[Closed] This Man in My Skin

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
Back Hallways, Ixúp’igúp Theater, Slowwater

Aremu had bowed deeply before Dzora, Gadza, and the tan-clad imbala. “One may see the stars many times,” he had said, politely, “and yet never grow weary of their splendor. May I introduce Anatole Vauquelin? He is a visitor from Anaxas, and would be grateful to take away a volume – the one you spoke of, ada’tsa Gadza.”

Tom had chimed in, then, politely, enough to lend credence to the words he could not have avoided, the ones where he could not carefully walk the line between truth and lie, as best as he knew it, to speak such that the arati before him did not have to judge his worthiness for themselves. It did not matter, not really, these games he played; he knew that, and yet he could not keep himself from it. They all knew, Aremu knew, even as he smiled, his right wrist in his pocket with the drape of his amel’iwe over it, what he lacked.

Aremu and Tom made their way into the corridor behind the stage, red phosphor and thick dark carpet underfoot. There were a handful of closed doors, which Aremu did not know whether or not to check; he knew better than to think that all of the secrets of Ixúp’igúp were harmless in their discovery.

They went further down the hall; they saw the distant edge of the stage, one of the hallways which wrapped around the inside of the building and led to it.

“No, never,” Aremu said, glancing around and then back at Tom. More doors, he thought, all of them shut; he tried not to look too closely at him. He grinned, sheepishly. “Let’s see whether we can find someone to ask.”

There was another door, finally, cracked open; qinnab smoke drifted out into the hall, fragrant and sweet. There was the low murmur of voices, and then a sudden rush of laughter, a handful of voices intertwined in it.

Aremu knocked, lightly, with the backs of his knuckles.

The door opened a little wider; an onjira with a septem piercing answered, a delicate gold loop with spikes threaded through, each one capped with a tiny glittering gem. Their field washed over Aremu, but met Tom’s in a polite caprise, belike greeting belike. “May I help you, ada’xa?” They asked.

Aremu bowed, politely, his hand and prosthetic emerging before they tucked away once more. “Thank you, ada’tsa. We are looking for ada’tsa Tsagúr.”

“Tsagúr?” The onjira raised their eyebrows. “I haven’t seen him around tonight.”

“Aremu?” There was a surprised voice from inside the room.

Aremu’s eyebrows lifted.

The door came open wider. An onjira with a round face, eyelids gleaming with silver and blue and no field to be found came into sight, dressed in a tunic and pants in the same colors, with a tasteful amel’iwe around their shoulders. “It is you!”

“Dheza,” Aremu said, with a small, tight smile and a bow.

“We knew each other at Thul’Amat, Obere,” Dheza said with a smile. “Aremu, I haven’t seen you since – just before graduation, I suppose.”

“It has been a long time,” Aremu said, after a moment, his smile smooth and even.

Dheza’s gaze drifted to Tom; they paused, their eyebrows drifting up.

“Dheza, this is a visitor from Anaxas, Anatole Vauquelin,” Aremu said with another bow, shifting to keep his right arm in the shadow, to turn Anatole into the conversation as best as he could. “He is a great fan of poetry, and I thought he would enjoy all which Ixúp’igúp has to offer.”

Dheza smiled. “Poetry speaks to the heart,” they said, smiling.

“Any who appreciates poetry appreciates beauty itself,” Obere put in, smiling. Their gaze was sharp and curious, drifting from Aremu to Dheza. “Please, come and join us; Tsagúr will most likely come by after the show. Anyway, it’s best not to disturb them before they perform,” they grinned, white teeth bright beneath their dark face and the gold ornament in their nose.

[Tom Cooke]

Ixúp’igúp Theater • Slowwater

Late Afternoon on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

I
’m sorry to miss them, then,” he murmured, bowing politely.

There was a giggle from inside, a low voice with an accent he didn’t recognize. “Don’t be,” came a laugh, and then another laugh rippled through the room, buoyant on the smoke. “They’re not a very good poet.” The voice coughed, and there was more laughter.

A grin spread across Obere’s face, unabashed. “Tsofi Tsetoun,” they murmured, inclining their head and shoulders as they opened the door a little more and stood aside. “Her,” Obere offered matter-of-factly, without a pause, “words are not unlike… the first rains – no less welcome for their unexpected coolness.”

“Tsofi is not a poet,” came a fourth voice.

“I’m a bouncer tonight, as a matter of fact. But I have a certain fondness for poets, so I slip away.”

“We have a fondness for you.” There was more laughter.

He could see Aremu’s face, still half red lit by the corridor. He was holding himself a little apart still, he realized, though he could still feel the brush of Obere’s caprise. The one Aremu had called Dheza wasn’t looking at him anymore. They were looking down first, nowhere in particular, the glittering silver on their lids and dusting their lashes catching the light; they were still smiling, a little uncertain now, and they glanced back at him before they looked warmly back at Aremu.

Obere was looking between him and Aremu, but mostly at him, brows raised.

