here was a funny twang of the zither, and then Linden was roaring with laughter, head rolled back against the cushions. Tortie’d gone off the back of the couch; Tom couldn’t see where she went, only the motheaten throw was all wrinkled and rumpled, like she’d darted off in a hurry. Tom’s smile faltered a second – his lip twisted – he shot a look at Linden, but then shrugged it off and took another drink of eza.
“Oes,” Ipadi was saying, pouring himself a little at the bar, “oes, ent we got ourselves one? Ye drag in the most interestin’ kov, Cooke.” He was smiling in his lopsided way, that long face of his crooked with it, his eyes keen.
“Fuck me!” Linden said, finally. “Wha’ – whawas I goin’ t’ play?”
“Why don’t you play us somethin’ about the macha hunter,” shot Tom back, idle-like.
He was looking at Charlie, studying him up and down. That smile was still on his face; Tom thought he’d heard something in his laugh, something like he’d got off-balance. Boemo, he’d thought, good. It was strong shit Ipadi distilled, and he could already feel it warming him up where the damp’d settled into him, though his shirt was still damp and stuck to his skin, and his hair was still tangled slick down his back, messy where it was starting to dry.
“Ne chen nothin’ ‘bout ‘im.” Linden shrugged. “Wo chet, Alan, pass me tha’...” He leaned down to where the kov Tom didn’t know was lounging, his hand with his pipe resting easy on one knee; Linden took the pipe out of it easy-like.
Tom shrugged. “Play somethin’ Bastian, then,” he said, “if you ain’t too fucked up.” He stood at the edge of Charlie’s field, the now-familiar woobly of it lapping against his skin.
Toff did look flooding ridiculous in his coat; he liked it, how silly he looked, those long slim hands peeking out of his baggy coatsleeves. Both his brows went straight up when he knocked back the eza, but he didn’t say nothing, just started grinning. Mung fucking toff. Mung, pretty toff.
Linden was choking with laughter again, and for a second there was just the sound of him and Charlie coughing.
“Mujo ma, jent,” said Ipadi with a shrug, leaning back beside Nevio. The natt’d passed him his blunt, and he took a drag, blowing out fragrant smoke. “Been at this qalqa long enough. Ent never had eza?”
Second or third drink, he could separate out a light, sweet taste, almost like cider. In the candlelight, all Charlie’s delicate angles were sharp; the glint of his irises was fair bue. His eyes wandered to the fingers wrapped round the glass, traced them long, then he eased closer to the toff again. If Charlie let him, he’d wind an arm through his, hard as it was to find the skinny thing in all that coat, and guide him to the cushions scattered about the floor.
“My kint’s yer kint, long as y’ent ne trouble.” Ipadi shrugged, then moved in his winding way to join them, blowing out another whirl of smoke. “What brings ye?” He knelt, tilting his head and offering Charlie the spur.
“Pretty toff says he wants to self-destruct,” Tom said, shrugging his big shoulders.
Ipadi’s lips curved down in a mocking pout. “Destroyin’ a work of art?” He smiled. “Ye think destruction’s macha, Charlie?”
“Macha,” said Tom, leaning conspiratorial close for just a moment – just so his breath’d stir the hair near Charlie’s ear – “means beautiful. Jus’ so you know, kov.”