If The Potential Guest Does Not Feel Free To Refuse, The Conscientious Host Will Not Feel Free To Invite

After the civic quartermaster announced the market's closure, an Omme approached and asked to speak to the Rikelta, or rather Rikkelta, in charge. He did so in passable Adaban as well. “Colorist Hewwikke Satvo Sau, if that's acceptable. Call me Hewwikke because I like it a lot. Satvo, well, it's all right,” he said to introduce himself. Tall for an Omme and respectable among Adabans, the way he squinted and seemed to be leaning his lanky frame forward at all times undercut any impression of dignity he may have wished to give, but his smooth silk shirt and scarf implied a certain level of prosperity. “I'm the founder, owner, and wrangler of Kekket Ittame, the fastest-growing publishing concern in Pavvu Omme Os. My guys will be writing up the debate, doing interviews, and adding original reporting. That's my business. Now to prove I'm not an Adaban-hater, let me say I have Usse publishing rights for many popular Adaban serials including Among the Proud Hills, and I love the money they bring in.”

Onsalkant Stiskenhalpt spoke up. “Not to mention Dispatches From a Crass Endeavor, the travelogue of that eminent wit Emmeg Bolsatoken.” His wife, Emmeg of the Bolsatoken family, blushed and told him to hush.

“I wasn't going to mention it, but I love that one too. I just don't want to load a wagon too full so to speak. Among the Proud Hills is excess heavy by itself.”

“Is it a genuine big deal?” Dirant asked. “A Simple Week in the Country is the mountain of mountains in Greater Enloffenkir.”

Silone corrected him. “They say that in parlors. They read something quite different in their homes. I will be fair and say the 'they' in either instance is often not the same as the other. But a purportedly clever social comedy will never become a seller on the level of Among the Proud Hills, which is such a phenomenon that there has been discussion of working up a periodical filled with nothing but imitations of it. We will pick up any desperate author, dump the poor performers after a month or so, and replace them as we go.”

“I came here to talk about something else. Now I want to discuss that, too. I should go back to the first part.” Hewwikke gave his head scarf a yank and continued. “The point is that for dinner tonight I'm having over the chief debaters, the civic quartermaster, and some friends of the family, and I thought the number one Stadeskosken guy would fit in. There's a language issue there if you come. That's how I like it. It gives people time to think about their answers. Conversations are more intellectual that way. Maybe we can work the thing up into a story. I'd like you to bring this other guy to increase the interest, since I guess he's a celebrity for the next three hours.” He pointed at Dirant.

“We aren't quite unmannerly enough to refuse.” Silapobenk Rikelta offered his hand. Just as the pamphlet assured him, Ommes knew what a handshake was.

“Seven o'clock, show up early if you want, not before six though.” Hewwikke tromped off with no grace but good speed.

Dirant suffered a slight bit of nervousness. “Is this where we cultivate relationships and such? I tried that out once, as I understood the principles, and ended up the implacable enemy of an entire city.”

Silone sat him down and took a seat himself in preparation for a serious discussion. “That's a common beginner mistake. Be careful not to rush in the moment you see a potential advantage. We want first to establish connections before we evaluate what we might get out of them. That means giving favors but also accepting them. For example, this Hewwikke will feed us and think of us henceforth as his guests, even amid tense negotiations. Ensure your name is known. Say Stadeskosken often. Find ways to communicate your familial relationship with the owner to give outsiders the sense that talking to you is an inside route. Refer to me anyone who attempts to set up a meeting or come to a definite agreement and brief me on the person when we are alone. You see?”

“That all has a good sound in a general way. I must practice it. 'Hello! Stadeskosken. My name is Dirant Rikelta, Rikelta being the Stadeskosken family that owns and operates Stadeskosken. Give me something.' Like so?”

Silone nodded. “That's about it.” Then he ordered Silfour to put Dirtwo in a headlock and scrape his head with his knuckles.

Hewwikke Satvo Sau's domicile fit in with Pavvu Omme Os architectural principles in that it was bigger than what most people lived in because he was rich. Most cultures possessed similar frameworks. The main house stood three stories (or two with a comfortable attic) made of bricks in patterns which might make someone dizzy if he stared too long from the feeling that the wall itself was climbing upward endlessly. It reminded Dirant of Holzd's vest, except less colorful.

Stones fenced off an estate that extended some distance impossible to judge from the front because of the fat main building. Nor were those rude stones piled up and joined together by mortar, but tall things more than a head above all but the luckiest men, polished till they glistened black, white, or that shade between those. Chisels had carved phrases in them in vertical print. The two Rikelta guests recognized omme, from which they guessed the words wished well to those within their boundaries.

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“It may be that these are excerpts from Among the Proud Hills,” Dirant also mused.

“Could they be part of some ritual? Perhaps to resist intruders?”

“If they are intended to be, the buyer deserves a refund. I will attest to that in court if asked.” Dirant remembered his ethics education and hurried to correct himself. “And I mean that I would testify the ritual as currently constituted cannot function. Whether the buyer was practiced upon or undid the work himself by moving a stone out of alignment or some other error, it is beyond me to say.”

