[Closed] This Man in My Skin

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
The Streets of Slowwater

They went through the hallway and down, out onto the street beyond; the light shifted, from the warm red of the indoor phosphor lamps to the mingled colors of the street beyond. Like a kaleidoscope, Aremu thought, looking at it; it had been a long time since he had last seen a parade in Slowwater. He knew it even before the door opened by the humming of the drums through the floor, the distant suggestion of rhythm and music.

He heard, just barely audible, Tom’s breath catch just before him. He looked out over his shoulder, the five of them – Tsofi ahead, her physical ramscott spread wide enough to catch them all, Tom just behind her, his sage-soft clairvoyant field subtler, though still with a hint of lingering bastliness, and then Aremu, Dheza and Isep’su behind.

Dheza held the door; Aremu came out last, and the onjira let it slip shut behind them. Their hand settled lightly on Aremu’s forearm; Aremu glanced over to the side and slightly back. Dheza’s lips pressed together as they looked up at Aremu’s face; for a moment, Aremu had thought they would say it.

They shook their head lightly instead, and smiled, hand sliding off his sleeve. “What a parade,” Dheza said instead, cheerfully.

They both took a half-step faster, catching Isep’su, who was watching bright-eyed.

The next company in the parade was a winding swath of blue, all of them dressed in loose flowing robes of blue, with hints here and there of white, streamers like caps attached to their wrists and more fabric held in their hands; it was hard almost to see it, for they were all of them in constant motion, ducking and weaving within and without one another. A steady drumbeat lay beneath them from three men who walked behind, dressed in darker, solemn blues.

“A river!” Isep’su said, delightedly, clapping their hands. They drifted back, lingering at Dheza’s side, and pouted, just a little. “Come on, Dheza, surely there must be something here to make you smile,” Isep’su’s eyebrows lifted, just a little, face curling into a smile.

“How can one grow tired of beautiful sights?” Dheza asked, smiling, glancing out at the street. After a moment, more deliberately, they turned to Isep’su and smiled.

Aremu lingered at Dheza dropped a few coin into the bowl; Isep’su did so as well, with an extravagant flourish and a little laugh. He left a coin in the bowl as well, for gratitude if nothing beyond it.

“Indeed,” Aremu said, quietly, looking back at Dheza. He glanced back over his shoulder at the imbali sitting behind the table, their liar’s mask carved into a brilliant smile. “It is best, I suppose, not to know what’s beneath the mask.” His hand and wrist found his pocket once more, and he went on.

Isep’su laughed; a chorus of reed instruments began from the street behind them, and they all glanced up to see them.

An enormous maja’wa in three parts, one at the head and two in the body, wound steadily between the instruments; the massive jaws worked, steadily, opening and closing, and the body rippled as if swimming.

The maja’wa lunged; the players scattered, though the music never faltered, and the jaws closed an inch from an onjira at a café, who actually screamed aloud; laughter broke over their companions and the onjira, looking flustered, began to laugh as well.

“All those masks are terribly strange,” Isep’su said, shrugging slender shoulders. “I can’t imagine wearing one,” they smiled, fingertips trailing lightly over their own cheek.

“It’s historical,” Dheza said, raising their eyebrows at the younger onjira. “It’s a part of our traditions.”

“Oh, who cares about tradition, these days?” Isep’su laughed. “Traditionally, neither of us would’ve been allowed in Slowwater.”

“So it is,” Dheza agreed. “But is all tradition bad? The turtle needs its printmakers, even if you and I have left.”

“I don’t know,” Isep’su sulked, just a little. “Why so serious, Dheza? Aremu? Hmm? There’s a parade! We’re having fun!”

Aremu smiled at the both of them – not quite the liar’s smile, though he wasn’t sure it was any more honest. He glanced out along the street, at the next display of lover’s costumes, featuring pair dances in every possible combination of gender or lack thereof, all of them twirling around in a massive winding circle as they went. He knew better than to think to catch Tom’s eye, just then, for all he wanted to.

They went on, past more colors than he knew to name. The last piece of the parade, as they turned along the bend of the street, was another company of drummers, larger than the last; they marched behind all the rest, steadily, beating out the rhythm on which the rest of the parade shivered; the last of the pole-lights vanished with them as well, leaving the street oddly dark in their wake, with only the distant drumming noise as a reminder of what had passed.

[Tom Cooke]

Tsila’s Bar, A Street in Slowwater

Growing Later on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

H
e reached up to touch his face, idle, before he could stop himself. In spite of the warm breeze and the strong smell of woodsmoke, a little shiver threatened to creep its way down his spine. The skin was soft and slack under the tips of his fingers, clammy from the humid breeze. Behind the smooth-polished wood of the imbala’s mask, he thought he caught the glint of eyes; he thought they were looking somewhere behind him – at Isep’su, maybe, who was laughing now and clapping with the telltale click of their rings – but he scratched his jaw and dropped his hand anyway, pricklingly self conscious.

