[Closed] For Every Shadow a Source of Light

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Early Morning on the 29th of Vortas, 2719

T
he leather upholstery creaked as ada’na shifted. Tom hadn’t realized he’d shut his eyes. He opened them and raised his head a little, fingertips lingering on his cheek. His eyes followed Nkemi’s socks from the floor up to the chair, and then into the shadows of her knees.

There it was, what’d been missing. He could’ve racked his brain all morning, all afternoon, and come up with nothing. He’d thought maybe it was the too-big coat, or the hat. But there it was – a splash of rich, vivid purple. He remembered her all piled up with brightly-colored wool from the night before, and thought, there it is.

Something about the thought that those purple socks had been hiding there all morning pleased him immensely.

Tom felt frazzled. Tick, tock, tick, tock, went the floor clock; the wind whistled, then died down. He’d lulled into the rhythmic silence – it had only been a few seconds, but he couldn’t’ve known – when Nkemi spoke again, and he started in his chair. He swallowed tightly. He lowered his hand and pushed himself up in his seat.

He didn’t say anything, right away. He glanced over Nkemi’s solemn face, her small chin tucked into the thick rumple of wool round her neck.

He nodded once, slowly.

He was silent, too, as she padded over to the desk to pour herself more water, still in her sock-feet. The familiarity of it put him at ease; his cheek found the heel of his hand again, and his eyes fluttered shut, and he frowned deeply. He was listening still; he felt the stirring of the air as the prefect moved back through the room.

The back of his neck prickled.

Her last words surprised him. He opened his eyes and found her curled again in the chair, just as if she lived there, her head resting against the wing. Brigk, he thought. She smiled; some of the glow from the hearth glittered in her eyes.

He smiled back, with the slight raise of one red eyebrow. “Indeed,” he replied after a moment, very softly. “I’m afraid my light hasn’t been very bright, ada’na. You’ve been patient to work with me; I’m grateful for it.”

You should not still be looking for leads, he wanted to insist. Not ashamed, nor regretful, she’d said.

I haven’t shown you the depths of anything, he thought. There’s no bottom to the well; it doesn’t matter how bright the light you shine into me, it’ll still be dark. Something twisted in him, and his heart thumped. He swallowed again, painfully.

He kept the feeling off his face. As he reached for another sip of water, he tried to think what truths to tell. He knew one, at least.

“I think,” he said carefully, “the interpretation of events you saw was mine.” His lip twisted; he studied her face, and he frowned.

He’d known it wouldn’t be good news. The scarf might’ve been nestled comfortably around her neck, but he knew the bruises underneath it; he knew them because he could feel them himself. But: all for nothing, he heard in his head, and then –

He cleared his throat, then said quickly, “I can’t be sure. I was –” Scattered. Porven, still, in the soul. He blinked, embarrassed.

He’d been staring down at the bowl, as if he couldn’t be sure if he’d made a link. His own reflection felt arcane; looking into the mirror, looking out of these eyes, felt enough like being in somebody else’s head.

“If it were mine,” he said, “there are things you might’ve seen that – maybe I had all of the pieces there, but I didn’t know how to put them together. Is it possible, ada’na, that I knew I was being followed? That you could see it more clearly?”

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 29 Vortas, 2719
Third Floor Study, Vauquelin House

My interpretation, Vakelin said, quiet and thoughtful. Something creased his face; it dragged his eyelids down and fluttered at the edges of them. He went on. Is it possible - even if he did not know it consciously, that the mona had revealed something buried deep?

Nkemi did not answer. She was not sure whether she could. The smile was gone; her eyes were wide with horror.

Like a blank page, Vakelin had said, on which he had drawn a couple lines. Warding, he had said; never opened a ley channel before. Not sure, he said now, hesitant.

"I am sorry," Nkemi whispered, hoarse, wide-eyed. "I did not know."

All her half-awake musing in the carriage, and it had never occurred to her. It could not have; it was too awful. Contact with the wrong target was not uncommon, in spells where a specific mind was to be reached. It happened, and any caster understood that.

But to have maintained the contact - to have seen such a thing from Vakelin, without his will, when she had meant to help him - Nkemi's hands pressed to her mouth. It was grossely, unfathomably rude; it was a violation of the sacred code which clairvoyant casters held to, for the sake of their own dignity and privacy.

Why didn't you signal me? Nkemi wanted to ask, to demand. She thought of the sparseness of his field and she understood he could not have forced her out. But he had sat there, and let her peer through his mind, and he had not even tried. Or had he? Had she missed it?

