Akos and I followed the others—at a distance—from the ship, leaving only Rel in our wake. At the front of our group, Ryzek, Yma at his side, greeted a Pithar dignitary, who gave him a curt bow in return.
“What language would you prefer we conduct our business in?” the Pithar said in Shotet so clumsy I barely understood him. He had a thin white mustache that looked more like mold than hair, and wide, dark eyes.
“We are all fluent in Othyrian,” Ryzek said testily. The Shotet had a reputation for only speaking our own language, thanks to my father’s—and now my brother’s—policy of keeping our people ignorant of the galaxy’s true workings, but Ryzek had always been sensitive about the insinuation that he wasn’t multilingual, as if it meant people thought he was stupid.
“That is a relief, sir,” the dignitary said, now in Othyrian. “I am afraid the subtleties of the Shotet language escape me. Allow me to show you all to your sleeping quarters.”
As we passed through the temporary tunnel, beneath the drumming of the rain, I felt a powerful urge to grab a nearby Pithar and beg them to get me out of here, away from Ryzek and his threats and the memory of what he had done to my only friend.
But I couldn’t leave Akos here, and Akos’s eyes were currently fixed on the back of his brother’s head.
There had been four sojourns between this one and the one that had claimed my father’s life. The last one had taken us to Othyr, the wealthiest planet in the galaxy, and there, Ryzek had established the new Shotet policy of diplomacy. Formerly, my mother had taken care of that, charming the leaders of each planet we visited while my father led the scavenge. But after her death, Lazmet had discovered he had no talent for charm—surprising no one—and diplomacy had fallen by the wayside, creating tension between us and the rest of the planets in the galaxy. Ryzek sought to ease that tension planet by planet, smile by smile.
Othyr had welcomed us with a dinner, every inch of their chancellor’s dining room gilded, from the plates to the paint on the walls to the cloth that covered the table. They had chosen that room, the chancellor’s wife had said, for how the color would complement our dark blue formal armor. Graciously, she had also admitted to its ostentatiousness, an elegantly calculated maneuver I had admired even then. The next morning they had treated us all to a session with their personal physician, knowing they possessed the best medical technology in the galaxy. I had declined. I had had enough of doctors for a lifetime.
I knew from the start that Pitha’s welcome would not be as frivolous as Othyr’s. Every culture worshipped something: Othyr, comfort; Ogra, mystery; Thuvhe, iceflowers; Shotet, the current; Pitha, practicality, and so on. They were relentless in their pursuit of the most durable, flexible, multipurpose materials and structures. The chancellor—Natto was her surname, and I had forgotten her given name, since she was never called by it—lived in a large but utilitarian subterranean building made of glass. She was elected by popular vote on Pitha.
The room I was sharing with Akos—the dignitary had given us a suggestive look when he offered it to me, and I had ignored him—opened up to the water, where shadowy creatures moved just out of sight, and everything looked calm, but that was its only decoration. The walls were otherwise plain, the sheets starched and white. A cot set up in the corner stood on metal legs with rubber feet.
The Pithar had arranged not a fine dinner, but what I would have called a ball if there had been dancing involved. Instead, there were just groups of people standing around in what I assumed was the Pithar version of finery: stiff, waterproof fabrics in surprisingly bright colors—all the better to spot them in the rain, maybe—and not a skirt or dress to be found. I regretted, suddenly, my mother’s dress, which fell to my toes, black and high-necked, to disguise most of my currentshadows.
The room was full of murmurs. Moving between each group was a servant with a tray in hand, offering drinks or bites of food. Their synchronized movements were the closest thing to dance here.
“Quiet in here,” Akos said softly, his fingers curling around my elbow. I shivered, trying to ignore it. He’s just dulling your pain, that’s all it is, nothing has changed, everything is the same as it always was. . . .
“Pitha isn’t known for its dances,” I said. “Or any form of combat, either.”
“They’re not your favorite, then, I take it.”
“I like to move.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I could feel his breath against the side of my neck, though he wasn’t that close—my awareness of him was stronger than it had ever been. I tugged my arm free to take the drink the Pithar servant offered.
“What is this?” I said, suddenly aware of my accent. The servant eyed my shadow-stained arm uneasily.
“Its effects are similar to an iceflower blend,” the servant replied. “Dulls the senses, lifts the spirits. Sweet and sour, both.”
Akos also took one, smiling at the servant as she walked on.
“If it’s not made of iceflowers, what’s it made of?” he asked. Thuvhesits worshipped iceflowers, after all. What did he know of other substances?
“I don’t know. Salt water? Engine grease?” I said. “Try it; I’m sure it won’t hurt you.”
We both drank. Across the room, Ryzek and Yma were smiling politely at Chancellor Natto’s husband, Vek. His face had a grayish cast, and his skin sagged from his bones like it was half liquid. Maybe gravity was stronger here. I certainly felt heavier than usual, though that was probably due to Vas’s constant gaze. Making sure I behaved.