I was voidmunching mad, ready to kill, and had to keep still. Very still.
My position as Riina's protégé meant that I didn't have the voice of a bluegrub in a vac-toilet. They even used my crudmunching name as a janitorial term. Crud.
Even Riina didn't say anything. She merely kept her poise, looking like an affronted general who has to wait on the politicians. Or maybe I was imagining it. Drugs do make you see things.
What I saw didn't fill me with confidence. There were clearly two factions of Dromoni in the plaza. Saradon's crew, which stood in a half-circle behind me, accented their drab brown and black jackets and pants with jewelry ranging from clear diamonds, to rubies and a clear blue stone that was too bright to be a sapphire. The further back one stood, the more combinations of colors in one's jewelry.
Com-talker had only worn yellow stones, framed in yellow gold. Single color. Crud.
I spotted him, a slim weasel of a man that could have come right out of one of Hao's adventure vids. All he needed was a mustache to twirl and he'd make a perfect villain. The gorgeous woman was still by his side, standing slightly behind him, face impassive, hands folded in front of her, big, angry welt on her cheek turning blue.
Her eyes looked slightly glassy. I'd seen that look on wounded grunts. Trying to suppress pain by pure will.
Com-talker stood in a clump of elder Dromoni, most of them with yellow stones at their cuffs. A few wore emeralds. Further back, the colors ranged from orange to deep green to the same clear blue as in Saradon's corner.
Either some colors were used by several factions, or one of the Dromoni parties couldn't make up their minds.
Neither could they make up their mind as what to do with me and Riina.
"There was no violation of standing," Saradon kept saying. "No physical harm befell Master Draud. There is no call for arbitrage."
The elder men and women in his party nodded sagely, as if he'd said something revelatory. The other side frowned, scuffed their feet and looked like spoiled kids who had their sugar treats confiscated. A few of Draud's blue-cuffed allies drifted over to the Saradon side of the plaza.
"There would have been," the com-talker, Master Draud, said. "Had Master Saradon's protégé not intervened, a Master of Dromond might lie dead in the Plaza."
This wise and emphatic statement caused a pair of Saradon's outermost allies to go visit friends in Draud's part of the room.
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Decision by locomotion. Interesting.
"The fact that Master Saradon's protégé did intervene makes the question moot," an elder man with the same thin nose and wide mouth as Saradon said. Either Saradon's father or a close uncle.
"It is a matter of precedent," Draud said.
"Not so," said Saradon. "Protégé's have protected their master's honor by physical intervention for hundreds of years, going as far back as Tromin's Intervention."
He kept talking, describing meaningless precedents that caused the circle around Draud to thin. I had to keep my teeth clamped over my lips to keep from smiling and clutched my ankles so I wouldn't jump up and cheer.
Apparently the taro root wasn't out of my system yet. I gave Draud a glare he ignored. Crudmunging poisoner.
Which was a fact no one disputed or cared about. Apparently Galactic protégés weren't protected by the hallowed Truce of the Golden Circle.
I felt a jab on my shoulder, and shied away.
"Hold still," the doctor said, triggering the needle he'd buried in my muscle.
"What's that?" I whispered, focusing on making my numb tongue move.
"Counter-chems," the doctor said. "It will clear your head in minutes. Use that time to leave. In about half an hour you'll have the worst hangover of your entire life."
"Thanks for the warning," I said.
"No gratitude necessary," the doctor said, his face impassive. "Protect the honor of the house Trevalon and you will have done your duty."
Which was something I could understand. I'd dealt with something similar in the houses at the Academy.
Around us, the crowd by Saradon kept growing, most of the blue-cuffed Dromoni having moved to his side. Either his words were having a profound effect, or Dromoni nobles were very easy to sway.
"Wonderfully argued, and valid points," Draud said with a slight sneer that said exactly how wonderful he found Saradon. "But moot all the same. Precedence applies to Masters of the Unity, not servants of jumped-up Galactics."
"Invited masters are masters nonetheless," Saradon said, to general nodding.
"I have heard no invitation," Draud said.
Saradon gave him a tight bow, little more than a casual nod of the head. Likely acknowledging a point, if I understood the motion.
"Mistress Riina of Santa Kylie," Saradon said. "Would you consent to sharing the Trevalon house and table?"
His words had a formal ring to them. Riina gave Saradon a deep bow. Draud colored, looking strained, as the crowd around him thinned further.
"I would be honored, Master Saradon, should the Master of your house consent."
That got her a nod from Saradon, slightly deeper than the one Draud had gotten.
"Let it be known," said Saradon's father, "that Martens Trevalon invites Mistress Riina of Santa Kylie to his house and table."
He gave Draud a superior look, and Riina replied with a bow that bent her almost double.
"Well then," Draud said, his sneer deepening. "Welcome to Dromond, Mistress Riina."
His words were like a drop of soap in a bowl of fat, the two crowds surrounding him and Saradon suddenly freed from their constrains and starting to disperse.
I felt that a grin was in order. Good work on Saradon's part. He seemed quite pleased with himself as well, his father giving him a literal, if very gentle, pat on the shoulder. I wondered what the appropriate sign of gratitude for a protégé of a visiting master was. Likely not back-slapping and fist-bumping.
Draud's voice cut through the celebrations like a shrill knife in the eardrums.
"But there is one more thing," he said, a smug smile on his lips. "I accept."
What the crud?
