Ah.

Visalia bows at once in respect to one who is far, far, obliteratingly far above her present station. "I'm afraid you are at cross purposes, sir Knight. It would be exceptionally poor hospitality for you to remove my head."

Etiquette would demand that she leave it there, let the subtext speak for itself, and allow the one of higher rank to ask further. But etiquette had never been dragged through a choking cloud of chemical warfare, alone in an alien empire. Etiquette was also not staring down the barrel of an unknown sense of humor.

"My only teachers were a single scroll of katas, and my enemies. The former, I met long before I met a grav-rail. Whereas with the latter, I met the two simultaneously," she explains, without returning upright.

**********************************************************

Dolce’s answer takes time, as pasta in boiling water takes time, or the one learning to boil the pasta takes time. When he speaks, he speaks to her, though his eyes grow distant, reflecting the clouds of steam.

“In the Starsong Privateers, it is the captain's duty to lead the song. The fleet commanders choose the set list, and the captains play the right songs at the right times. But. If they drive the percussion too hard, then the song does not play. If the singers lack the heart to sing from the depths of their souls, then the song does not play. If the instruments are at war with each other, each believing totally that their way is right, then the song does not play. If there are those who do not feel the music, or don't know the words, or simply can't tolerate a war song at full volume..." He gingerly rubs at his soft, floppy ears. "If the captain relies on them, then the song does not play."

“I have not met many good captains like you speak. I don't think they would lead very good songs.”

A salt shaker leaves the countertop. One of twenty drawers slides open and shut. The shaker returns, minus the weight of one ring.

“Which is not to assume that I lead any better. I have been lucky enough to watch some brilliant conductors, and to hear them speak to their work, but the real thing is far harder then it looks. I have no commander, nor other captains that I must stay synchronized with. I am on my own; the choice of song is ultimately mine.” And was it not so long ago that his most consequential decision was which drinks to serve with lunch? “I have a band of thousands, I know less than half of them by name, all while the concert is underway, and the song will play on with or without me. Perhaps if I were a different sort of a good captain, I would find this all a lot easier. But, perhaps, that would just makes other parts much, much more difficult.” He blinks. He turns his head. He looks down, dipping in a small bow. “May I look to your wisdom, then, as one so close to Apollo?”

Your real work. For whose love you put up with all other tasks.

“Does Apollo teach kindness and virtue to your allies, and cruelty and spite to your enemies?”