[Closed] The Rite of Movement

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Afternoon, 27 Yaris 2719
Western Port, Isla Dzum

There was a lingering ache throughout Aremu’s body. His head throbbed, painfully, with each jar of the wheels against the road. His arms and legs felt weak, tired, as if he had carried a load much too heavy for him. His stomach hurt, and churned with the movement of the cart rocking against the road, and he was grateful for the heavy awning that shaded them and the trunks from the sun, that kept the worst of the bright light out. He had tucked himself back into the deepest corner of the covered cart, and hoped that it would help.

He would have borne it; he could have borne it. It was his to bear, for a long time now, and although he had never found his way towards anything like happiness, he thought that he had, at least, accepted it. There was nothing else he could do.

It was a small cart. In the furthest back corner of it, with trunks between him and the others, he could feel it. It buzzed, and rattled, and scraped his nerves raw. He had thought the memory of it bad enough; he had been wrong. He should have sat in the front; he should have walked behind. He couldn’t; he couldn’t leave Niccolette alone with him.

He should have told her.

He should have told her. He had wanted to, there on the couch; he had searched for the words and found them. She would believe him; she knew what he was, and that he was a liar, but it would be pointless to lie about something. Yes, perhaps she would have thought him delusional with his illness, or confused, but he could have made her believe him. They could have – they could have –

He had not told her. He would not tell her. He didn’t know why, except that –

He thought of him, in the engine room, coming close. (He hadn’t known, then; he hadn’t known; he had offered him his hand, pulled him to his feet – ) He thought of him sitting in the captain’s room, the careful truths he’d told.

He thought of a man’s hands holding him close, the gentle scratch of a beard against his skin, of lightning over the Mahogany, and stars shining through the sky like a blanket. He knew better than to think of such things, but he couldn’t put them aside. Like looking down at the stump of his hand, Aremu thought, those first few weeks. He had known how it would make him feel, and he had done it anyway, again and again, because to look away, knowing the truth, was even more painful.

He had not told her.

Even now, the three of them were sitting in the cart, making their way towards the boat which would take them to Mere Mauthua. Their job, Aremu reminded himself, was to protect him – to keep him alive – he found himself shaking, then, and he stilled his hand against the leg of his pants, and closed his eyes. He felt it, the scrape of it against his skin, and he had to swallow a moan.

It had been a long, miserable day already. Aremu had been scarcely able to eat, unable to sleep; he knew what he saw, when he closed his eyes. Hands, rough, strong, familiar hands with silvery scars on their knuckles, and then at another look, thin, small, pale hands, with veins and scattered freckles and a dusting of red hair. Flat gray eyes –

Shame, he thought. Shame. His own face – his own – dappled with stars -

(Does he know I died?)

Phaeta, he thought. Phaeta – and then – a sudden surge of something like fury that swelled up in him without a name. How dare you – how dare you walk about in another man’s body – you monstrous –

Aremu choked it down, and swallowed it back. His breathing picked up, and he kept the whimpers in with effort, grinding his jaw shut, shaking against the bench.

“Aremu?” Niccolette’s voice was soft, and when he looked up she was watching him, a little frown on her forehead, worry written across her face, easy to read in the near-dark. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Aremu lied, and he found something like a smile for her, scraped it up from somewhere in his chest, and it was a lie too, that smile. “Tired, still.”

Niccolette nodded, slowly, looking at him. She looked away, then, out of the back of the cart, at the road they were leaving behind.

He is a monster, Aremu wanted to say. He is – he is –

(I’m a monster.)

Aremu closed his eyes, and the cart rocked onward, slowly and steadily. He could feel it, still, scraping against his skin. As if, he thought, tears burning behind closed eyes, the mona themselves were made as sick as Aremu by his very existence. There was a kofi leaf, lined with gold, and pale slender fingers painting strange symbols in dark red on the floor. His own face, his eyes dark. He held still until he could be sure the tears would not leak out, and it was pity, then, a sudden swell of it. He should have told her. He had not. He would not. He had to.

Aremu could not have said how long it had been. He knew he had not slept, but neither had he quite been awake; there was only the steady repetition of thoughts that went nowhere, and the ache that rippled through him, and the images he could but unsee, when he was too weak to keep his eyes open. They came to a stop, eventually, and Niccolette was climbing down from the cart, and he was too. Aremu waited, and held in the back of it, and watched them. He stifled a groan with his hand when it moved away, when the air around him was still again, and he found something to do – there were straps to tighten, and trunks to push to the edge of the cart, and he could put off seeing him in the light, just a little longer.

Finally, Aremu climbed out of the edge of the cart, and stood shakily at the edge of the dock. The harbor town was loud in the evening light behind them. Aremu could see a group of human children chasing a ball around, laughing. He watched them, for a moment, and turned back slowly to the pile of luggage on the ground, to the ferry before then, the gangway leading from the dock to the boat. Slowly, slowly, his gaze traveled to Niccolette and to –

He looked away, then, back down to the luggage. The human porters were already managing it, and Aremu tucked his hand and the prosthetic into his pockets, and was quiet. The weight of his knife at his back was oddly reassuring, as if he might – he might –

Niccolette was watching him again. Aremu looked up at her, and found another lie of a smile. Niccolette exhaled, softly, through her nose, and turned, and made her way neatly along the gangway, one small hand holding the ropes as she went, light cloak swishing softly against her dress. Aremu followed her across, quick and close, skirting wide around him, and finding his balance on the gently rocking boat easily enough.

He ached, Aremu thought, all throughout. He did not know how to bear this load; he wished he could set it down. He knew, now, he never would.

[Tom Cooke]

Western Port • Isla Dzum

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

Y
ou could almost forget about him, in the back of the cart, behind a mant pile of trunks and bags. Almost. Tom couldn’t see him, but he knew he was there, just at the edge of his field – just close enough to feel it, though he’d pressed himself as far back, Tom thought, as he could. The rattle of the wheels and the rustle of canvas filled the silence, and Tom found himself sitting with his legs crossed, his hands in his lap, as if by stillness and meditation he could hush the mona to complacency.

He couldn’t; he couldn’t even dampen his field. He sat with his eyes shut, trying to ignore the way it scraped his skin. Beside him, Niccolette’s ramscott was indectal.

He knew this was his fault, and he didn’t know how to fix it. It hadn’t been like this, before the cliffs. He could only imagine – had spent a mant manna time imagining – what it’d been like for Aremu, waking up groggy and afraid, with the mona whispering wrongness along every nerve. He had seemed sick ever since then.

He hadn’t thought, even then, it was so bad, and the thought that he hadn’t known disturbed him almost more than the knowledge of what he’d done. The thought he’d got so used to living like this that the look of horror on the imbala’s face had surprised him.

Or maybe it wasn’t that, after all. Maybe it’d happened before, in the tsug grove. He didn’t know if that thought was worse; it hurt, too, but differently. It was hard to think about at all. I’m not much of a sir, he kept hearing, in Anatole’s voice; he tried not to think if he’d stood too close. He tried not to think if his eyes had lingered. He remembered grinning, and he thought, now, it must have been grotesque.

