The Museum of Antiquities • Two Falls
Afternoon on the 4th of Bethas, 2720
T
he best time to visit, really,” Burbridge went on, “is during the Gala.”
“This is Yaris, I believe?” asked dzehúh Owo’dziziq, in his softly-enunciated Estuan.
“The first ten days.” Burbridge paused to take another sip of champagne. Then, eager: “This year’s was truly something to witness, Councillor, truly; those Bastians outdid themselves, this time. I happened to be on the train as it went from Vienda to Brunnhold. Great, chugging thing, with such sounds and smells – Anatole, you were there, weren’t you?”
“I’m afraid I stayed in the capital for the Gala, this year and last.” He smiled, inclining his head apologetically to both men. “Poor health.”
Owo’dziziq’s brows drew together. “Indeed,” he replied, turning away from Burbridge, taking one of Anatole’s hands in both of his and pressing it. “I was sorry to hear of it.”
He didn’t shift or pull his hand away; nothing changed in his smile. Instead, he laid his other hand atop the Mugrobi’s and inclined his head and shoulders over it.
The Bull Elephant councillor was dressed in white, a luminous contrast to all the evening’s dark dinner suits, black satin lapels and starched white collars. He wore his amel’iweLight scarf in Mugrobi men’s public/professional-wear draped comfortably about his shoulders, gold trim – embroidered in the complex, interlocking swirls of Hulali’s wave – glinting in the soft phosphor light. He had a round, delicate-featured face with a smile that brought troubled crow’s feet to the edges of his eyes. What could be seen of his hair underneath his white cap was marbled grey.
His was the only Thul Ka suit here tonight; two other Mugrobi officials were in attendance, one wearing an Anaxi dinner jacket and the other, a Crocus representative, in a long, high-collared red dress.
“A shame,” Incumbent Burbridge went on, shaking his head. “Really a shame. But we’ll have those things all over, before you know it; they’ll be laying down tracks for them…”
The jolly dagka’s voice drew on. He took long drink of champagne, looking askance to where a redhead in robin’s-egg blue was bringing in another tray of aperitifs. The crimp stepped carefully round a plinth with a black-lacquered amphora, bright red underneath his freckles.
The long central hall of the Museum of Antiquities was swarming this afternoon. Secular politicians and Brunnhold representatives – at least, those important enough not to be teaching classes right now – mingled, drifting past gleaming display cases full of painted pots and dishes. The vaulted ceiling echoed with laughter and chatter; a string quartet slithered a delicate melody out over the bobbing, drifting heads, over the wafting smells of perfume and polish and wine.
Out the great double-doors, the street was grey and slick with rain; rain battered the high thin windows, pattered on the roof, hissed under the wheels of passing carriages. Corridors leading off to other exhibits were ribboned off today, and a banner spread itself proudly across the wall at one end of the hall: Bastian Earthenware During the Ambrosetti Years, 1940—2200: Grand Opening.
He thought there was still something of the musty museum smell about the hall, but then, he’d never much cared for the stuff ancient folk ate their yats off of; there was an imbali mask exhibit in the east wing, but he’d never had a chance to go and look. Today, it was less about the pots and pans and more about who showed up, and there was a conspicuous absence of Mugrobi visitors.
The councillor had wandered off to rub elbows with the museum director, who was chattering on pleasantly a few plinths distant, where a gold phosphor lamp glinted on a dark red jug in the shape of a cat.
“I shall never get used to these Mugrobi. Why, the way he took your hand.” Burbridge finished another glass, a frown on his plump, lined face, and shrugged his shoulders.
He wasn’t halfway through his first glass of champagne; there wasn’t much point, what with the dinner with the chairs this evening in Long Hall. “You’d best get used to it, Alexander,” he said, with a thin smile. “In a month, all of us will be settling in in Thul Ka.”
Burbridge frowned. “The period of grace for resignation is not yet over; I am thinking of taking my chance, I’m afraid. I had thought you yourself – I mean to say – with all the… Well, last year, we all simply thought.”
“There was a great deal,” he said, still smiling, “of uncertainty.”
Burbridge had turned slightly and was looking at something over his shoulder, toward the rain-washed doors. “Anatole,” he said, “I swear, if that isn’t…”
“Hm?”
“Your, ah… well – I say.”
