[Closed] Too Tired to Wrestle with It

[Tom Cooke]

The Steam Room in Iz • Thul'amat

Early Evening on the 25th of Loshis, 2720

S
ometimes the drone faded to the edges of his awareness; sometimes it swallowed him whole, and he lost himself in the soft not-rhythm. He rested his head back, breathing deeply in and out. He felt the vibrations underneath his fingertips, through the damp, warm rock. Sometimes a melody would curl out through the rush of it, a tatter he could only just hold onto before it slipped between his fingers.

There was an intricate series of waterfalls at the back of dzechy’haf, feeding in thin streams to the smooth-carved baths. They trickled through holes and caught the rock so that the babbling was like the low ringing of a dozen bells. Sometimes an arata would move past them along the walkway, and the sound would shiver and warp; if you’d been in the room long enough, you could tell it was always shifting with the passage of water and bodies.

He thought he must’ve been there for hours.

It hadn’t been a long walk from Aratra to Ire’dzosat, though it’d been a strange one; he hadn’t been to Iz since the first time. He’d padded swiftly, quietly, through the first room, following the sound of hushed voices through the waterfall; he hadn’t looked at the stone benches.

It hadn’t been so hard, in the end. Owo’dziziq, sagely-solemn, had recommended it to him, watching him wince as he’d gotten up from a three-hour meeting on the two. It’d taken him a few days to grapple with the idea. There were public baths Uptown in Vienda; it was something gollies did, he knew, though he’d never done it himself, not in chilly Anaxas, and not – like this.

The corridors had gotten warmer and warmer as he’d gone; Owo’dziziq had explained to him that it was one of Ire’dzosat’s marvels, where Ifus and Iz conspired together. He’d padded down long walkways past stone steps leading down into deep, rectangular pools, where arati stewed and waded – dzechy’haf was past these, the smallest, hottest room, where the air was full of steam and the drone was the loudest.

The baths were separated, and the steam rooms too, though only by a partition; he could hear voices echoing through, women and men both laughing and stirring the water, all of it underneath the drone.

Maybe it was the pain that gave him courage; maybe he was just tired, damned tired. Maybe it was the sight of lads barely old enough for Vespe’s blessing melting alongside white-headed Thul’amat professors, and everyone in-between. There weren’t any other Anaxi there, but if the stares he’d expected were glances, and nothing more than the occasional encouraging – bemused, but encouraging – smile went his way.

He had sat on the edge of the water for a time, clothed and timid, soaking his feet. But the rest of him ached, too. There were iwogadiq haunting the walkways with baskets and crisp linens; he’d relinquished his clothes eventually and surrendered himself to the water, and he’d been too busy unraveling into the warmth to think of much else.

He was sitting now in the steamroom, wrapped from the waist down, half-asleep against the warm stone. Occasionally he felt the brush of a field at the edge of his, almost always belike.

He thought he drifted in and out. He thought once he felt a familiar weight settle in next to him on the right, no field but a brush of something else and a soft, thoughtful voice.

It was less a dream and more an impression; it dissipated in an instant, when he reached for a hand and found the warm stone instead. A perceptive field brushed by, followed by a physical ramscott and the sound of men laughing. It left him with a wistful ache. A few more days, he thought, his fingers curling around the edge of the bench.

He opened his eyes at a clairvoyant caprise, shifting to sit up more in his seat. There was a rasp of laughter not too far off; a few old men were sitting around a low stone table, slick with sweat and moving tiles around on an elaborate-carved board. He looked over, closer, to the man that had sat down near him.

“Good evening, ada’xa,” he said, smoothing the linen against his knees.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 25 Loshis, 2720
Dzechy’haf, Iz

Tsofo studied the letter in his hands, reading through the publisher’s response again.

“... a third publication in The Chronicles of Clairvoyant Conversation in as many years, Tsofo,” Heladho went on. The man’s cup of kofi has long since run dry, and yet still he sat on the other side of Tsofo’s calypt wood desk.