He didn’t look back at Aremu or Dheza or Isep’su. There was a smile on his face somehow; he’d felt it in the lines around his lips, even if he couldn’t feel it behind his face. He dropped a generous tip in the bowl and the imbala bowed again.

He felt the eyes following them as they went, but not for long.

He hadn’t heard Aremu speak in a while. He knew not to look back, though he’d smiled at the bright-painted faces ducking in and out of swirls of cloth – lovers’ costumes, must’ve been, though he’d never seen them like this before. He’d run his fingers over the flimsy spine of his book almost like he was touching a man’s knuckles.

They had funny eyes, the lovers’ masks: he’d never seen them in motion, and now they were even stranger, with how they always seemed to follow each other. Some of them wore tears; sometimes the weeping masks danced with the laughing ones. He found he didn’t wonder about the faces underneath them, or the bodies underneath the whirling hems. He didn’t wonder what they looked like when the lovers’ costumes came off, or the circle was broken.

The street was dark after a while. He didn’t look back now either; this time it felt almost like superstition.

The breeze picked up. Tsofi was still straight-backed and spring-stepped with her sapling’s grace. Isep’su had clucked when the last of the parade had passed, as if it hadn’t felt like a passing into another life; they talked now through the silence that might’ve otherwise settled like snow.

Tsofi led them on, down another narrow street. There were not even lanterns strung across this one; the bright-colored streetlamps from the thoroughfare drifted down, throwing out their shadows long in front of them. A lizard scrambled up the side of a nearby house, disappearing into the shadow of a tiny balcony thick with plants.

“... on the two, for a gig in Iqupew,” Isep’su was saying, and he could see the glint of rings in the corner of his eye as they waved their hand. “Can you believe it? T’sahi told me to be bold, and to reach out to so-and-so – a friend of theirs, I suppose, one of those One Sun – if I felt I was being taken advantage of; though of course, I’m not supposed to talk about…”

They turned a corner into an even narrower alleyway. He thought with what was almost a start of the light flashing off a maja’wa’s painted wooden teeth, of a sudden lurch and a gaping maw.

The street dead-ended with an icon of Hulali set into a niche halfway up the wall. There were lanterns scattered at its feet, and a wealth of offerings: bowls of glinting coins, cloth, a bottle of wine with an unbroken seal, a bouquet of flowers, a tiny saucer of dzutan that must not’ve been left there too long ago. Hulali lounged back cheerfully, a smile on their worn face; they were draped with thin streams of sculpted cloth, but not enough to hide everything a man or a woman might have.

Tsofi led them down a flight of stairs toward the end of the alleyway, to a small door painted in bright green. Isep’su shivered, murmuring something excitedly to Dheza.

Tsofi knocked, and a high, soft voice said, “Where does the circle begin?”

Tsofi glanced back, eyes glinting bright in the shadow. “Api dzavivig,” she said in a low voice, and the door, after a pause, came open.

They came into a narrow hallway that smelled of qinnab and other, more fragrant things. He felt no field except Tsofi’s; standing behind the door was an onjira in a long, dark brown wrap, with another, plainer liar’s mask. They bowed deeply and gestured gracefully, silent.

“Ayah,” said Isep’su as they passed, and then repeated it, curious, but the imbala at the door said nothing; they merely inclined their head.

The room they came into was all dark wood and richly-patterned, dark-colored carpets and wall hangings; there were a few onjira lounging in low seats around a qalyan. The lights were all deep red phosphor, shuttered with carved shades that threw patterns over the walls. An arata in a white and red wrap was behind the bar, Tsofi’s age if not younger; their eyes and lips were painted cherry-red, and their hair was styled in knots.

“Tsofi, Tsofi,” they said, “you’ve brought guests.” Their eyes swept uncertainly over the imbali, and widened – and couldn’t seem to drag themselves away from – Anatole.

Tsofi introduced them each in turn, then said, “Ada’xa Aremu and Mr. Vauquelin are here about kofi,” raising her brows.

“Kofi?”

“Is Tsila in? I imagine po’ana will be interested.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Dheza look at Aremu again, the line of their lips more and more uncertain.

“Not yet, but she’s finishing some business; she should be in soon. I’m Ichyah,” they said, smiling at each of them in turn. “Please, take a seat anywhere. Can I get you anything to start? It’s on the house.” There was something about the way they said house; Tsofi was grinning.

“You know much of generosity,” he said quietly, and then, “tsenid,” and he breathed in deep. Tsofi was beginning to move toward the low seats around another qalyan; she gestured with a small hand.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
Tsila's Bar, Slowwater

They turned the corner; the first thing Aremu saw was the statue of Hulali at the far end, fish-head pointed forwards, thick lips curled into a smile. One never, Aremu thought, saw Hulali depicted with his mouth open; he tried to imagine it, whether gaping fish lips with empty space between, or flat teeth like his own, or the sharp incisors like those of a prayerfish. He knew the thoughts for sacrilege, and yet looking at the icon he could seem to think of very little else, those few long moments.

