Shadow's End (13 page)

Eventually, the booth had its way. Snark quit fighting and slept. There in the simul booth, safe in the carapace, she slept, dreaming she was in the shrubbery at the sanctuary, wrapped in her old blanket, sleeping. And in that dreamed sleep, she dreamed she was in the even safer place at the edge of the moors. Sleep within sleep within sleep, dream within dream, she dreamed of becoming safer and safer still.

L
utha, Leely, and Trompe arrived upon Dinadh at our only port, Simidi-ala (the Separated Place), which stands in an area of desolate coastland beside Dinadh's only sea. This is the one place on Dinadh where there are garages for vehicles, where complicated things brought from off-planet may be repaired, where foreign wares may be housed. The stretch of coastline including the neighboring bay is called Tasimi-na-Dinadh, that is, the Edge of Dinadh, and visitors are told that when they came “across the Edge” and “through the Separation,” they have left behind them, symbolically at least, those things eschewed by Dinadh.

What things are eschewed by Dinadh? All those things that might draw us nearer other worlds. All those things that might make others look at us more closely, that might cause curiosity or speculation. These we eschew in favor of duty, gravity, privacy, knowing our place. Also beauty and order and reverence for … our chosen ways.

Lutha and Trompe were informed of this, there at
Simidi-ala. Lutha looked over the head of her sleeping child as the latest of several informants departed, fretting over the time already spent in fruitless waiting. It is Dinadh's way to make people wait and spend time and fret a little. Let them decide at first whether they wish to come to Dinadh at all. Let them think long about spending all those years with us. If they cannot stand a little frustration in Simidi-ala, they will never stand a winter in a hive!

“Why do people keep coming by and looking at us and then going away again?” Trompe demanded.

“You're the empath,” Lutha breathed. “You figure it out!”

“They're curious about us,” he said. “About why we're here. And they're very curious about Leely.” He sighed and rolled his head onto his shoulders, trying to ease aching muscles. He blinked sleepily and sat up straighter. Someone was coming.

The approaching Dinadhi was dressed as we all are, as Lutha and Trompe and Leely themselves were, in robes of fine, creamy cotton, high shoes woven of thin leather strips and soled with the durable, flexible wood of the paran tree, and over all a robe of soft leather—in summer, thin and light; in winter, heavier, with the wool still on—with bright patterns painted down the front and around the cuffs of the sleeves. These patterns are one's own, painted by the wearer, so even veiled women may be identified by their specific patterns. I have learned from Lutha and Snark what women wear on other planets, frilly thises and lacy thats, but we have no stockings, no intimate undergarments. Lutha tells me that all the time she spent on Dinadh she felt she was walking around in her night clothing. I told her we do not wear night clothing. Wool and leather we have. Cotton we have. That is all that we have.

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. “Covert agent of Alliance Prime, at your service.”

“What do you mean, covert agent?” asked Lutha. “Why would the Alliance have a covert agent here?”

“Why, why,” he stuttered, “to receive information. To forward it to Alliance Prime. They sent me because there's some conspiracy here. Something going on. They needed someone of my experience. I knew you must have been sent to …” He made an inclusive gesture.

“I see,” said Trompe fretfully, pinching the flesh between his eyes into a ridge as he felt for what was actually going on inside the oldster's mind. He seemed perfectly sincere, feeling a little outraged dignity, a little pomposity. A minor functionary living on dreams of glory. “How did you know we'd been sent to …?” He aped the other's inclusive gesture.

“The ship,” the man whispered. “It was an official ship.”

As it had been, without question. Well. Trompe bowed formally. “Thank you for your offer. If we learn anything at all, we will bring it directly to you.”

“I thank you sir. I will keep my, ah
…network
in readiness. Should you, by any chance, happen upon something urgent, the code word is
vigilance.”
He pursed his lips and nodded rapidly to himself several times.
“Vigilance.”

“I see,” said Lutha, trying to keep from laughing.

Leely chose that moment to stroke her face and mutter his customary polysyllable.

“So this is the young man,” Thosby said, peering at Leely like a squirrel peering at a nut, as though wondering
where to begin nibbling. “They were speaking of him in the corridor. So this is he.”

“He is,” said Lutha. “And we've come a long way, and we're tired. If you gentlemen will excuse us.” She stood up and took Leely away with her to what was called on Dinadh the female privacy facility.

Trompe bid Thosby Anent farewell, though it took several more conspiratorial exchanges to do so. As Thosby went the vehicle man arrived.

“Are you the last one we have to deal with?” demanded Trompe in a weary voice.

“The last person here at the port, yes,” the man replied. “I am about to rent you a vehicle at an exorbitant price, and sell you a guidebook, also quite expensive, by which means you may reach the hive where Bernesohn Famber had—or, I should say, has—a lease on a certain number of cells. On Dinadh, leases survive the lessees. Kin may claim them as inheritance and may sell the remaining rights, with our approval, of course. So, Famber's place is still there, undisturbed, his belongings as they were the day he left, in the hive of Cochim-Mahn, where the songfather has been told to expect you.”

“How long a journey to Cochim-Mahn?”

“It will take you several days. There are hostels along the way.”

“It seems a long time. Why can't we fly?”

“Flight is permitted only in certain, well-defined cases of emergency.”

“And why is that?” asked Trompe.

The vehicle man shrugged. “Have you seen persons sitting at their ease in the afternoon, drinking, perhaps, or talking with one another, when an insect comes suddenly buzzing and darting about their faces? Have you seen how they slap at it, wave it away, how it plagues them? Or in the evening, beside the lamp, when one is reading, and a flapping thing comes to the light?”

Trompe nodded.

“So our mother world feels about unnatural flying things buzzing about her face.”

“But she doesn't object to unnatural things crawling on her?” Trompe exploded.

“On her clothing,” corrected the vehicle man. “We can all put up with a few tiny things crawling about in our clothing. So long as they do it quietly and do not bite!”

“Which pretty well put us in our place!” Trompe remarked to Lutha when she returned. “In effect, we're mites in the seams of Dinadh's garments. Harmless ones, of course.”

Lutha went to one of the porelike openings in the outer wall and stood looking out. “Several of the female port workers came in to use the facilities while I was there. They were curious. Mostly about Leely.”

“Trying to talk to him?”

“Just watching him. He did a portrait of one of them on the wall.”