lunch. And probably yesterday’s dinner, too. Have you eaten?”
    She started to shake him off with a hand gesture, but stopped herself. He wondered if it was honesty or concern over revealing too much fragility. After a moment, she licked her lips and glanced away.
    “The Captain is the ship,” he reminded her, although she was already rueful. “Take care of yourself or you can’t take care of us.”
    Nova would have been pressing her to eat. As evidence, a bench beside Perceval’s chair already had covered dishes set on it, but the Angel didn’t command the same moral authority with Perceval that Tristen could. Tristen rolled his eyes at his Captain and got down to the business of sorting through them. He served out portions of beans and black rice, stewed greens, and coffee with honey and almond milk. Once she accepted the plate and the cup, he made a plate for himself as well, and sat down on the grass beside her chair.
    Perceval glanced at it distractedly, wrinkled her nose, and decided upon the grass as well. “You’re worried about something other than tracking down the thieves”—she should have said
murderers
, but Tristen was just as glad she didn’t—“and talking to whoever might already be living on Grail.”
    Tristen bought time with a mouthful of beans and rice, washed down with a full cup of coffee. Perceval poked at her plate, teasing grains of rice apart with the tines of her fork. He should have taken her to task for it, but instead he poured more coffee from the insulated carafe and nursed it.
    “Things have been quiet lately,” he said. “Politically.”
    It was an oversimplification. “Quiet” in the sense that there had been no uprisings, no mutinies, no revolutionsfor going on a decade now … until this latest outrage, which might have been little more than an adolescent prank if it had not cost Caitlin Conn her life.
    What could be important enough about an ancient Earth book—a paper book, at that, full of Builder religious nonsense?—to lose two people over it? Go-Backs might care about the contents, but they cared more about ecological impact.
    There might not have been wars, but there had certainly been politicking, and the situation inside the walls of the world was anything but idyllic. In any case where limited resources existed, people would differ on how best they might be allotted. But the differences had not all been violent. Not after the first fifteen or twenty years, during which time Tristen—
Tristen Tiger
, he thought bitterly—had resumed a role he’d just as soon have left behind. And not after resources had been allotted to repatriating the wounded world’s many Balkanized cultures.
    Still, resentments … persisted. And Tristen shouldered them because the Captain could not—not and still lead effectively.
    “I need to break the news to Dorcas,” he said. “Either she’s involved, and perhaps I can learn something from her reaction—or she’s not, and she might be stirred to do a little investigating of her own.”
    Lightly, Perceval laid her fingers on his wrist. “You are very brave.”
    He shrugged and set his cup aside to free a hand for his fork. It seemed like a cowardly action to scoop sticky coconut-sweet black rice into his mouth rather than to argue, but he didn’t feel brave.
    Perceval waited until he swallowed. “I need you to do more than break the news. I need you and Mallory to find my mother’s killers.”
    Tristen bit his lip, rolling it between his teeth before he released it