Marcus came over, wondering if he recognized the smell. He put the cup under the tap, turned the valve, and soon had no more doubt. “Coffee?"
“Technically a luxury,” Bunwadde said, “but I have heard some Embassy humans speak of it as a necessity. I suppose they are right, by what Eshlarh tells me. Take whatever you need."
“Thank you,” Marcus said, even as he felt the patronizing sting, again. Apparently sugar and cream weren't part of the necessity, but the coffee wasn't bad without them. He drank a cup for medicinal effect, and got back to reciting. That dose, and a second a few hours later, had him back to performing at par, or enough so that Eshlarh was much calmer the rest of the day.
He got through his performance, and had a bit more appetite at dinner that evening. He did not, though, have increased confidence in his game-playing. “I'm sorry, Milinor, not tonight,” he said when she asked again for a game. “I'm tired from work today."
“But I want another game,” Milinor complained. “This is just because you won the last game, and you don't want to lose again."
“Milinor!” Pesh said.
“That's not true,” Marcus lied reflexively. It went unchallenged, as Milinor's parents, Pesh in the lead, took away her game privileges for the night. She apologized sullenly to Marcus, sounding awfully like any seven-year-old.
Marcus soon retired to his room, and went straight to the desk and the game. Tonight, he was calculating the color frequencies of the tiles and the board spaces. Which tiles could get premiums for landing on their color most often?
It was the nouns, of course, but compared to their frequency in tile distribution, there was a paucity of violet-black spaces. Worse, almost all the nouns were low-scoring, so one didn't gain much. The ratio was better for everything else. Conjunctions were best, with verbs and tense-marks not far behind.
From these statistics, he could gain a better idea of what tiles it would pay to hoard, what tiles he should play on matching spaces when he could, and what tiles he shouldn't bother trying to match. It was a first step in game analysis: if he couldn't win on strength of grammar, maybe he could win on strategy.
Maybe it would be enough that Milinor would grow sick of losing instead of him. Maybe it would be enough that he could compete with Bunwadde. Then he could tell that to Jun Hua.
But it wouldn't hurt to know more. He counted up how many of the conjunctions were group conjunctions, useful for noun-heavy dishes. He toted up the various tenses of the tense-marks, theorizing how they could relate to one another in a compound sentence. He studied the pattern of the board, thinking of how he could set himself up on one play to hit premiums with leftover tiles on his next.
He didn't hear the footsteps until too late. He could do no more than set the board atop its box lying on the floor before his door swung open.
“You're still awake,” Bunwadde observed.
“Yes,” Marcus said. “I'm still having trouble sleeping.” He walked over to his bed, hoping to draw Bunwadde's eyes with him.
“I hope it is not the coffee. I didn't think its effects lasted so long.” His eyes moved. “Were you playing?"
“No.” That was true enough. “I was just looking at it, whiling away time, trying to lull myself to sleep.” Bunwadde's cool gaze pressed in on him. “Trying to understand it better, too, perhaps."
“Good. I'm glad you still have an interest in the game. Milinor will be, too. Now do rest, even if you cannot sleep. We need to finish the catalog tomorrow."
“Yes, Bunwadde,” Marcus said, sighing.
* * * *
“That's a pretty play."
Marcus didn't reply to Milinor. He didn't believe her. It was a mediocre play, a safe play that wouldn't lose him a turn, but wouldn't get him the lead or set him up to take it. Even if she meant it as a genuine compliment—he didn't trust much these days—it felt like mockery.
Milinor made her play, with a quick look over to Tropid. Marcus glanced at him too, but the servant showed no expression. Marcus turned back to his dish, and thought over his options.
He had a six-tile play that would score fairly well, but not vault him ahead. There was a shorter, lower-scoring play on the other side of the board, though, that would let him keep a conjunction with two spaces of its color in easy reach. It would mean keeping two tense-marks, which could be awkward, but with the right draw, he could play them combined with the conjunction and make a big score.
