When True Night Falls by C.S. Friedman Page B

black hair, closely cropped, did nothing to distract from them. Energy rippled from him in almost visible waves, and Damien guessed that he was the kind that was addicted to hard exercise—not for its own sake, or even to improve his flesh, so much as a need to give that energy an outlet, to channel it safely within a gym’s controlled confines so that it did not consume him elsewhere. He was the kind of man who became a leader or destroyed himself trying—and in the former he had clearly succeeded.
    “My name is Andir Toshida,” he said. His accent was liquid, strangely at odds with the harshness of his tone. It did little to hinder comprehension, for which Damien was grateful; given a possible eight hundred years of isolation, there was no telling what English might have become here. “It is my duty to assess your origin and your intentions, and to render judgment accordingly. You will speak,” he commanded, and he looked first at Damien, then to the captain, “and you will explain yourselves.”
    There was no question of who should begin, and Damien did not hesitate. “My name is Damien Kilcannon Vryce, Reverend Father twice knighted of the Eastern Autocracy of the One God.” He was watching the man for a reaction—any reaction—but the dark-skinned face was like stone. Utterly unreadable. “This is Lio Rozca, Captain-General of the Golden Glory, and Halen Orswath, of his crew.” We come in peace, he wanted to say, but words like that meant nothing; they were cheap, they were easy, the legions of Hell could have voiced them with impunity. This man had too much substance to be taken in by empty platitudes. “We came here from the west to determine if humans had settled here, to make contact with them if they had, and to establish trade with them when and where that was appropriate.”
    One of the civilians whispered to another; a sharp look from Toshida cut the exchange short. “A mercantile expedition.”
    “Some came for that purpose.”
    “Verda? Not to colonize?”
    The captain exhaled noisily. “We all have homes to go back to, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “We knew that five expeditions had already attempted the crossing,” Damien said. He saw neither surprise nor confirmation in Toshida’s eyes, nothing that might say or unsay whether he knew about all five or not. How many had landed? How many were lost? “We assumed at least one of them made it, and that therefore this land would be occupied. And since the most recent expedition was launched nearly four hundred years ago—” again, no hint of surprise in the man’s eyes, “—we believed it likely that by now mankind had settled here. We hoped that you would welcome contact with your kin, and permit us to learn from your trials.”
    “The crossing was made, verda. And mankind has ... flourished.” A slight hesitation there, fleeting but eloquent. “As to whether we would welcome contact: ... His expression hardened. ”That has yet to be determined.“
    He looked out toward the Golden Glory , now close enough to the other ship that some details were apparent to the naked eye. “You fly no flag,” he challenged.
    “The ship’s mine,” the captain said, “and I’m an independent. The crew’s a mixed lot, from half a dozen cities at least. Likewise the passengers.” He paused. “I can run my initials up the mizzenmast if it’ll make you happy.”
    If he heard the challenge in his tone, Toshida didn’t react to it. If anything he looked pleased, and nodded his head slightly as though in approval. The woman nearest him gestured for his attention; he leaned down so that she might whisper in his ear, then nodded again.
    “My adviser says that you must be genuine. An enemy ship would have presented itself better.”
    There were smiles at that, albeit minimal ones. Damien allowed himself the luxury of a long, deep breath, and wondered if it was his imagination or if the atmosphere had just lightened measurably. He decided