He realized with a sudden start what they must’ve thought. It isn’t that, he wanted to protest, it isn’t that I’m uncomfortable with – he looked one last time at Aremu, but he could see nothing in the imbala’s face. No, that would’ve been a lie: he could see a tightness round his eyes, round the set of his lips, a familiar set of shadows.

But Obere was looking at them both expectantly, and he felt helpless – to come in, to leave. He felt dizzy. Since graduation, Dheza had said. Obere had seen his hand, but he didn’t think Dheza had. And they were looking at him, too, and Aremu had introduced him as –

His mind raced, and he tried to quiet it.

“Thank you, ada’tsa,” he said with as warm a smile as he could, nodding again, “ada’tsa Dheza,” he said warmly, bowing again as he slipped into the hazy room. He didn’t look back at Aremu; he wasn’t sure he could afford to.

And what place did Anatole Vauquelin have here? What place did Anatole Vauquelin have anywhere?

“Obere, please,” said the onjira with a wave of one hand, gesturing to an unoccupied seat.

It was overstuffed and upholstered with the same worn velvet as the seats in the box. He couldn’t help, again, his hesitation as he sat; he couldn’t help the sheepishness of his smile. Where had the mimic that lived in his skin gone? He saw Aremu’s vivid purple scarf sweep past, and he looked up and smiled, but he couldn’t meet his face.

“Tsenid, sir?” offered Obere, eyes glittering dark. “Wine?”

“Just a little,” he murmured, and then without thinking, “ah – Anatole, please.”

There was a little ripple of bemusement; the one Obere had called Tsofi snorted, then coughed.

It was a dressing-room. Not unlike the one at Greene’s, he thought, with an aching sort of homesickness, more for a time than a place. Times, places. There were five of them, most, he realized with a tickle of embarrassment, sitting in the floor. Dheza led Aremu in insistently, a soft, surprised sort of fondness on their face, but not without uncertainty. The one they’d called Tsofi was tiny, swathed in white and gold, and fair sprawling over pillows. She was a surprisingly strong, and slightly dismissive, physical caprise.

She was closest to the qalyan and lounging in the smoke. It was a beautiful but worn Hessean thing, hose a riot of red and blue, with birds chasing each other across the copper base. No one offered him that.

The line was drawn hazily. Dheza and the third imbala, a slim, very young onjira looking curiously at Aremu and Dheza, were on the other side; Obere took a seat beside Tsofi, and took the pipe of the qalyan to take a drag. The floor was spread with pillows and half-empty glasses, two bottles of aqiti wine – one unopened, one mostly–poured – and a smaller bottle of tsenid in the midst.

Obere passed him up a glass of aqiti wine.

“Will you take anything, Aremu?” Dheza murmured, smiling fondly. “And tell us a little something of how you have spent your days,” they said carefully, inclining their head; it wasn’t, he noticed, any of the typical greetings, though he’d heard it on the tongues of a few onjira since arriving in Slowwater.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
A Back Room, Ixúp’igúp Theater, Slowwater

There was little enough Aremu could have done, in any case. He could not quite turn to Tom and smile encouragingly; nor could he quite think how to frown in a way which would put on Tom pressure to decline on their behalf. Worse, he was not entirely sure which he wanted; there was more than a little of him which felt it best to walk away from this room and its strange, distant memories, and other parts which were curious to know more of Dheza, and what had become of them in the long years since Thul’Amat.

He had known Dheza, always and completely, through Efreet’s lens; Dheza and Efreet had been friends, as he understood it, since childhood. He had never mentioned to Efreet – not even afterwards, when he had splintered things between them and it was long since over – the night viewed through a haze of qinnab smoke and drink, when Dheza’s sobbing into his shoulder had become their lips, creeping up onto his neck, and he had, as best as he knew how, eased away and let the onjira go to bed alone. He remembered it, well enough; he hoped Dheza did not. He thought it was the sort of night best forgotten.

Dheza was smiling at him, still, though something at it had gone uneasy around the edges.

Tom accepted, then, for the both of them; Aremu followed into him into the room of shifting smoke. They slipped apart, Tom joining Obere and the one they’d named Tsofi on one side of the room, along with a third galdor in green-edged cream, with a soft perceptive field. Aremu sat cross-legged closer to Dheza, though not so far from Tom, in the end.

“No, thank you,” Aremu shook his head lightly, not looking at the aqiti wine on the tsenid. The drifting smoke was more than enough for him; he had not finished the glass the sisters had sent him, though he had not left more than a quarter of the honey-rich liquid behind, either.

He had known, when he sat, that there would be no hiding it; he should have had to remain standing for that, with his right wrist tucked in his pocket and the drape of the amel’iwe to hide the strangeness of it. Sitting, cross-legged, there was no natural way to keep the prosthetic hidden in his pocket; it drew more attention than it put aside. He had eased it out, as he sat, and tucked it behind the drape of the amel’iwe.

Aremu thought it over; he let himself think about it, at least. He thought Obere had seen it in the hallway; he didn’t think there was much chance the onjira hadn’t. He could let it be seen now, he thought, or he could hope to escape notice a little longer. Dheza did not seem quite drunk enough for that to work, however badly he might have wanted it to. He shifted, then; the drape of the amel’iwe slipped free, and the wooden hand was resting on his thigh.

