ornin’, Daphne.”
“...Morning, sir.”
Tom catches the pause; he always catches the pause. But if you could put a pause in a measuring cup, this pause’d be less than half an ounce, where the pauses of Bethas were half a cup, and the pauses of Intas were at least twice that. And you don’t just measure a pause in the amount of seconds it lasts, or at least, Tom doesn’t: he measures the pause in the rigid line of someone’s back, in how their hands flinch or freeze or go on with their business.
Her back stiffens a little at the brush of his field, but her hands don’t stop, or even pause. She’s scooping that benny, powder-fine kofi into an ibrik, the rainy grey light from the one small window glinting off its barrel. When she’s done, she turns, offers him a polite smile, and bows deeply.
He bows back, then hesitates, hat in hand. He laughs and indicates the open tin of ground coffee with a twitch of his hand. “The good shit, eh?”
He’s not sure why he said that.
“Sir?” She’s trying fair hard to keep a straight face.
He’ll never get used to it, this; either he’ll never get used to it, or he’s starting to get used to it, and it disturbs him. Nobody ever bowed to him. He’s not the sort of man you bow to, or smile politely to, or treat like – and he can tell by the way her eyes skirt his hands, on the way up to his face. Curious, maybe, morbidly. They’re shaky, a little stiff, on his hat; they’re always difficult in the morning. Everything’s always difficult. He feels like a galdor, and he feels old. He never wanted to know what either of those things felt like.
“Your, uh – your brother,” he tries again, after clearing his throat, his glance flicking back up to her eyes and holding them. “Just a month, now, that’s right?”
“Yes, sir,” she replies, a little lighter. There’s a hint of confusion on her face, but maybe pleasant surprise, Tom thinks.
He smiles. He thinks it’s a warm smile, but he’s never sure. “Big day.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she’s looking at him, her brows slightly raised, as if she thinks he’s got something else to say. He goes through a few options in his head – there are questions he could ask – there are things he might’ve expected her to say. It’s that way if you’re on the job with a kov; Tom remembered little shit like that, when he worked for Hawke, and the men who worked for him liked him because of it. But now, he feels out of sorts. He doesn’t know how this game is played.
“Yes, sir,” she repeats, after a pause. He glances at the ibrik behind her, the delicate lattice of etchings up to its spout, the coffee-stained tin, the coffee smudged on her hands. He gets the moony urge to snatch the little tarnished scoop out of her hands and go and make it himself, the way hama taught him.
He doesn’t do that. He smiles, dips his head and shoulders in another minute bow, and weaves his way through the shadows and dust toward his office door. He nods at Cardinal, too; Cardinal nods back. Unlocking the door to the Incumbent’s office, he spares a glance at another door, in the crook of the corridor – his eyes flick over its extra locks. The plaque catches the light, but it’s too dim to read from here; anyway, he knows what it says. His lip twitches. His hand is slipping on the key, fumbling a pina as always, so he focuses on getting his own door open.
He misses camaraderie; he doesn’t think he’d know it if he saw it, not anymore.
It’s warm enough in his office. Stainthorpe’s a godsdamn dreary building – seems like it spills its grey onto the streets around it, like everybody who so much as passes it looks down and finds their hands full of paperwork – but if it’s good at one thing, it’s good at keeping a kov warm. Rain buffets the windows, rattles the glass; it’s been coming down in sheaves for at least three days now.
Tom hangs his coat, sets down his bag, takes out the things he took home with him. (“Home”?) He tries to remember, pressing through his headache, what he’s supposed to be paying attention to this time. It was a long night last night, but he’s promised Shrikeweed no hair of the dog, and he intends to keep his promise, at least until the afternoon. He reckons he can last that long. He remembers –
Sitting down in the incumbent’s cushy chair, he takes out his journal, flips through to the most recent page. Then, fumbling in his desk, he takes out his schedule. He settles his reading glasses on his nose, then wrinkles it.
One more month of this Vyrdag shit, he reminds himself. One more month, and the uncles and aunties of the Six Kingdoms’ll be out of Vienda and out of their hair. But he sees, and he remembers, now, the Symvouli debate at eighteenth hour. He glances between the schedule and his little book; he sees, in his scratchy hand –
New Mugrobi border policy – meetings dragging on.
Incumbent de Vries of Fen Keerden making noise – AMs Lunkist (???) + Gervase (spell??) + that Bandu kov about to spill sap. Jakali + Bull Elephant like it too – worried about revolution. Revolt on our end + plague on theirs. Tear the Vein to pieces trying to protect ourselves. Am I supposed to be in favor? Dont like any of it.
He grunts, shutting his journal and sliding it back under the desk. He glances at the clock, but it’s a minute to eight; not enough time to get in any practice with his signature. It’s an eleven, and Shrikeweed’ll be in his office soon. So will coffee, thankfully.
Wouldn’t have one, he thinks idly, taking off his reading glasses and setting them beside the schedule – wouldn’t have one without the other. He doesn’t know what to do with the thought.