"You -" to Nkemi's horror there were tears welling up in her eyes. She felt unbalanced; she felt as if he had yanked at her arm and the ground underneath was tumbling and scattering away. She would have withdrawn. He did not know, she realized. It must be that he did not know how. He had never studied clairvoyant conversation formally. No one had taught him how to let another caster know they had reached you by mistake, when you did not wish to or could not force them out. She did not ask; she could not. It was a shifting of the blame for her own error, for her own sloppiness.

Nkemi could see sunlight through her eyelids, crisp clean light filtering through the window, drier and brighter, more yellow than the cold pale air coming through the drapes. She could see herself too, sitting back to back with another student, practicing. She nudged; she nudged again.

I feel it, Nkemi had thought when her turn came. She felt the gentle flutter of a caster's mind against her own through the ley channel; she knew to go. She could hear words of warning and caution ringing in her mind; she could taste the weight of the noble uses on her tongue.

He had not pushed at all, Nkemi thought, uneasily. He had made no attempt to rebuff her. She was almost grateful - if she had not realized, and overpowered him - Nkemi felt sick. She had asked him to cast with her; she had thought herself a good enough caster to anchor him.

A mirroring prodigium, Nkemi thought. Her throat burned; her head throbbed. Yes; she understood, now, what the mona had been trying to tell her.

The light was shown; Nkemi could not turn it off, or hide her face from it. She faced it, squarely, aching. She did not look away.

Nkemi came out of the chair then; she could not help it. She closed the space between them and knelt at Vakelin's feet; her face was wet with tears. "I beg your forgiveness," Nkemi said hoarsely, looking down. She faced it; she looked up at Vakelin, sniffling. "I make no excuses. I am deeply ashamed; the fault is mine."

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Early Morning on the 29th of Vortas, 2719

A
da’na –” It wasn’t much more than a gasp.

He blinked down at her. For a few seconds, his face was pinched. What the hell’re you doing? he wanted to demand. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Tears sparkled in Nkemi’s eyes, and they pinned him like needles to the upholstery. The scene was too surreal to’ve been painted in Tiv, so disturbingly strange that Tom thought he might’ve fallen asleep, might startle awake at any moment to find the brigk still sitting across from him.

He thought – he must’ve misjudged something, somewhere, because he couldn’t make sense of this.

What was she apologizing for? The spell going haywire? Everybody in Vienda knew about Incumbent Vauquelin; it must’ve come up in briefing. He didn’t for one moment mistake her courtesy for ignorance, not with every twitch of Truart’s lip, every bemused, distasteful glance.

If anything, she should’ve been blaming him. Even the politest Mugrobi – he thought of ada’xa Yesufu’s faintly pitying looks, his asking-without-asking, and your health, Anatole – would not have thought too hard on a spell gone wrong around him. She was a prefect and experienced with her conversations, and with the mona, in spite of all that nanabo.

And it’d been her who’d suffered the most from it; there was a map of his mistake on her throat.

But it hadn’t been the spell gone wrong. She’d been shocked, oes, in the aftermath; overwhelmed, even. She’d known the weight of what she’d asked of him, the line she’d crossed. But –

The line, he thought. He glanced from one wide dark eye to the other, studying her face with a furrowed brow. Tears glistened slick on both cheeks.

He couldn’t stand it anymore, leastways, her kneeling on the floor at his feet. He couldn’t think what to do about it; he couldn’t pull her to her feet, and every second like this scraped at his nerves. Instinctively, he pushed himself out of his chair, then sank down to the floor beside her.

“Ada’na Nkemi,” he said hoarsely, once he’d settled down, shifting uncomfortably on his hip. Tentatively, he reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “Please, do not ask me to forgive you for my mistake.”

He paused. His hand slid off and found its pair in his lap. He looked down at them, frowning, then looked back up.

His mouth opened, but for a few seconds, nothing came out. He shut it, thinking. The hearth was warm at his back; the carpet was warmer than the chair had been, though it wasn’t fair kind to his erse. Still, he felt wrung ragged, and he half wanted to sprawl out on the floor. His throat was dry, and his head ached.

The prefect couldn’t’ve felt much better. Worse, he reckoned, for all the mona themselves’d just closed round her throat. He felt another pang.

What truths could he share? One, he thought, if he took care; but it was the sort of truth that lended itself to carefulness. He had lied about it to plenty of people Uptown, and plenty more in Brunnhold, but he could not look the prefect in the face and lie to her. Whatever she was, whatever any of this meant, he owed her that much. And he did not think he had to.

