om doesn’t say anything, because he can’t. That, in and of itself, means something to him; it means more than he can say, even begrudgingly – it means more than he wants to say. He inclines his head, slow. And he doesn’t like it, peering across the desk at this –
Well, he thinks, taking another sip of coffee, the faintest of smiles creasing his eyes. I don’t half know what you are, really.
Because when B.A. Shrikeweed walked into his office – rather, the office of the man he’s pretending to be – a few months ago, he thought he’d sized him up within seconds, and that picture he’d painted hadn’t included a laoso bruise round the eye, or talk of fists in the ring, or getting told (rightfully) the value of taking a beating if it means you win the war. He sees something like iron in the set of the bureaucrat’s shoulders, something like iron but nothing so proud or inflexible, nothing so easy, and he thinks – he doesn’t know why – this is a man who doesn’t sleep well.
So be it; none of us do. Men who sleep well don’t tend to wake up.
He smiles proper as he lowers his cup, just for a moment, but it’s gone at another thrust of that loud voice next door. Gone, too, at Shrikeweed’s careful words, his tilted head. He’s stopped packing his shit, but he hasn’t stopped paying attention.
“Pirbright?” Tom hisses softly, frowning. “No.” But right away, he doesn’t look so sure. His eyes slide sideways again, narrowing. That old nerve right above his cheekbone jumps; it sends a twitch shivering across the left side of his face, and the eyelid flutters. He frowns deeper, crosses his arms, and shifts in his seat. He drums his fingertips silently on the leather arm of the chair.
Piss-angry, somebody is. The voice rises up again, holds its words aloft like a standard. Tom thought it was a kov, but now he’s not so sure, being honest. Sounds a bit like her. He’s only met her once or twice, but as he recalls, she’s got a deep voice for a chip, hard-edged with years of smoking. He can’t tell from here, but the more he listens, the more likely he reckons it is.
And underneath it, cutting like a knife, old Burbridge – a hiss; a hush-hush-hush; a frantic few words, just a rush of breath – except it’s dull and brittle, and it’s nothing to the barrage of indignation. Folds and breaks. Another loud, garbled phrase, impossible to make out through the wall, makes Tom lift an eyebrow and look at Shrikeweed.
If it is Pirbright – Tom doesn’t want to think about it, not this flooding early in the morning. But it’s not Pirbright he’s worried about; it’s who’s sent her. Tom’s thinking about Burbridge’s mouth, and he’s thinking about Eth Kevali da Fintaine and the visiting Huanes and all that messy vodundun.
He snorts once, loudly, at the question. Pirbright – ‘cause he’s fairly sure that’s who it is, at this point – raises her voice up again, and Tom hears a funny slamming noise, like a fist on a desk. “You know I’ll take any excuse to break out the brandy. And I’m sure they’ve got a whole godsdamn gallery full of listeners, by now,” he says into the lull that follows, shrugging his shoulders stiffly. “They’re putting on a hell of a play; why shouldn’t they?”
His hands’re a little shakier as he brings his cup back to his lips. The rim clatters a pina against his teeth, and he clicks them irritatedly. The little cup clatters, too, against the saucer, though by now it’s too low to spill. Tom still curses under his breath.
He had it for awhile, but he’s losing it now. It’s better, these days, but it’s the precision he loses: it’s an open hand or a shut hand, and none of the elegant in-betweens. He used to be graceful as a cat, and it stings too damned much to think about.
Ibrik’s not steaming anymore. Tom swallows his sip of lukewarm kofi, steadies himself again on the rich bitterness, and then looks Shrikeweed in his bruised eye. “If it’s Pirbright, it sounds to me, Mr. Shrikeweed, like Aldous has got himself in deep shit.” His voice is lower. Whatever smile Shrikeweed’s suggestion wrangled out of him, it’s gone now; the frown is carved as deep in his face as it ever was. “I don’t know much about it, but the old fool hasn’t been quiet with his feelings about the Huanes” – Tom can’t quite wrangle the foreign word, but then, most Anaxi can’t – “and he’s been spending a lot of time with that Fintaine. The man.”
An emissary from Gior that isn’t da Huane is unusual, these days, with the way the coins’re stamped, and everybody knows how the Fintaines feel about the Huanes. A male emissary is even more unusual; Tom’d never seen a Gioran man before Kevali. The Huanes’re Anaxi allies, in theory, but after all that sticky business between Brunnhold and Qrieth, everybody knows you keep your mouth shut about anything and everything Gioran. Unfortunately, Tom supposes, an old conservative with Fintaine allies thinks he’s above sense.
“Not that Burbridge can be touched,” he bites off, bitterly, staring at the wall as if by will he might pierce the bookshelves and see into the incumbent’s office. “Old money, old blood. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if retirement’s suggested, by Roalis.” Wouldn’t be surprised if they suggested it for me, he doesn’t say.