Tsofo glanced up and smiled at the older galdor, looking at the thin lines around the other man’s eyes and the trickles of white in his close cropped hair. He folded the letter again and set it aside. Modesty had always eluded him; it had been well enough as a younger man, but he worked on finding the knack of it now. “A fisherman who finds a yielding stretch of river knows not to leave, Professor.”

“Well said,” Heladho murmured. “All you need now is a book,” the professor laughed, a pulse of amusement welling through his thin, soft field.

Tsofo laughed as well, fury squeezing in his chest. You old fool, he thought, occupying a seat that a younger, better man could take. “I hope in time Hulali will be so good. And what of you, Professor? I have heard your work is under revision for Aqaq’oqek.”

Heladho grinned. “Indeed, indeed! If the Circle is good, the revision may join the winter edition.”

“By His hands,” Tsofo murmured.

It felt like a house before he was showing Heladho out. Tsofo felt as angry as if ants were crawling over his skin, biting at him. There was a line of eager faces in the hallway, five students, ranging from one of his tseruh pupils to what looked like a first year at Ire’dzosat, eagerly clutching an enormous notebook to his chest.

Tsofo smiled at them all. For a moment he thought of shutting the door and cheerfully walking past them. “Epoyo,” he said instead, waving the tseruh student forward. “Come in, come in.”

The girl smiled at him, a bright light in her eyes.

Damn, Tsofo thought, annoyed. He needed to stop her coming in twice weekly; her progress was fine, but he couldn’t hold her hand for the next two years.

“Thank you, Professor,” Epoyo said, breathlessly, sitting opposite the desk. She took out her papers, adjusting a sheaf of notes. “I’m just a little stuck,” she glanced down at them, and then back up at him, her eyelashes fluttering lightly.

Ah, Tsofo thought, and then: damn. He hadn’t closed the door, at least.

“Last week,” Tsofo said, smiling, his eyes just dropping to the edge of her paper, “we were discussing your change clause, weren’t we?”

“Yes professor,” Epoyo said, smiling.

The time crept by, interminable. Goyega, useless as she was as a secretary, knew at least to turn students away as the hour started to run down. He would have to instruct her to turn away anyone who looked younger than a fourth year, Tsofo thought, smiling at the young man sitting opposite him. He thought better of it a moment later; they were like planting a seed, he reminded himself. An uncertain seed, and some plans never flowered or came out with rotten kofi, but one did not stop planting seeds regardless.

“Modupe pez Morayo,” Tsofo repeated. “It is a wise sapling which learns to lean towards the light.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Modupe said, wide-eyed.

Not yet, Tsofo thought, smiling through his clenched teeth.

At least Modupe left. Tsofo left his things behind, locking the letter in a desk drawer. Most interesting, he thought, furious, was what Ydeko had said of the book when they met last winter. So few books on clairvoyant dueling, they had agreed. Submit the prospectus, Ydeko had offered.

He didn’t need the letter; he could picture the words. The committee, it read, in some secretary’s curling hand-writing, is greatly concerned with the appeal of books outside Mugroba in the age of the turning of the Symvoulio. Not even a note, Tsofo thought, swallowing down his anger.

“Ada’xa,” Professor Bandhe bowed to him in the great hallway.

Tsofo bowed back, deeply, meeting the other man’s caprise with his own smooth, deep, soft clairvoyant caprise, perfectly indectal. “Professor Bandhe,” Tsofo murmured. “A meeting like a flock of birds through the sunset.”

“Or a bird singing at the light,” Bandhe said, a thin smile fitted to his face. “Jafo came to see me yesterday.”

Tsofo’s smile did not change, thinking of the young man, with his well-shapes bald head and the gleaming slender muscles of his torso. “We both felt it best if he found an new mentor for his tseruh,” Tsofo said, a hint of sadness creeping through his voice.

