on the crown of his head, made from dark-blue feathers, and tiny
feathers for eyebrows. His voice is low and … pure music.”
Flandry nodded. “M-hm. He stayed in your house?”
“Yes. We and the servants were strictly forbidden to mention him
anywhere outside. When he visited the building his team had taken
over–or maybe left town altogether; I can’t say–he’d put on boots, a
cowl, a face mask, like he came from someplace where men cover up
everything in public; and walking slow, he could make his gait pass for
human.”
“Did you get any hints of what he did?”
“No. They called him a … consultant.” Susette sat upright. “Was he
really a spy?”
“I can identify him,” Flandry said, “and the answer is no.” Why should
he spy on his own companions–subordinates? And he didn’t bring them
here to collect information, except incidentally. Fm pretty sure he came
to kindle a war.
“Oh, I’m glad,” Susette exclaimed. “He was such a lovely guest. Even
though I often couldn’t follow his conversation. Martin did better, but
he’d get lost too when Aycharaych started talking about art and
history–of Terra! He made me ashamed I was that ignorant about my own
planet. No, not ashamed; really interested, wanting to go right out and
learn if only I knew how. And then he’d talk on my level, like
mentioning little things I’d never much noticed or appreciated, and
getting me to care about them, till this dull place seemed full of
wonder and–”
She subsided. “Have I told you enough?” she asked.
“I may have a few more questions later,” Flandry said, “but for now,
yes, I’m through.”
She held out her arms. “Oh, no, you’re not, you man, you! You’ve just
begun. C’mere.”
Flandry did. But while he embraced her, he was mostly harking back to
the last time he met Aycharaych.