The coat had come off the mirror, in the end.

Earlier, what sleep had come had been fitful; his memory had fed him more of the dream, sliver by sliver. He’d laid down and shut his eyes against the too-bright light, but he’d only succeeded in shutting in his headache, and shutting himself in the dark – and soon, the ache in his empty stomach twisted and turned, and he was sick again, staggering to the water-closet and back, wrung out from empty retching.

He had cleaned up again by the time the gentle knock came at the door. More than the smell, more than the steaming bowl, it was the surprise of it that meant the most to him. Ada’xa, he’d heard, nestled among a rush of Mugrobi, and – he felt ashamed of what he’d thought. Have I not shown you? he remembered saying. Ada’na Ahura, too, had been nothing but kind to him.

You wouldn’t be so kind, he’d wanted to say, if you knew. But there was no sense in thinking like that.

Maybe it was the úqikedisiq, which he’d eaten as much of as he could – and found easier than he’d thought it’d be, as if it’d taken a few slow mouthfuls, warm with peppercorns, to break the spell. Or maybe it was the sun. He’d sat in the window awhile, with the warm sun making itself welcome, sprawling out on the floor lazy-like. He’d felt it draped over his lap like a blanket of gold. With the dots moving about the fields, the wind carrying distant shouts and laughter up to his ears, the world whispered, Life goes on.

He hadn’t been expecting what he’d seen in the mirror. It hadn’t been the ghoulish mask from his dream, not exactly. It had given him no clues. Lathering up the shaving soap had eased his nerves, and shaving had steadied his hand. It hadn’t been hard to pack; he’d barely unpacked.

Now, sitting in the cart, he’d given up the linens for the lightest of what he’d brought from Vienda. He felt strange to be wearing a waistcoat and a silk cravat; he’d felt strange in the loose trousers and sandals. The cart jostled him, and he ached.

He heard Niccolette ask Aremu if he was all right, and he heard Aremu’s quiet response, though he didn’t make out any of the words. He was thinking too much; he needed to ground himself. He didn’t know any of the whys, and he didn’t need to.

The sentiment held about as much water as a cracked vessel. He was beyond relieved when the cart finally came to a stop and he could climb out into the sun, taking his porven with him. His legs were still a pina shaky underneath him, but they held.

Shading his eyes with a hand, he looked out over the sun-warmed rooftops of Isla Dzum’s port town, perched on the coast in its pile of winding streets and squat buildings, reaching out into the water with its bustling dock. Birds wheeled above, and a golden-pink was starting to creep into the sky from the west. The chatter of bochi laughter spilled out over the air; Tom smiled to watch them, for just an instant, despite himself. He could see Aremu getting out of the cart in the corner of his eye, and he didn’t look. Some natt were handling the luggage.

Niccolette was boarding the boat, and Aremu was following her up the gangway, once again giving him a wide berth. He still didn’t look at the imbala; he couldn’t look at the ferry, either, or the shifting, glistening water underneath it, or the men that moved on board. He set his jaw and looked down at the gangway, and he followed Niccolette and Aremu a little apart, using the edge of her ramscott as a guide.

He held onto the rope as far as he could. He still felt unsteady, by the time he’d set one foot on board. He hesitated, then stepped all the way on, then looked up, finally, across the deck, moving; at the shape of Mere Tautha across the water, bulky and – fair still. His stomach lurched, and his legs felt like water. The world began to tip.

He reached, but his hands found no railing. Then, he felt a man catch him, though he didn’t feel the caprise of a field. He staggered, shaky, squeezing his eyes shut as his head stopped spinning. “Floods,” he growled between his teeth. When he opened them, he looked round, and up, and had no choice but to look into Aremu’s face.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Afternoon, 27 Yaris 2719
Western Port, Isla Dzum

Niccolette was watching the loading of the luggage with her arms crossed over her chest, lips pressed taut together. Once, Aremu remembered, a chest of Uzoji's things had tipped over off the gangplank and popped open against the water, and the currents had devoured a host of bright fabrics. Niccolette had been furious; Uzoji had laughed and called it an offering to Hulali.

Once, Aremu remembered -

He looked back then, and saw him, holding tight to the gangway rope, shaky. The setting sun flickered over his red hair; his thin, narrow face was pinched tight in concentration. Aremu thought of him unsteady on the deck of the airship -

It was nothing, not even a wave, just the movement of the ship. Aremu could see the moment it caught him wrong, and he began to pitch sideways - flailed, missing the railing -

Aremu was there. His arm was warm beneath the imbala’s hand, through his light jacket. He could feel it, Aremu thought, perverse - a mockery - he could -

Floods, he growled.

Aremu held still and blank, balanced on the deck of the ship. He felt it scraping against him, buzzing with wrongness in the air. He met flat gray eyes evenly for a moment. What did he see? What did he see?

“Careful, sir,” Aremu lied, softly. There were a thousand ways he could have said it. The words emerged quiet and gentle, as soft as the fingers still wrapped around his arm. He held on a moment longer, until he was solidly on both feet, and then he let go, and took a few careful steps back and away. He turned to go to Niccolette at the railing, as if the loading of the luggage were important, and he pressed his hand flat against his shirt, as if he could wipe it away.

The last of the trunks was coming onto the deck already, and Niccolette was turning away. She wore a hat, perched on her dark hair and secured with a ribbon beneath her chin, casting shade over her.

“We shall sit inside,” Niccolette said. She smiled at Aremu, and he could see the worry in her. It smoothed out when she turned away - when she turned to him - and her smile softened. Aremu felt a pulse of something like horror race through him.

No, he wanted to say, watching her walk away - no, no - no -

“This way,” Niccolette said. She was close to him; couldn’t she feel it? Aremu’s hands tightened on the railing. She didn’t know, he thought, wildly; she didn’t know - he couldn’t -

Floods, he had said. Floods.

“Aremu?” Niccolette called. She was at the door and he was just behind her. She raised her eyebrows, expectant.

“In a moment,” Aremu called back.

He held against the railing as the ferry began to pull away from the dock, the horn honking loudly through the air, the engine puffing clouds into the air. Aremu bent over the railing, and was sick into the water below, gasping for breath. His stomach twisted and knotted and he was sick again, clinging to the railing, sinking half down against it.

He didn’t know what it was. Like eating bad food, Aremu thought. You could never tell. The memory of his fingers skimming over larger hands, guiding them through a strap; the memory of him lurching pale and nauseous off the deck, lying there quoting poetry -

Poetry -

Who the floods was he?

What the hell had he become?

Aremu sagged against the railing, and fished out a handkerchief, crumpled in a ball in his pocket. He wiped his mouth, and spat into the water, and again, though he could still taste the acid of it when he was done. Was it that? Or the look in those flat gray eyes now - that he hadn’t, Aremu thought, wanted to meet his eyes.

