And for once, the Aristocra had actually been generous with their military funding. The Expansionary Fleet’s new ships, bases, and support facilities were already under construction, and they were going to need all the competent officers and warriors they could get.

This Vurawn looked like someone who would fit into such a role. A man who might make a name there, both for himself and for his family.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go talk to him. See how he stands up to a proper interrogation.”

“I trust the compound isn’t too far away,” Vurawn said as Thurfian’s car flew swiftly across the Rentor landscape. “I’m already missing all of today’s classes. My instructors would be displeased if I missed tomorrow’s, as well.”

“You’ll be all right,” Thurfian said, hearing the strained patience in his voice. Did the boy really not understand the depth of the honor that had been bestowed upon him?

Apparently not. Attending his classes was important. Adoption into one of the Nine Ruling Families wasn’t.

Rentor wasn’t exactly a political and cultural hub, and Thurfian knew he had to make allowances for a certain degree of ignorance. Even so, such a lack of awareness set Vurawn apart from even the unsophisticated commoners around him.

Still, if Ba’kif’s assessment was correct, the boy would be heading for a military career. Politics weren’t nearly so important there.

If Vurawn was rematched to the Mitth, which was hardly yet guaranteed. Thurfian had sent in his own report, but there was still an interview to be conducted by the Councilors who oversaw Mitth interests on Rentor, followed possibly by a short meeting with the local Patriel herself if the Councilors were suitably impressed. Once all that was over, the results would be forwarded to the homestead on Csilla for final review, and only then would Vurawn learn whether or not he’d been selected to be a Mitth merit adoptive. The whole process typically took two to three months; Thurfian had seen it take as many as six—

His questis signaled. Pulling it from his pocket, he keyed it.

It was a script message. A very brief script message.

Vurawn accepted as merit adoptive.

Thurfian stared. Accepted?

Impossible. The interviews—the Patriel evaluation—the homestead review—

But there it was, staring him in the face. The process had been short-circuited by someone, and none of the usual procedures were going to matter.

In fact, none of them were now even necessary. Presumably the Patriel had received the same message, and the only thing that would happen when they reached the compound would be the brief ceremony detaching Vurawn from the Kivu family and rematching him to the Mitth.

“Is there trouble?” Vurawn asked.

“No, nothing,” Thurfian said, putting the questis back in his pocket. So on the strength of Thurfian’s own interrogation, plus perhaps the boy’s school records and evaluations, he was accepted?