Late Morning, 20 Intas, 2710
The Gyre, Brunnhold
The Gyre, Brunnhold
Uzoji laughed. There was crisp snow on the ground; the red buildings were ringed with it, and all the trees had lost their leaves. It was cold, too; it was the sort of cold he had never experienced, and scarcely even imagined.
“Dueling club?” Uzoji grinned at Olope. “Is it such a spectator sport?”
“Of course,” Olope grinned back, bright eyes vivid against his dark face. “It’s very popular among these Anaxi. Come, my friend - just a few minutes.”
They talked as they walked, and laughed too.
“... the last family whose son I would have expected to take two years abroad,” Olope was saying as he held the door open.
“The man who knows his path will only find where the river splits,” Uzoji said, cheerfully.
Olope laughed, but his attention was already drawn away. It settled on a tall, red-headed student, a young man with a little scrape of a mustache over his upper lip, standing just behind one of the dueling circles. Uzoji watched, and understood, and did not bother to tame the broadening of his grin.
Olope turned back to him, lips parting, and caught the expression on the other man’s face. He grinned, sheepish, and clasped Uzoji’s shoulder. “You should watch,” he said, cheerful. “Perhaps you will learn something.”
Uzoji grinned too. He did not linger, but wandered, curious, through the hall. He let the flow of Anaxi-accented Estuan wash over him, oddly harsh. Here or there, he marked an unfamiliar word or phrase. Glowing circles lined the floor, unfamiliar runes marking them. To contain backlash, Uzoji supposed. It was less of an if, and more of a when, with so many students casting so close together.
It was, he had to admit, something of a spectacle. He had not thought Olope would lie, not even after so many years here in Anaxas, but then, he knew the other man’s taste to diverge somewhat from his own. He stopped and watched a delicate sound spell woven, and grimaced in sympathy when it flickered out at the last moment, the mona hanging limp in the air around the shaking student. A nearby static spell left the air burning hot, and the student it had been homed upon shivering in clothing that suddenly dripped with icicles. Students and faculty with clipboards and stopwatches stood at the edge of each circle, counting and calling out. The victor of one match shrieked, leaping up and down, red braid bouncing against her back.
There was an abrupt chorus of raised voices from not too distant. Uzoji went, curious. A girl with long, dark hair lay sprawled back half-out of a circle, mud splattered over once crisp green skirts, trembling faintly. Her opponent was breathing hard, blood crusting one nostril.
The student referee jerked, and began to count, gaze fixed on the stopwatch.
The girl’s voice emerged from a tangle of dark hair, flawlessly enunciated monite already filling the space around them. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, casting through it, and then up to her feet. Her uniform was splattered with mud, and her face too; her chin was raised, and sharp green eyes glittered in the light. She shoved her hand through her hair, lifting it up and pushing it back over her forehead, and never took her eyes from her opponent.
He jerked; his jaw clamped shut.
The dark-hair girl smiled then. Uzoji felt it - they all felt it - a flex that pulsed out from her field and swamped over him. The girl held - she held - blood trickled in a slow stream from her nose, and still she held. Uzoji found his hands had tucked into fists at his side; he found himself watching her, and not knowing what he waited for.
“Match!” The referee cried abruptly. “To Miss Villamarzana.”
There was a burst of loud chatter from the crowd then, scattered applause and conversation. The girl - Villamarzana, Uzoji told himself - swept them all with a disdainful gaze.
A redhead with tight ringlets of hair rushed forward. “Nicco!” She said. “Are you all right? Your nose -“
The girl shrugged. “Well worth it.” She leaned forward, slightly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Here,” Uzoji said, suddenly. He stepped forward through the thinning crowd, and took out a handkerchief, offering it to the girl with a bow and a smile.
She glanced at him, took it and turned half away, back to her friend, pressing it to her nose.
“Well done,” Uzoji said, simply. “Forgive my lack of manners. I am Uzoji pez Okorie.”
“Niccolette Villamarzana,” the girl said, one eyebrow lifting. There was a heavy Bastian accent to her voice.
“Francoise Deschamps,” the Anaxi added, wide-eyed.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Uzoji said. He smiled, and the Anaxi - Francoise, he told himself, fixing the unfamiliar name in his mind - giggled.
“Is it Niccolette or Nicco?” Uzoji asked, looking at her.
The Bastian raised both eyebrows this time. She was an inch shorter than him, and a good deal slighter; she was splattered with mud, and there was a bit dripping from the edges of her hair onto the skirt of her uniform. Her upper lip was still smeared with blood. She looked at him down the little stub of her nose, thoroughly disdainful. Uzoji was fairly sure he had never seen anyone more beautiful.
“It is Nicco only to my friends,” The Bastian said, coolly. Her gaze flickered over him again, and she made a little face, as if what she saw did not impress her.
Uzoji grinned. “Can I at least get you something?” He asked. “Water? Tea?"
“I am rather busy,” Niccolette said. She eased the bloody handkerchief away from her nose, looking down at it, and then back at him. “Perhaps some other time.” She said, with the faintest shrug of her shoulders.
“Perhaps,” Uzoji agreed. He grinned at her again, and turned and walked off. He was almost positive that he could feel her gaze lingering against his back. There was a burst of giggles and frantic whispering, but he was sure it was Francoise who was the source of it.
“Should’ve learned after all,” Olope said cheerfully, standing not far off.
