A Lesson in The Old Tongue This is a chapter that I cut from Shanakan. It seemed something of an imposition to ask my readers to begin learning a new language when it woudn't really be of any use to them. Most of the old tongue that occurs in the book is more or less understandable by context, and the one point of the chapter, the order of the Faer Karan name, seemed too trivial to justify all the effort. On the othet hand, it's just possibe that someone might want to know more, so here's more - for free. “Well, we’ll start with numbers. Most people find the numbers easier,” Alder said. “All numbers in the old language can be expressed with just twelve words.” “You can start where you like,” Serhan replied. “I’m a quick learner.” “I’m sure that you are, my lord. Numbers. The nine digits are, an, dow, tren, kwa, kwi, hek, sep, ain, and nay. These correspond to the digits one to nine. There are three modifiers, which are don – ten, sens – hundred, and kay – ten thousand. Modifiers are always described by a digit.” “Described?” “Yes. An example for you: if I want to say ten, I would say an don, which you could translate as one ten.” “So twenty is dow don, thirty tren don and so on?” “Yes, very good. So much for the obvious. Now try two hundred and thirty five.” Serhan thought for a moment. “dow sens tren don kwi.” “That’s right,” Alder seemed surprised. “It gets harder, of course with larger numbers. One thousand six hundred and one?” Again a pause. There was nothing between a hundred and ten thousand, and ten thousand was a hundred hundreds, so everything between must be described in hundreds. “An don hek sens an.” “Again, correct. Sixteen hundred and one. “So why stop at kay?” “What’s the biggest number you can say in the old language?” “Hang on a moment. Nay don nay sens nay don nay kay nay don nay sens nay don nay.” “Which is ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine. You want more? You seem to have the hang of it, so now that you’re feeling smart we can look at something a little more complex.” “By all means.” “In the old tongue the distinction between nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs is blurred. The simplest words are just verbs or just nouns, but there are also words that we call abstracts. Let’s start with a simple phrase that you’re probably familiar with: ey es Tangero.” “You are the stranger.” “Yes. A simple homily exhorting people to treat those that they do not know as they would wish to be treated themselves. Now, you note the ‘o’ on the end of Tangero. That is a neuter ending, carrying no gender. If it ended in an ‘i’ it would be referring to a specifically male stranger, and an ending of ‘a’ would be female.” “So ey es Tangera would be: you are the female stranger…” “Yes, as I think I just said. If you take the ending off altogether?” “Tanger. I have no idea.” “Yes you do, but you’re not as smart as you think. Tanger is the plural, and plurals carry no gender. One more thing that you should note; when that phrase is written down the word Tangero is capitalised, which allows you to read it correctly as having the stress on the first syllable. If we stress the second syllable is makes it indefinite.” “You are a stranger?” “Correct.” Alder smiled briefly. “Do you know the usual response?” “Yes; goram es san kwercano.“ “Which means?” “Trust is the child of an oak?” “Close enough. Technically it’s ‘a child’. This expresses the belief that while one should treat a stranger well, one should not always trust them until trust had had time to grow, and so forth.” “So much I understood. This is the same san that is used in people’s names?” “Yes, but more pertinently the phrase introduces us to our first abstract: goram. The word means trust. You cannot touch a trust, or see it. The old language is peculiar when it comes to abstracts. They can be made specific by adding the prefix an- onto the beginning.” “One. So an-goram means… what?” “Literally ‘one trust’, but in this case it converts it into a verb. So when I say : Gerique an-goram Serhan?” “Gerique trusts Serhan.” “All abstracts are different. There’s no pattern, but the an- prefix is common to them all, as is the –re suffix.” “You’re right. This is a complicated thing.” “Not so much. Re means ‘then’ and is used to create a past tense.” “So Serhan an-goram-re Alder would mean: ‘Serhan trusted Alder.” “Quite so, but it gets worse. What do you suppose Alder an-Goram-re Serhan would mean?” “Well you’re switched the stress onto the first syllable of Goram, which should mean it was now definite – the trust – but that makes no sense in the context of the sentence. I give up.” “Alder used to trust Serhan. It emphasises the past tense, making it very definite. Again, every abstract will de different, but each can carry the –re suffix.” Serhan had been thinking. “I have a question,” he said. “The phrase Faer Karan sounds like the old language, and from what you said earlier, Karan is a plural, which is how we use it, and Karani is the singular – male?” “Yes. For some reason the Faer Karan decided that they would be technically male, but the phrase is more interesting than you know.” “Just a moment more – the word Faer; it means magical?” “Magic. It’s an abstract.” “So an-Faer would be?” “A spell. A single piece of magic, if you like.” “Thank-you. You were going to tell me something else?” “Yes, before you interrupted me. The phrase Faer Karan is the wrong way round. It should be Karan Faer – meaning lords of magic. Faer Karan switches the sense around so that magic owns the lords – magic lords, if you like.” “That’s odd.” “Yes, but probably of no consequence, just a linguistic curiosity.” “So when would you use words that way round?” “A vague question. How about bessan karana? “Meaning?” “Beautiful lady, in the sense of lords and ladies. The plural karan could be better translated as nobility.” “Yes. So putting it the other way around?” “karana bessan would be a woman who’s lordship was over beauty, if that makes sense?” “So in that sense you could have karani bessan.” “Yes; a man who’s lordship was over beauty. It could be used in several senses, I suppose.” Are there words that are specifically male or female?” “Again, yes; frateri means brother; sorana sister, felana woman, dorsani man.” “So what happens if you use an ending that switches gender?” “That depends entirely on the word. If you called your sister sorani, it would be a term of affection, indicating that she kept up with the men of the family – a tom-boy if she was young – in male pursuits. If you called someone dorsana, on the other hand, it would mean an effeminate man, and not be complimentary. Neuter endings are almost always insulting, and indicate a lack of passion, concern and feeling.” “So it achieves the attribution of male and female characteristics to the opposite sex, or the lack of them. This can be done for all words?” “Nearly, but let us move on to something simpler, and perhaps more useful.” “Carry on.” “The word bos is another prefix. It means, in general, ‘practitioner’.” “In what sense?” “Well, katan is war, so bos-katano is a soldier.” “You used the neuter ending.” “Of course. The difficulty here is that the ending on katan has its own meaning. When I say katani I am saying aggressive war, and katana is defensive war, so bos-katani is an aggressive soldier, and bos-katana a defensive one. You can force a gender onto the composite by saying, for example, bos-i-katana, which would mean a male practitioner of defensive war, but the phrases start to lose meaning, as individual soldiers do not practice a characteristic type of warfare, they just fight. Aggressive and defensive war is the prerogative of commanders. Thus the meanings mutate. In fact, bos-katana would mean a defender, and bos-katani would be an attacker. With these new meanings the attribution of gender works again.” “So could I use bos-faer?” “Yes. Mage would be a good translation.” “Is there a way to make that definite – the mage?” “It’s something I would have avoided until later, but yes. A single syllable word like bos, or even san, can be made definite by adding an- as a prefix. So an-bos faer would be the mage.” “And the word moy, what does that mean?” “Have you been trying to read something?” “You would object?” “No. Study is good. moy means large, or down the track you are headed, it can mean great. The phrase that you’re building, moy an-bos-faer, means the great mage. It is a title not used by the Faer Karan. I am curious as to what you might be reading.” “Do not be.” “As you wish, my lord.” “I think we have done enough today. Can you prepare me a vocabulary?” “I believe that one already exists. I will have it delivered to you.”