He did not think it mattered, really, what he thought of the gods; the circle surely did not think of him.

Isep’su wove out of their little party and reached to brush their fingertips over Hulali’s feet, with a murmured little prayer. Dheza murmured something as well, which Aremu only half-heard, and yet understood. He did neither, only glanced sideways at the statue once more, and then followed Tsofi down the flight of stairs towards the green-bright door.

“Where does the circle begin?” The high, soft voice behind the door asked.

“Where it ends,” Tsofi answered.

Aremu followed them into the small dark room. He bowed gracefully at the waist in greeting, his hand and wrist emerging, and then tucking away once more. He straightened up and held himself ready – not tense, but rather the opposite, smooth and even and loose throughout himself, as if he were to begin a climb. He knew it would make little difference, if he and Tom had misjudged Tsofi and what this was; he knew that extra second of readiness would be nothing, compared to what they might face.

All the same, he let himself be ready; he let himself believe it might help.

He caught Dheza’s glance from the corner of his eye; he did not look back, not this time.

“Ma’ralio, ada’tsa Ichyah,” Aremu said, politely; he did not bother trying to wonder whether his words would be accorded a truth of a lie. “Tsenid for me as well.” He would not be tempted to drink deeply of it, but he thought, here, in the quiet dark, he would be better off with a drink in his hand.

“Do you have Dzuha’twochey wine?” Isep’su asked, leaning in a little over the edge of the bar with a bright smile.

“Of course,” Ichyah said, smiling, their gaze wandering curiously over the young onjira’s smiling face.

Aremu waited until Tom began to move towards the low seats; he followed the other man, trailing just a few steps after him, and sat, cross-legged comfortable, on the low-cushions. His prosthetic he tucked once more into the shadows between his thigh and the cushion. Dheza, when he glanced up, was looking deliberately and exaggeratedly away. Aremu’s smile did not shiver, then, nor still when he looked up to find Tsofi watching him.

Ichyah came in a few moments with a tray; they set delicate coals onto the qalyan with a smile, and set out a small carafe of tsenid, with glasses for Tom and Aremu, delivered Isep’su’s Dzuha’twochery wine with a little wink, and served Tsofi and Dheza as well, before going back towards the bar – not, Aremu thought, far enough to be out of hearing range.

“To His waves,” Tsofi said, raising her glass with the brightest smile Aremu had seen from her all night – amused, he thought, and bright, perhaps even sharp, and certainly not warm – “and the wisdom of letting His currents be your guide.”

“To His waves,” echoed Dheza and Isep’su, both of them.

Aremu lifted his tsenid, lightly, and did not answer; he took a small sip of the clear anise seed liquor, and then set it gently back down on the table.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Isep’su sighed. “Dheza, try this! It’s sweet and sour at once – just right – and I think it must be made with plum?” They sniffed the glass again, taking another little sip, and then offered it to Dheza.

Dheza took it, smiling somewhat thinly, and took a little sip. They grimaced, very slightly, and handed it back to Isep’su.

Isep’su giggled. “I keep thinking you’ll like it if you just have the right one,” they said with a little sigh.

[Tom Cooke]

Tsila’s Bar, A Street in Slowwater

Growing Later on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

T
he liar raised his glass, but he didn’t speak. Tsofi wondered for a moment if he’d thought following these currents wise; still smiling, her eyes flicked to the old man, who sat – as uncomfortably as he had in Ixup’igup – across the coals from her, and wondered what he thought of these currents. But he wasn’t looking at her, not yet: he was looking down at the glass in his lap, with a strange expression as though he were holding a snake. He had poured himself only a little, his thin hand shaking a little on the handle of the carafe.

All the same he raised his glass when the others did. “To His waves,” he echoed in his deep Anaxi voice, and then caught her eye, “and the wisdom of letting His currents be your guide.” She saw him glance once over at the one-handed imbala, but she couldn’t read the expression on his thin, sour face.

She was more and more convinced these were the two from the job. That long, infuriating Anaxi name was more and more familiar the more she turned it over on her mind’s tongue, and she had heard sometimes of an imbala who had come on business to Slowwater once in a dzúlúsa moon with the Eqe Aqawe’s notorious crew, though never a man with one hand. Engines, she supposed, were dangerous things.

Her first drink was as bright and sweet as she’d expected. It mingled with the sweet scent of the smoke and the onjiri’s perfume. She settled back, sprawling slender-limbed over the soft overstuffed seat.

Ichyah had brought her the customary iyiqa’fús, though she hadn’t asked. It was the luminous blue of phosphor, shot through with white that bled and curled like smoke when she swirled it in her fingers.

