The Doings Around A Sport Frequently Are Greater In Both Intensity And Significance

Regardless, the tournament did not immediately humiliate Takki, which was polite of it for all that people so proud as she deserved a reversal from time to time. Nothing happened immediately; the participants and judges took their time at every step, and the audience did not object. To describe the atmosphere of the occasion required the word “languid” be brought forth from the back of the cabinet where it was kept for most of the year.

When the next match started, the way points dribbled in reminded Dirant of something else which required attention. “On the other side of the house, marked with an appropriate curtain, you will find it,” Aigwif Gren-Sofops was pleased to inform him at Onerid's request. That lady and her bodyguard, Tojwis Kei, had already been eliminated, and if someone suspected the pair had thrown the set after an obligatory showing in order to allow Aigwif some relaxation after such intense physical activity, perhaps it was because that person overheard when she gave her companion those exact orders.

Onerid added for Dirant's benefit that appropriate curtains for the chamber he wanted typically featured a kingfisher, that being a small bird with a narrow beak, in the hope that its speed and accuracy would be replicated by the occupant. Thanking her, he set off with that identical hope.

That was his first acquaintance with the inside of a Drastlifan domicile. At last he learned the true purpose of the inner courtyard. It replaced hallways in larger buildings which otherwise suffer from the lack, though any Drastlifan architect he interviewed would have disputed the presumption of the hallway as the default solution to intramural organization.

Dirant paused to look around. His presence hindered no domestic operations, since the entire household was out making the tournament as comfortable as possible for the glamorous attendees and the other ones. Rooms ringed the open center, separated from it by tall curtains of a far more opaque inclination than those used for tennis. He found the sole bird-decorated room and entered.

At least the curtain was thick. He had confronted in his travels the idea Adabans as a tribe clung to an exaggerated standard of privacy too often to dismiss it, but the other countries he visited till then at least all agreed in putting four walls around the facilities. The next time he discussed in which land aside from Kitslof he would most like to live, Drastlif would be much lower on the list than he anticipated before this assignment.

Anxiety caused by the relatively exposed position destroyed his kingfisher dreams, but in the end he managed to put aside cultural revulsion. Then he heard voices.

“Choshocho payment chosho as agreed jaj shoi,” someone said in Dvanj, approximately. It was hard to make out, not that he wanted to. The last part might have been jadnerishdoi. Some verb, anyway.

“The risk choshojaj doji right there chosho,” a less composed man said, one who perhaps was not a native speaker. In conjecturing that, Dirant realized he had, without conscious thought, concluded the first man was an authentic Dvanjchtliv.

“The difference jadoji bladoji a glance only fechoishoi.”

Whatever was going on there beyond the unreasonably thin wall he resented the Gren-Sofopses for installing lay as far away from anything he wanted to hear as the earnings potential of Administrators did from that of Warm Bodies. He shut his ears as best as he was able, finished his obligation, waited for his neighbors to stop talking, and then waited a bit longer. Certainly a desire to embarrass them by intruding on their conversation and his intentions were as far from each other as the two ranges of credit which banks habitually extended to Administrators and to Warm Bodies. Satisfied as to his precautions, he moved the curtain aside.

A lovely statue of a sailor holding an umbrella over his captain and three mates, each of the four peering in a cardinal direction, provided both shade and aesthetic pleasure to the center. For some reason though, the two men in the courtyard preferred to huddle beneath a half-raised curtain to Dirant's right. The blond was holding it up to give him a look at a satchel sitting on the ground between him and a nervous Drastlifar without having the sun stare over his shoulder. The wax seal that kept the item shut particularly drew his attention.

Whatever the conclusion an employee of another firm might have reached, all of Dirant's Stadeskosken training, his familial heritage no less, told him a package was being intercepted by an unintended recipient. Outrage shouldered its way to the fore, but another emotion ran up and shoved Outrage off the stage into the orchestra, causing a big scene. Terror was its name, and something about the Dvanjchtliv's close-shaved blond head, cold eyes with their ever-darting pupils, and squat which resembled a that of a beast before a lethal pounce warned Dirant to consider every available measure from leaving to withdrawing.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Before he could begin to excuse himself from the unexpected encounter, the unsavory man's hand was gripping a dagger. That circumstance made a graceful withdrawal difficult, but Dirant resolved to try. He decided on a ploy of pretending to be ignorant of Dvanj. “Do . . . toilet want you? Free is it.” That was some good terrible Drastlimez, he praised himself. A less significant tourist had never existed, unless somebody with 8 Panache went on vacation, which sounded out of character.

“That comes as a relief for both of us,” said, in Adaban, a voice behind him unquestionably belonging either to Stansolt Gaomat or one of those professional voice imitators who put on stage shows. It was in fact Stansolt who arrayed himself beside Dirant, an unsheathed sword in his right hand and the estimable class of Battler in his status. “Ah, pardon me,” he said in Dvanj. “The latrine is available, he says. Isn't that good news, Kenjawm Noirlidript Jaumgdegnu?”

