The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords, Old Rose Harbor
So when the distant knock on the door echoed through the house, the Mugrobi galdor didn’t take much convincing. He tried. He did try.
“Darling?” Uzoji called, his voice echoing through the empty house. He closed the book he’d been reading, holding it on his lap. Silence. He’d sent the servants away a few hours ago. It was hard enough to keep any servants – he grinned at the thought of some of Niccolette’s more creative tantrums – and he knew better now than to ask them to stay through an evening when she intended to meditate. Predictably, more silence. Uzoji thought wryly that it was best not to interrupt her anyway. He’d count himself lucky if the bell hadn’t. Better to get up now, keep it from ringing again. He set the book aside.
With a grunt, the slender Mugrobi eased himself out of his blankets and his bed. He wore a pair of soft warm pants, although nothing but bandages on his upper body, wrapped around his torso, down over his hip on one side and up to his armpit on the other, over the shoulder to keep everything in place. What chest still showed was dark and muscular, well-defined, smooth, almost sleek, if a little thinner than it had been before.
Uzoji finished standing, carefully. He winced, faintly, brushed one hand over the side of his chest, and kept moving. He pulled on the thick robe hanging from the stand near his bedside one arm at a time, but left it hanging open. It was warm in the house, warmer than it should have been, especially given that no one had stoked the fires in hours. Having the use of both hands again was a welcome relief, even if he didn’t particularly need to tie the robe closed.
His normal loose, easy stride was still more like a shuffle than anything else. Uzoji thought he was getting a little better, at least. Anything faster than a snail’s crawl still seemed to leave him breathless, and he couldn’t move his torso too quickly, couldn’t twist from side to side at all. Even looking over his shoulder had to be done slowly and cautiously. The healers said it would continue improving. Something about not pushing it; Uzoji didn’t dwell over much on that part.
Uzoji shuffle-walked towards the door, his hands gripping at the edge of a convenient table or clock more than once. He took a few moments to rest and collect himself once he reached the flooding thing, checking his forehead. No sweat – a considerable improvement, he thought, pleased. Silence from outside, now. Had he imagined the knock? Just an excuse to get himself up? Well, Niccolette wouldn’t be pleased with him. Uzoji felt a smug little smile on his face at the thought.
Still, better to check. Uzoji flexed his ramscott field, opened the door, and raised an eyebrow at –
Tom Cooke?
The Mugrobi galdor grinned, flashing white teeth glinting in his dark face. He was thinner than when Tom had seen him last, the bones in his face starker against his skin, but considerably more cheerful than when he’d been barely alive on the warehouse floor. Much calmer too, especially relative to those frantic first moments after he’d woken up. He’d turned his head to the side and seen Niccolette, and he’d thought she was dead. He remembered the feeling of breathing, suddenly strange because he could have sworn he’d drowned. Uzoji hoped he hadn’t actually cried; things had gone fuzzy fairly quickly. Maybe Tom would do him the courtesy of forgetting about it as well.
After that, Uzoji had woken up again with the healers – no sign of Niccolette at all then. He remembered that better, the panic of it, until someone had told him she was alive, unconscious but alive. It was rare to die outright from backlash, of course, but Uzoji thought he could be forgiven for not thinking clearly.
“Tom! This is a surprise. And a pleasure. Unless – ” Uzoji raised his eyebrows. “Ah, Niccolette said something about work for Hawke, but I didn’t realize…” he had not, Uzoji thought, given her much chance to explain. He’d been angry when she’d told him across the dinner table. Then she’d been angry too, finally. He hadn’t been sure he could take much more of her fluttering attempts at solicitousness. That wasn’t his wife. Bright sparking anger between them, that rush of hot feeling – even her tears afterwards had been welcome and cleansing. For both of them, he thought. Anyway, he’d never much liked those plates.
“Come in, please,” Uzoji offered. “I think I know where my wife is,” he grinned at Tom, exhaling slowly, feeling the breath moving smoothly through both lungs. “Hulali’s tits, but I am grateful to you,” Uzoji shook his head, clasping Tom warmly on the arm and letting go. The inside of his right hand was odd and pale and pink across the palm, but there wasn’t more than the slightest stiffness to its movements. He used them both, freely, as if nothing was wrong with it.
With his clear refusal to take no for an answer set on his face, the Mugrobi galdor shuffled back from the door. He held it open wide, leaving plenty of space for Tom to enter his home.