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.
“Your opinion?” she asked.
He glanced to her, one eyebrow up.
“I see nothing egregious, but this is, after all, the pilot-owner's decision.”
She frowned. He knew she was inept, and depended upon his advice, she thought, feeling rather put out. Why did he withhold himself?
The second eyebrow rose.
“Have I displeased the pilot?” he murmured.
