The Governed Lose Confidence In A Sovereign Who Lacks Subtlety
Dirant would have risen early for that reason except he had made doing so his invariable custom since reaching Koshat Dreivis. A short walk took him to the Stanops's residence, and a slightly longer walk around it a few times won him a Stansolt companion. More and more people were rising, though some fell a few times during the process. The fields were a long stumble away, and even the shops and such seemed remote on wobbly legs.
The GE pair confined their conversation to the weather and the previous day's event until the street traffic lightened, at which point Stansolt reported what he had gathered by means not typically countenanced by society. “Mr. Dirant, there is little that's more indicative of a man's character than what he keeps in his drawers. For most of us it's blank paper, envelopes, and pens we're afraid to use while the cheap ones sit on the table, but Mr. Chisops keeps a veritable library about him, and in better order than most. I'm a little ashamed of how disorderly my own possessions seem against his. That didn't prevent me from putting my hands on his ledgers with no scruple like a financial raider. Watch out, there.” That warning he said in Drastlimez for the benefit of the children who had just kicked a ball on a direct trajectory toward a window and punishment. Stansolt paused to admonish them about how there would not always be someone to step in and intercept it.
After accepting both their guileless applause for his feat and their rote, perhaps not entirely heartfelt gratitude for the advice, he continued. “His records and his correspondence in that guest house alone, much larger than mine by the way, better appointed as well, go back a long ways.” Stansolt's Sivoslof upbringing showed itself a tad in that expression. “Many of the letters are from a certain firm, Holtatlosen Skemlena, which has its address in the state of Arvawesk. These ledgers indicate he has received a large number of payments from that company. What does that say to you?”
“Ah, there is no reason to wait to be told anything when we may create our own narratives based on little enough,” Dirant opined. “For instance, I have already decided Holtatlosen Skemlena is Helsodenk Nifkleskir's company which he established in Arvawesk for the simple reason of its legendary indifference toward legislation. I presume the same attitude holds with regard to sio. He is attempting to produce it himself after the damage done to his smuggling operation. It is a difficult project, for the country of Tando OHW from which all supplies on this continent are purchased is protective of its commercial methods and has the great ocean between us to aid it. Doubtless the research of Eizesl Chisops Dogai-Brein relates to this, and it is for either his research notes or some sort of sample he collects that he is paid. It may even be that marsh kings are the source of sio. That is speculative and I say it only because of the powerful name people gave them. The rest is speculative as well, and yet I believe every word of it.”
“Is this the bold spirit of the old tribes as depicted in the triumphal histories which are today the ready subject of debunking by any aspiring semi-academic writer? There's wisdom in boldness, the ancients say. Probably the ancient Drastlinez say that too. A connection between Mr. Helsodenk and Mr. Chisops has to be considered.”
“And they are both here, and one of them as a guest of Eizesl Bodan-Tin. Perhaps they all are conspirators together in a plot over some operation in the marshes, whether smuggling, plunder, or something else. It may even be that they did not desire the death of the Stanops and it was merely that their compatriot was playing the part of the guard for one of their meetings.”
“It's best if you're right and we can be as firemen watching the rain. Still, let's put a little consideration into how we might find a way to turn this more to our certain benefit.” That sort of statement ought to come from a man with thick eyebrows reclining in a stuffed chair behind a desk wider than most rooms across from a squad of underlings who themselves controlled businesses and governmental departments for full credibility, but the air of mystery about Stansolt lent his word a good amount of it nonetheless.
The attitudes of Noiswawau and Swadvanchdeu toward each other mattered less to Dirant than not having his client and host murdered, but he was willing to adopt the matter as a secondary concern. “Suppose it is sio behind it. What is the stance so far as you know of Noiswawau toward that substance?”
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“Ah. Mr. Dirant, you're right if you think that while they ban it for human use as most countries do, it isn't such a passion with them. A Swadvanchdeu that suspects them to be involved in sio production may yet be desperate enough for the truce, but beyond that, a field shared by a dog and a fox is a small one. I'll drop hints.”
