“Exceptionally.”
“Ha.”
“Oh, nice.”
“What?”
“Did you know that works in several different languages?”
“What? What does?”
“Tersono,” Ziller said, turning at last to the drone, which had lowered itself to his shoulder level and edged closer and closer as it had tried to attract the Chelgrian’s attention over the past few moments, during which time its aura field had just started to shade into the blue-grey of politely held-in-check frustration.
Mahrai Ziller, composer, half outcast, half exile, rose from his crouch and balanced on his rear haunches. His midlimb made a shelf briefly and he put his drink down on the smoothly furred surface while he used his forelimbs to straighten his waistcoat and comb his brows. “Help me,” he said to the drone. “I am trying to make a serious point and your compatriot indulges in word play.”
“Then I suggest you fall back and regroup and hope to catch her again later when she is in a less trenchantly flippant mood. You’ve met Ar Kabe Ischloear?”
“I have. We are old acquaintances. Ambassador.”
“You dignify me, sir,” the Homomdan rumbled. “I am more of a journalist.”
“Yes, they do tend to call us all ambassadors, don’t they? I’m sure it’s meant to be flattering.”
“No doubt. They mean well.”
“They mean ambiguously, sometimes,” Ziller said, turning briefly to the woman he had been talking to. She raised her glass and bowed her head a fraction.
“When you two have entirely finished criticising your determinedly generous hosts…” Tersono said.
“This would be the private word you mentioned, would it?” Ziller asked.
“Precisely. Indulge an eccentric drone.”
“Very well.”
“This way.”
The drone continued past the line of food tables towards the stern of the barge. Ziller followed the machine, seeming to flow along the polished deck, lithely graceful on his single broad midlimb and two strong rear legs. The composer still had his crystal full of wine balanced effortlessly in one hand, Kabe noticed. Ziller used his other hand to wave at a couple of people who nodded to or greeted him as they passed.