The Waterfront
Aremu left with the lingering taste of a Bastian wine of rare vintage thick on his tongue. Collingwood had brought it out with a smile for Niccolette, and the three galdori had discussed it, cheerfully, in a language Aremu scarcely spoke. Niccolette had promised to bring Collingwood a bottle of a vintage from another winery, one she thought he would enjoy. Aremu had thanked both the servant that poured it and Collingwood, and he had not finished his glass.
They had ended the meal on a lemon sherbet that Aremu had found too sweet and too tart all at once. All of the lovely food made him long for nothing so much as erg gram cooked on the stove of the Eqe Aqawe, somewhere halfway across the Tincta Basta. He did not mind if he had some burnt bits scraped from the bottom of the pan, if the rice was clumped and dry, or even if the meal was interrupted by the sudden jolting of the ship. All that mattered was that the only expectation was that he would eat until full, and all the rest was made easy by it.
After dinner, they were meant to retire to Collingwood’s sitting room and talk. Aremu had stood, politely, and he had thanked Collingwood for the invitation and the excellent wine and the delicious meal, and he had apologized for needing to return to the ship, and he had lied and said that he was sorry to go. He had bowed, and he had slipped away from the sharp brightness of Niccolette’s field, the firey heat of Collingwood’s, and the sturdy heaviness of Uzoji’s, and he had looked back only once.
Aremu wondered if it would have been different, if he had been born whole. He wondered whether he could have belonged, then, too, sometimes, somewhere outside of the ship. He wondered what kind of man he would have made, and then slowly, with effort, he eased his mind off of that path, because he already knew its traces too well, and knew, too, that there was nothing to be gained in their trodding.
The evening was a warm one, by Anaxi standards, but Aremu found himself oddly chilled by the whistle of wind off of the Mahogany. He walked, slowly, along the pier, and he swallowed, hard, and felt the movement of his throat against the starched collar beneath his jacket; he traced his fingers over the cravat that held it together, and then shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking. The waistcoat beneath, too, felt stiff against his skin, as if it was trying to hold him into a shape he could never take.
Aremu did not rush, but went slowly along the waterfront. There was, as always, that prickle of awareness down his spine, and he could not, however much he might wish, stay lost in his thoughts. He glanced around; he could not help it, especially not walking alone. He kept himself alert and aware, and he watched the faces passing him, the ebb and flow of the crowd. He checked the occasional figure sitting still against the waterfront, and none of it meant more than that he did not need to fear, not until -
He was not sure of the large, dark shape until he saw the glint of dim yellow light off the familiar twist of a scar, set against thick hair fluttering in the breeze. There was a bottle in his hand, and it did not escape Aremu’s notice. Aremu held, a moment more, because he did not think the other man had seen him, and that meant that it was a choice, still, whether to stay or to go. He could choose, he thought, uneasily, and he nearly left.
Aremu cleared his throat, sore with the scrape of all the thoughts he had held inside, and took a step closer.
“Tom,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the creaking of wood, the distant screech of harbor gulls, the slap of the waves. It must have been loud enough, because the other man turned to look at him, and Aremu tried a grin which he was not certain about. He slid his hands from his pockets, crossing his arms over his chest against the wind, and found that he was not sure what to say.