“The fault isn’t yours. Casting with me is – always going to be different. Especially where ley channels, and vestibules and latibules, and – the mind – is concerned.” A small, sad smile found its way to his face. “I won’t say I’m not ashamed, because it wouldn’t be the truth.”

Monster, he remembered, floating just underneath his thoughts. It had stung Ezre, when the Hexx had waded in; he remembered that with shame, too. No, he could not say that he wasn’t ashamed of what he was.

“But I can speak of it,” he went on, honestly. “I should’ve spoken of it before. I shouldn’t’ve let it hide in the shadows.” He reached out through the mona, testing the waters to see if it could mingle deeper with hers again.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 29 Vortas, 2719
Third Floor Study, Vauquelin House

Vakelin stared down at her for a long time, his face pinched. Nkemi did not know what to make of it, or his quiet gasp. Had he thought she already knew? He had offered it as if it were a secret; he had said it carefully. He had offered it as a basis for the question, as something to let them gauge together what could be taken from the vision. Nkemi was trembling all the same.

The silence stretched on, and Nkemi bowed her head again, quietly. There was a blur of movement, and then Vakelin was on the floor with her. Nkemi’s lower lip quivered, and a few more tears spilled down her cheeks; she watched him, wide-eyed. He laid his hand on her shoulder; he took the blame for it. Nkemi could not speak; shame choked in her chest and crawled up to sit in her throat.

Vakelin began again, and offered her absolution, again. Nkemi frowned, slightly, not sure she understood; her gaze searched his face. Different, he called it; there was a knowing sort of sadness to his smile. She swallowed a little harder. Ashamed, he said, too. Her breath caught and shuddered in her chest; each one rippled audibly out of her mouth, little waves from somewhere inside her.

Slowly, Nkemi nodded; she wiped her hands against her eyes. Vakelin’s field mingled gently with hers; he reached deeper, slowly, carefully, as if he did not want to startle her. Nkemi smiled; the motion wriggled loose a few more tears, but no more came to replace them. There were no walls between them, still; she received his caprise, and she returned it, soft and warm.

Nkemi took another deep breath. “It is – ” she thought perhaps he understood, now, even if he had not before, “very shameful,” Nkemi said, carefully, “to intrude upon the mind of another caster so deeply without permission or intent.” Nkemi’s smile faded slightly; her lips twitched and settled, somewhere a little warmer than pinched concern, a little brighter than before.

“I know you speak the truth of your heart,” Nkemi said, quietly. She set her hand on Vakelin’s; she squeezed, gently, for just a moment. “I am grateful.” She did not agree with him in the allocating of the fault. She had proposed a risky, experimental spell which she had never tried before with a caster she had never cast with before. She knew something of what was said of him, what was thought; she had dismissed it too much because it did not accord with the evidence of her eyes. It still did not. She did not know what she saw on the face of the man who had joined her on the ground, or what she heard in his voice. She could not mistake what she felt in his field, though.

Nkemi took another deep breath. She did not let go of Vakelin’s hand; hers had grown cold in the carriage, but not too badly, and the time by the fire was warming them through.

“If I overstep, I apologize,” Nkemi said, looking at the older man. He had not wished to accept her words; Nkemi understood. She remembered enough of what he had cast to begin to understand where the spell might have gone wrong; she knew something of shame and guilt, and how deeply it might be felt. They had tried too much at once; it was not a surprise it had failed.

“I am not qualified as an instructor of clairvoyant conversation,” Nkemi said, firmly. “But if you would be willing to cast with me again, some other time, I would…” she searched his face, and she went on, boldly. The tears had dried up; whether he accepted or not, Nkemi thought, she would not regret the making of the offer, “I would be glad to try to teach you something of signaling to an unwanted intruder or repelling them entirely.” She squeezed his hand, gently; she let go, and settled hers back into her lap.

Nkemi took a deep breath. She had been kneeling; she sat back now, quietly, drawing her knees up to her chest. She tucked her chin on top of them, thinking, her face set in a small frown – not painful, this time, but thoughtful. “It is possible,” Nkemi said, quietly, looking up at Vakelin once more. “What you asked.” She bit her lip, chewing lightly at it, and let it go.