I’m not much of a sir, he had said, and he had tried to grin. Aremu’s knees buckled, and he clung to the railing; his knife pricked at his back, and his breath came harsh and fast in his chest. “Godsdamn,” he whispered, shaking. Not much of a curse; he already was. He must have been.

Aremu straightened up, slowly. He spat again into the water, and made his way across the deck, slowly, inside. They were sitting at one of the larger tables. Niccolette was fanning herself lightly with her hat, her other hand resting casually on the table.

Aremu found a seat for himself just a little distant, just distant enough. He glanced out the windows at the sun setting against the horizon. The boat carried them a little further with each turn of the engine; Aremu was keenly aware of the growing distance.

“The Crocus is not far from the docks,” Niccolette was saying, casually. She lowered the hat to the table, and shrugged. “You shall have time enough to prepare for dinner.”

Dinner, Aremu thought - dinner with Ada’xa Yesufu - it was beyond absurd. He couldn’t - he rose, and went to the window. He could not listen; he could not keep from glancing back. Trapped, he thought, between the knowing and the unknowing. Between the live and the dead -

Nausea rose up in him again. Aremu breathed through it, slow and steady. He stood at the window and watched the faintest first stars threaten to make themselves known, and he tried not to look back again. He failed, but he kept trying, again and again.

[Tom Cooke]

Laus Oma • Mere Tauthua

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

H
e didn’t want to know what it was’d struck him funny about Aremu’s hand on his arm, or the look in his face. He’d spoken so gentle-like, like he hadn’t been avoiding him like the plague the whole way over, and Tom couldn’t account for it; a chill’d run through him. “Thank you, ada’xa,” he had murmured, and his eyes had gone back to his feet.

Maybe, he thought now, sitting inside, in the relief of the shade, he was thinking too much. Aremu had always liked to keep his distance, and he’d given him a hell of a fright that morning. It didn’t have to mean a damn thing more than that, and any part of him as said otherwise was stewing in its own chroveshit. Maybe it had been — it; he’d never seen it go off. Maybe he was clocked for a few days afterward.

The imbala didn’t join them for a while. He found it easier to focus on Niccolette. Even then, he felt it in the air, like gossamer, even if none of it touched her field. He had felt it in the concern in her smile when she’d looked at Aremu on the deck, in the shadow of her hat; he felt it in the way she spoke, just a pina more than usual. He was grateful for the idle conversation.

When Aremu did come in, he looked wan. Tom looked over at him briefly as he sat, some distance away; he offered him a smile, then looked back at Niccolette.

He didn’t look away from Niccolette, not even when Aremu got to his feet and moved to the window.

And if—? He’d been fair selfish, he thought suddenly, unsettled. He studied the imbala at the window for a long moment, a crease between his brows. What if there was something the quantitative spell hadn’t picked up? A kov acted different, acted strange, sometimes, before one of those laoso headaches, or a seizure, or worse — he didn’t know.

Niccolette’s voice pulled him back; he cleared his throat. “The Crocus,” he repeated, distracted. He centered himself, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Dinner,” he laughed. “Godsdamn, but I’ve eaten more in the past two days than…”

The conversation drifted on; he spoke again, pleasant-like, of ada’na’s cooking, then found himself asking Niccolette what she thought of Laus Oma. He didn’t know he cared, but it was easier when he had something to hold onto. The conversation wasn’t a struggle; he found her putting words into each lull, rekindling it just enough. He was grateful.

Aremu was at the window, still. Tom made the mistake of looking at him, once. He couldn’t help it; he thought he saw the imbala looking back over his shoulder, looking back at him, and when he looked up, he met Aremu’s eye. He offered him another smile, uncertain. When he looked back at Niccolette, he was frowning, worried.

He didn’t know. The Crocus, he knew, didn’t much like to cater to imbali; they’d arranged to put Aremu up at some other place called Dzúlúsa a couple of streets over, in a bigger neighborhood mostly inhabited by imbali printmakers and such folk. It wasn’t on the way, and he was wondering — there wasn’t a rule — he could insist, he thought, at the Crocus, twist arms, if he had to. He didn’t know it was such a good idea, Aremu staying by himself after what’d happened that morning. He didn’t know Aremu coming had been such a good idea, after all. But he didn’t know how to bring it up, so he didn’t.

He knew he spoke occasionally, but only because he heard his voice. He saw the light gone amber through the window, though he didn’t dare lift his eyes and look; he saw it dimming, and then they were lighting phosphor lanterns on the ferry. He didn’t think the sun’d touched the horizon, but the air had already lost some of its heat. It was strange, Tom thought, how chill it could get here when the sun went down.

Tom tried not to look at Aremu when they disembarked. He didn’t have to work too hard. Out on the deck, the sea-breeze swept over him, taking warm fingers through his hair, and he found that the only thing he could see was the spread of lights on the shore — piled high, dark shapes dotted with bright windows like stars, stark against the gloaming sky. While the ferry was moored, he held onto the railing and looked. Like stars that moved, he thought with a pang, and swallowed a lump. The breeze whisked up smells of spices and fried batter; he let out a deep sigh.

He tried to keep his distance well enough the imbala wouldn’t have to avoid him, though he didn’t always succeed. Down the gangway, he was sharply conscious of him at the edge of his porven. He tried, again, to focus on Niccolette’s field instead, crisp and vivid.

He didn’t have long to think of it. The dock was crowded. It was mostly, he noticed, natt, the occasional brush of a glamour; they were jostled occasionally, but the throng was scattered round a couple of golly fields. He’d heard Laus Oma was a city like the Rose, mostly human, though with a strong imbali presence.

He felt the caprise of a clairvoyant field, first, then heard the voice: “Ayah! Incumbent!” He found another galdor beckoning him, and followed him a little to one side, where a hanging phosphor lantern cast a warm glow.

He was a little shorter than Anatole, nearly even with Niccolette. He was dressed in a light suit in the Mugrobi style; his head was close-shaven, and he had delicate, narrow features. Tom didn’t think he was old enough to be Yesufu, but there were crow’s feet round his eyes when he smiled, and there was something sad, something worried, hanging in the faint lines around his mouth, as if his lips weren’t used to smiling.

“Sana’hulali, Incumbent Vauquelin,” he said warmly, bowing; Tom echoed the bow. “Mrs. Ibutatu,” he put in, turning to Niccolette with a look that was almost cautious, “and — ada’xa Aremu. I’m very glad to see both of you well.” He bowed again, then turned back to Tom, looking more than a little harried. “But I’m being terribly rude. Eduxu pez Yesufu.”

“Ah! Ma’ralio, ada’xa Eduxu,” Tom replied, with a smile and another half-bow. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Eduxu brightened. “We actually met once, I believe, when I was visiting Vienda with my father. It has been more than fifteen years; I was little more than a boy.” He laughed, then, soft and sonorous.

He had bowed deeply for both Niccolette and Aremu, Tom noticed, and if any of the warmth went out of his smile for the imbala, he couldn’t tell. The galdor was looking at him, now; he paused, seeming to hesitate.

