The Dying Business Frequently Makes A Show Of Growth To Fool Investors
Fennizen was as unlike Isarpezoltk as any two cities in Kitslof, and so they resembled each other greatly. Perhaps a complete survey would reveal in Fennizen slightly fewer tailors capable of costume work and a few more makers and repairers of clocks and, more recently, watches. It was on a floor above one such shop that Dirant lived. To be able to tell people, “Ah yes, I rent a floor,” contributed to his choice of lodgings, and if the floor in question covered a space only slightly larger than a single room in a mansion of Redrin's noble Dvanjchtlivan families, it was out of a desire to give no insult to said aristocrats that he forbore to mention it. Moreover, the clockman who owned the place had sold him at a low price a watch abandoned by its owner, which gave Dirant the satisfaction of being not too far behind the farthest, most exciting boundaries of technology and fashion.
He cleared a few books off his desk, some grammars and lexicons of Saueo, Obaluon (and its brother Ashuraluon), Drastlimez, and Yosribdi. Certain signs gave him cause to think management might go through with creating a position of Itinerant Ritualist, the foremost of them being that his brother Silapobenk once said so. Since Silapobenk Rikelta, or Silone before and after office hours, could be expected to take over the company after their father's retirement, his opinions meant something, and accordingly Dirant's ambition to claim the post for himself had him studying the many languages of the continent not already known to him. While he had not achieved Basic in any so far, he had been at it for but a short time.
What he wanted on his desk then was the latest letter from Lord Audnauj Olzenchipt Stavripdeu Blawraj, also on the subject of language studies. That exalted son of Redrin wished to thank Dirant for suggesting that he force his servants to join him in his Yosribdi studies. The results were as predicted. He did admit to some trepidation as to the prospect of their all becoming Fluent, but not even the sun knew what the world would be then, for it died every day and was reborn.
Dirant's response assured Lord Audnauj there were other languages, however less appealing their study. There were other servants too, but that stayed out of the letter. It was a pedantic point unlikely to lead to anything productive. It may not have been true, either. He knew nothing about employment conditions in Redrin. Audnauj might have snapped up the last few Yumins both interested in and suited for domestic service. Much else of what went on in that country was no more probable.
His correspondence completed, Dirant embarked on his working-day procedure of walking to a Stadeskosken-rented warehouse where he asked the new supervisor how many Preservation Rituals needed performing or if another Ritualist had been brought in to train. None and no, it turned out, leaving him more time to assist with Stadeskosken's core function of producing, sorting, and discarding forms. If he bore tedious labor unrelated to his actual profession with better humor than he had in the past, the cause lay in precedent that assured him he would eventually get to do something better. The evidence of the past did not, this time, delude him.
“For you, Mr. Dirant.” A colleague dropped a note on the desk Dirant was using and walked off before the recipient could call him back and demand to know from which of his parents he inherited the audacity to treat the owner's son in so brusque a manner. Since no such idea occurred to Dirant, it worked out well for everyone.
The note was quite brusque itself. “To my office. Silone.” Perhaps his oldest brother wanted to set an example to the company about saving ink when possible, though in that case, “My office” would have transmitted the message clearly enough, provided he could trust his brother to recognize his handwriting. Regretting the waste, Dirant left the warehouse and walked to the slightly nicer and much quieter main offices where nobody had occasion to drop a crate on anybody else's foot.
“Drastlif,” his brother greeted him. Older, a tad shorter, a slight bit redder of hair, and far more bespectacled than the second Dir of the family as he was, the main thing that distinguished Silone from little Dirtwo was the marble desk behind which he sat. Nice pens, too. “Is there any reason which prevents you from traveling there? Legal entanglements, perhaps?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Congratulations on your promotion to Itinerant Ritualist. It will be short-lived. Our single branch office in Drastlif requires modernization, and its two Ritualists, training. You will travel with a group of employees assigned there. Mr. Selmikent is making the arrangements. See him after lunch.”
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Dirant left. Outside, he reflected what a terrible lesson he was learning about effort, since the desired position came to him without regard for any of that troublesome language-learning he began when still naive enough to imagine jobs had qualifications aside from being in the vicinity when the work needed doing. On the other hand, he and Donnlink Espahalpt had worked hard on the popcorn ritual, and that was paying off. He decided he would tell his grandchildren that second story alone.