It wasn’t so obvious as that; he had found something of his voice in the space between. “I have known the currents as a bird or a fish,” Aremu said, politely inclining his head, “and they have taken me as they would. What would you say of your days, Dheza?”

Dheza was smiling, settling in a little bit more comfortably. They lowered blue-dusted eyelids, looking over at the qalyan. “They have been full of color,” Dheza replied, smiling, “as the sky caught between the storm and the sun.” They took for themselves a glass of the aqiti wine, raising their eyebrows once more at Aremu; he shook his head, lightly. The onjira sitting on Dheza’s other side took it, smiling at the both of them, eyes still curiously wide.

“But please,” Dheza went on, “I remember – after graduation, you were working in an airship yard, is it not so?”

Aremu inclined his head. “It was,” he said. “I left after some time to work as a mechanic shipside, instead.”

“With that pilot friend of yours?” Dheza asked, smiling. “Uzoji, wasn’t that his name?” Their gaze drifted down, and they gasped, abruptly, a half-stifled cry loud enough to echo through the room, eyes shooting wide beneath the screen of colorful paints. “Your hand!”

Aremu glanced down as well, looking at his lap for a moment; his left hand was soft on the leg of his pants, and on the right side, there was a curl of wooden fingers. “Engines are dangerous things,” he said, quietly, and looked back over at Dheza.

[Tom Cooke]

Ixúp’igúp Theater • Slowwater

Late Afternoon on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

T
sofi saw it before any of them, though it did not hold her interest long. The name, too, was familiar, Aremu, though the soft Cinnamon Hill rang no bells for her. She couldn’t place where she’d heard the name, and Circle only knew; he might’ve even been a hit, for all she cared. Something said by some poa’tsa or poa’na in her pico breaking bread, some tidbit of hearsay pico’juela had shushed before it had gotten out of hand.

The wooden hand was interesting. He had a weight in every muscle of his face, she thought, and wondered what business he was here on. It was a strong-featured, handsome face, with reserved lips and expressive eyes, though not one she had seen before.

Not onjira himself, and not one of those arati who like to come and tour Slowwater, gawking like orozem. Dheza knew him, at least, even if Obere was looking at them both with brows raised. From Thul’amat, she supposed. Thul’amat didn’t interest her much either; thought of the place soured the taste of the qinnab. But ada’xa Aremu and his wooden hand did, and so did the way Dheza was looking at him, the way they had guided him in like you guide an old and dear poa’tsa to your hearth.

It wasn’t so interesting that her attention didn’t drift back to Isep’sú, that pretty piece Dheza insisted they were serious about.

Let them; what she’d heard last week from Ixut she’d promised would stay between them, and Tsofi had honor, even if Dheza did not know the lies they spoke. Still, she knew the type: wide-eyed, fresh in Slowwater. She had always wondered why people said it was easier to break hearts with age. Experience taught you the weight of breaking a heart; those who were wet behind the ears, like this pup, broke them over, and over, and over, until they learned.

Bhe. She supposed it had more to do with when you stopped caring.

The other one was more familiar, though she couldn’t’ve said how. Anetol Vauculin, she mouthed through more smoke. He didn’t look familiar, but she supposed no Anaxi was particularly memorable. All angles and blank, pale eyes, with no more color than a fish’s; thick, vibrant-red hair like all Anaxi had, with wisps of grey and white like smoke. Strange, but she had killed plenty of them.

She had watched him try to smile at Dheza, a strange, cold sort of smile where one side of his crooked lips had come up. A politician, she supposed, like all the rest, straight-backed and dignified; he looked rather miserable here, which made sense. What made less sense was his company, and the fact that he was here at all.

The two of them must have been here on business with her sisters. No, she thought, no. Floods, and flood me too! Not tonight; she was, she told herself, not on the job tonight. Dheza was speaking softly to Aremu, and listening intently, and Obere had been asking the old Anaxi questions to his uncomfortable smiles and yet more uncomfortable responses.

She set herself again to admiring Isep’sú, who caught her eye sheepishly – boyishly, almost – precisely as she glanced disinterestedly away. Then she shut her eyes and eased back, resting her head against a pillow.

Uzoji, Dheza said, and her eyes opened, though slowly, and she did not look immediately at the imbali.

“... a good friend,” the old man was saying, his glass in his lap undrunk, long fingers dancing around its rim.

Obere’s laughter spilled honey warm into the midst of them. “You need not humor my curiosity, Anatole,” they offered, a painted fingertip gliding around the rim of their own. “It seems to me an unlikely friendship, though the mirror tells us of all people that seeming is not always truth, and often the unlikeliest –”

Dheza gasped, then: “Your hand!”

Tsofi had been watching them out of the corner of her eye; she had been wondering, in truth, when Dheza might notice. Even Iye’sir, who had been nearly lost to the world, roused themself at the sound.

The Anaxi, Vauquelin, looked over sharply at Dheza. He blinked his pale eyes a few times; his fingertips pressed white-nailed around the rim of the glass, then relaxed. His thin lips were white, too, for a moment, and then smoothed.

