Dzeqar’ameh • Dejai Point
Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720
H
e wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected Cerise to find it funny; he’d grinned back, and he’d laughed again, and the moment had been swallowed by the whirl of colorful shapes through the glass doors, the spill of phosphor through the trees – and Sish launching herself out of Cerise’s arms like a gold bullet.
His breath had caught in his throat. He’d looked at Cerise, both his brows halfway up his forehead, and then back at the tree. A long gold tail lashed, coiled and slithered round the shaky line of a branch. There was a glitter like concords in the middle of a whorl of glossy leaves, and then further down the branch, and then on the next tree.
Cerise didn’t seem too concerned. They started walking again, slow enough he caught his breath. He looked over, following the movement in the corner of his eye curiously, but mostly kept his eyes on the street ahead and – now and then, subtle, stolen glances – Cerise.
Ah, yes. That.
That. He sucked at a tooth, taking a deep breath. The street ran parallel to a thoroughfare, and occasionally between the houses the noises of raised voices drifted. Yats smells were flowing in from everywhere, warm ghee, lentils and fried onions and fried lamb and peppers; he’d been in Thul Ka long enough he knew it for the cacophony it was – bits of Pa Olakano, bits of the desert, even sweet-salty drifts of Hox here and there, and Anaxi and Bastian cuisine – but not long enough it wasn’t unfamiliar.
He snorted, a little too sharp. “Oh,” he said, “what a relief!” You don’t have a clue to whom you’re talking, he thought; you don’t have a clue. Do you know what it’s like, murder? Do you know what it’s like, to have blood on your hands and dream of brigk?
He was holding his jaw fair tightly. He wasn’t sure when he’d made a habit of it, this – the way he held this jaw – or the way he could feel his lip twisting, curling, the way his hands were clasped white-knuckled in the small of his back. The way he walked straight-backed and rigid, heel to toe.
He breathed in deep from his diaphragm. He looked over at her again. Not much hair had fallen out of her braid; a smile twitched at his lip, and his eyes flicked back down at the stones, a blur in the gloom, moving slowly by.
There were people here, here and there. They weren’t too far from the cafe; he’d taken them down quieter streets, but there were still students and faculty clustered at tables, laughing and drinking, or perched on second– and third-storey balconies. Estuan and Mugrobi mingled in the air. A couple of lads under one awning pointed at the flash of Sish’s wings under a street lamp, laughing brightly.
“You do realize,” he said, “the bank was going to throw a Circle-damned fit about it, don’t you? If I’d been in Dkanat a week longer, there might have been a hell of a mess to sort out.”
Cerise had a look on her face he thought was rather familiar, in an unpleasant sort of way.
He thought of the Clock’s Eve party suddenly, of Niccolette and the brigk, and swallowed. Cerise hadn’t got kicked off the team; whoever it was hadn’t pressed charges, he reckoned. “Listen,” he said, “if… You do what you have to do, all right? I just need to know what to expect. If you need anything, I mean.”
e wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected Cerise to find it funny; he’d grinned back, and he’d laughed again, and the moment had been swallowed by the whirl of colorful shapes through the glass doors, the spill of phosphor through the trees – and Sish launching herself out of Cerise’s arms like a gold bullet.
His breath had caught in his throat. He’d looked at Cerise, both his brows halfway up his forehead, and then back at the tree. A long gold tail lashed, coiled and slithered round the shaky line of a branch. There was a glitter like concords in the middle of a whorl of glossy leaves, and then further down the branch, and then on the next tree.
Cerise didn’t seem too concerned. They started walking again, slow enough he caught his breath. He looked over, following the movement in the corner of his eye curiously, but mostly kept his eyes on the street ahead and – now and then, subtle, stolen glances – Cerise.
Ah, yes. That.
That. He sucked at a tooth, taking a deep breath. The street ran parallel to a thoroughfare, and occasionally between the houses the noises of raised voices drifted. Yats smells were flowing in from everywhere, warm ghee, lentils and fried onions and fried lamb and peppers; he’d been in Thul Ka long enough he knew it for the cacophony it was – bits of Pa Olakano, bits of the desert, even sweet-salty drifts of Hox here and there, and Anaxi and Bastian cuisine – but not long enough it wasn’t unfamiliar.
He snorted, a little too sharp. “Oh,” he said, “what a relief!” You don’t have a clue to whom you’re talking, he thought; you don’t have a clue. Do you know what it’s like, murder? Do you know what it’s like, to have blood on your hands and dream of brigk?
He was holding his jaw fair tightly. He wasn’t sure when he’d made a habit of it, this – the way he held this jaw – or the way he could feel his lip twisting, curling, the way his hands were clasped white-knuckled in the small of his back. The way he walked straight-backed and rigid, heel to toe.
He breathed in deep from his diaphragm. He looked over at her again. Not much hair had fallen out of her braid; a smile twitched at his lip, and his eyes flicked back down at the stones, a blur in the gloom, moving slowly by.
There were people here, here and there. They weren’t too far from the cafe; he’d taken them down quieter streets, but there were still students and faculty clustered at tables, laughing and drinking, or perched on second– and third-storey balconies. Estuan and Mugrobi mingled in the air. A couple of lads under one awning pointed at the flash of Sish’s wings under a street lamp, laughing brightly.
“You do realize,” he said, “the bank was going to throw a Circle-damned fit about it, don’t you? If I’d been in Dkanat a week longer, there might have been a hell of a mess to sort out.”
Cerise had a look on her face he thought was rather familiar, in an unpleasant sort of way.
He thought of the Clock’s Eve party suddenly, of Niccolette and the brigk, and swallowed. Cerise hadn’t got kicked off the team; whoever it was hadn’t pressed charges, he reckoned. “Listen,” he said, “if… You do what you have to do, all right? I just need to know what to expect. If you need anything, I mean.”
