One of Roald Few’s workmen took Eugenie and her new pet back to Opal Hill, dropping them behind the Fading Vista from which Eugenie was able to reach her own little house without being observed. Eugenie already had a dozen plans for Goosegirl. One of them had to do with teaching her to dance, but first and second on the list had to do with the sewing of astonishing gowns and the selection of a new and utterly elegant name.
Marjorie tapped at the door of Rigo’s study and entered at the sound of his voice. “Am I too early?”
“Come on in,” he said, his voice fuzzy with fatigue. “Asmir’s not here yet, but I expect him momentarily.” He stacked some papers together, thrust them into a lockbox, keyed the box to hold, and turned off his node. In the corner of the room the tell-me swam with wavering bands of color, silent. “You look as weary as I feel.”
She laughed, unconvincingly. “I’m all right. Stella is on one of her usual tears. Some time ago I asked Persun to take her down to the village, thinking she could find someone there to share her time with. She’s been there once or twice and refuses to go back. She says they’re all provincials, ignorant as cabbages.”
“Well, that’s probably true.”
“Even so—” she started to say, intending to make some comment about pride, realizing just in time that it would annoy Rigo, “Tony says not. He finds companionship there.”
“Stella may find some kindred spirit at the reception.”
Marjorie shook her head. “No one Stella’s age is coming.”
“We invited families.”
“No one Stella’s age is coming,” she repeated. “It’s almost as though they’d decided not to allow any … any fraternization.”
He flushed angrily. “Damned hidebound …” His voice became a wordless snarl to which the knock at the door was a welcome interruption.
A servant announced the arrival of Asmir Tanlig, who had spent the time since his hiring inquiring here and there about illness on Grass. Who had died, and of what? Who was suffering, and from what? Who had gone to the doctors at Commons, and for what. Now he plumped his small square body down across from Roderigo and Marjorie, his round face puzzled, his mouth pursed, his precise little hands shuffling his papers, preparing to tell them what he had found.
“I’m not finding much, sir, madam, to tell you the truth. With the bons it’s pregnancy and hunting accidents and liver renewals because of all the drinking they do.” He wiped his lips on a clean handkerchief and lowered his already confidential voice as he leaned across Rigo’s desk where the lamplight pooled in the dusk. “I’ve told my family in Commons to ask around, has anyone disappeared—”
“Vanished,” murmured Marjorie. “We know they have.”
“Yes, ma’am, except if you’re talking about hunting, the vanished ones are mostly young. The ambassador told me …”
“I know,” she murmured. “I just wanted to keep it in mind.”
“As we shall,” said Rigo. “What about the non-bons, Asmir?”
“Oh, it’s everything. Accidents and allergies and in Portside there are always a few killings. Everyone accounted for, though; no disappearances except for those who’ve gone into the grass or the swamp forest.”
“Ah?” asked Rigo.
“Of course that’s always gone on,” said the man, suddenly doubtful. “For as long as I can remember. People going into the swamp forest and not coming out. People getting lost in the grass.”
“Who?” asked Marjorie. “Who, lately?”
“The last one was some big braggart of a fellow from off-planet.” Asmir referred to his notes, written neatly in a tiny, meticulous hand on various scraps of paper, which he arranged and rearranged as they spoke. “Bontigor. Hundry Bontigor. Loud mouth, people said. Swagger. Full of dares and boasts. Someone dared him to go into the swamp forest, and he went. Didn’t come out. He was only here on a weeklong permit, between ships. Nobody missed him much.”
“Has there been a case in which someone disappeared and it was … merely assumed that the person had gone into the forest?” Marjorie ran pinching fingers up the bridge of her nose and across her forehead, trying to evict the headache that had settled there.
Asmir shuffled his notes once again. “Last ones, before Bontigor, were kids. Nobody saw them go in there, if that’s what you mean. Time before that … well. Time before that was an old woman. Kind of gone, if you take my meaning. People couldn’t find her, so they thought—”
“Ah,” said Marjorie.
“Then there was that couple over at Maukerden village. And the carpenter from Smaerlok. And here’s somebody from Laupmon—”
“Lost in the grasses?”
He nodded. “But that’s always happened.”
“How many?” asked Rigo. “How many do you have listed, within the past collect? No, that would have been winter. Say last fall. How many assumed lost in the swamp forest or the grass last fall?”
“Fifty,” estimated Asmir. “Fifty or so.”
“Not many,” murmured Marjorie. “It could be what they think it is. Or it could be … illness.”
Rigo sighed. “Go on, Asmir. Keep gathering. Get everything you can about disappearances—who disappeared, how old they were, whether they seemed healthy before they went, things like that. Is Sebastian helping you?”
“Yes, sir. I gave you his information along with mine.”
“Keep at it, then, both of you.”
“If you could tell me—”
“I told you what I could when I hired you, Asmir.”
“I thought… I thought perhaps you didn’t trust me then.”
“I trusted you then and now.” Rigo smiled, one of his rare and charming smiles. “I told you I’m taking a special census
