CHAPTER 14

I have a couple of hours to pull myself together.

By the time I take one last look at myself in the mirror, I decide I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I’m wearing a different gold robe this time. This one has a delicate imprint of leaves embossed on the fabric, but you can only discern the pattern when the light ripples across the luxurious silken folds. The lines are simple, flowing, and leave my arms bare. Constance has tightened up the split-twist on the back of my head.

The final preparation comes when I outline my eyes in gold and paint my lips a cherry red. From taking note of Ithtorian markings, I’m positive that yellow and red denote the highest status in their society. I look good, I think.

I wonder if I need to worry about declining Devri’s advances politely. When I decided he was the handsome one, I never expected him to respond in kind.

Constance regards me doubtfully. “Are you sure you wish to wear that lipstick, Sirantha Jax?”

I frown. “Why not?”

“I have been researching the meaning of the Grand Administrator’s red claws,” she tells me. “And it seems that she is adorned as a symbol of her ability to protect her people. The red claws are symbolic of her rending prey.”

I follow that to its logical conclusion. “So by painting my mouth red, I’m boasting of my capacity to take prey down with my teeth?”

“I believe so. I do not know whether such a claim would be considered a bold, admirable move, or a savage, barbaric one.”

“Both,” Vel answers, as he comes into my quarters unannounced. “You need not wipe it off. It will impress some and confound others. As it is, at base, an assertion of strength, it will insult none.”

“Good to know.”

“You need only one thing more.” Vel heads for my cosmetic kit and taps a few buttons.

He looks even more naked now that I know he should wear colors on his thorax. The process is intriguing, akin to the primitive art of tattooing. They use a mild acid wash to roughen the smooth carapace, which is then treated with specially formulated ink that bonds with the damaged surface, imbuing a permanent status symbol. If the marked individual fails to honor his or her new rank, the color must be sanded away, leaving an irremediable scar. Since we arrived, I’ve only seen two Ithtorians so penalized, and they were broken things, scurrying like slaves.

“What’s that?” I ask belatedly.

“Something to cover your smell.”

I start to take offense and protest that I’ve just showered, but that would be counterproductive. Maybe I do stink to him. I wish he’d mentioned it sooner, though. Now I’ll sniff self-consciously anytime he comes close.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter.

“I am used to you,” Vel tells me. “The others are not.”

I imagine he’s being gentle. The perfume he synthesized is so subtle I can barely detect it, but the human nose is one of our least powerful assets. As a species, we’re far more audiovisual. As he daubs me with the oil, I detect traces of mimosa and something sweet, but I cannot pin it down.

“Mimosa, jasmine, green leaves, and mandarin,” he tells me, as if he can read the curiosity in my face.

Does Vel know me that well?

I smile. “I can scarcely tell a difference.”

“You would not,” he agrees. “My people can communicate with pheromones, so our olfactory sense is more refined. Such conversation is not deemed suitable for formal occasions, however. It is a much more . . . intimate mode of expression.”

Since he’s being so delicate about it, I decide he must mean as a prelude to mating. I glance at Constance. “So how do I smell?”

“With your nose.” By her expression, I can’t tell if she just made a joke.

I laugh nonetheless. When we step into the hall, I’m amazed to find March, Jael, Hit, and Dina waiting.

They’re all garbed in black, trimmed with gold, and they seem to be ready to play honor guard, just like those who make up the Grand Administrator’s retinue. They fall in by twos, flashing me conspiratorial smiles.

“They won’t let us attend the political stuff,” Jael says with a roguish grin, “but they can’t keep us away from the parties. We watched the verbal sparring for a little while this afternoon, but it was bloody boring.”

“You did well, though,” Dina says. From her, that’s a huge compliment. “At least from what I could tell via Vel’s translations. You really stuck it to Karom.”

Hit grins. “I thought he was going to burst wide open when she made him bow.”

“Yeah, there was serious loss of face involved. I hope he doesn’t try to have me killed.” I glance at Vel.

