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.