Page 154 of The Space Between Stars

“The negotiations begin.”

“And end quickly, with any luck.” She might still have time to attend the labs before evening meals when this was over.

Her mother did not correct her. Probably because she agreed. Her cabinet had only conceded to the Kovathian sect’s suggestion to entertain Tera’thian aid as a last resort. “You will attend any members of Emperor Ani’s envoy that he does not permit at the round table. Give them a tour of the caverns. Show them hospitality.”

“You forced me from the final day of the distortion project I’ve been working on for months to be a decorated babysitter?”

“And you will speak nothing of distortion today. I want to feel confident that, by the time they have left us, distortion is the farthest thing from their minds.”

But, of course, distortion was the only thing Azadonia had to offer. Why else would Emperor Ani, renowned not for generosity but cruelty, offer aid?

“My Tera’thian is still not so good, eah? What is there to tell?”

“Atti!” She hissed for silence as the Tera’thian envoy ascended to the dais.

Unable to help herself, Attilatia’s eyes found the slave. As before, his eyes found hers in return. What was his problem? This time she didn’t look away, she stared him down in challenge. The side of his mouth twitched, aggravating her all the more. Her mother cleared her throat and Attilatia jumped, falling back into line.

Jenolavia’s Hand stepped forward to receive Ani’s party. They exchanged a series of introductions and pleasantries that turned Attilatia’s stomach. She let her mind stray from them, thinking instead of sitting at her lab table with a mug of sweetened tea to examine the day’s experimental review.

“Attilatia Mitar.”

Jenolavia’s Hand looked at her expectantly. Before her stood the Tohatu. His eyes bored into her as if to see what he might find inside. They were blue, like too-hot fire. He was so big—his tattooed fist could smash her straight through. It took every ounce of self-control not to scramble backward. This was a face that had seen death, and saw imparting it to others as a gift.

The seconds lengthened. Attilatia could nearly feel the mental kick in the rear from her mother. She stepped forward belatedly and inclined her head in reverence.

The Tohatu spoke slowly. “A tour of the caverns is not necessary, my thanks.” She had anticipated a voice like rocks in a bag or slime creeping through a sewage pipe. His was unexpectedly melodious. “He is not to be fed or watered. Do not engage him in conversation. Do not allow him around others. If he wishes to sit, it must be on the ground.”

She glanced to the man’s side where the “he” in question stood. At least the boy wasn’t staring at her like she’d worn her tipiana backward this time. Any irritation she’d felt previously fled beneath the stare of Cul’Mon.

“Yes, Tohatu,” she said with another curt bow, hoping her Tera’thian wasn’t as horrible on his ears as it was on her lips.

She was not to be a babysitter. She was to be a slave-keeper? Attilatia looked back at her mother, whose eyebrows rose in silent command: obey.

She’d sooner roll over dead than obey that man.

“This way,” she said to the boy, who followed, soundless as a shadow.

They began toward the chambers where Tentika’s criminals awaited their trials—even those were outfitted with a seat and a watering fountain—beyond the far side of the gathering cavern. Fuming, she veered sharply left, taking them through the queen’s private kitchen.

Attilatia snatched a bag of honeyed cintash nuts from a cabinet—probably worth their week of food stipend—and slipped into the private service tunnels that bottomed out near the distortion lab.

The boy followed for long minutes, his steps slowing behind her. She nearly snapped at him to hurry up before realizing he probably couldn’t see. The service tunnels were sparsely lit, their veins fading to near blackness between sconced distortion orbs. She grabbed his hand, pulling him along without slowing her step.

The boy cleared his throat. “Where are we going?”

Said without trepidation. His voice was deep, like a man’s, though he didn’t seem much older than her eleven years. And his Tera’thian… didn’t quite sound Tera’thian. He had an accent.

“Somewhere no one see or hear us,” she responded in the same tongue. Her mother’s schooling gave her passable comprehension in Nelfinden, Tera’thian, and Chori, but she struggled to excel in any of them. By the way people reacted to her, she wondered whether she even understood Azadonian most days.

“Why?”

“Because I no in mood for follow orders.”

That shut him up, but only temporarily. The Tohatu’s slave clung to her fingertips through many twists and turns before, again, trying to strike conversation.

“That dancing was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe the full cabinet participated.”

“In Azadonia, dance is require for democracy. When body lack motion, like a stagnant pool, it harbor sickness.” That was what her mother said, anyway: that a mind could empathize better after dancing. It never seemed to work for Attilatia. “The Lethoso is functional. Release emotion, move blood, so mind can be altruistic instead of fearful or selfish.”