]
“…should therefore our chiefest concern not lie with the progress of our programs? Forgive me, Senator, but all this rhetoric about children and promise tastes rather too much like tripe for my preferences. It is not in the children that we should invest our brightest minds and greatest allowances of both time and money; it is in the programs that allow subsequent generations to be bred into that promise…”
Mara’s jaws tensed, and her lips clamped firmly together. Cyrus glanced up at her, and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Stifling yawns already?” he whispered almost inaudibly.
The austerely dressed young woman shot him a sharp sidelong glance but did not respond. On her other side, a prim matron with a rather hideous ostrich feather tucked into her elaborate updo glared at them both, shaking her head and obviously something to the effect of young folk these days.
Cyrus Timon-Syntichy allowed his smile to spread a little wider, and reclined further back on the couch provided for the auditors. In this position, the wrought-iron railing that ran along the lip of the balcony almost entirely obscured the orator; all Cyrus could see was a vaguely human-shaped form of alternating fleshy tones and dark grays, arms waving violently as his voice rose to fill the amphitheatre. Not that Cyrus minded, anyway. He came to listen to the speeches, not take notes on who followed what fashion. It was one of those subjects on which he and his peers often disagreed; why, the young man maintained, should a ruler waste valuable time in planning perfectly coordinated ensembles, when he could be perfecting his skills, or doing his duty? His fellow undersenators would usually sneer and mock his guardian-like behavior, claiming that all the time he spent in that harridan’s company was having an ill effect on his mind.
“That harridan” chose just that moment to heave a barely-restrained sigh; the sound of moving fabric told him that she’d just leaned up against the wall. For not the first time he cursed the bureaucratic conventions that refused a guardian the comfort of the ruler’s couch. She was on duty, certainly; but in all likelihood, he would not be needing her services today anyway.
“Mara,” he breathed.
As he expected, she was instantly at attention, leaning down to place her ear beside his mouth. A few strands of her dark brown hair tickled his nose, and he smiled as he spoke. “You had general duty last night, correct?”
She nodded.
“So you’ve been awake since yesterday morning?” His smile was softening into a reproachful expression, now.
She hesitated, knowing what was coming, but bound as she was by her own conscience as much as by the dictates of the state, could not lie. She nodded again.
“Then you will report immediately to the marshal’s office and tell him that Undersenator Timon-Syntichy has requested that you be relieved of duty until tomorrow afternoon.” She stiffened and made to retreat from the source of that quiet voice, but Cyrus, though he was no guardian, had better-than-decent reflexes. One of his hands shot out, ink-stained fingertips finding a hold on her brown wrist. “Then, Mara, you will return to—”
“Be quiet, boy!” hissed the matron on Mara’s other side, leaning forward so she could glower at both of them over her shoulder. “Such disrespect for your elders!”
“Madam,” Mara whispered, her voice grating with disuse. “The undersenator is quite finished, and will now return his full attention to the speeches. I beg your pardon for the interruption.”
The old woman harrumphed and turned back away, her chin tipped upward as she stared down her nose at the orator. Cyrus, however, did not focus back on the roaring figure below; his grip tightened on Mara’s wrist, and he pulled her closer, so that his lips almost touched her ear.
“Poorly done, Guardian Dwyn. We are not children any more. Now, pay attention. Once the marshal has relieved you of duty—”
“—my lord—” she interjected from between gritted teeth.
“Once he has relieved you of duty,” Cyrus stated again, “you will go straight to your barracks, get yourself a meal and a bath, and sleep. If I hear that you were out of bed before nine o’clock tomorrow morning, I’ll have to report you for insubordination. Do you understand?”
A muscle in the young woman’s jaw clenched, and she discreetly wrenched her wrist from his grasp. Straightening her military surcoat and not quite meeting his eyes, she nodded brusquely, just once, and did as her lord and ruler bade.
Cyrus watched her retreating form—the hand resting perfunctorily on the holster at her hip, the tense shoulders, the quick stride—and couldn’t withhold a grin.
It was concise, well written, and most importantly, held my attention, even though it would be considered a scene with very little action. Dialogue that is well written often has that effect, so well done.