Though All Fall Under The Heading Of Gossip, There Are Subtleties
“Ah, you know who I am?” Dirant paused. That sounded to him more like something a famous person might say by way of modesty than the startled question it was. “How do you know who I am? Even in Kitslof my celebrity is unrealized, let alone in Amlizen. I visited Amlizen once and cannot believe the inhabitants of that congenial city inquire into every visitor, for they have their own interests which are less objectionable in regard to privacy.”
“Was it a visit to the famed Sored University's famed department of ritualism, or?”
“It was. I had cause to consult Professor Tanseliaf. You may print that information, as confidential as it is. I must insist as a condition for anything further that you answer some of my questions in turn.”
“Certainly. There's nothing strange about it. When we learn Mr. Atkosol insists upon having his expedition supplied by a certain company, an investigation of that company must be done. Of course by 'investigation' I imply nothing out of the way, simply looking up public records and so.” The manner of Aptezor's delivery had a plainness redolent of unexceptional truth, and yet Dirant suspected the other reporters had not taken those routine steps and would have been amazed by Aptezor's thoroughness had they heard of it.
“That is quite reasonable,” Dirant said, worried that any response more elaborate would come across as mocking. Which it would have been, of the other reporters, but they did not deserve rudeness either, so far as he knew. “In a businesslike vein, the accepted practice avoids referring to one's own employer as 'reputable' for the reason that anyone hearing that instinctively becomes convinced of the opposite.”
“Ah! I never knew.”
Dirant nodded. “It is so, and now we may put that aside, for the repute of the Amlizen Crier cannot be undone so easily as that. What is your opinion of the other publications represented here, and what are they, and who are the reporters? While we are identifying people, have you heard in this camp or in town of a man named Medant Denmarof? He is a mercenary, I must say to avoid confusion, and not another reporter.”
“I'm sorry, but I have not heard of him.”
“Never mind that then. And your peers?”
“They are all entirely . . . Can I say that?” Aptezor frowned upon realizing how near he had come to failing in the implementation of the excellent advice he had just received from an authority on the commercial world according to the interview's premise.
“Yes, and doing so makes your own outfit appear all the more respectable.”
“Are you certain?”
“It is a tendency rather than a guarantee, and with that understood, yes, I am sure.”
Aptezor's discombobulation diverted him from his purpose. The more experienced interviewers had learned to pay no attention to what their subjects said for exactly that reason. “Then they are all entirely reputable. Though Mr. Kodol is . . . experienced. His employer is not actually a normal publisher but rather the Outside Word company. I don't know if you know of it, but it sells stories to broadsheets, typically on a non-exclusive basis. Much of the news in your local publications from out of your state probably comes from them.”
“No one but you is to be thanked for my learning something today. Is he in truth known as Pots?”
“Yes, just because . . .”
“Because?”
“Just because of all the pots he's had thrown at him when lurking around houses under windows and so.” Aptezor rushed through that too, and his cheeks remained red for a time afterward as if they questioned his choice of career. “Ah, do you see that man there? That is Mr. Nalfenk Migolkir for the Scientifically Minded Gentleman's Primer, a quarterly specializing in explaining the latest scientific developments to a wider but still intellectually inclined audience.”
“You mean the gentleman with the sharp features indicative of a god who wanted there to be no doubts about the matter? Who never lowers himself to read the vulgar favorites, Among the Proud Hills say, and yet is able to converse intelligently about them on account of his intimate comprehension of literary form and technique? The man between you and Mr. Kodol in age and far from either of you in fashion insofar as on the streets of Yean Defiafi he would raise comment only as to his immaculate appearance, or?”
“I probably should have meant that, but we don't have that kind of space in the Crier.”
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“Likstalmitlof is doubtless a busy state full of doings which must be recorded,” Dirant allowed.
“Yeah. I mean yes. It's nothing next to Chtrebliseu though.” Aptezor lowered his voice in recognition of delicate international considerations. “Do you see that Dvanjchtliv woman there, or?”
Certainly Dirant did. She stood out like a Dvanjchtliv among Adabans, or to be less exact while at the same time emphasizing the brotherhood of man, like an emerald among rubies. Her cap, equipped with a long cord ending on a bell left to tinkle against her back, marked her as either a Chtrebliseuan or one of that kingdom's admirers, and the sandy blonde hair below it tied up in a chignon suggested which. Speaking of emeralds, the combination of green and brown only which she sported in the camp found little favor in countries without Chtrebliseu's history of strict sumptuary laws. The same influence was responsible for the wooden pendant of a star around her neck.
