[Closed] (Memory )In the Garden of Arcane Delights (Nico)

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

A Garden at Brunnhold
The 60th day of Yaris, 2706, evening

T

he sardines had ceased to be appetizing an hour ago. They sat, neglected and congealing on the far side of a crust of bread pressed into service as a partition. While they had still been cold, their imperfections were less noticeable. Now, after they came to temperature, the sardines had seemed off. No, not off, listless. Overcooked, underspiced, and faintly sad. They could have done with more black pepper and fennel seed. But then, that was the case with most things. Especially here. Especially now.

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.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 60 Yaris, 2706
The Gardens, Brunnhold

Niccolette was not entirely sure what had happened to her shoes. The grass was soft beneath her toes, although the occasional dry patch pricked at her feet. Her skirt skimmed over ankles clad in ripped and dirty stockings, and whisked lightly against the ground.

She had not known, Niccolette thought, that being drunk was quite so fun. Of course she had drank since she was small, wine mostly, but rather recently she had learned that drinking some wine was not quite the same as being drunk. Tonight she was continuing her experimentation. Niccolette was not exactly sure what the first drink Bartholomieu had given her was, other than that it had been much too sweet; she had rather disliked it.

She had tried whiskey next, and Niccolette had much preferred that. She was not entirely sure how much she had drank; once she had said she liked it, Bartholomieu had kept bringing more, and there had been a number of toasts for the recent dueling club competition. Naturally, Niccolette had needed to partake, especially as she had won her division.

“Sixteen,” she could still hear Lisabette counting, distantly, for this round of the hunter and the maiden. They had played in the dormitories, and then one of the abandoned buildings, and now outside, now that it was dark enough. “Seventeen.”

“Go wait for me,” Bartholomieu had whispered. His hot breath had tickled her cheek; the smell was dreadful, Niccolette thought, like something rotten. He had been sweating; there were wet patches beneath his armpits, and she could smell that too, even outside.

And so, instead, Niccolette had ducked behind a bush, and set out wandering through the garden. She brushed her hands through flowers and spun in a circle, her pale green skirt flaring with the motion, her arms spread wide. She stumbled only once or twice, and kept at it. Before long she could not hear Lisabette’s count anymore; before long she was thoroughly, pleasantly lost.

The fish pond was a surprise, and Niccolette stumbled to a stop, looking around. She glanced down at the student having a picnic, then lifted her chin to survey the pond, glancing slowly from side to side.

“This is quite nice,” Niccolette pronounced. Her accent was thoroughly Bastian, unrepentantly, without the faintest trace of Anaxi tones. She enunciated surprisingly well, given how she was swaying.

There was a rustle in the bushes behind her. Niccolette glanced back over her shoulder.

“Nicco!” A soft voice whispered through the trees, faintly slurred.

Niccolette made a sulky little face down at the dark-haired student on his blanket, wrinkling her nose. There was a smear of color half-rubbed away on her lips, and a smudge of black eyeliner on her eyelids and, just slightly, her cheek. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, tousled, and her cheeks were flushed pink.

“Tell him you have not seen me,” Niccolette commanded, as if she had no doubt she would be obeyed. She pushed her hair back up off her face, and stumbled off into the trees, tucking the whole of her pale green skirt behind a nearby trunk, leaning her head against the bark.

Niccolette held there, her eyes closed, and dampened her field close to her skin. She could begin to feel the living mona hovering in the air around her. Someday, she thought, breathless, there would be enough to fill her entire field. Someday soon, she promised herself; the thought tingled through her.

“Nicco!” Bartholomieu stumbled into the clearing. He glanced around, frowning, and looked down at the student on the blanket. He was an Anaxi, perhaps a seventh form, a little taller than average, with a wispy attempt at a mustache and sweat stains beneath both armpits.

“Excuse me,” he swept a clumsy bow. “Have you seen a - another student? A girl. About -“ Bartholomieu frowned, and gestured with his hand, approximately. “Dark hair? Green dress?”