Silone nodded. “I understand. We must look to another expert if ever we have a legal dispute over a Ritualist's work.”

“Yes. Further, you ought to have had me do the work in the first place.”

With that settled, the two brothers requested and were granted entry to Hewwikke Satvo Sau's home. The country's monochrome decoration tendencies applied exclusively either to the outside or to Ommes other than this one, because the inside knew how to have a good time. A servant escorted the pair over a Chtrebliseuan carpet of the turquoise type. That meant a circle the color of turquoise took up the center and the rest was tinged in blue as if a quite different sun shone in the sky of the world depicted and threw its light over horses, bears, ducks, and other beasts that paraded endlessly, each species in its own concentric ring. He took them to a sitting room where a tapestry covered one long wall and depicted, it appeared, a heroic account of the invention of the printing press. The characters had such detail about them that it seemed rude not to offer them a seat, a sure sign the tapestry came from the country of Drastlif far to the south, east, and southeast. What a long country it was.

Too bad for those vivid figures, because the fur-covered chairs had occupants already, or at least the nicest ones. Hewwikke introduced the newcomers in accordance with the obligations of hosts in both Pavvu Omme Os and Greater Enloffenkir. “I'm pleased about everything, but especially to present . . . Silapo . . . benk Rikelta . . .” The careful pronunciation took him some effort. The Adabans appreciated that but failed to realize that the hardest part for him was the simple Adaban B, a letter avoided in the north as a rule. “Or Pinpointer Rikkelta Silapo . . . benk if you can't handle that. He is the senior employee of the traders generously sent by the Adaban company Stadeskosken to ensure we are provided with southern desirables, with the unfortunate Wessolp situation being the way it is. You can read more about that in the thorough account of the affair soon to be published by me. He's also the owner's eldest son, but don't be intimidated.”

He pointed to Silapobenk so that eminent personage knew when to incline his head. That done, he continued. “Next to him is another of the owner's sons. I don't know which one. He is . . . Dirant . . . Rikelta. That's right. Or Ritualist Rikkelta Dirant.” He pointed again. Dirant figured that he should give a small bow to represent his inferior status compared to Silone. The Ommes saluted in return.

The host next switched to Adaban in order to introduce his more local guests to the southerners, as he thought of them. “First I have to present our civic quartermaster, Workman Ukkip Timga Onsalkamto.”

“I don't think you do, Hewwikke!” Timga said that and chuckled.

“We were kindly met by the civic quartermaster when we arrived,” Silapobenk explained.

“Nobody told me. I would have sent a reporter. All right then, how about this one? Here's Warm Body Oppo Imlakke Pau. He's a banker. I've transacted with him and haven't been robbed yet. He came to watch the debate when he had some vacation time coming, so I put him up in case he was secretly trying to skip out to Yean Defiafi with a bundle of cash. I'll have his bags searched later.”

Timga snorted and another of the guests bit down on her head scarf to keep from laughing, though the man indicated had no special reaction. He looked to be about Silone's age, or Hewwikke's for that matter. Which is to say, in his thirties. Some muddy blond hair poked out from under his black scarf; speaking of which, the Adabans both realized they had forgotten to check the pamphlet for whether they were supposed to remove their hats indoors. They had removed them before they even went there, but perhaps that was a mistake.

The banker's broad shoulders and graceful movements ought to have belonged to someone qualified for a more prestigious class than Warm Body, but perhaps the banker cared nothing for abilities that did not further his profession. He saluted.

The Adabans bowed back, both straight-faced and a tad stiff. Seeing that, the quartermaster gave them an explanation. “That was the plot of the first really successful novel Hewwikke's press printed.”

“Ah, I see.” The two relaxed then, and Timga began to lecture his host for ever thinking Adabans might take something lightly.

“Never mind, never mind. Another guest, this is the daughter of one of my . . . of an author of popular history I am privileged to publish, Battler Millim Takki Atsa.” The young woman with the helpful head scarf stood and saluted. Her black eyes, auburn hair (tied in a tail and allowed to flop over the shoulder opposite her scarf's train in obedience to prevailing northern Omme fashion), and slightly less adorable height compared to some of her countrywomen possibly implied some Mabonn or Obenecan heritage, the latter more likely in Pavvu Omme Os. The bitten scarf was teal with stripes turning in sharp angles made in white, she wore a pale orange divided skirt, and she wielded a halberd when doing Battler stuff. That last was a guess based on the halberd propped against the back of her chair.

“Our meeting is a blessing for me,” she said in Adaban.

Dirant responded first. “No less for me.” Ordinarily he would have let Silone go first, but he felt like making a change for some reason. Silone contented himself with second.

One guest remained for Hewwikke to introduce, as the debaters had not arrived. “Presenting Workman Kul Puvva Kampumso. He's part of the Kekket Ittame family. We aren't a family at all. I wanted to make us seem more like Stadeskosken so you would be able to relax in familiar surroundings.” He pointed. Puvva stood up, smoothed the sides of his pants, saluted, and smoothed out his pants again in case something had happened in the interval. With his blond hair and height that was unimpressive even for an Omme, he was one of those men people might be tempted to call cute quite against the wishes of the compliment's recipient.