To Dirant's recollection, Stansolt's activities had so far been either neutral or a benefit to his own interests. That encouraged him. On the other hand, the career Dirant believed that man of mystery to pursue behind the scenes involved frequent switches of loyalties and allegiances according to serials, and if those were poor evidence, he had none better. He did have a Fascination Ritual saved up which a single word could activate, his sole consolation if Stansolt decided against rescuing him.

The situation improved promptly. A less worldly fellow than Dirant might be persuaded that Dvanjchtlivs pointed daggers at their friends as a sign of respect, but a far-traveled man knew to care only about the fact none still pointed at him. He started to back away less than an inch at a time. His Gumption, even replaced by a fraction of his Receptivity, allowed nothing bolder than that.

“Still a Pinpointer, Kenjawm?” the Sivoslofer Battler asked.

“Still outnumbered, Stansolt?” The Dvanjchtlivan Pinpointer (presumed) snapped the fingers of his non-dagger hand, though likely it could be converted into a dagger-holding one as need arose. A number of thugs of both the Dvanjchtliv and Drastlifar varieties, and was that a Saueha? Regardless, a bunch of thugs emerged from several curtains behind the two Grenlofers.

“But Kenjawm, this is hardly something to be expected.” Stansolt placed his left hand on Dirant's back. “A Pinpointer ought to have a better sense of direction!”

The last word came out in a grunt as he shoved the imperiled witness forward and dashed alongside him in Kenjawm's direction. Pinpointers excelled in the accuracy of their throws rather than speed so far as Dirant had gathered from his oldest brother's demonstrations, and consequently the Dvanj was bowled over before he could do anything with his dagger than drop it from a bleeding hand.

Barely had the lively sword scratched one target before it flicked under the handle of another, and a more important one. Stansolt flipped up the satchel over toward Dirant, who resigned himself to clutching it while he relied for the rest upon a man far less likely to murder him than anyone else there aside from the first Drastlifar, who had progressed from anxious to panicking.

The henchmen perhaps ought to have chased immediately, but the situation's sensitivity caused them to go to their leader for instructions first. Normally the owner was informed before an indoors tussle of that sort, if not complicit in it, but criminals so thoughtful as to spare the satchel's intended recipient the bother of receiving it also forbore to bother the mistress on her tennis day. Their courteous hesitation cost them when Stansolt used the delay to pull Dirant through a curtain, find a spot on the interior wall free of hangings, and start cutting himself a new exit.

The Muscle required for that act must have been 50 at least. Dirant pondered that while he watched the curtain for rustling indicative of an urgent need to unveil his escape-enabling Fascination Ritual. His evident worry won an assurance from his well-meaning if thrill-causing companion.

“There is no cause to fear reprisal for a little architectural rearrangement,” Stansolt said, evidently misinterpreting the cause of his sudden associate's discomfort. “I will say nothing for obvious reasons, our pursuers till the same field, and then there is you. I know again in the surest way, which is that this has happened already, that you . . .” He paused to shove outward the wall portion cleaved from the rest by his vigorous effort. “Are no tattler. Is it not so?”

He grinned at Dirant, who saw in the expression sufficient confirmation that when he saw once Stansolt in a peculiar position, the other saw him as well. How liberating it was to learn at last that if Stansolt were the sort to murder people who knew his secret, Dirant would already be dead. Knowing that would make social functions much smoother, provided they lived long enough to attend any together. “Discretion and Stadeskosken are like cattle and kine,” Dirant Rikelta professed as he ducked to fit through the hole.

“Is that our new slogan, or? It strikes me well. And now on we go.”

Some Drastlifars looked at the two foreigners freshly emerged onto the street with suspicion and others not at all, a pair of attitudes which puzzled the native of orderly Kitslof. “Though it is helpful to my reputation, should they not be fetching the authorities, a pillar of the community, or the neighborhood's stoutest combatant?” he asked.

“And possibly involve themselves in the affairs of the few families? There's nothing in that worth doing. Though this is another scenario entirely from what they presume. This way, I think.” Stansolt took off down the street while Dirant continued as his companion by reason of the Battler's strong grip.

The bystanders did nothing more to hinder Kenjawm's associates than they had Stansolt and Dirant. On the contrary, they took care to move aside food stands, ladders, and incautious children ahead of the pursuit, a peculiar form of consideration unanticipated by the common visitor. The reputation of Drastlif in Greater Enloffenkir included nothing about daylight street chases. Perhaps the Explorers who claimed in so irritating a manner that people who read about a country without traveling there themselves knew less about it than the wholly ignorant had a better argument than Dirant previously believed. He preferred thinking about that compared to how he was about to be murdered.