Behind the tree, Niccolette closed her eyes. She did not want him to find her; she could not think of anything she wanted less. It had not seemed such a bad idea, earlier; she had liked the way she had made him look at her. Now the thought of being alone with him scared her, although she did not know quite why; now she wanted very badly for him to go away.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

A Garden at Brunnhold
The 60th day of Yaris, 2706, evening

G

ardeners, as a species, were generally diurnal. So the sound of voices and the rustle of leaves was unlikely to be caused by such a creature. Just as well. Gardeners were notoriously territorial and in his current state of slightly cultivated melancholy, he could not bear to rise and go toe-to-toe with an ancient and gnarled old root wielding pruning shears.

He had known gardeners, several in fact, and always considered them faintly intimidating. The silent specter that haunted the rooftop garden his mother kept was like something out of a dark fairytale. She was a ghost, appearing and disappearing from among the climbing roses and potted cypress. Her mutterings were incantations that caused plants to grow and aphids to flee, and weeds to shrivel. Plants cowered before her baleful eye. So had small boys. At least his ten-year sojourn had spared him her society. Not that it freed him from gardeners. The twisted old creature that ruled the gardens of his Aunt and Uncle with a fist of iron was so ancient that he seemed to have transcended time or perhaps had taken to aging like a tree. In ages yet to come, when at last that wizened ancient could torment a hedge no more, Umberto hoped that the doctors would count his rings, to finally confirm what he had always suspected: that the man really was older than the hills. Older than dirt.

Whoever, or whatever it was that was stumbling through the foliage was proceeding in his general direction. Ineptly. Was there an ept way to traverse a garden? It probably involved a slow and stately progression, or wafting like a leaf from bosco to bosco, becoming charmingly lost. Love poetry, secret political meetings, and assassinations were likely to be featured. Of these, only the latter seemed at all likely what with all this hasty charging about. The sounds grew closer. He rose to his feet, if an exciting assassination was going to interrupt his quiet repast, he could at least enjoy it along with a little wine.

A rather large and mottled fish had taken up a position in the lee of the bottle, and as Umberto reached for the wine, the fish looked up with what he could only describe as disdain. “Sorry old thing, but it’s better for the both of us if I take the wine.” The fine Caspardia would have gone rather well with a nice grilled fish, but not this one. It was a carp, and he never could abide a carp.

He uncorked the wine, and strolled back to his repast. For a moment, with the crashing through the bushes growing closer, he considered simple drinking straight from the bottle. No, that would not be civilized, not genteel. He was, after all, supposed to be learning manners tonight. He had an old clay wine cup, the kind one saw in faded frescoes depicting the cheerful symposia and companionable debauchery of ancient Bastian philosophers. It might have even been one, once. He had lifted it from the antiques warehouse when last he was home. Uncle Gian had not written an angry letter about the missing cup, so I cannot have been too valuable. He poured the wine, shining golden in the fading light. The bouquet was aromatic: lime, jasmine flowers, beeswax. The taste tart and refreshing, a fleeting ghost of sweetness that vanished almost instantly. A perfect wine, and poured not a moment too soon.

Is the girl who first stumbled into the clearing, flitting across the grass in ruined stockings. That seemed inappropriate. Either she should have been wearing sensible shoes, or else should have gone barefoot like some sylvan sprite. He raised his cup to her, waggled a quick salute, and was surprised to be greeted not with one of the local dialects, but with the clear vowels and bright consonants of Florne. Before he could dust off his own repressed accent, she had flitted from the scene, leaving behind only orders to deny he had seen her. Clearly being pursued by assassins.

A moment later, one of these stumbled into the clearing. An unpleasant sort with an unpleasant wispy lip fungus that clearly showed his low character and lack of dash when it came to his nefarious work. Not a fellow to be encouraged. So he did not.

“A girl?” he replied to the ineptness standing, sweat stained before him. He opted for the accent of his youth. It seemed most apt. “Yes, went flitting through that way.” He pointed in entirely the wrong direction. “Seemed to be in a hurry too.” The insipidness nodded, puffed, took another bow, and crashed off through the unkempt bushes.

After the sound of his passage died away, he looked over at the girl, blending in rather well in the shadow between an azalea and a yew tree. “You can come out now. Your useless assassin has gone. No sense of professionalism.” He shook his head. “Dark days miss. Dark days.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 60 Yaris, 2706
The Gardens, Brunnhold

Niccolette peeked around the tree when the Bastian told her she could come out. She came half out from the shadows, glanced around, then emerged fully, stumbling a little as she made her way back over to him. Niccolette pushed her hair back off her face, finger-combing it over her shoulders, and giggled.

