The Chiss turned away, but for those first few seconds Qilori was rooted to the spot. He’d been told there were two Chiss aboard the Garwian ship he’d been hired to navigate, but they were supposed to be some stuffy academic type and his companion or servant or some such.

Only it wasn’t. It was Thrawn. Thrawn in civilian garb, running under an assumed name. And that could only mean one thing.

A big, fat bonus.

His first impulse was to head straight over to the Benevolent, cut into whatever conversation he was having, and give him the news. But common sense and caution intervened. Even if Yiv didn’t have him whipped for sheer insolence, breaking protocol that way would draw unwelcome attention. Better—and safer—to wait until the Benevolent had a moment free.

And while he waited for that moment…

Thrawn was standing by the sweet-sour section of the food array, surveying the different offerings, when Qilori caught up with him. “I’d stay away from the kiki,” he warned, pointing to a mix of red, orange, and pale-blue half-moons. “It takes a particular set of digestive juices to handle it properly.”

“Interesting,” Thrawn said, peering more closely at the bowl. “Odd that our hosts would even include such a specialized dish.”

“Maybe,” Qilori said. “But you’d be surprised how many people will gladly trade a minute of delectable taste for an hour of gastric discomfort. I believe you were aboard my ship.”

“Your ship?” Thrawn frowned, and then his expression cleared. “Ah—you mean you were Envoy Proslis’s navigator. I’m Artistic Master Svorno, chief curator of the Nunech Art Collection.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Qilori said, wondering briefly if he should give his own name or instead come up with something fictitious.

Neither, he decided. Even if Thrawn didn’t recognize Qilori’s face, he might remember his name, and a false name would be too easy to expose. “What brings you to Primea?”

“The hope of finally putting to rest the absurd theory that the Vaks and Garwians had a trade relationship back in the Midorian Era,” Thrawn said. “It was proposed eighty years ago by that fool Professor—” He broke off. “But of course, you’re not interested in such things.”

“I’m afraid history and artistic theory are far above my intelligence,” Qilori said politely with a flicker of cynical amusement. Thrawn could change his name and play dress-up all he wanted, but he would never pass himself off as a true academic until he recognized that such people loved to rattle on about their specialties whether their audiences wanted to hear it or not. “But I’m sure the Vak records will have everything you’re looking for. Can I offer any introductions?”