“So he has told me “ Bandhe said.

Tsofo bowed again. “With your blessing, Professor. I think Ada’xa Kefeli will be a better fit for the project he is developing.”

“It is a wise mentor who thinks first of his students,” Bandhe said.

“Indeed,” Tsofo agreed.

“I have given him my approval,” Bandhe went on.

“I am grateful,” Tsofo said; he could have groaned with the relief of it.

Even that wasn’t enough to cheer him, but by the time he had scaled the cliff at the heart of Tseli four times and made his way down into Iz, Tsofo found he was smiling once more. The Circle had always blessed him so far; an opportunity would present himself, Tsofo was sure. He needed only to seize it, when it came.

He rinsed off in the cold chamber, not the hot, drying the sweat from his body, and handed his clothing to the nearest iwogadiq. Then, as he always did, Tsofo made his way to Dzechy’haf, to the small, hot room at the heart of Iz. He went to the furthest bench, deep into the cavern, where an older Anaxi was sitting with his pale red hair soaked and dripping sweat; one of the politicians that had flooded Thul'Amat, Tsofo supposed. Tsofo sat back, comfortable, breathing in deep, his head tilted back against the wall, feeling the heat soaking into his every pore.

To his surprise, his polite caprise met a field of clairvoyant mona. He opened his eyes, smiling at the man, a little curiosity lingering in his gaze. "Good evening, sir," Tsofo said, grinning, all his teeth white and gleaming in the low blue light of the room. He made a choice; he followed his instincts, as he always did, his answer in smooth, lilting Mugrobi Estuan, Cinnamon Hill accent with a polished edge. "How do you find the heat at the heart of Ire'dzosat?"

[Tom Cooke]

The Steam Room in Iz • Thul'amat

Early Evening on the 25th of Loshis, 2720

T
here was a pleasant, firm air of competence to the clairvoyant mona; it wasn’t a ramscott – clairvoyantists rarely were, he thought – and the caprise was easy to settle into, gentle and welcoming. There was a grin spread across ada’xa’s face; the warmth of it reached his eyes, he thought, glinting with blue reflections in the soft light. The long, slim line of him was draped back against the stone, the blue light catching in the folds of his linens, glistening over the smooth, well-defined muscles of his chest and shoulders.

He felt a prickling at the back of his neck, at first. He realized he was fussing at his wrap and his hand came away, resting uncomfortably on the warm stone beside him.

Some of the tension in his shoulders eased, though he couldn’t quite settle himself back as he had. “I, ah,” he began smoothly, mechanically, then petered out.

He’d lost himself for a little while, the discomfort melting away into the drone and the warmth and the susurrus of rock and water, the laughter and click of stone chips. He’d never quite forgot himself, but he’d eased into it; there was something benny about the heat lapping at his bare skin, the steam he could almost feel in its curls and waves. Now, he felt as if all his bare skin was prickling with ants’ feet.

He felt a spur of irritation, first.

He felt damned silly for it; it cooled to a lukewarm embarrassment that spread through him like a dye. None of it touched his field, smooth and indectal. “Quite pleasant,” he said, and found Anatole’s voice spilling out of his mouth, with its Uptown Anaxi drawl. Flood me, he thought. “I’m told we’re just above the heart of Ifus.”

He shifted, sitting up a little more, and did not adjust the linen over his legs; he did not look at the linen over ada’xa’s.

He hung there, wondering for a moment if he might leave it; if this man with his lively, handsome face might leave him the hell alone. He thought to incline his head and shoulders politely and ease back against the stone, shutting his eyes. He felt another spur of irritation at the thought, this time at himself, at this, at the awful prickling in his skin.

He mustered up a grin. “I, ah – I’m surprised,” he said, tilting his head, “I haven’t seen more Anaxi down here. It’s been a long few weeks for the Vyrdag.”