There was quiet for a few moments.

Uzoji, Tsofi thought. If she had been more of a pup herself, she might have winced. She remembered it; she remembered it very well, and not just with displeasure. She reached for her own glass of tsenid and steadied herself on a sip, a small smile playing out across her lips. “I’ve heard it is dangerous work,” she said into the silence, smiling undeterred.

“I have heard mechanics compare their relationship with the engine to esera, as sailors did in old days,” Obere put in smoothly.

“I did hear about Uzoji,” Dheza went on quietly, smiling once again. “Blessed are those to whom his soul brings laughter now.” There was more uncertainty in their eyes. They didn’t look down again, not quite, never quite, though they did glance occasionally at the Anaxi. “May I ask if you have been returned to Thul Ka long, adame?”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
A Back Room, Ixúp’igúp Theater, Slowwater

They all turned and looked at him, then, as one. Aremu held, still; he spoke his piece, offered neutral words on the border between truth and lie into the smoke-filled air. Even Tom, he thought, the memory of the aqati wine bitter-sweet on the back of his tongue and down into his throat, turned to look, just then, though his gaze lingered on Aremu only for a moment before shifting over to Dheza.

Yes, Aremu half-wanted to say, into the midst of the silence, it’s harder if they knew me before. He didn’t look at Tom; he knew better. His gaze was even on his lap, as if he was, himself, deep in contemplation of it. Dheza had never been a lover, but there was something of the same flavor to it. He didn’t know which was worse: pity, shock, horror, dismay, sorrow, disgust. He thought he must have had them all, over the last nearly four years.

It was Tsofi, the small arata with the physical ramscott, who spoke into the silence, smiling. Aremu's gaze lifted to her, and held, just a moment, on her easy-smooth smile.

Obere went on, as well.

Tom said nothing; Aremu didn’t know what he wanted the other man to have said, just then, but the silence tore at him, somewhere he didn’t think to name. He put it aside, then, turning his gaze back to Dheza. He inclined his head, lightly, at the comment about Uzoji, and he shifted the prosthetic away, tucked neatly between his thigh, where the light wouldn’t gleam on the wood – where it could, to any who did not look too close, have nearly been a hand.

“Some lights shine phosphor-bright,” Aremu said, quietly.

Dheza asked if he had been returned to Thul Ka long; Aremu shook his head. “Not yet a month,” he said, sitting back slightly. “I am mostly in the Isles these days.”

“I’ve heard they’re lovely,” Dheza said with a somewhat hopeful smile.

Aremu nodded. “I do a lot of swimming,” he said, after a moment. He looked at Dheza, softening somewhat; a faint smile twitched over his face. “Do you remember the trip we took to Dzoh’geg?”

Dheza grinned, then, something loosening in their shoulders. “What, the one where Efreet nealy drowned?”

Aremu shook his head, a little bit; his lips twisted, and then eased, and he smiled. “I think she’d’ve been fine.”

Dheza was grinning too. “She didn’t offer you much credit for the rescue; she was busy with her anger that you’d dropped her in the first place.”

“She was heavier than I expected,” Aremu said; his lips twitched more, his smile widening. “And then you laughed – ”

“It was funny,” Dheza was grinning now, too. “Circle, I was terribly uncomfortable, then, with such things – it broke something in the day for me.”

“At least she switched to you,” Aremu’s smile faded at the edges of his lips, though something still lingered there, fond.

“How is she?” He asked, quietly, looking at Dheza once more.

Dheza’s smile faded a little too, at the edges. “Still very much herself. She works a good deal on activism these days; her family’s printshop is busier than ever. I went a commission for a show here two years ago and could scarcely reach the counter.”

Aremu nodded. “You’re involved with the theater?” He asked.

Dheza smiled, head swaying from side to side. “I did an apprenticeship with one of the costumers, after Ared’ur. These days I do a mix of everything – a bit of advertising, a bit of costuming, occasional stage management. I’ve been writing a play, actually.”

“Your mysterious play,” Isep’sú put in, with a little smile; they leaned forward, extending a delicate half-bow. “Please forgive Dheza’s manners. I am Isep’sú.”

“Aremu,” Aremu inclined his torso in response.

“Dheza won’t show anyone their play,” Isep’sú said, pretty lips pressed together in a pout; they glanced at Dheza, who looked somewhere between sheepish and pleased. “Not even me.”

“It needs time,” Dheza said, shaking their head. “It’s not ready yet.” There was the faintest touch of irritation to their voice; they took another drink of their aqiti wine.

Isep’sú shrugged, still pouting just a little; they had drained their glass already, and reached for another.

[Tom Cooke]

A Back Room in Ixúp’igúp Theater • Slowwater

Growing Later on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

H
e was tempted to drink too much, now. He realized with an ache that he hadn’t been, back in the box – or maybe he had, a little, but as much as he ever was. As little as it was possible for him to be. Now his fingertips worked their way around the lip of the glass. It never felt more like poison than when he wanted it the most, and he wanted it very much now.