“This must be a surprise, I realize. I’m deeply sorry.” Eduxu glanced between the three of them. “We only just found out, and I’ve only been on the isles for a day; I came as quickly as I could. There was a fire early this morning,” he went on, “and the Yellow Crocus sustained — not negligible damages.”

Tom blinked. “I see,” he murmured, looking back over his shoulder, to the natt carrying luggage carefully down the gangway.

“What I mean to say is that my father has sent me to extend to you an invitation, to stay with him until the ball.”

There was a pause; Tom smiled, and forged into it. “We’re deeply grateful,” he said, “but if… I wouldn’t wish to impose, on such short notice –”

Eduxu cut him off with a firm shake of his head, raising a hand. “Please. It’s his pleasure, to host an old friend. And as well,” he started, then paused. Again, Eduxu’s eyes moved from Tom to the other galdor and then the imbala, and rested there. “Ada’xa Aremu, my father would be most pleased to have you, as well; he, ah, he insists.”

Tom turned to Aremu, conscious of the careful distance between them. “Will you stay with us, ada’xa?” He tried, but he couldn’t keep the concern off his face, not this time. He felt frayed.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 27 Yaris 2719
Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

When Aremu could no longer resist the urge of it, he looked. It crept up upon him like an itch he could not scratch, new and painful in some shameful place; it nagged at the corner of his mind. He knew that to shift aside the bandage and touch it would make no difference; he knew it would heal nothing. But he could not look away from the need, and eventually he needed to yield.

Once, he looked back. Flat gray eyes met his, and Aremu could not name what he saw in them. Thin lips rose in an uncertain smile, and Aremu knew, then, what he saw. He could not smile himself; he did not dare. He turned back to the window and fixed his gaze on the churning of the waves, blinking away the tears in the corner of his eyes.

His hand gripped, tight, in the fabric of his shirt, and he breathed steadily. There was light inside the ferry’s cabin, and his own face was reflected dark against the window, smudged faintly with his breath. He could see himself, and through himself the dark glowing of the sunset, descending red and warm across the horizon. If he lifted his gaze high enough, he lost the sight of himself in favor of the stars. He preferred it that way.

There was an upper deck; the wind would be cold, at this hour, but Aremu knew he could bear it. But he could not bear - over the hum of the engines and the lashings of the wave, he could just barely hear them, Niccolette’s voice light and his unexpectedly deep. He couldn’t pick out many of the words, but there was a rhythm to the ebb and flow of it, and he found it oddly comforting.

And if - Aremu closed his eyes for a moment, and saw a sneering gray-eyed face reflected at him back in the mirror. If it broke, if the mask shattered and beneath was something - something - what was he? What did he want?

Aremu’s breath caught and hitched in his throat. Could he do it? He felt the weight of the knife against his back like a curse - not comforting, not familiar, but a horrible, horrifying burden. Could he look into those eyes, knowing what was underneath, not knowing what wasn’t, and...

Aremu opened his eyes again. They were lighting phosphor lanterns outside now, spilling light into the nameless depths beyond. His thoughts paced back and forth and went nowhere, pressing new patterns into his mind. Even when he wasn’t looking he was listening; when they were silent too long he felt a prickle of anxiety. How could he have left her alone with him the day before? How could he have -

He dragged you back from the cliff, something inside him whispered. How close were you to the edge? How easy would it have been?

He saw himself again, his own eyes luminous and a scattering of something dark across his clothing, as if he was lit from within. He felt it - he tasted the shame. His breath hitched, unsteady, and he could not look any closer, for fear of what he would understand.

The docking bumped through the ship. Aremu shifted with it, and did not fall. He turned, then, and waited a moment, and followed them out onto the dock. He kept his distance. Once, on the gangway, he felt it and he nearly missed a step; he stumbled and caught the rope and kept going, and only the sharp catch of Niccolette’s breath told him she had seen.

Aremu felt Niccolette stiffen faintly beside him at the sight of Eduxu, beckoning to them - calling to him. But she was smiling, pink-painted lips in a smooth expression, and she bowed neatly, and Aremu bowed as well.

“It is good to see you, Ada’xa Eduxu,” Niccolette said, smiling.

Eduxu came to it, and Aremu held tight. Niccolette’s eyebrows lifted in the corner of his gaze, and he knew her well enough to see suspicion and concern in the pinching of her forehead, although he doubted any of the rest would notice it.

Eduxu looked at him when he made the offer. Aremu inhaled, softly, surprised. He turned to him as well, and asked, and even with the lines around the edges of his mouth Aremu knew what it was on his face. He did not need to look at Niccolette to know what she thought, or what she would want him to do.

“Your father knows much of generosity,” Aremu said, bowing again. “I am honored to accept.”

Eduxu bowed again.

Their carriage, Eduxu had explained, was on the edge of the docks. It would be only a short ride, he said with a smile.

“I am glad to see you looking well,” Eduxu said to Niccolette. “I shall always be grateful for all the laughter Uzoji gave us.”

Niccolette smiled. Aremu held, wondering; he remembered all too well how hard she had found the more traditional Mugrobi forms of mourning.

“As shall I,” she was saying, easily.

They climbed into the back of the carriage, then, one after another. Men Aremu did not recognize were loading their trunks on to the roof of it, tying them down. Aremu sat next to Niccolette, opposite Eduxu, who smiled at him. He felt it - he felt it - he could not but feel it, scraping at him - he knew what it was -

“How is your harvest looking, Ada’xa Aremu?” Eduxu asked, smiling. “My father says it is a prosperous year.”

“As bright as the sun,” Aremu said, easily, his face smooth; he did not know if Eduxu would believe a word he said, but he could not imagine it would matter. “Hulali favored us in the rainy season.”

“Hulali favors the prepared,” Eduxu said with an easy, polite smile.

The carriage rocked into motion, and they began to move, groaning faintly into the lights of Laus Oma.

[Tom Cooke]

Western Port • Isla Dzum

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

A
remu’s face, reflected back hazy in the small dark mirror of the window. Unreadable, with the long shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks, underneath his brow, the line of his lips straight. His hand, knotted in his shirt. The rope of the gangway, rippling taut; the sound of quiet scuffling, the brush of a body at the edge of his field. Tom pictured Aremu Ediwo missing a step. Inside the carriage, he sat fair still, and he was aware of Aremu sitting diagonally across, the farthest from him.

Eduxu was speaking in his light, lilting voice. His accent was fair different from anybody’s he’d met on the isles; it wasn’t, he thought, too unlike Aremu’s, or, though he struggled to remember, Uzoji’s. A professor of history at Thul’amat, Niccolette’d said.

There’s an observatory at Thul’amat, Aremu had said, where you can see Phaeta’s craters. I studied mechanical engineering at Thul’amat, sir. He thought how Eduxu’d bowed to Aremu, full and deep, right off. There were imbali professors, he’d read somewhere, but he’d never met one: they didn’t often come to Anaxas, and nowadays, he knew well enough why.