It might’ve been a conference, he told himself; it might’ve been any one of the halls in Aratra or Thul’amat, Ire’dzosat or Ivuq’way or Tsu’un or even Dzit’ereq. He wrenched his mind away from thoughts of Dzit’ereq, settling it firmly on the round table in Ipúq’dzel. He imagined ada’xa wearing the crisp whites of a Thul’amat professor.

Picturing ada’xa clothed and him like this was even worse. He got the urge to pull his wrap up over his chest. Instead, he eased back against the stone again; he crossed his arms comfortably, then crossed his legs just as comfortably.

He tried not to study him. He wasn’t sure how old he was; when he smiled, there were only a few little lines on his fine-boned face, traced, he thought, by many smiles like this one. His accent was warmly familiar with its lilting, soft vowels, Cinnamon Hill rounded by Thul’amat. He was looking at him, he thought, with a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

“Anatole,” he lied, though he wasn’t sure what would’ve been the truth, “Vauquelin. Ma’ralio, ada’xa.” There was a smile on his face still, and he raised his eyebrows at the arata.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 25 Loshis, 2720
Dzechy’haf, Iz

Quite pleasant, the Anaxi said, his voice low and even. He had an orator’s voice, Tsofo thought, even with the unpleasant harshness of the Anaxi accent; it wasn’t the man’s fault, naturally, but it was difficult to listen to nonetheless.

“Just so,” Tsofo inclined his head, glancing down at the steam rising from the floor. He grinned. “They say the rock of Dzechy’haf comes from Tseli,” he ran his hand over the gleaming ledge beneath them, “and, well, is not all air of Ivúw?” His eyebrows lifted. “So it is that all of Ire’dzosat is represented here.” Tsofo glanced around.

The two old men at the table laughed again, playing their game. Tsofo knew one; Ur’defa, from Dzit’ereq. The old man’s partner he’d never seen before. Tsofo played, sometimes, moving stones from square to square; he’d always liked games of strategy, though he’d never cared to confine himself to a board.

The politician spoke of more Anaxi down here. Tsofo let himself laugh; privately, he rather hated the thought. Anaxi, he thought, and then Bastians and Gioran and Hoxian. It wasn’t all bad, he supposed, but most of the politicians were – well – as far as he had seen, the Anaxi sitting before him was representative, in every way but the thin brush of his clairvoyant field. Thin, Tsofo thought, his caprise no deeper than before, but not a terrible specimen.

“Tsofo pez Erfuan,” Tsofo said with a smile. “Of Ire’dzosat,” he breathed the steam in, deeply. There would be a day, Tsofo knew – and soon – when he would be Professor, and not ada’xa. “Ma’ralio,” Tsofo grinned, and raised his eyebrows back at the other man. His accent was atrocious, but the word was at least recognizable.

Tsofo scolded himself. The exhibition meant opportunity; there was no sense in finding only irritation and flaws with the foreigners flooding Thul Ka. Seeds, he reminded himself, seeds. Thul Ka would be the home of the Vyrdag for the next ten years to come; that was plenty of time for flowering. This year would be about sowing, and widely.

This, Tsofo thought, smiling still, was a good opportunity. He needed to become accustomed to these foreigners, and here, with the heat of the steam lapping all around him, his muscles well-exercised and only an hour or two until he could go home and do some real work, seemed as good a time as any. He’d thought to relax, but – well. He’d find some relaxation later, one way or another.

“Thul Ka is a city of blooms,” Tsofo said, smiling. “But there are those who say Thul’Amat is the loveliest of them all. It is a wise man who searches the fields, and does not look at only those flowers which fall in his path.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Steam Room in Iz • Thul'amat

Early Evening on the 25th of Loshis, 2720

A

da’xa was running elegant dark fingers along the edge of the glistening rock. He followed them only a moment with his eyes; he looked out over the steamroom instead, over to where the old men were playing. There was a click, and one of them let out a sharp laugh, clapping his hands. The other grumbled something in Mugrobi, pulling at a long white wisp of a beard. All of Ire’dzosat, the man was saying.

