“I make no diagnosis.”
“Good.”
“I only noticed.”
“You notice too much.”
“So do you.”
The sentence struck closer than she wanted.
Kimia looked away. Vehm's voice lowered.
“You know where I'll be.”
That could mean several things.
His rooms. The garden. Some drinking room beneath the kitchens. The private chapel where he occasionally went despite claiming no allegiance to any faith.
It could mean: If you need to talk.
It could also mean: If you want to disappear.
Kimia hated him briefly for allowing both meanings to coexist.
“Try not to become unconscious before dinner,” she said.
“I make no promises to any auzhority.”
“Vehm.”
“I'll try.”
“Zhat means nozhing.”
“It means slightly more than nozhing.”
Kimia gave him a look.
Vehm bowed again, less deeply this time.
“Miss Kimia.”
The use of her personal name beneath the title was deliberate.
Then he continued down the corridor. The smell of fruit spirit went with him. Kimia watched until he turned the corner.
Tarkhe waited.
She looked at him.
“Don't.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were preparing to.”
“I frequently prepare things I do not administer.”
“Physician's privilege?”
“Survival.”
Kimia continued toward the library.
Kalgkur remained exactly where she had hoped. The old baxxid had accumulated more papers.
His table now looked as though some portion of an archive had collapsed upon him and he had decided to continue working from beneath it. One book stood open beside a stack of photocopied linguistic charts. Several pages contained columns of handwritten Peshtulan words.
Kimia approached.
“Kalgkur.”
The baxxid looked up.
The familiar delay.
“Miss Kimia.”
“What are zhose?”
“Peshtulan.”
“I can see zhat.”
“Then your question was unnecessary.”
Kimia pulled out a chair.
“I need something unnecessary.”
Kalgkur regarded her. One eye moved briefly toward Tarkhe, then back.
“Sit.”
She did.
Tarkhe wandered toward another shelf with exaggerated casualness. The indrel remained near the doorway.
Kimia pointed at one of the pages.
“What is zhis?”
“An argument.”
“Between?”
“Four scholars.”
“About?”
“The development of postpositions in western Peshtulan.”
Kimia stared.
Kalgkur waited.
“Perfect.”
The baxxid lowered his head toward the paper.
“The dispute begins with the assumption that modern Peshtulan preserves-”
For the next hour the world became grammar.
This was not metaphor.
Kalgkur took the subject seriously enough to make seriousness contagious.
He explained how older Peshtulan case structures had eroded differently in certain settlements than in merchant communities. Kimia challenged one of his examples. Kalgkur produced another paper. She accused the second author of building a rule from three examples. Kalgkur agreed and then explained why the bad argument had remained influential for sixty years. A minor discussion about yinglet enclaves that migrated to Peshtul and adopted their own dialect of Peshtulan followed, which has survived somewhat but has otherwise mostly been forgotten or replaced.
“What about zhe western yinglet enclaves zhat came here centuries ago?” Kimia asked.
“Different. They spoke with a more informal dialect of Peshtulan.”
“How?”
“Migration and cultural differences.”
“Zhat explains nozhing.”
“It explains everything. Poorly.”
Kimia leaned over the table.
“What did zhey replace it wizh?”
Kalgkur drew one appendage slowly down a column of text.