He smoothed the legs of his trousers, listening to Aremu reply in a smooth voice. Then he crossed his legs, folding his hands over his knees. He looked aside, out the window, watching the first low streets of Laus Oma rattle by. As bright as the sun, he said, politely. Tom thought of the sun shivering over stalks of cane, dappling down through the wavering leaves of tsug. He glanced back at Niccolette, but Aremu was still speaking, and he found he couldn’t look at him and listen at the same time.

It was the mannerly thing for Eduxu to say, but he thought of the rows on rows of books on sugarcane and kofi, of the scattered law books. A faint smile found its way to his face and then left. He wondered what the Aremu he’d known two years ago’d known of farming, or of running an estate. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it must’ve been an uphill battle, and he found himself picturing Aremu bent over lamplit books into the late evening. Prepared was an understatement.

He felt warm with the thought, at first. Then he saw Aremu in the corner of his eye, in the corner of the carriage, and he fought a tightening in his throat. He stared out the window.

He breathed in deep. The carriage rattled by stalls lantern-lit and teeming with life, wreathed in steam and chatter. The smells of sizzling oil – fried rice-flour – sweet smells, peppery-hot smells, tangy, faintly pungent smells – wafting by, fleeting but precious. The crisp night air. In the spaces between buildings, over low rooftops and walls, the ocean was dotted with lights, then dark in the distance.

The lump felt wedged in his throat. He shut his eyes for a time. Out the window, he could hear snatches of conversations, mostly the burbling, soft ups and downs of Mugrobi, but some Tek, and some a mix.

Niccolette had smiled. Grateful for the all the laughter he gave us. Tom didn’t know he could think of anything he’d like more dearly to be said of him.

“Are you well, Incumbent Vauquelin?” Eduxu asked gently.

Tom cleared his throat and opened his eyes; he was worried they’d be burning, but they were clear. He turned to look at Eduxu, finding the galdor’s face without looking at anybody else’s first. “Ah – quite,” he replied. He forced a smile onto his face. “How are things at Thul’amat? Yesufu tells me you’ve had your hands full,” he put in before the other man could object.

Eduxu paused, then laughed softly, rubbing one eye. “Hulali has gifted me with many opportunities,” he said after a few moments, then smiled his lined, sad smile. “I believe my father will have been speaking of my most recent project.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. Eduxu smiled, a little wry, first at him, then at Niccolette and Aremu. “I think he will not have told you much. He is – warming to the idea.” The look on his face had changed; there was something almost sheepish in it. Apologetic and excited, all at once. “Our friends in archaeology have approval from His Imperial Honor to begin excavations on the east wing of Ashu’tei,” he went on. “I believe it is of crucial importance to our understanding of the Imúh arati of the fifteenth century, and I have worked for years to justify the proposal.”

“Hulali favors the prepared,” Tom echoed.

Eduxu laughed, “A blessing, but so much to do,” and that was all it took.

Underneath Eduxu’s soft voice, he could hear the talon-scratch and chirrup of the moas in front, at first through dirt and cobble, then on even-paved roads. The rattle evened out, too. Tom looked out the window, once; they were winding up inland to a few scattered villas on a hilly outcrop overlooking the port. The wind picked up, and gulls called, and palm trees bowed their heads and swayed. Eduxu’s face – Niccolette – the imbala, in the corner of Tom’s eyes – flickered in and out of the light from lanterns hung evenly on either side of the road, swaying in the wind.

Finally, the carriage lurched gently to a halt. Tom shifted in his seat, sore, lips pressed thin, though he didn’t let himself wince. In the sudden quiet, the crickets were loud. Tom could hear Eduxu drawing in a deep breath beside him; more warm light washed through the windows, and he could see the other galdor shut his eyes and smile. The breeze picked up, and Tom caught a whiff of tsug.

Climbing out of the carriage, he found the stones with his feet off-balance, and he couldn’t hide the wince as his hip took the weight. But he drew himself up and took a deep breath. He was conscious of his field, no longer lapping at the edges of Niccolette’s and Eduxu’s; he knew without looking that Aremu only climbed down when he could no longer feel it.

Yesufu pez Edun’s house had two stories, windows lit, and a spacious veranda out front that wrapped round a quadrangle; it reminded Tom, almost, of a cloister. The moonlight rippled over the roof-tiles, and copious lanterns spun long, wavering shadows from the columns. There was already a very tall, broad man walking toward the carriage, dressed in plain, neat linens; the low phosphor light glinted off his bald head, struck his strong features into sharp contrast. But he was smiling a wide, white smile.

“Sana’hulali,” he called as he approached. He had no field, but there was no mistaking this man for a passive. He bowed very deeply to each of them. “You must be Incumbent Vauquelin,” he said in heavily-accented Estuan, and Tom bowed in return. “Ma’ralio. I am Iru pez Emil, ada’xa Yesufu’s úwahik. Mrs. Ibutatu, it is good to see you well,” he said warmly, turning to Niccolette, and then, more briefly, with the faintest edge of reserve, “and ada’xa Aremu.”

Tom felt the brush of clairvoyance as Eduxu passed him, looking at Iru with a troubled face. “Is Father feeling better?”

“Much.” The natt nodded once, firm-like, then smiled again at Tom and Niccolette. “Please, come inside; I will arrange for your things to be brought upstairs, but ada’xa has been waiting eagerly.”

The front room was spacious. It was all arranged round a great hearth, guarded by low wooden tables and seats. At some berth round this were comfortable-looking chairs, some with footstools, some with plump cushions.

Tom noticed, looking round, that the walls were covered in wood carvings. Over the hearth was a long piece of a fish leaping out of the water, framed in a tangle of vines and flowers; on the other walls were theatre-masks in a strange style, and Tom recognized them – remembered something about masks in imbali opera, his chest tightening. On either side, archways gave out into narrower halls. Iru pez Emil moved for one of these, a kick in his step.

As the door opened, ada’xa Yesufu was pushing himself up out of his chair, and by the time they’d come through, he was facing them. Tom saw the resemblance between father and son almost immediately. But Yesufu’s face was deeply lined, and his hair was marbled grey and snow-white, a sharp contrast to his very dark skin. A pair of round spectacles perched on his nose. He wore a dark caftan, embroidered subtly at the sleeves and throat in dark red.

“Anatole,” he said in a soft, high voice, taking a few steps away from the chair and bowing deeply. Tom felt the gently-probing caprise of a quantitative field; he felt it withdraw, politely slow, though he thought he saw something flicker across Yesufu’s face. “And – Niccolette, and ada’xa Aremu.”

He bowed deeply to the galdor and the imbala. Again, he saw a flicker of something, when Yesufu looked at Niccolette – it wasn’t, he thought, sadness, or even concern – and his caprision of her field was even more fleeting than his. Still, he never stopped smiling.

“I see you’ve met my son,” he said, and gestured Eduxu to his side, clasping the younger man on the shoulder firmly. “I hope that the skies carried you here smoothly. Uqiri is not yet finished with dinner, and after, I have some private matters to discuss with Anatole; but while Iru arranges your rooms, perhaps you will oblige an old man. Will the three of you sit, and take something to drink?”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 27 Yaris 2719
The home of Yesufu pez Eden, Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

Ada’xa Yesufu greeted them. Aremu felt as if he could barely stand; he wondered if he would shatter, there before them all, worn away; ground down, with each scrape, closer to nothing.

