[Closed] Too Tired to Wrestle with It

[Tom Cooke]

The Steam Room in Iz • Thul'amat

Early Evening on the 25th of Loshis, 2720

T
sofo was grinning, like a bastly reflection; he thought he felt a warming in the other man’s field, and a deeper, curious mingling. He didn’t think ada’xa Tsofo could hear the lie on his tongue, though he felt a slight prickle of shame. But he settled more, still grinning with thoughts of swirling red ink, a little easier with the – unexpected – direction the conversation had taken.

He raised his brows when Tsofo spoke. “Ah?” His grin didn’t falter, though he felt another, deeper prickle at the prospect of seeing more of him. Seeing him, he thought quickly, more. At Thul’amat. “Ah,” he said again, sitting up against the warm stone, studying the other man with a new curiosity.

In your youth, he thought, studying the other man skeptically. He uncrossed his aching legs – he’d been sitting that way, he thought, for a half hour now – and then crossed them again the other way, shifting in his seat. He crossed his arms again. Thoughtfully; comfortably.

“Indeed, ada’xa,” he repeated, though he felt by now a pina like he was repeating the invocation of a recipient spell.

He knew, at least, something of opportunities lost. He glanced down once, before he could stop himself, at Tsofo’s well-muscled chest. This time, it was something different he felt; this time, it was something like bitterness. He nodded anyway, trying to look sympathetic with a wistful grin of his own.

He was suddenly conscious of Tsofo’s knee a couple of inches from his, nothing but the air and two layers of thin linen between them.

The travel team. “But – forgive me, ada’xa, I never asked – are you a professor here at Ire’dzosat?” He shifted himself, as if accepting a dare; he didn’t get any closer, but he turned toward the other man, to look at him more fully in the face. He rested his elbow against the stone, propping up his head. “And – assistant clairvoyant coach, for dueling? I’m afraid I don’t know much about clairvoyance and dueling; you don’t see it very often, in Anaxas. You don’t see clairvoyance so often in Anaxas, unfortunately.”

Clairvoyance and dueling. He remembered suddenly what Niccolette’d said of Tsabiyi and Thul’amat, though he knew better than to drop that name here, or voice that particular opinion.

There’d be a Brunnhold-Thul’amat match, he knew; he studied Tsofo, wondering. He’d not a damned clue what a clairvoyant might do in a duel, and he doubted Anatole’s daughter had much experience with it, either. Maybe it’d do to know a man like this.

More than anything, he felt sluggish in the warmth and the thick steam. Tsofo’s caprise was still friendly and curious. He’d the sense of the other man nudging, he thought, at the edges of him. Pleasant enough, but still nudging. Anatole, he thought again, with the same tug of uncertainty. He decided he liked sir better for now.

All the same, he mingled a little deeper into the clairvoyant mona, lifting an eyebrow. Still polite; no more than ada’xa Tsofo had done.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 25 Loshis, 2720
Dzechy’haf, Iz

Tsofo inclined his head modestly when Anatole asked if he was a professor of Ire’dzosat. Soon, he told himself, soon. “What we call in the college a Dzayeq Professor, sir,” Tsofo said with a smile, “in the clairvoyant conversation. My research focuses on scrying; of late, I have been delving deeper into the study of radiomancy.”

That, Tsofo thought, pleased – that was the work he would do this evening. Finally, he would have time to work on the demonstration he had planned for the exhibition, a pure transmission spell which would allow the caster to send a simple message which could be easily read even by one who had never studied clairvoyance.

He had been taken on at Ire’dzosat for his work in aquamancy, of course; his tseruh had looked improving the clarity of visual images when using imprecise scrying mediums. It had worked spectacularly well; he had published the spell, the first of his three towards a magister’s cloak. He had wanted to delve deeper into cognomancy; it excited him, thrilled him, the knowledge of the spell unraveling only in the mind of the caster. He had had to make a choice; he had done so, with the ruthless hand of the sensible gardener.

Radiomancy, he knew he would have to argue before the committee, was only an extension of the same research he had done all along. He was, he would explain, looking for ways to heighten clarity and undestanding, to reduce misinterpretation. But radiomancy was exciting – modern. Since making the switch, he’d had more students than ever before, more publications, more excitement, more partnerships.

And soon, Tsofo knew, finding his smile easy. Soon, a professorship. “… a specialized machine,” Tsofo had explained, as Anatole asked about the research. “A fortunate partnership with Dzit’ereq – ”

He didn’t rush; he wound back around to dueling. “You, sir,” Tsofo said, smiling, “unless I mistake my guess – you are more of a warder, are you not?” His caprise deepened again, infinitesimally. Anatole was still leaning in; they both were. By now Ur’defa and his friend had gone; the young boy was sitting at the table, having inched deeper into the steam room, staring down at the board.

