villa’s upper level.
“This is your chamber. It has a small washroom through the door. There are two buckets to bring up water. You can get cool water from either the outside fountain or the spout beside the fountains in the courtyard. Later we can show you the upper cistern that holds warmer water. It’s on the roof balcony. We did fill the tub and buckets for you this time. There is a drain for the waste water.”
“Where does it go?”
“The pipes take it to the ditch that serves the front meadow.”
Since Rojana does not open the door, Lerial depresses the door handle and pushes the door open. He steps inside, and she follows. Her sisters do not. The chamber is long, some seven yards, he judges, but only four wide. There are three long and narrow windows set in the north wall, about twice as wide as those on the lower level, and one on each side of the door from the balcony. The furnishings are simple and sparse—a single bed, a doorless armoire, a dresser with three drawers, a flat-topped storage chest at the foot of the bed, a narrow bedside table, and a writing table-desk and a chair. There is one wall lamp suspended from a brass arm and a lamp on the table-desk.
“This is very nice,” he says, nodding to Rojana. “Thank you.”
“There’s also a set of work trousers and a work shirt in the armoire. Papa said he hopes they’re close enough to fit you, but he didn’t want you spoiling riding clothes working with him.”
Lerial manages to stifle a rueful smile. The majer has used his daughter to deliver a tactful announcement of what awaits him. “That is thoughtful. I didn’t bring anything like that.”
“Mother thought you wouldn’t.” That comes from the youngest girl, who stands in the doorway, a serious expression on her face.
“Your mother was right,” replies Lerial.
Rojana eases back to the door. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I wouldn’t think so, but I’ll let you know if there is.”
After the three leave, Lerial closes the door, then carries his kit bag to the chest, where he places it and opens it. First, he unpacks and places his garments in either the armoire or the dresser, setting aside a clean set for dinner. Then he disrobes, washes and shaves, although that takes little time, given that his beard is still fine and uneven. Before dressing in his own garments, he does try on the work clothes. They fit, although they are a shade large.
Less than half a glass later, dressed in clean clothes, he leaves his chambers and retraces his steps back down to the courtyard.
As he nears the majer and his family, gathered around a large circular table under the terrace roof, Lerial can’t help but overhear a few words between the girls.
“… said he wouldn’t take long…”
“… because you like him…”
“Ssshh!”
Lerial keeps a straight face as he stops short of the table. “Thank you. The quarters are lovely.” “Lovely” isn’t really the right word, but “more than ample” sounds condescending, and “adequate” would be arrogant. “Perfect” would be an obvious exaggeration.
“We hope so,” replies Maeroja. “Your rooms are the same as those of Rojana, and all the chambers are similar.”
“I do appreciate them.” He turns to the majer. “And the work clothes.”
“Good. Working here can be a dirty business.” Altyrn gestures to the chair to his left, with an empty mug before it. “You can sit down.”
“Would you like lager, ale, or redberry?” asks Maeroja, gesturing to the three large pitchers in the center of the wooden table.
“Lager, please.”
“That’s the pitcher with the gold stripe.”
From that, Lerial understands that he is to pour his own … and he does so.
“How was the ride?” asks Altyrn.
“Long. I’m not used to that much time in the saddle. But it was interesting. I’ve never been this far south.”
“It’s different, and it’s not … just like most places.”
“Dear … don’t be
“This is your chamber. It has a small washroom through the door. There are two buckets to bring up water. You can get cool water from either the outside fountain or the spout beside the fountains in the courtyard. Later we can show you the upper cistern that holds warmer water. It’s on the roof balcony. We did fill the tub and buckets for you this time. There is a drain for the waste water.”
“Where does it go?”
“The pipes take it to the ditch that serves the front meadow.”
Since Rojana does not open the door, Lerial depresses the door handle and pushes the door open. He steps inside, and she follows. Her sisters do not. The chamber is long, some seven yards, he judges, but only four wide. There are three long and narrow windows set in the north wall, about twice as wide as those on the lower level, and one on each side of the door from the balcony. The furnishings are simple and sparse—a single bed, a doorless armoire, a dresser with three drawers, a flat-topped storage chest at the foot of the bed, a narrow bedside table, and a writing table-desk and a chair. There is one wall lamp suspended from a brass arm and a lamp on the table-desk.
“This is very nice,” he says, nodding to Rojana. “Thank you.”
“There’s also a set of work trousers and a work shirt in the armoire. Papa said he hopes they’re close enough to fit you, but he didn’t want you spoiling riding clothes working with him.”
Lerial manages to stifle a rueful smile. The majer has used his daughter to deliver a tactful announcement of what awaits him. “That is thoughtful. I didn’t bring anything like that.”
“Mother thought you wouldn’t.” That comes from the youngest girl, who stands in the doorway, a serious expression on her face.
“Your mother was right,” replies Lerial.
Rojana eases back to the door. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I wouldn’t think so, but I’ll let you know if there is.”
After the three leave, Lerial closes the door, then carries his kit bag to the chest, where he places it and opens it. First, he unpacks and places his garments in either the armoire or the dresser, setting aside a clean set for dinner. Then he disrobes, washes and shaves, although that takes little time, given that his beard is still fine and uneven. Before dressing in his own garments, he does try on the work clothes. They fit, although they are a shade large.
Less than half a glass later, dressed in clean clothes, he leaves his chambers and retraces his steps back down to the courtyard.
As he nears the majer and his family, gathered around a large circular table under the terrace roof, Lerial can’t help but overhear a few words between the girls.
“… said he wouldn’t take long…”
“… because you like him…”
“Ssshh!”
Lerial keeps a straight face as he stops short of the table. “Thank you. The quarters are lovely.” “Lovely” isn’t really the right word, but “more than ample” sounds condescending, and “adequate” would be arrogant. “Perfect” would be an obvious exaggeration.
“We hope so,” replies Maeroja. “Your rooms are the same as those of Rojana, and all the chambers are similar.”
“I do appreciate them.” He turns to the majer. “And the work clothes.”
“Good. Working here can be a dirty business.” Altyrn gestures to the chair to his left, with an empty mug before it. “You can sit down.”
“Would you like lager, ale, or redberry?” asks Maeroja, gesturing to the three large pitchers in the center of the wooden table.
“Lager, please.”
“That’s the pitcher with the gold stripe.”
From that, Lerial understands that he is to pour his own … and he does so.
“How was the ride?” asks Altyrn.
“Long. I’m not used to that much time in the saddle. But it was interesting. I’ve never been this far south.”
“It’s different, and it’s not … just like most places.”
“Dear … don’t be
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