A soft tap came from the bathroom. “I can’t come out. My clothes are out there,” Dalton called.
I sighed and looked over at the closed crate, where his discarded clothes laid. He had clearly intended to go through the crate after his shower. Now he couldn’t.
Kamil figured it out. She moved over to the wall by the door, pressed against a section of it that was in no way marked or distinguished. A section of the wall popped out and she drew it all the way out. It was a closet and a robe hung inside it. She pulled the robe from the hook, moved over to the bathroom door and opened it as if she intended to step inside.
Dalton stepped back, shock slithering over his face.
Kamil held out the robe.
Dazed and self-conscious, Dalton took it.
She shut the door and came over to me. Murmured something in Terran.
I was still staring at the hidden closet. Why was it hidden? Then it dawned on me. It wasn’t hidden. The Drigu knew the closet was there. The Terrans figured that was all that was required for us to access the full features of the rooms.
What else was hidden in here? I scanned the walls, particularly any section that appeared featureless. I moved over and pressed sections of the wall experimentally.
Kamil walked over to a different section of the wall and pressed. A panel wavered open and she pulled it all the way open to reveal a control panel. She touched it.
Overhead, a section of the ceiling slid out of the way. I saw grating behind it, then gasped as cool air bathed me. I lifted my chin up and nearly shrieked in happiness. Screw that the wind was moving over my face. I’d take it.
Dalton emerged in a hurry and halted when he saw what I was doing. He held out a hand, feeling the coolness for himself. He took in Kamil by the controls, looked up at the ceiling and nodded. “I’m telling everyone else,” he declared and hurried out of the room, pulling the belt of the robe tighter around him.
I sighed and moved into the damp bathroom. Only it wasn’t damp anymore. There had to be sophisticated controls hidden somewhere, drawing out the moisture from the air. The room was perfectly dry.
I eyed the shower as I shucked off my clothes. I’d broken out in sweat at least a dozen times since stepping off the Lythion—generated by exertion and stress. I was looking forward to getting clean.
The bathroom door opened and I pulled up my trousers once more, startled.
Kamil ignored me and moved over to the shower unit and stood in front of the control panel. She ran her fingers over the panel at lightning speed—she knew the controls very well, apparently. The showerheads all started up, and she reached back to test the water. With a nod, she moved out of the shower and over to where I was, bent and picked up my dirty clothes.
I swallowed, feeling an insane need to cover myself up. But Kamil wasn’t actually looking at me. She was just waiting, with the same non-waiting appearance that Juro had worn.
And now that I thought about it, in the early days when Ven had first come aboard the Lythion, he had sometimes worn the same there-not-there expression.
It was creepy.
I remembered Jai’s suggestion that we do things the Terran way until we figured out our own ways around them. I finished undressing and wavered between dropping my pants on the floor or actually handing them over to Kamil. Handing them over felt like I was encouraging servitude, though.
Kamil took the choice away from me by plucking the trousers from my hand and stepping out of the way.
I moved over to the shower with a sigh of relief and stepped into the water. It was a decent temperature. Not the scalding blast I’d triggered when I’d touched the controls.
Then I nearly shrieked in shock as Kamil’s hands smoothed over my back. I slithered across the shower room and spun to look at her.
She was as naked as I, her small body tanned to leather and lapped with wrinkles. Her hands were covered in soap lather. She looked confused.
I didn’t need a translator to figure this one out. The Drigu actually bathed their masters.
I shook my head. “You don’t have to do that.”
Kamil looked as though she was casting about for a sane response to something she thought was incomprehensible.
I beckoned to her hands. “Give me that.” There was no visible source for soap. Was it another hidden feature?
She held out her soapy hands, her chin jutting out, too. Was she upset because I was refusing to let her help?
I scraped the soap bubbles from her hands and held the small pile in my own. “More,” I said, gesturing to the bubbles.
She pointed at the second shower jet behind me.
