Thrawn Ascendancy Book I: Chaos Rising

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Thalias had never been on an alien ship before. No real surprise there—most of the travel she’d done outside the Ascendancy had been while she was a sky-walker, and the Syndicure wasn’t about to let such a valuable resource stray outside of Chiss control.

But she had been on ships that hosted aliens from the Navigators’ Guild, usually diplomatic or military vessels that wanted to maintain the illusion that the Chiss had no navigators of their own but also didn’t want to be at the mercy of those aliens if quick travel became necessary.

She’d asked one of the senior officers once what would happen if the regular sky-walker had to take over navigation and the alien navigator learned the Ascendancy’s secret. The answer had been vague, but there’d been a coldness in the officer’s eyes that had kept her from ever asking again.

But just because the aliens couldn’t be allowed to see her didn’t mean she wasn’t allowed to see them. On most of those trips, the ship’s commander was happy to let her watch one of the bridge monitor viewscreens, just to see how other navigators did things.

It was never as exciting as she expected. Mostly the navigators just sat there, sometimes with their eyes closed, sometimes with them wide open, occasionally twitching the controls as something loomed ahead that the ship had to avoid. It was a long time before she realized that her own sky-walker performance was probably just as dull to watch as theirs.

But here, on a Garwian ship, with her identity and former status of no interest to anyone, she might have a chance to actually observe the navigator up close. Maybe see if there was enough left of her Third Sight to sense what he or she was actually doing.

That was fiercely unlikely, of course. In fact, the chances were virtually zero. Third Sight always left a sky-walker by age fourteen or fifteen, and those years were far in Thalias’s past.

Still, as far as she knew, no one had ever tried putting a former sky-walker next to a functioning alien navigator. That alone made it worth trying. As Thrawn had once told her, negative information was still information.

The nighttime bridge crew turned out to be even smaller than the equivalent aboard Chiss ships: just three Garwians, plus of course the navigator. One of the Garwians, presumably the officer in charge, looked up as Thalias came through the hatch. “What are you doing here, Chiss?” she challenged.

“I am companion to Artistic Master Svorno,” Thalias said, bowing low and keeping her shoulders hunched. She and Thrawn had discussed just how much they wanted to broadcast her supposed hostage identity: too little and the Nikardun might not hear about it, too much and the fact it was allegedly a Chiss cultural secret could start unraveling. Their decision was for her to call herself a companion, but at the same time present the stance and manner of someone whose life was held in another’s hands.

A role that was proving disturbingly easy to settle into. “He asked me to note and memorize the artistic tattoos on our navigator’s face.”

“Your master is ill informed,” the Garwian said tartly. “It’s the Vector One navigators who have tattoos. We fly today with a Pathfinder.”

“They have no tattoos?” Thalias asked, frowning. “Are you certain?”

The officer waved toward the figure in the navigator’s seat. “See for yourself.”

Hiding a smile, Thalias crossed to the board, focusing on the figure as she stretched out with all her senses. She caught a whiff of something spicy—somehow, none of the material she’d read on Pathfinders had mentioned they had a distinctive odor—but there was nothing else. She kept at it, coming right up behind him. Still nothing.

Negative information. Still, it had been worth a try. She stepped around the side of the chair, remembering she was supposed to confirm Pathfinders didn’t tattoo their faces—

It was all she could do to keep from gasping with surprise and horror. The alien sitting there—the facial contours, the shape of the cheek winglets, the flow pattern of the bristles above his eyes—she’d seen this one before. In fact—

“I told you,” the Garwian said, her tone a mix of satisfaction and contempt.

Thalias nodded, searching for her voice as she took one final, painfully careful look. There was no doubt. “You were right,” she agreed. She stepped away from the chair and bowed again to the Garwian. “My apologies for the intrusion.”

Thrawn was in the study section of their suite when she returned. “We have trouble,” she said without preamble.

He set down his questis, his eyes steady on her. “Explain.”

“You remember that Pathfinder you hired for the Springhawk’s raid on Rapacc?” Thalias asked.

“Of course. Qilori of Uandualon.”

“Right,” Thalias said. “He’s on the bridge right now.”

Thrawn raised an eyebrow. “Is he, now.”

“That’s all?” Thalias demanded. “Is he, now? Seems to me a situation like this calls for a stronger response than just is he, now.”

“What would you suggest we do?” Thrawn asked calmly. “Ask Frangelic to stop the ship so we can get off? Urge him to imprison Qilori the minute we leave hyperspace, possibly resulting in a boycott of the Garwian Unity by the entire Navigators’ Guild?”