He thought it might make things easier. He ought to’ve said something, but he felt like somebody had cut out his tongue. Vauquelin couldn’t’ve said anything light and easy; there was nothing easy about Vauquelin here. A word from him was like the stroke of an axe through the soft qinnab smoke. He hadn’t ever noticed his own accent before, but he did now amid all the soft Slowwater Mugrobi voices. His own voice seemed to him as cutting and bony as the rest of him, as bleached-pale. It seemed to him it could only do harm.

Obere had fallen quiet to listen to Dheza and Aremu, and so did he, taking his first sip of wine. It was no less sweet than it’d been in the box; he wasn’t sure why he was surprised at that. Aremu’s hand was back in the shadow of his amel’iwe, the purple almost reflecting onto it, the wood soft enough in the dark it might’ve been skin.

Dheza didn’t look again, and Aremu was smiling a little, though he wondered if he understood better. It was always there, now, he supposed, even if Dheza’s smile had relaxed, even as the conversation wound on. He thought Isep’su looked a little petulant with Dheza distracted.

Efreet, Dheza said, and Obere’s lip twitched. His own lip twitched before he could stop it. He wasn’t fool enough to grin, thinking of torn stitches. He felt a deep fondness he knew the name for and hid it behind another sip of aqiti wine.

Uncomfortable he thought he knew, too, though something of the sting of that had cooled. It stung more now than it had all night.

“You were saying?” Obere asked politely, and he dragged himself away from his curiosity as they wound on. Activism, he wondered; he tried to picture Aremu – Aremu, who’d told him so many times…

“Ah –”

“Well, I happened to…” Isep’su’s voice rose a little, one beringed hand glittering through the air.

“You weren’t meant to see it,” Dheza shot back, playful; there was an uncomfortable edge to their voice.

Ada’xa, he thought to say. He thought of Uzoji and Niccolette. What was the difference? he wondered.

Obere watched him intently. There was bemusement there, but not, he thought, cruelty. With the exception of the keen-eyed physical conversationalist, none of them had looked at him with anything quite like cruelty. But they all knew, and he supposed onjiri weren’t much for pretending, even in a theatre. There was no pocket he could tuck all of himself into, and he was afraid sitting here like a sore thumb was just making it worse for the other man.

There was a lull among the imbali; Dheza was looking over now too with cautious interest, though they hadn’t quite dared to meet his eye. Only Tsofi was looking away as if bored. Her eyes kept flicking over.

The word stuck in his throat. Ada’xa Aremu. “Aremu is a good friend,” he went on, and Obere still smiled, faintly surprised. “I happened to know the Ibutatus” – he inclined his head to Dheza, though it was Tsofi, he thought, who straightened suddenly – “politically, through ada’xa Uzoji’s brother. They hosted me at their estate on the isles when I visited on business…”

He spoke of kofi, though he said nothing of intercropping; he lightly mentioned the kofi houses in Vienda.

He put all the weight of intent behind it. If it were a spell, he thought he might’ve spun it: there was twine for it now after all, and instead of a frail lace, it felt like warm wool in his hands. It was unlikely: it had been unlikely since the day they’d met. And the friendship, which he’d never really dared to name for all their talk of love, was the unlikeliest part.

He hadn’t looked at Aremu yet, and he was almost afraid to – afraid to see the other man looking at him, as if to say, What are you doing? What have you done? Or, more likely, looking at him dourly and saying, Sir.

He took another sip of aqiti wine to steady himself, then smiled back up. “It was ada’xa Uzoji’s library where I learned to appreciate Mugrobi poetry, in fact,” he added.

“One may turn over a stone at the bottom of the river and find unexpected things, untouched by the currents,” Obere said, smiling, looking again curiously at Aremu, as if searching for the other side of the story. He wasn’t sure if Dheza had relaxed; Isep’su looked vaguely dazed.

“You’re here on kofi business, then?” cut in Tsofi, a grin spreading out across her small face, her eyes wide and lively. “I might know someone in Slowwater who’s interested. Someones.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
A Back Room, Ixúp’igúp Theater, Slowwater

Aremu listened to the conversation on the other side of the room with half an ear, his gaze settled politely on the tension sparking, lightly, between Dheza and Isep’su. The younger onjira laughed, pretty and tinkling, without much in the way of mirth; Dheza’s lips found a firm line, and they shifted slightly against the ground.

“I’ve never even been in an airship,” Isep’su had changed the subject; their eyelashes fluttered more in Aremu’s direction, delicate chin tilted slightly towards him now. “What was it like?”

Dheza’s face twitched; their gaze flicked down to Aremu’s leg, but didn’t chase the prosthetic into the shadows beneath it. “I don’t imagine Aremu would want to…” their voice trailed off, gaze lifting towards Aremu.

“I don’t mind,” Aremu lied, easily enough. “The airship I worked on was a small, semi-rigid; it’s a very different experience than the larger rigid passenger ships. It rocks in the air, back and forth, with the current of the breeze.”

“Like a ship!” Isep’su laughed, clapping their palms lightly together, deliberate and careful of their rings.

Aremu nodded.