“Miss Bodder represents one of those publications which is authorized and overseen by the king himself,” Aptezor continued when Dirant acknowledged he in fact did see her. “Nothing appears in it without being understood to have been confirmed by the royal apparatus.”
“The arrangement must inspire respect for the people trusted to uphold it, whatever we may say about it as a policy. What is the name of the publication?”
“The Royal Confirmation.”
“That is straightforward enough. And the lady's full name?”
“I have it here somewhere.” While Aptezor flipped through his notebook in search of a name that, once found, would likely be mangled based on the difficulty he had in remembering it, Dirant directed the interview, a productive one by his reckoning, toward another young woman who had caught his eye for a reason unlike the usual.
“Foreign fashion is one thing, but is that ensemble recommended anywhere? And what of the lady wearing it?”
Aptezor looked up. “Baozir Nalna, or? Yes, that's the direction. Over the Plain is a local institution. It covers the whole state just as the Crier does for Likstalmitlof in the present day, but . . .”
“But two entities alike in their legal status may differ as to the frequency of newsworthy events?”
“That's it, and there's nothing less than reputable about either situation. It's just a fact. Miss Baozir covers local society, such as it is, I mean, you are able to make conclusions. There's something refreshing here compared to high society elsewhere, though. I've tried to read our own paper's coverage and couldn't figure it out because of all the insinuations and obvious oversights. Here, I asked Miss Baozir some questions and received nothing but straight answers. When I wondered if that was the style in Enpasatosalkir, hers I mean, she told me quite frankly that it was not so and her publisher was promoting it by way of advertisement for another business he owns. She also confessed how glad she was of an excuse to indulge in the unconventional.”
Trust someone on the Amlizen Crier to get at what the public wished most to know. Baozir Nalna's twintails, vest, and skirt with crisscrossing diagonal brown stripes which created the impression she had stepped in a basket and required assistance to extricate herself had made Dirant question everything he knew about contemporary fashion. Now he was again settled and complacent, the ideal emotional condition.
Aptezor informed Dirant of nearly everything he knew about the entire body of reporters before he remembered who was supposed to be interviewing whom. “Mr. Dirant, does the extraordinary support Stadeskosken is lending this excavation to the extent of sending a son of the firm's very founder who holds the unique position of Itinerant Ritualist, on top of establishing an entire warehouse intended to serve not a city but merely a small camp imply confidence the enterprise will grow considerably following dramatic discoveries, or?”
“What may seem extraordinary when performed by other providers of transportation and other essential services is a commonplace for Stadeskosken. Our custom moreover is not to make any sort of judgment about our clients, committing ourselves instead to prompt obedience to his requests. And now that I have answered a question of yours, I think it is right that you answer one or two of mine.”
“That's as fair as I can ask,” Aptezor agreed, and he was correct for all that higher Gumption or the Negotiating Fundamentals ability might have secured him a better bargain.
Moving past the correspondents, he confirmed that Atkosol and Taomenk were the men Dirant thought they were, in the sense of identification rather than anything regarding their character, of which he knew little. Further, he passed on the rumor that Mr. Taomenk had been quick to accept the job at lower than his usual payment on account of his eagerness to be involved in an Ertith excavation. “He has theories, it is said. I do not know them. It may be that I am not able to understand them, not being an engineer.”
The Mabonn-looking woman whose red hair was left to grow long in the back but forbidden the low-hanging bangs so popular today and who had such ease in her manner that she appeared to be lounging on a low couch despite standing while she looked on Atkosol's firm decisions with complete approval was Lommad Okliten, his wife. “Their four children are currently dispersed among various schools,” Aptezor added.
That Mr. and Mrs. Atkosol agreed with Dirant's father about the proper physical distance to be maintained between parents and children before the latter became useful gave Dirant almost as much insight into the habits of the wealthy as Life on the Top. Before he could delve into the lessons important for both society and commerce he might derive, courtesy demanded he pay attention to the rest of the important people his interrogation subject was pointing out for his benefit.
“Mr. Odibink Sharazilk and Mr. Gabdirn Haubentlag there are both Ertith specialists,” Aptezor said. “Mr. Odibink,” nodding at a notably tall man who was then rubbing his hands on his vest as if he had just spilled something on it and was far too much of a bachelor to realize how much worse he was making the mess, though in reality he was simply the nervous type of Rik as opposed to the Atkosol specimen, “has successfully reconstructed multiple Ertithan mosaics.”
“How is success determined? We cannot compare them against the originals, or else there would be no use in the reconstruction from the beginning.”
“They look nice.”
“Ah.” The seriousness of Aptezor's response precluded laughter on Dirant's part and also made it hard to suppress, though he managed.