“It makes sense I think, why I saw this man who... could not have been responsible,” Nkemi said, thoughtfully. She smiled a little at Vakelin. “But as for the rest of it… it’s possible that you noticed something of which you were aware. Unlikely, I might have said, but I’m not sure enough to say it with confidence.” There was a pause, and then a brighter grin, a parting of the clouds over her face. “You do know something of spotting a trail,” the prefect said, her tone a cheerful blend of sheepish and amused.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Early Morning on the 29th of Vortas, 2719

H
e’d begun to understand, but he was grateful, nevertheless, that she told him freely. He was grateful for her caprise, too – just as warm as the fire at his back – and for the brief smile, all aglimmer with tears.

He thought she knew by now that he’d given her permission, but he supposed permission given in hindsight did little for the shame. Intent was the qalqa of dealing with the mona, and intent couldn’t be revised, couldn’t be bought or exchanged or argued from a different angle; intent was like the truth, in that way.

The truth, Nkemi was saying, as if he’d spoken such things aloud – of your heart.

The truth of my heart, he thought. Is this a gentle way of calling me a liar?

He didn’t think that was her meaning, but his brow furrowed, because he didn’t know what her meaning was. The truth, he’d thought – to Mugrobi, at least – wasn’t like the Circle, with one mind and many faces. It was more like the sea, in how light changed it; tinged pink with the sunset, or the same brilliant blue as the sky. But a man who cared for his honor would take care not to let one blue blend into another and drown him among the debris.

Nkemi went on cautiously, and Tom glanced down at her hand on his. It was slim, but young and strong. He could feel the edges of calluses, where you might hold a baton with a firm, trained grip. His were pale against hers, speckled and lined in faint blue. Young and old.

He might’ve put her at – twenty-four, twenty-five. With her qalqa, with the way she’d followed him, no younger than twenty-four, at least, and perhaps older, closer to Constable Inspector Delacore’s age. Not much younger than him.

She seemed comfortable enough with him, unlike Delacore, unlike some of the interns at Stainthorpe. And from what he’d seen, he doubted there was anybody, regardless of age or station, that the prefect wouldn’t’ve afforded some kind of respect.

But the thought of her making this offer to a human her age, as if she were making it to an elder galdor. From every lie sprouted a hundred more, unspoken, unknown. Was he responsible for all of them, like the children of his children?

He thought of the burden he’d laid on Aremu’s shoulders, of watching Niccolette lie in small ways – of watching everyone who entered his presence lie, over and over –

“I should like that, ada’na Nkemi,” he said over the current, trying to plant his feet. “I would be honored to learn from you.”

Not just, he thought, about clairvoyance. It was the least he could do; it was not, at least, a lie.

He squeezed her hand and smiled back up at her. He wasn’t sure what he saw in her eyes, except that they were searching his; he had to let go the wondering what they might find, or he’d drive himself mad.

He sat back when she did, shifting his weight and folding his legs. He listened, studying the thoughtful frown on her face. Not for nothing, then. The grin melted away some of his guilt; he grinned back, and felt like – she was looking at him, regardless.

He was about to reply when he heard the door click. He blinked, glancing over her shoulder. Nkemi was up, then, and he didn’t have to ask; he found her grip just as steady as it’d been in the plot, and he was on his feet in no time.

The dark, rich smell of kofi wafted in, along with the rattling of a tray, before anything else. To Margaret’s credit, there were no wide eyes, this time.

“Sir,” she said. She set the tray on the low table, then curtsied to Nkemi and murmured, “Ma’am.” The pot was silver, and the light caught swirls of inlaid flowers up the percolator. She reached for the handle, then hesitated.

“Thank you, Ms. Wheelwright.” Tom dipped in a bow.

Margaret smiled slightly at him and the prefect in turn, then curtsied again and hurried out. Tom thought she seemed more comfortable, the past two months; but months did not write over years. Shaking it off, he smiled at Nkemi, pouring one steaming cup and then the other.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been tailed, no. I’m not a bad hand at knowing when I’m being watched.” He spoke the truth, he thought; he wasn’t a whit ashamed of the pride in his voice. “And I don’t see as we have any other leads,” he went on, frowning. “Even if we cast the spell again and found the right witness, he might have been hired. It must have something to do with that bookseller.”

He eased back into his seat with the cup and saucer. The smell of kofi seemed to ease his headache; he thought. This man, she had said carefully, who could not be responsible. He felt a pang.

