[Closed] Lacuna

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 28th of Vortas, 2719

T
he chain flashed silver in ada’na Nkemi’s small, dark hand. He watched her lay it careful-like over the palm of her other hand. He watched her watching it; he tried to imagine the coils and gears behind the faint lines on her brow, the solemn, serious set of her mouth. He didn’t ease, didn’t settle back into his seat, though his hip ached, and he wanted nothing more than to sag against the cushions. He perched on the edge of his seat, fingertips trembling against the rim of his glass, knuckles white.

Nothing dishonest about this, Tom thought wryly. He couldn’t’ve done otherwise if he’d wanted to. He could feel it in every tense line of him – his pulse thundered in his sore throat.

I want it back, he wanted to say. He swallowed thickly; he swallowed the words. Ada’na Nkemi looked up at him with another of those smiles. The smile he gave her in return was cramped, hastily-written in the lines of his face.

I want it back, he wanted to say. He stayed perched at the edge of his seat. Whichever laoso took it, I don’t care – I don’t care what happens – I don’t care what’s in it for you, what could possibly be in it for a prefect from Thul Ka. None of that matters. I just want the godsdamn seerstone back. It’s important to me, he wanted to say.

Truart’s voice tore his eyes away. His lip twitched with irritation before he mastered himself. He nodded slowly, sucking at a tooth, as if thinking about it.

At length, he offered, “It was at Bartleby’s,” with a slight shrug. He glanced helplessly from the inspector to the prefect; ada’na Nkemi was still absorbed by the fob, running a fingertip over the antler nestled in her palm. “It must have been.”

’Cause the watch ain’t a fuckin’ watch, kov. Chewing his lower lip, furrowing his brow as if thinking harder, he made to pour himself another glass of whisky. He reckoned it’d been fair long enough.

“On the walk, afterward, I didn’t check the time. Whoever took the watch – he can’t have seen me take it out, as you say.” The neck of the decanter clicked against the rim of the glass again. His voice was a low scrape underneath the burble of the whisky. “I took my coat off at Bartleby’s; it’s possible that someone there saw the fob and decided to follow me. But…”

Tom set the decanter down on the tray as carefully as he could, and it still clattered. He flinched; it was all he could do to clench his teeth against the flood of curses. He sat still a few seconds, knowing he’d spill whisky if he tried to sit back with his glass before he steadied his hands.

Godsdamn all of it. Without looking up, he could see ada’na Nkemi; he could see the light from the hearth painting the curve of her face, the orange-red highlights echoing in her dark skin, the deep shadows in the folds of her scarf. He could still see the look of concentration on her face.

She smiled as she reached him back the fob. He smiled back uncertainly; he felt a faint pulse of disappointment, of confusion. She, at least, was a clairvoyant conversationalist. He’d thought – the fob’d been attached to the watch since Ezre’d given it to him; he’d thought maybe the watch had left its ghost on the chain, thought maybe you could ask the mona –

You could use an object to help you find a person, Tom knew; Ezre had taught him that. Tom didn’t know you could find an object. An object didn’t have a mind to touch with a ley channel; not even a seerstone was itself a recipient.

The closest thing’d be to find something of the kov that’d stolen it, he supposed. Reluctantly, he tucked the fob away in his waistcoat, frowning.

Under ada’na Nkemi’s quiet, thoughtful gaze, under Truart’s cold glance – his disapproving mustache – his talk of deviants – Tom felt like he might claw out of his skin. Why does it matter, where I was, what I was doing? Why does it matter, whether it’s a watch or a seerstone or a flooding shoe?

This was supposed to be easy. These were galdori, galdori with magic. He remembered a time when it’d been a mystery to him, when the thought of a brigk’d struck terror into him, for all he’d thought there was no limit to what you could ask of the mona. He knew, now, it wasn’t that simple; it still stung.

Tom’d been biting his lip close to hard enough to draw blood. Taking a deep breath, he took a long drink of whisky, swallowing it with a wince.