“Did you find any research notes?”
“Yes, or I can't imagine what else are these dates next to entries my parents didn't raise me to understand.”
“Will Swadvanchdeuan experts be able to interpret them in the event they find on you some scrap of it copied for analysis or such? The implication ought to be that you robbed it from a Noiswawauan. How these sorts of things are done I have no idea.”
“I will not tell you how, but only praise you as a patriot.” Stansolt shook Dirant's hand in an outburst of communal feeling. Behind them, workers marched toward the main temple of Koshat Dreivis.
“Marched” was the word for it. The two Grenlofers agreed on that. The steady and even steps of massed Myrmidons had never been more obvious, not on the parade ground or in their ceremonial circumambulation of newly dedicated city walls. That of course did not prove them to be other than genuine laborers. The best repair crews were Myrmidons, and if these appeared to carry tools resembling maces better suited for use against skulls than walls and cornices, sometimes people who objected to temple renovations could get a little rowdy. Strong ideas about what sort of decoration was appropriate for such an edifice were common when considerations such as the deference owed tradition and the balance between grandeur and solemnity were implicated.
The town's temple belonged to the austere school, at least externally. Stone as the primary material and its long, rectangular shape distinguished it from the common house, shop, or club, but if those elements did not sufficiently indicate its sacred prominence, its position did so, there at the center of town where the main north-south and east-west streets circled it like the sea split by the mythical island whose inhabitants lived a thousand years and gave any visitor a treasure he inevitably lost in a manner calculated to express a moral sentiment. It brooded there stern and hard as if an Adaban had designed it and subsequently some Bodan-Tin ancestor snapped off all the spires.
The interior, as anyone familiar with Drastlif's aesthetic inclinations would guess without ever crossing the threshold, leaned in the opposite direction hard enough to fall out of its chair and spill the contents of the bowl it was holding all over the floor. The servants rushed to grab towels and mops, but too late to prevent the ruin of Chtrebliseuan rugs purchased at exorbitant prices and shoes which, while not so expensive, their owners had planned to wear home afterward.
Enough gold lined the columns, the pedestals on which jewel-eyed representations of various gods had been reverently placed, the dishes kept on the primary altar and the cups on the secondaries, and a dozen chandeliers depending from the lofty ceiling that the most god-scoffing visitor must experience profound if not supernatural awe. Once that visitor's eyes adjusted to the aureate radiance, he would be able to appreciate, if that was the word, materials other than gold, such as the ivory, obsidian, jade, and cinnabar used to ornament the altars, the walls, the idols themselves in their niches also elaborately decorated with scenes full of religious significance, and opulent doors which separated the place of worship from the many chambers employed by temple staff to carry out the countless consultations and calculations involved in the institution's financial operations. Somewhere in those were stairs to the money-filled cellar, a rare feature for a Drastlifan building. That is to say, having a cellar was rare, but those which existed often stored money.
A building such as that, sizable and ornate, doubtless wanted repair. Dirant wondered if the Bodan-Tin security personnel would do any. “Is it more likely they are permanently salaried or mercenaries hired for the occasion, do you think?”
“In this country, the second, but they take jobs only with Bodan-Tin permission. By the way, those aren't all of them. The house is under watch now.” While keeping his hand close to his front, Stansolt gestured in the direction of guards Dirant failed to see even with that prompting. “Is there anything else do you think, or should I begin my personal preparations?”
“Please do.” With that, Stansolt Gaomat strode away, inconspicuous as only someone who takes no trouble to hide can be. The unidentified young hoodlum would have done well to study his techniques before embarking on his disreputable career, provided it was such.
Dirant Rikelta remembered his Ritualist duties and went to check the popcorn pavilion in case a suspicious Battler again lurked there. The lack of one almost surprised him. Afterward, he continued his Ritualist morning by looking in on Posmeterin Igwodan-Tin, whereupon he delivered an impromptu lesson to young pupils intimidated by his alien demeanor. “They may have actually listened,” Posmeterin marveled.