Che’ri wrinkled her nose. A picture book? She might not like to read, but she was way past picture books. “That’s okay,” she told the younger girl. “I’ve got something else I’m supposed to read.”
“She said we didn’t have to study.”
“This isn’t studies,” Che’ri assured her. “Go on, get busy. I want to get back to those snaps.”
“Okay.” Settling herself cross-legged in her chair, Ab’begh propped her questis on her knee and started to read.
Che’ri picked up her questis, her eyes straying over to the low table where Ab’begh’s colored graph markers were scattered. Her last momish had told her graph markers got all over everything and wouldn’t let her have them.
But that was her last momish. Maybe Thalias would let her get some. She’d ask her once they were back on the Springhawk. If she could get some graph markers, and some paper, she could do some real artwork.
Looking back at the questis, she punched up the list. Along with the familiar storybooks—some of which she’d read more than once—she spotted a longer one: some stories about Mitth’raw’nuruodo.
She frowned. She’d completely forgotten about the file Thalias had sent her. It was pretty long, and there were bound to be big complicated words.
But with Thrawn and Thalias and the Springhawk in danger, maybe reading some of it would help her feel better. Thalias had seemed to think it would, anyway.
And just because she started, it didn’t mean she had to read the whole thing.
Settling herself comfortably in the corner of her chair, she braced herself and opened to the first page.
MEMORIES IV
General Ba’kif had told Ziara that she had good instincts. But she quickly learned that good unfortunately didn’t mean perfect.
The first such lesson came very quickly. The weekend after Thrawn was acquitted he called to invite her out, to help him celebrate and as a thank-you for her help. From the enthusiastic way he talked about the evening, she’d envisioned a night of music and food, perhaps a gymnastic or musical performance, and certainly a modicum of drink.
What she got instead—
She looked around her at the quiet patrons and the somber colors, at the neatly arranged hangings, pictures, sculptures, and drapings. “An art gallery,” she said, her voice flat. “You brought me to an art gallery.”
“Of course,” he said, giving her a puzzled look. “Where did you think we were going?”
“You said there would be insight, drama, and the excitement of discovery,” she reminded him.
“There is.” He pointed down a hallway. “The history of the Ascendancy is in these rooms, some of the pieces dating back to Chiss participation in the wars between the Galactic Republic and the Sith Empire.”
“I seem to remember that era not being a particularly glowing time for the Ascendancy.”
“Agreed,” Thrawn said. “But look at how our tactics and strategies have changed since then.”
Ziara frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Our tactics and strategies,” Thrawn repeated, frowning back.
“Yes, I heard you,” Ziara said. “Why are we talking tactics in an art gallery?”
“Because the one is reflected in the other,” Thrawn said. “Art mirrors the soul, from which tactics arise. One can see in artwork the strengths and weaknesses of those who created it. In fact, if one has a sufficient variety of art to study, one can extend and extrapolate to the strengths, weaknesses, and tactics of entire cultures.”
Abruptly, Ziara realized her mouth was hanging open. “That’s…very interesting,” she managed. Maybe, she thought belatedly, she shouldn’t have worked so hard to get him off the hook after all.
“You don’t believe me,” Thrawn said. “Fine. There are alien artworks two chambers over. You pick whichever culture you want, and I’ll show you how to read their tactics.”
Ziara had never been in an alien art wing, in this gallery or any other. The closest she’d ever come to non-Chiss artifacts, in fact, was the twisted chunk of debris from a Paataatus warship that was displayed at the Irizi family homestead on Csilla. “Where did all this come from?” she asked, looking at the various flats and sculptures as Thrawn led the way through the entry arch into the hall.
“Most were purchased by various merchants and traders and subsequently donated to the gallery,” Thrawn told her. “Some are from species we still have contact with, but the majority are from aliens we encountered during the Sith Wars, before the retreat back to our own borders. Here we go.”
He stopped in front of a clear-sided case containing translucent bottles and plates. “Scofti formal tableware, from a governmental regime a hundred years ago,” Thrawn identified them. “What do you see?”
Ziara shrugged. “It’s pretty enough. Especially those internal color swirls.”
“How about durability?” Thrawn asked. “Does it seem sturdy?”
Ziara looked closer. Now that he mentioned it…“Unless that material is a lot stronger than it looks, not at all.”
“Exactly,” Thrawn said. “The Scofti change leaders and governments frequently, often under violence or the threat of violence. Since each new leader typically reorganizes the prefecture’s palace, all the way down to the décor and the tableware, the artisans see no point in making anything for them that will last longer than a year. Indeed, since the new master often takes pleasure in publicly destroying the personal items of his or her predecessor, there’s a strong incentive to deliberately make everything fragile.”
“Really.” Ziara eyed him suspiciously. “Is that really true? Or are you just guessing?”
“We’ve been in marginal contact with them for the past twenty years,” Thrawn said, “and our records support that conclusion. But I made that assessment from the gallery’s artifacts before I looked up the history.”
“Mm.” Ziara looked at the items another moment. “Okay. What’s next?”
Thrawn looked around the room. “This is an interesting one,” he said, pointing toward another display case nearby. “They called themselves the Brodihi.”
“Called, past tense?” Ziara asked as they walked over to it. “They’re all dead?”
“We don’t actually know,” Thrawn said. “These artifacts were recovered from the wreckage of a downed ship over three hundred years ago. We still don’t know who they were, where they came from, or whether they still exist.”
Ziara nodded as she did a quick scan of the case’s contents. More dinnerware—plates plus elongated flatware, all decorated with angled rainbow-colored stripes—plus a few tools. In the back of the case was a picture of an alien with a long snout and a pair of horns jutting from the top of its head, along with a short description of the creatures and the circumstances of the discovery. “So what can you tell me about them?”
“You’ll note the angled color bars on the flatware,” Thrawn said. “In order for the lines to match, the knives, forks, and spoons must be angled toward the center of the table and then back toward the edge.”
Ziara nodded. “Like a pair of opening bird wings.”
“Or…?” Thrawn prompted.
Ziara frowned and took another look at the alien picture. “Or like the shape of their horns.”
“That was my conclusion, as well,” Thrawn agreed. “Also note that while the spoons and forks will point toward the center of the table, the knives must be pointed backward, toward the edge for the color bars to line up. What does that tell you?”
Ziara studied the display, trying to visualize one of the creatures sitting where she and Thrawn were standing, waiting for food to be put on his plate. “The knives are much better weapons than the spoons and forks,” she said slowly. “Positioning the points toward you suggests that you have no animosity or designs against the others at the table.”