And Ur’dzúxas? he thought absently, though he wasn’t sure where to put the thought, in the end. He felt a pang.

He’d a warm, full sort of laugh, one that hummed underneath the drone of the water. He was still grinning uncertainly himself, when he looked back at the arata. For a half-second, the prickle of his embarrassment deepening, he wondered if he was laughing at him; a moment later, he felt a damned fool for it.

Ma’ralio, ada’xa Tsofo said in the end, with that broad grin on his handsome face. It flowed soft and easy in his accent, easier than it’d flowed in his. He looked at him with faint surprise, raising his brows; he’d tried speaking Mugrobi plenty of times in the past weeks, among duri and arati, in Aratra and Nutmeg Hill and elsewhere, and he almost always got Estuan back. That was the way of it, he knew, but he found himself lingering in his pleasant surprise. He thought of Aremu’s tiny smile when he’d spoken to the dura, and then again – now and then – when he used one phrase or another, and the gentle corrections and the kisses.

He tried not to let his mind wander much further. The smile lingered, though he wasn’t quite grinning anymore. A city of blooms, and he thought he could breathe in the scent of dzum’ulusa on the soft, lilting words. It was strange to hear a man like this speak of loveliness and flowers.

He paused, blinking, trying to think what to say. You know much of – of truth, of… “Blooms,” he repeated. “It’s hard for a man to know what to search for, ada’xa,” he found his way, tenuous, “when it’s throwing so many fine flowers in his path.”

He wasn’t sure if ada’xa Tsofo had meant it as a compliment, on the heels of his talk of orozem in the baths. He wasn’t sure, he realized, what Tsofo meant, or what he was speaking to.

He realized too that he wasn’t exactly certain what he’d just thrown into the midst. He felt like he was grasping among flower-petals and tangled up in vines. It washed through him icy-numb; the drying sweat on his shoulders prickled like needles. He was burningly conscious of ada’xa Tsofo’s eyes on him still.

“Thul’amat - even just Ire'dzosat - seems a great many blooms to me,” he added evenly, smoothly. “Gardens on gardens of them. I wander into a new one every day, it seems, and it only leads to more.” He smiled, his arms still crossed; he shifted, still leaning comfortably back against the warm rock.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 25 Loshis, 2720
Dzechy’haf, Iz

Anatole Vauquelin, Tsofo thought to himself, turning the name over in his head; Arend was on Ire’dzosat’s committee for the Exhibition, and he remembered the younger man saying he’d received hand-written lists from each Embassy with the names of those planning to attend. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, other than feeling annoyed that complaining was how Arfend wished to spend what little time they had together. Now, he wondered; Arend would do him this favor, Tsofo thought, smiling still.

Anatole fumbled a little, at first; like a student, Tsofo thought, amused. No – even a first year student at Ire’dzosat knew how to take such a metaphor. Like a boy in preparatory school, or even younger. The foreigners he’d known during his post-tseruh graduate studies had been much the same, as clumsy in their metaphors as they were in their clairvoyant casting. He smiled encouragingly at the Anaxi.

So many fine flowers, Anatole had said, and Tsofo wondered.

“A great many blooms indeed,” Tsofo murmured his agreement, glancing out over the steam room once more. The drumming of the waterfall behind them washed steadily beneath the conversation, making a pleasant sort of rhythm. He would miss Jafo, he thought, regretfully; still, it was all for the best.

“A man in a garden may behave many ways,” Tsofo murmured. “He may take a bloom, knowing it will fade in time, but longing to cherish its beauty as long as he can; he may go to the gardener and ask for seeds, to chance that he can grow such loveliness himself; he may seek only to admire from afar, and never disturb the blossoms with his touch.”

