“I might easily have left,” she answered as he slid into the booth next to her, rendering any such escape impossible.
“So you might have done,” he allowed, and nodded at the wine bottle that had been left to breathe in the center of the table, two glasses standing sentinel.
“Is that your choice?” he asked.
“It was sent over by the red-haired pilot,” she said, nodding to the right.
Daav turned his head, considering for a long moment the boisterous round table where the pilot sat with eight of his comrades. Aelliana blamed him not at all. The red-haired pilot made a compelling figure. Not beautiful, but pleasing, his demeanor somewhat reminiscent of Daav himself. Aelliana thought the similarity might stem from a familiarity with command, and wondered if the red-haired man was also a delm.
“The pilot has excellent taste, as I happen to know,” Daav said, returning his attention to her. “We could scarcely be so churlish as to disdain his gift. Will you pour?”
“Certainly. Daav, I have—”
“Have you ordered?” he interrupted. “For I fear you are correct, and I am most shamefully tardy. If we're to keep our appointment at Tey Dor's, we may not linger long over our meal.”
“I asked for salads and soup and bread to come when you did,” Aelliana told him. “Felae assured me that there would be no difficulty.”
Daav's left eyebrow quirked. “Felae is it? Shall I be dismayed?”
She knew that he was teasing her. The proper thing to do was to answer in kind; she had learned that. She had even learned a certain pleasure in matching his wit. Today, however, she was too full of her news—their news—and simply shook her head at him, much as Anne did to Shan, when she wished him to behave.
“Cast into my place!” Daav mourned. “But at least I shall not starve.”
“Pilots.” Felae deftly swung the tray 'round, stopping it with a touch of his fingers. He sorted the plates and the utensils quickly before looking to Aelliana.
“Will there be anything else, Pilot?” he asked respectfully.
“Thank you, this looks to be everything,” she said, and smiled at him. “You were very quick to notice that we were ready!”
The boy ducked his head.
“That was my sister's doing, Pilot. She pinged me from the reception station when your partner cleared the foyer.”
“Excellent teamwork,” Daav murmured approvingly.
Felae's pale cheeks darkened slightly, with pleasure or with shyness, Aelliana was not able to discern. He bowed, straightening to catch the tray as it began to wander aside.
“Enjoy your meal, Pilots,” he said and off he went, veering to the left in response to a high-held hand.
“Bread, Pilot?” Daav murmured, reaching into the basket.
Aelliana sighed in anticipation.
“Bread would be good,” she said, and it would be, here at Ongit's. Truly, she feared that she had acquired an addiction.
He broke the loaf with strong fingers, put half on her plate, kept the other and took up his spoon.
Aelliana reached—but no! Her news was too urgent. Even fresh-baked bread and Ongit's vegetable chowder paled before it.
“Daav,” she said, breathlessly, “I have something very important to tell you.”
Halfway to his mouth, the spoon stopped, reversed itself and made a soft landing in the bowl. She looked up, seeing at once that she had his undivided attention.
“Very important?” he repeated, head tipped to one side.
“Extremely important,” she clarified. She reached into an interior pocket of her jacket and withdrew her prize.
“Just before I left Binjali's, I received this!” She held it up for him to see.
Whatever Daav had been expecting, she sensed that it had not been an envelope, no matter how luxurious against the fingers, or how elegant the script that adorned it.
“And that is?” he inquired politely.
“A job offer!” she said triumphantly. Since he made no move to take the envelope, she opened it and slipped the single sheet of paper free.
“We're to take an antique dulciharp to Avontai . . . complete instructions and an introduction to be provided when we accept the commission.” She looked up from the letter. “Only think, Daav! We have a job offer.”
“Allow me.” He plucked the paper from her fingers. “You are not eating, Pilot.”
“The job—”
“If the job cannot wait while the pilot takes care of her reasonable needs, it is not a job we may wish to accept,” he said quellingly.
He recovered his soup spoon, and directed his attention to the letter.
Sighing, Aelliana tasted the soup—and was abruptly quite hungry indeed.
Daav read the letter—twice—while he pursued his own meal, then folded the paper and slipped it back into its envelope.
“What do you think?” she asked, breaking off a piece of bread.
“I think that we will have to fly like a Scout to make the proposed delivery date,” he answered, pulling the salad toward him.
Aelliana moved her shoulders. “We could scarcely fly like anything else,” she pointed out. “The fee?”
“Acceptable,” he allowed, throwing her a bright, unreadable glance. “Though I would insist upon a bonus, if we deliver early.”
“Early?” She did the math in her head and laughed. “There is a very small chance of that, van'chela—even if we fly like two Scouts.”
He smiled. “Then the client will not mind the presence of the clause, since it is so unlikely that we will collect.” He speared a bit of greenery; it broke with an audible crunch. “Besides, it is standard in our contract that we receive a three percent bonus for early delivery.”
Aelliana considered him. “Is it?”
“From this moment forward,” he said solemnly. “Pending the pilot-owner's approval, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, with the irony he had not supplied. “It is the pilot-owner's inclination to accept this offer of employment, unless my copilot has an objection, or knows ill of the prospective client?”
The prospective client—Dath jo'Bern Clan Hedrede—was High House. Aelliana had set herself to memorizing the Houses and Lines, a task she found remarkably agreeable with young Shan as her study partner, and more often, her tutor. However, as she had also come to understand, through listening to Daav and Er Thom's conversation, High House did not necessarily mean “wholly honorable.”
“Your copilot sees no reason at all why we should not accept this offer of employment, to the enrichment of the ship and the enjoyment of the pilots. Let us by all means inform the client that she will be receiving our contract immediately.”
She frowned.
“Mr. dea'Gauss has our contract on file,” she said. “Is he likely to have put in such a clause on his own initiative? For I did not know to tell him.”
“Doubtless Mr. dea'Gauss considers early delivery worth far more than three percent, pirate that he is. But! All may be known, as soon as we have a comm . . . ”
“A comm . . . ” she began, meaning to say that it would be a wonder, indeed, to find Felae or another server in this crush, but there. Daav had merely straightened; perhaps he lifted an eyebrow, but certainly not a hand, and here came the second Mr. Ongit himself, his blunt-featured face attentive.
“Service, Pilots?”
Daav glanced to her—which was of course, she reminded herself, correct. The captain ought to call regarding matters of the ship. She felt her cheeks warm.
“If I might trouble the house for the use of a comm?” she murmured.
“Certainly, Pilot. I will bring it myself.”
Aelliana finished reading the contract Mr. dea'Gauss had obligingly sent to the screen. It seemed well-done enough to her, but, she reminded herself, only look how ably she had handled her employment contract.
She glanced to Daav, who was sipping his wine, eyes pointed at a spot slightly above the comm, his face perfectly neutral. Almost, she put her hand on his arm; something—perhaps it was pride—restrained her. Instead, she cleared her throat.