etting go was hard. He looked across at Nkemi, and some of the careful blankness of his face melted. His jaw tightened, the lines around his eyes pinched. He wanted to snap, no, it’s not well; I’ll do it myself. I’ll do whatever I godsdamn please, he wanted to insist. I’m a man, not a –
Boch. Exactly, he thought, like a flooding boch. He took a deep breath, and when he let it out, there was a tickle of a smile at his lip.
“It’s well,” he conceded, inclining his head in return. “Keep me – informed, ada’na.” He couldn’t quite help it.
So it was. But he’d be damned, he thought, stretching for his cup of kofi on the table, he’d be damned if he wasn’t there when the watch was found. And he’d be damned if anything happened to the prefect doing this on his behalf, off the clock. The least he could do was be there, like a man with half a shred of honor.
It was moony enough, all this. He took a long, contemplative sip. It was easier to swallow now; maybe because the warm kofi had eased something in his throat. Or maybe the fire, or the comforts of the study, or the company.
He looked up when Nkemi spoke again, and both his eyebrows went up.
But it was a careful expression, too. He smiled back at her, when she smiled; the comfort of his posture did not shift or tense. The culture center. He had not known; he'd thought the few pages there were mouldering in neglect, like Brunnhold's phasmonia. He might've known better.
He had heard Serkaih was a very colorful place, to be a place for the dead. The pictures in print didn’t give you a good idea of it, the few Mugrobi he’d asked had told him; it wasn’t just the lanterns, set out along the winding path and in the desert and canyons around, guiding the souls that got lost in the desert. It was everything. He didn’t understand; he couldn’t quite picture it.
He couldn’t help a glance at ada’na’s socks; her feet were tucked up under her, but a little splash of rich purple jumped out from the shadowed hem of her trousers. He thought of her scarf and sweater from the night before, and it wasn’t hard to smile back.
He supposed the dead liked color, after all.
Nkemi looked comfortable, but there was something – he couldn’t put his finger on it. And how did she know about Serkaih? Only those who visited the dead often would know it well; for all her brightness, he wondered.
The question wasn’t a surprise, but there was some new tightness in her voice. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.
He felt more than ever it was important to choose his words carefully. But how to explain?
“Ib’vúqem had an approach…” He looked pinched again. He sucked his tooth, thinking; he stared into the fire.
A small smile lit up his face, crinkling round his eyes. He swept the shelves near the hearth, skimming the blurry glinting titles on the spines; he chewed on the idea for another moment, then pushed himself up out of his seat with a grunt of effort. He left his cup of kofi, mostly finished, on the table.
He slid a forest-green volume from its place. He did not have to look for it; he knew rightaway where Web of Souls was.
still in his socks – he’d left his boots flopped empty by his chair – he padded over to Nkemi’s chair. He sat himself lightly on the edge of the arm, smiling sheepishly, and offered her the book.
“This is the poetry of a Deftung philosopher,” he said, “and the mother of a dear, but – unexpected friend of mine. She gave it to me after I...”
He paused, reaching to open it. No lies, he promised himself. The pages crackled; the paper was soft under his fingertips. They skimmed a few lines of ink.
The familiar is dear, oft a blessed sign
and found in unexpected places, a gods' given omen.
Eyes, ears, soul, open all lest ye be senseless
When portents come. Home is with you always
Close yourself and you will never find it 'more.
He looked at Nkemi. His field mingled warmly with hers, warmly and calmly. “I don’t know what Serkaih means to you, ada’na, but I’ve been a restless soul in need of a lantern,” he said. “The dead deserve our warmth and understanding. The Cycle ties us all together; I’d like to know nothing is ever really lost. Not books, not souls. I think ada’na Eres was trying to grasp that – tangibly.”
He frowned, wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know if that answers your question, after all, ada’na. It’s a damned hard one.” He smiled.