“As is proper,” Boarmus mutters. “Though damned conspicuous.” No one on the lower balcony can miss those nodding purple plumes, that swirling, wide-sleeved purple coat, those scarlet trousers and shirt, the tap-tap of those lustrously polished gaver-hide boots.
Danivon Luze, striding up the stairs as though on parade, knows he is showy. Considering how rumor runs floodtide in Tolerance, he’d planned it that way, wanting no appearance of connivance or conspiracy when summoned to a meeting with Boarmus. Danivon doesn’t really trust Boarmus, doesn’t think he likes Boarmus, though he’s not really sure. Sometimes Boarmus smells like old sin itself, and other times like Uncle offering cookies. No telling in advance whether today’s summons is for naughty Luze or neffy-with-a-sweet-tooth Luze. So, Danivon comes as though on parade, which makes him conspicuous, yes, but also anonymous, his individuality subsumed into the regalia, so to speak, into a uniform formality of manner and stance: not Danivon Luze at all, but merely a Council Enforcer, Tolerance Post.
Danivon stops the requisite number of paces from the tea drinkers, executes a stylish salute that ends in a bow, the appropriate depth of which has been calculated to the last finger’s width. Straightening, he assays an appropriately deferential manner. “Sir,” he says, sweeping bonnet into hand. “Ma’am,” standing easy, relaxed.
Boarmus doesn’t ask him to sit down, but then Danivon hadn’t expected he would.
“You’ve heard about the messages from Panubi,” Boarmus says. “This business about the dragons.”
“Only in passing, sir. Nothing definite.” Actually, Danivon probably knows more about the so-called dragons than Boarmus does. Dragons, certainly, but also sightings of other, indescribable things, plus screams in the night and people gone (or mostly gone) in the morning, an unusual roster of horrid happenings, even for Elsewhere. All this has been served up for Danivon’s delectation in the Frickian servants’ quarters, far below this exalted level. Boarmus doesn’t spend time as Danivon does, down with the flunkies, hobnobbing with messengers from the provinces or with recently returned maintenance techs and supply vehicle drivers.
Boarmus purses his full lips and pontificates, mostly for Syrilla’s benefit: “So far as we know, no animals resembling dragons exist on Elsewhere, though there’s nothing to prevent persons from low-category places from costuming themselves as dragons, or persons from high-category places from manufacturing bi-oids to resemble dragons.” He sips his tea, noting with satisfaction that his voice has betrayed no urgency, no overtones of panic.
Settling the cup into its saucer, he goes on: “There is an additional matter. Some years ago, while you were still a youth, I received a message from Panubi. Not from one of the provinces, but from some other entity, centrally located on the continent. It was one of a series of such messages that seemed unimportant and equivocal at the time, not to say enigmatic. Now, however, inasmuch as this dragon business has come up …” He sips, watching Danivon’s eyes. Was Danivon, possibly, smelling something useful?
“Might one ask what the message said, sir?”
“Um,” says Boarmus, “a petition is how I took it. To the people of Elsewhere. To … ah … leave Elsewhere, perhaps.”
“Ah,” says Danivon, unenlightened. “Ah?” says Syrilla eagerly. “You never told me that, Boarmie.”
“There was nothing to tell. Someone or something located in Central Panubi sent a message. It could have been a joke. It could have been the work of a madman.” Boarmus shrugs, elaborately casual, and turns to Danivon once more. “The message concluded with these words: ‘R.S.V.P. Noplace, Central Panubi.’ I talked to your friend Zasper about it at the time, as a matter of fact. Twelve or thirteen years ago, it was.”
“Ah,” says Danivon again, considerably confused.
“Zasper felt it didn’t warrant an answer. Now, however …” His voice trails off, as he considers. He doesn’t intend to mention that a fifth petition has arrived. Syrilla doesn’t need to know that. Neither does Danivon. Particularly not the undignified details. He does not often take a woman to bed these days, and when he does, he does not expect her to go into hysterics at the sight of words suddenly printing themselves in large purple letters across the skin of his buttocks and belly! “Rethink their position,” indeed! Luckily she had the good sense to keep quiet about it.
Boarmus sets the humiliating memory aside and perseveres. “Your talents are unique, Luze. You’re well equipped for the task. I suggest you begin by consulting with Zasper Ertigon. He may have had some further thoughts in recent years.”
It isn’t quite what Danivon had expected. He had sniffed something in the air, but not this. Even now, here, with Boarmus not two paces away, he sniffs something other than this. Old, cold Boarmus, lizard-eyed Boarmus, greedy Boarmus, is lying to him. No, that doesn’t smell right either. Maybe not exactly lying. Just not telling the whole truth. Just not telling something … something very important.
“Sir.” Danivon nods, concentrating. His nose twitches sharply, and he suddenly knows some of what is in Boarmus’s mind. “You have wondered whether these so-called dragons might actually be enslaved persons?”
Even knowing Danivon’s ability as he does, it is hard for Boarmus not to show surprise. In light of the strange invitation, the idea of enslaved persons had indeed crossed his mind, but it isn’t a thought he intended to mention in Syrilla’s hearing. Well, too late. He shrugs, yawns. “I suppose anything is possible, my boy.”
“How would enslaved of the Hobbs Land Gods get here?” demands Syrilla in an apprehensive tone. “Our defenses are proof against the Hobbs Land Gods. Our Door is guarded; our force-net would report any incursion from space!”
“You’re perfectly right, Syrilla,” Boarmus murmurs.
She substitutes melodrama for apprehension, laying a twiggy hand on her chest to cry breathily, “Just think! Enslaved ones!”
“Well, all these matters can be examined simultaneously,” Boarmus says smoothly. “Dragons and enslavement and invitations and ‘noplace,’ wherever that is, plus whatever routine Enforcer duties may pop up