“With – respect, Constable Inspector,” he nodded, “prefect –” His eyes lingered on the hers. “I am a statesman and not a detective,” he continued carefully, “or an academic, and I am... somewhat new to clairvoyant conversation..”

He frowned slightly, leaning to put the glass on the tray. “If the place where I was attacked can be found, is there no chance the attacker might’ve left – something – some shred of cloth, or a hair – I have heard that men can be located with such tokens.” He blinked at Truart, and then at Nkemi. “Would it not be key to – to act quickly, before such evidence is lost?

“If,” he added quickly, “if such a thing can be done.” He cleared his throat again with a sheepish, almost apologetic smile.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Evening, 28 Vortas, 2719
The Vauquelin House, Uptown

Luix’erman did not write anything new; he made a little jerk of his pencil though, scratching something like a symbol next to the word Bartleby’s. His eyes stayed on Vakelin’s face.

The decanter clattered against them tray. Luix’erman’s mustache curled once more.

Nkemi picked up her small cup of tea once more; she cradled it in her hands and took a tiny sip. There was pain on Vakelin’s face again, she thought; not of the little scrape or scratch. It was written all through him; he could not, or did not, keep it from drawing down the lines of his smiles. He was disappointed, she thought, perhaps, as he tucked the chain away. What had he hoped for?

The silence stretched, hummed; words Nkemi could not make out sang beneath the cool currents of it.

Vakelin began to speak. He was quiet about it; his hands trembled. They trembled as he sipped from the glass and as he set it down. His face did not tremble; it was set and serious. His smile at the end was thin, apologetic; Nkemi wondered what he was apologizing for.

“With respect, Incumbent,” Luix’erman said, drawing himself up in a long straight line on his chair, a dark green shadow blurred against the upholstery, “I am sorry for the ordeal that you have suffered.” He said, crisply. The rest of the sentence, Nkemi thought - that the incumbent had brought it on himself - seemed to linger unsaid somewhere; it was not quite in the air, not quite; it was written on the sharp press of Luix’erman’s lips, the faint curl of his mustache above them, the way his eyebrows tilted.

“What you propose is the sort of fantasy tripe which is the subject of children’s detective novels. It is impossible.” Luix’erman said, crisply. “I do not mean to be harsh; I merely wish to be straightforward with you. It is best if you consider the watch gone; it is best if you consider this a lesson in the dangers of walking around Vienda at night.”

“Pardon me,” Nkemi said, politely. She set her cup down once more.

Luix’erman’s jaw clenched; Nkemi thought she could almost hear the grinding of his teeth above the soft pop of the logs in the fire, the quiet click of the porcelain. “Yes, Subprefect Nkese?”

Nkemi looked at him, squarely. “It is not impossible,” she said. “With all due respect, Constable Inspector True’art. If such a hair could be found.” She dipped her head in a polite little bowing motion, and turned to Vakelin.

“It is difficult,” Nkemi said, quietly, “and uncertain. But it is not impossible.”

Luix’erman exhaled a short, sharp breath through his nose. “Thank you,” he said, shortly, through his teeth, “for that correction. Perhaps I should have said it is impossible for the Seventen; we do not have the time or resources to spare on such a hopeless errand. Would you have us search every alley in the Dives for stray hairs? You understand, Incumbent; there are men and women risking their lives to keep the order of Vienda, to defend her against threats to her very heart.” He drew himself even more upright, the long lean line of him quivering on the strength of his dignity.

Nkemi wondered which word it was; she wondered when Vakelin had offended him. She had been watching the Incumbent; she had not seen when Luix’erman had slipped gently over from patronizing into frustrated, or perhaps even angry. She did not think he had had a very long way to fall.

There was a strained silence when Luix’erman finished. Nkemi did not intrude to it.

“We cannot,” Luix’erman said, finally, breaking the tension himself. He spread his long-fingered hands; his fingernails glinted in the firelight. “I am sorry, Incumbent. I understand this must be a disappointment. I shall put out the word. If we hear anything of the watch, naturally, we shall act swiftly and immediately. But a man in your position must know something of constraints; we can only do so much.”