“Which man do you think the wisest, Anatole?” Tsofo offered the Anaxi back his name, carefully, finding the sound of it. He was not so unfamiliar with Anaxi names, though inevitably they sounded different on a Mugrobi tongue.

And what flowers, Tsofo thought, smiling at the other man, is it that you are admiring? He felt a tightening of interest running through him, tasting curiosity on his tongue. Anatole Vauquelin, with your careful Mugrobi phrases, your eager words and your crossed arms. What is it that you want?

Tsofo found the conversation more interesting than he had expected; he still sat back against the warm stone, his arms spread out along it, and his fingers shifting lightly over the worn, smooth rock. His gaze swept out, sometimes, over the thickening, rising steam, off to the table where Ur’defa was losing to his companion with a smile.

He did not intend to lose, Tsofo thought, remembering the letter from the publisher once more. A professorship was so close he could taste it; if the rumors were true, and both Adelo and Tsanadha retiring at the end of the year, then Tsofo thought it might be his. Bandhe and Ruedka would vote against him, and their little cohorts as well, but Heladho would advocate for him, and – if he had the book deal secured – he might finally have something to offer Dhazu.

Close enough to taste, Tsofo thought; he did not intend to let anything stand in his way. Here, now, he didn't feel the same rage he had earlier; it had drained from him, and he had been filled up with determination in his stead. The Circle had blessed him once more, Tsofo was nearly sure of it; he had only to seize his opportunity.

[Tom Cooke]

The Steam Room in Iz • Thul'amat

Early Evening on the 25th of Loshis, 2720

A
da’xa Tsofo was convivial as ever. A great many blooms, he agreed in a quiet voice, without missing a beat. He inclined his head, resisting the urge – again – to fuss with the linen over his knees, to shift in his seat. He followed the other man’s smiling eyes out over the room, over drifts of white steam edged with blue phosphor. The two old men were absorbed in another round. Another arata nearby, a tired-looking man with short, grey-marbled hair, stood and padded out of the room, white hems sweeping soft above the rock.

He’d thought Tsofo would let it drop. He’d found himself hoping, though being honest, he couldn’t’ve said why; he put it down to his own shame and chid himself. When he spoke again, he glanced over, listening. He swallowed thickly.

The arata was spread out, the rise and fall of his chest even. He shifted – comfortably – as he spoke; the blue light glanced over the muscles of his long, lean arm, the subtle tracery of veins picked out against his dark skin in the humid warmth. He didn’t look, though he was sharply aware of Tsofo’s hand nearby, the pad of one thumb drifting rhythmically over the warm stone.

Anatole, Tsofo said, Thul’amat-perfect. He swallowed spittle in his dry throat. The name sunk through him, unwieldy and asymmetrical, all it sharp edges snagging and tearing.

He blinked, feeling the muscles of his back tighten. He tried to relax. And what the hell, he asked himself, did you expect him to call you? Mr. Vauquelin?

To admire from afar, he thought, and never disturb the blossoms with his touch. He looked down, unfolding his arms, settling one hand on his knee, reddish against the white linen.

He thought of the breeze whisking up the smell of tsug, of a man dappled with sunlight through tangling branches. He thought of a sleeping face, long lashes and sloping cheekbones, a shirt grease-stained and pock-marked with sparks, a chest rising and falling evenly with a backdrop of stars behind. He thought of a man silent in his arms when he spoke of it, or said as much as he could bear to. He thought of flooding poetry.

He shut his eyes a moment, frowning against the shame. It was only a moment.

He opened them, fitting the pleasant smile back on his face. “I don’t know which man is wisest, ada’xa Tsofo,” he said, feeling clumsy-tongued and too-sharp with the honorific. “I know which I would prefer to be.”

Tsofo’s hand was still moving softly on the stone. It was close enough he could’ve reached out and touched it, he thought; he only entertained the thought for a moment. He was grateful, he supposed, that his face was already red from the steam.

