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8:13 PM
Press conferences are horrible.
Even on the space frontier, they're horrible, and Saigremort takes another drink from the bottle of water beside his arm and breathes out, slowly, while the single photographer's shutter clicks and the handful of reporters scribble wildly.
"...and the Alliance Trade Committee of Arden accepts the treaty with New Britain and King LeGuin, and exchange of economic goods will begin immediately. The Trade Committee plans to establish the first import boutique within the next months, starting to-morrow with construction in Camallate's market district. On behalf on the Committee I'd like to extend a warm thank you to King and Queen LeGuin, along with six-thousand Alliance credits. Thank you very much."
With which he stands, trying not to exude relief, and bows, in a swirl of silk and brocade. The conference audience applauds politely, and the reporters start shouting questions, but thankfully he's done here, and he escapes out the side door while the poor king takes the podium to make the follow-up speech.
He's already been invited to stay at the hall instead of going back to his ship for the night, so he heads for the room (one room, he thinks dispiritedly. far cry from his suite on the Senehaut) Queen LeGuin pointed out when he first arrived. He's missing Clarie and her good sense more strongly than usual to-night, not to mention her ability to make the servants appear out of thin air. And the damn planet is so poor. Saigremort is uncomfortably conscious of the richness of his clothes and the way he holds himself, looking, moving, like money. He needs to work on that or he's going to foster distrust, as the diplomatic relations team has pointed out a hundred times.
No, what he needs is a shower--is running water even available on this planet?--and a glass of the wine that New Britain is famous for, and a chance to holo Clarie and complain for a while. He's started to unwrap his sash even before he reaches the door to his room.
Even on the space frontier, they're horrible, and Saigremort takes another drink from the bottle of water beside his arm and breathes out, slowly, while the single photographer's shutter clicks and the handful of reporters scribble wildly.
"...and the Alliance Trade Committee of Arden accepts the treaty with New Britain and King LeGuin, and exchange of economic goods will begin immediately. The Trade Committee plans to establish the first import boutique within the next months, starting to-morrow with construction in Camallate's market district. On behalf on the Committee I'd like to extend a warm thank you to King and Queen LeGuin, along with six-thousand Alliance credits. Thank you very much."
With which he stands, trying not to exude relief, and bows, in a swirl of silk and brocade. The conference audience applauds politely, and the reporters start shouting questions, but thankfully he's done here, and he escapes out the side door while the poor king takes the podium to make the follow-up speech.
He's already been invited to stay at the hall instead of going back to his ship for the night, so he heads for the room (one room, he thinks dispiritedly. far cry from his suite on the Senehaut) Queen LeGuin pointed out when he first arrived. He's missing Clarie and her good sense more strongly than usual to-night, not to mention her ability to make the servants appear out of thin air. And the damn planet is so poor. Saigremort is uncomfortably conscious of the richness of his clothes and the way he holds himself, looking, moving, like money. He needs to work on that or he's going to foster distrust, as the diplomatic relations team has pointed out a hundred times.
No, what he needs is a shower--is running water even available on this planet?--and a glass of the wine that New Britain is famous for, and a chance to holo Clarie and complain for a while. He's started to unwrap his sash even before he reaches the door to his room.