“No, of course not,” Thalias ground out. She hated when people went immediately to worst-case scenarios. “What if he sees us? Or rather, what if he sees you? What if the Nikardun are on Primea? Because they’re already out for your blood. A casual word or slip of the tongue from Qilori, and we’ll be running for our lives.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn said, his eyes narrowing in thought. “On the other hand…”

“On the other hand what?”

“Hardly the right tone for a hostage to take toward her master,” Thrawn said.

“I’ll keep that in mind. On the other hand what?”

“Our goal is to gather information on the Nikardun and their plans,” Thrawn said slowly, his eyes still narrowed. “We’ve stirred them up at Rapacc and Urch. Perhaps it’s time now to do the same at Primea.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Thalias warned. “What if Frangelic doesn’t agree?”

“I wasn’t planning to tell him.”

Thalias felt her lip twist. “That’s what I thought.”

“Don’t worry,” Thrawn soothed. “If we do it right, none of it will reflect badly on the Garwians.”

“Great,” Thalias said heavily. She could appreciate Thrawn’s consideration for their hosts.

But to be honest, it wasn’t the Garwians she was worried about.

Qilori had always hated foreign receptions. Diplomatic receptions were even worse. The strange voices and sounds, the odd and often disgusting faces and body types, the alien odors—especially the alien odors—all of it added up to the waste of an evening, a day, or occasionally an entire excruciating week. All in all, he would much rather have stayed in orbit on the Garwian ship.

But Yiv was here, and he’d ordered Qilori to come down to deliver a firsthand report on the situation in Qilori’s part of the Chaos. And so Qilori was here, too, suffering through the alien odors, watching and waiting his turn from a distance as the Benevolent held jovial court in a corner with some alien diplomats. If Yiv finished his debriefing quickly enough, maybe he could talk the Garwian shuttle pilot into running him back to the ship while the rest of the delegation talked or drank themselves stupid or did whatever else they’d come here for.

“Your makeup is untidy,” a severe voice came quietly from behind him. “A family hostage needs to maintain proper decorum. Go elsewhere and fix it.”

A familiar voice, somehow. Frowning, Qilori turned around.

A pair of Chiss, one male and one female, stood a couple of meters back. The male was tall with a haughty demeanor and full Chiss formalwear robes draped over his shoulders, while the female was shorter, dressed in a far less elaborate outfit, with some kind of thick, textured makeup slathered on her face. Her shoulders were rounded, her eyes lowered, her expression like that of a favored pet who’s just been slapped. Qilori watched as she bowed low and slipped away through the crowd of chatting dignitaries.

Qilori looked back at the male, wondering who the female was to him and why she’d reacted so strongly to his rebuke. His face, now in profile, seemed as vaguely familiar as his voice.

He felt his winglets go rigid. The face—the voice—

It was Thrawn.

The Chiss turned away, but for those first few seconds Qilori was rooted to the spot. He’d been told there were two Chiss aboard the Garwian ship he’d been hired to navigate, but they were supposed to be some stuffy academic type and his companion or servant or some such.

Only it wasn’t. It was Thrawn. Thrawn in civilian garb, running under an assumed name. And that could only mean one thing.

A big, fat bonus.

His first impulse was to head straight over to the Benevolent, cut into whatever conversation he was having, and give him the news. But common sense and caution intervened. Even if Yiv didn’t have him whipped for sheer insolence, breaking protocol that way would draw unwelcome attention. Better—and safer—to wait until the Benevolent had a moment free.

And while he waited for that moment…

Thrawn was standing by the sweet-sour section of the food array, surveying the different offerings, when Qilori caught up with him. “I’d stay away from the kiki,” he warned, pointing to a mix of red, orange, and pale-blue half-moons. “It takes a particular set of digestive juices to handle it properly.”

“Interesting,” Thrawn said, peering more closely at the bowl. “Odd that our hosts would even include such a specialized dish.”

“Maybe,” Qilori said. “But you’d be surprised how many people will gladly trade a minute of delectable taste for an hour of gastric discomfort. I believe you were aboard my ship.”

“Your ship?” Thrawn frowned, and then his expression cleared. “Ah—you mean you were Envoy Proslis’s navigator. I’m Artistic Master Svorno, chief curator of the Nunech Art Collection.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Qilori said, wondering briefly if he should give his own name or instead come up with something fictitious.

Neither, he decided. Even if Thrawn didn’t recognize Qilori’s face, he might remember his name, and a false name would be too easy to expose. “What brings you to Primea?”