“You are quite funny,” she told him. Niccolette glanced around, looking down at the blanket spread out next to the pond, and plopped down on it without waiting for an invitation, settling herself in comfortably. She glanced up at the galdor who’d helped her, and blinked, tilting her head slightly to the side, as if wondering why he hasn’t also sitting. She gestured lightly to the blanket, casually offering him an invitation to sit at his own picnic.

Bartholomieu, an assassin! The thought was very funny. Niccolette really did not know much about assassins, but she thought of them as dark, sort of dangerous people, not sweaty boys with bad breath. Then again, he had said Bartholomieu was an incompetent assassin, and she thought perhaps that was close enough. Either way, she was very glad that he had gone; she was very glad that she had not had to send him away.

Niccolette settled herself in more comfortably, moving a plate off to the side. She tugged at a wrinkle in her skirt, and plucked a leaf from her hair when it itched at her head, tossing it lightly at the pond. It fluttered through the air, and landed far short.

This was, Niccolette thought, really a very nice pond. She did not feel like going back to the party; she did not wish to see Bartholomieu again, and all the rest seemed to bore her, suddenly. Anyway, she did not really know where they were; she hoped Lisabette would not find her here. She did rather like being the hunter instead of the maiden, but she was not in the mood for such childish games any more tonight.

With a little sigh, Niccolette set about dealing with her stockings. They were not doing much good anymore; the feet were stained and torn, and there was quite a bad run in one of them. Niccolette eased them off one by one, rolling each stocking down her calf beneath her skirt and leaving them balled up off the carpet, little rumpled collections of dirt and grass stained silk. Her feet were bare and pale in the evening light, peeking out from the edge of her skirt, ensconced comfortably between the green fabric and the blanket.

Important matters thus dealt with, Niccolette smoothed her skirt over her lap, and glanced back at her new companion. “I,” she announced, “am Niccolette Villamarzana,” she inclined her head to him in a gentle bow, and raised one eyebrow. It had taken some years of effort to perfect the maneuver, but after considerable practice in the mirror, Niccolette felt it looked very well indeed. Her accent was somehow even more Bastian on her name. It was, of course, rather improper to introduce oneself, but it was hardly as if Niccolette could have asked Bartholomieu to do it. “And you?”

She caprised the other Bastian curiously. Niccolette's field was surprisingly strong, for her age, and vibrant with living mona; there was a mix, naturally, as all students had before their sixth year, but hers was weighted heavily towards living conversation. She used it easily and naturally; it was indectal, with only the faintest sense of drunkenness to it.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

A Garden at Brunnhold
The 60th day of Yaris, 2706, evening

W

ell, this was forward. The girl had taken command of the picnic blanket as though it was, by some obscure right, hers. That could not be correct. Yet there she was, looking for all the world like she commanded the whole of the little space around the fishpond. Up until this moment, he had not known it was possible to trespass on one’s own dinner. A curious sensation, and one he did not plan upon enjoying. When the girl gestured for him to take a seat, he did it all the same, nonplussed.

There, on the nearer side of the artichokes, and with a proprietary hand draped over his wine bottle, he appraised the interloper. Younger than he, slight, disheveled, and more than a little tipsy. A typical specimen of the modern Brunnhold Student. Concerning any particulars, beyond her accent and general dissipated state, he would have to reserve judgement. No, that was not quite right. There were two things. She had not begun stealing his dinner with the same careless ease with which she commandeered the blanket, and she was polite enough to claim she found his remarks amusing.

“Thank you miss. We endeavor to provide a little levity. And if a little lightheartedness can be of use in shooing away sweaty idiots, well, so much the better. He seemed to be a rather humorless sort himself, or at least too focused to enjoy an evening of real mirth. The world could use more mirth. ” It was true, he supposed. Certainly it was in his case. When had he last had a true, uninhibited, unforced moment of joy? One long night last summer can sharply to mind. He and Sophie, Lem, Pocket Kate, Convivial Plum, and the brothers Gadgrinde had lingered long over mediocre wine spinning absurd theories out of nonsense, trying to solve all the world’s problems. They all had their pet issues: Plum’s and Kate’s inevitable desire for the abolition of all private property, his own personal desire for the dissolution of the monarchies and the democratizing of the publishing industry, and Lem’s insistence on the compulsory serving of asparagus at breakfast. They had crushed the soulless minions of orthodoxy that night, or rather outlined a set of proposals that would lead to schemes that would, in time, form the backbone of a manifesto that would, eventually, crush the soulless minions of orthodoxy. Shortly after that, they’d been thrown out of the wine bar after Kate maintained that, as a first step towards the glorious new order, she would show the way toward the abolition of property and magnanimously refused to pay the bill.

