THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS by Ursula K.Leguin

That evening a man came to my room, my first visitor since I had returned to Erhenrang. He was slight, smooth-skinned, shy-mannered, and wore the gold chain of a Foreteller, one of the Celibates. “I’m a friend of one who befriended you,” he said, with the brusqueness of the timid, “I’ve come to ask you a favor, for his sake.”

“You mean Faxe—?”

“No. Estraven.”

My helpful expression must have changed. There was a little pause, after which the stranger said, “Estraven, the traitor. You remember him, perhaps?”

Anger had displaced timidity, and he was going to play shifgrethor with me. If I wanted to play, my move was to say something like, “I’m not sure; tell me something about him.” But I didn’t want to play, and was used to volcanic Karhidish tempers by now. I faced his anger deprecatingly and said, “Of course I do.”

“But not with friendship.” His dark, down-slanted eyes were direct and keen.

“Well, rather with gratitude, and disappointment. Did he send you to me?”

“He did not.”

I waited for him to explain himself.

He said, “Excuse me. I presumed; I accept what presumption has earned me.”

I stopped the stiff little fellow as he made for the door. “Please: I don’t know who you are, or what you want. I haven’t refused, I simply haven’t consented. You must allow me the right to a reasonable caution. Estraven was exiled for supporting my mission here—”

“Do you consider yourself to be in his debt for that?”

“Well, in a sense. However, the mission I am on overrides all personal debts and loyalties.”

“If so,” said the stranger with fierce certainty, “it is an immoral mission.”

That stopped me. He sounded like an Advocate of the Ekumen, and I had no answer. “I don’t think it is,” I said finally; “the shortcomings are in the messenger, not the message. But please tell me what it is you want me to do.”

“I have certain monies, rents and debts, which I was able to collect from the wreck of my friend’s fortune. Hearing that you were about to go to Orgoreyn, I thought to ask you to take the money to him, if you find him. As you know, it would be a punishable offense to do so. It may also be useless. He may be in Mishnory, or on one of their damnable Farms, or dead. I have no way of finding out. I have no friends in Orgoreyn, and none here I dared ask this of. I thought of you as one above politics, free to come and go. I did not stop to think that you have, of course, your own politics. I apologize for my stupidity.”

“Well, I’ll take the money for him. But if he’s dead or can’t be found, to whom shall I return it?”

He stared at me. His face worked and changed, and he caught his breath in a sob. Most Karhiders cry easily, being no more ashamed of tears than of laughter. He said, “Thank you. My name is Foreth. I’m an Indweller at Orgny Fastness.”

“You’re of Estraven’s clan?”

“No. Foreth rem ir Osboth: I was his kemmering.”

Estraven had had no kemmering when I knew him, but I could rouse no suspicion of this fellow in myself. He might be unwittingly serving someone else’s purpose, but he was genuine. And he had just taught me a lesson: that shifgrethor can be played on the level of ethics, and that the expert player will win. He had cornered me in about two moves. He had the money with him and gave it to me, a solid sum in Royal Karhidish Merchants’ notes of credit, nothing to incriminate me, and consequently nothing to prevent me from simply spending it.

“If you find him …” He stuck.

“A message?”

“No. Only if I knew…”

“If I do find him, I’ll try to send news of him to you.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he held out both his hands to me, a gesture of friendship which in Karhide is not lightly made. “I wish success to your mission, Mr. Ai. He—Estraven—he believed you came here to do good, I know. He believed it very strongly.”

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