Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka
Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720
E
m, she kept saying now. She’d looked over at him once, for a knife-sharp moment, and he’d kept that neutral look on his face best he could; now, he was smiling, slow and tentative. Would have done more than slapped him, she said, and both his eyebrows shot up.
He laughed, then. He hadn’t meant to – he didn’t want to make light of it, what McAllister’d said, or the consequences for Emiel, or any of it – but he laughed at the way she said it, all matter-of-fact like an afterthought. Mostly, it was the fondness in her voice, all tangled up with everything else. She’d spoken at a clip, each word a vicious jab; but there was something else suffusing the name, something warm, like an updraft that fanned the fire even higher.
“Hard enough to shake his head out of his erse, I hope,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He half-froze, thinking about taking it back, but there was nothing to take it back with. “I don’t know if I dare to hope,” he added instead, frowning slightly.
They were both quite a while, then, after he spoke. She hadn’t answered his question. He hadn’t much expected her to; he’d gotten ahead of himself, and it had spilled out of him idly, thinking-aloud.
These streets were unfamiliar, but he thought he knew where he was going. He thought, at least, he’d be able to figure it out; he didn’t think he’d strayed too far from Dzitoxo, and he was – he thought – going in the same direction they’d come from, if by a different route. He tried not to think too hard on it.
When she spoke again, it was sharp and light and imperious, and it almost brought a smile to his face. He’d expected the words; he could’ve told you that was what she’d say from the moment he’d finished speaking himself. And her gaze was glinting-sharp on him, and her smile was a thin slash in her face, and her brows were dark arcs above her eyes.
He looked back at her this time, meeting her gaze; there was nothing else he could do. And as she went on, he held it – and when she stopped, he stopped too, standing in the shade of a colonnade, watching and listening.
He saw the deep breath she took before she said it. He took one himself, if only because he thought his hands might start shaking otherwise. He held them steady; he wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but he didn’t feel a smile there.
Don’t, he wanted to say. Gods, please, don’t.
She was holding his gaze with all the force of promise. It tangled round his legs and weighted him to the stones. Swinherd’s debt, he kept thinking again and again, swinherd’s debt. He held her gaze; there was nothing else to be done.
And he hated it, too, the warmth he felt bubbling up in him. This wasn’t his to accept; he shouldn’t’ve accepted it. But all the same, a funny little smile twitched at his lip, sad – aching – but a smile nonetheless. He took a deep breath and inclined his head, nodding. “I’ll try to do it justice,” he offered; he expected his voice to come out lighter and less rough.
They meandered on down the path, quiet at first. His head was full of court fees and letters; the situation was a whirl of blurry, indistinct names and faces. He’d find out who the judge was, he thought, first. It was bound to be secular, if it’d happened in the Stacks, but the off-chance of it going to the arcane court was a laoso one. He’d still…
It wasn’t silence. The air was full of the late afternoon buzz, insects and the blare of the sun, and the distant chatter of broader, busier streets not far off. The warm, damp breeze rustled through the plants. They passed a small woman in crisp white sweeping off her balcony, hssk hssk hssk, though she disappeared quickly into the lull as they went by.
After a little while, he took a deep breath. “You, uh,” he started, then cleared his throat. “I thought I might see you again, before the exhibition’s got you busy.” He looked over at her. Sorry about today, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say. “The ninth or the tenth, or – somewhere around there, if you wanted. To see more of Thul Ka than Nutmeg Hill.”
m, she kept saying now. She’d looked over at him once, for a knife-sharp moment, and he’d kept that neutral look on his face best he could; now, he was smiling, slow and tentative. Would have done more than slapped him, she said, and both his eyebrows shot up.
He laughed, then. He hadn’t meant to – he didn’t want to make light of it, what McAllister’d said, or the consequences for Emiel, or any of it – but he laughed at the way she said it, all matter-of-fact like an afterthought. Mostly, it was the fondness in her voice, all tangled up with everything else. She’d spoken at a clip, each word a vicious jab; but there was something else suffusing the name, something warm, like an updraft that fanned the fire even higher.
“Hard enough to shake his head out of his erse, I hope,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He half-froze, thinking about taking it back, but there was nothing to take it back with. “I don’t know if I dare to hope,” he added instead, frowning slightly.
They were both quite a while, then, after he spoke. She hadn’t answered his question. He hadn’t much expected her to; he’d gotten ahead of himself, and it had spilled out of him idly, thinking-aloud.
These streets were unfamiliar, but he thought he knew where he was going. He thought, at least, he’d be able to figure it out; he didn’t think he’d strayed too far from Dzitoxo, and he was – he thought – going in the same direction they’d come from, if by a different route. He tried not to think too hard on it.
When she spoke again, it was sharp and light and imperious, and it almost brought a smile to his face. He’d expected the words; he could’ve told you that was what she’d say from the moment he’d finished speaking himself. And her gaze was glinting-sharp on him, and her smile was a thin slash in her face, and her brows were dark arcs above her eyes.
He looked back at her this time, meeting her gaze; there was nothing else he could do. And as she went on, he held it – and when she stopped, he stopped too, standing in the shade of a colonnade, watching and listening.
He saw the deep breath she took before she said it. He took one himself, if only because he thought his hands might start shaking otherwise. He held them steady; he wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but he didn’t feel a smile there.
Don’t, he wanted to say. Gods, please, don’t.
She was holding his gaze with all the force of promise. It tangled round his legs and weighted him to the stones. Swinherd’s debt, he kept thinking again and again, swinherd’s debt. He held her gaze; there was nothing else to be done.
And he hated it, too, the warmth he felt bubbling up in him. This wasn’t his to accept; he shouldn’t’ve accepted it. But all the same, a funny little smile twitched at his lip, sad – aching – but a smile nonetheless. He took a deep breath and inclined his head, nodding. “I’ll try to do it justice,” he offered; he expected his voice to come out lighter and less rough.
They meandered on down the path, quiet at first. His head was full of court fees and letters; the situation was a whirl of blurry, indistinct names and faces. He’d find out who the judge was, he thought, first. It was bound to be secular, if it’d happened in the Stacks, but the off-chance of it going to the arcane court was a laoso one. He’d still…
It wasn’t silence. The air was full of the late afternoon buzz, insects and the blare of the sun, and the distant chatter of broader, busier streets not far off. The warm, damp breeze rustled through the plants. They passed a small woman in crisp white sweeping off her balcony, hssk hssk hssk, though she disappeared quickly into the lull as they went by.
After a little while, he took a deep breath. “You, uh,” he started, then cleared his throat. “I thought I might see you again, before the exhibition’s got you busy.” He looked over at her. Sorry about today, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say. “The ninth or the tenth, or – somewhere around there, if you wanted. To see more of Thul Ka than Nutmeg Hill.”