There should be more nights like that. There would likely be none, not for a year or more at least. There was too much work to do, too many pointless and weighty responsibilities. Positions to take, estates to manage (despite the evils of property, there always seemed to be an estate or two to manage), papers to write and slots in further education programs to try and take. The tipsy girl in the tattered stockings had not yet reached that point. She could still lounge about and make grandiose plans and feel, for a little while, like they might even come to fruition.

At some point, while he was musing, the girl had discarded her ruined stockings. That seemed more appropriate and somehow, more in character. What character? He still knew next to nothing about this self-assured interloper. He did not even know her name . . .Scratch that. She had just told him. That put him in the awkward position of having to provide his own name.

His name. He’d never been good with that. He had too many names, too many permutations. Edmund Bassington-Smythe? No, that did not quite fit, certainly not with his current accent. He was not that man today. He never would be. Umberto Galeazzo? It fit the accent but not the place, and that too felt wrong. Umberto Galeazzo lived only along the Flornese canals and in and among antiquities. Name after rejected name tumbled about like stone in a jeweler’s polishing drum. Most of them were worthless, ugly things that would be laughed at. Yet he had to come up with something. The girl, Niccolette was looking at him, awaiting an answer. "My name?" He paused, unhappy with any of his options. Just pick a name, damnit. It was not as though he’d have to use it again. “Umberto Bassington-Smythe.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 60 Yaris, 2706
The Gardens, Brunnhold

Mirth, Niccolette thought, was a rather funny way of putting it. She had giggled at the term sweaty idiots, comfortable on the picnic blanket now. What had been frightening before was steadily growing more amusing; the sharp tang of fear was gone, and with it the clarity that had briefly parted the clouds in her head.

Niccolette nodded firmly when the stranger asked if she wanted his name. She did not care in the least if it was improper or she had made him uncomfortable; she could scarcely call him the stranger or the other Bastian or the other student. That would be absurd. Niccolette understood that there were rules, of course, about such things. There were rules for greeting; there were rules for asking favors; there were rules for what you did after a favor was completed; there were rules for saying good bye. They were all generally pointless, unless for some reason you needed someone to know that you were a rule following sort of person. Niccolette understood the rules; she understood the why. Nonetheless they had always seemed to her rather pointless.

Sitting on the blanket, with her fears of Bartholomieu well-receded, Niccolette could clearly understand why: she did not wish to be a rule following sort of person. The thought scared her, so clearly put, but mostly because of how right it felt. Niccolette set it aside; she didn’t know what to make of it.

Niccolette nodded again when he gave her his name. Suitably Bastian, she felt, although Umberto was a bit short. Still, one could hardly be blamed for the mistakes of one’s parents. As a rule, Niccolette not particularly fond of Bastians - her darling cousin Gia excepted, obviously - but she had already decided she liked this odd, funny Umberto. She was very fond of Bastia, of course, other than the Bastians. Florne, naturally, was the greatest city in the world; Niccolette had always felt so and certainly seeing Brunnhold and Vienda had not changed her mind. She was rather fond of Tessalon, of course, but no one in all of Bastia would claim Tessalon was a better city than Florne.

For a few moments, Niccolette studied the pound and the scenery in silence. It was, she decided, really very nice. She had been at Brunnhold for nearly five whole years now, and she was almost positive she had never seen this pond before. Really, Brunnhold was not very large - not like Florne or Vienda - but Niccolette supposed it was large enough that one could find new places, even within the walls. The Stacks were rather interesting, but mostly at night. Niccolette felt the very idea of a curfew was absurd nonsense, but she had already gotten in trouble - just once or twice - while sneaking back onto campus, and so grudgingly she had had to concede that it was best to adventure within the walls, at least for the time being.

