The Walk of Tsed'tsa • Dejai Point
Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720
A
n expensive habit, whatever the hell this was.
The bill for the damn plant had been at the Crocus’ Stem when he’d gotten in, his hip aching from the long walk and the sway and rattle of the cable-car. He’d shelled out ging enough for Oti’úqaq, too, although he’d been glad to, still swimming with the memory of Cerise’s grin and that little spark of gold shift in her field, that little spark he might’ve imagined on account of all Sish’s gold feathers.
That had been the last time he’d seen her, waking.
It’d come down in a torrent the five and the six. Some streets were still slick with it, and he’d heard tell everything around Tsav’irese down by the Turga’d flooded so deep you’d need a kontouron to get around. Cinnamon Hill and Thul’amat were mostly unaffected, aside from the smell – familiar by now – of the steam rising up from the stones as the heat set in, even though the sun wasn’t quite up over the rooftops yet.
The cable car ride was smooth, at least. There were places where flooding might interfere with the tracks, but for the most part, they were set high up enough and took alternate routes; and where he’d had to go, to Aratra and occasionally campus, the streets tended not to flood. He still remembered the rain pounding fit to break the stone, and the blind scrambling rush of a dozen flustered Anaxi old men when the downpour had started outside Penlu.
The third stop, he knew well enough by now. The car was still packed this early. A wika lad in front of him, one sinewy arm tangled round the post, was inhaling a bag of fried cakes. His stomach ached; he’d forgotten breakfast. He was about to ask if the yats was worth an incumbent’s ging when the wika got off on the second stop, and a crowd of duri in bright dresses swam in to fill his place.
He had to slide through them to get off at Dejai Point. There were still stares, even after a month in Thul Ka, and giggles too. Fewer than before, what with how the cable cars and streets were packed with Anaxi and Bastians and even Gioran officials at some hours, snapping out their parasols on the platform. He thought some of them must’ve been at the sight of an Anaxi dressed so; he was wearing a light shirt and trousers today, crisp white and hemmed in blue and gold.
The step from the car to the platform still tripped him up, and he was glad to have the firm ground under his feet. His own parasol was tucked into the bag at his side, for when the sun hit its height. He expected to be grilled – seared, perhaps – for that, but it was better than peeling in the sun, and somehow, the prospect wasn’t so irritating anymore.
He was a little breathless by the time he got to the Walk, and the sun was just slanting over the rooftops and hitting the broad paved way. The stalls were already busy, though some merchants were still arriving and setting up. He caught sight of Tsaw’upúw, sweating beside his great cart of books, rightaway; he was arguing with a gray-haired Hessean over a book, and a couple of small arati lads were busying themselves about the bottommost shelves.
He thought to make a detour; he’d asked the imbala to keep an eye out in the Turtle for a rare copy of Azúq’s book on warding just last week. But he suspected he’d better not lose himself in the crowd, if he wanted her to find him.
(In his dream, the monite that spilled from her lips was familiar; his jaw was frozen in place, his teeth clenched tight. She wove into a leybridge, and then into strange, unfamiliar clauses. Diana was watching, too, the moon sparking off her pale hair, and Eleanor too.
He had known what the spell was, even though he had never heard it before. He knew with such knowledge dreams gave you, bone-knowledge; he knew –)
He sat himself on the edge of a plinth, resting his back against the pillar. Crossing his legs, he settled in, waiting, watching. Perhaps she wouldn’t come, he thought. He wasn’t sure if the thought should’ve been a relief; he didn’t think it was.
n expensive habit, whatever the hell this was.
The bill for the damn plant had been at the Crocus’ Stem when he’d gotten in, his hip aching from the long walk and the sway and rattle of the cable-car. He’d shelled out ging enough for Oti’úqaq, too, although he’d been glad to, still swimming with the memory of Cerise’s grin and that little spark of gold shift in her field, that little spark he might’ve imagined on account of all Sish’s gold feathers.
That had been the last time he’d seen her, waking.
It’d come down in a torrent the five and the six. Some streets were still slick with it, and he’d heard tell everything around Tsav’irese down by the Turga’d flooded so deep you’d need a kontouron to get around. Cinnamon Hill and Thul’amat were mostly unaffected, aside from the smell – familiar by now – of the steam rising up from the stones as the heat set in, even though the sun wasn’t quite up over the rooftops yet.
The cable car ride was smooth, at least. There were places where flooding might interfere with the tracks, but for the most part, they were set high up enough and took alternate routes; and where he’d had to go, to Aratra and occasionally campus, the streets tended not to flood. He still remembered the rain pounding fit to break the stone, and the blind scrambling rush of a dozen flustered Anaxi old men when the downpour had started outside Penlu.
The third stop, he knew well enough by now. The car was still packed this early. A wika lad in front of him, one sinewy arm tangled round the post, was inhaling a bag of fried cakes. His stomach ached; he’d forgotten breakfast. He was about to ask if the yats was worth an incumbent’s ging when the wika got off on the second stop, and a crowd of duri in bright dresses swam in to fill his place.
He had to slide through them to get off at Dejai Point. There were still stares, even after a month in Thul Ka, and giggles too. Fewer than before, what with how the cable cars and streets were packed with Anaxi and Bastians and even Gioran officials at some hours, snapping out their parasols on the platform. He thought some of them must’ve been at the sight of an Anaxi dressed so; he was wearing a light shirt and trousers today, crisp white and hemmed in blue and gold.
The step from the car to the platform still tripped him up, and he was glad to have the firm ground under his feet. His own parasol was tucked into the bag at his side, for when the sun hit its height. He expected to be grilled – seared, perhaps – for that, but it was better than peeling in the sun, and somehow, the prospect wasn’t so irritating anymore.
He was a little breathless by the time he got to the Walk, and the sun was just slanting over the rooftops and hitting the broad paved way. The stalls were already busy, though some merchants were still arriving and setting up. He caught sight of Tsaw’upúw, sweating beside his great cart of books, rightaway; he was arguing with a gray-haired Hessean over a book, and a couple of small arati lads were busying themselves about the bottommost shelves.
He thought to make a detour; he’d asked the imbala to keep an eye out in the Turtle for a rare copy of Azúq’s book on warding just last week. But he suspected he’d better not lose himself in the crowd, if he wanted her to find him.
(In his dream, the monite that spilled from her lips was familiar; his jaw was frozen in place, his teeth clenched tight. She wove into a leybridge, and then into strange, unfamiliar clauses. Diana was watching, too, the moon sparking off her pale hair, and Eleanor too.
He had known what the spell was, even though he had never heard it before. He knew with such knowledge dreams gave you, bone-knowledge; he knew –)
He sat himself on the edge of a plinth, resting his back against the pillar. Crossing his legs, he settled in, waiting, watching. Perhaps she wouldn’t come, he thought. He wasn’t sure if the thought should’ve been a relief; he didn’t think it was.