She watched Isep’su giggle with vague interest. They were settling back as if already terribly comfortable, rings flashing around their glass. More interesting to Tsofi now was Dheza. They had never looked particularly comfortable around her; she supposed she had that effect. But they were looking away from Aremu now, and had not looked at him in some time.

She wondered, taking another amused sip of her iyiqa’fús, what some of her old friends from Thul’amat would think to see her now. But as far as she was concerned, the silly lovestruck Ire’dzosat dropout was dead in a gutter somewhere; she wondered that anyone thought enough of him to find her.

Isep’su had leaned to untangle the hose from the qalyan. They fit one of the gleaming-clean mouthpieces to the end, shrugging their slim shoulders as they took a draw; they started to pass it to Dheza, who held up one hand and shook their head.

“Is that t’varue?” the old man asked suddenly.

“Tsila doesn’t like anything but pure t’varue,” Tsofi said, grinning at him. “And tobacco grown in southeastern Bastia, and red sage,” Isep’su blew out fragrant smoke, “and orange peel.”

Silently, Vauquelin took a mouthpiece; Isep’su passed the hose to him.

The red phosphor lights edged the smoke and refracted through the wine; they shivered pink through the tsenid, both glasses – Vauquelin’s and Aremu’s – on the table now, mostly undrunk. The Anaxi’s hair was even redder, coppery bright, but his face was like a white mask. Aremu’s cheek was limned with red, and the red sparked in his eyes.

Tsila and her red flooding lights. Bhe! Tsofi supposed it gave the place an air of mystique, that and the masks she insisted on her door imbali wearing. Tradition, her erse, but she supposed it worked for Tsila. And it never hurt to have a liar manning the door.

Ichyah hadn’t been behind the bar in some time, and she wasn’t surprised when the long pink folds of Tsila’s wrap came into view, wreathed with an elaborate white scarf and trailing shimmery gauze.

“Good evening, ada’xa, sir,” came her very deep voice, “ada’tsa, ada’tsa. You have brought me a full vessel, Tsofi.”

Tsila was one of the eldest of their pico, older even than pico’juela. She wore her hair in an elaborate wrap, piled up on her head and studded with gems; her long fingers were unadorned, but her wrists jangled with bracelets. Her face was only subtly painted, and had been heavily lined for as long as Tsofi remembered. She had very strong features, and one of her eyes was milky pale.

She took a seat in the only unoccupied chair, wafting herself gracefully into it. Tsofi reached out for the familiar caprise of her strong clairvoyant field; they settled into a comfortable mingling. For once, Isep’su was quiet.

“I am Tsila pezre Dzaya.” She caught Tsofi’s eye; she looked at Vauquelin with faint surprise, though her face smoothed out, and she did not glance down at the imbala’s right arm. “How are you finding my house?” Ichyah silently brought out a glass of dark wine for her, but the guests had all her attention at first; Tsofi knew better than to interrupt.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
Tsila's Bar, Slowwater

Tom took a mouthful of the t’varue; without looking directly at him, Aremu could see the other man’s cheeks flex, could see smoke drift out from between his thin lips to haze softly in the red-tinted air.

“So I said,” Isep’su waved an elegant hand, “oh, thank you,” they took the hose back from Tom, the motion not quite easier than it had been handing it off, but no more difficult either. “I said, Udhe, if you’re not going to give me the best, then I scarcely see...”

Dheza was looking down at their drink, lips pressed lightly together.

“Don’t you agree?” Isep’su asked, broadly. They glanced around; they didn’t meet Dheza’s gaze, and had sense enough, at least, Aremu thought, not to search out Tom’s. “Aremu, don’t you agree?”

Aremu took a small sip of tsenid; he set the glass down gently on the table, the red light gleaming pink through it. “A wise person knows their worth.” He said, gently.

“Exactly,” Isep’su smiled at him, eyelashes fluttering, as pleased as if it had been a compliment. They preened, just a little, and didn’t glance around as much this time. A tiny frown flickered over their face, then smoothed out. “Exactly,” Isep’su repeated, with the tiniest hint of uncertainty.

Aremu knew Tsila from a distance - not because they had ever met before, not for any reason he could have named, but because he couldn’t think who else the arata could be - because of the subtle shift in Tsofi’s posture, the little flicker of a smile on her face.

Their clairvoyant field washed over them. If Tom’s, Aremu thought, was the thin soft brush of sage leaves, Tsila’s was quicksand, deep and enveloping, but soft enough against you until it had closed over your head. The weight of the third field in close quarters - with one of them Tsofi’s ramscott and the other whatever one called a field like Tsila’s - could easily have been more than Aremu could bear.

It was not, of course; not after years of friendship with Niccolette.

