Lutha said they were surprised to find our garments exceptionally comfortable. Even Leely objected to them less than he did to his ordinary wear. They had managed to keep him dressed during most of the trip out.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” murmured the official, seating himself beside them and setting his feet squarely together. “There’ve been several someones here looking for you, and when you arrived, we thought it wise to have a small conference and share our perceptions of the matter.”
“Looking for me?” asked Trompe, sitting up straighter and opening his eyes wide.
The official shook his balding head and stroked his beard from the point where it was gathered into a carved bone ring below his chin, down the glossy tassel to his waist. All our men who work at the port wear their beards like that so we will know who they are, so we will pray for them, exposed as they are, to the influences of outsiders.
The official said, “Two were here yesterday, looking for the wife of Leelson Famber, and Leelson Famber’s children. They said they came to seek peace and ultimate truth upon Dinadh and wished to meet with Leelson Famber’s family while they were here.”
“While they were here seeking truth,” said Trompe heavily.
“Who?” asked Lutha, suddenly wide-awake. “And what do you mean, children?” She indicated her sleeping son. “To my knowledge, this is the only child Leelson ever fathered.”
The official smiled again. “We leasehold officers are accustomed to applicants of many kinds and degrees of fear or fervor, gush or melancholy. The two I speak of are of another stripe. Though Mitigan of Asenagi and Chur Durwen of Collis make proper application for right of residence, neither their desire for sanctuary nor their wish to learn from the songfathers rings true. Instead of a manner either fervid or meditative, both men display an attitude of aplomb, of alert disinterest, of customary un-surprise.”
Trompe slitted his eyes.
The official shrugged. “We are parochial, but we are not naive. To our eyes, they have the appearance of mercenaries.”
“What did you tell them?” demanded Trompe.
The official smiled. “Nothing except that the wife of Leelson Famber was not here. That no children of Leelson Famber were on Dinadh. As was true at the time.”
“Did they accept that?”
“No. They wanted to see our records.”
Trompe snorted.
The official smiled. “As you are no doubt aware, there are no such things on Dinadh. We don’t record things. We remember them. We don’t have files or archives or libraries, we have rememberers. We don’t have maps, we have guides. We don’t write books, we tell tales. We don’t even have money, as you understand money. The only reason we allow outlanders on the planet at all is to get hard currency credit for off-planet purchases.”
“Did you remember anything for them?” Lutha asked.
“Nothing. But neither did we discourage their remaining upon Dinadh. Hundred-year leases do not grow on trees.”
“I don’t suppose you found out what they’re really here for. Or where they’re from?”
“We watched them, we listened, trying to find out why they were really here, but they spoke a language we have no record of. A secret language, our translators think. An assassin’s tongue.”
“So, where are they now?” Trompe demanded.
“Across the port. In one of the other hives. We thought we’d let you get on your way before we send them anywhere else.”
Lutha sighed.
Trompe said, “How much will you charge to tell them nothing?”
The official shook his head chidingly. “We don’t play games of that sort, Outlander Paggas. That leads to a pattern of darkness, and we try to avoid such. The only reason for our mentioning these people is that we thought you might know of them, know who they are, why they are here. Seemingly, you do not, so they will not be allowed to infringe upon your privacy—or, I should say, the privacy of Bernesohn Famber, whose lease has still two standard years to run.” “You’ll send them away?”
“They have the same privilege as any other applicant. If they wish to buy a lease, they may buy one. The only cells available at the moment are in hives some distance from Cochim-Mahn, where Bernesohn Famber dwelt among us.”
“You’re saying we won’t encounter them.”
“I’m saying it would be extremely unlikely. Now, your other visitor presents a somewhat different situation.”
“Other visitor?” Lutha raised her brows.
“Thosby Anent. Supposedly he is a broker in craft items, of which Dinadh creates a small array. He pretends to be a broker, and we pretend to believe him. He is actually a spy for the Alliance, and he was here yesterday, asking for you.”
“But we are here for the Alliance,” Lutha erupted, spontaneously and unthinkingly.
The Dinadhi beamed at her. “Of course you are. How nice of you to admit it. It relieves us of the burden of fiction! Old Anent is harmless, but I may not force him on you. Will you see him?”
Trompe shrugged assent.
“Rest here. I’ll send him along, and then the vehicle manager to start you on your way.”
“And your name, sir?” Trompe asked.
“Merely a humble patterner, doing his duty.” He went away, leaving Trompe and Lutha to stare at one another, and then at the elderly man making his way across the floor toward them. He was somewhat gray and dried-out looking, with pale watery eyes of so light a blue they seemed almost white, when they could be seen through the wreath of smoke around his head.
“Thosby Anent,” he murmured, taking the pipe from his mouth and peering over his shoulder even as he cupped his hand beside his lips, a perfect parody of conspiracy.