“The hope of finally putting to rest the absurd theory that the Vaks and Garwians had a trade relationship back in the Midorian Era,” Thrawn said. “It was proposed eighty years ago by that fool Professor—” He broke off. “But of course, you’re not interested in such things.”

“I’m afraid history and artistic theory are far above my intelligence,” Qilori said politely with a flicker of cynical amusement. Thrawn could change his name and play dress-up all he wanted, but he would never pass himself off as a true academic until he recognized that such people loved to rattle on about their specialties whether their audiences wanted to hear it or not. “But I’m sure the Vak records will have everything you’re looking for. Can I offer any introductions?”

“I’ve already spoken with all those I need to,” Thrawn said, craning his neck and looking around. “I’m also familiar with most of the species here. Few of them have art that’s worthy of the name.” He lifted a finger. “I haven’t seen one of those before. You know them?”

Qilori felt his winglets stiffen. Thrawn was pointing straight at Yiv. “I believe they’re called Nikardun.”

“Really,” Thrawn said. “I’ve heard some vague and ridiculous stories about them. I don’t suppose you could get me through that crowd?”

“I might,” Qilori said carefully. Was it really going to be this easy? “I believe the Pathfinders have had some dealings with them. If you’d like to wait here, I’ll go see if he’s amenable to a conversation.”

“All right, but be quick,” Thrawn said. “I have early-rising meetings and can’t remain here much longer.”

“Of course.” Expecting everyone else to bend their schedules around his. That was more like a true senior academic.

Yiv was laughing at some joke when Qilori reached him. The Benevolent’s eyes flicked to him, the rippling of his shoulder symbionts warning the newcomer to wait his turn. Qilori took another step forward, waited until Yiv paused for a breath, and cleared his throat. “He’s here,” he said quietly.

“Who’s here?” one of the Vaks chortled, sparking another chorus of laughter. Either Qilori had unwittingly provided an extra punch line to the current joke or else the group was so drunk they were ready to laugh at anything.

But all the humor had vanished from Yiv’s face. “He is here?” he asked.

Qilori nodded.

Abruptly, Yiv boomed out a laugh, the sudden sound startling all the others to silence. “A moment of leave, my fine friends,” he said with a cheerfulness that didn’t extend to his eyes. “I must bid you all farewell for a few moments. I suggest you avail yourselves of the lavish dining display provided by our hosts.”

Qilori waited until the crowd had cleared out. Then, at Yiv’s small gesture, he stepped to the Benevolent’s chair. “Thrawn?” Yiv asked, in a tone warning that Qilori had better not have interrupted him for anything less important.

“Yes, your Benevolence,” Qilori confirmed. “He’s at mid-distance behind me, dressed in Chiss formalwear.” He dared a smiling twitch of his winglets. “He’s traveling as an art expert under the name Svorno. He’s also heard of the Nikardun and would very much like to meet one.”

“Would he, now,” Yiv said, his symbionts settling into their epaulet pattern. “Let’s not disappoint him, then. Please; bring him over.”

“Yes, your Benevolence.”

Qilori turned and retraced his steps to where Thrawn was waiting. “Come with me,” he said. “General Yiv the Benevolent will see you now.”

“General Yiv,” Thrawn said, scowling. “A military type. So. Unlikely to know anything about his species’ art, then.”

“I really don’t know,” Qilori said, feeling sudden tension in his winglets. Surely Thrawn wasn’t going to back out of the meeting now? The consequences of such a blatant snub might be catastrophic, and not just to Thrawn and the Chiss. “But he might. You never know what bits of knowledge military people have tucked away. You should at least take a moment and ask him.”

Thrawn considered, then gave a small shrug. “Oh, very well. If only because I can’t properly retire to my quarters until my…companion…returns.”

“Yes, that’s—I’m sure you’ll find the general interesting,” Qilori said. Companion…but hadn’t he called the female a hostage before?

But that didn’t make any sense. What kind of hostage traveled openly with her captor? For that matter, since when did the Chiss culture deal with hostages? “Come with me.”

Yiv was waiting silently as the Pathfinder and Chiss approached, a half smile on his face, an unblinking gaze in his eyes. “Your Benevolence, may I present Artistic Master Svorno of the Chiss Ascendancy. Master Svorno, General Yiv the Benevolent of the Nikardun Destiny.”

“General,” Thrawn said, inclining his head in greeting. “I understand that you’re a military man.”