“Ada’xa Yesufu,” Niccolette was saying. She bowed, deeply. “You are too generous,” She smiled, and her head tilted to the side, ever so slightly.

Aremu bowed as well, and rose, tucking his prosthetic gently behind his back, rather than into his pocket. “Ada’xa,” he said, politely, and he did his best to sound warm, grateful, but not familiar. He was not sure if he could manage it on the best of days, and today was not one of them. He knew he was not quite smiling, but he tried at least not to frown. “The sight of you is as welcome as the shade of the tsug tree.”

It was a careful modification of an island proverb: a good man is the shade of a tsug tree. Not an imbala proverb, although it was popular among them; not strictly an arata proverb either. Aremu had learned from necessity to find the space between, and enough of it that he could stand on familiar ground when he needed to. He needed it now; he was afraid of what he might say.

He felt as if he might be sick. He found a seat out of the range of his field; it was not hard. He had sat himself apart, carefully, not so far as to be remarked upon. It was hard for Aremu not to - not to -

He knows what he is, Aremu thought, and kept his face blank through the taste of sharp acid at the back of his throat.

Aremu’s eyes wandered back to the masks as they spoke, more than once. They had drawn him every time he visited Yesufu, and tonight was no exception.

The liar was not at the center of the display, but Aremu’s eyes always seemed to find it first. It was the least colorful of the masks, plain dark wood, the mouth carved up into a wide smile. The liar, Aremu thought, trying to find a smile for himself somewhere in his chest, putting his friendly face to the world.

With some liar’s masks, Aremu knew, the markers carved strange, secrets designs into the wood, filled them back in, smoothed them over and sealed them to the plain dark wood. From a distance there was no knowing, but with the faintest scrape of the surface, the truth was revealed.

His eyes went next to the lovers, painted in bright blue and vibrant green. Worn down by time, both of them; the green face especially, so that pale stripes of wood struck down the face like tear tracks. Both wide-eyed, wider and rounder than the others, with the eyes extended out onto the side of the head, so they could look at each other to the exclusion of all else.

Yesufu kept the mask of wealth in the true center of his display. Alala wood, as pure white as could be grown, stained again and again with saffron, treated until even as aged as the masks were, it seemed to glow yellow. Layer upon layer, Aremu thought, tiredly.

Occasionally, the conversation wandered around to him. He stayed upright, and drank no more than a few sips, lifting the glass smoothly and evenly in his left hand. The prosthetic, he kept tucked on the edge of his right thigh, carefully out of sight. When questions came, he answered, and he did his best to find the liar’s smile.

There were other masks; some he did not know the symbolism of. There was the child, of course - the warrior, in paint that had aged to the color of dried blood. Aremu knew that some ancient masks had been made with treated blood as paint. He had never asked Yesufu about his; he did not wish to know.

Niccolette was bright and vivid, and she smiled easily. Aremu did not know what it cost her but he knew he was grateful. All their voices wove together like an opera; Aremu did not try to place the masks on their faces. That, too, he did not want to know. He thought of a mask of smooth carved wood with lines at the mouth and filled in eyes painted gray, flat, hard eyes looking at him - looking at him from a mirror -

”What do you think, Aremu?” Niccolette turned to him with a smile.

Aremu lifted his gaze to her. He knew his cue; he knew what she was trying to tell him. “I am afraid I was mostly preoccupied by my own studies at Thul’Amat,” he said, politely, turning to Eduxu, from whom the question had originated. “For a lecture such as yours, Ada’xa Eduxu, I should have wished for an extra house in the day.”

“Such a student is a credit to his instructors, I am sure,” Yesufu said, but his gaze, and his emphasis, were not on Aremu. Aremu knew to bow his head in grateful thanks regardless.

Niccolette nodded, gravely, but turned back to Eduxu. “Too many lectures, though, are the bane of a good education,” she eased away from the subtext with the faintest curl of challenge beneath her Bastian accent. “One must be free to follow one’s own interests to truly learn.”

Eduxu rose to it. “I find many of my students need lectures to help them find their interests,” he remarked, smiling. “It is the student’s duty to learn when to push back, not the instructor’s to set limits on knowledge.”

Aremu’s eyes flickered over Niccolette, Eduxu, Yesufu - to him. Away. What do you know of it, he wondered, and took the glass in his hand to have something to hold. How do you - how can you -

What was behind the smile? What lay beneath the smooth surface?

He did not look; he could not look. He found himself afraid, suddenly, that he would make a mistake, would say the wrong thing. They would know, and... Aremu felt something in his chest tighten, and he could not look at that either, though he knew what to name it.

Somehow the hours passed, and they were at dinner, all of them. They passed one another to the table, and Aremu felt it crawl over his skin. He jerked, once, the faintest motion; he could not help it. They sat, politely distant all. He could not feel it, but every echo of that deep voice reverberated through his stomach and, too, his chest. He ached.

The food passed before him in a blur; Aremu found himself looking down at it without being able to see it more than once. His head throbbed viciously, and it was a struggle to eat enough to be polite. He tasted nothing; it was like sawdust in his mouth, but he could have eaten sawdust to keep himself safe. The conversation flowed around him like water. Aremu let the current of it carry him along, and put in a quiet thought here or there into the stream as needed.

It was over, then.

He was sick. He was sick as quietly as he could be, gasping and teary-eyed into the dark water closet off his room. His whole body was shaking with weakness and weariness as he rose. He rinsed his mouth out and spat but the taste lingered. Too heavy; it was too heavy, and he was bowing and breaking beneath the weight.

There was a liar’s mask on the wall, and Aremu could see it when he sat on the edge of the bed. He undid the straps of his prosthetic, and rolled up the sleeves off his shirt, slowly, so that he could massage his forearm with his left hand, rubbing the marks left behind, soothing the aches. Whether it was really needed or it was only routine he did not know. He did it anyway.

He could not think; he only sat. The wind drifted in chill through the open window and made him shiver. The faintly sweet smell of tsug trees came in too from the grove outside, comforting; he had seen, when he entered the room, a scattering of long green leaves on slim branches just past the windowsill, as if with the right breeze they would be brushed into the room.

He could not think. It should have been a relief, but it was not. He couldn’t escape it either; it was in his head, every time he closed his eyes. Kofi leaves traced with gold, strong aching hands, his own self pricked with stars, a braid woven one-handed. Flat gray eyes, deep voiced words, a monster. Shame. He didn’t know what to make of it; he couldn’t put the pieces together. He saw more, already, than he wanted to. He had been too brittle, he thought, and he had finally shattered.

The knock on the door took him by surprise. Aremu eased his right wrist into his pocket, and tucked the prosthetic out of sight. He rose, and it was a moment before he could trust himself enough to walk. Across the room, then, to the door. Aremu opened it, and held, utterly still.

