Tsúri’uhem Practice Field • Thul'amat
Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720
T
súri’uhem was somewhere between Ire’dzosat and Ivuq’way, closed off on three sides by classroom buildings. It was stone and sand and soft, short grass, traced with old scars where spellwork’d gone awry. The practice field at Thul’amat was no amphitheatre, though it was big enough, and there’d been stands set up midway through Loshis for whoever wanted to watch the arriving teams practice.
There were a few scattered shapes on them now, watching the two figures face off on either end. A gaggle of lads, barely fifteen or sixteen by the looks of them, clustered in the upper reaches of one stand; they were hunched, rapt, except when one of them’d whistle. There was a scattering of middle-aged arati, some dressed in neat professional whites, some colorfully-dressed. All were Mugrobi, except for the flash of pale faces and coppery hair on the sidelines.
Two ladies in bright wraps perched arm-in-arm on one of the lower seats. One was small and bent, her hair snow-white and her face full of lines; the younger of the two was on the edge of her seat. “Isú’fo!” she cried, when a Mugrobi lad in Brunnhold green took his place on one side of the quadrangle.
He’d got himself turned round three or four times before he’d found it, wandering pale and strange among the gardens. He’d hailed down a tseruhem with a sharp Living caprice – at last – who was tending the plants.
The rains’d racked Thul Ka the day before yesterday, and the Turga was bloated and writhing with it, but it’d been an easy enough ride on the cablecars from his office to Cinnamon Hill and to the practice field after work, Mircalla tucked under his arm.
He’d debated it, most of the day; he almost hadn’t come.
She’d sent no word to him – not yet, anyway. He’d got word the Anaxi team had reserved Tsúri’uhem for the three from Cardinal, who thought (for some reason unknown to the Circle or men) the Incumbent would like to know. It’d started out as a thought, that one and two; the thought had settled on his heart like a weight.
He’d thought, even at noon, even in the afternoon, he wouldn’t. If she hadn’t sent for him first, it meant she wanted nothing to do with him.
Or, he’d thought, and he hadn’t been able to shake it – like silence was a challenge, like it dredged up every bit of the hurt she’d flung at him in the museum that Bethas –
It was going on half past the twenty-second hour, so the sun’d long sunk behind the walls of the buildings, wreathing the pathways that snaked through the gardens in shadow. It was a soft orange light shafting across Tsúri’uhem, making the stands cast long shadows. He came in under the colonnade in the dark, because he hadn’t been sure, even then, if he’d do it.
Between the benches, then, coming to stand opposite the lad, he’d seen her. It’d been awhile, long enough he’d nearly forgotten. He didn’t see her face, or her eyes, just a wild tangle of dark curls on her shoulders, and the new sound of monite in her sharp voice.
He’d stood quiet, tucked behind the stands and the columns, watching for a while; he knew a face like his’d draw eyes, and he thought – funny, he thought they ought to be on her right now, and he didn’t want to distract her, anyway.
Maybe it was fate – blasphemy though it was – a lass in the stands opposite saw him, her eyes widening, and tugged at the hem of her da’s shirt. He was wearing his long crimson wrap, the amel’iwe pulled up over his head; he settled it back on his shoulders, then, and came round, smiling sheepishly at Isú’fo’s juela as he took a tentative seat next to her.
They were two soft clairvoyant caprises. It was the grandam that leaned across to him, patting his shoulder with a knobbly hand. “What is her name?” she whispered, with a Mugrobi accent that wasn’t Thul Ka and wasn’t desert, one he couldn’t name.
He cleared his throat dryly, smiling tightly over at her. “Cerise,” he said, fair quiet.
“Sereez,” she repeated, nodding contemplatively, turning rheumy eyes back on the practice duel. She patted his shoulder and drew away. “My grandson Isú’fo knows much of victory.”
“Juela,” laughed the younger woman. “They’re on the same team.”
