The 60th day of Yaris, 2706, evening
At least the artichokes in oil had failed to disappoint. They, alas, were rapidly vanishing. He should have purchased another jar. He will go back to the little deli tomorrow, get more artichokes, and maybe some of that smoked salmon. That at least was a comestible that, he had to admit, the Anaxi were particularly good at producing. He pecked at another artichoke, dipped it into the oil and fish sauce dip he had cobbled together, and settled himself for a languid, irresponsible evening.
Already the sun had passed through its golden hour, and the promise of a cool night was on the light breeze. It made faint ripples on the surface of the fishpond and rustled in the leaves of the trees. This was an ideal place for a quiet, contemplative al fresco dinner. He always though better near the water. No one ever seemed to come to this particular pond. Some species of gardener must come by from time to time to feed the fish and sneer at the weeds, but nothing ever really seemed to change here. The stone bench was as moss-covered as it ever was, the statue of some minor historical figure was slowly being worn down by time and dissolved in pigeon guano.
He avoided both, and instead dined closer to the water on a spread blanket, worn in places and faded to the memories of wine reds and lapis blues. It was a comfort, the old blanket, though he could not say where he had come by it. Probably some anonymous shop in the Stacks. It had not come with him when he arrived here, so it must have been acquired here. Yet it was still a comfort. Few enough things were here.
On the blanket with him, on the far side away from the oils and sauces of his repast, lounged several impressive-looking volumes. Books about magic. Not books of magic, not grimoires, but still very solid scholarly works. Here, in the garden, away from everyone, unseen by professors and other students, he could read at his leasure, take his notes, and even practice the curious forms of magic that he had begun to devise.
It never worked, but he could feel it in his field, the response of the mona. It felt they were urging him on, pointing towards the flaws in his methods, editing them. Peer review from a swarm of particles. Not that he could count them as his peers, nor they him. Still, it felt both critical and encouraging. As if he were on the right course, but taking the most inefficient tack.
After his meal, when the evening was more advanced, and first stars were coming out, he would light a lantern, and turn to those books. He was here to learn, so what if he did his best work alone and unhindered by the regimented structure of the formal university? Besides, it was not as though they could kick him out. He had only about months to go, and his own father’s position on the faculty was some protection. In this, at least, he was willing to indulge in a little protective privilege, and take the implied dispensation that connection gave.
He had no special dispensation to dine alone this evening. He’d catch hell for it tomorrow, avoiding the formal dinner. That was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight was for a long languid dinner alone and untroubled. Formal dinners at Brunnhold were pointless affairs. Too stuffy, ceremonious, and frankly so old-fashioned as to be laughable. In what society, in this modern age, did one dine in great formal halls with dozens of guests all rooted to their seats, gazing up in supplication to the host and their tame coterie of worthies? Had the university not heard of dinner parties? Perhaps not. He’d been to proper dinners, dinners with conversation held around a well-laid table, diners as near-equals, relaxed and civilized. Talk flowed along with the courses. Even in Anaxas this was how real social dinners were conducted; at least all the ones he’d been to. Aunt Flora and Uncle William, Anaxi to their bones, did not dine in any manner that resembled the sclerotic archaism of the Brunnhold Dinner.
So, without much personal guilt, he skipped the dinners whenever he could. When he was out of this place, when he could go back home to the canals of Florne, he would never attend such a dinner again in his life.
Home. Florne. Even after spending nearly half his life in Anaxas, in Brunnhold, he could never quite treat the place as home. The country felt wrong somehow, stuffy, old-fashioned. And yet. There was no denying that the scholars here were years ahead in their studies of the deep structures of magic. As far as he knew, as far as the journal articles had shown, only Thul’Amat in Mugroba was on par in such matters. But that was even more an alien country, and he had no family there to shield him, to help keep him on something like an even keel. He would go mad in the desert. Madder than he already was.
He reached for the bottle of spring water, the special kind he had imported from home. It tasted ghastly on its own, bitter and metallic, but it has some virtue in it that he could not quite name. Something in the water, some mineral perhaps, helped settle his mind. It did not calm it entirely, but it helped. Still, on its own it was nearly undrinkable. Into a small absinth glass he had acquired he poured first the water, and then rummaged in his satchel for a lemon or a lime. He found both. Rolling them in his hands, the floral and tart small rising from the crushed rind, tickled his nose. He breathed in, and then sneezed. It spoiled the contemplative mood.
The fruit knife slid into his hand, and old and trusted friend. He pared a strip of peel from each of the fruits, twisted them above the glass, watched as the oil fell like rain on the water, and then dropped them in. The merest swirl, and the water was almost drinkable. Well, he thought, that’s as good as it will get. He gulped it down, felt the weirdly unrefreshing, slightly sickly taste of it as it poured down his throat. Medicine, not something to be sipped and savored. The wine he had chilling in the fish pond, now that was a different matter.