The board chimed. “You must play within thirty-two kaphon."
“See, you're taking too long!” Milinor said.
“Sorry.” He made the shorter play, and drew new tiles. Before he could look at them, Milinor made her play, covering one of the spots for his conjunction with a mere noun.
Marcus looked over his new tiles, and frowned. Two more tense-marks. He might still reach the conjunction premium, but not without leaving his dish clogged with tense-marks. He gave it up, and found a place higher up the board where he could hook onto an existing verb, playing off his conjunction to help clean up his holdings. The score got him a little closer, but not much.
He tried more set-up plays, but by the time one worked for him, he had sacrificed more points than he gained with his lone success. By the endgame, he needed an eight-tile extra-turn play to have a chance, but the branching sentences had cut off all the empty areas. He made one of his familiar desperation plays, and got the familiar rejection tune from the board.
“I won, Tropid!” Milinor shouted after the board recited the score.
“Yes, you did, and you made no incorrect plays. Good work."
Marcus packed up the board quietly, but not fast enough. “We're going to play tomorrow, right?” Milinor said.
“If your parents and Tropid let you,” Marcus said, “and if I don't have to work too long."
Milinor hooted at this. Marcus didn't know whether it was his grammar again, or whether she found his work patterns so risible.
He left the game in his bedroom, and went downstairs to the water rooms. He gave himself a quick shower, part of his daily routine. Before dressing again, though, he departed from habit, and went over to one of the lounging pools. He put in one foot, and found the water bracingly cool. He laid aside his towel, and stepped in. Aghrelowa's heavy heat never seemed to lift, and this was a refreshing departure.
He leaned back, luxuriating. Time seemed to fade away, leaving just himself and his thoughts. For a few minutes, those thoughts didn't include the frustrations of the day, and every day. They did creep back, stealthily, reclaiming their accustomed place.
Marcus lowered himself a few more inches. Only briefly did he imagine drowning himself there. “Very impolite, I'm sure,” he said to himself. “Upset the whole household.” He didn't feel that badly about all of them not to care.
Someone came thudding down the stairs. Marcus let his solitude go philosophically: this room was too heavily trafficked for it to last. He saw it was Tropid, a mild surprise. “Good evening,” he said politely. Tropid had always been correct toward him, no more and no less.
“Good evening, Marcus,” Tropid said. “It's good to see you're having a cool soak. You were long enough in taking advantage—or are humans less sensitive to heat than I've heard?"
Marcus had never heard such garrulity from Tropid. “I can't say what you've heard,” he replied, “but the water feels very good. And how do you know I haven't used this pool?"
“I have to keep track of everything in the household.” Tropid slipped off his sandals and shed his robe, leaving him down to a broad strip of cloth covering him from stomach to mid-thigh. He thought better of removing it, and stepped into Marcus's pool with it on. Kevhtre shared pools without a thought, and Marcus didn't mind.
Tropid made a guttural “Grrraahh” sound as he lowered himself into the water. He sat quietly, head back, for a moment, before looking at Marcus. “I hope you do not hate Milinor."
“Hate her? I..."
“She has a kind side to her, but she is compe
titive. That has served her parents well, and they are teaching her—and having me teach her—to be the same."
“I ... understand, Tropid. I can't blame anyone for that."
“And she is very bright, very perceptive."
Marcus chuckled. “That's something of a comfort."
Tropid gave him a long look. “I think I understand that, Marcus. Your position here is awkward. Sometimes, it is more awkward than it needs to be."
Marcus absorbed that slowly. “I cannot really complain. I wasn't drafted."
Tropid's features bunched up. “What was that?"
Maybe that idiom didn't translate well. “I wasn't forced to come to Obrith. Whatever happens here, I came to it with my eyes open."
Tropid droned, deep in his chest. “Open eyes do not see everything ahead."
Tropid was surprising Marcus every minute. He was presenting overtures of sympathy, of friendship—or was it more?