A heavy silence fell in the wake of Tsila’s question; for a moment Aremu thought Isep’su would break it, as they had all the others, and he could not decide if they were clumsy or graceful. The young onjira was silent, though, for once.

Aremu had bowed deeply with his head and shoulders at Tsila’s introduction, though he stopped short of rising. He sat back, aware of himself, loose-limbed and ready, with the faint prick of his knife against his spine, and his deep awareness of how useless it would be.

Dheza, too, held their tongue; they were looking down at their drink, for all their was a smile on their face. An old tradition, Aremu thought suddenly, masks.

As the fly finds the spider’s web, Aremu might have said: comfortable, so long as the spider decides it should be.

The red, he might have said, reminds me of dzum’ulusa - the festival of blossoms on the islands, if you have ever...?

One, he might have said, is always grateful for an oasis in the midst of...

Such thoughts passed quickly, flickering over the depths of him. His face was carved into an even, friendly smile, and if there was not warmth to it, there was much of depth, many layers to the wood that covered him, too hard, he thought, to brush away.

He did not want to answer. My home, he thought, understanding the subtleties of it. Sincerity in simple answers was closed to him; he knew that he knew nothing of truth. Silence, too, was closed. He could balance on the edge of metaphor or proverb, but it was a knife with a blade for a handle. Well, Aremu thought, shouldn’t he be used to it?

“Thank you, ada’na. I am Aremu Ediwo,” Aremu inclined his head once more, unflinching on the surname he had chosen himself more than a dozen years ago. “A home to a guest is as the coming of the rains,” he continued, repeating the first line of the ancient proverb.

Dheza stirred next; it could not have been long but Aremu felt every moment of it. “Just now I am Dheza Oqaq. We have had a most gracious welcome,” Dheza said, instead, polite and verifiable.

Do you care? Aremu wanted to ask, that they know you a liar? That the compliment means nothing, must mean nothing. because we do not know what truth is?

“... lovely dzuha’twochey wine,” Isep’su was saying, a little subdued still. “I am Isep’su pe Dzú,” the onjira offered a delicate little smile.

[Tom Cooke]

Tsila’s Bar, A Street in Slowwater

Growing Later on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

A
nd a guest to a home,” recited ada’na Tsila, inclining her head so that her gold earrings swung and caught the light red, “is like the first sprouts of greenery from the slaked earth, ada’xa Aremu Ediwo.” Her smile was smooth as silk; smooth, he thought, as Silk’s, with the faint warmth creasing her eyes, almost genuine at Dheza’s compliment. She turned the warmth of that gaze on the others. “Ada’tsa Dheza Opaq, ada’tsa Isep’su pe Dzu. I hope to welcome you in again in the future.”

Just now I am, Dheza’d said; he wondered. It struck him funny the way Tsila said all the names in turn, the fullness of them, like a reminder of a choice. Ediwo sounded like a weight in her voice. It made him almost want to spill out his own name, his name, and that frightened him.

Tsofi was all bright, cutting grin. Tsila’s smile was a hostess’, a mentor’s, maybe even a – mother’s. Something was creeping-crawling up the back of his neck, stirring all the hairs. He itched to reach for the pipe again, but Isep’su was taking a draw, and he knew he must speak anyway.

“My name is Anatole Vauquelin,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if it was a lie here. He sat straight, with his jaw set and his legs slightly apart; he felt the mask fitting neatly to every inch of his skin.

He remembered, though he wasn’t tempted to smile here, the knife he had delicately unbuckled from Aremu’s harness a week and more ago. There was no knife underneath his loose tunic, no boots to hide one in, no deft or strong hand with which to use it even if he had it. Instead, he sat: he sat straight, with his jaw set and his legs slightly apart, and his back as straight as an arrow. A wise person, he thought with an amused sort of ache, knows their worth.

“Good evening, Mr. Vauquelin.” Tsila inclined her head to him in turn. “Are you in Thul Ka for the Vyrdag?” She wasn’t hiding the curiosity in her eyes.

“Yes, ada’na,” he replied, inclining his head again. “I’m here at least through Thul’amat’s exhibition.”

“Then I hope to welcome you again, as well,” Tsila said, and Tsofi was smiling, taking a sip of her lightning-blue cocktail.

He almost looked to Aremu, but he couldn’t for all he wanted to. He wasn’t sure what to do, what’d been placed in front of him or how to use it, what to ask. He wondered if the other man felt the same: he felt like he was stepping deeper and deeper into dark water, feeling the brushings of seaweed against his ankles.

The deepening of Tsila’s caprise didn’t help. He bore up under it, but it wasn’t like the push of a ramscott; a ramscott, he knew how to deal with. This was like swallowing sand – or too much drink, with the way it curled into him, invited him deeper. The onjira fit every inch of her frame and every shred of her clothing and her name with a comfort like ised’usa; he’d the sense she had strong roots to hold onto, but if you didn’t, you’d get swept away.