But, really, there was really only so much gazing at scenery that one could do, and so Niccolette turned her attention back to her new companion. “You are reading alone?” She asked, curiously. Her eyes went to the pile of books, and then back up to Umberto, and Niccolette’s head tilted curiously to the side.

“It does not,” Niccolette pronounced, delicately, a wicked little grin on her lips, “seem terribly mirthful.” Niccolette unbent her knees, and stretched her legs out on the blanket. She smoothed her skirt out again, bare feet sticking out from the hem of it, and wriggled her toes.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

A Garden at Brunnhold
The 60th day of Yaris, 2706, evening

A

lone. Well, that had been the intention but that was fast becoming a futile memory, fleeing too fast and too far. Now, per the sacred guest rite, he had to entertain the interloper with what propriety he could manage. There really was not escaping the instruction of manners today. Was this some sort of obscure punishment? Likely not. Far too easy to fall into that trap, seeing patterns and stories where none existed. Just another random occurrence upon a random evening by an unremarkable fish pond. It was both utterly common and utterly unlikely.

“Oh, the books?” He waved a languid hand toward them. “I find them genial companions. The Tapestry of Meaning and A Theory of Monic Semiotics might not appeal to everyone, but then neither do three-volume novels about heroines trying to decide which horrible man they should marry, while all the while servants are plotting murder, and the required ghost is putting in yeoman’s work doing the haunting.” There were a few good three-volume novels out there, and some perfectly serviceable romances, but they so often seemed both melodramatic and incredibly tedious. Why the ghosts hung around haunting these self-absorbed drips he could never discover.

“Besides,” he continued with an absent waggle of his wine cup, “I am working on my final paper before I graduate and can dash off home. And those are part of my research.” And reclaim his old name, boat about on the old canals, see the old sights, and smell the old smells. And try and get some proper sardines in oil. Then what? Drift aimlessly into the family business? That had been the plan, to haunt the antiquities warehouse for a time, then act as Uncle Gian’s agent with a specialty on books and ancient texts, but that no longer called to him in quite the same way. That had been the seed, but not the flowering. The books beside him, the books stuffed into every corner and crevice of his horrible little apartment, those were now his desires. The incantations, the magic.

He really aught to stay here, in Brunnhold. The scholars were of the right sort, one or two even wanted to keep him on as an assistant. It was the logical thing to do. Yet it was not what he wanted, what he needed. Perhaps some day it would be. But that day had not yet come.

Dammit but he wanted to go home.

His sudden and not quite welcome guest was Bastian. Would a few words with her, here by a pale imitation of a canal, with pale imitations of proper food stave off the gloom for a while? It might. It might not. Well, he’d might as well make the best of it, put on his best imitation of a gracious host. He would share some of the picnic. He hoped against hope that his impromptu guest preferred sardines to artichokes. He gestured to the board with its cheese, vegetables, olives, bits of bread, and the disappointing sardines.

“So - and do have a bite if you’re so inclined - your pursuer, who was that? Some tedious friend? Or something more sinister? I can tell you I’d not like to be chased about by him. I don’t trust either his eye or his moustache. But then again, I’m not much of one for a chase.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 60 Yaris, 2706
The Gardens, Brunnhold

Niccolette watched Umberto, curiously. She sat quite straight on the blanket, even with her legs stretched out, the habit of proper posture too deeply instilled to be broken - even barefoot, and more than a little tipsy. Niccolette made a little face at the titles of the books, although of course she had already known him for a quantitative conversationalist from his field.

It was not entirely his fault, Niccolette supposed. Like any good living conversationalist - she would be soon, Niccolette thought fiercely - Niccolette was aware of the value of a well-placed quantitative cast. But understanding for its own sake had always seemed to her to be rather missing the point.

“The men are all horrid,” Niccolette agreed, “in all those dreadful novels,” she wrinkled her nose even more, shaking her head. She had read her fair share, mostly borrowed unwittingly or in attempts at bribery from governesses, or else over the summer in Tessalon, because of course her parents kept all the interesting books in Florne. “They are either self-righteous and dreadfully overbearing, or else sycophantic fools who mistake being patronizing for encouragement.”

“The ladies are not much better,” Niccolette added, with a little disappointed sigh. “When they are allowed to have personalities at all.” She gazed off over the lake.

