The Reader Who Does Not At Present Require The Complex Scheme Of Sorting Described Herein Is Reminded The Future May Be Less Grim Than The Present
“Then there is Mr. Gabdirn.” The figure indicated was in his name and form the very model of a Heweker. He was a bit taller than Mr. Atkosol, a bit younger, and a bit imposing in the way that Hewekers often were on account of their legendary courage and territoriality. Surely even an audacious reporter would refrain from pressing him too far, physically at least. Dirant envied the Heweker for that; Aptezor was standing a little closer than he liked. Aside from that, the way Mr. Gabdirn gestured with a pair of glasses indicated he required them on certain occasions but not as a constant accessory. Whether he was balding or simply preferred his plain brown hair cut short was a question one might ask of many of his tribe. “He is the author of several books calculated to inform the general public of the state of knowledge on various Ertithan topics. I was only able to read a few of them before I arrived here.” That last admission brought back the blush so recently overcome.
“Your lapse is easily overlooked for a consideration,” Dirant said. “Are those two alone here as far as Ertith experts? An undertaking of this sort must thrill them much as an obvious false name on a hotel registry does people like Mr. Kodol, I would have said before today.”
“There were more in the beginning, and many said when they left that they would return when the proposed road from town was complete. Some have come and gone in the meantime. A man coming all the way from Dosoroz is expected soon as well, though travel over that kind of distance isn't a friend to timeliness.” While considering whether to add details, dormant thoughts arose in the reporter's professional mind. “Ah! Surely there must be some significance in two of the founders' sons being assigned here, one to Ividottlof and the other to the camp directly. What is your response to that, Mr. Dirant?”
“That would be so in perhaps an organization run on the basis of abusing personal relationships to negotiate secret deals. For Stadeskosken, a company operated under the sun with nothing to it but efficiency and skill, every manager is equally capable and every Ritualist is at the forefront when it comes to our profession's commercial applications. Who is that Survyai receiving instruction from Mr. Atkosol? He appears partially Adabanized.”
“You can only be talking about Mr. Doltandon Yurvitas.” The gentleman in question retained a very Yean Defiafish tricorne but had shaved the mustache he likely once possessed and allowed his hair, which seemed almost to be formed of streaks of blond and brunette like a house painted by two brothers unable to agree, to lie low almost to his eyebrows rather than be pulled toward the back. He was even wearing the whites and tans favored by GE manual laborers, the tans for the sweatier areas and the whites to distract from the other. His eyes squeezed shut in concentration whenever Atkosol addressed him, though there was nothing peculiarly Survyaian or Adaban about that any more than a tribe existed which claimed the exclusive right to Aptezor's unbroken stare. “Or Mr. Doltandon. They put the title on their family name in Yean Defiafi and it comes first, so they're they opposite of us in two ways.”
Dirant already knew that, which allowed him the pleasure of consciously refraining from pointing out that he did. With no less broad-mindedness and generosity of spirit he asked, “And what is his story? It is a guess that he has one, and yet I stand by it.”
Aptezor nodded. “He looks like that kind, doesn't he? I looked into it, and he is.”
“Is what you suggest that Mr. Doltandon is one of those shiftless inheritors of wealth which is of sufficient magnitude that the accountants required to count it cost more in wages than the municipal budget of Ividottlof? The sort so common in fiction that the cynic is deceived into believing none must exist in truth? I suppose he cannot be shiftless.”
“I suppose not. He enjoyed his leisure at home until, for some reason I haven't yet found, he entered the construction field. He soon came to lead large Survyaian work crews that actually work.” That last part came out hushed, as if a reverent description of a miracle witnessed by the faithful.
“Ah, and so the physical component of this endeavor is his responsibility?”
“Just of the Survyais who came with him, but that's more than half the manual laborers here.”
“That is expected if their wages are based on the performance expected from Survyai workmen rather than what Mr. Doltandon gets out of them. Once here, leaving the project must be more difficult for the foreigner, another advantage for the employer if not always sufficient to balance the unfortunate weight of language.”
Aptezor wrote all that down and evidently believed the interview to be producing at last a worthwhile harvest, though Dirant saw nothing remarkable in what he had said. Perhaps he expressed it in an especially felicitous way, though more likely Aptezor judged the simplicity of his comments to be more digestible than the terms true potentates of the business world doubtless employed in their own discussions. It was just the same as when Mr. Gabdirn recast the ore of academic understanding into shovels and knives for the public to grasp, presumably. Dirant then realized he perhaps should read some of those Ertith books before letting his similes become extravagant.
By the end of the interview, one participant had enough material to work into a few paragraphs and the other a respectable summary of every notable person in the vicinity. Dirant went on to make additional inquiries of other people while Aptezor ended up questioned again, this time by his colleagues as to the reason for his interest in someone of no obvious worth. Was the newcomer a reporter after all, for some publication he wished to conceal or at least not use as fuel for boasts? So Nalfenk Migolkir wondered, and Aptezor again blushed, for he had not thought to ask.
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After ten days, Dirant had settled in to the routine of a Ritualist assigned to an excavation of an archaeological site's base camp. Aside from fortifying the Stadeskosken warehouse and other buildings with the Mold Prevention Ritual at Mr. Atkosol's request, the primary consideration which affected his Ritualist work was dealing with multiple suppliers, and already Dirant was pondering whether it might be advisable to send letters begging those companies to include the ritual tokens which facilitated revocation rituals with their perishable deliveries.
