Day One of the Tortallan Delegation's Visit to Hamrkeng, Scanra


Disclaimer: These characters belong to Tamora Pierce.


"This room is for the Lord and the little room is for his man."

"My thanks," said Lord Wyldon.

Squire Owen of Jesslaw, the new occupant of the 'little room,' nodded politely. He had to look up and up. Their guide, Thorvald Harvaldsson, was taller than Lord Raoul and nearly as broad.

"This room is for the Lady Knight," Thorvald continued in his heavily-accented Common. "I leave you now to rest. Tonight there is a big feast."

"Wait," said Buri. "What about me?"

"Hm," said their guide.

"Hm, what?" said Buri. "Where do I stay?"

"There was a room; but not now."

Lord Wyldon, Kel, Buri and Owen stared up at the hulking Scanran. "Well, what happened to it?" Buri said.

"The room was not right." Thorvald's craggy face and small blue eyes were unhelpful.

"What was wrong with the room, my good man?" said Lord Wyldon, his even voice masking the touch of impatience in his humourless dark eyes.

"The bed was not the right size." Thorvald looked at tiny Buri. "She is too short."

"Too short to fit the bed?" Buri looked caught between disbelief and outrage.

"Yes."

The Tortallans stood in flabbergasted silence in the torch-lit, dark-paneled corridor of the guest wing. They were four strangers in the huge, cold Scanran palace. How to make such backward logic see sense?

"She is very short, you see," rumbled Thorvald in his deep voice. "In Scanra we are tall. Our beds are tall to fit tall Scanrans. None of our beds are short enough for her. Where did you find a woman the size of a child?" he said. "She wears her hair in braids like a child, too."

Owen's mouth hung open. He shut it, edging away a little from hot-tempered Buri. What if she hit the Scanran? All of the cultural-sensitivity-trainers that the delegation had been briefed by in Corus had agreed that this would be a very bad thing for the talks.

Buri's eyes were flashing dangerously, but before she could say anything, Lord Wyldon stepped in.

"My good man," he said with the kind of cold courtesy that made Owen squirm, even though it wasn't directed his way, "perhaps you have not met a woman of the K'miri tribes of Sarain before, but I assure you that Buriram Tourakom is quite normal in stature among her people." Owen's conservative Knight-Master looked saturnine at being forced to defend the honour at the former Commander of the Queen's Riders: a foreigner, a female warrior, and a staunch supporter of the Queen's progressive policies.

Buri gave a graceless "Hmph!" and plunged her fists deep into the pockets of her burgundy wool jacket. It was so thick that it made her nearly as wide as she was tall. Kel gazed expressionlessly past the Scanran in a way that suggested that she wanted to gut him with her glaive or that the yellow mountain goats on the wallpaper were very interesting. With her it was hard to tell. Owen intensely admired her facial control and tried to copy her blank expression.

Wyldon rounded on him irritably. "Stop screwing up your face in that ridiculous fashion, Jesslaw."

"Yes, milord." Whoops! Owen ducked his head.

"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha."

It took Owen a moment to realize that the Scanran was laughing; you could hear each syllable coming out in time with the heaves of his massive sides. It was like seeing the walls of a gloomy fortress fall down to reveal everybody having a picnic inside the courtyard, with lemonade and kites.

"I make you angry," Thorvald said, his eyes screwed up with laughter. "It is very funny! You see, I make a Scanran joke. You have different jokes in the Low Country?"

The Low Country was what the Scanrans called Tortall; once again, the Tortallans were speechless.

"Yes," said Lord Wyldon definitely. "Our jokes are of a different sort."

"Not that he'd know," muttered Buri to Kel, eyeing Wyldon sourly. Kel gazed serenely at the torch fixtures. Her facial control was marvelous!

"Maybe you will tell me Tortallan jokes then. It is good to laugh," said Thorvald. "The room is here." He pointed a craggy finger at the door next to Kel's room.

"I will bring you to the feast, later," Thorvald said, his eyes on Buri. He lumbered off down the hall before any of them could think of what to say.

"You know, Buri, I think he was flirting with you," said Kel thoughtfully. Her hazel eyes were amused.

"That's ridiculous!" said Buri. "If that's how Scanran men flirt, it's a miracle any of them ever get married." She stumped over to her room. "Flirting!" she growled.

"It's very strange, this peace business," Owen reflected. "Two months ago we were gutting any Scanran we laid eyes on, and now we have to be polite to them and listen to their jokes."

The other three stared at Owen.

"Jesslaw."

"Milord!" Owen jumped to attention at the ominous sound of his Knight-Master's voice.

"The bags."

"Yes, Milord!" Owen grabbed Lord Wyldon's two and made for the room.

"Owen," called Kel. He turned around. "You're not wrong," she said.

Owen nodded gratefully, and ducked into the room. Time to settle in. If he unpacked quickly, he might have time to write a letter to his secret true love; the loveliest, sweetest girl in all of Tortall.


A/N: If anyone is interested, I wrote a chapter for a multi-author story at the swoop. It's called 'Cold Feet,' and all the chapters so far have been really good-- different characters and different writing styles. You can find the swoop under my Favourite Authors.