Niccolette glanced down at the spread on the blanket when Umberto gestured towards it, with every indication that she had not so much as noticed the food until now. There were sardines; Niccolette did not mind sardines, as a general rule, especially freshly caught in Tessalon and lightly cooked. These looked cold and congealed and altogether disappointing; even the smell was rather off-putting. There were other little oddments as well. Niccolette contemplated them; the artichokes alone looked appetizing, but she wasn’t really hungry. Out of some sense of charity - it was rather a sad spread - Niccolette took a single olive, and nibbled delicately at it, eating about half of it. She set the rest back down on the edge of the plate, and carefully wiped her hand clean.

She could not think of anything she would like to discuss less than Bartholomieu. He had been boring as a companion, and Niccolette felt he was quite insufficient to carry a conversation. She had thought that because dueling itself was never dull, that the members of dueling club would be similarly interesting. She was rather sorry to have been proved wrong.

“He,” Niccolette said distastefully, “is quite dull. Especially his limp mustache. I should rather discuss some more interesting topic.” Niccolette cast her gaze about, as if one might appear. She dismissed the books, and the sad anchovies, and even the lake, and fixed instead back on Umberto.

“You are from Florne?” Niccolette asked. “You have the accent, but this is not hard to have.” Naturally, Niccolette thought, any self-respecting Bastian would wish to be from Florne. She, of course, really was. “Where shall you go after graduation?”

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

A Garden at Brunnhold
The 60th day of Yaris, 2706, evening

F

or an instant he nearly dropped into the cannal-rat slang he’d learned from Canio and the other watermen and traders. Not quite Estuan, yet not quite Riverword, but more the latter than the former. Colorful, distinctive. She would have heard it called out along canals and it in markets off the narrow streets. It would have been better than an address, and probably better than a whole month of tedious genealogy. If she could understand it. Despite the bare feet, the smeared cosmetics, and the whole bar-full of drink sloshing about in her, she sat bolt upright; every inch a lady. That took years upon years of training. And ladies did not, generally speaking, converse with watermen and dubious canalside merchants.

“I cannot say I have found many decent three-volume novels. Not really my taste.” He looked over at his books. Those were to his taste, but they were not the only books he read. He did have a life beyond his studies, didn’t he? Well, not much of one. There never seemed to be enough time. It must be pleasant to have. Some year perhaps. “I tend to prefer the enigmatic, faintly surreal work coming out of Mugroba, Mehret Beheilu is particularly good. And, I suppose, I have to give the Anaxi credit for their mysteries.”

It was odd, now he thought on it, but for all his fondness for Bastia, no, for Florne, he did not often read much of the literature. Too many three-volume novels, probably. Still, that was a minor failing amid so many virtues.

“And if you do not wish,” he said, taking a languid drink of his wine, “to discuss that irritating insect, then I have no objections. A dull sort of fellow, as you rightly point out. Let him depart post-haste from this conversation.” He waved his free hand and flicked his long fingers as though dismissing a gnat or pernicious beetle. On to more congenial subjects.

“As it happens, yes, I am from Florne. I miss my city. Grew up boating on the canals, chasing pigeons from the squares, and getting all turned around in that curious set of streets and bridges down by the old arsenal. A magnificent spot.” How many hours had he spent climbing up the old buildings and armories, slipping into the narrow spaces at the edge of the now-flooded dry docks? Countless? He’d made a sort of bolt-hole there in a vine-covered niche, furnished with as best he could, and even spent days at a time in the place. No one seemed to miss him. Or they knew he’d be home when he was ready. Usually when he ran out of food and spare coins to use at the little bath house a few streets over. “Did you ever explore among those deserted buildings and alleys?” No, probably not. This was a proper young lady, for all her present decorative debauchery.

Villamarzana. It was a rather florid name.Had he heard that name before? Possibly, once, years ago. It likely had pride of place in some golden book or ledger bound in purple calfskin, listing the noble families of Bastia. He’d found a few of his own ancestors mentioned in such things, usually jumped up politicians or chancy merchants who financed some public event. Nothing ancient or noble, just popping in and out of the public scene, like puppets at a carnival performance. Still, he had nothing, well nothing much, to be ashamed of.