“Ada’xa Aremu and Mr. Vauquelin are here in part on kofi business,” Tsofi said, grinning brightly again. “Mr. Vauquelin is a great lover of poetry. They met us in Ixup’igup, poa’na. Hulali’s with us tonight – it’s Ibutatu kofi business. Ada’xa Aremu represents the estate.”

Tsila turned to Tsofi, her earrings tinkling. They were studded with red gems too, which caught the light like flecks of glowing coal in the qalyan. “Indeed, ada’xa?” She turned back. “Perhaps Tsofi has told you. I should like to begin serving kofi here, and I have a particular interest in kofi from the isles.”

Dheza was sitting up still; Isep’su was starting to look bored and uncomfortable, eyes wandering over to the group of onjiri by the other qalyan, but they all wore white. Tsofi was taking a draw on the qalyan. She leaned, silent and smiling, to pass it to him, more easy than Isep’su by far.

He took it and knew better than to hesitate.

“Particularly Ibutatu kofi,” Tsila went on smoothly, “which I have never tried. Two of my sisters were in the isles last year, in fact, during the Dzum’ulusa.” The kind lines were still around her eyes. “I have heard that kofi from the isles has something of the sweetness of the mangroves about it. Tell me, ada’xa, might a sample be arranged?”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
Tsila's Bar, Slowwater

Aremu inclined his head, politely, when Tsofi spoke of the estate; the red light sparked in her bright grin, caught off small, sharp, gleaming teeth when she smiled so. Tsila turned her gaze to him, and he felt the spread of her field in the air all around them, in all its smothering softness.

“I am most awed by your interest,” Aremu said with a polite smile. “Dzum’ulusa is a fascinating time to visit the isles.” He was glad Tsila had spoken of it, so he did not have to. Niccolette, he remembered, had described two assassins: a Gioran whose tongue she had dealt with, and –

A small Mugrobi, Aremu remembered, who specialized in physical conversation.

He did not shift to look at Tsofi; the thought had been crowding at the edges of him for some time, and he had not yet succumbed to it. There was little point; it did not matter. The ehafsu were not so; whether it was Tsofi or one of her sisters made no difference, he told himself, here. Whatever danger they were in, they were in regardless.

“The beauty of the blossoms as they scatter,” Aremu went on, smiling his liar’s smile, “is a favorite sight of mine. There is another proverb, this one of the islands: Utúwos’kofi dzeh dza aqasaq’dzoyi.” He turned to Anatole with a polite smile, and inclined his head. “In Estuan, you might say: the first sip of kofi is like the scattering of the blossoms – though it can be translated also the other way.”

He was well aware of the small bag of dry beans tucked into the inside of his shirt. He had kept them there; he had worn them against his heart, all day, even when Tom had brought out the orange they had shared, slice by slice, in the quiet study room in Idisúfi; he had worn them against the hope of sharing the night, of a kettle where he might heat water, and some way to grind the beans he had not yet thought of. He had had them roasted for the occasion from one of the bags of dried beans he had had sent to Thul Ka for the weeks to come; Niccolette, at least, would need them to entertain.

He did not make his offer, yet; he did not step in without testing the waters. He watched Tom, smiling the liar’s smile, all politeness, to let the other man make it choice. He knew – they all knew – and yet, he thought, if Tom did not choose to answer the question he had skirted around, then neither would he.

I don’t know, he wanted to say, Tom; I don’t know either. He wished he could. It may be nothing; it may be danger. It may be nothing but danger. They will not tell us much, if they tell us anything; they would never reveal their client. But if a hint is worth the risk, to you – you know what I would risk on your behalf.

All of this and more he would have said, if he could have; he knew there was no way. Not even monite allowed for such, and he dared not even try to put the thoughts in his heart into his eyes or the curl of his smile. The liar’s smile was safer to hide behind; he could do nothing but trust in Tom, trust him to understand not only what he was deciding, but that Aremu was asking him to decide on both of their behalfs.

“I’ve heard of dzum’ulusa,” Isep’su had put in, glancing from Tsila and then, with another slight frown, to Aremu. “It’s supposed to be beautiful beyond compare.” Dheza murmured something about their drink being about to spill, and Isep’su glanced down, away from the conversation.

[Tom Cooke]

Tsila’s Bar, A Street in Slowwater

Growing Later on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

T
he Hessean qinnab mingled pleasantly with the tobacco. He could taste the orange peel and the red sage, and he thought he could taste a hint of hibiscus in with them. The fuzziness had followed him from Ixup’igup, and all the red lights seemed as soft as Tsila’s field.

He’d almost thought better of smoking here, but he’d thought he had to accept their generosity one way. His tsenid on the table wasn’t untouched, but he hadn’t touched it much; and he felt himself loosening a little against the chair, breathing easier in the midst of the uncertainty. Even if Isep’su kept glancing over at him like they’d never seen somebody like him smoke a qalyan – which seemed to him fair enough, being honest.