He looked across at the prefect through the drifting steam, his smile fading. “Ada’na,” he said. “I’m not out for revenge. If – somehow – if we find the watch, I don’t want to see a struggling man punished. Not even the man who attacked me. Whatever I tell you, whatever we find…”

His voice came out hoarse; he cleared it, frowning. He met Nkemi’s eyes, and inclined his head slightly.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 29 Vortas, 2719
Third Floor Study, Vauquelin House

Vakelin grinned back at her. Mirroring, Nkemi thought, and it made her grin go even wider; she couldn’t quite seem to help it. She could feel the stones beneath her bare feet; her toes wriggled and tightened. Here she could stand, even if she did not know what lay beneath, nor before nor behind.

At the click of the door, Nkemi was on her feet; her head was not so light as it had been earlier. She extended her hands to Vakelin, and pulled him up as well, so that they were both standing when the done opened and Ms. Wealrite came in. The smell of kofi tangled through Nkemi’s heart and squeezed. She breathed it in deep.

“Thank you very much,” Nkemi agreed, and dipped in a little bow as well, through her aching head.

Nkemi settled back into her seat, curled around the kofi. She cradled the cup in her hands even though it was warm enough to be a little uncomfortable. It was not the first kofi she had had in Vienda. It was a popular drink here. They liked it with milk and sugar, these Anaxi, most of them, as if it was their strong, bitter tea. They drank big cups of it on the street and added sweet and floral syrups. There were Mugrobi cafes, even in Uptown; there were places where one could get a cup of kofi which had the taste of kofi.

It was harder, Nkemi thought, to find a place where one could drink kofi with the feel of it. She felt unbalanced; she knew herself unbalanced. A few more tears welled up in her eyes, although it was not quite sadness she felt; it was something more precious and perilous, and she was grateful for it. It was like a tiny corner of belonging, here in this colorful study with this strange and worrying man, who had mused through the idea of casting with her again, who had called himself honored by her offer of lessons.

Nkemi took a sip of the kofi. It was very nice; it was still in the Anaxi style, for no Mugrobi kofi could be found in a kettle, but she had already understood what was most important here.

Nkemi looked up when Vakelin spoke. He was frowning at her, a little now. She listened, evenly, to the things that he wished to say. She thought of the two of them sitting on the floor, chanting together. She knew he had followed her, as best as he could. She had not heard every word from him; she could not do so while in the midst of the spell herself. What must he have said? Show me the one responsible, perhaps. Show me the one who did this. He had come to the mona with his words and his intent; their spells had twined together. The hands which caused these bruises.

She thought of the vision, of Vakelin’s small, thin hands tugging at a large, coat-covered arm. She looked down at her own fingers, and could but half-remember her dream in the carriage, the tugging of her own fingers against thick fabric.

“I understand,” Nkemi said, softly. She looked at Vakelin. She took another little sip of the kofi; it warmed her through, still, and eased some of the throbbing ache in her head. She leaned forward and set the cup down on the saucer on the small table next to the chair. She thought perhaps to sit straight and upright; instead, her feet stayed tucked up on the cushion, and her cheek nestled against the wing of the chair.

“I do not serve revenge,” Nkemi promised. “But punishment is not always revenge. Sometimes it is justice.” She was quiet, looking at him, thinking it over. “The investigation we have done would not merit the respect of a magistrate in Thul Ka,” Nkemi said with a little grimace. She shifted; she did not comment on the Seventen, her gaze flickering briefly down.

She had been turning his words over in her head as she spoke. Not even the man who attacked me, Vakelin had said. It must have had something to do with that bookseller, the man with the red hair and the sneering face. Even if they found him with Vakelin’s watch in hand, it would not prove anything; it would be easy enough for him to claim it was all coincidence, that he had bought it from a man on the street. A careful man could do so without lying – or, Nkemi thought, slowly, perhaps he was not a man for whom honesty and honor should be paramount.

Nkemi was quiet a little longer. “I do not know how to seek justice in an unjust place,” she said, softly. She looked up at Vakelin. He must have known how dangerous it was to lose consciousness by choking; he must have known he could well not have woken or could have woken injured much more badly than just the bruises on his neck. She was not sure that the returning of the watch alone accorded with her view of justice; she was not sure that sharing what they had learned together with the Seventen did either.

“I cannot promise,” Nkemi said, then. She did not take the kofi again; she waited, watching Vakelin. “I cannot promise either way,” Nkemi amended, carefully.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Early Morning on the 29th of Vortas, 2719

I
understand,” Tom said softly, watching Nkemi. She had put down her steaming cup and was watching him, too.

