those of the Stromma.
Trevik focused on the Storm-hairs’ weapons, feeling himself suddenly tensing. Along with the twelve Workers carrying the litters, the Queen’s entourage also included twelve Soldiers, and if the Storm-hairs neglected the proper greeting the Queen might well order the aliens to be disciplined. Trevik hadn’t seen the Storm-hairs’ weapons in action, but he’d heard enough stories to know that he didn’t especially want to. Especially not at close range.
Fortunately, the Storm-hairs knew the correct protocol. “Hail, O Queen of the Red,” one of them intoned as the litter came within the prescribed five paces. “We live to serve, and die to serve.”
The Queen remained silent as the aliens pulled open the doors and the group filed through. Under the circumstances, Trevik decided, her silence was probably a good thing.
The chief of the Storm-hairs was waiting in the center of the gathering area. It was the first time Trevik had seen the area since the Queen had granted them the Dwelling, and he was struck by how alien it had become. Changes in furniture were understandable—after all, the Storm-hairs weren’t built anything like the Quesoth.
But the Storm-hairs had gone far beyond simple comfort and convenience. They had redone the entire room, from the hangings on the walls to the meditation sculptures about the walkways. In fact, even the pattern of the walkways had been changed. It was as if the Dwelling had been transformed into a part of the Storm-hairs’ own world.
“Drink.”
Trevik lifted the bowl, his heart again beginning to pound. Some of the sculptures the Storm-hairs had removed had been from the Queen’s own meditation room. Would she take offense that those treasures had been taken out of sight?
Perhaps she already had. Lifting her face from the nectar bowl, she raised her voice in the high-pitched ululations of Soldier Speak.
Trevik tensed. But the two lines of Soldiers flanking the two litters didn’t surge toward the chief Storm-hair. The commander replied in the same language, and all of the Soldiers spread out across the room toward the Dwelling’s outer doors. They passed through and disappeared into the courtyard, closing the doors behind them.
“Down,” the Queen ordered.
Trevik took a step to the side as the eight Workers carrying the litter lowered it to the floor and then knelt and curled themselves over into the Worker sign of homage. Behind the Queen’s litter, Trevik heard a softer swishing of cloth as the four Workers in the rear likewise lowered Borosiv’s litter.
The chief Storm-hair bowed low, his posture almost a caricature of the Workers’ stance. “Hail, O Queen of the Red,” he said.
Trevik frowned. Was that it? Did he not also live to serve and die to serve, as did the Quesoth and even the other Storm-hairs?
“Drink.”
Hurriedly Trevik stepped back to the litter and offered the bowl. Apparently, the chief Storm-hair had indeed finished his greeting. Even more amazing, the Queen didn’t seem offended by the lack of a death-pledge. It was almost as if she saw him as an equal, the way Trevik would see his brothers of the Seventh as equals.
But that was insane. The Queen /had/ no equals.
The Queen finished her drink and waved Trevik away. “The threat remains, O Nuso Esva,” she said, addressing the chief Storm-hair. “My Circlings have seen the flying cities, black against the stars.”
“The threat remains, O Queen,” the chief Storm-hair—Nuso Esva—agreed. “Let us take further counsel together as to how we may deal with our common enemy.
“Let us speak to the destruction of Grand Admiral Thrawn.”
The other five members of the strategy session were already waiting in the bridge conference room of the Imperial Star Destroyer /Admonitor/when Senior Captain Voss Parck arrived. “My apologies, Admiral; gentles,” he said as he
Trevik focused on the Storm-hairs’ weapons, feeling himself suddenly tensing. Along with the twelve Workers carrying the litters, the Queen’s entourage also included twelve Soldiers, and if the Storm-hairs neglected the proper greeting the Queen might well order the aliens to be disciplined. Trevik hadn’t seen the Storm-hairs’ weapons in action, but he’d heard enough stories to know that he didn’t especially want to. Especially not at close range.
Fortunately, the Storm-hairs knew the correct protocol. “Hail, O Queen of the Red,” one of them intoned as the litter came within the prescribed five paces. “We live to serve, and die to serve.”
The Queen remained silent as the aliens pulled open the doors and the group filed through. Under the circumstances, Trevik decided, her silence was probably a good thing.
The chief of the Storm-hairs was waiting in the center of the gathering area. It was the first time Trevik had seen the area since the Queen had granted them the Dwelling, and he was struck by how alien it had become. Changes in furniture were understandable—after all, the Storm-hairs weren’t built anything like the Quesoth.
But the Storm-hairs had gone far beyond simple comfort and convenience. They had redone the entire room, from the hangings on the walls to the meditation sculptures about the walkways. In fact, even the pattern of the walkways had been changed. It was as if the Dwelling had been transformed into a part of the Storm-hairs’ own world.
“Drink.”
Trevik lifted the bowl, his heart again beginning to pound. Some of the sculptures the Storm-hairs had removed had been from the Queen’s own meditation room. Would she take offense that those treasures had been taken out of sight?
Perhaps she already had. Lifting her face from the nectar bowl, she raised her voice in the high-pitched ululations of Soldier Speak.
Trevik tensed. But the two lines of Soldiers flanking the two litters didn’t surge toward the chief Storm-hair. The commander replied in the same language, and all of the Soldiers spread out across the room toward the Dwelling’s outer doors. They passed through and disappeared into the courtyard, closing the doors behind them.
“Down,” the Queen ordered.
Trevik took a step to the side as the eight Workers carrying the litter lowered it to the floor and then knelt and curled themselves over into the Worker sign of homage. Behind the Queen’s litter, Trevik heard a softer swishing of cloth as the four Workers in the rear likewise lowered Borosiv’s litter.
The chief Storm-hair bowed low, his posture almost a caricature of the Workers’ stance. “Hail, O Queen of the Red,” he said.
Trevik frowned. Was that it? Did he not also live to serve and die to serve, as did the Quesoth and even the other Storm-hairs?
“Drink.”
Hurriedly Trevik stepped back to the litter and offered the bowl. Apparently, the chief Storm-hair had indeed finished his greeting. Even more amazing, the Queen didn’t seem offended by the lack of a death-pledge. It was almost as if she saw him as an equal, the way Trevik would see his brothers of the Seventh as equals.
But that was insane. The Queen /had/ no equals.
The Queen finished her drink and waved Trevik away. “The threat remains, O Nuso Esva,” she said, addressing the chief Storm-hair. “My Circlings have seen the flying cities, black against the stars.”
“The threat remains, O Queen,” the chief Storm-hair—Nuso Esva—agreed. “Let us take further counsel together as to how we may deal with our common enemy.
“Let us speak to the destruction of Grand Admiral Thrawn.”
The other five members of the strategy session were already waiting in the bridge conference room of the Imperial Star Destroyer /Admonitor/when Senior Captain Voss Parck arrived. “My apologies, Admiral; gentles,” he said as he
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