“Kofi houses in Vienda,” Tom was saying across the room, “buy from a limited range of suppliers.”

“Kofi?” Dheza asked, turning back to Aremu.

Aremu inclined his head. “These days I work as an estate manager for Niccolette Ibutatu,” he said, politely; it was as true as any statement he might have made on the subject. He had no desire to inflate himself; all he did, he did on her behalf and Uzoji’s. Whatever pride he took in the place, he never let himself forget it was not his.

“Niccolette!” Isep’su giggled. “Not a very Mugrobi name, is it?”

“She is Bastian,” Aremu answered, politely, “and the estate is maintained in her husband’s memory.”

“Is she terribly old?” Isep’su sighed. “One always thinks of widows as ancient creatures, all black-swathed and bent over.”

Aremu’s lips flattened, just a little, then smoothed into a polite smile. “She’s my age,” he said, lightly, “as was Uzoji.”

“Oh,” Isep’su said. “May the Circle bless and keep him.” They shrugged, taking another sip of the aqiti wine.

Someone who’s interested, Tsofi said, from across the room. Then: someones.

Aremu felt a prickle down the back of his neck, thinking of the strength of her physical ramscott. He glanced up and across the room, a polite smile carved into the wood of his face. He did not interrupt the conversation aloud, but at his shifting he saw Dheza drift after him, and Isep’su as well, both of them glancing over to Obere, Tsofi, and the other arata half-asleep under the drift of smoke. Aremu felt it himself, tickling lightly in his throat, a soft sort of fuzziness in his head; he was glad he had not had any more to drink, at least not yet. The level in Tom’s glass had gone down, he knew, although only a little.

Obere was looking at him, eyebrows slightly lifted. When Tom looked as well, smiling, Aremu inclined his head lightly and eased his way into the conversation, moving not at all but nonetheless crossing between the two sides of the room.

“In time, I think, kofi houses in Thul Ka and Vienda will know the quality of kofi produced by the Ibutatu Estate,” Aremu said, inclining his head. “Anatole,” he had heard the Aremu earlier, and he found the name as he could, as easily as if it were one he used often, “has been gracious in his support of these goals, knowing as he does much of the kofi houses of Vienda.”

Dheza was looking at him, and from him up to Tom, sitting on the overstuffed chair. Aremu didn’t follow his gaze, this time.

“I would not,” Aremu added, smiling, “dare to make any claims myself about the kofi we produce, and will say only that its taste may speak for itself. Is kofi of interest to you as well, ada’na Tsofi?” He looked back at the small arata, meeting her gaze with more than a little curiosity.

[Tom Cooke]

A Back Room in Ixúp’igúp Theater • Slowwater

Growing Later on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

T
here was a smile on Aremu’s face when he looked. It wasn’t the smile he’d had speaking of carrying Efreet or listening to Dheza; it didn’t warm his eyes, which were more mirrors now than windows. Aremu and Tsofi were both looking at him, but the little arata’s eyes were full of something – not warmth, as she looked him over, shifting and taking the pipe from her lips, idly blowing out smoke.

He hesitated, then looked back at Aremu. The imbali were quiet for a moment, but Aremu hadn’t spoken. He smiled, uncertain of more things than one, and inclined his head.

No, Aremu’s eyes weren’t empty. Not anymore. He was looking at Tsofi with interest through his smooth, professional lilt.

He could feel nothing in the name, though it tingled along his skin. Aremu hadn’t looked back at him, and he wondered – with nothing to hold onto except the words, varnished smooth – if he had made a mistake. He wondered if he’d thought it best after all, or if he’d only wanted it, and pulled one cloak from the other man in exchange for a stranger and more difficult one.

“It’s one of Hulali’s gifts,” said Tsofi brightly, “and all the Circle’s pleasures interest me.” She grinned, and there was a ripple of what wasn’t quite laughter through the room.

Isep’su murmured something to Dheza, petulant. But Dheza only murmured something back distractedly; they were looking at Aremu with a new sort of curiosity, and then – with a spark of something like wariness – Tsofi. Obere hadn’t looked at her since, and was sipping their aqiti wine.

Tsofi glanced back at him, both sculpted eyebrows lifted. “It’s a very funny coincidence. A dear friend of mine has been expressing an interest in Ibutatu kofi. I thought the name was familiar.” She smiled, a sliver of sharp white teeth. “Tsila owns a bar a few streets over. Not like this; a smaller place. Cozy. She would be grateful,” and here she glanced back at Aremu, “for the connection.”

He set his own aside, shifting to sit up a little. One of his eyebrows quirked.

There was no knock at the door. It opened, red phosphor light drifting in on the smoke, and a shiver of gold after it, a long embroidered amel’iwe glittering and glossy. “What have I missed?” The onjira had a high, airy voice; there was already a slush in the syllables. They stopped just close enough he could feel the brush of a perceptive caprise, dark eyes widening at him, and then glancing down at Aremu.

