But he learned how to duck punishment. A question, quickly put, would sometimes do. “Teacher, this one understands that there are protocol modes for each status rising and falling, but what this one in its ignorance lacks is knowledge of what each status is-being wholly without experience through the inscrutable ways of Uncle the Mighty-and also is sometimes not aware of the status assumed for teaching purposes by my charitable teacher and of the status this humble one is expected to assume in reply. More than that, this one does not know its own status in the great family. May it please its teacher.”
The whip was put down and for the next hour he was lectured. The problem was more involved than Hugh’s question showed. The lowest status was stud. No, there was one lower: servant children. But since children were expected to make mistakes, it did not matter. Next higher was slut, then tempered servant-a category with subtle and unlimited gradations of rank so involved that speech of equals was used if the gradient was not clearly evident. High above all servants were the Chosen, with unlimited and sometimes changing variations of rank, including those ritual circumstances in which a lady takes precedence over a lord. But that was not usually a worry; always use protocol rising mode. However- “If two of the Chosen speak to you at once, which one do you answer?”
“The junior,” Hugh answered.
“Why?”
“Since the Chosen do not make mistakes, this one’s ears were at fault. The senior did not actually speak, for his junior would never have interrupted.”
“Correct. You are a tempered gardener and you encounter a Chosen of the same rank as your lord uncle. He speaks. ‘Boy, what sort of a flower is that?’”
“As Their Charity knows much better than this one can ever know, if this one’s eyes are not mistaken, that plant may be a hydrangea.”
“Good. But drop your eyes when you say it. Now about your status-” The teacher looked pained. “You haven’t any.”
“Please, teacher?”
“Uncle! I’ve tried to find out. Nobody knows but our Lord Uncle and they have not ruled. You’re not a child, you’re not a stud, you’re not a tempered, you don’t belong anywhere. You’re a savage and you don’t fit.”
“But what protocol mode must I use?”
“Always the rising. Oh, not to children. Nor to sluts, no need to overdo it.”
Except for changes in inflection caused by status, Hugh found the language simple and logical. It had no irregular verbs and its syntax was orderly; it probably had been tidied up at some time. He suspected, from words that he recognized-”simba,” “bwana,” “wazir,” “étage,” “trek,” “oncle”- that it had roots in several African languages. But that did not matter; this was “Speech” and, according to his teachers, the only language spoken anywhere.
In addition to protocol modes, quite a chunk of vocabulary was double, one word being used down, its synonym although different in root used up. He had to know both-be able to recognize one and to use the other.
The pronunciation gave him trouble at first, but by the end of the week he could lip smack, click, make the fast glottal stop, and hear and say vowel distinctions he had never suspected existed. By the sixteenth day he was chattering freely, beginning to think in it, and the whip was rarely used.
Late next day the Lord Protector sent for him.
Chapter 12
Although he had been bathed that day, Hugh was rushed through another bath, rubbed down with fragrant cream, and issued a fresh robe, before being whizzed to the lord’s private apartments. There he was bounced past a series of receptionists close on Memtok’s heels, and into a large and very sumptuous retiring room.
The lord was not there; Joseph and Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume were. Joe called out, “Hugh! Wonderful!” and added to the Chief Domestic, “You may go.”
Memtok hesitated, then backed away and left. Joe ignored him, slipped his arm in Hugh’s, and led him to a divan. “Gosh, it’s good to see you! Sit down, we’ll talk until Ponse gets here. You look well.” Doctor Livingstone checked Hugh’s ankles, purred and stropped against them.