A warm breeze came in through the open shutters, made all the candles flicker and gutter and then spring back to life, dancing merrily. The Dove was short-staffed tonight; as Naulanda bustled by with a weighed-down tray, slapping away the fumbling paw of a drunk old man, her forehead was slick with sweat. The air was full of the chatter of voices, giggles and laughs, slurred arguments, the clutter and clack of metal and the clink of glasses and the rattle of dice. The air was heavy, damp, and smelled of petrichor and the warming Harbor streets.
They’d been talking about something else just a moment ago, but Cooke couldn’t remember what it was. A table about fifteen feet away had suddenly burst into raucous laughter, and he’d found himself looking at the screwed-up, chortling face of a man he knew from somewhere. He was a wick with a damn weak glamour and a narrow, pale face, with dark eyes and hair the color of flax; he opened his mouth wide when he laughed, a spray of spittle glistening on his bizarrely straight teeth.
Tom had leaned over to Murko, indicated the kov with a jerk of his head. He’d broken off for a moment, face working in drunken confusion, heavy dark brows drawn together. He bit his lip.
“I swear to the Circle— I’d swear I know ’im,” he said, sucking his teeth. “You know ’im? An’ that one, there, sittin’ next to ’im.” Tom’s eyes wandered to the wick’s companion, a sturdily-built (albeit short) Mugrobi man with a shaved head. He was more reserved than his tyat companion, or more somberly-dressed, anyway. Whenever the blond wick laughed his obnoxious, toothy laugh, he’d just smile a little tiredly. He was Tom’s type, being honest – there was something elegant about the heavy set of his features, something graceful about the way he moved, though he looked damned strong – but if he’d ever been with him, he couldn’t remember.
It was the wick, though, that’d caught his eye. Something about that kov he didn’t like, and it wasn’t just the shrill, honking sound of his laughter – though if that kept up, Tom reckoned he’d as much right as anybody to put a stop to it.
They were an odd pair, sitting there in the corner. The big human with his long, tangled black hair framing his long, bony pale face, broad shoulders drawn up around his ears, and the lithe, handsome Mugrobi galdor. Cooke had always stood a head or two taller than his human fellows, and next to Murko Muelton, he was massive; he was about as scarred, too, as his companion was pretty. He was handsome in his own way, though, with his broken nose and his lopsided smile, his eyes ringed with sleepless shadows.
Cooke and Muelton weren’t exactly unfamiliar faces in the Black Dove, but tonight was different. Tonight was the second year anniversary – Murko’d kept track, because gods knew Tom couldn’t remember shit these days – of their little venture with the catamaran, and the way they figured it – the way Murko figured it, again, because Tom wasn’t shit with money – it wouldn’t be much more than a season before they paid her off in full. Everything was coming together, finally. Even Tom had been spending less time in the dens; he’d been drinking less, even, finding himself more focused, finding the air a little more breathable.
And what better time than the rainy season? It’d been a damn cold winter, and with Meggie’s health the way it was— but sack it, he wasn’t going to think about that tonight. Not a damn thought about anything other than the bright future. That fucking property in the Muluku Isles Murko wouldn’t shut up about. Well, let him talk. Tom Cooke was in a good mood tonight, for once. A good fucking mood.
Until now.
As he stared at the wick, scratching at his unkempt stubble, recognition suddenly lit up his face. He paused to take a long drink of Gioran whiskey, and when he set the tumbler down, he kept his big hand curled around it, his grip white-knuckled. His scarred lip twitched. His face had gotten pale, and he’d narrowed his eyes. “Ssshhhhit,” he snarled between his teeth, his other hand clenching into a fist on the table.
But when he turned to look at Murko again, there was a malicious spark in his black eyes. His lip curled in a sardonic smile.
“I wanna—” He fumbled with his words for a moment, holding up a finger oddly delicately, as if to say, Bear with me. I’m guttered. He cleared his throat, then continued, quietly, “I wanna—I wanna fuckin’ do somethin’, hey, Murko? I wanna give that sh— that sshhhstop—stopclocker a surprise. Ye chen? I wanna fuckin’— You wanna help me? You got yer – yer fancy voo. Shit.” A pause. Tom blinked hard. Damn, but the room wouldn’t stay still. “Lissen, that’s a rat bastard, right there. He deserves somethin’… special, hey?”