Star Wars_ Fate of the Jedi 05_ Allies - Christie Golden [151]
It was beautiful and comforting in its own way. The crowded city had a life, an edge to it, that Daala found energizing. She took another sip, the ice in her glass clinking. The décor in her own home, in contrast to the organized chaos that zipped past outside, was simple, almost stark. The main room had high ceilings and unfussy but comfortable furniture. There was art—small statues, a fountain in the corner, and framed, precise abstract paintings by Ku Chusar, one of the most famous artists of his time. Quiet instrumental music played unobtrusively in the background. All was orderly, with clean lines, a union of form and function. It was her personal refuge.
Her outfit, too, was orderly with clean lines. She wore a shimmersilk tunic and pants, with simple slippers. She was well aware that the green brought out her stunning eyes and red hair, but she was also able to move and relax in the outfit even as it flattered her. It did double duty, and was therefore efficient. Daala liked efficiency as much as she liked order.
When the door buzzed, she opted to greet her guest herself. Her chef’s work was done and keeping warm. She had sent him home and had deactivated her droids for the night. Droids were useful things, and had prepared the apartment well, but she wanted to have true privacy for the conversation that was to ensue—for various reasons.
So she opened the door, smiling, to a slightly surprised Admiral Nek Bwua’tu.
“Answering the door yourself, Natasi?” he said, his voice warm with amused affection. “Next thing you’ll tell me is you’ve cooked the dinner.”
She laughed at that, waving him in and embracing him as he entered. “Never, Nek. I didn’t claw my way up the ranks to prepare my own meals.”
“I find it restful on occasion,” Bwua’tu said. “But I imagine you didn’t invite me here for my crowd-pleasing recipe for nerf steaks with gravy and mashed taku roots.”
Daala smiled a little and moved to the bar. “I’m afraid not. Another time perhaps.”
Nek sighed. “When we’re both retired,” he said. She shot him a smile over her shoulder.
“Maybe then,” she agreed. She indicated the array of bottles. “The usual?”
The Bothan smiled. “Please,” he said. Daala busied herself with the drink, then walked it over to him. Bwua’tu lifted the glass and clinked it lightly against hers. “To absent friends,” he said, his voice far gentler than most had ever heard it.
She ought to have expected the toast, and yet her smile faltered. “To absent friends,” Daala said, her voice not revealing the sudden quick pain. They drank, then she indicated the couch. He sat down, holding his glass, regarding her thoughtfully.
“Your uncle is causing me no end of trouble,” Daala said. She sank down onto the sofa beside him, a nexu comfortable and at ease in her own den, her body language open.
Bwua’tu laughed. “Uncle Eramuth,” he said. “I imagine he is. He’s very good at what he does, you know. When he’s able to do it.”
“Hm,” she agreed dryly, then inquired, “What do you mean, able to do it?”
“Uncle Eramuth is quite elderly by Bothan standards,” Bwau’tu said. “And he’s always been a bit eccentric. You’ve seen how he dresses.”
Daala nodded. “I have,” she said. “I always thought that was part of his strategy—to charm the jury with his slightly out-of-date, slightly odd mannerisms.”
“Oh, I would never say that it wasn’t calculated,” Nek agreed. “But the lines between calculatedly offbeat and not exactly sane can blur from time to time.”
“Really? I will keep that in mind, thank you.”
“Don’t dismiss him, either,” Nek said. “I know that it sounds like a contradiction, but as I said—he is very, very good at what