Nkemi watched Vakelin, uneasy now. Her gaze flickered to Luix’erman, and then away. Perhaps he had not spoken any more untruths; she could not know. She did not like it. You can, she thought, aching. You will not. This is well, only be honest about it. She shifted. It was an Anaxi habit, to say such things easily; it was one which did not sit well with her. She did not speak again, all the same, though the lie seemed to her to poison all the air between them. She looked at Vakelin, and then down, unsure, tucking her chin against the warm orange wool.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 28th of Vortas, 2719

H
is eyes were fixed on Truart. He did not blink. He did not move; for a few seconds, he did not breathe. There was nothing in his face but what he’d left there before, that mincing, hopeful smile, but it seemed to Tom the mask had grown stale. He was no longer so sure of it. It felt as if he were wearing it, as if his real face were suffocating under layers of plaster.

He supposed he looked no less real, no less flesh-and-blood, than he’d done any time that night. The Seventen was drawing himself up; Tom wondered what he thought he was looking at. It was hard to tell, with that mask of the inspector’s own – but his lips were pursed, and there was a faint twist to his mustache, like he’d taken a bite of something he was about to spit out.

With respect, Incumbent, said the Constable Inspector, and Tom could feel something washing over and through him – something prickling ice-cold through every inch of his skin. The rim of the glass was cold; he could feel the thin line of it pressing into his fingertips.

Are you insulted a moony old man’d make a suggestion, brigk? Tom wanted to ask, still watching him. Or are you insulted your time’s being wasted by a wealthy old osta’s fancy, just ’cause he’s an incumbent? In the pause, he tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving the inspector’s face; when Truart went on, one eyebrow twitched and rose.

He was aware, somewhere between children and lesson, that he wasn’t smiling anymore, but he didn’t know what his face was doing. There was warmth in his cheeks, somehow; it must’ve been reddening.

It was hard to imagine what Truart saw. It was hard to imagine what ada’na Nkemi saw, sitting quietly to the side, cradling her tea in her hands – with her careful, sympathetic smiles, with her playing-along.

And then she spoke, and he turned, slowly, to look at her. She wasn’t looking at him; she was addressing Truart. His glance flicked between them.

If. If. Tom ran the pad of his thumb round the glass again, frowning. He shut his eyes. He had known it would be difficult. That wasn’t what he’d asked. He drew in a deep breath and tried to smooth himself; he tried to salvage what of his composure he could. In, out, in, out, and he laid himself along the pulse again, his hand on the glass unshaking, the motions of his thumb even and rhythmic.

He couldn’t see Nkemi’s face when she addressed him, but he heard the truth in her voice. It wasn’t, he thought, the way you’d indulge an old fool. To accuse her of that would’ve been to accuse her of lying, after a fashion, and whatever else she was, the prefect didn’t seem a liar. There was plenty of caution in her voice, and doubt, too.

But it rang with truth, more than Truart’s clipped gratitude and prompt dismissal. He pulsed his field gently against ada’na Nkemi’s, belike tangling with belike, warmly grateful.

He opened his eyes and looked at Truart again; the inspector was showing him his palms, his long caster’s fingers spread and picked out in wavering light and shadow.

“Forgive me,” he sighed, after Truart was finished. His smile was pinched; he looked from Truart to Nkemi. “Thank you, ada’na, for entertaining the idea,” he said, inclining his head, turning back to Truart, “but the last thing I want to do is waste the Seventen’s time with an old man’s fancy. I agree with you, Constable Inspector; such a pursuit is not the business of our brave men and women in green.”

Not when the Seventen are so tied up with the aftermath of Hamis, he thought; Vienda’s heart is damned good at threatening itself. He did not look at ada’na Nkemi. He could risk it; he did not know, after all, what those thoughtful eyes might see. Best let her think he hadn’t given her – and her suggestion – a second thought.

Clearing his throat, he set his tumbler on the table and began to push himself up from his chair. “Thank the both of you, in any case, for making note of the attack. Constable Inspector, Prefect, will you be needing anything more? I should hate to keep you, and I am in need of rest.”

