“And this somehow means we don’t stop on Bangtop?” Méarana persisted.
“It means we squirt Bangtop a Kennel inquiry as we pass through the coopers,” the Fudir explained, “and they send a reply via the Circuit, care of High Kaddo Platform at Siggy O’Hara, so it will be awaiting us when we arrive there. Why crawl down and back for something like that? Here, Billy.” He tossed the khitmutgar a packet and a brain. “Take the packet to the concierge and have her queue it for the Bangtop squirt. Two messages: one for the jewelers’ bourse in New Dreading; the other for the tissue bank in Licking Stone.”
“You’ll ask about Sofwari-wallah, too,” said Méarana.
The Fudir made a sound of exasperation. “I’m not old-hammered. Sofwari’s name has come up twice—three times, if he’s the one who left the package on Harpaloon. That’s once or twice too often for my comfort level. Either she was following him or he was following her.” He hesitated and looked up from the book, and Méarana knew that Donovan had joined them.
“How can a man read with all this racket!” He tossed the screen aside.
Méarana knew Donovan meant chatter among his components. Being as fragmented as they were, they tended to rattle when set in motion. Sometimes she wondered how the man could think at all.
“There is a third possibility, you know,” Donovan told them. “Neither was following the other, but both were following the same trail. Sofwari put her onto it. That seems clear. And she probably wanted to cross-check with him when he reached Harpaloon, but they missed connection. Sofwari must have arrived there after she left, thinking he had gotten there first. Otherwise, why leave the brain? But he did arrive first at Dancing Vrouw and departed before she arrived. Even a harper should see why.”
Méarana tuned a few strings. “They went ‘round the Staircase in opposite directions. After they parted on Thistlewaite, Mother came home to do her research. When she returned to Thistlewaite and learned that Sofwari had not waited for her, she went to Harpaloon to intercept him. But he had not gotten there yet. She lost patience and went down the Staircase to Dancing Vrouw.”
Donovan grunted. “And likely, passed Sofwari, who was coming up at the same time. You do understand.”
Méarana strummed a chord, frowned, twisted a key a quarter turn. “I don’t understand any of it. Why did Mother come all the way back to Dangchao to do her research? She could have done most of it from Thistlewaite and left with Sofwari. Why did Sofwari not wait for her on Thistlewaite? Why did it take him longer to reach Harpaloon than Mother allowed for?”
The scarred man showed his teeth. “Oil and water, girl. A Hound is relentless on the scent; but science-wallahs move in fits and starts. How could Sofwari abide on Thistlewaite, while the tissue banks of the Hanse beckoned? But once there, he could linger weeks in study at each depository. There is an unworldliness about his sort that more efficient folk like your mother cannot grasp. It never occurred to her that he would dawdle.” A grunt of laughter was pulled from him and he muttered softly, “Yes, Pedant. I was sure you would understand.”
“But why did Mother ‘dawdle?’ Why did she spend two weeks at home on research she could have done almost anywhere? Ourobouros Thistlewaite was back in-circuit. At worst, she need have gone up the Silk Road no farther than High Tara.”
“Ah.” The scarred man’s smile was like a knife wound. “There was one thing she wanted to access that she could only do on Dangchao.”
“And what was that?”
“You.”
The harper struck a false note, and looked to the scarred man with a surprise that she quickly suppressed. She tucked her head to the harp. “I doubt that,” she murmured, addressing the strings and pretending to tune them.
Donovan nodded to his servant. “What do you think of all this, Billy?”
The khitmutgar flipped his hands ulta-pulta. “No savvy alla runaround. Go here. Go there. Romance, I think.”
“Romance!” said Méarana; and the scarred man cocked his head with interest.
“Why you say that, boy?”
“Sahb! Man chase woman; woman chase man. What other reason ever?”
Donovan barked laughter. “Oh, that would be a fine joke! What weight honor and duty when Kam’deev the Bodyless looses the arrows of love!”
Méarana played a discord. “I’m not certain I like that.”
The scarred man shook himself and pointed at Billy. “Before I forget… That brain I gave you has the dibby that Sofwari left for Bridget ban. It’s nothing but columns of numbers. Actuaries work with statistics and data bases. See if you can parse it.”
Billy studied the brain in his hand, and a shy smile stole across his features. “Oh yes, sahb. Child of Wonder shows much faith in poor Billy Chins. I work this no long time, you see.”
Donovan grunted. “See me when you get back and we’ll discuss it.”
Billy hurried off to do his duty and Méarana said, “Do you think he can do it?”
Donovan spread his hands. “He claims to be good with that sort of thing. Don’t let his dialect fool you.”
Reading and harping then claimed them, and for a time a soft melody floated in the suite’s air. “The Hunt for Bridget ban.” It was a variation on a melody of hers that her mother had especially liked and, playing it, she felt as if the music drew her mother toward her. But she plucked it from the third mode; and Méarana was quite aware of what that signified. Even in its gentler chords the third smacked of anger—more fire, and the yellow bile. She had chosen it without thinking. Yet, until she knew who had wrought her mother’s fate, against whom might the anger be directed?
A few minutes later, Donovan rasped in his throat. Grateful for an excuse to break off a strain that had grown too labored, Méarana stilled her strings with the flat of her hand. “What is it?” she asked him.
Donovan struck the reading screen with his knuckles. “This is an abridged edition of Commonwealth Days—compiled on Ladelthorp eighty metric years ago. The publishing history cites an original edition three hundred and fifty years earlier on Friesing’s World.”
The harper nodded. “And?”
“And which edition did your mother read?”
“Ah.”
Donovan tossed the reader screen aside. “Send another message to your pal, Tenbottles, and ask him to find out. And while he’s at it, check the editions and revs for all the other books as well. Meanwhile, I have to write a summary report for Greystroke and Hugh and drop it on them when we pass through Yubeq.”
Méarana raised her brows. “We’re not holding things back anymore?”
“Of course, we’re holding things back. Only not the same things.”
Mèarana bent over her harp and plucked out a small, cheerful melody to hide her smile. “You ought to become friends again.”
Donovan grunted. “Call it gratitude, for want of something better.”
The harper laughed. “Fudir might be grateful for the Harpaloon sacred books. I doubt Donovan is.”
“It wasn’t that. Or not just that. Greystroke… Never mind what Greystroke did. Using the Hounds is the logical thing to do. The Kennel can better track Sofwari. He cannot have covered his tracks so well as a Hound.”
“And if we find Sofwari, we find Mother!”
“Or we’ll find where she’s buried.”
It wasn’t a fair shot. Donovan had dug deep and pulled the dart from some dark quiver of his mind. She hadn’t been expecting it, and the point sank deep into her. She turned and fled from the common room. Donovan looked away. “But more than likely,” he told the now empty room, “he’s gone missing, too.”