I studied the water jetting from it. It was thick and white. The shower was spraying soap.
I gave Kamil the best smile I could manage while being cornered and naked. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.” I stepped over to the other showerhead and ducked under it. The soft patter of soapy suds covered me, and I closed my eyes and turned to let it land upon every inch.
I scrubbed with my hands, and froze when Kamil tapped my arm. I carefully opened one eye.
She held out a cloth and gestured toward me.
I took it. It was softly scratchy on one side, and just soft on the other. Scrub and wash in one cloth. I got to work, wondering where this thing had been hidden. When I was done, I moved over to the just-water showerhead and rinsed off.
Kamil waited at the door, her hand hovering over the controls. I got it. She was going to turn it off when I was done. As she was familiar with the controls and I’d have to nut out the symbols, I nodded at her.
The water and soap suds shut off. Cyclonic wind took its place, whipping around me with heated fingers. I did shriek, this time. I hate wind. Hate it. I ground my teeth together, and turned every which way, my hair flapping in my eyes and scraping at my face and shoulders, but I could feel myself drying.
The thing cut out and I stood in a perfectly dry room. There wasn’t a bead of water anywhere on the floor.
Amazing.
Kamil beckoned.
I sighed and followed her out and over to the counter. She pressed against the wall over the counter and a…drawer, I guess, emerged from the wall. She reached in and pulled out a small bottle, tapped the lid and tipped it up over her hand. A gel-like substance poured onto her palm in a small pile.
She reached toward me, then hesitated and held out her hand. She pointed to my shoulder. Then she dipped a fingertip delicately into the pile of stuff and smoothed it over her own shoulder.
Some sort of skin care chemical, I guessed. I held out my hand. “Okay, gimme some.”
Kamil shook her head, and pointed to my shoulder again. She moved her finger in a circle.
Turn around.
I sighed. If I was to have any chance of getting ready for this formal dinner I didn’t want to attend, tonight, then I was just going to have to suck it up and do it their way.
I turned and presented my back and got my hair out of the way. “Not that you can understand a word of this, Kamil, but I hate this. Just so we’re clear, okay?”
I didn’t expect her to answer.
Expectation met.
*
I don’t know what the stuff was Kamil spent long minutes smearing over me. It seemed like there was a different kind for different parts of me. Dozens of them, in other words. None of them had labels—not that I could have read them, anyway.
She had me sit on the chair out in the front of the room, in another of the robes she pulled from the closet, and spent even more long minutes working on my hair, using equipment and tools she pulled from yet another hidden cupboard.
And there was makeup, too. I guess colored pigments designed to enhance a woman’s attractiveness is a universal thing, because I knew exactly what she was doing when she tilted up my chin, a brush in her hand. That let me relax a little.
While Kamil fussed over me, Dalton returned, this time with Vara and Darb with him. “They found the dried deer meat,” he told me,
hooking a thumb over his shoulder. I’d already got the impression of a pleasant snack from Vara and scratched her head.
Another Drigu stepped into the room with us, which made the place very crowded. He was as short as Kamil, but much younger, wearing a simple tunic like her and bare feet.
I stared at him.
“I got one, too,” Dalton told me. There was an odd note in his voice. He was as unhappy with this as I was. “This is Diomedes…I think.”
Diomedes nodded and thudded his chest with his fist.
Kamil had grown still, a brush held in mid-air, her gaze on the parawolves. Darb was moving about the room, sniffing at everything, his tail out and thick. He was sizing up the room. Vara stayed with me, her gaze upon Kamil.
I lifted Vara’s chin. “This is Kamil. You be nice to her, okay?” I shifted my gaze to Kamil and pointed at Vara. “Vara,” I said.
Dalton pointed at Darb. “Darb.”
Kamil looked terrified. The whites of her eyes were enormous.
Diomedes grinned. He’d clearly had a few minutes to get used to the creatures. Or else he was bluffing like crazy. He laughed and said something fast. Kamil answered in a swift stream of Terran. Her voice trembled.