Uzoji grinned. “Come on, adame, let’s eat! I’m hungry enough for even this Anaxi food.” He clasped the other man’s arm with his hand, and walked off. He did not look back; he never did.
“Dueling club?” Uzoji grinned at Olope. “Is it such a spectator sport?”
“Of course,” Olope grinned back, bright eyes vivid against his dark face. “It’s very popular among these Anaxi. Come, my friend - just a few minutes.”
They talked as they walked, and laughed too.
“... the last family whose son I would have expected to take two years abroad,” Olope was saying as he held the door open.
“The man who knows his path will only find where the river splits,” Uzoji said, cheerfully.
Olope laughed, but his attention was already drawn away. It settled on a tall, red-headed student, a young man with a little scrape of a mustache over his upper lip, standing just behind one of the dueling circles. Uzoji watched, and understood, and did not bother to tame the broadening of his grin.
Olope turned back to him, lips parting, and caught the expression on the other man’s face. He grinned, sheepish, and clasped Uzoji’s shoulder. “You should watch,” he said, cheerful. “Perhaps you will learn something.”
Uzoji grinned too. He did not linger, but wandered, curious, through the hall. He let the flow of Anaxi-accented Estuan wash over him, oddly harsh. Here or there, he marked an unfamiliar word or phrase. Glowing circles lined the floor, unfamiliar runes marking them. To contain backlash, Uzoji supposed. It was less of an if, and more of a when, with so many students casting so close together.
It was, he had to admit, something of a spectacle. He had not thought Olope would lie, not even after so many years here in Anaxas, but then, he knew the other man’s taste to diverge somewhat from his own. He stopped and watched a delicate sound spell woven, and grimaced in sympathy when it flickered out at the last moment, the mona hanging limp in the air around the shaking student. A nearby static spell left the air burning hot, and the student it had been homed upon shivering in clothing that suddenly dripped with icicles. Students and faculty with clipboards and stopwatches stood at the edge of each circle, counting and calling out. The victor of one match shrieked, leaping up and down, red braid bouncing against her back.
There was an abrupt chorus of raised voices from not too distant. Uzoji went, curious. A girl with long, dark hair lay sprawled back half-out of a circle, mud splattered over once crisp green skirts, trembling faintly. Her opponent was breathing hard, blood crusting one nostril.
The student referee jerked, and began to count, gaze fixed on the stopwatch.
The girl’s voice emerged from a tangle of dark hair, flawlessly enunciated monite already filling the space around them. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, casting through it, and then up to her feet. Her uniform was splattered with mud, and her face too; her chin was raised, and sharp green eyes glittered in the light. She shoved her hand through her hair, lifting it up and pushing it back over her forehead, and never took her eyes from her opponent.
He jerked; his jaw clamped shut.
The dark-hair girl smiled then. Uzoji felt it - they all felt it - a flex that pulsed out from her field and swamped over him. The girl held - she held - blood trickled in a slow stream from her nose, and still she held. Uzoji found his hands had tucked into fists at his side; he found himself watching her, and not knowing what he waited for.
“Match!” The referee cried abruptly. “To Miss Villamarzana.”
There was a burst of loud chatter from the crowd then, scattered applause and conversation. The girl - Villamarzana, Uzoji told himself - swept them all with a disdainful gaze.
A redhead with tight ringlets of hair rushed forward. “Nicco!” She said. “Are you all right? Your nose -“
The girl shrugged. “Well worth it.” She leaned forward, slightly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Here,” Uzoji said, suddenly. He stepped forward through the thinning crowd, and took out a handkerchief, offering it to the girl with a bow and a smile.
She glanced at him, took it and turned half away, back to her friend, pressing it to her nose.
“Well done,” Uzoji said, simply. “Forgive my lack of manners. I am Uzoji pez Okorie.”
“Niccolette Villamarzana,” the girl said, one eyebrow lifting. There was a heavy Bastian accent to her voice.
“Francoise Deschamps,” the Anaxi added, wide-eyed.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Uzoji said. He smiled, and the Anaxi - Francoise, he told himself, fixing the unfamiliar name in his mind - giggled.
“Is it Niccolette or Nicco?” Uzoji asked, looking at her.
The Bastian raised both eyebrows this time. She was an inch shorter than him, and a good deal slighter; she was splattered with mud, and there was a bit dripping from the edges of her hair onto the skirt of her uniform. Her upper lip was still smeared with blood. She looked at him down the little stub of her nose, thoroughly disdainful. Uzoji was fairly sure he had never seen anyone more beautiful.
“It is Nicco only to my friends,” The Bastian said, coolly. Her gaze flickered over him again, and she made a little face, as if what she saw did not impress her.
Uzoji grinned. “Can I at least get you something?” He asked. “Water? Tea?"
“I am rather busy,” Niccolette said. She eased the bloody handkerchief away from her nose, looking down at it, and then back at him. “Perhaps some other time.” She said, with the faintest shrug of her shoulders.
“Perhaps,” Uzoji agreed. He grinned at her again, and turned and walked off. He was almost positive that he could feel her gaze lingering against his back. There was a burst of giggles and frantic whispering, but he was sure it was Francoise who was the source of it.
“Should’ve learned after all,” Olope said cheerfully, standing not far off.
Uzoji grinned. “Come on, adame, let’s eat! I’m hungry enough for even this Anaxi food.” He clasped the other man’s arm with his hand, and walked off. He did not look back; he never did.