It wasn’t the response he’d expected, but he’d’ve been hard-pressed to say what he had. There were plenty of brigk he wouldn’t’ve asked at all. He had, once, not knowing any better; he had seen what a Seventen did with such a request. He brought the cup to his lips and took a small, careful sip.

(Intent, he thought. It was the sentiment that’d made Delacore so angry, back then. But then, she’d been punishing him, for caring; and he supposed that’d been justice, to her. It had certainly taught him a lesson.)

The kofi was too hot for him. It was a small sip, but it still burned. He tried not to let the cup clatter against the porcelain as he lowered it to his lap.

This was no place for expectations. Ada’na Nkemi – pezre Nkese, subprefect of the Windward Market District in Thul Ka – sat across the table, across the tall silver pot, her feet drawn up into the seat and her cheek nestled comfortably against the wing.

The scarf made him think of a blanket drawn up to her throat; it might’ve looked cozy, without the aching reminder of what was beneath it.

“I don’t know much of Thul Ka’s magistrates, or what merits their respect,” he pushed carefully through his rasp, “or of – justice.” The word tasted strange in his mouth.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever said it. Why speak of mythical creatures?

“But I trust your judgment,” he went on, meeting her eye with an intent frown. “And in accepting your help, I’ll accept whatever decision you make, in the end.” He held her gaze a moment longer; then it fluttered down to the cup in his lap, and he raised it again to take another sip.

The kofi was hot, almost too hot, but not quite. He took a sip, then a longer drink, pleasantly dark. What surprised him the most hadn’t been the sentiment, but the boldness of its expression.

She’d said as much before, in small ways – she had not criticized Anaxi ways; she’d made a point not to – but there was a difference between desperation and injustice. Desperate was a thing that was; unjust was a thing that was done. Desperate was a condition; unjust was an order.

And Tom wasn’t fooled for even half a second; he knew she’d’ve seen that great, scarred man, or any human like him, and not thought for half a second about sending him to the gallows. He had no choice but to trust her, if he wanted her help, and some prices were worth paying.

It was that he had asked her at all that concerned him. It was that her response had meant something to him, that he had cared what she might say, that concerned him more.

The cup clicked on the saucer. He rested his head back against the seat, shutting his eyes and trying to pull his thoughts together. They wouldn’t hold in any shape, but he saw bits and pieces, snatches. He held onto one, and hoped it would lead him to another.

He looked at Nkemi again through half-lidded eyes. “Our lead is a hard man to find. Most of his clients never see him in the flesh, and for good reason.”

He raised his brows. He wasn’t sure how much she’d seen, or felt, in his head, but she’d seen another man at the bar, and he remembered the scrap well enough.

“He was interested in what I wanted,” he went on. “I was lucky enough to meet him in person, but not for long. He had a few other ib’vúqem texts, mostly from the twentieth century, but he was looking for a copy of that one himself. So I don’t have the book, or anything – of his.”

He frowned deeper. “I’ve heard…” He hesitated, looking at Nkemi. “There are rumors about a man who lives by the river in Fly-Ash, near the slaughterhouse. A quiet man, who doesn’t work at any of the factories, and doesn’t often leave his apartments.”

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 29 Vortas, 2719
Third Floor Study, Vauquelin House

Nkemi had not been sure what to expect of Vakelin. She had been conscious, in the short, brief silence after she had spoken, of the weight of the disparity between them. He was an incumbent; it was easy to forget, Nkemi thought. He was not very like the politicians she had known in Thul Ka. He did not let his power float around him like a river; he did not wallow in it, and send the currents rushing over you.

She had not thought he would threaten her; she had not thought he would lean on her. Such things did happen, she understood, here in Anaxas. They happened, sometimes, even sometimes at home; even for prefects, there were cases which one was asked to pursue more assiduously, and other times when leniency was found expedient. And there were cases, too, when such things were requested, and did not occur. It did not happen much in Windward Market, but all prefects understood the rushing of such waters, and the powerful undertow beneath.

Nkemi had not interpreted Vakelin this way. But after she had refused him, or at least told him she would reserve her judgment, she wondered if she had misjudged him after all. He must have, Nkemi understood, leaned on his status as an incumbent to have True’art come at all. She had felt the weight of that status last night, but part of that had been how heavily it weighed upon True’art.

Nkemi inclined her head and accepted Vakelin’s trust – and his promise to stand by her choice. It warmed through her; she did not overthink it, nor the brilliant smile which blossomed on her face. It was easy to be grateful. She took the kofi again, and took a longer sip this time, smiling at Vakelin. It tasted a little better than she expected, although she was not surprised by it.