His smile faded to a frown of concentration; he turned to watch, his fingers curling slightly round the edges of the book.
súri’uhem was somewhere between Ire’dzosat and Ivuq’way, closed off on three sides by classroom buildings. It was stone and sand and soft, short grass, traced with old scars where spellwork’d gone awry. The practice field at Thul’amat was no amphitheatre, though it was big enough, and there’d been stands set up midway through Loshis for whoever wanted to watch the arriving teams practice.
There were a few scattered shapes on them now, watching the two figures face off on either end. A gaggle of lads, barely fifteen or sixteen by the looks of them, clustered in the upper reaches of one stand; they were hunched, rapt, except when one of them’d whistle. There was a scattering of middle-aged arati, some dressed in neat professional whites, some colorfully-dressed. All were Mugrobi, except for the flash of pale faces and coppery hair on the sidelines.
Two ladies in bright wraps perched arm-in-arm on one of the lower seats. One was small and bent, her hair snow-white and her face full of lines; the younger of the two was on the edge of her seat. “Isú’fo!” she cried, when a Mugrobi lad in Brunnhold green took his place on one side of the quadrangle.
He’d got himself turned round three or four times before he’d found it, wandering pale and strange among the gardens. He’d hailed down a tseruhem with a sharp Living caprice – at last – who was tending the plants.
The rains’d racked Thul Ka the day before yesterday, and the Turga was bloated and writhing with it, but it’d been an easy enough ride on the cablecars from his office to Cinnamon Hill and to the practice field after work, Mircalla tucked under his arm.
He’d debated it, most of the day; he almost hadn’t come.
She’d sent no word to him – not yet, anyway. He’d got word the Anaxi team had reserved Tsúri’uhem for the three from Cardinal, who thought (for some reason unknown to the Circle or men) the Incumbent would like to know. It’d started out as a thought, that one and two; the thought had settled on his heart like a weight.
He’d thought, even at noon, even in the afternoon, he wouldn’t. If she hadn’t sent for him first, it meant she wanted nothing to do with him.
Or, he’d thought, and he hadn’t been able to shake it – like silence was a challenge, like it dredged up every bit of the hurt she’d flung at him in the museum that Bethas –
It was going on half past the twenty-second hour, so the sun’d long sunk behind the walls of the buildings, wreathing the pathways that snaked through the gardens in shadow. It was a soft orange light shafting across Tsúri’uhem, making the stands cast long shadows. He came in under the colonnade in the dark, because he hadn’t been sure, even then, if he’d do it.
Between the benches, then, coming to stand opposite the lad, he’d seen her. It’d been awhile, long enough he’d nearly forgotten. He didn’t see her face, or her eyes, just a wild tangle of dark curls on her shoulders, and the new sound of monite in her sharp voice.
He’d stood quiet, tucked behind the stands and the columns, watching for a while; he knew a face like his’d draw eyes, and he thought – funny, he thought they ought to be on her right now, and he didn’t want to distract her, anyway.
Maybe it was fate – blasphemy though it was – a lass in the stands opposite saw him, her eyes widening, and tugged at the hem of her da’s shirt. He was wearing his long crimson wrap, the amel’iwe pulled up over his head; he settled it back on his shoulders, then, and came round, smiling sheepishly at Isú’fo’s juela as he took a tentative seat next to her.
They were two soft clairvoyant caprises. It was the grandam that leaned across to him, patting his shoulder with a knobbly hand. “What is her name?” she whispered, with a Mugrobi accent that wasn’t Thul Ka and wasn’t desert, one he couldn’t name.
He cleared his throat dryly, smiling tightly over at her. “Cerise,” he said, fair quiet.
“Sereez,” she repeated, nodding contemplatively, turning rheumy eyes back on the practice duel. She patted his shoulder and drew away. “My grandson Isú’fo knows much of victory.”
“Juela,” laughed the younger woman. “They’re on the same team.”
His smile faded to a frown of concentration; he turned to watch, his fingers curling slightly round the edges of the book.