Another man came in, sprawling himself comfortably out on a bench. Tsofo felt a pinch of irritation – only a pinch. If Anatole had not been here, he thought – but he didn’t move, or turn his attention from the Anaxi. He’d made his play, already; there was little sense in going back on it. Anatole was studying him, listening intently. He had been careful to listen as much as he spoke; he always was. An excellent notion, he had said, once, when Anatole made a point that had occurred to him years earlier; quite right. The pinnacle of technological advance…

“Warding,” Tsofo went on, grinning, “is perhaps the more important skill for dueling, though the clever clairvoyant knows how to use both aspects of the conversation to his advantage. You must forgive me; this topic is such a passion of mine. Have you ever seen a clairvoyant duel before?”

[Tom Cooke]

The Steam Room in Iz • Thul'amat

Early Evening on the 25th of Loshis, 2720

R
adios,” he had said, brightening a little.

Tsofo had a liveliness about him, for all his modesty; he lit up, he thought, to speak of it. It was easy to get caught up in the current and swept along, and he found himself sitting up, leaning in. Of course there was the ache – the strangeness that never went away – but the cross of his legs was looser and more comfortable, and he listened raptly, his cheek propped up on a fist. The rest of Dzechy’haf might’ve melted away.

“Where scrying’s concerned, my particular interest is in cognomancy,” he’d said once, “but it’s – damned taxing, and the Anaxi interest just seems to be – elsewhere. Did you say...”

“... the purity of the message as it is received. The ley channel …”

“There are a handful of scholars at Thul’amat that’ve delved into radiomancy, but there’s not much interdisciplinary work –”

“– it is something like a wave; Ezu pez Tsúfir was the first to detect it, with a spell he called …”

“... a pertinent question, sir,” Tsofo had said once, looking very pleased; there’d been a spark in his dark eyes, and he had waved one long-fingered, elegant hand through the steam. “You understand,” he’d begun again, winding on. He’d followed that hand with his eyes, letting them linger without thinking; he’d blinked and met Tsofo’s gaze again, still smiling.

He had started a little, when ada’xa Tsofo with his keen smile had brought up warding. He hadn’t been able to help it. You can tell? he’d half wanted to ask, boch-foolish. His own smile had cracked into a grin.

He could feel the clairvoyant mona in Tsofo’s field blended comfortably with his. Belike, but inexplicably – albeit sharply, to his senses – different. He felt his own around him, all tangled up with him, inside him, breathing with him. His, he thought sometimes, aching. His, his, his, as much as anything could be. A reflection of something deeper than his skin; a reflection, he’d thought once, of his will, and then immediately felt a fool for thinking it.

He didn’t feel such a fool, now. His grin didn’t quite fade as Tsofo went on.

“Ah, please, call me –” Don’t call me anything at all, he thought. Don’t look at me, and don’t call me anything at all. His smile was pinched, but he was smiling nonetheless. “Call me Anatole,” he said, and he didn’t let it tear at him; it was no more a lie than sir. It was no more a lie than any of the rest.

In the corner of his eye, the lad was leaned on the stone table now, staring down at the scattering of chips. He tilted his head, edged round to look at it from a different angle. He moved a chip with a click, his lips pursed.

“I haven’t had the privilege,” he said. “I’ve heard tell. About counterspells and warding, but, ah – contests of the mind, too.” He raised both brows.

He’d no sense of the time, he realized. He might’ve been here – they might’ve talked – half an hour, or an hour, or hours; it was a funny, disorienting sort of feeling. Still he sat, sweating in the heat, watching Tsofo keenly.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 25 Loshis, 2720
Dzechy’haf, Iz

Tsofo’s grin broadened. “A competition between two clairvoyants is a sight of beauty and grace. There are many classic formats; perhaps you would enjoy iqi’di, in which two casters cast simultaneous cognomancy spells, each holding a vestibule while they cast. Many clairvoyant contests come down to casting skill, the strength but also and subtlety of the spell. In iqi’di it is considered pure will,” his eyes gleamed. “In the purest version, both casters will cast the same spell, so the only difference is the strength with which the mona respond, and their own focus.”

Anatole was leaning forward, eyes bright. He was smiling; he had been smiling for some time.

“Of course, casting a true scrying spell during a duel against another conversationalist is difficult,” Tsofo went on. “It is possible - there are quicker casts, and more targeted spells. A common technique is to set up a web of counterspells and oz’iqe wards to keep one’s opponent at bay, and then use soft touch spells or reach into other disciplines to score points.”

Tsofo grinned. “Perhaps I am telling you too much, Anatole,” he shook his head lightly. His hand shifted off the wall, resting down on the cloth covering his lap. “I expect, if you go to watch your daughter, you will see some impressive clairvoyants. Thul’Amat has two on the travel team, our main caster and our switch.”

They went on. Tsofo nodded. “This is the heart of the issue,” he said, relaxing against the heat of the bench. “If a clairvoyant caster is soft, then he is soft like sand,” Tsofo’s eyes crinkled at the edges, and he grinned. “What man would not rather walk on ground or rock than sand? It may look soft - it may feel soft - but this,” their fields were well and deeply mingled now, and Tsofo pulsed, very lightly, more bastly than challenging, “is in fact its strength.”