To Millim Takki Atsa he told the entire thing, since if she had not already been corrupted by such incidents in her own life, she must be immune. “That's fantastic,” she said, taking no notice of the moral implications. “Do you think you'll have any adventures there?”
Dirant reckoned the probabilities based on the typical work environment of a Ritualist (inside a warehouse), the amount of danger in the routine operations of the company (none), and the likelihood Holzd, the god who yearned for complexity, would involve him in something messy (non-negligible). “No,” he said.
“I think you might be miscalculating, Ressi. This isn't an everyday occurrence. Isarpezoltk is just a few hours away and you came away from there with all kinds of theological speculation based on non-theoretical happenings, so extrapolate that with the distance to Drastlif in mind. What does that mean, by the way? Isarpezoltk?”
“Yellow Grain Town.”
“Thank you. Anyway, you'll have an adventure. Could you get your company to pay for my trip there? I can be a temporary security hire.”
“No, and indeed you will not envy those of us so compensated. With that understood, is it true that you intend to take a journey parallel with mine? The normal process is for the gentleman to persuade or even cajole the lady, sometimes resorting to underhanded tactics.”
Takki flicked a finger in his direction. “Oh, but you already did that by pretending not to be getting yourself into trouble somehow.”
“All I can do then is apologize.”
“It's flattering to be cajoled sometimes, Ressi. I really think you should try it more.”
Dirant considered that advice when he came up against personnel manager Selmikent Distera a short time later. Two possible allies were to share the meeting. One was unknown to him, a stocky young man with great tufts of Adaban-standard black hair which he allowed, or encouraged rather, to cover his forehead. Despite that, something of the Ottkir might be seen in his eyes that seemed to be looking at nothing in particular which existed within the physical realm.
As for the other, he and Dirant were already acquainted. Stansolt Gaomat walked in and eased the door closed. Lighter of hair and eye than most Adabans, all the way to light brown, he could not be mistaken for anything but a Sivoslofer if anyone asked him. Otherwise, it would have been easy. His easy smile and effortless manners always caused those around him to relax except for Dirant, whose anxiety doubled upon seeing him there. With Stansolt as one of the Drastlif-bound employees, would there be intrigue after all? He tried to remind himself how thin were his grounds for suspecting Stansolt to be an agent of the Sivoslof government.
“Right on time and it's good to see you. Are we ready, or?” The personnel manager's Silapobenk impression could use work. Unless he was trying to cultivate an image of greater consideration, in which case he ought not to have bothered on occasions when he was trying to stick three employees on a single hammock strung up inside the ship's cargo hold. “You can take turns,” he explained. “They're called shifts when you're at sea.”
“And elsewhere, I believe.” Dirant leaned forward and lowered his voice to let Mr. Selmikent know what was said inside the office would remain there. “Is it your intention to trick us into arranging our own trips at our own expense?”
Stansolt grinned while the other employee, Banfol Mektariken as it happened, hesitated. He suspected the same of course, but was it acceptable to expose a manager in that manner? Evidently so, the evidence being that Selmikent retreated to a defensive position.
“My intention? To do anything less than the most for our employees? Is that your accusation, sir?” The injured dignity audible in the manager's voice and apparent in his stiff back convinced everyone Dirant was correct. “You are free to believe that if such is your inclination, but perhaps there is enough charity in you to listen to this important factor. At the port you will be met by two further employees. One is a woman. We must not have a woman traveling close to four young men, only one of them her brother, or am I wrong? So you must be very far away in the ship.”
Shame and embarrassment overcame someone, somewhere, but not Dirant. He felt only pleasure he had the opportunity to allay Mr. Selmikent's reasonable concern. “Ah, then I must tell you another woman will be making the journey to Drastlif at the same time.”
Stansolt was already smiling beyond mere good nature, as he had already met Takki. The manager had not.
“That hardly improves matters. Only two women are in no way—”
“Her class is Battler.” At that, the personnel manager stared like an official confronted in court with his private records and Stansolt chuckled. In the end, Dirant won himself and his traveling companions an amount of credit equal to half the intended budget of their company accommodations should they wish to make their own arrangements, which of course they did. The outcome was especially welcome to Banfol, who could not call on the resources of a state intelligence ministry to fund his travels. Not that anyone else in that room could be proved to have access to such a resource.