And Tsofi was watching too, her grin broadening and broadening. Aremu had paused. He took the mouthpiece off the hose and shifted to offer it to Tsofi, who was already leaning to take it. He met her eye, glinting red on dark.

Tsila was listening, her hands folded in her lap. They were lined hands; they were the hands of someone older than he’d thought she was, swollen a little at the knuckles.

Two of my sisters, he thought as Aremu went on. It was the scattering of the blossoms that brought the thought to his head: he kept thinking of the smell of them, stronger even than the perfume that clung to the upholstery of the chairs and drifted through the air in this place. If he shut his eyes, he could smell the roots of the mangroves in the slush, and the sweet coppery tang of blood. The memory was dizzy, and he couldn’t hold the edges of what he was trying to remember. Ada’na Tsofi’s ramscott itched at the edges of his mind.

The Mugrobi rolled off Aremu’s tongue; he felt glad, even here, to have the opportunity to hear the other man speak it. He inclined his head back at Aremu, smiling his thin politician’s smile. In the soft light, Aremu’s face looked as much like stone as it ever had. He knew better now: he knew what lay underneath the skin of it. Aremu was looking back at him, even when Isep’su spoke.

Dheza’s voice was quiet when it came.

He had again the strange, helpless feeling of them both looking through masks that were affixed to their faces, sealed on like wax, and this time it wasn’t to wonder what Aremu thought of him or his mask. This time it was a helpless sort of ache. He didn’t want to take the mask off, not yet; he wanted to yell, line, wanted just a moment backstage, and there could be no such thing.

“Apt,” he said instead, and then turned his smile on Isep’su. “It is – beautiful, I mean. I was in the isles for it last Yaris, as a matter of fact, which was when I became acquainted with Ibutatu kofi. Beautiful and fleeting and rare. There’s nothing like the first sip of kofi, either, I suppose.”

They didn’t look up, and Dheza didn’t look over, though their smile hadn’t been warm in a while. He looked back instead at Aremu. “I know, too,” he said, smiling at Tsila, “that the vines of Dzum’ulusa spill a sap called eyo’pili; I know there’s a saying that Dzum’ulusa also teaches us to be swift and unhesitating in the seizing of an opportunity.”

Tsofi laughed brightly.

“It is so,” Tsila said, inclining her head.

“Might a gift for ada’na Tsila be arranged, Aremu?” He smiled over at Aremu.

Tsila straightened as if with surprise, spreading her hands. “There is no good business without kofi,” she quoted, smiling again, “or privacy. Perhaps I may borrow the two of you to make arrangements?”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
Tsila's Bar, Slowwater

He thought perhaps Tom shook something off, or else shrugged something on. Tom sat up, leaning to pass the hose to Tsofi, and when he smiled it was the strange, thin smile which looked comfortably worn into the lines of his face, though it was far from a comfortable smile.

Aremu knew what the response would be before it came, at least the broad strokes of it. He felt as if he were watching a familiar play – for a moment, a flicker of a moment, outside of himself, he could have guessed which lines of dialogue would have come next.

Aremu smiled in response, looking at Tom behind his even mask when the over man looked back at him; he inclined his head. A gift, Tom asked, and Aremu smiled at him, and turned and smiled at Tsila.

“Of course, as you wish,” Aremu said, inclining again his head and shoulders. “I told ada’na Tsofi earlier that I should not try to convince another of the excellence of Ibutatu kofi; I am pleased to let it speak for itself. As it happens,” he shifted, his hand sinking into his shirt – he went slowly, very slowly, deliberately so, so that there could be nothing like suspicion – and drew out the small bag of beans. He squeezed his hand lightly against the base of it, moving it slightly so the beans shivered together, “I should be glad to let it do so.”

It was done, then; there was little more pretending.

“… an early morning,” Dheza was saying with a smile, and a deep boy. They turned, settling a hand on Isep’su’s back, “you wanted to show me that monologue, Isep’su, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Isep’su said, glancing around once more, a little uncertainly, “but…”

Dheza smiled, and after a few moments Isep’su smiled too.

They were all standing, then, the slivers of remaining coals glowing on the qalyan, the hose left lying and the mouthpieces, too, set aside.

“Aremu,” Dheza said, after a moment, turning to look at him. They frowned, just for a moment; something shifted in their throat, words, Aremu thought, swallowed.

I am sorry, adame, he wished he could say, just then; he knew it for a lie, and even if there had been a chance, he did not think he would have done it. He could not look back, only forward; there was no sense in thinking of an opportunity which could never have been seized. The delicate bag of kofi was in Tsila’s hand, her fingers with their slightly thickened knuckles closed gently around it.

