The Ariel’s captain’s cabin was a neat little chamber, soldierly, not revealing much on this side of the latched cupboard doors about the personality of its owner. But Thorne unlatched one to display an antique ceramic tea set and a couple of dozen small canisters of varietal teas of Earth and other planetary origins, all protected from breakage by custom-made foam packing. “What kind?” Thorne called, its hand hovering over the canisters.

“The usual,” he replied, easing into a station chair clamped to the floor beside a small table.

“Might have guessed. I swear I’ll train you to be more venturesome one of these days.” Thorne shot a peculiar grin over its shoulder at him—was that intended to be some sort of double entendre? After a bit more rattling about, Thorne placed a delicately hand-painted porcelain cup and saucer upon the table at his elbow. He picked it up and sipped cautiously as Thorne hooked another chair into its clamps a quarter turn around the table, produced a cup for itself, and sat with a small grunt of satisfaction.

He was relieved to find the hot amber liquid pleasant, if astringent. Sugar? He dared not ask. Thorne hadn’t put any out. The Dendarii surely would have, if it expected Naismith to use sugar. Thorne couldn’t be making some subtle test already, could it? No sugar, then.

Tea-drinking mercenaries. The beverage didn’t seem nearly poisonous enough, somehow, to go with the display, no, working arsenal, of weapons clamped to the wall: a couple of stunners, a needier, a plasma arc, a gleaming metal crossbow with an assortment of grenade-bolts in a bandolier hung with it. Thorne was supposed to be good at its job. If that was true, he didn’t care what the creature drank.

“You’re in a black study. I take it you’ve brought us a lovely one this time, eh?” Thorne prodded after another moment’s silence.