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. I am speaking to you through the mouth of my adopted son. He does not understand Suomic; I address you privately. When you receive this message, I am already dead --"
Krausa had started to smile; now he let out an exclamation. Thorby stopped. Mother Shaum interrupted with, "What's he saying? What language is that?"
Krausa brushed it aside. "It's my language. Is what he says true?"
"Is what true? How would I know? I don't understand that yammer."
"Uh . . . sorry, sorry! He tells me that an old beggar who used to hang around the Plaza -- 'Baslim' he called himself -- is dead. Is this true?"
"Eh? Of course it is. I could have told you, if I had known you were interested. Everybody knows it."
"Everybody but me, apparently. What happened to him?"
"He was shortened."
"Shortened? Why?"
She shrugged. "How would I know? The word is, he died or poisoned himself, or something, before they could question him -- so how would I know? I'm just a poor old woman, trying to make an honest living, with prices getting higher every day. The Sargon's police don't confide in me"
"But if -- never mind. He managed to cheat them, did he? It sounds like him." He turned to Thorby. "Go on. Finish your message."
Thorby, thrown off stride, had to go back to the beginning. Krausa waited impatiently until he reached: "-- I am already dead. My son is the only thing of value of which I die possessed; I entrust him to your care
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