the middle of the gathering, reading from a scroll. Unlike the others, these men wore teal belts. Garlanded wreathes encircled their sagacious brows.
“There you go, Lakif!” Lysander eagerly handed the Acaanan a goblet of wine. Lakif flashed a forced smile, as much from an uneasy feeling with her neighbor as from the drink. She wasn’t a great fan of wine; moreover, she felt that by accepting the drink she was obliging herself to her hosts. Although she accepted the offering, she quickly placed the goblet on the table.
“What is that forum?” Lakif singled out the sequestered circle.
“Why, that is the quadrivium,” Lysander answered.
Lakif didn’t understand the word, which she viewed as yet more scholarly jargon. She interpreted it as some high-brow division of a university.
“But who are
they
?”
Without turning to confirm of whom the Acaanan spoke, Lysander replied, “The Laureates, of course.”
Lakif looked blankly.
“The Laureates have achieved the highest ranking among us,” Lysander continued. Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t fail to see Demetrius flirting with the waiter. He wove a beka before the boy like a treat tempting a dog. His fingers danced around the lad’s toga, searching for a pocket to deposit the tip in. Lakif felt sorry for the lad, but for Lakif’s sake, his presence offered a happy distraction for the troll.
“What is he speaking of?” Lakif referred to the central figure who was expounding at length.
“Speaking?” Lysander was quick to correct Lakif.
“I mean debating.” Lakif looked about, now feeling the weight of several stares.
“Debating?” the scholar echoed forcefully, and Lakif felt she had committed a gaffe.
“Nothing so base breaches that perfect circle. The Laureates have graduated beyond debating. That exercise is for us with puerile standing. Instead, they
pontificate
.”
“On what?”
“What could be today’s theme?” Lysander paused to scratch his chin. At this juncture the waiter skipped off, and Lakif knew that the lewd partner was back in the fray.
“Pardon?” Demetrius blinked as if he had just awoken from a sweet dream. His hairpiece now sat askew on his crown, as if he truly had bed-head.
“Lakif asked about the Laureate’s theme today,” Lysander informed him, bringing him up to speed.
Demetrius merely shrugged his shoulders and sipped his wine. From the sound, he was lapping up the drink with his tongue, a clear message to the Acaanan.
“Over here, lad,” a voice harrumphed in the background.
Lakif cocked her head, fully expecting to see someone standing behind her. Instead, a scholar reclined at ease on a cushioned chair nearby. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, in the characteristic habit of a tailor. Like his academic compatriots, he was well advanced in years. Not a single hair blemished his shiny scalp. Thin, circular glasses rendered him a pedantic look, particularly so when juxtaposed on his thin face. A white beard masked his thin lips, which sucked on a polished wooden pipe. A thin train of smoke crept upward in ever widening circles. In his lap lay a clipboard, which he tapped with a quill. He was garbed in the customary uniform of the Tabernacle, but unlike Lakif’s licentious benefactors, he wore the rose variety of belt.
“Excuse me?” Lakif wasn’t certain the remark was directed at her, or if there had actually been a remark for that matter.
“The descent of man from Clothorai?” Lysander wondered aloud. He was still stewing of the Laureate’s topic and hadn’t noted Lakif’s distraction.
“That was last week.” Demetrius shook his wigged head. A stray curl fell from the mat and dangled before his nose.
Lakif was only half listening to their dialogue. The outsider now intrigued her.
“The fall of Khante?” Lysander continued to speculate. A second negation came from his colleague.
“I wonder…” Lysander began, then paused. “Eureka! The Renaissance!” He
“There you go, Lakif!” Lysander eagerly handed the Acaanan a goblet of wine. Lakif flashed a forced smile, as much from an uneasy feeling with her neighbor as from the drink. She wasn’t a great fan of wine; moreover, she felt that by accepting the drink she was obliging herself to her hosts. Although she accepted the offering, she quickly placed the goblet on the table.
“What is that forum?” Lakif singled out the sequestered circle.
“Why, that is the quadrivium,” Lysander answered.
Lakif didn’t understand the word, which she viewed as yet more scholarly jargon. She interpreted it as some high-brow division of a university.
“But who are
they
?”
Without turning to confirm of whom the Acaanan spoke, Lysander replied, “The Laureates, of course.”
Lakif looked blankly.
“The Laureates have achieved the highest ranking among us,” Lysander continued. Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t fail to see Demetrius flirting with the waiter. He wove a beka before the boy like a treat tempting a dog. His fingers danced around the lad’s toga, searching for a pocket to deposit the tip in. Lakif felt sorry for the lad, but for Lakif’s sake, his presence offered a happy distraction for the troll.
“What is he speaking of?” Lakif referred to the central figure who was expounding at length.
“Speaking?” Lysander was quick to correct Lakif.
“I mean debating.” Lakif looked about, now feeling the weight of several stares.
“Debating?” the scholar echoed forcefully, and Lakif felt she had committed a gaffe.
“Nothing so base breaches that perfect circle. The Laureates have graduated beyond debating. That exercise is for us with puerile standing. Instead, they
pontificate
.”
“On what?”
“What could be today’s theme?” Lysander paused to scratch his chin. At this juncture the waiter skipped off, and Lakif knew that the lewd partner was back in the fray.
“Pardon?” Demetrius blinked as if he had just awoken from a sweet dream. His hairpiece now sat askew on his crown, as if he truly had bed-head.
“Lakif asked about the Laureate’s theme today,” Lysander informed him, bringing him up to speed.
Demetrius merely shrugged his shoulders and sipped his wine. From the sound, he was lapping up the drink with his tongue, a clear message to the Acaanan.
“Over here, lad,” a voice harrumphed in the background.
Lakif cocked her head, fully expecting to see someone standing behind her. Instead, a scholar reclined at ease on a cushioned chair nearby. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, in the characteristic habit of a tailor. Like his academic compatriots, he was well advanced in years. Not a single hair blemished his shiny scalp. Thin, circular glasses rendered him a pedantic look, particularly so when juxtaposed on his thin face. A white beard masked his thin lips, which sucked on a polished wooden pipe. A thin train of smoke crept upward in ever widening circles. In his lap lay a clipboard, which he tapped with a quill. He was garbed in the customary uniform of the Tabernacle, but unlike Lakif’s licentious benefactors, he wore the rose variety of belt.
“Excuse me?” Lakif wasn’t certain the remark was directed at her, or if there had actually been a remark for that matter.
“The descent of man from Clothorai?” Lysander wondered aloud. He was still stewing of the Laureate’s topic and hadn’t noted Lakif’s distraction.
“That was last week.” Demetrius shook his wigged head. A stray curl fell from the mat and dangled before his nose.
Lakif was only half listening to their dialogue. The outsider now intrigued her.
“The fall of Khante?” Lysander continued to speculate. A second negation came from his colleague.
“I wonder…” Lysander began, then paused. “Eureka! The Renaissance!” He
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