The man in the center—pale-skinned, tow-haired, beak-nosed—was the one they called Bwana. He was bare-chested and wore buckskin pantaloons with fringed seams. His cushions were larger and done up in elaborate green, black, and red patterns. To the extent the Corner had a government and had a president, these were them and he was it.
“Ah, Bwana,” the Fudir said, bowing over his folded hands. “May I introduce my humble self.”
But the Bwana replied in the patois, so thick that it seemed almost the old Tantamiž lingua franca itself. Even the Fudir had to call upon his earwig to thin it out.
“Thou art known to us, o Fudir, as a man of promise. Thou promised Memsahb Jehovah, thou promised Fendy Die Bold, thou promised to give us back the Earth. Those wert thy words. This promise, he run jildy from corner to corner, in whispers. Hutt, hutt, ‘from Gatmander to the Lesser Hanse.’ But many years die since and…” He spread his hands in entreaty. “…no Earth.”
The Fudir marveled that, the farther from the promise the rumor had run, the more fervently it seemed to have been embraced. The Memsahb and the Fendy had not taken either his promise or his failure to heart. The key to success was low expectations.
“The tool I had hoped to use,” he suggested, “proved too dangerous to employ. Big dhik, sahbs. A dagger with two blades may be showed back on the one who holds it. So my hope was false all along, and none wept greater tears than I to learn so.”
“And there are more stories still,” Bwana continued. “That thou art an agent of our enemy, the Great Shittin, the Confederation that oppresses Olde Earth. Deny this.”
“Bwana, I do not, save that that was past and no longer true. Many a Terran has worked for Those of Name—because they hold Olde Earth hostage. A man named Donovan ‘took their nickel’ long ago; and I was once that man. He passed on to them certain information regarding the League—and what do you or I owe the League? We are in it, but not of it—but never did he inform on the Brotherhood, or harm the interests of Terrans. And then, after a time, the Names put him to sleep, to be called upon as needed. And in that time he forgot them; though not they him.”
Donovan intervened then and prevented the Fudir from saying any more. The Fudir agreed that this was not for the ears of others, but resented Donovan’s high handedness. A bit of trust was not uncalled for. But Donovan laughed, for he had not lasted this long by over much trusting, even of himself.
To Bwana, it appeared as if the Fudir had choked for a moment. He drummed the table with his fingertips, looked left and right at his committee, gathered in their verdicts, bobbed his head side-to-side. Then he clapped his hands, twice.
“Bread and salt!” he cried out. “Bread and salt for our guest!”
The Fudir let out the breath he had been holding. Deep within, Inner Child wept for joy, while the Brute felt keen disappointment at the lost prospect of danger and combat. Donovan and the Sleuth were amused by their reaction, and the others grew angry. Relief, joy, disappointment, amusement, anger. Enzymes and hormones warred and the contending emotions sent a wave of dizziness through the scarred man that nearly overcame him. Bwana frowned and asked if he were ill, but the Fudir waved him off.
The servants came then with silver salvers of steaming flatbreads fresh from the tandoors and small bowls with ground sea salt. A pot of kaffé accompanied them, and Bwana gravely served the scarred man with his own hands.
When all had eaten and the Fudir was once more closeted with the Seven, Bwana relaxed in his cushions and said, “Tell us then, Fudir, why thou hast sought the Brotherhood out. By what right doest thou call upon Terra?”
“I seek very little, Bwana. As little as this: the readiness of lips to speak of matters that befell here on Thistlewaite. As you know the ears of Terrans are large, but their mouths are small.”
“As befitteth folk in our station. And thou swearest this toucheth not on Holy Terra?”
“Save only that some have said it may discomfit the Confederation; but this is nothing more than the whisper of a supposition.”
“And we all know what is worth a suppository! Haha! What matters are these?”
“They are matters that touch upon the Kennel, Bwana, and are not to be spoken of.”
The Bwana’s face hardened and his cheeks grew red. “There is the small matter of trust, Fudir. If the Kennel be neither foe nor friend, neither are they Terrans. Doest thou value them more than thou valuest your own blood?”
Danger had once more raised its red-rimmed eyes. The Brotherhood would not harm him, not after offering bread and salt; but there were more Terrans in the Corner than belonged to the Brotherhood, and a disingenuous word spoken here or there could make his departure problematical. “I will tell ye so much as is safe for ye to know, brothers. But ye must swear a mighty oath to contain these words only within these walls. I wish to know of the doings of the Hound, Bridget ban, during her sojourn here. The Folk must speak to me with open hearts.”
Bwana studied him, and the Fudir could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Then he clapped his hands again and cried out. “The Book!”
The others of the Seven looked uncomfortably at one another. One rose and murmured, “Perhaps I would not hear this.” Bwana flicked his fingers at her and she and two others rose, bowed over their folded hands to both the Bwana and the Fudir, and departed swiftly.
Shortly, a book was brought in. It was a thick volume, bound in the ancient style and inscribed on its binding with the curlicues of the old Tantamiž script. The printing was badly worn and a dull brown stain covered some of it. Of its title, the Fudir could make out only Guest is God, but on the reading of those words his heart went hollow. It was in the old script and its spelling was antique. Athtithi Dhevo Bhava, instead of Adidi Dyefo Vapha. The author’s name was not visible, but he wondered. Could this volume be that written by Saint Shanthanand Saraswathi himself? How old was it? It was encased in a plastic block—destroyed and preserved in one act—and so its age had ceased. It might have come from Lost Terra herself, lovingly cradled and carried from the Home World to the Old Planets and from there to come to rest finally on rickety Thistlewaite.
The Fudir, who fancied himself an unsentimental man, was surprised to find himself on his knees before the book, his cheeks hot with tears; but whether for the ancient, half-legendary swami-ji, or for everything lost that had once been, he did not know. He placed his hand on the block along with the Bwana and the others of the Committee who had stayed, their fingertips touching one another: pallid, ebony, dun, and sallow. The colors of Olde Earth.
After the words were spoken, the Fudir rocked back on his heels. His fingers lingered on the Book, maintaining contact, as if he could feel the binding and the covers and the pages preserved forever unreadable within the plastic. He had spoken many oaths in his lifetime, and some he had even kept. This was the first he had ever taken that he had felt was holy.
And so he told them that the harper’s mother had vanished and that the daughter had set forth on a hopeless quest to find her, and that he had come with her as her guide and protector. As Terrans, his hosts knew all about hopeless quests, and so were inclined to sympathy. They gave their leave to make inquiries in the Corner.