“That’s right, Art Master,” Yiv said. “I understand that you aren’t.”

A hint of a smile touched Thrawn’s lips. “Indeed,” he said. “A shame. Military men are so seldom interested in art.” He half turned and pointed to a large decorated cloth hanging from the ceiling to near the floor. “That tapestry over there, for instance. I would wager you haven’t even noticed it.”

“Of course I have,” Yiv said. “It hangs between the hard-drinks table and the private entrance to the premier’s office suite.”

“Really,” Thrawn said, looking back at the tapestry and the unassuming door beside it. “How do you know that’s the premier’s private door?”

“Because I’ve been in his office, of course,” Yiv said. “He and I have had many long and interesting conversations together. Would you be so good as to fetch me a drink?”

Thrawn half turned in the other direction, where a waiter was just passing by, and deftly plucked one of the sculpted glasses from his tray. “And the premier invited you in by that door?” he asked.

“No, I’ve always been brought in through the public entrance on the other side,” Yiv said. “But I have a skill with architecture, and it was obvious where the door marking the private entrance exited here into the grand assembly chamber.”

“I suppose I can understand the premier wanting a quick escape from the tedium of these events.” Thrawn sniffed at the drink, then stepped forward and offered it to Yiv. “I trust this will be to your liking.”

“I’m certain it will,” the Benevolent said. He held the glass up to his left shoulder, watching with casual interest as one of the symbiont’s tendrils slipped in and sampled the liquid. “Yes, I imagine the premier might occasionally wish to move back and forth between public and private events. I personally find it more interesting that the passageway between the two rooms is too long.”

“What do you mean, too long?”

“Longer than it should be, given the design of the area,” Yiv said. “I trust you aren’t offended by my little pet?”

“Not at all,” Thrawn assured him. “A poison detector, I presume?”

“Poisons and other inconveniences,” Yiv said. He pulled the glass away from the tendril, watched a moment as it continued to undulate, then took a sip of the drink. “They’re faster and more precise than most inorganic tests for such things. They also provide an interesting topic for conversation when all others lag.”

“Interesting that you say they.” Thrawn said. “I would assume the correct term was it.”

Yiv chuckled. “You see? Already it offers opportunity for discussion. Why would you guess the premier needs a too-long passageway?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Thrawn said. “Perhaps a hidden door built into the corridor wall leads to additional quarters or a sanctuary. Or perhaps the extra space is for a guard station to prevent others from using the shortcut. Tell me, what do you see in the design of the tapestry?”

“I’m hardly an expert,” Yiv protested mildly.

“You asked my thoughts on the premier’s private comings and goings,” Thrawn reminded him. “It only seems fair for you to indulge me in turn.”

Yiv took another sip and studied the cloth. “Symmetrical pattern,” he said. “Contrasting colors. Different sets of contrasting colors, becoming brighter and tending toward red and blue as it flows from top to bottom. The fringe on the left-hand edge seems shorter than the corresponding fringe on the right.”

“Shorter, and the threads are also slightly thicker than those on the right,” Thrawn said.

“Are they? I can’t tell from this distance.”

“I studied them earlier from a better vantage point.”

“Ah,” Yiv said. “The hanging itself is clearly old, which probably explains the inexpertise of its design and construction.”

“It’s certainly old,” Thrawn said. “But I would submit that the design irregularities are deliberate. It was clearly created by two different weavers working in both coordination and contrast. That suggests the Vaks honor both aspects, working for unity while at the same time celebrating difference and uniqueness.”

“I would say that’s a fair assessment,” Yiv said. “Interesting. And you determined that solely by studying a single hanging?”

“Hardly,” Thrawn said. “There’s a great deal of other artwork here. All of it displays and defines the Vaks’ cultural ethos. What do you see here?”

“I see what all beings see in others,” Yiv said. “Opportunity. For you, the opportunity to add to your knowledge of art. For me, the opportunity to make new friends within the churning sea of life that makes up the Chaos.”

“And if the Vaks don’t wish to be friends to the Nikardun?”

The Benevolent’s smile faded. “We would consider such a rejection to be an insult.”

“An insult that would need to be avenged?”

“To be dealt with,” Yiv corrected. “Avenged is far too savage a word. Your observational skills are impressive.”

“Some things are obvious,” Thrawn said. “The tendrils on your symbiont, for example, with the inside group thinner than those on the outside. I presume from their rhythmic movement that the inner ones sample the air in the same way the outer tendrils sample your food and drink?”

