Obviously Unhealthy Locations Nevertheless May Possess A Powerful Allure
The city of Ilstehost resembled a wetter Fennizen, and nothing convinced Dirant he ought to consider it any deeper than that. That the virtues of its harbor combined with its proximity to the wide and sluggish Ontoffemmiror River, the longest in Greater Enloffenkir, to make it an ideal location for commerce had been fully understood so long ago that no modern man of business could shake the world by taking advantage of the fact. A city is only founded once, barring calamity.
The trip downriver toward it had proceeded without incident unless one included the confusion felt by the sole foreign member of the traveling party, a young lady from outside Greater Enloffenkir and Stadeskosken both.
“I understand Mr. Banfol disclosed he's an Ottkir. We don't have to go over that.” The riverboat put limits on physical expressions of frustration. Doubtless that aggravated Takki yet more. “The part that I'm having trouble with is the way it happened. The two of you asked, 'Are you not an Ottkir?' Something like that. How did you know?”
“Is it uncomfortable to address this in front of you, Mr. Banfol?”
“Never, so long as it's instructive. Edification is the watchword, is it not so?”
With permission received, Dirant offered an explanation. “First, Banfol Mektariken is perhaps the most Ottkir name ever conceived by the fond parents of a healthy infant.”
“Certainly true,” Stansolt agreed. “It almost sounds invented. I would be suspicious if someone registered at a hotel with that name.”
Somehow their answers did not satisfy Takki. “Can you dig that up a bit more? Shouldn't it sound like a Rik name? 'Riken” is right there.”
“There's no significance there,” Stansolt asserted. “You can find Rik-somethings everywhere, sometimes sharing a boat with you. Do you disagree, Mr. Dirant of the Rikelta family?”
“I do. Only to be contrary though, since of course you are correct. The thing to do is go through hotel registries, guest lists, or records of births and deaths. Soon the atmosphere the names of various tribes create will become evident.”
“We can try,” Takki allowed, though that sort of activity appealed more to her historian father.
“Then there is your speech, Mr. Banfol. As Ottkir accents go, it is quite mild and yet detectable nevertheless. A linguist must be consulted for a lucid explanation, but we have a demonstration available to us.” Dirant cleared his throat and recited the first paragraph of One Mile Past That, a novel too many children were forced to read, in his precise Kitslofer fashion that precluded any fancy about any T's being another letter. Stansolt Gaomat repeated the passage in the breathy tones of Sivoslof. Banfol finished with the addition of vowels unknown to the others for all that they were written A and E.
Takki pondered the three versions. “You do say it differently, but I don't know how much of that is where you're from and what's personal. Mr. Silapobenk and Mr. Silapobezor have to have the same accent as you, Ressi, but that doesn't mean you sound identical.”
“It's an encouragement to hear you say so.” What lurked behind that remark was another comment once made which still bothered Dirant, that being Takki's surprise at hearing of the various mothers of his brothers because he resembled Silone so closely in several key ways, particularly his smile. He had not yet recovered.
Putting that aside, and putting aside also the idea of a prize for the best recitation which would have gone to Stansolt Gaomat, the three Grenlofers continued their cooperation in the hope of instructing an open-minded foreigner, the native's greatest pleasure. They reproduced the various accents and dialects of all speakers of Adaban and Heweks as well as they were able, which was not well at all. Never since the establishment of the confederation had its several constituent tribes suffered such indignity. When they added Tabidgeir as well, the matter threatened to become an incitement to war.
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All that ended upon the boat's arrival at its destination, a river dock a short way from Ilstehost. The group paused in the great port itself just long enough to take in a bit of the local speech as a further aid to Takki's studies before boarding the Oskid. There they met the final two Stadeskosken employees assigned to the Drastlif branch.
