Free The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein) by Martha Wells Page B

want to see it,” trailed along after them.
    The room was huge with mellow gold wood broken along the base and top of the walls by silver and bronze bands. Silvered glass panels were set above the columns that separated the main area from the private dining salons along the sides. The light from the overheads was warm and the people sitting or wandering about were far more calm than the chaotic crowd in the main hall earlier. What must have been about half the room’s original chairs and tables remained, and about a third of those were in use. The only reminder of the danger was the blackout cloth tightly tacked over the outside windows.
    Lady Aviler was right and the volunteers had managed to produce food; trolleys were lined up near the baize serving doors and several women and a few older children were dispensing bread, soup, tea and coffee. Tremaine turned to Ilias to comment only to find he wasn’t there. He and Dyani were absorbed in the set of embossed wall panels at the side of the big chamber. Going to join them, she saw the theme was “A History of Shipbuilding from Classical to Modern Times” and understood the attraction. She nudged Ilias with an elbow. “You think we can get the others down here to eat?”
    “If they don’t, they can go hungry.” Engrossed in the images, Ilias didn’t sound sympathetic to their plight.
    “Did Dannor make any more trouble?” Tremaine started to ask, when someone shouted, “It’s you!”
    She looked wildly around, thinking oh no, but the woman who had jumped up from one of the tables and now hurried toward her didn’t look hostile. She had dark hair tied back and wore men’s pants and an oversized Rienish army fatigue shirt. As the woman reached her she caught Tremaine’s hands and said in a Lowlands accent, “I thought it was you! You’re the Ile-Rien spy.”
    “Oh, no, not really—” Tremaine managed. She did know this woman; she was a Lowlands missionary who had been taken by the Gardier on Maiuta. Tremaine and Florian had spoken to her briefly when they had been captured on the island with Ilias. She hadn’t recognized the woman at first because the brilliant smile she wore now transformed her face and made her look years younger.
    “I want to thank you.” She wrung Tremaine’s hands gratefully. “I thought we would never see the sun again. And you.” She looked at Ilias. “I saw his people fight for us. Who are they?” she asked Tremaine, “I don’t recognize their language.”
    “They’re Syprians. The Gardier base was in their territory,” Tremaine explained vaguely. “But I’m not really—”
    The group at the woman’s table was standing up to leave and one of the other women called to her. The missionary glanced over her shoulder. “I must go back, but thank you.” She kissed Tremaine’s cheek quickly and darted away.
     
     
     
    M ost of the Syprians who weren’t still asleep ended up trailing reluctantly along to the dining room. Some of them eyed the food suspiciously, but when Halian, Gyan and Arites ate, they followed suit. The biggest problem seemed to be that since Syprian dining tables were only a foot or so off the floor, they found the waist-high Rienish ones awkward. Arites had found some old pages of ship’s stationery and a pencil in the suite somewhere and sat on the floor, happily taking notes. Tremaine noticed he was writing with his good arm, a trace awkwardly.
    Having gotten everyone else settled and approaching the food herself, Tremaine found her stomach in mild revolt, but a mug of tea settled it and she was able to eat one of the thick slices of bread moistened with rich brown onion soup. She had been expecting military metal plates and cups, but it was served on the ship’s china, gleaming white with a band of antique gold.
    Then one of the volunteers emerged out of the back somewhere to call out, “Is Tremaine Valiarde here?”
    Tremaine set her bowl aside and stood hastily. “Yes?”
    “There’s