Rook leans in, frowning thoughtfully. “That sounds different.”
Teia looks over with a brow raised. “You have a good ear.”
“And a spare.” Her eyes flick back and forth between them. “So?”
“It’s Antivan.” Ay, here Viago goes. Behind his back, Illario’s eyes roll skywards. “What you’re used to hearing here is Antivanio.”
“Antiva has two languages?”
“Yes,” says Viago, precisely as Lucanis and Illario say in near unison, “No.”
Rook rests her elbow on the table, chin in her hand, and regards the lot of them as if she might think they are all a bit crazy. “This was helpful. Thank you.”
“Ah!” Teia silences the lecture Viago is clearly winding up with a raised finger. “My house. And don’t you start, either.” Illario’s smile is wide and insincere.
To Rook, when she seems satisfied there will be no interruptions, Teia explains: “It is one language—Viago, do not—but the northern cities that deal more directly with Rivain prefer some adaptations that the south does not.”
“We prefer to not sound like a bunch of fussy grandmothers so old they need to water their wine.” Illario interjects. Find a line, Illario will toe it.
Teia’s voice is sweet as spun sugar. “Illario, ancora una parola e lascerai la via breve.”
Rook’s eyebrows are climbing higher. “I am…so sorry I asked,” she murmurs to him.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures her, sotto voce. “We’re not as easily bothered here as in the south. Illario just enjoys an argument.”
“In some cities, such as Salle—” Teia raises that same finger to Viago. His mouth snaps shut with an aggravated click. “—the more classical dialect is still used exclusively.”
“We have an appreciation for tradition,” Viago huffs.
Lucanis settles it. “In Treviso, we tend to use the newer.”
The way Rook’s lips twitch is wicked. “Which is Antiveeno.”
“Antivanio.”—“Antivan.” Viago and Illario, overlapping.
And Rook, still with her chin in her hand and her eyes on him, coy and smiling.