The Language Section reportedly had been feeling around for a Kevhtre Union citizen to defy the government and explain the language to them, to fill in what humans were missing. They had made no progress, and rumors about the cost of their failures had been disturbing. Had Marcus stumbled onto what they had missed?
He moved cautiously. “Naturally, it is frustrating to understand something when others use it, but not to understand how to use it oneself."
“Yes, it must be painful,” Tropid said, “but it is something you must confront yourself."
“I have tried. I also think I've gone as far as I can by myself."
Tropid shifted, sending little waves across the pool. “I already have a job as a tutor, Marcus Parrish. I don't think you should ask me to do more."
Marcus said nothing. There was no more to say. He didn't pretend Tropid's answer carried any ambiguity. After a decent interval, he reached for the towel at the edge of the pool. “Thank you for the company, Tropid."
* * * *
Marcus stood by the window in his bedroom, watching dusk fade to night, thinking. Standing was about as comfortable as sitting in his Kevh-style chair, and would be kinder to his legs in the morning. String of Pearls was packed up and under his bed.
He wished he could keep the game under there forever. It had been an incubus, promising him language insight, and giving him worse than nothing. It had led him astray, and much of that was his doing. He had come to treat the game as its own end, not as a learning tool. That had let Bunwadde make it his own tool, to keep Marcus humiliated, to keep humans in their place. Just one tool for him, but a particularly irksome one.
At least the mortification of his shilling stint was finished—until the next shipment from Earth arrived. Bunwadde would find more work for him, of course, but he would have to look hard to find something as embarrassing to Marcus.
He quickly regretted thinking that. Bunwadde would manage, somehow. Marcus doused the lights and slipped into bed, hoping not to carry that thought into sleep.
As usual, rest was elusive. His everyday failures were frequent nighttime companions. His latest loss was with him tonight, that and Milinor's “pretty play” comment that clung stubbornly under his skin.
He could envision the words now, in the darkness. The play was a stair-step parallel, one short horizontal sentence played under another, overlapping by two tiles, one base and one vertex. The play made two additional short sentences on the diagonals.
It wasn't special. That kind of play happened constantly, as much as a dozen times a game. Milinor made such plays herself, without such a compliment. If he had overlapped four or five tiles, difficult but doable if verbs were in the right places, that might really be pretty.
But Milinor was young, and no student of the game. When she said a play was pretty, she didn't mean it was tactically elegant, she meant it looked pretty. Maybe she was babbling childishly, but Marcus didn't think so. Tropid said she was bright and perceptive, and Marcus believed him.
What was there, in that nest of curves, bars, slashes, and dots? He tried to think, but concentration was ebbing. The ideograms began swimming in his head. Soon they were undulating like the surface of a restless sea.
He gasped. Had he drifted off? Had he been half-asleep the whole time? He was wide-awake now.
He turned on a light, found a tablet, and wrote out the ideograms, each of the four sentences on separate lines. He fixed on the second one. It was a bramble, but within it he could see the sketchy, gentle sweep of a sine curve, falling, rising, and falling again. The third sentence was the same.
The other two, Milinor's sentence and his, didn't have the sine curve, but Marcus knew now that there was some pattern in them. In those patterns would be the explanation of why one arrangement of words made a sentence to Kevhtre eyes and ears, and another did not.
He started making notes on his tablet. He didn't mean to stay up all night, but he was going to leave himself enough information so his insight wouldn't fade like dreams.
He was going to be tired at work again tomorrow. This time, it would be for the right reason.
Marcus heard Bunwadde walk into his office. “How is your work going?” the boss asked.
“It's going well. I'm writing up the reports on your new export items. You can have the first group now, if you like."
He knew how Bunwadde would answer, and was putting it on a tablet before he asked for it. Marcus had been able to go further in-depth on marketing strengths and weaknesses for this group, partly because it was smaller, partly because he had requested as much informational material on the items as he could get. Those materials had helped a great deal more with his other work.