Repeatedly revoking the Preservation Ritual made up his entire duty once the mold had been as prevented as completely as he could contrive, and therefore any favorable adjustment there would relieve the burden on him immensely. Then again, what was there to do with the section of the working day thus returned to him? Hauling boxes? Listening to inquiries from people unsure if Stadeskosken entertained special requests, which it did? Probably, and nothing about that sounded distasteful. On the other side, directing the attention of rivals to a practice which gave Stadeskosken a competitive advantage could not be commended as wise when phrased in that way.
Aside from that, the daily routine had its curiosities, such as the fact that everyone aside from Mr. Atkosol's household and his personal guests repaired to cafeterias for mass feeding. The pivotal point of every day in that environment, the meat dish as it were, the singer of the goslikenar, the seasonal festival, was the arrival of the mail, a commonplace which took on momentous importance in the camp, likely because it all came at once. The entire population came out to hope, to receive, and as sometimes happened to fall into despair.
That day several letters came for Dirant, more than usual. One had been sent by a certain Lord Audnauj Olzenchipt Stavripdeu Blawraj of the eastern country of Redrin. It called for a response but no emotional reaction. Another was from a lawyer on the subject of popcorn and required no action on his part whatsoever. A letter which as yet admitted of no useful reply, though Dirant still hoped, was written by Edol Mikstifoken. Siltwo, or rather Silapobant Rikelta in public, wrote to address a few details, relate news from the home office, and suggest that Dirtwo, which is to say Dirant Rikelta, attend dinner at Siltwo's home in town at a future date, the less future the better.
That was odd. Those two particular brothers, ten years between them, had never been close, and if Silapobant had once evinced the slightest sign of fraternal feeling, Dirant must have been in another room at the time. Their meeting in Ividottlof before he continued on to the hills had struck Dirant as chummier than usual, and the letter confirmed the impression despite his convincing himself it had been an artifact of his own mood. Perhaps Siltwo's recent marriage had him thinking familially.
Resolving himself to accept the invitation, there being no disadvantage to it aside from crossing the bridge twice more and the possibility of poor cooking at the far end, Dirant proceeded to a letter from a certain Millim Takki Atsa, an acquaintance from the northern country of Pavvu Omme Os. Someone with a map in hand might have noted that much of Pavvu Omme Os extended almost as far east as Redrin, though a surveyor with a topographical map could counter that most of that consisted of mountains. Regardless, the letter was of interest not because it required a reply but because it was one, or ought to have been, since Dirant had proposed that said acquaintance should visit Iflarent's Hideout during his stay there.
“Mr. Dirant Rikelta
“In response to your summons
“After receiving your letter, I checked the closest mirror to determine whether I am one of those exotic entities called forth by Summoners and Symbol Knights. I confirmed I am not. That established, the source of your confidence I would come when you called as if you were a hunter whose residence needed another trophy and I your hound has to be some delusion derived from artlessness, arrogance, or sheer Adabanness. The truth may go forever undiscovered.
“Battler Millim Takki Atsa”
After reading that message several times, turning the page upside-down, and examining the reverse side, Dirant had begun calling to mind everything he could about invisible ink when a voice startled him.
“There you are, Ressi. Did you receive my letter yet? I can come back if you haven't.”
“This is it right here in fact. Hello, Takki.” He lowered the missive and saw one of the Jalpi Peffu tribe, but only after he looked down. Those northerners of Pavvu Omme Os and Pavvu Istis kept themselves compact, likely for thermal reasons. This particular specimen seemed shorter still despite her above-average stature among her tribe for the reason that her halberd's blade tended to wave above her head. Of course he who knew what he would see before he looked on the basis that addressing him as “Ressi” was a habit exclusive to one person.
Takki smiled in return. “Hello, Ressi. My greeting was implied, but in retrospect I think I should have led with that. 'There you are' sounds a little dismissive, doesn't it? Oh, but Semka told me it's good to be a little dismissive sometimes. That's why I wrote that letter. She's married as of recently, and therefore her advice has more authority than it used to.”
“Is she? Please transmit my congratulations to your sister.”
“I will. She's Iboia Takki Pikkim Semka now. I don't know if you were free to attend, but that turned out to be inconsequential. They wanted a traditional wedding, family and witnesses only, and you don't own a house. You could, though, couldn't you?” Takki played with the tailing part of her headscarf, an essential item of typical Omme dress. That day it bore a repeating pattern of green hexagons on a brown background, a color scheme which disturbed Dirant's conclusions about Miss Bodder. Perhaps the allure of Chtrebliseu had spread north. Everything else about Takki's presentation remained as Jalpi Peffu as ever, from her ponytail down to her divided traveling skirts. Some foreign admixture showed in her auburn hair, but a wig to conceal it would have been excessive.
“Certainly property here is affordable. For me to prove the point relies on your allowing yourself to be shown around the camp.”
“Depending on the other party to let you demonstrate whatever you want? If that's your strategy, I really don't think you'll like the consistency, but I'll let you get away with it once.”