It was very warm in the study, and very comfortable. The kofi should have kept her awake; it did, usually. But Nkemi felt too peaceful, even with the scratching ache in her throat. Her eyelids fluttered, and Vakelin’s voice woke her from half a doze. Nkemi shifted; she covered a little yawn with her hand, blinking at him. She grinned a little when he raised his eyebrows and nodded; she understood what it was he was not saying about the bookseller, though she had not felt it herself, though the lack in him was not visible in any bowl of water.

Nothing of his. Nkemi nodded, half-relieved; she was not sure she wanted to try any more spellwork, at least not urgently. She shifted; she stifled another yawn. She took a sip of the kofi instead and sat up a little; she crossed her sock-clad feet beneath her legs and adjusted a fold of the scarf at her neck. “Feli’ax,” Nkemi repeated, carefully.

“All men must eat,” Nkemi said with a little grin. She smiled at Vakelin. “Even a man who values his privacy, perhaps, better than his wallet. In Thul Ka, I would guess such a man has his meals brought to him, that twice or three times a day some trusted person will come with a tray and plates and deliver it to his door. Perhaps they will enter; perhaps they will leave the tray outside and take it back when they bring the next. He will do so, I think, even in a place where it is not commonly done. Is it so here as well?”

It would not be a way to find a single man in all the city, but if Vakelin’s rumors could narrow it for them to a couple streets – then, Nkemi thought, it was simply a matter of waiting and watching. She had always enjoyed such briefs; it was easy to pass a day loitering at the edges of Windward Market, picking nuts from shells or passing the time with a friendly shopkeeper or two, watching all the people of the neighborhood swirl by in colorful waves, their lives touching and tangling together. Nkemi was never bored by it; she had been frustrated, sometimes, if her seeking was unsuccessful, but never bored.

"Will you keep looking for They Are Heard?" Nkemi asked with a little smile, looking back up at Vakelin.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Early Morning on the 29th of Vortas, 2719

F
ly-Ash. He watched her tackle it, syllable by syllable, careful as she’d done with all of the Anaxi names she’d been given; careful as you’d draw a prodigium. He smiled. There was something reassuring about it, how he might’ve known she’d take the name and try it herself, helping each consonant into the next with the soft cushion of a vowel. The night before, he hadn’t noticed.

He thought it sounded less… laoso, like ashes and flies.

She’d been falling asleep against his chair; he felt faintly sorry for rousing her. He’d thought the kofi might put some wakefulness into the both of them, but something about curling up in those mant soft chairs by the fire, cradling steaming-warm cups, seemed to be doing the opposite.

He felt himself starting to droop, despite the aches and pains. In the lull after he finished speaking, after Nkemi’s soft flyash, he thought he might; he could feel his eyes fluttering shut.

It wasn’t a bad thought. There was something soothing about that, too, in a strange way. The prefect seemed to’ve taken to his study as well as he had, and to see her falling asleep with a cup of kofi in her lap, nestled into her scarf – dangerous – nestled like he’d’ve been in his window-seat, on a rainy day – it made him feel, somehow, less of a liar.

It wasn’t my place, he wanted to insist, suddenly. It wasn’t my place, but I made it my place; this is my hospitality. There’s not a shred of a lie about that.

But he did his best to rouse himself as she spoke again. It wasn’t hard. As she went on, he sat up in his seat with a little creak. Secular methods, he remembered. Now this was how you found a kov. He wouldn’t’ve thought of it; he must’ve been getting soft, but strangely, it didn’t bother him so much.

Slowly, he grinned back.

The grin simmered down, and he sucked a tooth thoughtfully, but he was still smiling. “I imagine it is, ada’na,” he said. “There’s not many a man in the Dives that could afford to have his meals delivered to him, much less a man who doesn’t work in the factories or the slaughterhouse. Such a man might be our book dealer.”

The smile flickered. He ran a thumb round the rim of his cup, looking down into the kofi. It wasn’t a mirror, like the water in the bowl; he could see only a vague shape, a glitter of something pale on the skin of the kofi.

Such a man as needed to hide; a man so conspicuous he couldn’t move to and fro among common men, for fear the brigk would come and invent some reason to send him off. Or drag him back Uptown, depending on the man in question, depending on what ghosts haunted him and why he hid. But all men who hid had some things in common.

He had said that he left the judgment up to her; he would not make a liar of himself. He nodded, glancing back up. “The story’s told around a few tenements on the southwest side, just a handful of streets,” he said, expression carefully neutral. “No harm in looking around.”