“The tending is as lovely as the blooms.” Ada’xa, he almost said; he felt stuck in-between. “And a man can make a garden out of even a handful of seeds,” he went on, finding a smile, “and it’s not only for him. I, uh – I wouldn’t snip a flower, regardless. A bloom’s only beautiful if it’s alive, and even more beautiful with care.”

Now he did feel like a godsdamn fool.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 25 Loshis, 2720
Dzechy’haf, Iz

In a few years, Tsofo thought idly, his son would be old enough for such questions. The thought was pleasurable; for now, the boy was more of an irritation, crying at odd hours when he was trying to sleep or to work and occupying too much of his wife’s attention. He had been useful when just born; there was a delicate balance to playing the proud father, and much to learn from the sort of wishes people made on an infant’s behalf. There was nothing which could yet be seen in the child for such remarks to reflect upon; they were pure reflections of the speaker.

The wise child, Tsofo thought idly, knew that any answer was only a vehicle for more discussion. The foolish one argued the premise of the question, mistaking it for more than it was. The simple child picked his choice, and said nothing more. The wise father knew to press the wise child, rebuke the foolish child, and ignore the simple child.

“A man needs more than just seeds for a garden,” Tsofo agreed, smiling. “He needs fertile soil in which to plant them, knowledge to shape their growing, and hands which can offer tender care and needful pruning. Perhaps we cannot know which man is wisest, but surely a man can see wisdom when it is placed in front of him.” He grinned once more at Anatole, studying him again, the man’s flushed red face nearly a match for his hair; it was a casual, curious sort of look.

“It is wisdom, too,” Tsofo went on, his smile widening just barely into a grin, white teeth flashing once more in the steam-filled light, “to see how such a garden may benefit more than just the grower. In time such a man may yet have seeds of his own to share.”

The heavy weight of the waterfall drummed behind them; steam washed up steady into the air. Ur’defa lost his game, and began another. He was either, Tsofo thought, smiling, a great fool or very wise, to be either unbothered by his to defeat, or to know that even in the midst of defeat lay opportunities for later victory.

When the moment was right, Tsofo turned his gaze back to Anatole; he had judged the time carefully, the winding down of their casual talk, its steady growing familiarity. A boy of student age whom Tsofo did not recognize came into the room, and sat, timid, by the door; too afraid, Tsofo thought, amused, to seek the deeper heat, in terms of temperature or companionship. A shame; opportunities were seized only by the bold.

Tsofo smiled. “I wonder if you might answer a question which I have long had about Anaxi,” he said, cheerfully. Tsofo paused, and clicked his tongue, lightly, shaking his head slightly as if in consternation at himself. “I apologize, sir, if I am overeager. Are you the sort of man who is interested in dueling?”

[Tom Cooke]

The Steam Room in Iz • Thul'amat

Early Evening on the 25th of Loshis, 2720

D
zechy’haf smelled of water, of old rock and damp linen, of the faint sulphur smell phosphor gave off, and of sweat. Ada’xa Tsofo went on, and he sat listening to the lilt of the man’s voice, dancing in and out of the waterfalls’ drone. He grinned back, uncertain, when he spoke of wisdom; he felt something pinch at the edges of his mind, and he shifted the linen over his legs again. He willed himself, again, not to fuss, one hand coming to rest beside him on the stone.

He kept thinking of blossoms untouched, and of a silent, frowning man, looking at him in the low light of the hotel room. He kept trying to shake the thoughts.

They wound through, and he found himself relaxing again, sinking back against the warm stone. He thought he must’ve caught on; Tsofo was looking at him, smiling his warm smile, with those lively, curious eyes. And listening, too.

