L. Modesitt - Cyador’s Heirs

He glances toward the stone marker a good fifty yards away. “We might finish by midday. Then what?”

“We start on the next ditch from the east end.”

“How many ditches do we have to dig?”

“As many as it takes.” Rojana lifts another spadeful of dirt. “Six, Father said.”

Lerial looks around the field and calculates. What he and Rojana have done is perhaps a sixth of one ditch. Three days for two ditches … Twelve days of digging ditches? While Lephi is learning more about sabres and riding patrols?

His eyes burn for a moment.

Then he attacks the dirt and grass once more.

On fourday morning, Lerial is even sorer than he had been on threeday, and his hands are red and almost raw in places. His face feels warm, but it is not red, and he applies the ointment Maeroja had supplied to him. When he reaches the breakfast room, he sees that the majer’s consort is seated, as are the girls, but the majer is not there.

“He’ll be here in a few moments,” says Maeroja. “He had to give some instructions to the field crew.” Before Lerial can seat himself at the breakfast table, she says, “Let me see your hands.”

Lerial shows her the backs of his hands, even as he realizes that there is the faintest hint of something different in her voice, almost an accent, a way of speaking that he has not heard or, if he has, does not recall.

“The palms, please.” There is a certain knowing irony in her voice.

He turns his hands over.

“You won’t be able to use them for days if you don’t do something about them.” Maeroja looks to Tyrna. “Go get the ointment.”

The middle daughter slips from her chair and scuttles out through the door to the kitchen.

“You’ll also need some gloves for a time, until your hands toughen. I’ll put on the anointment after you eat. Its smell isn’t perfume, but it does work.”

“Thank you.” Lerial slides into his chair and looks at his empty platter, then realizes that everyone’s is empty. Although his mug does contain the green juice, he decides not to drink because it’s clear that no one else has. Just as he is wondering how long they will wait for the majer, Altyrn steps into the breakfast room and seats himself. Tyrna is right behind her father, a jar in her hand, which she delivers to her mother before reseating herself.

“Did everyone sleep well last night?”

The girls nod. Maeroja smiles. Lerial nods belatedly. He had slept well, but that was because he’d been so exhausted that the early evening warmth in his room hadn’t kept him from falling asleep-a warmth that might well have in Cigoerne.

“Lerial’s going to need gloves today,” Maeroja says, her voice matter-of-fact, “and anointment.”

“I’ll get him gloves after breakfast.”

Once Altyrn lifts his mug, a server quickly dishes out breakfast, and the girls begin to eat. So does Lerial.

“What was the trouble?” Maeroja asks.

“Naaryt is worried about the axle on the cart. I told him to only use half loads of clay. I’d like to get the ditching done before we get any rain. That way the clay can set. What about the cocoonery?”

“Another few days before the worms start hatching. I’ve made arrangements with Zierna if we need more leaves. I’d rather not use the red mulberry leaves, but we can always do what we did last year.”

“I’d feed the worms on the southeast section with the leaves from the reds. There’s something about that part of the tables that the worms don’t do as well there.”

“The heat … even using an awning in front of the wall, it’s hotter there.”

Altyrn nods. “It’s always something.” He continues eating, methodically alternating bites of egg toast and porridge.

As soon as Lerial finishes eating, Maeroja says, “Let’s get that anointment on your hands.”

Whatever the substance is that she works into the skin of palms and fingers, it smells faintly of something unpleasantly wild as well as something similar to pine, if more acrid.

“Now,” she says as she finishes, “don’t touch anything for a bit.” She smiles at Rojana. “You open the doors until you get to the field today.”

“Yes, Mother.” Rojana grins.

Lerial can’t help blushing slightly, and he hopes no one notices.

Before long, Lerial and Rojana follow Altyrn out of the villa.

There, the majer stops abruptly. “Just wait here. I need to get those gloves for you, Lerial.” He hurries back inside the villa.

“Father won’t be long,” says Rojana. “He never is. Mother says that he’s always been in a hurry.”

As the two of them stand by the west entrance to the villa, two older women walk by some five yards away, talking to each other. One glances in Lerial’s direction, if briefly. They are conversing in Hamorian, and Lerial strains to catch what they are saying.

“… a cousin or nephew of the majer from Cigoerne…”

“… trouble with his family, most likely…”

“… he worked hard yesterday…”

“… see how he does today … and tomorrow…”

Although Lerial strains to hear more, the two women continue walking across the courtyard and toward the cocoonery, their words becoming indistinct and unintelligible.

Rojana looks at Lerial curiously. “You speak Hamorian?”

“Of course. Why?”

“I wouldn’t have thought…”

“My grandmother insisted. Both my brother and I do.”

“Does Father know?”

“I thought…” Lerial shakes his head. “I don’t know. I never mentioned it. I thought most … younger people whose parents came from Cyador had their children speak both tongues.”

Rojana shook her head. “Father says many of the Lancer families won’t teach their children Hamorian.”

“He would know.” Lerial frowns. “I can’t say that I think that’s a good idea.”

“Not speaking Hamorian is a terrible idea.”

Lerial refrains from grinning at her quiet vehemence.

At that moment, the majer steps out of the west door to the villa and walks toward the two.

“I think this pair will fit.” Altyrn extends two gloves of heavy leather, with patches of a darker leather at the base of the palms. “You can get them as dirty as you need to, but don’t get them wet. Wet gloves are hard on hands.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial eases on one glove, then the other. They’re slightly large, but not noticeably so. “Thank you.”

“There’s one other thing, Father.” Rojana looks at Lerial.

“Ser … I don’t know if my father mentioned it … but I do speak Hamorian.”

“He did not,” replies Altyrn in heavily accented Hamorian. “How well do you speak it?”

“I’m told that I speak it like any other young Hamorian, ser,” Lerial answers in Hamorian, “but I couldn’t say if that’s true or not.”

Rojana grins.

Altyrn shakes his head. “It’s true enough, wouldn’t you say, Rojana?”

“It’s more than true. He has the northern accent, though.”

“You were taught by someone from Swartheld?”

“Yes, ser.” Several people, but all from the north of Afrit.

“Obviously arranged by your grandmother, as you said. She had reasons for everything, and seldom were they wrong. Now … let’s get your spades from the equipment shed. Just do as well as you two did yesterday, and we’ll make good progress.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once Altyrn has handed them the spades and the wooden gauge that Rojana takes, the two walk toward the field with the uncompleted ditching.

When they reach where they halted digging the afternoon before, Lerial grins and asks, “You want me to do all the heavy digging again?”

“Unless you want us to take longer to finish,” rejoins Rojana sweetly.