been trying my best to fit in at human-dominated dinner tables ever since, I suddenly realized as I chomped my delicious hay and downed a second helping of gently-steamed turnip greens. Even at my weekly captain's dinners, where I was the master of all I surveyed, I forced myself to eat all sorts of things I didn't like in order to cater to human social whims. Why was I still doing that, I asked myself as for once I downed nothing but delicious, healthy food in the company of humans? I looked furtively around the table; everyone else was totally absorbed in their lobsters, which apparently grew extra-large and tender in the clean seas of Imperious. They didn't seem to care that I wasn't downing what still looked to me like giant red spiders along with them. In fact, so far as I could tell it didn't matter to them in the least what I ate, though I supposed that once upon a time when I'd had more to prove it probably had. So who was I kidding, anyway? Why was I so ashamed to eat what Rabbits ate? Why had I never brought my own food along to one of these events before? Maybe next time I should abandon all pretext and openly do so again?
At any rate, so far as I could tell everything was going swimmingly. Nestor was acting as my personal footbunny on the pretext that only he knew how to properly serve Rabbit-dishes at a formal dinner, and my aide was mixing in beautifully with the rest of Will of the People 's stewards and ship's boys. I allowed myself a slight smile at this—I'd spent enough time backstairs myself to be certain that my friend was going to come back home chock-full of juicy local bunny-gossip. Meanwhile, I was studying my dining companions and coming to my own conclusions. It was eminently clear that Captain Harlowe wasn't the only one who felt our little dinner was a terrible idea. Every last one of Sir Jason's officers seemed to agree with him, judging by their pinched expressions and clipped, monosyllabic conversation. There couldn't have been a sharper contrast between them and Jean, who was clearly relishing every moment of the unusual experience. Heinrich too was enjoying himself, though you had to know him well to realize it because he'd become such an introvert. He was consuming plate after plate of food, and I suddenly realized that for him this was a rare opportunity to enjoy the cuisine of his childhood. He'd been raised in upper-class Imperial circles to the age of eleven, so in some ways this was old-home week for him. It was affecting him more than he probably realized—on those rare occasions when he did speak, his vowels were every bit as broad as those of the Imperials sitting to his left and right. Indeed, from time to time our hosts exchanged odd glances after he spoke, though none were so gauche as to ask questions openly.
One of the things I'd worried most about regarding dinner—other than being taken prisoner and executed, of course!—was conversation. Eating in sullen silence would've been rude in the extreme, yet what would it be safe to discuss? We'd debated the matter extensively among ourselves during the ride over, and had decided to avoid politics and anything about the current war insofar as we could without being obvious about it. On the other hand, since we were all professional naval officers it wasn't credible to imagine that we'd somehow manage to sit in each other company for a period of several hours and—short of dead silence—avoid the subject of battles and tactics entirely. So we'd agreed to try and focus on the past, the further back the better. And, of course, we'd be free to discuss the wargames that'd first brought Heinrich and Sir Jason and I together.
I was pleased to discover that Sir Jason had independently formulated the same strategy. No one spoke a word about Zombie Station or Richard 's famous cruise or even the rape and pillage of Marcus Prime. Instead Jason opened the after-dinner conversation by telling the story of how, from his point of view,
At any rate, so far as I could tell everything was going swimmingly. Nestor was acting as my personal footbunny on the pretext that only he knew how to properly serve Rabbit-dishes at a formal dinner, and my aide was mixing in beautifully with the rest of Will of the People 's stewards and ship's boys. I allowed myself a slight smile at this—I'd spent enough time backstairs myself to be certain that my friend was going to come back home chock-full of juicy local bunny-gossip. Meanwhile, I was studying my dining companions and coming to my own conclusions. It was eminently clear that Captain Harlowe wasn't the only one who felt our little dinner was a terrible idea. Every last one of Sir Jason's officers seemed to agree with him, judging by their pinched expressions and clipped, monosyllabic conversation. There couldn't have been a sharper contrast between them and Jean, who was clearly relishing every moment of the unusual experience. Heinrich too was enjoying himself, though you had to know him well to realize it because he'd become such an introvert. He was consuming plate after plate of food, and I suddenly realized that for him this was a rare opportunity to enjoy the cuisine of his childhood. He'd been raised in upper-class Imperial circles to the age of eleven, so in some ways this was old-home week for him. It was affecting him more than he probably realized—on those rare occasions when he did speak, his vowels were every bit as broad as those of the Imperials sitting to his left and right. Indeed, from time to time our hosts exchanged odd glances after he spoke, though none were so gauche as to ask questions openly.
One of the things I'd worried most about regarding dinner—other than being taken prisoner and executed, of course!—was conversation. Eating in sullen silence would've been rude in the extreme, yet what would it be safe to discuss? We'd debated the matter extensively among ourselves during the ride over, and had decided to avoid politics and anything about the current war insofar as we could without being obvious about it. On the other hand, since we were all professional naval officers it wasn't credible to imagine that we'd somehow manage to sit in each other company for a period of several hours and—short of dead silence—avoid the subject of battles and tactics entirely. So we'd agreed to try and focus on the past, the further back the better. And, of course, we'd be free to discuss the wargames that'd first brought Heinrich and Sir Jason and I together.
I was pleased to discover that Sir Jason had independently formulated the same strategy. No one spoke a word about Zombie Station or Richard 's famous cruise or even the rape and pillage of Marcus Prime. Instead Jason opened the after-dinner conversation by telling the story of how, from his point of view,
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