“Florne,” he shook his head and looked out toward the darkening eastern sky, as if his city might suddenly appear, low and labyrinthine on the horizon. It failed to do so. “That is where I will go, when I can shed these clothes of imprisoning green. Beyond that, I am not quite sure. Then, once I have repaired myself, off to Anastou. For all that I complain, I do enjoy the academic life.” He feared, and not for the first time, that he was talking altogether too much about himself. It was a topic he knew well, but it had to be tedious and of no real interest to anyone. Stop this at once. So he did.

“And you, Miss Villamarzana, Will you be going home after you can make your escape? Or is your view of this country less sour than my own?” Villamarzana? At lat he recognized He should have much earlier, idiot! But his mind had been on other things. Mostly upon disappointing sardines. “You are not the the Villamarzanas are you? The airship barons?”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 60 Yaris, 2706
The Gardens, Brunnhold

Niccolette shrugged. She did not really read novels, these days; she was not in the habit of it. She should rather read a grimoire or a textbook or a treatise; she should even rather study. “I have not read anything of Mugroba, I think, outside of coursework,” there had been some such works in these last few years, none that Niccolette particularly enjoyed. She found the Mugrobi work oddly foreign, strange and a little incomprehensible, with all their focus on honor and honesty.

Anaxi mysteries those – there were some such books, their bindings worn down, which floated regularly through the student halls, passed among books. Some mysteries, or at least Niccolette could recall a few, read by lantern light, salacious and forbidden. And, of course, other sorts of forbidden books, which filled in some of the gaps where these Anaxi knew so little. They were much more sensible about these sorts of things in Bastia; Niccolette knew all about it, and had become something of an instructor, for those girls with the courage to listen.

“No,” Niccolette said, but she did not sound dismayed or frightened by the thought. There was a spark of interest in her voice, glowing, genuine and warm, and she was leaning towards Umberto, bright-eyed. “I have been on the canals, naturally,” Niccolette said. Last summer she had explored, of course – even gone with a group to the tiger enclosure, and gotten lost amidst the trees and the wild growth. She had never thought to wander the buildings and alleys. She thought – Niccolette wished very much that she could. She was not sure, if alone – she was not sure. “It sounds lovely,” Niccolette added with a little sigh, almost longing.

Niccolette nodded idly when Umberto said he would return to Florne. It made sense, of course; who would not want to go to Florne? If not for the Flornians, Niccolette would have said much the same. She glanced down at the small, slightly dirty hands in her lap, her lips pressed lightly together. Anastou, she had visited only once or twice; she did not regret not having attended, not in the least.

At the phrase ‘the Villamarzanas,’ Niccolette’s gaze flicked back up. She made another little sour face, grimacing, and shrugged. She glanced away, then, off into the night, a tumble of long dark hair hiding her face like a curtain. The Villamarzanas. She hated the name; she wished it was a part of her which she could see, which she could touch, so that she might chop it off and hurl it into the lake. She would, Niccolette thought, suddenly; the thought burned through her, and she shivered, her hands tightening against her skirt. If she never heard it again – not once – she should be grateful. It had been a night of Nicco and Niccolette; and Villamarzana, when she heard it here, was robbed of all meaning – just a name, just syllables.

The Villmarzanas. It was just a name; it was just a name. It wasn't; it was like a brand, and tonight the sound of it burned against her skin. If only she could cut it out! Niccolette would; she had the strength. Such things did not bother her; she was not like the girls who whimpered and squeaked in their anatomy classes. She leaned forward, into such things; she watched and she learned and she never looked away. Whatever pain there was, she could bear it.

“I should prefer to stay in Anaxas,” Niccolette said, determinedly, still gazing off towards the darkened pond. “Vienda, perhaps,” Her voice trembled, and then steadied, and she turned back to Umberto, small face tightly set, eyes bright in the dim evening light. “Or else I shall go – I shall go far away. I shall go to Gior,” Niccolette lifted her chin a little higher, her back ramrod straight. “Or maybe even to Hox – to the forbidden forests of Naulanon – anywhere I wish.” Her hands were tight in her skirt, still, trembling. “Someday,” Niccolette said, like a promise.

Some of the fire drained out of her then, and she lowered her gaze back to the blanket, let it drift back to the lake. She pushed her hair back up off her face, and did not look at Umberto. “Not Florne,” Niccolette said, quietly. Something shuddered through her field, something between anger and determination; there was no colorshift in the evening air, and the feeling was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Not for me.”