Suddenly, Traz stopped, letting us overtake him. Riina shook off my arm and continued, but Traz deliberately blocked my way. He turned his head slightly, giving me an oblique look and rapidly moving his eyes.

  Follow me. Right.

  I followed him to the side of the platform where the golden-leafed trees created an oblong bower some five meters deep and two meters across. Red, padded seats without backs stood placed around its circumference, close enough to allow sitters to talk, far enough to give some privacy if you wanted it. Traz picked one and sunk down into it with a sigh.

  "You can talk here," he said. "No master will enter without announcing himself, giving us time to leave."

  I'd expected him to growl like a big, angry sergeant but his voice was soft, bright, and pleasant. His face, too, lost its impassive expression and became animated. Natural. His entire posture flowed like water into something meditative, centered yet relaxed.

  "Why, thank you," I said, sinking down in the seat next to him. Without anything to lean against, it forced me to keep a straight back. That would get tiresome mighty fast. Crudmunching customs.

  Traz smiled wryly, as if he could read my mind.

  "This is a formal bower," he said. "Appearances are important."

  "Better comfort at home?" I said.

  "Crud," Traz said, the curse coming unexpected. "At home we've got fully articulated starship service couches. Used to have the Mino StarWorks SpeedRigs, the same they mount in long-range fighters. Now we've got license-manufactured Arals."

  "Really?" I said. I had no idea what Arals were, but I wouldn't mind getting my hands on a SpeedRig pilot's couch. Not that I'd have the chance to. They were custom made to fit and cost more than a warpstone engine.

  "Really," Traz said. "You hungry?"

  "Starving," I confirmed. "How come you left Saradon to fly into the void alone? Aren't you his bodyguard?"

  Traz stiffened, just a small twitch of the shoulders that disappeared almost before I could spot it. For a grunt, he had amazing training and self-control.

  "I keep forgetting you're a Galactic," he said. "So heed my words. Never, ever, even in private, even with your mistress, call a master by anything other than ‘master’ and his formal name. Never speak to a master unless spoken to. Never cause a master to step around you, unless your own mistress is present and signals you to stay." He stopped and stared at me.

  No, not stared. Looked with concern. Even the Dromoni body language was strange. Traz was concerned whether he was making an impression on me.

  "That strict?" I said.

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  "Stricter," he said. "I'm only teaching you the self-possession a small child would have."

  "How small," I said, suddenly worried.

  Traz looked thoughtful, pursing his mouth.

  "Three or four years," he replied. "Five-year-olds are expected to have mastered the primary forms."

  "Meaning?" I said, but Traz shook his head.

  "It would only confuse you," he said. "You are a Galactic. You get some leeway. Be satisfied with that. Food?"

  "Please," I said, and Traz tapped the side of his seat in a rapid code. Moments later, a servant dressed in silver entered with a tray of kabobs and baked sweet potatoes, everything liberally slathered in garlic, coriander and butter. I wanted to tell him to leave the tray, but followed Traz's example and took only two plates, then accepted a tall, frosted glass of what turned out to be something akin to sour cherry juice, but tarter. It highlighted the taste and texture of the food, while leaving my tongue slightly numb and tingling. I'd have to remember that trick for when I had time to cook.

  "You didn't answer my question," I said after I'd emptied my plates and two more glasses of the tart not-cherry. "Aren't you supposed to be Master Saradon's bodyguard?"

  "I am his protégé," Traz said. "Ensuring his continued health and well-being are part of my duties. But here, there is no physical danger. Any physical violence in the Plaza of the Golden Circle, no matter how minor or covert, would bring swift and sure reprimand, to the assassin, their masters, their house, and their party."

  "What sort of reprimand?" I said, my words slurring slightly. Annoying.

  "Death," Traz said, face grim. "Without appeal."

  "Sounds harsh," I said, my mind jumping to my next question, now that I had the chance of asking them. "Why don't you use wards to keep your platforms and aquarium afloat?"

  Traz snorted, a harsh sound. No, a choked-back laugh.

  "That is a discussion that has been ongoing in our society for hundreds of years," he said. "Magic is for the common and Galactics. Engineering, the calculation of precise equations, the creation of duplicable and verifiable results, that is the proof of a higher mind. Magic is for those who can't learn to count."

  "Not true," I said, feeling a wave of heat rushing over me. Magic was as valid as science. It was science, and art, all in one. "It took me decades to master warding. Magic requires a precise mind, and the ability to learn."

  "That is not what our most illustrious theoreticians state," he said. "Of course, none of them were mages, so-"

  He tensed, suddenly, then stood up. A moment later, I heard it too. Steps, clomping toward us. Traz quickly headed for the exit to the bower, and I followed him.

  Not quickly enough. Two people entered, the man with the com troubles from the dance, and a woman.

  I gave the man a cursory glance, then forgot all about him.

  The woman trailing in his wake was gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous. My heart missed a couple of beats, then tried to compensate by whacking my chest in a rapid drum roll. Her huge, dark eyes drew me in. I could stare into those eyes a lifetime. Her face was impassive, a protégé's face, and I wondered what it would look like when she was in private, animated.

  Something cracked me across the shin. I barely noticed. It hit me again, in the same spot, painfully, and I looked away from the woman.

  Traz had kicked me. Twice. His face was devoid of emotions but his pinky kept twitching.

  Not twitching. Beckoning. Why the crud would some local yokel be beckoning at me?

  Getting me out before I got into trouble. I should have seen that one. The man was dangerous, his face promising swift pain. I'd seen that at the dance.

  Better leave them alone. She was beyond me anyhow. I stared at the woman's legs. Long. Strong. Tight, black skirt making her walk in mincing steps. Traz pinched my sleeve and gave me a pull. Leaving. Right.

  Reluctantly, I got out of the bower. Meaningless to ask for her name. Gulfs of culture and status separating us and all that. It was so unfair. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. My heart kept thumping.

  Behind me, I heard a man's voice raised in anger, and sound of a hard slap.