“In Commons we visit and have games and do our work, and have winter festivals of drama and poetry writing and things of that sort. We go visit the animals in the barns. We have an orchestra. People sing and dance and train animals to do tricks. We have a winter university where most of us learn things we would never learn if it weren’t for winter. Sometimes we bring professors in from Semling for the cold season. We’re better educated than the bons, you’ll find, though we don’t let them know that. There are so many tunnels and storage rooms and meeting rooms under Commons it is like living over a sponge. We come and go, here to there, without ever looking at the outside where the wind cuts to the bone and the cold mist hangs over everything, hiding the ice ghosts.”
“But the bons stay on their estancias?”
“Out on the estancias they don’t have our resources, so they pass the time less profitably. In the town we have some thousands of people to draw upon, more in the winter than are living there now. When winter comes, the villages empty themselves into Commons. The port remains open year round so there’s visitors even during the cold time. The hotel has winter quarters, too, with tunnels to the port. On an estancia there may be only a hundred people, a hundred and a half maybe. On an estancia everyone grows very tired of everyone else.”
There was silence for a moment, then she said tentatively, “Have you any charities on Grass?”
“Charities, ma’am?”
“Good works. Helping people.” She shrugged, using the phrase Rigo often used. “Widows and orphans?”
He shook his head at her. “Well there’s widows, right enough, and occasional an orphan, I suppose, though why they should need charity is beyond me. We commoners take care of our own, but that’s not charity, it’s just good sense. Is it something you did a lot of, back where you came from?”
She nodded soberly. Oh, yes, she had done a lot of it. But no one had thought it important enough to take her place. “I think there’ll be a lot of empty time,” she said in explanation. “The winters sound very long.”
“Oh, they are long. The aristos have a saying in Grassan:
“Yes, we would probably say marriages,” she agreed somberly. “How did you learn to speak diplomatic?”
“We all speak it. Everyone in Commons does. The port’s very busy. Shipments in, shipments out. We’ve got more brokers in Commons than you’d suspect. We order things from off-planet. We sell things. We need to send messages. We speak diplomatic and trade lingua and Sembla and half a dozen other languages, too. Grassan is very ponderous and uncertain. It’s a language invented by the aristocrats. Like a private code, I will teach it to you, but don’t expect it to make sense.”
“I promise I won’t. Do you make your living teaching Grassan?”
“Oh, by the marvelous migerers of the Hippae, no, Lady. Who would there be to teach it to? Everyone here knows it and who else cares? Hime Pollut the woodcarver is a friend to craftsmaster Roald Few, and I am Pollut the woodcarver’s son, and he is making use of me during a slack season, that’s all.”
She could not hold back her laugh. “You
His eyes went soft and dreamy. “Well, more that than anything else, since I haven’t made my fortune yet.” He paused, then sat up, bringing himself to attention. “Though I will. There’s money to be made in Semling silks, take my word on it. But I will make some panels for your study, Lady, since we must have some reason for my being here if the Grassians are not to know that you are learning their language.” Besides, since he had seen her, he had wanted to do something for her. Something quite surpassing.
“What shall I do when Obermun bon Haunser recommends a secretary for me?”
Persun nodded in thought. “Tell him you will consider it. Outside of Commons no one moves very quickly on Grass. So I have heard from a few people coming from off-planet who have to deal with the aristos. They get very impatient. So, let the Obermun wait. He will not be annoyed.”
She reported all this to Rigo and sent the suggested reply in response to the Obermun’s recommendation of a certain Admit Maukerden when, eventually, that recommendation arrived.
With one thing and another, several days passed before Marjorie had time to ride. Anthony and Rigo had gone out several times, and even Stella had been unwillingly forced into exercise duty. The day after the craftsmen departed, Marjorie went out with the men of the family. The morning was bright, clear, and warm, and she found herself wishing Stella would join them, though the girl had refused their invitation with a certain hauteur. Stella rode brilliantly, but she had made it clear that she would not enjoy riding on Grass, that she would not enjoy anything on Grass. Stella had left friends behind, one friend in particular. Marjorie had not been sorry. Perhaps Stella’s ostentatious lack of enjoyment was to punish Marjorie for not caring, but Marjorie could not, knowing what she knew and Stella did not. The best she could do was wish that Stella were with them as they walked down the winding path to the newly built stables.
The stable hands had done what they had been told to do: They had cut grass of certain types and filled mangers with it, mucked out the newly built stalls, and provided locally grown grain of three or four types in small quantities in order to observe which were eaten. They watched as the Terrans saddled three of the horses, asking questions in trade lingua without embarrassment or shyness. “What is that for?” “Why are you doing that?”
“Don’t the bons ride?” asked Tony. “Haven’t you seen a saddle before?”
Silence fell while the two men and one woman looked at one another. It was evidently not a topic they felt comfortable discussing. Finally the woman said, almost in a whisper, “The Hippae would not… would not allow a saddle. The riders wear padding instead.”
Well, well, well, said Marjorie to herself. Isn’t that something. She caught Tony’s eye and shook her head slightly just as her son was about to say something like, since when did a horse decide what it would allow.
“Our horses find the saddle more comfortable than they would our bony bottoms,” she said evenly. “Perhaps the Hippae are constructed differently.”
This seemed to smooth things over, and the hands went back to their questions. Marjorie noted which questions were most intelligent and which questioners most understanding.
“It is hard to cut the bluegrass,” one of them said. “But the horses like it best.”
“What are you using to cut it?” she asked. They showed her a sickle of inferior steel. “I’ll give you better tools.” She unlocked a tack box and gave them laser knives. “Be careful.” she said, showing them how they were used. “You can lose an arm or a leg with these. Be sure no one is in the way of the blade.”
She watched them experimenting with the knives, cutting armfuls of grass with single strokes, exclaiming in surprise and pleasure and giving her grateful looks. She would need a stud groom, and of necessity he would have to be drawn from among the villagers. Already these people were patting and stroking the horses much more than was absolutely necessary.
Sanctity had allowed them to bring only six animals. Considering how long their stay might be, they had chosen to bring breeding stock. Marjorie had volunteered to leave her favorite mount, the bay gelding Reliant, behind. Instead, she rode El Dia Octavo, a Barb stallion trained by a former Lippizaner rider. Rigo was mounted on Don Quixote, an Arabian. Tony was riding Millefiori, one of the thoroughbred mares. Three of the mares were thoroughbreds and one, Irish Lass, was a draft animal, brought along for size If they were stuck on this planet for a full Grassian year or more, at least they would have the amusement of building their own stud.
Tony led them along a low fold of ground which took them some half a mile toward a natural arena he had been using to exercise the horses, a level place of low, amber grass, almost circular in shape. Once there, they fell into the ritual of exercise, walk, trot, collected canter, trot, walk again, first in one direction then in the other, extending the trot, the canter, then stopping to dismount and examine the horses.
“Not even breathing hard,” said Rigo. “They’ve been getting better every day.” He sounded enthusiastic, and Marjorie knew that he was scheming. Rigo was always happiest when he had some kind of covert activity going on. What would it be? Something to astonish the natives? He went on bubbling about the horses. “Remarkable how quickly they’ve recovered.”
“Like us,” Marjorie offered. “A day or two feeling miserable and then we felt like ourselves. They haven’t lost their muscle tone. Let’s do a few minutes more and then walk them back. We’ll do more tomorrow.”
She mounted, again falling into the familiar rhythm. Half pass, tight circle, half pass again.
Something at the ridge line caught her eye, a darker shadow in the glare of spring sun. She looked up,