“He wouldn’t do that . . . would he?”

Vel regards me for a moment before answering, “Not openly.”

While I’m thinking about the implications of that, March lends his arm to Dina, and Jael pairs off with Hit.

That leaves Vel and Constance walking directly behind me, as I set off toward the hall. I feel weirdly like the queen of this procession, but I keep my steps measured in case they’re watching us. Maybe my paranoia will help instead of hurt us here. I try not to think about Tarn’s message or how much is riding on me.

High-ranking officials have been invited to meet us in a social setting, and I hope my crash course has been sufficient to avoid giving offense tonight. It’s understood that my “guards” will not have received the same training, so allowances will be made for them. They’re only ignorant humans, after all. But I’m supposed to be the best humanity has to offer. If everyone wasn’t watching me, I would snort over that.

I pause at the top of the stairs, tucking my arms tight to my body and executing a courteous wa.

Counting, I hold the pose for five seconds, offering honor to those studying my movements. The room is a marvel by human standards. On the floor, they’ve grown that thick, sweet-smelling carpet of foliage, and the walls are hollow honeycomb, covered with the leaves that they use in so many different aspects of their bioarchitecture. Free-climbing vines bloom as they wind around the top of the ceiling, offering flashes of color in red and yellow.

This time, as I descend into the gathering, clicks and chitters resolve into more than noise. It’s both welcome and unnerving at the same time. I have to school my expression to blankness when the meanings assigned to sounds flash through my brain.

“Look at her mouth . . . scandalous. Does she think herself a hunter? Pure presumption, she has no claws at all.”

Serving-class Bugs circulate among us with crystal salvers full of unidentifiable tidbits. The sauces help further conceal what we might be eating. Ever brave, Dina snags something with a tail off one of the platters and pops it into her mouth.

She makes a face. “It’s better if you don’t chew.”

I pass the cluster of Ithtorians who seem fixated on my mouth, and listen to another snatch of conversation.

“I never thought I would see soft-skins walking among us. Are we going to invite them to our homes next? Disgusting. Sharis has gone mad.”

“Well, at least they have some idea how to behave themselves. The last ship that docked here was full of uncouth savages.”

The last ship was two hundred turns ago; humanity has made a few strides since then. But I’m not supposed to understand them. So I keep myself from reacting. I reflect that maybe I was better off not knowing—it doesn’t look like I’ll enjoy this party much.

“And the smell,” another agrees. “Wretched.”

“Their flesh is constantly rotting off them,” one says. “Did you know that? They leave little crumbs of dead skin everywhere they go.”

Claws click in shocked agitation. I study their owner, a tall Ithtorian with pale green stripes on his thorax.

“That is revolting.”

Afterward, I realize I’ve learned to tell the genders apart by the barbs and slits low on their abdomens.

They make no attempt to cover their sexual organs, and males are mirrors of the female, everything on opposite sides to allow latching-on for the exchange of genetic material. From what Vel told me, it’s not a pleasurable enterprise so much as a practical one. His people don’t have sex for fun, not when the female still occasionally loses her mind and tears off her partner’s head while in the throes of mating madness.

“This one does not stink,” a young-looking female dares to say. “In fact, she smells almost . . . agreeable.”

Thanks, Vel. I never thought my personal hygiene would be a subject for discussion at a diplomatic function. My detractors don’t have a lot to say to that, so the conversation shifts focus.

“I will concede that they are not as horrible as I recall.” Shifting to identify this new speaker, I’m surprised to see Councilor Sartha. “But I do wonder why Velith Il-Nok chooses to spend his life among a lesser species.”

Beside me, Vel cannot help but respond to this, as it’s a pointed observation within his hearing. “I was not content with the known,” he tells her. “I wanted more. That makes me anathema, I am aware.”

“Not to me.” Her wide, faceted eyes shimmer. “I would never have hurt you, no matter the stimulus. Did you not believe that?”

The arrival of Councilor Sharis forestalls whatever Vel might have said.