“Usir has missed it too.” Tsofi nudged the sleeping arata nearby rudely, eliciting a snort. “You sound breathless from all your prattling. I listened for applause, but perhaps it was so –"

“Tsagur, this is Aremu, an old friend of Dheza’s; Roa has had many surprises for us tonight,” said Obere, inclining their head. Tsagur only snorted at Tsofi, turning back. “And this is Anatole,” they pronounced carefully, a little hesitantly, “a visitor from Anaxas. The currents carried them here in search of you, I believe.”

“Oh?”

“We were looking for the volume ada’tsa Gadza mentioned, ada’tsa,” he said, inclining his head, though he glanced uncertainly at Aremu and then Tsofi.

“Tsagur, please.” Tsagur had a short, well-shaped beard; they ran their fingers through it. “Ah. We haven’t brought out the second batch yet, but I was just about to go back and get it.”

“Before that, I think you were about to have a celebratory drink or three first.” Tsofi grinned. “And I, speaking of what you’ve missed,” she handed the pipe aside to Obere, sitting up on the cushions, “was just about to suggest a change of scenery.”

“Oh?”

Dheza’s brow was furrowed. They looked at Aremu lingeringly. Isep’su looked bored, which was well enough; they hadn’t a godsdamned clue, he thought.

“To Tsila’s. I think I’d like to take the night off; if you’d take our guests back for the volume, Tsagur, I can meet you there after I let Dzora know.”

“Can T’sahi cover for you?”

“They’d better,” Tsofi said, shrugging. “Dzora owes me one.”

“Floods. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Tsila, but I have to stay and close up with Dzora and Gadza.” There was a sour tilt to the name Gadza.

“The rest of you?” Tsofi looked about, at Obere who shook their head and waved a hand, and then at Isep’su who readily agreed; Dheza, glancing at Isep’su, nodded hesitantly. She looked at last to him, raising an eyebrow.

“I would be glad to,” he said, “if Aremu has no – objections?” He caught Aremu’s eye, keen, remembering the open windows and the ruffling drapes, the smell of kofi and frying eggs and the ache of the pestle in his hand. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t ask, not even with his eyes.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 29 Loshis, 2720
Back Halls, Ixúp’igúp Theater, Slowwater

For the connection, Tsofi said, smiling, and Aremu met her gaze. He smiled as well, smooth and even, the light of interest in his eyes gleaming bright. He did not look at Tom; he did not quite need to, just then, to understand.

If this was a threat, Aremu could have told Tom, it would be already too late; if this was a threat, no sister would ever hint so. She would give us neither time to prepare nor warning, and when it came, there would be nothing so subtle about it.

It was Tsagur who came in then. Aremu did not think they could turn back now from the volume. Before he should have to think of some excuse - he did not wish to behave so to Dheza, but he knew now where his loyalties lay - Tsofi made one for them, her eyes gleaming with something that reminded him, uneasily, of Niccolette.

He followed the conversation with a careful, neutral smile; he had inclined his head at the introduction to Tsagur, and turned to Dheza when Obere called him an old friend, something softening in his smile.

“I like cozy,” Isep’su had said, smiling. “I’ve never been to Tsila’s.”

Dheza had nodded, themself, neutrally; they were smiling, something in the corner of their eyes.

“I would be glad also,” Aremu said when the question came to him. He inclined his head, lightly, the smile on his face carved smooth once more. He let himself look at Tom, then, with no particular expression but his smile, as he thought would perhaps not seem too strange.

There was little chance of it coming to anything. He knew that; Tom knew that; he thought likely too Tsofi knew that. It did not stop him; it would not stop him. He thought of Niccolette, casually, yelling him she knew it likely Yesufu had meant to spring a trap for her, and following it in.

He thought too of the blade which he had worn all day, in the wet damp rain, tucked into the length of his spine, and the prickling of it, even now, against his skin.

Tsagur’s celebratory drink did not take long; Tsofi rose, seeming no larger standing than she had lying down, and yet leaving a noticeable absence in her wake. Dheza was the only one to let it out, a tiny little exhale which rippled through.

“What did you perform tonight, Tsagur?” Dheza asked. “I was sorry to have missed it.”

Tsagur waved an elegant hand. “You had heard it before: the redemption of the tides.” They turned, eyebrows lifting lightly, to Tom. “You are a fan of poetry, sir?”

Tsagur declaimed as they made their way down the hall, their voice with a faint hoarse scratch at the edge.

”The tides of the sea run two ways
And the river only one
It flows ever outwards

The ship which bobs in the gentle night
Has his choice
To flow with the river
Or else to turn it aside”

They went through the red light, footsteps nearly silent on the plush carpet. After the smoke in the small room, the air tasted crisp and odd, almost empty; Aremu felt the rush of it to his head, though it settled easily enough.

The door was, Aremu noticed, close to what he thought was the start of the hallway - at least, perhaps. Tsagur opened it, and went inside; the office was strewn with papers and programs, but there were several crates of neatly bound volumes against the wall.

“Now, most of the poems are printed in Estuan,” Tsagur explained, “with three or four in Mugrobi. The challenge was finding a printer who could manage both - it’s less common than you would expect outside of specialized applications, particular if you don’t want transliteration - naturally that makes it considerably easier.”

