The approaching Dinadhi was dressed as we all are, as Lutha and Trompe and Leely themselves were, in robes of fine, creamy cotton, high shoes woven of thin leather strips and soled with the durable, flexible wood of the paran tree, and over all a robe of soft leather—in summer, thin and light; in winter, heavier, with the wool still on—with bright patterns painted down the front and around the cuffs of the sleeves. These patterns are one’s own, painted by the wearer, so even veiled women may be identified by their specific patterns. I have learned from Lutha and Snark what women wear on other planets, frilly thises and lacy thats, but we have no stockings, no intimate undergarments. Lutha tells me that all the time she spent on Dinadh she felt she was walking around in her night clothing. I told her we do not wear night clothing. Wool and leather we have. Cotton we have. That is all that we have.
Lutha said they were surprised to find our garments exceptionally comfortable. Even Leely objected to them less than he did to his ordinary wear. They had managed to keep him dressed during most of the trip out.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” murmured the official, seating himself beside them and setting his feet squarely together. “There’ve been several someones here looking for you, and when you arrived, we thought it wise to have a small conference and share our perceptions of the matter.”
“Looking for me?” asked Trompe, sitting up straighter and opening his eyes wide.
The official shook his balding head and stroked his beard from the point where it was gathered into a carved bone ring below his chin, down the glossy tassel to his waist. All our men who work at the port wear their beards like that so we will know who they are, so we will pray for them, exposed as they are, to the influences of outsiders.
The official said, “Two were here yesterday, looking for the wife of Leelson Famber, and Leelson Famber’s children. They said they came to seek peace and ultimate truth upon Dinadh and wished to meet with Leelson Famber’s family while they were here.”
“While they were here seeking truth,” said Trompe heavily.
“Who?” asked Lutha, suddenly wide-awake. “And what do you mean, children?” She indicated her sleeping son. “To my knowledge, this is the only child Leelson ever fathered.”
The official smiled again. “We leasehold officers are accustomed to applicants of many kinds and degrees of fear or fervor, gush or melancholy. The two I speak of are of another stripe. Though Mitigan of Asenagi and Chur Durwen of Collis make proper application for right of residence, neither their desire for sanctuary nor their wish to learn from the songfathers rings true. Instead of a manner either fervid or meditative, both men display an attitude of aplomb, of alert disinterest, of customary unsurprise.”
Trompe slitted his eyes.
The official shrugged. “We are parochial, but we are not naive. To our eyes, they have the appearance of mercenaries.”
“What did you tell them?” demanded Trompe.
The official smiled. “Nothing except that the wife of Leelson Famber was not here. That no children of Leelson Famber were on Dinadh. As was true at the time.”
“Did they accept that?”
“No. They wanted to see our records.”
Trompe snorted.
The official smiled. “As you are no doubt aware, there are no such things on Dinadh. We don’t record things. We remember them. We don’t have files or archives or libraries, we have rememberers. We don’t have maps, we have guides. We don’t write books, we tell tales. We don’t even have money, as you understand money. The only reason we allow outlanders on the planet at all is to get hard currency credit for off-planet purchases.”
“Did you remember anything for them?” Lutha asked.
“Nothing. But neither did we discourage their remaining upon Dinadh. Hundred-year leases do not grow on trees.”
“I don’t suppose you found out what they’re really here for. Or where they’re from?”
“We watched them, we listened, trying to find out why they were really here, but they spoke a language we have no record of. A secret language, our translators think. An assassin’s tongue.”