LIONEL folded his clothes and put them on the box. Henri and Ally had insisted on ordering him more, to be delivered within the next day—or three, this being the start of lambing season—because their acting director must look his best.
Their matter-of-fact care of him was—it was more than reassuring. Warm inside, Lionel smiled as he stretched out on the cot. Gods, he was tired. That good tired, of a day’s work done and done well. There’d been some humor, too, though how even a Queeb could mistake an ardent, if confused, Heezle’s proposition—the species had no observable boundaries when it came to sex—for an offer to have a scholarly debate on the origins of the Human head shake for “no”?
He chuckled into his pillow.
“Lionel.”
At the rich voice—her voice, he bolted upright, pillow flying, staring into the dark. “Skalet?” Who else could it be. “I’m here.”
“I know,” with underlying impatience. “Have you and Lambo made progress?”
She’d overheard—or had a report. Lionel sank back with relief. “Not yet.” He’d had second thoughts, doubts, all too late to stop the Carasian who was either not searching for whatever Veya had left Paul or doing so with a caution even a Kraal should appreciate. “You approve of our search, then.”
“I expect such valuable initiative from you.”
“I am gratified.” Lionel put a hand to his cheek, that cheek, and felt the heat of a blush.
“Matters on Dokeci-Na approach the critical point. As expected, the Youngest has been headstrong.”
“She mustn’t fail,” he said, now concerned. He’d been right—Skalet had gone on the Mistral, somehow. “I’m glad you’re there. You’ll help Esen save the Mareepavlovax. I’m sure of it.”
In the pause that followed, Lionel fussed to himself. He’d been too bold. Pushed his opinion into their business. Offended—
“This result is important to you, Lionel.” Softly. Not a question. A factor, considered.
“Of course! But so is your—” about to say safety, he rephrased, “—privacy.”
“We remain secure. I will do what I can—” Which relieved him. Followed by, “—but the Youngest must learn.”
Which did not. Lionel pulled the blanket to his chin. “What must she learn? May I ask that?”
“You, may. She’s grown complacent, here. Careless.” Her voice, velvet made sound, sharpened. “Esen-alit-Quar must learn the true cost of ignorance.”
Silence, then, as if even Skalet had nothing more to say.
Lionel closed his eyes, then opened them, no longer tired.
But there was nothing he dared do but wait.