Ruddy of face and long of limb, the Adaban fellow waiting onboard appeared too athletic for it to be quite proper to confine him within a warehouse. Fortunately, the company held no such intention. “Greetings! Are we ready to head south? With your translator here, there's no reason to worry about a thing as far as language. Ah, our meeting is a blessing for me. I'm Onkallant Paspaklest.” He grabbed Stansolt's hand with both of his and shook, then repeated the maneuver with Dirant and Banfol. “That's how they do it in Drastlif, so don't think badly of me for trying to prepare you. Now, who of you is what?”
That family name disturbed Dirant and no one else, leaving the others to see to courtesy. “No less for me,” Stansolt said in response to the middle part of the greeting, which already seemed a matter for historians. “I am Stansolt Gaomat, another hand for the branch office and glad at the chance.” He nodded to the woman near Onkallant if not quite beside him.
“But really as security, if I am not mistaken.” Onkallant's voice boomed too much for secrecy, so it was just as well he made no attempt at it. “We must not worry about her. When have sisters ever counted? Ah, no, I will do it after all. This opportunity is a blessing for me. Onerid Paspaklest, who will be taking over as Hospitality Manager there. A big promotion, but necessary. You see, more and more Adabans are coming to realize that when the Drastlifan ladies put together a little meet-up, never does it end without business being done, and customarily men are not invited. So really you are now a party planner, translator, and negotiator all in one, Onerid. Still the one salary, however.”
“No less for me. I am Millim Takki Atsa, Takki if you will.” Takki adjusted the typical greeting formula of the locals to account for the fact they would most certainly call her Millim otherwise. “Is that true, Miss Onerid? I don't know much about Drastlif. Oh, and I'm not a part of your company, by the way, but we'll be sharing the voyage.”
Onerid, a typical black-haired Adaban woman who would have loomed over Takki had she been so rude as to engage in such an act, brushed aside the bangs that hung just over her eyebrows. A pointless effort, since there was nowhere else for them to go. Dirant recognized the gesture as one generally used by the irritated. Likely it was her brother who caused the feeling; the sister seemed inclined to follow standard etiquette and take up no more space or make any further gesture than was necessary, behavior quite unlike Onkallant's. Above anything, she gave the impression of being suited for the role of a librarian who insists on removing rowdy patrons from the premises and whose idea of rowdiness is as broad as philosophy itself. “It is so. May I also mention, since we are interspersing lectures with our introductions as, well, as our father taught us never to do, that no little amount of business is done on the tennis courts as well, which is the reason management thought it wise to hire as a translator someone of the kind he is.”
The most awkward situation is that in which the participants are unsure if it is. Onkallant prevented that by whooping and pointing out, “But we are not our father! And our father spent his time surrounded by people who knew the country well, not newcomers unaware even of what to ask. Move on, move on.”
And they did. Banfol stepped forward. “For me as well.” He bowed toward Onerid. “Banfol Mektariken. Just a hand, nothing else.” Onkallant shook his hand again for more practice while Onerid curtsied twice to make sure Banfol saw it around her brother's bulk.
The last to go had something in mind. “No less for me. I am Dirant Rikelta, and is it possible that this father you mention is named Delaosant Paspaklest?”
“Both possible and certain,” Onkallant assured him. “You, ah, don't look quite like an acquaintance he would have.”
Onerid gasped. “Onkallant!”
“He doesn't, though.”
“Do you know the name of the very head of our company? Haderslant Rikelta? Do you even know the company's name?”
“That might change things I suppose . . .”
Dirant assured them his knowledge of their father came only by happenstance and had little enough to it, all the while thinking of other things and developing theories. He looked back toward the port at the earliest opportunity consistent with politeness to confirm the unnerving sensation within him had the cause he believed. It did. There, waving to the ship with one impossibly long arm, was a small figure not quite fashionable in his color-changing vest and not close to human in his round, spinning eyes and metallic skin. Holzd, the god of Ritualists and complications, was seeing him off. It seemed the divine agent used to deliver Delaosant from misfortune was to be the one who prayed for the intercession, and for a moment Dirant Rikelta, priest of Holzd, again pondered a class change. His 56 Sticktoitiveness objected, however.