“... like Ur’dzuxas,” he said at one point, to a soft warm laugh. “I knew a man once who said there were seeds everywhere there were leaves; that it was wisdom to …”

“... and to sow widely …”

The first time Tsofo said sir, his Estuan dancing soft over the already-soft consonants, there was a little pinch at the edges of his eyes. His smile didn’t falter, but it thinned. You erse, he thought, what did you expect? The thought of hearing Anatole again stayed him. He nodded still, “Indeed, ada’xa,” and felt himself on more comfortable footing. Tsofo was looking out over the room, for the most part; he let himself glance over once – twice – once lingering, before he caught himself, where Tsofo’s throat met his collarbones, caught sharply by the light.

The lad was a little younger than Cerise, all too-long face and chickenbone limbs, the pads of his feet leaving dark prints on the stone. The linen was pulled a little high around his middle. He watched him a moment, sitting with his thin dark hands in his lap, with something like sympathy.

The talk had got his mind off of it a little. He was sitting sprawled back himself now, his head against the stone; he’d shut his eyes after a while, listening and speaking but not looking, and it was easier that way. The heat had grown pleasant again, and if he was still achingly aware of the arata’s hand on the stone a few inches from him, of that softly-stroking thumb, he wasn’t thinking about it.

He opened one eye then the other, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?” At Tsofo’s shake of his head, he half-laughed, waving a hand and sitting up. “I, ah –”

He supposed Anaxas did have a reputation. He scratched his jaw, sucking at a tooth.

“Personally, I, uh – I wouldn’t’ve said so,” he said, “not until recently, I suppose.” He couldn’t help the whisper of gold that trickled out into his field before he smoothed it indectal again. “My, ah – my daughter is. I’ve actually just had word she made Brunnhold’s travel team. So I - follow it, you could say.” His smile went a little crooked. “Does this answer your question, ada’xa?”

[moralhazard]

Evening, 25 Loshis, 2720
Dzechy’haf, Iz

The best trap, Tsofo thought, smiling, was one which was never seen; not when the bait was laid out, and not either when the jaws closed, eventually, and the trapper had what he had wanted. When the best trap closed, the man inside thought it was by his own design that the cage had laid around him, that the walls were of his own making, and was even – perhaps – grateful to be inside.

Anatole had relaxed back against the stone wall, his arms uncrossing. The heat seemed to have melted him, as it did so many men. It never took Tsofo that way; he felt it relaxing the tensions in his arms and legs, the tight muscles of his back and shoulders, but his mind felt sharp, as sharp as the rock of Tseli, as if the heat itself brought out some intensity of focus. Heat, pressure, force: they all sharpened in him a clarity and a strength, and he reveled in it.

Tsofo’s eyebrows lifted when Anatole spoke of his daughter, and he grinned. “Congratulations; may her waters overflow, as Hulali’s over the bank.” He had caught the shiver of pride through the other man’s field, just barely, rippling through the soft clairvoyant mona; he used it to deepen his caprise, just a touch, slipping a little further into the other man’s field.

“It does indeed,” Tsofo laughed. “I expect we will see more of each other, then, sir,” Tsofo grinned at the other man. “I’ve recently accepted a position as the clairvoyant assistant coach for Thul’Amat’s own travel team. I was on the team in my youth,” Tsofo’s smile turned fond, “and – well, you understand. A man cannot make time for all his passions, and yet sometimes along comes an opportunity which one must seize.” He grinned, and shifted, as if adjusting his position; he moved a scant half-inch closer to the other man, little enough that he might not have moved at all.

He had wanted the travel team; he had fought for it. Tsofo had entertained dreams of becoming a professional duelist himself, during his boyhood; in his very last year at Ire’dzosat, he had decided instead to go for his tseruh. He did not regret it; he never had. Dueling was too obvious, too direct, and too focused on chance. At Ire’dzosat he had found a deeper game of strategy, and far more interesting.

Tsofo knew where he was headed. Badhe had warned him against taking on the travel team position when he was so close to a professorship. Just because you can’t hack it, old man, Tsofo had wanted to say, don’t put me on limits on me. He knew what he was capable of; he knew how much he could handle. He grinned at Anatole, ruefully, inviting the other man’s response.