Evening, Yaris 16, 2719
The Black Dove Tavern
The Black Dove Tavern
Aremu glanced sideways at Tristaan when he spoke of trying to get books. He thought longingly of Laus Oma, and the book markets there; the channels of trade between the Turtle and the Islands were strong, and the book markets were the best in Mugroba, outside of Thul Ka, for all the challenges of humidity and rain.
There were books printed in Mugrobi, yes, but Estuan too; it depended on the school, often, whether they taught students to read in Mugrobi at all, in addition to Estuan. Aremu knew men who could read Estuan better than they could speak it, and who could scarcely understand the alphabet of their mother tongue. He had learned Mugrobi as a boy, as was still done in Thul Ka, though they had spoken Estuan at home.
“What would you like to be reading?” Aremu asked, with a faint smile, though his gaze was uncertain. “It’s different in the islands, I could,” The offer nearly trailed off there, Aremu almost faltering; he went on through, “send you something, when I get back.”
He didn’t think Tristaan would take him up on it, not really, but Aremu was startled to find he wished he would. It would be easy for me, he wanted to say; fiction, poetry, even mechanical texts. I know a man who, if he doesn’t have it, can send to his brother in Thul Ka, and have it within two tenday. I send mail enough back and forth from the harbor; I don’t mind adding an extra book or two.
Tristaan looked engrossed in the book, at least. “Maybe,” Aremu agreed, finding somethings like a smile, or at least close to one. “The desert isn’t so dry as it’s made out to be.” Scorching, though, which Aremu felt as good as description of love as any. He didn’t say that; Tristaan had spoken of his fami, and for all that Aremu wanted to know what the word meant to him - what it was he wasn’t supposed to have - he couldn’t find it in himself to press. If Tristaan wanted him to know, Aremu thought, he would tell him.
Aremu took the book back from Tristaan, and propped it open once more. He settled one finger where the other man and stopped, and skimmed back through the pages. He stopped on the foreward, glancing through it.
I wouldn’t do this in Vienda, he wanted to say, suddenly. Read like this, in the open. I know the laws here. I have papers of my own, which are meant to protect me, and there I carry them everywhere, but I know, too, how little they are worth.
“Anet Apalte,” Aremu read aloud. “All of them are his, I think,” he skimmed further, and something went still through him. His face twitched, and he didn’t know what broke across it, if it was a smile or its opposite, whatever that might have been. Not a frown; it was something deeper than that, which tore at all the lines and familiar muscles.
“An imbala,” Aremu said, after a moment, clearing his throat. “From the time before exile, the early 2000s.” His hand was shaking on the book, and he stilled it, turning back.
He lost track of where Tristaan had been; he skimmed the pages, searching, because if Uzoji had given Chibugo this book, then there must have been a reason, a marker, something.
He found it - a small fold in the corner of a page, almost imperceptible. Aremu traced his fingertips over it, and found he could not, quite, draw his eyes down to the poem, that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, just now, what was written there. He cleared his throat again, and turned to Tristaan with what he could muster up d a smile.
“Sorry,” Aremu said, after a moment. “I didn’t expect...” he looked down once more; he settled the book against his legs, and took the drink on the bar, although he couldn’t quite seem to make himself drink.
There were books printed in Mugrobi, yes, but Estuan too; it depended on the school, often, whether they taught students to read in Mugrobi at all, in addition to Estuan. Aremu knew men who could read Estuan better than they could speak it, and who could scarcely understand the alphabet of their mother tongue. He had learned Mugrobi as a boy, as was still done in Thul Ka, though they had spoken Estuan at home.
“What would you like to be reading?” Aremu asked, with a faint smile, though his gaze was uncertain. “It’s different in the islands, I could,” The offer nearly trailed off there, Aremu almost faltering; he went on through, “send you something, when I get back.”
He didn’t think Tristaan would take him up on it, not really, but Aremu was startled to find he wished he would. It would be easy for me, he wanted to say; fiction, poetry, even mechanical texts. I know a man who, if he doesn’t have it, can send to his brother in Thul Ka, and have it within two tenday. I send mail enough back and forth from the harbor; I don’t mind adding an extra book or two.
Tristaan looked engrossed in the book, at least. “Maybe,” Aremu agreed, finding somethings like a smile, or at least close to one. “The desert isn’t so dry as it’s made out to be.” Scorching, though, which Aremu felt as good as description of love as any. He didn’t say that; Tristaan had spoken of his fami, and for all that Aremu wanted to know what the word meant to him - what it was he wasn’t supposed to have - he couldn’t find it in himself to press. If Tristaan wanted him to know, Aremu thought, he would tell him.
Aremu took the book back from Tristaan, and propped it open once more. He settled one finger where the other man and stopped, and skimmed back through the pages. He stopped on the foreward, glancing through it.
I wouldn’t do this in Vienda, he wanted to say, suddenly. Read like this, in the open. I know the laws here. I have papers of my own, which are meant to protect me, and there I carry them everywhere, but I know, too, how little they are worth.
“Anet Apalte,” Aremu read aloud. “All of them are his, I think,” he skimmed further, and something went still through him. His face twitched, and he didn’t know what broke across it, if it was a smile or its opposite, whatever that might have been. Not a frown; it was something deeper than that, which tore at all the lines and familiar muscles.
“An imbala,” Aremu said, after a moment, clearing his throat. “From the time before exile, the early 2000s.” His hand was shaking on the book, and he stilled it, turning back.
He lost track of where Tristaan had been; he skimmed the pages, searching, because if Uzoji had given Chibugo this book, then there must have been a reason, a marker, something.
He found it - a small fold in the corner of a page, almost imperceptible. Aremu traced his fingertips over it, and found he could not, quite, draw his eyes down to the poem, that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, just now, what was written there. He cleared his throat again, and turned to Tristaan with what he could muster up d a smile.
“Sorry,” Aremu said, after a moment. “I didn’t expect...” he looked down once more; he settled the book against his legs, and took the drink on the bar, although he couldn’t quite seem to make himself drink.