The time was passing; he needed to get home, Tsofo thought, thinking of his work and the night which awaited him. “I am very glad you found your way to Dzechy’haf, Anatole,” Tsofo said with perfect honesty.

“I would that I could stay longer,” Tsofo went on, “but my son cries at home,” he smiled, ruefully, thinking of it. As if it had suddenly occurred to him, he sat up a bit more. “May I ask you to join me for kofi? These next two days are difficult, but as your schedule allows - perhaps on the twenty eight? We have a hearth in the base of Ow’uququq, with a splendid Ur’duxas garden which the faculty tends together. I should be glad to show it to you.”

The bait was no one question, no one ask; Tsofo knew he had not come to the heart of it yet. He would not; not today, and perhaps not even the next time they met. Perhaps, he thought, he would mention his interest in the book - perhaps not. Too much foreplanning always reeked of desperation; it was better to play his moves one by one, his eyes always fixed on his goal, and respond more naturally to the other man.

The Circle, Tsofo thought, was truly good. The honorable man, who knew his will and his desires, needed only to reach out his hand and seize that which they placed before him; there was no little skill in it, but Tsofo was a man who knew himself, and knew too, what he could achieve. Anatole, he thought, beckoning the other man forward with his smile, you are a gift.

[Tom Cooke]

The Steam Room in Iz • Thul'amat

Early Evening on the 25th of Loshis, 2720

H
is smile had spread into a grin. He settled back a little when Tsofo shook his head; he raised his brows. He couldn’t imagine it, not really – not yet – but he tried anyway, and wondered what Cerise might do. He’d never seen her duel before, either; the thought tickled him, and there’d been a little bastly lingering in his field for some time.

Tsofo’s hand, in the corner of his eye, was now in his lap. It was dark against the pale linen, the shadows almost edged with blue. He wanted very badly to look down at it. He could imagine the gentle press of the fingers into the soft cloth, the way they disturbed the drapery, the way the folds shifted to meet them. The vague shapes underneath the linen, underneath the idle, elegant fall of his hand.

The mona shivered, and he tasted warm gold on the air when Tsofo reached more deeply into his field. It wasn’t a press; it was more of a mingling, a warm, curious exploration. A sharing.

His smile tilted, but he couldn’t seem to find any words.

He thought for a moment of the sandstorm, of the harsh stuff whisked against his face, scraping his skin raw; he thought of coughing against the wrap. He thought of the heat and the press of the wagon, and the musty smell all around, and the taste of fear. The thought was jarring here. The first sight of the dunes whispered in the back of his mind, tossed and flowing. Like fields of soft tan cloth.

He inclined his head, pulsing his field back. At Tsofo’s apologetic smile, he waved a hand. “Ah,” he said, “go to your son, please. I, ah – I understand.” He wasn’t sure if he did; he felt dizzy, sluggish from the heat. He smiled anyway, shifting in his seat, then raised both his brows when Tsofo spoke again.

He did, this time, hesitate.

Tsofo pez Erfuan had keen eyes. There was a warm, hopeful smile in them now, and a few little lines at the edges.

Like sand, he thought, studying the other man’s face. He was shifting, long fingers spread out against the rock, as if to rise; still he hung there, watching him. He was conscious, prickling-conscious again, of his bare thin chest, of the slope of his shoulders where he couldn’t seem to hold himself straight – not here, though his back ached where he never could seem to loosen it.

Why? he got the funny urge to ask, suddenly. Why me? I’m not a fool, ada’xa, he wanted to say. Neither of them, he thought, were fools. The arata’d spoken much of opportunity and of the sowing of seeds, and he considered it a moment.

He liked the keenness of those eyes, and the gentle – but no less persistent – searching of his field. Every man, he reckoned, wanted something; it was every man’s to look out for his interests, and there was nothing dishonorable in it, for as little as he knew of honor. What do you want? he thought, and he was still smiling, bemused. Curious. It’d do no harm to find out; he’d not asked him once about his position, not yet, anyway.

He raised one eyebrow. “It would be my privilege to join you, Tsofo,” he said. “I’ve time on the twenty-eight, in the morning. I’ve never been to Ow’uququq; I’d be grateful for the opportunity.”

When Tsofo left, he didn’t watch him go, though the light glancing over the long, well-defined muscles of his back made him feel a pang. He shifted, crossing his legs again; he couldn’t bring himself to leave, just yet. His head spun and sank in the steam, and he rested it back against the rock, taking a deep breath. He was damned tired. He couldn’t seem to think.

The lad was still at the table, leaned over it and studying the board. As he closed his eyes, he watched him slide one piece across the stone, lips moving silently. He watched him move around to the other side and move another, looking across the table at where he’d been a moment before.