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.