“Ah. Our gallant ensign, eh?” A yellow-haired man set down his glass—a waiter with a tray was there before he had completed the motion—and sauntered forth. His garments were conservatively purple and gray, but they fitted like another skin and showed him to be in better physical shape than most nobles. “Welcome. Hauksberg.”
Flandry saluted. “My lord.”
“At ease, at ease.” Hauksberg made a negligent gesture. “No rank or ceremony tonight. Hate ’em, really.” He took Flandry’s elbow. “C’mon and be introduced.”
The boy’s superiors greeted him with more interest than hitherto. They were men whom Starkad had darkened and leaned; honors sat burnished on their tunics; they could be seen to resent how patronizingly the Terran staffers addressed one of their own. “—and my concubine, the right honorable Persis d’Io.”
“I am privileged to meet you, Ensign,” she said as if she meant it.
Flandry decided she was an adequate substitute for L’Etoile, at least in ornamental function. She was equipped almost as sumptuously as Dragoika, and her shimmerlyn gown emphasized the fact. Otherwise she wore a fire ruby at her throat and a tiara on high-piled crow’s-wing tresses. Her features were either her own or shaped by an imaginative biosculptor: big green eyes, delicately arched nose, generous mouth, uncommon vivacity. “Please get yourself a drink and a smoke,” she said. “You’ll need a soothed larynx. I intend to make you talk a lot.”
“Uh … um—” Flandry barely stopped his toes from digging in the carpet. The hand he closed on a proffered wine glass was damp. “Little to talk about, Donna. Lots of men have, uh, had more exciting things happen to them.”
“Hardly so romantic, though,” Hauksberg said. “Sailin” with a pirate crew, et cet’ra.”
“They’re not pirates, my lord,” Flandry blurted. “Merchants … Pardon me.”
Hauksberg studied him. “You like ’em, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Flandry said. “Very much.” He weighed his words, but they were honest. “Before I got to know the Tigeries well, my mission here was only a duty. Now I want to help them.”
“Commendable. Still, the sea dwellers are also sentient bein’s, what? And the Merseians, for that matter. Pity everyone’s at loggerheads.”
Flandry’s ears burned. Abrams spoke what he dared not: “My lord, those fellow beings of the ensign’s did their level best to kill him.”
“And in retaliation, after he reported, an attack was made on a squadron of theirs,” Hauksberg said sharply. “Three Merseians were killed, plus a human. I was bein’ received by Commandant Runei at the time. Embarrassin’.”
“I don’t doubt the Fodaich stayed courteous to the Emperor’s representative,” Abrams said. “He’s a charming scoundrel when he cares to be. But my lord, we have an authorized, announced policy of paying back any attacks on our mission.” His tone grew sardonic. “It’s a peaceful, advisory mission, in a territory claimed by neither empire. So it’s entitled to protection. Which means that bushwhacking its personnel has got to be made expensive.”
“And if Runei ordered a return raid?” Hauksberg challenged.
“He didn’t, my lord.”
“Not yet. Bit of evidence for Merseia’s conciliatory attitude, what? Or could be my presence influenced Runei. One day soon, though, if these skirmishes continue, a real escalation will set in. Then everybody’ll have the devil’s personal job controllin’ the degree of escalation. Might fail. The time to stop was yesterday.”
“Seems to me Merseia’s escalated quite a big hunk, starting operations this near our main base.”
“The seafolk have done so. They had Merseian help, no doubt, but it’s their war and the landfolk’s. No one else’s.”
Abrams savaged a cold cigar. “My lord,” he growled, “sea-folk and landfolk alike are divided into thousands of communities, scores of civilizations. Many never heard of each other before. The dwellers in the Zletovar were nothing but a nuisance to the Kursovikians, till now. So who gave them the idea of mounting a concerted attack? Who’s gradually changing what was a stable situation into a planet-wide war of race against race? Merseia!”
“You overreach yourself, Commander,” said Captain Abd-es-Salem reluctantly. The viscount’s aides looked appalled.
“No, no.” Hauksberg smiled into the angry brown face confronting him. “I appreciate frankness. Terra’s got quite enough sycophants without exportin’ ’em. How can I find facts as I’m s’posed to without listenin’? Waiter, refill—Commander Abrams’ glass.”