* * *
Yaut had found Wrot—or rather, Wrot had found him, shortly after they returned from Salem. Wrot and Yaut were old comrades, who’d served together long ago in the conquest of Hos Tir. “When we were both young and reckless,” as Yaut had put it, his posture one of amused-affection-remembered.
Aille had studied the old veteran, after Yaut presented him. He still seemed sturdy and clear-eyed, though his vai camiti was so scarred, Aille had difficulty discerning its original pattern.
The Jao, with a total lack of self-consciousness, was staring back in rapt-attention. “Subcommandant,” he said. “We heard Pluthrak had granted us a scion, but I came up to see for myself.” He blinked. “There’s no mistaking that vai camiti.”
“Came from where?” Aille asked.
“The population cluster of Portland,” the veteran said. “I have been living there since my retirement. I rode up with the troops assigned to this exercise. There are still more than a few who know my face.”
Several small explosions lit up in the distance, and he turned to gaze at them, his body shifting into a rough rendition of grim-disapproval. “You will lose a lot of people before this is over,” he said, “many more than necessary. Humans excel in this sort of fight.”
“You have seen this type of battle before, then?”
“Too many times,” the fellow said and gestured at his scarred face. “Took my share of wounds too; more than my share, some would say.”
Yaut was gazing at the two of them and there was something in his stance, an element Aille couldn’t quite interpret. He wanted something, expected something of him . . . Yaut’s eyes glittered bright green in the darkness, like a signal about to illuminate.
Then Aille realized the opportunity this fellow’s experience on this world represented. “Your name?” he asked.
Lines of pure pleasure suffused the old veteran’s body. “Wrot krinnu Hemm vau Wathnak.”
Hemm was an outlying junior kochan allied with larger Wathnak, reportedly rustic and uncultured. Reliable, but too blunt to forge new associations easily. He’d never heard they were otherwise than sturdily honest, though. “I could make good use of an additional seasoned voice, especially one familiar with this world.”
It was an invitation, only, since it could be nothing else. Alongside his many bars of service, Wrot had the mark of retirement carved on his cheek also—the bauta, as it was called. The term derived from bau, and indicated a life completed to the satisfaction of both kochan and Naukra.
For Jao, the status and the cheek mark was voluntary. Most chose never to take it, even when so entitled—Yaut had not, for instance, though he certainly could—because it removed all automatic associations, even kochan. An individual who chose the bauta thereby chose to spend what remained of his life however he wished. Great freedom, yes, because no one could any longer command him. But also, for most Jao, a life too lonely and dissociated to be enjoyable.
Wrot glanced aside at Kralik, who was bleeding from the small wound he’d received earlier with almost Jao stoicism. “I heard you have taken more than one human into your service,” he said.
Was that disapproval canting those bedraggled ears? “I have,” Aille said. “How else am I to understand this world and make myself of use?”
“Quite right,” Wrot said, “and very sensible for one of your youth. More sensible than that arrogant imbecile Narvo sent here to be Governor, for a certainty. It would be an honor to serve Pluthrak.”
“Welcome to my service, then,” Aille said, his angles set in respectful-welcome. “You do me and Pluthrak honor.”
Which was true, of course. Rarely did a bauta accept personal service. But Aille made a mental note not to use Wrot for delicate negotiations. Whatever the old bauta’s skills and abilities—which must be great, or Yaut would not be looking so pleased—tact was clearly not one of them.
* * *
“You enjoy the company of humans?” Aille asked
“Oh, yes,” Wrot replied. “Not that they don’t often aggravate me. But they are a more clever people than we, and I enjoy cleverness. And at my age—especially being Hemm, which humans would call ‘stick-in-the-muds’—and having spent a life on campaign, I find my current existence on Terra endlessly interesting. Humans have more ways to divert and entertain themselves than you can imagine, and I enjoy many of them. They have a saying for that too, of course. I think they have a saying for everything. ‘How are you going to keep them down on the farm, once they’ve been to Gay Paree’?”