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“Sorry, you still look different with only one head.”

“Men always tell me that …”

“What other room?”

“The one where the man went after he’d been through your quarters.”

“Ah, that one.” Wedge nodded. “It belongs to Tomer Darpen.”

She looked crestfallen. “You already knew.”

“No, I guessed, based on some other evidence I’ve picked up. It’s very valuable to me to have your confirmation. Your work wasn’t wasted. Where is your recording unit?”

She pointed to her hair. The elaborate combs holding her hairstyle in place each featured several crystals, plus smaller stones, some of which seemed to be glowing. “The lenses and microphones are up here, and I have cables down to the processor and storage memory, which are on the small of my back. I can even zoom with sight and sound.”

“Less menacing that way. I think you’ll get further with children with a rig like this.”

“I suspect you’re right.” Clusters of Adumari began to converge on the pilots. “Time for me to leave. I’ll talk to you later.” She moved off into the crowd, drawing her cloak around her, effortlessly becoming an anonymous Adumari woman.

Wedge steeled himself for another endless round of handshaking and introductions. But the diplomatic ritual was to have an unexpected benefit: The fifth introduction he received was from the Cartann Minister of Cognitive Machinery, and on his arm was Iella Wessiri. Today she was in another sheath dress, this one ranging from red to yellow-gold depending on the angle from which one viewed the material, and how it hung upon her; when she was in motion, it was like watching fire walk. “This young lady,” the wispy-bearded minister said, “is, like yourself, an otherworlder, and has expressed an interest in meeting the famous pilot. I plucked her from work today so that she might do so.”

“I’m delighted to oblige,” Wedge said. When he took her hand, he felt something crinkle in his palm. Iella withdrew her hand and departed with her minister, leaving Wedge with a scrap of flimsi in his hand and a happy memory of her dazzling smile.

As inconspicuously as he could, he glanced at the flimsi. On it was written a note—the name “Rogriss,” followed by a series of numbers, recognizable as a specific communications frequency.

Wedge nodded. That would be the frequency the admiral kept one personal comm unit tuned to—something only his executive officer and one or two others aboard Agonizer should have known. Wedge couldn’t begin to guess how Iella had come by the knowledge; he was just glad she had. He pocketed the scrap.

As the introductions and handshakes continued, he scanned the assembly. He caught sight of Turr Phennir and pilots, standing in a tight little quartet, all in Adumari dress. Phennir was scowling, definitely unhappy, and Wedge grinned at him. It was possibly the most minor of victories—Wedge and pilots had upstaged the Imperial flyers with their distinctive uniforms and entrance—but Wedge was happy to accept any victory he could get.

More invitees crowded into the hall and began to segregate themselves into large groups. Wedge tried to puzzle out what the divisions meant.

The perator, once again in gold, was surrounded chiefly by ministers and other courtiers; that group was easy to define. Tomer Darpen hovered at its edges, prevented by his alien status from moving closer to the center and hearing what the perator was saying, prevented by his own nature from moving farther away.

Wedge saw in two other groups pilots he’d flown against in simulations training. Most seemed to be on the periphery of one group of thirty or so well-dressed nobles, while a couple were with a different group of similar size. Wedge noted that the garments of these groups tended to be slightly different in cut and style than those he was used to, and realized that the pilots he recognized were all from nations other than Cartann. That was it, then; these were delegations from other nations.

Another group was of Cartann nobles—Wedge saw Iella and her minister among them. Iella noticed his attention, gave him a smile; then she was back