“That sounds dangerous,” Thalias warned. “What if Frangelic doesn’t agree?”
“I wasn’t planning to tell him.”
Thalias felt her lip twist. “That’s what I thought.”
“Don’t worry,” Thrawn soothed. “If we do it right, none of it will reflect badly on the Garwians.”
“Great,” Thalias said heavily. She could appreciate Thrawn’s consideration for their hosts.
But to be honest, it wasn’t the Garwians she was worried about.
* * *
—
Qilori had always hated foreign receptions. Diplomatic receptions were even worse. The strange voices and sounds, the odd and often disgusting faces and body types, the alien odors—especially the alien odors—all of it added up to the waste of an evening, a day, or occasionally an entire excruciating week. All in all, he would much rather have stayed in orbit on the Garwian ship.
But Yiv was here, and he’d ordered Qilori to come down to deliver a firsthand report on the situation in Qilori’s part of the Chaos. And so Qilori was here, too, suffering through the alien odors, watching and waiting his turn from a distance as the Benevolent held jovial court in a corner with some alien diplomats. If Yiv finished his debriefing quickly enough, maybe he could talk the Garwian shuttle pilot into running him back to the ship while the rest of the delegation talked or drank themselves stupid or did whatever else they’d come here for.
“Your makeup is untidy,” a severe voice came quietly from behind him. “A family hostage needs to maintain proper decorum. Go elsewhere and fix it.”
A familiar voice, somehow. Frowning, Qilori turned around.
A pair of Chiss, one male and one female, stood a couple of meters back. The male was tall with a haughty demeanor and full Chiss formalwear robes draped over his shoulders, while the female was shorter, dressed in a far less elaborate outfit, with some kind of thick, textured makeup slathered on her face. Her shoulders were rounded, her eyes lowered, her expression like that of a favored pet who’s just been slapped. Qilori watched as she bowed low and slipped away through the crowd of chatting dignitaries.
Qilori looked back at the male, wondering who the female was to him and why she’d reacted so strongly to his rebuke. His face, now in profile, seemed as vaguely familiar as his voice.
He felt his winglets go rigid. The face—the voice—
It was Thrawn.
The Chiss turned away, but for those first few seconds Qilori was rooted to the spot. He’d been told there were two Chiss aboard the Garwian ship he’d been hired to navigate, but they were supposed to be some stuffy academic type and his companion or servant or some such.
Only it wasn’t. It was Thrawn. Thrawn in civilian garb, running under an assumed name. And that could only mean one thing.
A big, fat bonus.
His first impulse was to head straight over to the Benevolent, cut into whatever conversation he was having, and give him the news. But common sense and caution intervened. Even if Yiv didn’t have him whipped for sheer insolence, breaking protocol that way would draw unwelcome attention. Better—and safer—to wait until the Benevolent had a moment free.
And while he waited for that moment…
Thrawn was standing by the sweet-sour section of the food array, surveying the different offerings, when Qilori caught up with him. “I’d stay away from the kiki,” he warned, pointing to a mix of red, orange, and pale-blue half-moons. “It takes a particular set of digestive juices to handle it properly.”
“Interesting,” Thrawn said, peering more closely at the bowl. “Odd that our hosts would even include such a specialized dish.”
“Maybe,” Qilori said. “But you’d be surprised how many people will gladly trade a minute of delectable taste for an hour of gastric discomfort. I believe you were aboard my ship.”
“Your ship?” Thrawn frowned, and then his expression cleared. “Ah—you mean you were Envoy Proslis’s navigator. I’m Artistic Master Svorno, chief curator of the Nunech Art Collection.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Qilori said, wondering briefly if he should give his own name or instead come up with something fictitious.
Neither, he decided. Even if Thrawn didn’t recognize Qilori’s face, he might remember his name, and a false name would be too easy to expose. “What brings you to Primea?”
“The hope of finally putting to rest the absurd theory that the Vaks and Garwians had a trade relationship back in the Midorian Era,” Thrawn said. “It was proposed eighty years ago by that fool Professor—” He broke off. “But of course, you’re not interested in such things.”
“I’m afraid history and artistic theory are far above my intelligence,” Qilori said politely with a flicker of cynical amusement. Thrawn could change his name and play dress-up all he wanted, but he would never pass himself off as a true academic until he recognized that such people loved to rattle on about their specialties whether their audiences wanted to hear it or not. “But I’m sure the Vak records will have everything you’re looking for. Can I offer any introductions?”
“I’ve already spoken with all those I need to,” Thrawn said, craning his neck and looking around. “I’m also familiar with most of the species here. Few of them have art that’s worthy of the name.” He lifted a finger. “I haven’t seen one of those before. You know them?”
Qilori felt his winglets stiffen. Thrawn was pointing straight at Yiv. “I believe they’re called Nikardun.”
“Really,” Thrawn said. “I’ve heard some vague and ridiculous stories about them. I don’t suppose you could get me through that crowd?”
“I might,” Qilori said carefully. Was it really going to be this easy? “I believe the Pathfinders have had some dealings with them. If you’d like to wait here, I’ll go see if he’s amenable to a conversation.”
“All right, but be quick,” Thrawn said. “I have early-rising meetings and can’t remain here much longer.”
“Of course.” Expecting everyone else to bend their schedules around his. That was more like a true senior academic.
Yiv was laughing at some joke when Qilori reached him. The Benevolent’s eyes flicked to him, the rippling of his shoulder symbionts warning the newcomer to wait his turn. Qilori took another step forward, waited until Yiv paused for a breath, and cleared his throat. “He’s here,” he said quietly.
“Who’s here?” one of the Vaks chortled, sparking another chorus of laughter. Either Qilori had unwittingly provided an extra punch line to the current joke or else the group was so drunk they were ready to laugh at anything.