I. Malay
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"You've been drinking," Alek observes; Deryn smells like cheap rum and cheaper cigars, and there's nothing subtle about the way she's walked into his cabin and dropped into his lap.
She presses her lips to his jaw, his neck, his shoulder. Says something he doesn't understand.
"What was that?"
"Malay," she says, unbuttoning his shirt.
He grins. "Drunk and speaking Malay. What am I to do with you?"
She pulls back, eyes dark, smile wicked. "I haven't learned how to say that bit."
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her trousers. "I'm certain we can manage."
They do.
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II. Latin
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Deryn squints at the page. Holds it out at arm's length.
Her verdict: "Blether."
Alek hmphs. Grabs the page from her. "It's perfectly good Latin."
"Aye, if you say so."
"You should learn to read it," he says, writing, "if only for Catullus."
Her eyebrow lifts.
"He was a poet. Quite scandalous, really – I wasn't supposed to read him. Try this."
" 'Da mi… bas- basia mille'," she reads, saying it like the English mile. "No, that's daft. 'Da mi basia…"
" 'Da mi basia mille, deinde centum.' "
"All right," she says, cheerful, and the Latin lesson is over.
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III. French
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"I know some French," Dylan says, a trifle defensive, when Alek asks how many languages he speaks.
"Such as?"
The list begins with bonjour and adieu and ends with batard and merde. In between, there's more of the latter than the former. Dylan's accent is excellent.
Alek tries not to blush. "You certainly know how to curse in French."
Dylan shrugs. "I was only in Paris a few days." Adds, slyly: "Your tutor left those bits out, I reckon."
"Indeed."
"D'you want me to teach you the really brilliant ones?"
Monsieur Girard would likely suffer an apoplexy, but Alek agrees.
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IV. German
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"Eins," Deryn says, squeezing Sophie's wee toe. Her daughter giggles. Deryn grins and grabs the next one. "Zwei, drei, vier… fünf!"
Sophie giggles harder. Her eyes scrunch up behind her round rosy cheeks. Her feet curl, squirming away from Deryn's fingers. "No, Mama, nein!"
"Nicht mehr?" Someday they'll get to zehn. Maybe.
Sophie shakes her head, dark curls bouncing, eyes gleaming. "Küsse!"
Deryn glances up: Alek's in the doorway, watching them both, a perfectly daft smile on his face.
"Aye then, kisses," Deryn says. She leans over and blows a raspberry into her wee lass's belly. Sophie shrieks with laughter.
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V. Russian
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Deryn pages through the book of phrases, trying to find the one that'll get them to Perm. "Blisters, how d'you say 'train ticket'?"
Alek grimaces. "I know how to greet the czar…"
Deryn scowls at him, then at the befuddled ticket agent, then points at the waiting train. "Ticket," she says slowly.
The agent scratches at his head.
On her shoulder, Bovril suddenly begins chattering away in perfect Russian.
"Ah!" Beaming, the agent hands over two tickets. Alek pays.
They might make this secret Zoological Society meeting after all. Deryn grins at the loris. "Bozhe moy, beastie."
Bovril preens. "Spasibo."
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VI. Spanish
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Deryn peers over his shoulder as Alek struggles through another line. "Any easier?"
"The language, yes," he says, marking his place in Los de abajo. "Not the story. His look at the war is… unflinching."
Though engrossing, in its way. Dr. Azuela is a natural storyteller.
"I had a close enough look at that war, myself," she says.
He smirks. "You saw a camera walker and a rock."
"No – the rock was a barking surprise." She runs her fingers through his hair. Yawns hugely. "Come to bed before midnight, love."
"Mm-hm," he says, already falling into the novel once again.
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VII. Mandarin
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"Do you ever know what you're ordering?" Alek asks, amused.
Deryn shrugs. "Pointing at things has worked brilliantly so far." Their tea's delicious, for instance – hot and fragrant, with a bit of spice to it.
"Mm. If you don't mind, I should like to order today."
She glances down; the menu's printed in Chinese. Hazard of finding your lunch in Chinatown, she expects. "Aye, all right."
The waiter returns. Alek says, carefully, "Wǒmen xīwàng dàn huā tāng."
Blisters. "How long did you practice that?" she asks, after they get their soup.
"Days," he confesses; when she laughs, he joins in.
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VIII. English
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"Mr. Willoughby says that you are not applying yourself to your lessons." Father looks up from the papers on his desk. "Is this true?"
Alek keeps his chin firm. "Yes, sir."
Father frowns.
Alek breaks. "Why do I need to learn English, Father? I'll never use it!"
The frown deepens, and then – unexpectedly – Father chuckles. "One never knows what Providence has in store, Aleksandar."
Or: take all of your lessons seriously, even the useless ones.
Alek sighs. "Yes, sir."
"Excellent." Father waves him away. "You're late for fencing with Count Volger."
Alek sighs again, and goes to face his destiny.
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Notes: Catullus 5 is probably his most famous poem. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred…
Los de abajo (literally "the ones below", its English title is The Underdogs) is one of Dr. Mariano Azuela's best-known novels. It draws heavily on his real-life experiences with Pancho Villa's forces.
And why Malay? Well, why not? :)
This whole thing started because I read a fabulous book, What Language Is (And What It Isn't and What It Could Be), by John McWhorter. He has also a very good one about English – Our Magnificent Bastard Tongue, which wins for the title alone.