“Indeed,” Yiv said, his smile widening even as his eyes went a shade cooler. “Few people have ever grasped that fact and distinction. None have grasped it so quickly.”

There was a movement at the edge of Qilori’s vision, and he turned to see the Chiss woman slip past him. Thrawn looked over as she walked to his side, peering closely at her face. “Better,” he said. “But not perfect. You will rise an hour early tomorrow morning and practice.”

She bowed low. “Yes, my lord,” she said softly.

“And this is?” Yiv asked, gesturing toward her.

“A person of no consequence,” Thrawn said. “Now that she’s finally returned, it’s time to retire for the night. Thank you for your time, General Yiv. Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to resume this conversation another time.”

“Indeed, Artistic Master Svorno,” Yiv said, inclining his head. “I’ll look forward to it.”

He watched in silence as the two Chiss wended their way through the crowd. Then he again beckoned to Qilori. “So that’s the one who stole my ship from Rapacc,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Interesting.”

“He’s more competent than he seems,” Qilori said, wincing a little. The whole conversation had seemed pretty pointless. If Yiv blamed Qilori for wasting his time—

“You think that display showed incompetence?” the Benevolent said contemptuously, still watching the Chiss. “You think just because there were no loud voices or discharged weapons that we didn’t engage in combat?”

“But—” Qilori looked at Thrawn as he disappeared through an archway.

“Trust me, Pathfinder,” Yiv said, his voice dark, his symbionts undulating in quiet agitation. “I understand this person now, and he is every bit as dangerous as you told me. You were wise to bring him to my attention, and then into my presence.”

“Thank you, your Benevolence,” Qilori said. He still had no idea what had just happened, but if Yiv was pleased he certainly wasn’t going to argue the point. “What are you going to do with him?”

Yiv took a sip of his drink. “The choices are three: to take him as he leaves this event, to do so at another time during his stay on Primea, or to do so as the Garwian envoy leaves for his return to Solitair. All three present difficulties and dangers, not the least of which is my reluctance to move overtly against either the Vaks or the Garwians at this point.”

“Or the Chiss,” Qilori warned.

“The Chiss are irrelevant,” Yiv said scornfully. “They only move after they themselves have been attacked.”

“The capture or murder of a senior officer might qualify.”

“Only if the officer in question is flag rank, commodore or above,” Yiv said.

“Really?” Qilori asked, frowning. “I didn’t know that.”

“I’m not surprised,” Yiv said. “It’s not a subject they talk of openly.”

“Nor presumably do they speak of traveling with hostages,” Qilori said. “But so she appears to be.”

The Benevolent snorted again. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Qilori countered. “I heard him tell her to go fix her makeup, that a family hostage needs to maintain decorum.”

Yiv waved a hand. “A transparent bluff, designed to make me think there are things about the Chiss we don’t know. It was obviously spoken for your benefit.”

“He didn’t know I could hear him.”

“It was a bluff,” Yiv insisted.

But there’d been some hesitation in the Benevolent’s voice just then. Thrawn certainly might be playing him, just as he’d said.

But if he wasn’t—if the Chiss really did have a hidden hostage culture—there might be other, more crucial things about them that were also unknown. “So what will you do?”

Yiv turned an icy stare toward him. “Have you become my confidant?” he asked. “Or been raised to the rank of tactical commander by the Destiny?”

“I beg your Benevolence’s pardon,” Qilori said, cringing back. “I only ask because a decision to take him during the Garwians’ departure may require some level of awareness or participation on my part.”

Yiv eyed him thoughtfully. “A point,” he conceded. “Very well, Pathfinder. Unless I decide differently, the plan will be to intercept the Garwian ship on some pretext as it leaves Primea.” His eyes locked on Qilori’s. “You will make sure they don’t escape into hyperspace before my ships engage.”

“Yes, my lord,” Qilori said, his heart beating painfully. For a Pathfinder to be part of such an operation was a huge violation of every rule and guideline in the Navigators’ Guild code. If it ever came to light, not only would he be finished as a Pathfinder, but depending on the operation’s outcome he might well find himself in the executioner’s chains.

But he had no choice. His ongoing and very private dealings with Yiv had already put him dangerously far over the line. If the Benevolent decided his tame Pathfinder wasn’t useful anymore, Qilori would again find himself on the short track to destruction.

And certainly getting Thrawn out of the way would be a good thing. The Nikardun were ultimately unstoppable, and the less death and destruction they left in their wake the better for everyone.

Yes, Qilori decided. Whatever Yiv wanted him to do, he could certainly handle it.