for the Gallowglass Chair
Lenzen Ballroom
Administration Tower Three
University of Delgado
This is more tedious than receiving the guests at your sister's Festival Eve ball, the voice only he could hear commented.
It was fairly said, he allowed, bowing yet again, this time to a sandy-haired woman with trembling hands. As much as he might otherwise deplore her, even he acknowledged that his sister possessed impeccable taste.
The sleeves of the sandy haired woman's blue robe were innocent of braid, which marked her as junior faculty. Her name, which she offered in a trembling whisper, was “Irthyn Jonis, Comparative Mythology.”
“Scholar Jonis,” he murmured, and she smiled nervously, dipped her head and made an escape.
He straightened, one hand resting lightly on the head of his stick. A very good stick it was, black ironwood, collared in silver; the grip bound in leather, so that it would not easily escape inattentive fingers. Simple though it was, it signaled his status to others of the community, and was otherwise useful.
Do you think, asked the voice inside his head, that's everyone?
It might, he thought, glancing about him, very well be everyone. He hadn't counted, though he supposed someone might have. Dean Zorminsen was in deep conversation with First Director Verlin at some remove from the reviewing station where he and his auditor stood. Likewise, there were clumps of scholars all about, none seeming particularly interested in the new tenant of the prestigious—no, he was wrong.
Two junior scholars were coming toward him, arm in arm. Lovers, he thought, or at the least old and comfortable friends, one dark and rounded, the other angular, her hair a wispy, middling brown. They approached with firm steps, heads high, the dark-haired one allowing a pinch of cynicism to be seen, her friend openly curious.
Ah, said the voice inside his head.
The dark-haired scholar slipped her arm free and stepped forward first, showing him the palms opened like a book, which was the style here.
“Ella ben Suzan,” she said, in a fine, no-nonsense voice, “History of Education.”
He bowed the bow between equals.
“Scholar ben Suzan,” he murmured, committing name and face to memory.
She gave him a firm nod and stepped aside, tarrying a half-dozen steps out to await her friend.
“Kamele Waitley,” said the friend, bringing pale hands together to form the open book. “History of Education.”
Ella ben Suzan's voice had been fine, but to hear Kamele Waitley speak was to wish for her to speak again, perhaps to recite some poetry or—
“You are a singer, Scholar Waitley?” he asked.
Blue eyes widened, a flush stained her pale cheeks, and her shoulders stiffened beneath her robe. For an instant, he thought that he had overstepped the bounds of custom, but she recovered herself with a slight smile.
“I'm a member of a chorale,” she acknowledged. “Recreational only, of course. My studies are my life's work.”
“Certainly,” he said carefully, “study illuminates the lives of all scholars. Yet there must be room for recreation as well, and joy in those things which are not study. I myself find a certain pleasure in . . . outdoor pursuits.” The smile he offered was a mirror of her own.
“Outdoor?” She looked at him doubtfully. “Outside the Wall?”
He raised an eyebrow. “There is a whole planet outside the Wall,” he murmured. “Surely you were aware?”
Blue eyes sparkled, though her demeanor remained grave. “I've heard it said,” she replied. “But tell me—what manner of pleasure may be had outside of the Wall?”
“Why, all manner!” he declared, pleased with her. “Gardening, fishing, walking among the trees and growing things, watching the sun set, or the stars rise . . . ”
“Watching the sun set?” Another doubtful look. “That seems a very . . . fleeting pleasure.”
“I have heard it argued that the highest pleasures are ephemeral, and best enjoyed in retrospect,” he said, the voice inside his head crying out, Not so! “Though there are those of us who disagree.”
Kamele Waitley glanced to one side. Following her gaze, he saw that her friend had left them, moving away in the company of a tall, bluff scholar, the braid on his sleeve gleaming new, and felt a pang for her own loss of pleasure.
“Forgive me,” he began, but she shook quick fingers at him—a meaningless gesture, though for a split second he thought . . .
“I think we must have been the last faculty to introduce ourselves,” she said seriously. “Would you like a glass of the Dean's sherry?”
As it happened, he had previously had a glass of the Dean's sherry and found it execrable, though he could hardly say so—and besides, Kamele Waitley was still talking.
“I'd like to learn more about the pleasures of watching the sun set, if you'd be kind enough to teach me.”
