He turned his head and continued, “anyway, he gave me those Llodran vhariars to help. Sa’tuir, Sa’nuum, and Sa’taba. I don’t even know what to call them; they only use single names. It’s awkward.”
“Now I feel discriminated against,” I joked lamely. “I had to take a middle name when I applied to work for Mespana. I accidentally got it after my father because, at the time, no one in our colony understood the Dahlsian naming system.”
To be fair, it was a bit convoluted. People inherited surnames—which they almost never used—after the parent of their own sex and their middle names from the first syllable of the first name of the parent of the opposite sex. So, sons had the surnames of their fathers, and their middle names derived from their mothers’ first names. I guess for a culture with no concept of marriage, that was the only way to denote both parents. It always seemed pointlessly complicated to me, and when I joined in, I was encouraging people to call me Aldait—I had no hope for Aldeaith—but no one did. So, I gave up.
“Why don’t you change it?” he asked, sounding serious.
“I dunno. I just don’t care enough.”
“Names are important, Aldait Han,” he stated with sudden gravity. “They tell us who we are and where we came from.”
“Aldeaith,” I smiled. “That’s my name.”
* * *
I only got a few minutes of peace before another voice reached me.
“You’re making friends.”
I turned around to see Malyn Tol standing a few paces behind me, her hands clasped in the same way mine were when I tried to stop myself from fidgeting. She must have been watching me talk with Tayrel Kan, and I wondered why she hadn’t come out.
“Be careful with him,” she said finally, and I blinked, suddenly realizing I was gaping at her wordlessly for a few seconds. “He’s not the best person to have around.”
I dared a peek back, but the sorcerer had already disappeared. I recalled Laik Var giving me a similar warning the first time I had spoken with him. And Myar Mal’s contempt as he shook his hand off. But I also couldn’t think of any time when Tayrel Kan said anything wrong or hurtful to me, which made him one of a few.
“Is it because of him, or because of what other people are saying?” I wondered, too late realizing how that might have sounded.
Luckily, Malyn Tol didn’t seem offended. She shook her head. “I’m not sure myself. It seems like it’s going on forever, and I never like prying into other people’s lives. But I noticed you can be…” She waved her hand as if not sure what to say.
“Oblivious?” I suggested.
Her lips curled into a smile. “Innocent,” she corrected, “I don’t want him to take advantage of you.”
“We were just talking. About our duties, lives, and so on.”
“That’s how it starts.”
“How what starts?”
“Well… you know.”
“Oh.” I felt myself blushing again. “I’m not interested in such things.”
I cursed mentally, once again regretting my words as soon as they left my mouth. Speaking with Tayrel Kan put me at ease. I forgot myself.
I turned away to face the horizon. “I mean, not with men,” I corrected, “just… not at all.”
She hummed, and I wasn’t sure if she believed me or not.
“Look, I’ll be careful,” I promised, just to end this line of conversation.
She sighed. “No, Aldait Han, I’m sorry. Maybe you’re right and I’m prejudiced. And anyway, it’s not my place to tell you what to do and who to talk with.”
“I do appreciate your concern, though.” I wasn’t convinced if I did, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
Malyn Tol smiled awkwardly. “It’s not why I’m here, anyway. I heard what happened.” She paused and sucked in a deep breath. “I wanted to say that what you did was very, very stupid.”
I cringed, flooded by the memories of my morning blunder. Tayrel Kan did a pretty good job of making me forget.
“How do you know?” I stammered.
She sent me an admonishing look. “Saral Tal has a wand for a tongue, shooting words wherever he goes. Prepare to soon have the entire camp buzzing.”
Should I laugh or cry? I did neither, and after a moment, Malyn Tol picked up.
“If it makes you feel better, Argan Am says you were right, and that the prick deserved it. I think he has issues with our kar-vessár.”
“What issues?”
“I don’t know. You can ask him.”
I hummed, disappointed, knowing full well I’d never do it.
She sighed again. “He doesn’t bite. None of us do.”
My cheeks burned and lowered my head, still not finding anything to say. Idiot.
“Also, I wanted to give you something.”
She extended her hand towards me, holding a small, crocheted doll. It was rather plain—a black suit, white face, black top that could be either short hair or a cap, and pale green dots for eyes and the rank.
“When I was working at the Immigration Office, there was a Tarvissian woman; she was making dolls like these,” explained Malyn Tol. “I asked her to teach me, and she did. It’s very relaxing. I make so many, I have to give them away. Or, rather, throw them at everyone around me.” She gave a small, slightly awkward laugh. “You’re the only one who hasn’t got any yet, so here you go.”
She pushed the doll at me, leaving me no choice but to take it. I trailed my finger over the front, feeling the smoothness of the yarn. It was different from what I was used to, but the pattern was unmistakable.
My heart clenched, and before I knew it, the words spewed out of my mouth, “my sister made them, too. In old Tarviss, they were some form of worship, so, obviously, our parents weren’t fond of them. But Aëva thought they were cute, so she asked our mother to teach her. Whenever there was spare yarn, she would make one.