Tsagur took out one volume, and handed it to Tom with a flourish; they smiled.

Aremu smiled too.

[Tom Cooke]

The Streets of Slowwater

Growing Later on the 29th of Loshis, 2720

I
t’d been like a weight off, that physical ramscott gone. That was all he could think, moving down the hall after Tsagúr, almost too distracted to parse what he was hearing. But whatever Tsofi had said – and she’d spoken truth, after all, the onjira’s voice raspy-edged – Tsagúr had a fine intonation, and in the soft red light he had eased into it, flowing with the river. He wondered if he ought to’ve drunk more, or less, or worked up the nerve to ask for the pipe: now the air tasted like anticipation, a little fear mingling with the lingering sweetness of the honey.

Like the walk, he thought, before a job, and he no longer felt quite so strange about Aremu at his back.

Chagrined, he realized they were going back the direction he and Aremu’d come; and the door Tsagur stopped at must’ve been one of the ones they’d passed. He didn’t look at Aremu, but he did scratch his head, lifting an eyebrow as they went in.

He breathed in the scent of the paper, stronger almost than the qinnab had been. As Tsagur went to the crates, he moved to glance over the programs, clasping his hands behind his back and peering down. Iki’dzepe, read the small Estuan block-printed under an elaborate sprawl of Mugrobi.

He turned away before he could make out the illustration. He smiled when he took the book, opening it carefully, careful too not to look at Aremu. In the corner of his eye, the imbala was smiling; he let a little gold shiver politely out into his field.

The pages were uncut, but he turned a few leaves. Tsagur was still smiling, satisfied. It was mostly in Estuan, but he found a poem in Mugrobi with the translation on the right-hand side rightaway; there was, as they’d said, no transliteration, but he thought of the joys of seeking and smiled more widely. He ran his fingertip over the line, then turned the page twice more. He caught the beginning of Tsagur’s poem: “... The tides of the sea run …”

“Thank you, ada’tsa,” he said, bowing. He looked askance at Aremu, smiling his thinnest, politest smile. “I’m grateful to have something to remember this by.”

The door clicked open again. Tsofi was tiny, a good half-inch under the height of even Dheza, who was shorter than him. All the same, Tsagur lifted their head at the brush of her field, and he resisted the urge to turn immediately. He did eventually, shutting the book and running his hand over the cover; he turned and found her smiling at him and then at Aremu, sharp-eyed as ever.

They went out the back, down the red hall again and down a short leg of stairs. This street was even narrower; Tsofi beckoned them down it, cheerful as ever.

The narrow street opened up into dizzying brightness. He couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing at first except for the movement – his breath caught in his throat. The thoroughfare breathed with color; it was a parade. As he watched, a performer went by with a massive instrument strapped to them and cradled in their well-muscled arms, playing a complicated melody with both hands.

Tsofi, walking just ahead, stopped and clucked. “Ah, bhe,” she breathed, shrugging her slim shoulders. “No chance of getting across this way.” She shot a look over her shoulder, teeth gleaming white in her broad grin; she walked a step backwards, laughing. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

He laughed. “Once, in Old Rose Harbor,” he said, to an incredulous, slightly sour look. “When I was just a boy.” The coronation, he did not say. Our coronation, for our king.

“Such memories glow brightly,” offered Tsofi, turning back with another shrug, “against the shadows of the past. Come, this way. We may find the end of it at Running Wren, if it isn’t too long. It seems to me there has been one every night in Loshis.” She clucked again, then led the way out onto the sidewalk, moving downstream parallel to the great rush of it.

“To flow with the river,” he murmured, tucking the book close to his side, “or else to turn it aside.” Tsofi snorted loudly, unabashedly, in front of him.

He smiled anyway, looking up at the flash of a great suspended shape drifting by on poles. He could just see the bottom half of it, the gunwale of an airship sticking up over the heads of the bearers; the ‘balloon’ was scaled and shimmered a dozen colors in the lantern light. It drifted back down the street. He fell back a little, though he didn’t walk beside Aremu and Dheza; he glanced back anyway, curious. Isep’su was grinning about.

“Iki’dzepe asks for your generosity,” said a high voice, “on behalf of itself and the One Sun.”

His head jerked at the sound; there was no field. They had been standing quietly by, beside a low table covered neatly in pamphlets, and they were swathed in a plain tan tunic and trousers, with a tan amel’iwe. He couldn’t make sense of what he was looking at, at first – until he realized they wore a liars’ mask, smile blank and smooth, over their face. There was a bowl sitting on the table.

“The best company in Slowwater,” Tsofi said brightly, stopping to reach into the bag at her hip, “and that’s the truth.”

The masked imbala shrugged gracefully, spreading both long-fingered hands.

“I might have known One Sun was behind this,” laughed Isep’su.

Dheza was reaching into their purse, too, and he unbuckled his own bag. “Do you remember when talk of the One Sun scarcely reached beyond these neighborhoods and a few in the Turtle?” he heard Dheza ask Aremu behind him, voice soft. They dropped a few coins in, and the imbala bowed, just as graceful.