Brunnhold - Umberto's Office
The Ninth of Bethas, 2720, the forenoon
The Ninth of Bethas, 2720, the forenoon
M
uddle through the translations. It was better than nothing. In point of fact, it was the best that could be hoped for in this degenerate age. No one made learning the several dialects of Old Estuan a central part of the curriculum anymore. Granted, they had not in his day either, and that was not so long ago. He could muddle through it all as well, could even enjoy the old literature after a fashion. The poetry was excellent, the narratives full of horrible, flat characters, insipid decorative ladies, and romance that managed to be both lurid and tedious. Scholarly works and treatises were at least meant to be dry and tedious.
“I am sure you can muddle along just fine.” He flashed what he hoped was an approving smile. It was the right answer, or near enough. And she probably could muddle through it too. “May I suggest that you read the works out loud, if you can? I found it useful in comprehension. The odd spellings and archaic order seemed less intimidating when I made the sounds. Less alien.” Alien enough though. Even the grammar was different, the words fused together and an obscure syntax. Modal inflection by means of free word order was one of the more irritating aspects. Along with the aspectual system itself. “And another thing. Some of the works likely contain dueling practices and even descriptions of spells that are no longer used. Making use of them might convey some advantage. Confuse your opponent at the least.”
It was clear enough that Miss Knives needed to see practical advantage in her studies. Not a scholar then. Neither was she a slouch. There was a mind behind those dismissive eyes. That, at least, was all to the good. There was drive there too, passion, and that he could admire. Did it match his own? It’s direction was orthogonal to be sure. And it was empirical, pragmatical. Well, that was what the The Proceedings of the Consortium for Monic Studies demanded. And here it was in the prickly flesh.
Clocks, but he hoped it was so.
“The seventeenth hour, yes. I leave the initial program to you. I need to see you cast in ways that are most comfortable and familiar to you.” It would be most instructive. “And I believe that is all I have for you at the moment. I’ll pull what few strings I have to free you of your professors. That should free up your schedule. We can work out a new one, favorable to us both, afterwards. Do the work Miss Vauquelin, provide the data, and the rest of the time is your own.” Office hours would have to be arranged of course. Periodic sessions and discussions. Those could occur when necessary, and wherever necessary. The Cafe Frobisher for example. Much better atmosphere, especially on the ivy-strangled patio. Fresher air was conducive to fresher thoughts. “I thank you for your willingness to participate in the work. Take the rest of the day off if you want. By all means. I’ll handle the irritating academics.”
“I am sure you can muddle along just fine.” He flashed what he hoped was an approving smile. It was the right answer, or near enough. And she probably could muddle through it too. “May I suggest that you read the works out loud, if you can? I found it useful in comprehension. The odd spellings and archaic order seemed less intimidating when I made the sounds. Less alien.” Alien enough though. Even the grammar was different, the words fused together and an obscure syntax. Modal inflection by means of free word order was one of the more irritating aspects. Along with the aspectual system itself. “And another thing. Some of the works likely contain dueling practices and even descriptions of spells that are no longer used. Making use of them might convey some advantage. Confuse your opponent at the least.”
It was clear enough that Miss Knives needed to see practical advantage in her studies. Not a scholar then. Neither was she a slouch. There was a mind behind those dismissive eyes. That, at least, was all to the good. There was drive there too, passion, and that he could admire. Did it match his own? It’s direction was orthogonal to be sure. And it was empirical, pragmatical. Well, that was what the The Proceedings of the Consortium for Monic Studies demanded. And here it was in the prickly flesh.
Clocks, but he hoped it was so.
“The seventeenth hour, yes. I leave the initial program to you. I need to see you cast in ways that are most comfortable and familiar to you.” It would be most instructive. “And I believe that is all I have for you at the moment. I’ll pull what few strings I have to free you of your professors. That should free up your schedule. We can work out a new one, favorable to us both, afterwards. Do the work Miss Vauquelin, provide the data, and the rest of the time is your own.” Office hours would have to be arranged of course. Periodic sessions and discussions. Those could occur when necessary, and wherever necessary. The Cafe Frobisher for example. Much better atmosphere, especially on the ivy-strangled patio. Fresher air was conducive to fresher thoughts. “I thank you for your willingness to participate in the work. Take the rest of the day off if you want. By all means. I’ll handle the irritating academics.”
