ircle, I don’t know –”
Anatole was tipping more brandy into Incumbent Proulx’s snifter, the leather-backed chair at the heavy mahogany desk creaking. He was watching Proulx intently, though both men were laughing, and Proulx so hard that his cheeks were flushed. “I don’t know what’s got into her,” Proulx said as his laughter petered out, over the thin trickle of the brandy against the glass. “You know how they are, at this age.”
“But – Gioran – cooking?” Anatole sat back, swirling his own glass; he hadn’t poured any more for himself.
“The history of Gioran cuisine,” Proulx pronounced, taking another long drink and shrugging his thin shoulders. “It’s all she can talk about. Clocking fungi. I told her to be careful, what with how things are getting, the Huanes and the Fintaines and all that rubbish. Though I suppose I should be glad that she’s taking an interest in her studies at all; I spent most of my Brunnhold days on the lawn. You remember?”
Proulx’s eyes skittered down, across the desk; they lingered on the shadowed carpet. He was pulling at his dark red mustaches thoughtfully.
They caught the low light strangely; they were ringed as gold as the phosphor lamps, but they went to hazel toward the pupil, a sort of tawny light brown. He sat across the desk from Anatole, his small frame slumped in another plush chair.
The streets were full of mist. You couldn’t see it now, of course – it was Dentis, over the long strange hump of the year, and the days were starting to get shorter – but when he’d got home from Stainthorpe, the study window had given out on a sea of rooftops rising from the fog, slick and glittering with rain. The rain’d got heavier as the evening’d drawn on, and now the sun’d sunk below the chimneys, it was driving sideways, lashing the windowpane.
It was benny warm in the study, warm and warmly-lit. Anatole was looking down at the desktop with a faint crooked smile. “There is nothing quite like one’s first victory on the lawn. But – to each their own, I suppose.” With a slight shrug, he looked back up at Proulx. “I wouldn’t worry about Annabelle, Alcest. We all set aside the idle pursuits of our youth, eventually.”
Proulx nodded, slowly, then smiled. “If the boy I was then could have imagined,” he laughed; he shrugged himself, taking another long drink. “The Council. I don’t know if he would be impressed or horrified.”
“I would have been horrified, no doubt,” Anatole put in, and Proulx laughed again, gold shivering through his perceptive field. Anatole watched him carefully. “I’m sorry to have missed you, by the way,” he said, “at the Pendulum, last eights. Bernard told me you had quite a bit to say about the recent –”
“Sir,” said the quiet, even voice.
Neither of the two galdori had seen him come in, but then, Morris had always been light of foot; light of foot, and hard to read. Both men looked up, either way, falling silent. The footman stood dutifully by the door of the study, a soft phosphor-lamp sheen in his slicked-back, dark hair. His long, pale face was grim.
The incumbents watched him expectantly, but it was a few seconds before he spoke. Finally, he said, slowly, “You have a – visitor, sir.”
Something in Morris’ face made Anatole sit up straight. The tense set of his jaw, maybe. Morris was a man with a hell of a servant’s rhakor, and the faint jumping muscle in his immaculately-shaved cheek spoke louder than a hundred wide eyes. His back was always stiff, but it seemed stiffer, tonight.
Anatole kept on smiling, still, though he couldn’t help the slight quirk of an eyebrow – a glance at the window, dashed and rattling with rain, a bemused glance at Proulx, who was staring at Morris with the half-pleasant, half-confused look of a man who’s starting to be drunker than he thought he’d be when he started.
Then he looked back at Morris, setting his snifter delicately on the desk. "Yes, Mr. Morris?"
“He –” Morris looked at Proulx, just long enough for Anatole to notice. His throat bobbed in a tight swallow. He opened his mouth to speak again, then shut it. “The gentleman is one – Mr. Aremu Ediwo,” he said finally. “He claims to have important business with you, sir.” Morris put a subtle weight on claims.
The smile on Anatole’s voice did not break, not a whit. It only froze; his fingertips froze on the rim of the snifter. The whole of him froze, for a few moments.
“A Mugrobi gentleman?” mused Proulx, pulling at his mustache.
Anatole darted a sharp glance at Proulx, an almost worried glance, then swallowed dryly and smiled back at Morris. “Perhaps –”
“Anatole,” Proulx said with sudden feeling, fidgeting in his chair. He smiled brightly at Morris, then at Anatole. “You mustn’t let me get in the way of your business, I –”
“Nonsense.” Anatole licked his lips; the smile was still plastered on his face, as if stuck there. “Please, Mr. Morris,” he said smoothly, “send him up.”
Morris looked like he was about to argue; he didn’t, in the end. With a brusque nod, he said, “One moment, sir,” and then turned on his heel, walking crisply from the study.
The door clicked behind him, and Anatole took a sip of brandy; then he drained his glass, setting it down on the desk. Proulx was looking at him curiously, his smile a little wan. “If you have some business,” he offered hesitantly, “I, ah… I shall…” He trailed off, but set his glass down with Anatole’s.
There was a long pause, full of the pattering rain and the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Tom felt like he was swimming through a dream. The air seemed more chill than it had earlier; everything seemed brighter. The desk, cool underneath his fingertips. The light, catching the gilt letters on rows of spines, lining the walls. Incumbent Proulx sitting across the desk from him, as he’d been sitting for the past hour.
Tom felt like he was looking at him for the first time. He tried to find a smile for his face again. He thought it must’ve reassured Proulx, because the other man nodded, unflapped.
He was still Anatole, he reminded himself, still sitting there, smiling Anatole’s smile; he was still in control. “Perhaps – this is quite unexpected,” he went on, and found the voice again, blessedly. “It’s a damned shame to cut such an enjoyable evening short, but I’m afraid I must. I can’t apologize enough. We don’t do this nearly often enough, Alcest, I daresay –”
Proulx was already rising stiffly to his feet, waving one thin hand. “I shall leave you to your business. Bea and I will see you,” he added, leaning on the back of the chair and peering at Anatole from beneath his bushy russet brows, “on the thirtieth–?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the Vyrdag,” Anatole replied, lightly. Proulx laughed. Yes, he had found his rhythm again, he thought, rising to his feet himself, wincing as he put his weight on his hip. There was an ache in his side, but it was faint, dulled by the last few weeks. He didn’t think of it; his head was empty, again, of thoughts.
Until the door opened.
“Sir,” came Morris’ low voice, and the human bowed. Anatole stood very still, his fingertips lingering on the polished mahogany, his lips slightly parted for just a second. He was watching him evenly. He wasn’t sure what expression was on his face – he thought he still might be smiling; he hoped he was – only everything had been swallowed by the sight of him, the soft light gold on his dark skin, glinting in his eyes.
Here. Not just in Vienda – in his study. It was –
Proulx turned, and Tom might’ve known what would happen. The incumbent was smiling; his tipsy, bastly field pulsed gently, then reached out to caprise the Mugrobi galdor at the door. At the edge of his porven, Tom felt the mona shiver and draw back. What he could see of Proulx’s face went pale.
And so Anatole smiled. “Sana’hulali, ada’xa,” he said, and bowed. “Alcest, this is ada’xa Aremu Ediwo, an associate of mine from the Isles,” he went on smoothly, without a trace of feeling, turning to Proulx. “Ada’xa, Incumbent Proulx and I were just finishing up.”
“Ana–”
“Please.” Anatole spoke over Proulx. He gestured with one hand, trembling only slightly. “If you would have a seat,” he said, more softly. You must be tired, he could not say. It's awful, out there.