She believed him, and he didn’t know why. Then again, what else was she supposed to do? Most people had never met a raen; most people wouldn’t even think of it as a possibility. Most people would think Vauquelin had lost his mind rather than his soul. Tom remembered a kov back in Old Rose who’d gotten clubbed hard in the head during a skirmish with some of Ramsey’s boys: it had made a crater in his skull the size of a man’s palm, and even though he’d lived, he’d never acted quite the same. Wasn’t even necessarily worse off for it, as far as Tom could tell, other than that he fumbled his words sometimes. Just different. Fair different.
All that aside, Thomas Cooke had never cried in front of anybody before. Well, excepting his mother, he reckoned, when he came out of her squalling. And maybe Daven Marleigh, once or twice – but he didn’t like to think about that. Made him want to flinch and duck his head, even now. He guessed Marleigh’d taught him to be strong, in a way. Any boy who was still soft and silly enough to come crying to Marleigh like he was his mother got the belt and some choice words, and living on the streets of Old Rose, you learned to keep it all inside sooner or later anyway. A man didn’t cry, if he respected himself.
So Tom should’ve been embarrassed, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t feeling much of anything. Wasn’t really Tom crying, in a way; the Seventen looked at him and saw a hare-brained, broken-down incumbent, already low on dignity, so a little weepiness didn’t hurt his reputation none. He didn’t have a reputation to hurt, or a life to lose.
The constable seemed interested, and not professionally. He didn’t like it, but what was he going to do? “I’m not, uh,” he admitted, “not fair, uh – not very – coherent. You lose your proper talk, spending time around – these people. Which I have. I’ve been in the factories ever since I went off the path. Ran off, I mean, left the estate. I took some money – it’s mine, ain’t it? – and rented a place here and got some work in a mill. With the young ladies and the little ones, that is. I’m not much use anywhere else.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice; it was fair dripping from every word. “Sparklies, voo. Magic, I mean. I can’t do magic anymore. You want me to debase myself in front of you? Then fine. I can’t do magic. Hence the field.”
As if to drive home the point, he twisted round to where he’d hung his coat on the back of his chair. His hand went in a pocket, ruffled around, found a small box of cigarettes and then a flint and striker. He took his time in front of her, fumbling the flint in his small, shaky hands. Barely able to make a spark. He got the cigarette lit, but cursed when he nearly dropped it.
“So,” he said, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke at her almost intentionally, “you’re – in uniform, but this isn’t an interrogation. You’re interested, and you want me to talk, but you’re not going to drag me back to my folks.” He tucked a scrap of hair behind his ear, squinting at her, then smiled an awful, crooked smile. “Well, I am dead. The man who went to Brunnhold is dead and gone, because the mona clockin’ hate him, and so does his wife, because he can’t please her. Oh, and his favorite daughter’s fucking a wick. Bet you didn’t know that.
“Nothing matters anymore, Monica Delacore. You’re a Seventen – you see the riots? Everything’s topsy-turvy, everything’s vodundun. Smoke and mirrors. I’m sick of fine wine, and I’m sure as hell sick of pretending to be something I’m not, when the world’s about to crash down anyway.”
Though I suspect you got no clue how much. Another drag, another puff of smoke. An impertinent little snort.
“If this ent– isn’t an interrogation, Constable, then may I ask why you’re so interested? Surely you’ve got something better to do than sit around with me, of all people? You a fan? You want me to sign something?”