“Mitigan of the Asenagi,” said the former king, with a wry twist to his mouth. “And Chur Durwen of Collis. Or is it the Haughneep brothers?”
“The former two.” The Procurator wiped his eyes once more and made himself sit tall. “We know they came to Dinadh. Now we need to know where they are.”
A discreet rap at the door drew their attention. The man who came in was robed, tassel-bearded, and gray around the temples. “At your service, Procurator,” he said, sounding neither obsequious nor interested.
“Do you know of Jerome’s system?” asked the Procurator.
“It contains, among others, the ocean world of Hava,” replied the Dinadhi, raising his eyebrows almost to his hairline. “It is the inhabited system nearest to our own.”
“Your nearest neighbors have gone missing,” said the Procurator heavily. “Yesterday, more than a million persons vanished from Hava. The other worlds in Jerome’s system had already been wiped clean. It is clear the Ulari-ans have returned. Last time around, every human person in Hermes Sector was disposed of except you Dinadhi. One exception does not create a pattern. You may not be immune this time around.”
The man simply stared, taking it in, his eyes gradually widening.
“Some kind of jest, sir …”
“I would not have gone to the trouble of a painful journey to jest with you, sir. The Procurator of the Alliance does not flit about playing games. The only persons who may be able to help us are now at the leasehold of Bernesohn Famber. Lutha Tallstaff, her son, a helper named Trompe. You recall!”
“I recall, of course.” Offended dignity. “I am a rememberer!”
“There were two men who arrived about the same time, Mitigan and Chur Durwen. Assassins. Hoping to kill at least two of those earlier mentioned, Lutha and her son. We have to find them!”
“The men were sent to T’loch-ala,” said the rememberer. “Which is a hive remote from Cochim-Mahn, where Bernesohn Famber still has leasehold. We knew they were mercenaries.”
“That’s all very well so far as it goes,” said the Procurator wearily. “Though I’m delighted to hear that you took precautions, you have not told me those precautions were effective. Can you find out whether the assassins are still at this T’loch-ala?”
“We have systems for communicating with the songfathers of each hive.”
“Quickly, or at leisure?”
“With some dispatch, sir.”
“Then let us stop dancing and do so. Please. And while you’re about it, I want to see a man named … ah.” He tapped his wrist-link. “Name of agent on Dinadh?”
“Thosby Anent,” said the link.
“Thosby Anent,” repeated the Procurator. “Get him, too, as quickly as you can.”
A peculiar expression showed for only a moment, then the tassel-bearded man put on his lofty face once more and went striding away, his robes lashing his ankles in a frenzy of offended motion.
“He hasn’t really taken it in yet,” said the former king.
“No. Habit tells him to do nothing quickly, but we tell him to act at once. Such people grow defensive when forced into motion.” The Procurator rubbed his forehead wearily. “There are disadvantages to being responsible.”
The former king considered this. “There are also disadvantages to being responsible for nothing, Procurator.”
There seemed nothing more to be said until the rememberer returned. While they waited, as though with one mind, the three turned slightly away from one another and sat, each lost in an individually lonely world.
It was almost dark when Trompe drove us into the entrance to Burning Springs canyon. We camped once more. Setting up the enclosure was getting to be a routine. Cutting fodder for the beasts was becoming habit, as was watering them, hobbling them, letting them graze awhile. While rummaging among the food stocks, trying to decide what to prepare for a meal (on Dinadh, we rarely have that much choice), I overheard a conversation between Lutha and Trompe.
“You want me to sit up and watch Leely half the night?” Trompe asked in a slightly offended voice. “Because he got a few bug bites? Why don’t you put his harness on him?”
“Even if I put him in his harness, he might manage to escape. And supposedly, you’re here to help me!” she snarled.
Long quiet moment while he stared at her. “Right,” he said. “Quite right.”
Then he went off muttering and shaking his head while Leelson stared at his back resentfully. It was an interesting muddle. Leelson and Lutha could neither accept one another nor leave one another alone. And, though Trompe had been quite willing to play Lutha’s servant so long as Leelson was thought to be missing, he felt it put him at a disadvantage now that Leelson was present and accounted for. He, Trompe, was, after all, as much a Fastigat as Leelson was, and Lutha was, more or less, Leelson’s responsibility. Leelson, meantime, felt he had the right to argue with, ignore, or even attack Lutha, but he denied Trompe any such right. What with long hours of either drudgery or boredom plus our restless nights, all three of them were on edge, irritable, ready to lash out at anyone, anything.
So I analyzed the situation, as though I were a song-father setting things to rights in a winter hive, where, as here, everyone is shut up together and irritation mounts. It was an ordinary, irrational human stew, quite complicated enough, even without the sexual feelings that were churning around among them. Among us.
Myself included. I found myself watching Trompe, time on time. Liking the shape of him. Imagining him in other places, at other times. I was not in love with him, but yes, I lusted after him. Lusting after men is a particular pain for women of the veiled sisterhood, because we know it is hopeless, fruitless, foredoomed. Even if some man could overlook … overlook our appearance, we