Diomedes shook his head and said something back. He looked at Dalton, pointed at his chest, then at Darb.
Dalton nodded. “Go ahead. Let him lick you to death. It will save my skin.” He turned to his crate of things while Diomedes moved over to Darb and held out his hand. For a Terran who had never seen a parawolf before—and likely had never seen a real wolf, either—he had good instincts. Darb sniffed his fingers, then nudged them. Then he slid underneath Diomede’s hand until his fingers were right between Darb’s shoulder blades.
Experimentally, Diomedes scratched.
Darb panted happily, encouraging him.
Diomedes scratched harder and Darb’s eyes rolled.
I glanced at Kamil. She stared at Diomedes, fear still thick in her face. I pointed to Vara.
Kamil shook her head.
“Your loss,” I told her. To Vara, I said, “She’s one of those people, sweetheart.”
Vara took things into her own hands. She got up and took a step toward Kamil, who grew very still once more. Vara nuzzled the woman’s hip and gave a little whine—an unusual sound for a parawolf. She was communicating verbally.
Then she sat right in front of Kamil, her paws planted barely a centimeter from Kamil’s feet, and smiled at her, her tongue lolling.
Kamil drew in a shuddering breath.
Vara bent her head and pushed her muzzle into Kamil’s hand.
I give the woman credit. She didn’t snatch her hand away. But she did give a breathless little moan. Then her hand came alive. She rested her trembling fingers on Vara’s head. Stroked.
Vara panted happily.
Kamil gave one last hesitant pat, then took her hand away. She was still fearful, but she wasn’t on the verge of terror anymore. She picked up the brush and returned her attention to my face.
Vara came back to my side and sat, her work done.
Diomedes had been focused upon finding the best places to scratch Darb, but Kamil said something, the tone sharp, and he looked around, his expression alarmed. He saw that Dalton was digging through the crate, pulling out clothes and gear, and almost levitated across the room to take the bundle of clothes out of Dalton’s hand. He spoke quickly, sounding appalled, and shaking his head, as he bundled up everything and waved Dalton away.
“I think he’s going to dress you,” I told Dalton.
Dalton’s jaw flexed. “Nope, not happening,”
“Jai said to suck it up for now, remember?”
“I’ve been putting on my own pants since I was two.”
“Three, at least,” I amended. “Dalton, look at me.”
He made himself look at me, false patience in his eyes.
“If we do it all their way, they’ll relax. We’ll learn things, that way. We’ll learn how they think, at the very least. We can’t learn anything about them while we’re fighting them for something as simple as a glass of water.”
Dalton’s jaw worked. Then, with deep reluctance, he nodded.
An hour later, we were ready for dinner. I felt utterly un-Danny-like, but Dalton’s expression as his gaze moved over me made me reconsider the itchy need to hop back in the shower and wash everything off. “Looks good,” he said gruffly.
There wasn’t much that could be made of the male evening garb beyond a shower and hair brushing. Dalton always kept his short. He had refused makeup when Diomedes brought it out, and all other attempts by the Drigu to adorn him with jewelry and more.
“You’ll be under-dressed,” I warned Dalton.
“No one will notice me standing next to you, anyway,” he told me. “Invisible is just fine, thank you.”
I told Vara to follow me, and we moved out into the common area, where the others were also gathering. Everyone wore glittering finery. Gratia Rosalie, who was already the tallest of us, wore a head dress that added an additional thirty centimeters to her height. She looked me up and down and whistled, which destroyed the delicate, slender impression her clothes and headdress portrayed. “Did they try to wash you, too?” she asked, swaying toward me.
I nodded.
Jai and Arati Georgeson swapped glances. They were both formally dressed, immaculate, and grave.
“It’s the way of it,” I intoned, my expression deadpan.
Everyone laughed.
It was a good note on which to turn and head to a dinner I dreaded.