Raising an eyebrow, he shifted to glance over his shoulder – then froze. Slowly, he turned. The thin smile didn’t move an inch, but his eyes widened.
he best time to visit, really,” Burbridge went on, “is during the Gala.”
“This is Yaris, I believe?” asked dzehúh Owo’dziziq, in his softly-enunciated Estuan.
“The first ten days.” Burbridge paused to take another sip of champagne. Then, eager: “This year’s was truly something to witness, Councillor, truly; those Bastians outdid themselves, this time. I happened to be on the train as it went from Vienda to Brunnhold. Great, chugging thing, with such sounds and smells – Anatole, you were there, weren’t you?”
“I’m afraid I stayed in the capital for the Gala, this year and last.” He smiled, inclining his head apologetically to both men. “Poor health.”
Owo’dziziq’s brows drew together. “Indeed,” he replied, turning away from Burbridge, taking one of Anatole’s hands in both of his and pressing it. “I was sorry to hear of it.”
He didn’t shift or pull his hand away; nothing changed in his smile. Instead, he laid his other hand atop the Mugrobi’s and inclined his head and shoulders over it.
The Bull Elephant councillor was dressed in white, a luminous contrast to all the evening’s dark dinner suits, black satin lapels and starched white collars. He wore his amel’iweLight scarf in Mugrobi men’s public/professional-wear draped comfortably about his shoulders, gold trim – embroidered in the complex, interlocking swirls of Hulali’s wave – glinting in the soft phosphor light. He had a round, delicate-featured face with a smile that brought troubled crow’s feet to the edges of his eyes. What could be seen of his hair underneath his white cap was marbled grey.
His was the only Thul Ka suit here tonight; two other Mugrobi officials were in attendance, one wearing an Anaxi dinner jacket and the other, a Crocus representative, in a long, high-collared red dress.
“A shame,” Incumbent Burbridge went on, shaking his head. “Really a shame. But we’ll have those things all over, before you know it; they’ll be laying down tracks for them…”
The jolly dagka’s voice drew on. He took long drink of champagne, looking askance to where a redhead in robin’s-egg blue was bringing in another tray of aperitifs. The crimp stepped carefully round a plinth with a black-lacquered amphora, bright red underneath his freckles.
The long central hall of the Museum of Antiquities was swarming this afternoon. Secular politicians and Brunnhold representatives – at least, those important enough not to be teaching classes right now – mingled, drifting past gleaming display cases full of painted pots and dishes. The vaulted ceiling echoed with laughter and chatter; a string quartet slithered a delicate melody out over the bobbing, drifting heads, over the wafting smells of perfume and polish and wine.
Out the great double-doors, the street was grey and slick with rain; rain battered the high thin windows, pattered on the roof, hissed under the wheels of passing carriages. Corridors leading off to other exhibits were ribboned off today, and a banner spread itself proudly across the wall at one end of the hall: Bastian Earthenware During the Ambrosetti Years, 1940—2200: Grand Opening.
He thought there was still something of the musty museum smell about the hall, but then, he’d never much cared for the stuff ancient folk ate their yats off of; there was an imbali mask exhibit in the east wing, but he’d never had a chance to go and look. Today, it was less about the pots and pans and more about who showed up, and there was a conspicuous absence of Mugrobi visitors.
The councillor had wandered off to rub elbows with the museum director, who was chattering on pleasantly a few plinths distant, where a gold phosphor lamp glinted on a dark red jug in the shape of a cat.
“I shall never get used to these Mugrobi. Why, the way he took your hand.” Burbridge finished another glass, a frown on his plump, lined face, and shrugged his shoulders.
He wasn’t halfway through his first glass of champagne; there wasn’t much point, what with the dinner with the chairs this evening in Long Hall. “You’d best get used to it, Alexander,” he said, with a thin smile. “In a month, all of us will be settling in in Thul Ka.”
Burbridge frowned. “The period of grace for resignation is not yet over; I am thinking of taking my chance, I’m afraid. I had thought you yourself – I mean to say – with all the… Well, last year, we all simply thought.”
“There was a great deal,” he said, still smiling, “of uncertainty.”
Burbridge had turned slightly and was looking at something over his shoulder, toward the rain-washed doors. “Anatole,” he said, “I swear, if that isn’t…”
“Hm?”
“Your, ah… well – I say.”
Raising an eyebrow, he shifted to glance over his shoulder – then froze. Slowly, he turned. The thin smile didn’t move an inch, but his eyes widened.