“You really have these sculpture replicas rated so low?” Bunwadde asked. “I understand about the name, but might that not be a selling point with some humans?"
The sculpture's title in Vetra sounded very like an English vulgarity. Marcus wondered if Bunwadde would notice how red he was turning. “It could be, except that the thing it means in English looks ... similar.” Bunwadde said nothing, but studied the tablet, turning it this way and that for a different look.
Marcus's studies of Vetra had been moving fast, but outwardly he was playing it slow. Jun Hua knew nothing. Marcus's ambiguous reports to the Language Section, hinting at some possible progress, would sound like forlorn masking of continued failure. He would reveal himself in his own time.
“Good work on this,” Bunwadde said. “Indeed, I am gratified at how you've settled in during the last twenty days. You had some difficulties before that, but you have definitely found your place here."
Marcus went through modest motions. “Thank you, Bunwadde."
“Of course, Milinor has been complaining about you."
“She has?"
“Yes. She tells me you've been beating her at String of Pearls lately."
His restraint had fallen to his competitive spirit here. Last night was his fourth win straight against Milinor. “I have, sir, finally."
“It was a while in coming. Do you feel up to playing me again?"
Marcus heard how he turned it around, as if Marcus had been the one to refuse more games, avoiding Bunwadde's beatings. He fought the urge to leap on the offer. “Well, will it be a family game, or just us?"
“Just us, I think."
“Well ... all right, I think I'm ready."
“I'm glad to hear it,” Bunwadde said with a slight grin. He had heard Marcus's garbled syntax in that last sentence, as Marcus had intended. “Are you ready for a meal break?"
“Not yet, thank you. I want to get through some more of these reports.” Bunwadde let him do that, and Marcus buckled down, not to writing, but to reading: reading more of those informational materials, delving into the patterns of ordinary words that were more clear to him each day.
* * * *
Dinner was excellent. Either Marcus was growing more used to Kevhtre cuisine, or Tropid was shading the fare toward a human palate. He would remember to thank Tropid either way.
Once they were don
e, Bunwadde went upstairs to get the board. “Not this time,” he said when Marcus started to follow. “Go down to the living room. We'll play there."
He wanted spectators for this, of course. That suited Marcus. He went downstairs without complaint, and sat himself at the big table. Milinor and Movedhor pulled over chairs, and stationed themselves opposite him.
“We're going to help Dad win,” Movedhor said.
“Really?” Marcus said. “And who will help me win?"
“You aren't going to win,” Milinor declared. Marcus had the decency to squirm in his seat, though only to relieve the usual cramping.
Bunwadde arrived with the game, and sat to one side. Marcus obligingly shifted his place to sit opposite Bunwadde. Pesh came down and stood with her daughters as Bunwadde set up the game.
They started, and the board picked Bunwadde to play first. He scarcely looked at his tiles before he laid six of them down the right-hand leg of the triangle, hitting three matching colors. “Twenty-three,” the game announced.
Such a strong opening would have flustered the old Marcus. Now, he just studied his dish, and the board. The girls began to fidget. Milinor tried to peek at his tiles, but he ignored her, and Pesh told her to stand with her father instead.
Finally, Marcus picked up five tiles in one hand, and laid them up and right, joining with the third and fourth words in Bunwadde's play. Marcus looked at it, and nodded. Then he added the last three tiles to his sentence and hit “Lustep” without hesitation.
“Twenty-eight, and a free turn."
He saw Bunwadde's surprise, and heard that of the children. He enjoyed them both.
His free play ended up small, to use up awkward tiles, but it set him up for a fine score the next turn, consolidating his lead. Bunwadde made good plays his next few turns, which didn't rattle Marcus now. He didn't have to take blind chances. He could see the plays, really see them. He could see how the pair of parallel bars in one noun meshed with the bar in a following verb, or clashed with the backslash in an adjective.
Analog SFF, July-August 2006 Page 31