Not him not him not him not him not him -

He had known what he would see, but it was already too late.

“Sir,” Aremu said, quietly, looking at him, and he did not know what to ask. He bowed instead, lightly. “Is there something I can do for you?” Aremu knew he could not look away; he knew he could not move away from the scrape of it against his skin. If he had had anything left in his stomach, he might have been sick on his bare feet when his head bent in his bow. He was not; there was nothing left in him. He was as empty as he ever was, and emptier beside. All that was left was a shadow, a pale reflection.

A mask. Aremu thought of the carved face hanging above him. He found the faintest of polite smiles, and wore it as best as he could, and met gray eyes with his own.

[Tom Cooke]

Yesufu pez Edun's Home • Laus Oma

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

I
t was like missing steps in a dance you didn’t know.

Ada’xa Yesufu’s study had been beautiful, and Tom felt like he’d barely seen it; his eyes had been fixed on Yesufu’s face, trying to read the dark eyes magnified behind his thick glasses. They had drunk before dinner; they’d drunk during dinner, with no way to refuse. And Yesufu had poured two glasses of something clear and fragrant, something he called tsenid, and Anatole had been honored to accept.

It’d been easier, with the others around; for all his acting strange, Aremu must’ve known the proverbs by heart, and Niccolette knew the manners, or else could hold her own in their landscape. He hadn’t spoken all that much, before the study, and in the study, he hadn’t spoken enough.

Whenever he misstepped, he knew; he knew it by the faint change of Yesufu’s expression, the tilt of his smile. He didn’t know why. Even now, standing outside the door to his room where Iru’d left him, he couldn’t make sense of what Yesufu had said, in the end. He looked back over all the pauses, all the metaphors that’d spilled so easy from Yesufu’s lips – he couldn’t remember half of them – and it made no sense.

The taste of licorice clung to the roof of his mouth. The chirp of crickets was loud down the hall; he could hear something else, soft talking from somewhere, low, Mugrobi. Soft creaks of the floorboards. So be it, he thought, grounding himself. So be it.

He didn’t open his door; he didn’t even turn around. He’d known where he was going even before he’d left Yesufu’s study, even before they’d gone up together. He’d known where he was going, finally, when he’d seen Aremu give the slightest jerk as he’d passed him on the way to the dinner table. There’d been no question about it, then.

He’d asked Yesufu, casual-like. Yesufu had been polite; Yesufu had only been polite. Ada’xa Aremu is on the end, he’d said, the very last door upstairs, to the west. Of course, his eyes had said. And Tom went west; he stepped out into the night breeze briefly, crossed the balcony that connected the two halves of the second floor, looked out (for a half-second) over the lights of Laus Oma.

Like missing steps in a dance you didn’t know. He didn’t want to be alone, either, after Yesufu. He had read nothing in Iru’s face, and the man hadn’t waited to see him go inside - and yet. He could’ve gone to Niccolette. He felt scattered. The taste of licorice, clinging. Can I trust anyone?

The west side was a mirror to the east, but he passed many empty rooms. Low phosphor lights licked over tables with wooden statuary, painted in bright colors the evening shadows turned rich or muddy. Men in robes, arata, arms full of books, holding up quills and scrolls; children, sitting rapt at their feet. Deep bowls and vases carved beautifully from wood white as snow, white as ghosts in the gloom.

When he finally reached the last door, he’d steeled himself. He knocked at the door without hesitating, because he knew if he hesitated, he knew if he thought on it, he’d turn and go back to his room. Like missing steps in a dance you don’t know, and bowing your head and retreating in shame. So he knocked.

Aremu answered the door, and Tom found himself face-to-face with him. Tom wasn’t sure what he had expected. Sir, Aremu said, and then bowed. Tom followed suit, deeply. When they rose, he was smiling at him, a small, polite smile. Did he look — tired? Sick? His wrist was tucked into his pocket, as always; his sleeve was rolled up, and Tom glanced down – briefly – he could see faint marks against his forearm, criss-crossing the veins. Above him, on the wall, one of those dark masks. He couldn't look at it.

Aremu was looking at him, and Tom, once again, didn’t know what he saw. Not for the first time, he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. It was the feeling he'd had on the ferry.

Is there something I can do for you? “Not exactly,” he said, then paused. The question had set him off-balance. He had thought – maybe it’d be clear, when it came to it, if they were alone –

Aremu was standing in his field. Tom remembered himself with a jolt. He stepped back cleanly. Once, then twice, then a third step, carrying him almost to the opposite wall of the hallway.

Four and three quarters’ feet, in one direction. He’d measured it once, using one of the servants. Lad named Aston, one of the hallboys; he hadn’t lasted long. He hadn’t complained, though he’d looked, at turns, a mant manna frightened, a pina guilty-amused. In Anatole’s study, Tom’d broken a piece of chalk in half, kept one half and given the other Aston. Then, he’d stepped back (one, two, three) until the lad could only just feel the jangling edges of it, and he’d marked the floor, and Aston’d done the same.

Alone, he’d measured the space between. He’d extended it out to the other side – struck a line through all three marks – crossed another line at its center, a chalk X – drawn a careful circle with careful hands all the way round. He’d stood in the middle for a fair long time, trying to get a feel for it. Trying to understand what it meant.

“I have eyes, ada’xa,” he said, as gently as he could. “I don’t mean to insult you, and the last thing I want to do is give you more grief. I want to try and clear the air. I wanted you to know – if you have any questions, about me or about my field, you can ask them, and I’ll gladly answer, as best I can.”

No, he heard in his head, no, no. A terrified man scrabbling to get away from him, wide-eyed, a man pushing himself toward a sheer drop to get away from him. Not just any man.

The words came out before he could stop them. “I’m not,” he started. His breath caught. He didn’t know why he tried again; he was stuck on it, he couldn’t say anything else, he couldn’t think anything else. “I wouldn’t,” he tried again, and didn’t get any further. A shudder passed through him, and he shut his eyes.

When he opened them, he looked up at Aremu. “Epa’ma,” he said, and forced himself to smile. It was wan. “What can I do?”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 27 Yaris 2719
The home of Yesufu pez Eden, Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

Please don’t show me this, Aremu thought. He ached; he ached in all the places he had ever touched, with gentle fingers or otherwise. He felt as if he could feel them, lines written like scars over him. His cheekbone was a burning brand; he remembered the soft stroke of the backs of his fingers across it, tender, against the stars spilling out in the sky overhead and across the Rose below.

I don’t want to see this.

His eyes closed and opened again, a little too long for a blink; he looked down, and back up, and his smile was strained and sad. He apologized; he asked what he could do.

He had stepped back when Aremu opened the door. One - two - three - and the scrape of it had abated just before he stopped. Aremu was breathing shallowly, too shallowly. One, two, three. It was the distance at which you still might be a man. No one could forget, not really, not ever. But at that distance you could put it aside a little better.

