“But you know…” Pan said, setting down his goblet, “we could have done better. There were six freighters in that convoy, and we only took five.”

He affected a dissatisfied air, shaking his huge head.

“We lost one in the attack. One of them blew up just as we were ripping it open, and whatever it had for us…now it’s just hot dust.”

He arced out his arm, sweeping it across the Great Hall.

“Where’s the Storm who was in charge of the crew assigned to that freighter?”

A ripple across the assembly as heads turned, looking to see who would own up to the mistake. A few long moments passed, but eventually the pressure grew too great, and a man stood. Part of Lourna Dee’s Tempest, by the minimalist clothing he wore. His species was hard to identify, but his mask had big, curling horns running down over the ears, little white slits for eyes, and the ever-present filter assembly over his nose and mouth, the better to survive the various chemical weapons the Nihil often used in their raids. He had three jagged white stripes on his tunic, signifying his rank within the organization.

“Huh,” Pan Eyta said, turning to Lourna Dee. “Looks like he’s one of yours, Lourna. You mind if I…”

“Be my guest,” Lourna said, her voice without affect—she never revealed much of what was going on behind her eyes, ice-blue and ice-cold. “His name is Zagyar.”

“Zagyar!” Pan Eyta cried, pointing at the man. “Bring the rest of your crew up here. The Clouds and Strikes.”

Zagyar nodded at the group sitting at his table, and they stood as well. Seven men and women, all masked, all different except that they shared the white, slitted eyes of their leader. The Clouds had two of the jagged stripes somewhere on their clothing, and the Strikes, just one. They walked forward as a group, the other Nihil parting to let them through, to stand before Pan Eyta and the others.

“What happened, Zagyar?” he said. “Why did we lose a sixth of what we went out there to get?”

The Storm, to his credit, didn’t try to dissemble. He just answered, plain and clean. No embellishing or hiding the truth. Marchion Ro respected that.

“One of my Strikes, kid named Blit, miscalculated her harpoon shot. Hit one of the freighter’s fuel tanks. That’s all it took. Boom.”

“I thought it was something like that. Is she here, that Strike?”

“No. Blit died in the explosion. Most of my crew did. I’ve only got these seven left. Couple Clouds and five Strikes.”

Zagyar gestured at his people.

“I see,” Pan said. “But someone has to pay for that mistake. Everyone lost when that happened. I lost.”

He pointed down at Marchion Ro, still seated at his own table, a meter or two below the Tempest Runners.