Dheza’s hand was on Isep’su’s back as they went. “I really do need to practice again,” Isep’su was saying, quietly, deafening in the stillness. “Especially the opening, I think – I want it to really grab Odheto, when – ” they disappeared down the hall, and Isep’su’s voice was a quiet murmur, indistinct, and then trailed off into silence.

Aremu turned to Tsila, and smiled; next to him, Tom was smiling too, though there was a familiar furrow in the line of his brow. Aremu could not have said if he, too, had his own.

They went around the bar, then; they passed from the soft warm red of the outer bar, deeper into Tsila’s home. Tsofi trailed alongside; Aremu found his breath and his balance in the midst of the three fields, Tom’s sage soft, Tsofi’s heavy and light, and Tsila’s still enough to drown in. He did not look at Tom, either; if he had felt himself in a play earlier, then now he had lost the script. He went onward all the same.

“Have you tried eyo’pili, ada’na Tsofi?” Aremu asked, quietly, when the group shifted in the hallway, when they spread out just enough; there was nothing so much as privacy, just then. It was shy of an accusation; it was shy even of a question. He put it out there, gently, all the same, the liar’s smile still spread smoothly over his face.

[Tom Cooke]

Tsila’s Bar, A Street in Slowwater

Growing Later on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

H
e could feel the flicker of his smile; he kept it on his face, but his brow furrowed a little all the same. Both Tsofi and Tsila were looking at Aremu now, though: whatever it was he had, as it happens, they were rapt. He could see Aremu’s hand in the corner of his eyes, disappearing very slowly into the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t dare swallow. Tsofi’s eyes were sharp, and she glanced once at Tsila.

Neither of them moved. Tsofi’s ramscott hung at the edge of his field; it was reminder enough by itself. And when Aremu’s hand came back out, Tsofi laughed, small hands coming together in her lap. Tsila’s smile broadened and warmed.

He looked over finally. He could read little – nothing – in his face. There were no lines on his forehead, no familiar furrows at the edges of his lips; when he handed over the bag, every line of him looked as if it were meant for this. It was a prop, he thought, following it with his eyes, his own mask plastered in place. Of course this character had it.

He wondered with a strange, fleeting feeling – one he couldn’t afford, and one he almost let himself call sadness anyway – why Aremu had had it. He supposed it didn’t much matter now.

He blinked, watching Tsila run her hands over the dark brown paper, her lacquered fingernails gleaming. “I am grateful,” she said in her smooth, deep voice, “for the opportunity.”

Tsofi laughed again.

He couldn’t’ve said what he saw in the line of Aremu’s posture when he rose and bowed, his wooden hand tucking itself neatly back in the pocket of his trousers. He knew what he saw in Dheza’s, and he knew what he heard in the way they said his name. Like it was a thing that’d changed; like it was a new shape, and not one they’d expected.

A different character, he thought sourly, by the same name. He took a deep breath, wondering if the t’varue had been stronger than he’d thought.

He knew the look on Aremu’s face as he turned away, too, as the two onjiri moved back into the shadow of the corridor, with its faceless-masked doorman. I’m sorry, dove, he wanted to say. That was the last thing Aremu needed; Aremu needed his mask. But he wanted to lean up and kiss the small furrow in his brow, even though the rest of his face was smiling.

They went, then.

Tsofi laughed, taken aback, field pulsing lightly. “I haven’t, ada’xa. Such things are gifts from Hulali, but not to me.” Tsila laughed softly too.

That was a relief, at least. Tsila took them round a corner, lit very lowly with red and smelling of incense. It was cramped. Aremu was walking among the three of them, sandwiched between their fields and without Isep’su and Dheza; he wondered with a start – one he hid well – how it must’ve felt.

The office Tsila led them into was small, too. Four low chairs, like those in the bar, were positioned around a low table. An incense burner spilled a thin tendril of smoke curling out through the room; there were high, narrow windows, glassed in red and shaded with blinds, and the red light from the windows and the phosphor caught the smoke. There was a hearth in one corner, glowing, and an eschana, and another low table with a richly-embossed service.

There was a decanter on the table, and two glasses – as if Tsila had just had company. She cleared the glasses with a graceful motion. “Please, sit,” she murmured, “and speak freely; your presence in this place honors me. Do you object to kofi at so late an hour, Mr. Vauquelin? Ada’xa? They say Slowwater never sleeps, and Sisters are no exception.”

“Not at all, ada’na,” he murmured.

Tsofi giggled again, sinking happily into one of the seats. He sat without hesitation, straight-backed as ever; he took another deep breath.

“My interests have lain with other opportunities,” Tsofi went on, cheerful as you like, “during the Dzum’ulusa. It was lovely in Laus Oma last year, wasn’t it? Maybe I’ll go again this year, ada’xa, if my work brings me there.” Tsofi laughed again. “Perhaps I’ll see you there.”

He swallowed tightly, forcing himself to take even breaths.