He took a long sip of kofi. In the crackling quiet, he found himself resting his head back against the chair.

At the prefect’s question, his eyes fluttered open. He looked at her; she was smiling at him.

“You remembered,” he murmured, with a faintly surprised smile. “I was under the impression it wasn’t a well-known book, even in Mugroba. I’ll admit –” He shifted, rolling his shoulders with a wince, and propped his head up on a fist. “You tell people you’ve an interest in ib’vúqem, they don’t always, ah…”

His smile went crooked. He studied Nkemi’s face with a raised eyebrow. “I will.” He took another sip of kofi, then shrugged. “I don’t think Thul’Amat would humor a moony old man. I’ve heard there’s one in – the mountains of Hox,” he went on, pausing, a little more reserved, “but it’s in very poor condition. Otherwise, more copies could be made.”

The cup clicked as it rejoined the saucer. He set it down on the table, and, too tired to hesitate or think of propriety, unlaced his own shoes. He drew his feet up into the chair with him.

He wasn’t sure why she’d asked; he wasn’t sure why he spoke. There was no reason to, other than that he’d been pursuing it alone for so long, and she had remembered, and he hadn’t realized just how bitter of a disappointment it had been.

“So much of ib’vúqem is lost. So many things get swallowed up by time,” he said softly, then shook his head. “I’m prattling, ada’na, forgive me. Why do you ask?”

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Morning, 29 Vortas, 2719
Third Floor Study, Vauquelin House

Nkemi nodded. She thought it very likely that if this was their quarry, she would find him so. There was silence between them, for a few moments.

Vakelin spoke again. Nkemi lifted her gaze to them, listening. A few tenements, he said; she did not know the word, precisely, but she could understand the gist of it. Buildings, she thought, on the southwest side near the slaughterhouse. A handful of streets in Feli’ax.

Nkemi’s head had inclined, gently. She understood what he was offering her; it would have been enough, she thought, to take to the Seventen, if she wished to do so. “I shall watch,” Nkemi said, quietly. “I will not try to meet him until we have spoken again. Is it well?” She knew what she wanted; she wanted a promise from Vakelin not to go himself and watch too, alone in the Dives. She did not ask for it, no more than he had demanded any promises from her.

Nkemi watched Vakelin evenly through his surprise. She smiled back at him when he smiled, easily. He shifted; he came at it, and then again, and then half-sideways. She picked up the cup of kofi he had poured out for her, in this quiet place of peace in the heart of his home. A moony old man, he called himself. An interest in ib’vuqem. He was studying her, and Nkemi did not know what he saw, beneath her smile. She was not sure she knew herself what was there, nor whether it should be.

“There are some pages in Serkaih,” Nkemi offered, looking at him. She took another little sip of kofi, cradling the cup in her hands. It was not so warm anymore, but it still warmed her through. “Although only a few. There are some contemporary accounts as well in the cultural center there, from some of those who attempted the spells that Ada’na Eres pezre Umitu compiled, and some other spells as well.”

Nkemi did not mention the secret book markets of the Turtle, the booksellers who lived beneath and against the edges of the Liar’s Market who kept secrets without secrets, in damp basements beneath rubs and hidden in the back of wardrobes, which they smuggled in and out in boat and airship and wagon alike. This text itself was not forbidden, but she was not sure she could condone the methods such men used. She thought likely Vakelin already knew; she thought it likely he would seek out such places, when he came, if he had not already found his quarry. All the same, she did not mention it.

“I know more of Serkaih than Ada’na Eres and her contemporaries,” Nkemi said. “But – yes, I know the book.” Nkemi settled the kofi down; she curled up a little more, snuggling into the scarf at her throat. She looked across the small warm study at Vakelin, curled comfortably into the other chair, no steam drifting from his kofi anymore. He, too, she thought, had nearly dozed off. It was a quiet and warm place; it was a safe place.

She was sorry, then, for what she meant to do; she was sorry for what it might mean, the reaching of her hand for this particular stone. She knew better than to look away.

“Why do you want it?” Nkemi asked, softly, in answer to his question.

Nkemi did not know what answer she expected; she did not know, either, what answer she feared. She wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart in her chest; she knew the answer might reveal nothing, after all, but she could not quite but be afraid. She could hear it; her heart was pounding in her chest, aching in her throat, and throbbing in her headache. She could feel it, tingling all through her, even to her fingertips, as if the question had filled every bit of her.