“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.

Qilori looked back at the male, wondering who the female was to him and why she’d reacted so strongly to his rebuke. His face, now in profile, seemed as vaguely familiar as his voice.

He felt his winglets go rigid. The face—the voice—

It was Thrawn.