“Good. Then you won’t mind spending less. Perhaps there we can bring this squalid tale to an end.”
The harper laughs. “In what way?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said there are three ways in which a thing may reach an end, and so far you’ve mentioned termination and perfection. What is the third way? Surely, the story has not perfected itself! Too many pieces are yet missing!”
“Ah. The third kind of end is purpose.”
“You mean the tale must achieve a purpose, a moral.”
“No, that a teller may have a purpose in telling it.”
Suantraí: Grass Pyjamas
Greystroke was a virtuoso in the use of anycloth. By cleverly manipulating its pattern against his backdrop, he could make himself seem from a distance to be fatter or thinner than he was. He could break up the contours and outline of his body. He had spent the day as a fly on a great many walls; not, indeed, in solitary corners or in shadows—for no man is so conspicuous as a man alone—but in convivial company at those taverns and restaurants where ICC personnel gathered after work. He could, when he wanted, look like someone else’s friend. And in the whirl of aimless chatter an anonymous question at just the right moment could, like a seed crystal, condense conversation around a particular topic.
All in all, a good day’s work. A good day and half the night! (Die Bolders no longer spent long hours at work, but they invested considerable time in its aftermath.) It waited now only to find what Hugh had learned from the officer who had jumped ship. And what Bridget ban had discovered, using her own less savory methods on the ICC factor.
The Crown Royal Hotel, on the west side of the Place of the Chooser, by Ferry Street, was not the most sumptuous hotel on Die Bold, but was suited to the station of such well-to-do travelers as Julienne Lady Melisond or Tol Benlever. The staff was attentive to their needs, but not so attentive as to inhibit their activities.
Greystroke stepped out of the lift tube and by habit walked close to the wall. His clothing took on a color and pattern that complemented the wallpaper without becoming too obviously a camouflage. He was halfway down the hall when a door opened, and he sidestepped without thinking into the alcove leading to the darkened concierge’s lounge.
It was the Fudir’s room that opened, but it was Bridget ban who emerged in a long, sheer robe the color of her hair. The Fudir, also in a robe, stood in the doorway. He looked younger than he usually did and his smile was that of the cat who drank the cream. Bridget ban ran her fingers through the Fudir’s hair and gave him a small, quick kiss before turning toward her own room. Greystroke’s jaw clenched, but only for a moment. Why blame the Fudir for taking the bait when it was offered to one and all?
The Fudir’s door closed and Greystroke stepped from the alcove as Bridget ban passed him, taking a position in her blind spot. When she opened the door to her own room, he stepped in behind and moved around her when she turned to shut it.
Most women would have started, perhaps cried out, to find another unexpectedly in the room with them. Bridget ban merely regarded him for a moment before proceeding into the parlor of her suite. Greystroke followed.
“You should nae use those tricks of yours on our own,” she said.
“I could say the same of you.”
Bridget ban did not ask what he meant. She crossed to a stuffed, high-back chair and crossed her legs. This allowed the flap of her dressing gown to fall open, revealing golden brown thigh up to the hip. “Poor gray man. You can nae help wonder how you might compare to our Fudir.”
“Pfaugh. I know your tricks. Like that one.” He waved a hand at her exposed leg as he took a seat on a sofa opposite. “And knowing them for artifice, I’m not affected.”
“Aye,” she said. “That’s why I can relax with you, and be only myself.” She pulled the edges of her robe together, concealing her limbs.
“You were going to interrogate the ICC factor; but instead you wasted your time with Fudir. Were you unable to find go-Hidei? Unable to seduce him?”
Her smile was a little puffy, her hair somewhat tousled. She tossed her head and the tangled red tresses waved. Her robe, neglected, parted once more as she shifted position. “Or was he nae so time-consuming a man. Men o’ his ilk dream o’ beautiful strangers seducing them for nae reason at all, and seldom question their good fortune. ’Twas child’s play. An’ mickle return for mickle effort. He knows nothing and, worse, knows he knows nothing. He was nae told o’ the fleet or its mission, and resents being, as he put it, ‘out of the loop.’ He so wanted me to pity him. He wanted, I think, his mother.”
“And he got you. Cu, I think it coarsens you.”
She turned her head away. “Can the berating nae wait on the morrow? The night is gae late, and I’m for bed.”
She moved as if to rise and Greystroke said tightly, “I would think that you’d been in enough beds for one night.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, ye’re jealous, Pup, aren’t ye?”
Greystroke examined his conscience. “I’m afraid so. A small bit. One cannot help one’s enzymes. It’s not me you should worry about.”
“The Fudir, then? The Fudir is a man of parts.”
“And I’m not?”
“Tae each man, his gift. Yours is simplicity. Ye ha’ nae parts, but are a seamless whole. Ye’d nae could do wha’ ye do without that true simplicity. As for the Fudir, I find him…engaging.”
“And what am I?”
“So. You do want to know how ye compare tae him.”
“It’s always a means with you, and never an end. ‘Business before pleasure,’ as I think the Terrans say.”
Sudden tears started in the eyes of Bridget ban. “An’ d’ye despise me so!” She stood and turned away from him, hiding her face. “But that dart can nae hurt,” she added in a low, sad voice, “’less it finds its mark. Ye’re right, Pup. Aye, ye’re right. It does coarsen.”
Greystroke stood, too, and took a step toward her. “That needn’t be true, Francine.”
She turned a tear-tracked face to him.
“Cu…” he said.
“Come to me.”
Later, he said, “This can’t possibly mean anything to you.”
And she answered, “Anything is possible.”
Little Hugh returned within the hour, banging on hotel doors and calling the others out in a variety of dishevelment to tell them what had happened. This could not wait until morning! Bridget ban concurred and soon everyone was gathered in her parlor.
The assassination of the Gat was ominous enough, they agreed. How much did the ICC know? But the appearance of the Other Olafsson was as alarming as a scorpion in a picnic basket.
“And she gave me a message to deliver to the two of you,” Hugh told Greystroke and the Fudir.
“I don’t want to hear it,” said the Fudir.
“Bad luck for you, then,” said Greystroke. “I’ll be harder for her to track than you.”
“The Fudir no work CCW,” insisted the Terran. “I no their bhisti.”
Greystroke’s smile was not kind. “You know that, and perhaps I know that; but if she apologizes to your corpse afterward, what difference to you? You thought to play at the margins of the Great Game and not get taken? The more fool, you.”
“I don’t think she knew about the Dancer,” Hugh said before the argument could more than blink. “She wanted you to focus on your original assignment.”