continue to ignore it, but Zaddorn’s expression told me I wouldn’t have the opportunity.
Tarani, sensitive as ever, said: “Will you excuse me for a moment? Illia, would you mind showing me where …”
Illia looked from Zaddorn’s face to mine, and showed more perception than I would have given her credit for. “Of course not—it’s this way,” she said, as she stood and left the table.
Zaddorn and I sat down, and he wasted no time.
“Had you been accepting visitors,” he said, “I would have talked with you long before now. This vineh business, rough as it has been, has not made me forget about the Ra’ira. I presume we would have it now, if you had returned with it. Where is it? What happened?”
I stared at him, surprised. “I told Thanasset everything, and I assumed he passed it all on to the Council.”
Zaddorn snorted. “I suspect that’s true. What gives you the idea that the Council tells
me
anything?”
“What
have
they told you?” I asked.
He sighed. “They have told me to ‘control the vineh.’ The day after the attack on you, Ferrathyn came to my office and shouted until his Supervisor friends dragged him away.”
“Ferrathyn?” I said. The image of the slight, friendly old man in an apoplectic rage was totally foreign to my memory of the Chief Supervisor. “
Ferrathyn?”
“He has changed,” Zaddorn said. “It would be a lie to say we have ever been friends, but I did think we respected one another. This situation has made him—the best word that occurs to me is
intense
. I fear the strain is making him feel his age, and I find it less and less palatable to concede to the whims of someone I suspect to be unbalanced.” He shrugged and sipped his glass of faen. “But then, I suppose I have given him little reason to respect me lately. I have been totally unable to control the spread of the vineh illness, and less than effective in protecting private property from the raids of the wild group.”
Ferrathyn must have changed a lot
, I thought.
I’d have bet that the old mans sense of fairness would insist that Zaddorn be told the truth about the Ra’ira and the vineh, instead of that crock about an ape flu. I don’t doubt that Ferrathyn has suffered from the strain
—
probably from a heavy load of guilt, as much as anything.
Zaddorn was staring into his faen, lost in his own sense of failure.
The Council didn’t tell me about the Ra’ira
, I remembered.
I had to find out the hard way. But now that I know, do I have the same obligation they do
—
not to reveal the truth without the Council’s consent?
Zaddorn glanced up, saw my face, and leaned across the table to touch my arm.
“Rikardon, I have seen that look on too many rogueworld faces not to recognize it. If you know something that can help, please tell me.”
Markasset had known Zaddorn throughout his youth. They had been rivals in sports and war games and romance. Through it all, Markasset had suffered from a sense of inadequacy, each victory only a reminder of his other losses. Markasset had resented and admired Zaddorn. I, as Ricardo and Rikardon, had shifted that balance toward admiration, even though I was not blind to Zaddorn’s irritating qualities. High on that list was arrogance—a quality absent from the vocal tone he had just used to ask for help.
Council or no Council
, I decided,
Zaddorn deserves to know the truth. He is being asked to control a situation he’s not even close to understanding.
“I don’t know how it will help,” I said quietly, “but I will tell you what I know. I ask only two things in return: that you accept what I say as the truth without question, and that you keep your temper under control. There are many reasons why you
haven’t
been told this, none of them born of lack of confidence in you. Agreed?”
Zaddorn’s face lit up with its normal expression—wry amusement, aloofness, cynicism. “With such an introduction, my curiosity is rampant. Of course, I
Tarani, sensitive as ever, said: “Will you excuse me for a moment? Illia, would you mind showing me where …”
Illia looked from Zaddorn’s face to mine, and showed more perception than I would have given her credit for. “Of course not—it’s this way,” she said, as she stood and left the table.
Zaddorn and I sat down, and he wasted no time.
“Had you been accepting visitors,” he said, “I would have talked with you long before now. This vineh business, rough as it has been, has not made me forget about the Ra’ira. I presume we would have it now, if you had returned with it. Where is it? What happened?”
I stared at him, surprised. “I told Thanasset everything, and I assumed he passed it all on to the Council.”
Zaddorn snorted. “I suspect that’s true. What gives you the idea that the Council tells
me
anything?”
“What
have
they told you?” I asked.
He sighed. “They have told me to ‘control the vineh.’ The day after the attack on you, Ferrathyn came to my office and shouted until his Supervisor friends dragged him away.”
“Ferrathyn?” I said. The image of the slight, friendly old man in an apoplectic rage was totally foreign to my memory of the Chief Supervisor. “
Ferrathyn?”
“He has changed,” Zaddorn said. “It would be a lie to say we have ever been friends, but I did think we respected one another. This situation has made him—the best word that occurs to me is
intense
. I fear the strain is making him feel his age, and I find it less and less palatable to concede to the whims of someone I suspect to be unbalanced.” He shrugged and sipped his glass of faen. “But then, I suppose I have given him little reason to respect me lately. I have been totally unable to control the spread of the vineh illness, and less than effective in protecting private property from the raids of the wild group.”
Ferrathyn must have changed a lot
, I thought.
I’d have bet that the old mans sense of fairness would insist that Zaddorn be told the truth about the Ra’ira and the vineh, instead of that crock about an ape flu. I don’t doubt that Ferrathyn has suffered from the strain
—
probably from a heavy load of guilt, as much as anything.
Zaddorn was staring into his faen, lost in his own sense of failure.
The Council didn’t tell me about the Ra’ira
, I remembered.
I had to find out the hard way. But now that I know, do I have the same obligation they do
—
not to reveal the truth without the Council’s consent?
Zaddorn glanced up, saw my face, and leaned across the table to touch my arm.
“Rikardon, I have seen that look on too many rogueworld faces not to recognize it. If you know something that can help, please tell me.”
Markasset had known Zaddorn throughout his youth. They had been rivals in sports and war games and romance. Through it all, Markasset had suffered from a sense of inadequacy, each victory only a reminder of his other losses. Markasset had resented and admired Zaddorn. I, as Ricardo and Rikardon, had shifted that balance toward admiration, even though I was not blind to Zaddorn’s irritating qualities. High on that list was arrogance—a quality absent from the vocal tone he had just used to ask for help.
Council or no Council
, I decided,
Zaddorn deserves to know the truth. He is being asked to control a situation he’s not even close to understanding.
“I don’t know how it will help,” I said quietly, “but I will tell you what I know. I ask only two things in return: that you accept what I say as the truth without question, and that you keep your temper under control. There are many reasons why you
haven’t
been told this, none of them born of lack of confidence in you. Agreed?”
Zaddorn’s face lit up with its normal expression—wry amusement, aloofness, cynicism. “With such an introduction, my curiosity is rampant. Of course, I
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