With a quick glance at the decanter, he smiled up at Truart.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Evening, 28 Vortas, 2719
The Vauquelin House, Uptown

Nkemi did not know what to make of the look on Vakelin’s face. She had not interrupted to spare him; perhaps she should have. As Luix’erman spoke, the slight, hopeful, self-depricating smile had drained away; red splotches had grown in the centers of his pale cheeks, and, Nkemi guessed, elsewhere as well. His forehead had pinched together, creasing down the center of it, casting his large gray eyes in shadow.

But he looked at her, when she spoke; Nkemi felt the soft, friendly pulse of a belike field against her own. She reached back out through it, acknowledging it with a soft pulse of her own. She did not know what she sent his way, other than that it was warm. She hoped it was reassurance; she thought perhaps it might be. She knew better than to think it definitively; she would not have dared to say it aloud.

Vakelin’s eyes closed, and he took in the rest of what Luix’erman had to say. When the Constable Inspector had finished, and then in the silence finished again – driven the point home, Nkemi thought, as she could almost imagine him in the training yards, landing on a downed opponent with a knee or elbow – Vakelin had fitted another thin smile to his face. It did not reach his eyes; Nkemi doubted Luix’erman had noticed.

Nkemi watched Vakelin as he spoke; she inclined her head lightly when he inclined his. His mouth said one thing, she thought, frowning, and his eyes another. She was uneasily aware that she did not think he had lied, not even unintentionally, not as Luix’erman had. It was there in the spaces between his words, in what he did not say. It was in the way he had watched her hands, eagerly, as she handled the new silver chain, as if she might be able to summon the watch from it; it was in the anxious question he had asked, whether it was key that they act quickly, before such evidence was lost; it was in, now, the careful phrasing, that the pursuit was not the business of the men and women in green.

The incumbent, Nkemi thought, still sitting carefully upright on the comfortable chair, was not wearing green.

Luix’erman was sitting back; he was smiling. Nkemi did not know what he had heard in Vakelin’s words; she did not think it was what she had heard.

“I think we have a very full picture,” Luix’erman said, again, in what Nkemi had come to think of as his soothing voice. “We will, of course, listen carefully for any news of the watch. Our best chance to catch it is when the thief tries to sell it; their cunning doesn’t extend so far as finding buyers, more often than not. Thank you, Incumbent, again, for receiving us.”

Luix’erman was rising then, and Nkemi too. Her gaze was still on Vakelin. She pressed her lips together. Should she have waited, Nkemi wondered, and mentioned it to Luix’erman alone? She thought of the warm pulse of gratitude through the mona, warmer even than the fire. There were farewells, then, polite and not lingering.

“Good evening, Incumbent Vakelin,” Nkemi had said, quietly; she had bowed again.

It had been nearly warm inside the house, Nkemi thought, sadly; between the jacket, the chair close to the fire and the tea she had begun to feel comfortable. She gathered herself up as they went through the hallway; the wind pinched at her like a cousin during lessons, and Nkemi let out a tiny sigh, nestling her chin comfortably into the folds of her scarf. She followed close behind Luix’erman, but even with all the height he had on her, he was not so big as to block all the wind.

Only once, as they walked back through the dark in a silence Nkemi was sure was meant to be pointed, did Nkemi glanced back at the Incumbent’s house, set back off the road, surrounded by walls and trees. Only just barely could she see the gleam of light through them. She watched, her gaze lingering; she drew herself up then, with a deep breath.

Yes, Nkemi thought; this truth she could speak aloud. She offered it to Hulali, then, herself; she had meddled, without meaning to, and she thought – perhaps – she knew what she had done. She thought – perhaps – she knew where it might lead. If she was right, Nkemi thought, then her responsibilities had not ended; she thought of the feel of Vakelin’s belike field, and the look on his face as Constable Inspector True’art had spoken to him. She knew better, perhaps, Nkemi thought, by now. And, too, she knew what she had to do.

Nkemi did not look back again; she followed Luix’erman deeper into the night, and shivered against the cold.