By C. J. Cherryh
Within the wake of civil struggle, Bren Cameron, the intense human diplomat of the alien atevi civilization, has left the capital and sought safe haven at his nation property, Najida. yet now he's trapped within Najida-which has been surrounded via enemies- with the robust grandmother of his best friend, Tabiniaiji, atevi chief of the Western organization. Ilisidi, the aiji-dowager, isn't really susceptible to be passive and sends Bren into enemy territory, to the palace of the chief of the rebels.
Bren's project is to barter with Machigi-a younger atevi lord who hasn't ever really visible a human-and one way or the other convince him to stop his opposed activities opposed to the west. Is Bren a sensible sufficient negotiator to stick alive, and never alienate Ilisidi or Tabini, whereas additionally representing the pursuits in their enemy?
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Additional info for Betrayer (Foreigner, Book 12)
The body had retained in death the position it had last adopted in life: seated upright, feet crossed at the ankles, hands placed on lap. What made a mockery of the body’s posture was the absence of its head. The dark orifice of the windpipe and a notched stub of backbone showed in cross section. The impact of the projectile had blasted the skull and its contents in a liquidised spray across the room and against the far wall. " Vishi nodded to a vacant armchair. " Chandra sighed. "Okay. I want you to question her, find out if she noticed anything.
When the girl stumped through the open door Nazruddin, all belly and belligerent walrus moustache, ran around the counter flicking his dusting cloth at her. ," Vaughan called. " The Sikh was sceptical. "Ah-cha. " The girl hobbled past the restaurateur, a smug expression on her face. She slipped into the booth, facing Vaughan, and he closed his eyes briefly as the music of her mind overcame him. She rolled a vial of blue powder across the table. His hands shaking, he opened the vial and tasted the powder on the tip of his finger.
Beyond the ‘port, the city was a patchwork of residential apartments, hotels, parks, and gardens, shot through with long roads and pedestrian walkways. Bengal Station was a cultural amalgam of Calcutta and Bangkok: on the upper-deck the latest polycarbon architecture designed in India and Thailand created a state-of-the art skyline, while overhead fliers mach’d along colour-coded air corridors. The nineteen levels below were enclosed, each shelf a claustrophobic hive-city of corridors, walkways, and roads between cramped, two-storey structures, inhabited by citizens who never saw the light of day for years on end.