The Black Dove Tavern
“And it’s - gods be damned, Aremu,” Chibugo slurred, waving the half empty bottle off the edge of the pier, glittering amber in the golden lamplight that streamed from the wharf behind them. His long dark beaded braids rattled in the wind that darted in off the edge of the Mahogany.
“Ey, watch it!” A man rowing past yelled.
“You floodin’ watch it!” The galdor roared back, and pulsed his field, the sharp heat of static mona filling the air, tinged with a faint weight of physical, a combination Aremu knew as well as he knew his own name. The human ducked his head and rowed harder, off into the steadily darkening waters of the bay.
Aremu said nothing, sitting to the right of Chibugo with his legs dangling off of the old, damp wood. He had not quite dared to rest any of himself against the mostly rotted post next to him.
Chibugo tilted his head back and took another drink from the bottle, the strong column of his throat working. He swallowed and coughed, golden eyes watering slightly, and extended the bottle to Aremu with a grin.
“Yaka, adame,” Aremu said lightly, for perhaps the dozenth time, and clasped the other man on the back.
“More for me,” Chibugo hummed, and set the bottle down with a sigh, his hands resting on the pier behind him, leaning back. He groaned. “Like I was saying,” the galdor shook his head. “Hard to believe it was – fuck all – ten years ago, in Thul’Amat? Eh? Him just a fuckin’ kid, bright eyed and godsdamned bushy tailed, askin’ me those questions about flying – never thought I’d get back up in the air – ”
Aremu nodded, quietly. He had said more, the first time – the second time – the third time, in the long hours of the afternoon that had spilled over into evening and were now approaching night – that Chibugo had told this story. He had been there himself at Thul’Amat too, but he had never tried to point that out, and he did not do so now.
“Hell of a man,” Chibugo said, suddenly, and grabbed the bottle again. “Still can’t really believe he’s gone.”
“No,” Aremu said, softly, tasting the words on his tongue. “Me neither.”
“Well. To Uzoji Ibutatu,” Chibugo finished the bottle. He rose, unsteadily, twisted, and Aremu rose as well, and caught him with both arms, kept him from pitching back into the Mahogany behind them. “You’ll – come and get that book?” Chibugo asked, a little uncertainly. “Doesn’t seem right, me – me having it, if I’d realized, I’d’ve…” he swallowed, and shook his head, beads jangling together again. “Niccolette – she should – floodin’ poetry, I never… made much sense of it anyway.”
Aremu nodded, holding Chibugo up. The galdor settled an arm around his shoulders, and they began to make their way down the pier, Aremu keeping him steady as Chibugo swayed heavily back and forth, stumbled. It was not yet late, but Aremu supposed late had a different meaning, when you started drinking in the middle of the day, and Chibugo had had his first long before he had found Aremu in Quarter Fords.
“Did you read it?” Aremu asked.
“Not – not before he…” Chibugo cursed, fluidly, in Mugrobi, and came to a stumbling stop. “Since, though. When I found it. Yeah. I read it.”
Aremu nodded, and they kept going.
Chibugo wanted to talk; he talked, and he talked, and Aremu coaxed him up the stairs of the miserable inn on the edges of the wharf, and nodded or shook his head as appropriate, murmured here and there. He settled the older man onto his rough cot, and fetched him a waterskin, put it into his hand.
“And next time I’m in the Rose, I’ll – I’ll stop by to see Niccolette,” Chibugo was slurring. Aremu thought the Mugrobi must have believed it, or he would not have said the words.
“I am sure she will be pleased,” Aremu lied.
“The book,” Chibugo said, abruptly. “It’s just – ” He gestured at his satchel, half-open, clothing spilling out. “Red. Dark – dark red binding.”
Aremu stepped around a few empty bottles, and tugged the satchel open wider with his hand; he saw it, a red-bound leather book, small. He eased it out, slowly, and brought it back over to Chibugo, kneeling next to him. “This?”
“Ea,” Chibugo sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head on the hard tack of a pillow. “Take care of yourself, Aremu, by His waters. You never were much – much good at…” his eyes fluttered shut.
Aremu knelt there, silent, for a long moment, until the snoring began.
Aremu stood on the street, with a corner of red leather book protruding from his pants pocket, and he had every intention of going – he could not call it home, and he never quite had, but back to the house in Quarter Fords, empty and alone with Niccolette in Brunnhold, where he would not join her. But – they were not far from the Black Dove. Aremu was not sure of the last time when he had been to the tavern, and he rarely drank alone. He knew that seeing Chibugo so should not have kindled in him any desire to drink, and yet – he wanted to wash the taste of it from his mouth, because despair seemed to have coated all his teeth, left his tongue strange and fuzzy.
He went in.
Aremu eased through the crowds, eyes flicking from side to side, with the same prickle of tingling awareness down his spine that he had never been able to shake. His right arm he kept tucked close to his side, and he could feel the heavy wood of his prosthetic against his leg; his left he used freely, here and there, where a gentle elbow made his passage easier. He slipped up to the bar, and leaned his left elbow carefully against the sticky wood.
Aremu held there, still, a long moment, and he thought of turning and going back into the crowd – back, he thought, out onto the street, and away. Back to Quarter Fords, back to the quiet dark of Niccolette’s empty house, back to his own thoughts and private miseries. He did not; he swallowed, hard, and glanced up, and lifted his hand and chin both to call the bartender’s attention.