—12—
Slate and Juro, who I was starting to understand was some sort of senior slave—I would check with Ven about that, later—led all of us along the open gallery toward the front of the building.
The more interesting thing was that all the other Drigu came with us. Kamil managed to stay near to my side even though I made no attempt to watch out for her. She remained on whatever side Vara was not.
The grand spiral staircase wound up through this floor, heading for the top one and we climbed it silently. I think the last few hours had left all of us thought-filled and subdued. And exhausted—and we still had the whole evening ahead before we could truly relax.
Plus I had to keep picking up the front of my dress so I didn’t trip over it, another insult to the general injury this day was delivering. And the formalities and negotiations wouldn’t even start until tomorrow.
At least, not the official kind. That’s why I wasn’t looking forward to this dinner. Despite the “let’s get to know each other and relax” proclamation, I wasn’t fooled. I’d seen generals and politicians maneuver about a “let’s just relax” dinner table and the proverbial blood in the water by the time coffee was served was enough to choke a grelick, three stomachs and all. Often, those dinners were where all the real negotiations took place. The formal meeting the next day was just that—a formality. A media opportunity.
The sun was lowering to the horizon, half hidden behind the coconut palms and other tall trees competing with them for light. Clouds covered much of the pink-colored sky, but they were white, thin things, not the grey brooding clouds that warned of rain or, worse, storms.
“Slate,” I called out, for I was several people behind Jai and his assistant.
“Yes, Danny?” He stepped up the flight as smoothly as any of us.
“Why is this building complex called the Parliamentary Palace?”
“The palace is where the Assembly meets,” he replied.
“The Assembly is the governing body for all the Terran worlds, yes?” Mace had drilled me—well, a whole classroom—on this stuff, so I knew it was, but asking dumb questions seemed to help Slate over-explain. So far, we’d learned a few useful things from his long explanations.
“It is the federal authority,” Slade said. “Each primary family contributes a single member, usually their most senior member, to sit in the Assembly.”
“Each Terran world has its own
authority, though?” Jai asked.
I knew he knew that, too.
“In whatever form that government takes, yes. Sometimes, it is a single man providing leadership for colonists who are more concerned about the next harvest. But only the bigger worlds, those settled by the primary families, are represented in the Assembly.”
“Does that mean the smaller worlds, those without a primary family settled upon them, must obey the Assembly even though they have no voice in it?” Jai asked curiously. It was a genuine curiosity, because we had mulled over this question while learning about the Terrans and had never arrived at an answer.
“Oh, the smaller worlds are family aligned,” Slate replied with a tone that said we should be reassured by that.
“You mean, the smaller worlds without representation are bonded to other worlds that do have representation?” Marlow asked.
Slate had to think about that. He remained silent until he reached the top step, then said diffidently, “The smaller worlds are family, too.” Again with that voice that said well, of course!
“I think that’s ‘yes’, Marlow,” I said, stepping up onto the upper floor myself. Did that mean that not only were the primary families the only ones with a say in governing the Terran worlds, but they also ran little empires of their own? It certainly sounded like it.
This was the front end of the building overlooking the steps—at least, I presume it did, but as the drop from this level would be nearly twenty meters, I had no intention of leaning out over the edge to double check. Visitors and guests would climb the two flights of stairs and emerge here. Fifteen meters away, more walls enclosed the center space of the floor, sweeping out to follow the oval shape of the building, and probably sweeping back in again before they reached the stairs at the back of the building.
Two enormous doors faced us, built into the walls. On either side of the doors, a torch holding real flames burned in a bracket.
Between the doors, clearly waiting for us, was Rayhel Melissa, his skeletal translator assistant hovering nearby. Rayhel still wore black, enhanced with silver threads, but this time the silver decorations ran all over the jacket. The seam down the leg of the pants was also silver. And I wasn’t certain, not from this far away, but I thought he might be wearing eyeliner.
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