Sheri Tepper - Grass

He told her, about the ambassador and about Marjorie and the other lady in her soon-to-be-pink nest.

“Ah,” said Kinny, wrinkling her nose. “That’s sad.”

“So I thought,” he agreed. “His wife’s a lovely lady, but cool. Take a little wooing, that one.”

“And him, I suppose he’s too hot and impatient for that.”

Roald chewed as he thought. Yes. As usual, Kinny had hit it right on the head. Too hot and impatient by far, Roderigo Yrarier. Hot and impatient enough to get himself into a mess of trouble, before he was through.

Not liking that idea, Roald changed the subject. “What does Marthamay think they’ll name the baby?”

Marjorie’s language instructor arrived two days later. He introduced himself as Persun Pollut. He sat beside her in what would become Marjorie’s study, just inside a large window warmed by an orange sun, while craftsmen came and went with crates and cartons, tools and ladders in the hall just outside. Watching the workers, Marjorie spoke of the strangeness of needing both winter quarters and summer quarters separate from one another.

“Winter is long,” he admitted, drooping his eyebrows at her. “It is so long we grow tired of looking at one another,” Persun had exceptionally long and sinuous eyebrows. He was young, though not callow; supple, though not yielding; determined, though not rigid. Marjorie felt Roald Few had selected well, particularly as Persun had shown good sense in not advertising the purpose of his presence. He had taken a room in the nearby village and announced that he was there to carve some panels for “Her Ladyship’s private study.” Now, seated at his ease in that study, he continued his explanation.

“Winter is so long that one tires of thinking of it,” he said. “We grow tired of breathing the air which is not only cold but hostile to us. We go under the ground, like the Hippae, and wait for spring. Sometimes we wish we could sleep like them.”

“What on earth do you all do with yourselves?” Marjorie asked, thinking once more of what they would do with the horses during wintertime. If they were still on Grass. Anthony kept saying the Yrariers would be on their way home by then, but Anthony didn’t know why they had come.

“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: Prin g’los dem aujnet haudermach. That is, ‘Winter closeness is separated in spring.’ Let’s see, maybe you’d say it, ‘Winter liaisons sunder in spring.’ “ He thought this over, wobbling his eyebrows. “No, perhaps a Terran would more likely say ‘marriages’: ‘Spring loosens winter marriages.’ “

“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 are a woodcarver, then?”

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.