Thrawn Ascendancy Book 3: Lesser Evil
- Автор: Зан Тимоти
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Random House
- ISBN: 9781473596580
- Жанр: Боевая фантастика
Электронная книга - «Thrawn Ascendancy Book 3: Lesser Evil». Краткое содержание книги:
The younger man turned as Thrass walked in through the archway. “Cadet Mitth’raw’nuru?” Thrass asked formally.
“I am he,” Thrawn said.
“Welcome to Avidich,” Thrass said. “I’m Aristocra Mitth’ras’safis. I’ll be guiding you through the various protocols that will fully and officially rematch you to the Mitth family.” He waved a hand to encompass the room. “And try not to be overwhelmed by all the fancy flourishes and curlicues. This reception room is also where dignitaries and emissaries from other families are brought in, and we like to make sure right from the start that they know who they’re dealing with.”
“I wasn’t intimidated,” Thrawn said mildly. “I was merely noting the unusual fact that the same artist who did three of the landscapes also created two of the statuettes. It’s uncommon for a single artist to excel at both artistic forms.”
Thrass looked around. He’d been in this room dozens of times, and had twice visited the Csilla homestead’s collection of official family art, and as far as he could remember none of them had visible signatures or other identifiers.
In fact, that was the whole point of these displays. These were Mitth artworks, to be seen as coming not from individuals but from the family as a whole.
So how did Thrawn know which pieces had been done by which artist? “Which ones?” Thrass asked. “Show me.”
“Those three landscapes,” Thrawn said, pointing. “And those statuettes.” He indicated a pair in one of the corners.
Thrass stepped over for a closer look. Just as he’d remembered, there was nothing to indicate the artist on any of them. “What makes you think they’re by the same person?”
Thrawn’s forehead furrowed in a frown. “They just are,” he said, sounding a little confused. “The lines, the color, the material mix. It’s …” His lips compressed briefly.
“Obvious?” Thrass suggested.
Thrawn looked like he was going to agree, then seemed to think better of it. “It’s difficult to explain,” he said instead.
“Well, let’s find out,” Thrass said, pulling out his questis. The artwork here might not be labeled, but the specific artists were surely listed in the archives. “Anything else you can tell me about them?” he added as he started the search. “The artist’s height or favorite foods, maybe?”
“No, neither,” Thrawn admitted. If he’d noticed Thrass’s little joke, he didn’t show it. “But I believe a personal or family tragedy may have occurred between the creation of these two.” He pointed to two of the landscapes, one showing a churning ocean tidepool, the other with a snowcapped mountain jutting into the sky. “Actually, the tragedy may predate all of the pieces except the one with the tidepool. I also have the sense that the artist was a woman, but that’s just an impression, not a solid conclusion.”
“Why that impression?” Thrass asked, peering at his questis. There was the listing. Now to sort through and tag the five pieces Thrawn had specified.
“It’s something about the line and edging,” Thrawn said. “But as I say, I don’t claim that’s necessarily accurate.”
“I understand,” Thrass said, suppressing a smile. Though of course an assertion like that did give him a fifty–fifty chance.
His hidden smile became a hidden grimace. Earlier, he’d told himself he would never get cynical about meeting newcomers to the family. Was he breaking that promise already? The listing came up …
He stared at the questis. No. It wasn’t possible.
“Is there trouble?” Thrawn asked.
Thrass threw a hooded look at him. No—there was no way the cadet could have simply looked at the works and come to those conclusions. He must have dug into the archives himself in advance.
Except that there were hundreds of thousands of Mitth family artworks, and they were rotated frequently among the various family holdings and official offices. The odds that these particular ones would be on display in this particular reception room at this particular time were practically nonexistent.
He took a careful breath. “You’re right,” he said, forcing his voice to stay calm. A Mitth cousin had no business reacting in even moderate awe to a freshly chosen merit adoptive. “All five were created by the legendary Twelfth Patriarch, Mitth’omo’rossodo, sometimes called the Tragic. All four of her sons died in battle—” He pulled up her bio and did a quick comparison of the dates. “—three months after the tidepool piece.”
“All four,” Thrawn murmured, looking again at the landscape. “A terrible loss indeed.”
“According to the archives, she was determined not to let it influence her rule,” Thrass continued. “But that mountain landscape was the last piece she ever did. Or at least, the last surviving one.”
“I can understand that,” Thrawn said. “An artist of such skill and self-awareness might well have seen how the scars of memory had affected her inspiration and resolved to put her artwork aside until she could regain her former tranquility.”
Thrass winced. “Only she never did,” he murmured.
“No,” Thrawn said softly. “Some losses run too deep to ever fully heal.”
Thrass studied his face, noting the fresh tension lines in his cheeks and throat. “You sound like you’ve had experience.”
Thrawn shrugged slightly. “No more than many others in the Ascendancy have suffered,” he said, the tension lines smoothing out.
Though it took a conscious effort, Thrass saw. Whatever pain was lurking behind those eyes, it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
But that sort of ache wasn’t for public display. It certainly wasn’t for a new acquaintance to casually poke at. If life had taught Thrass anything, it was to respect others’ privacy. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Perhaps a discussion for another day. Let me show you to your room. Dinner’s in three hours, and you may want to practice your part of the ceremony.”
The rematching dinner was, as always, a grand and—in Thrass’s private opinion—slightly overpompous ceremony. Still, it was traditional, and the guests and attending dignitaries alike all seemed suitably impressed and happy.
Thrawn possibly being the one exception. He was seated on the other side of the long table and several people down, and Thrass couldn’t hear any of what he was saying. He seemed to be holding his own, fielding questions put to him by his neighbors, and those conversational partners all seemed satisfied with his answers. At least none of them rolled their eyes or turned away from the young man in revulsion.
But Thrawn also never seemed to initiate any conversations on his own. Mostly he sat and ate in silence, watching and listening to everything going on around him. Once, Thrass caught him looking at the row of tapestries lining the grand banquet hall, his eyes moving slowly from one to another.
The welcoming ceremony also went well. Thrawn held his own there, too, speaking his lines correctly and with the proper solemnity. But to Thrass’s eye he still seemed uncomfortable.
Perhaps not surprisingly. Thrawn was by far the youngest of tonight’s thirty rematches, and in his simple cadet’s uniform he looked rather out of place beside the junior commander and mid captain who were also being welcomed into the family.
The ceremony had been over for half an hour and the open conversation time well under way before Thrass was finally able to catch up to the younger man. “Though you’ve now heard this at least a dozen times, welcome to the Mitth,” he said in greeting. “May I offer a drink of family kinship?”
“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “I have to say, this isn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced.”