Aremu closed his eyes too, a moment, and opened them. Flat gray eyes sneered at him from a mirror, and in front of him a small, worried man looked at him through those same eyes. They were soft, and his lips were too; the smile hadn’t lasted.

If you have any questions, about me or about my field...

You shouldn’t ask me, he wanted to tell him, not here. Not like that. They’ll know - a galdor wouldn’t - No, Aremu realized, suddenly, looking at the worried man standing in the hallway. No; that isn’t what they’ll know. They’ll think -

Aremu thought he might be sick again, understanding. He hadn’t; he had never thought - he hadn’t -

“We shouldn’t talk in the hallway, sir,” Aremu said. I’m not much of a sir. He stepped back, then - one, two, three times, then another half step, to give him space to close the door.

He had not unpacked; his chest sat closed on the floor. His bed was made, still, with only a rumple in the smooth sheets where he had sat. The door to the water closet was still faintly ajar.

If you have any questions, about me or my field...

(Does he know how I died?)

What would he do? Aremu wondered. He couldn’t think - he closed his eyes again and they opened straight away. As if - against the backs of them Aremu had worried he would find him lunging forward, his face a twisted mask of rage - those shaky hands reaching for his neck - it wasn’t those hands he thought he would feel.

Does it hurt? Do you know? I want to know; I want to know if his life ended in pain, if after everything, if after so many years of happiness, of laughter and easy joy, if he felt the searing heat; if that was how he said goodbye. I want to know. Does it hurt?

“My stomach has been unsettled,” Aremu said, honestly, “since this morning.”

If he asked - if he asked - if he asked -

Are you a monster? Or are you - are you still - don’t show me this.

I wept, when you died. And you met me again and you asked me about the names of the stars -

Aremu cleared his throat, carefully. He felt slow; he felt exhausted. Nothing was working; his mind was spinning in circles and overheating. Clear the vent shaft, he thought, with a rough shock of pain at his right wrist. There was still a scrape on his left palm, the last of the rope burn; the sort of mark he would have kissed the edges of, once, when there was a second hand to go along with it.

Tears burned in his chest, but Aremu knew how to keep it closed.

Ep’ama. You never spoke Mugrobi. I would have liked to hear you speak it more. Imbala. You said it so carefully; you - it was hundreds of miles from the careful way he said ada’xa, the light, educated Viendan tones. A lifetime away, Aremu thought, and shivers crawled down his spine.

He didn’t know how long he had been silent; he didn’t know how long they had stood there. If he knows I know - if he knows I know - if he knows I know -

They built a wall between you, lies.

“I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable, sir,” Aremu lied, looking at him with nothing on his face. Dark wood carved smooth - don’t scratch it - don’t - you don’t want to see -

A question. He knew - he knew - he needed to ask a question. Something that would let him set Aremu at ease. Something - harmless - something - he needed to -

“Can you feel it?” Aremu knew his voice wasn’t loud enough, but there was no other noise in the room, nothing but the soft scraping rasp of the wind through the tsug trees outside.

I can still feel my hand, he wanted to say, absurdly. Sometimes - the end of my wrist - it hurts, still. As if it’s haunting me. Could we find it funny? Together?

Aremu was shaking, just a little, and he tried to still himself. He was so tired; it was so heavy. There was a monster in his room, watching him through sad gray eyes.

[Tom Cooke]

Yesufu pez Edun's Home • Laus Oma

Late Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

H
e clicked the door shut quiet behind him, careful. Aremu had backed away just far enough. Tom hung round the door, and didn’t dare go further. At first, he couldn’t look at Aremu. The dark square of the window drew his eye. He caught the smell of tsug, saw the leaves bow and sway gently, rasping dryly against the window-frame.

The room looked undisturbed. The bed was made; nothing’d been unpacked, by the looks of the chest sitting on the floor near the bed. He imagined his room’d look much the same, but he’d been visiting with Yesufu. Aremu had been here for — how long? There was a door off to one side, open just a crack, a sliver of shadow, the edge of a sink.

The mask lingered in the corner of his eye. Maybe he was just sick as a banderwolf; maybe he was sick, and the porven was just — had been — too much.

He rubbed one eye with his fingertips again. His hip hurt. May I sit? his body wanted him to ask. His mind couldn’t bring the words to his lips. He looked at Aremu when he spoke again, finally, but there was no envy for him to feel, not with the fading lines on his arm, not with the scuffle on the gangway. There had been no light, easy step for Aremu Ediwo, today, and he found he just felt more worry. He wondered again, nagging, what the imbala saw when he looked at him. There was nothing in his face or his voice. Tom felt overdressed and drunk and tired, and he couldn’t guess or care.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, ada’xa. I’m more than capable of doing that on my own,” he parried lightly, and he thought it was honest. He raised one red eyebrow, mock-serious. He leaned back on the door, feeling the wood cool and solid against his shoulder blades.

Watching Aremu evenly, he wondered what he’d ask, if he’d ask. How did it happen? Why? Is it dangerous? Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Aremu Ediwo asking any of those questions. Would he ask anything?

If he lied outright, he kept thinking – Aremu’d know. Aremu couldn’t know; it was flooding ridiculous. But he kept looking into the imbala’s blank face, his calm gaze, thinking: if I lie, he’ll know. He’ll hear it; he’ll know it for what it is. He’d know.

Why? I never knew, he wanted to say, not about the lying, not about any of it. It’s something I still don’t understand. I reckon I’m too Anaxi; or maybe I lie so much it’s not even important to me. I don’t even know it when I’m telling a lie, and you got me thinking about it out my flooding ears. Why would they say you don’t have a soul, when all you imbali do is think about this shit?

When the imbala came to it, he couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. He blinked at Aremu for a moment. It was a while before he could speak. Nobody’d ever asked him that; he didn’t know what to say, least of all to Aremu.

He slid his hands into his pockets, took a deep breath. “Yes. I can feel it. It – hurts,” he admitted, without knowing why. He didn’t elaborate; Aremu knew how it felt.

His eyes drifted down to the floor, wandering among the boards. His brow knit, and his lips pursed.

“You can feel,” he offered, cautiously, “a hint of calm in there, when you know it well enough to tell. It’s better than it was a year ago. Not that I’d ask you to stand in it long enough to get a feel, ada’xa.” He flicked a brief glance back up at Aremu, met his eye with a wry grin. He thought of the tsug grove; the grin flickered, and he looked back down at the floor. “I can feel them, but they’re a part of me, like a scar. I’ve come to know the feeling. It’s a reminder. I try to understand and accept it.”

He looked up at Aremu a moment – his eyes skimmed over him, trying not to linger on the faint shaking of his hand – he couldn’t help the furrow of his brow.

He should go get Niccolette, he thought. Or somebody. He didn’t know. Something’d happened, on the cliffs. It wasn’t the porven, or wasn’t just the porven. Tom felt laoso selfish again. He knew better than to ask if he was all right; he knew it wouldn’t matter, and if he got help, it’d be against the imbala’s will either way.

“I don’t think I answered your question well,” he said, as quietly as Aremu had asked. “Was there – anything else?”