or a time he can’t say, all is the pup’s panting and a warm tongue lashing at his face. He’s laughing, now, earnest. Nkemi’s field laps against his, gold-shift brimming; over his own deep laughter he hears a giggle like a bell. Then, almost-but-not-quite brigk: snap snap – a firm hand clasped in his.
She says something in Mugrobi. Saua, o’oja, he hears, soft as silk. The syllables all lilting and blending together.
The pup’s attention is elsewhere. In one smooth motion, he lets her pull him to his feet. Still laughing, he dusts his coat off; he’s not sure why, seeing as there’s mud all over his hems, and paw-prints marked clear on his trousers. That’ll stain, he thinks, then: good. It’s not as if he doesn’t have a wardrobe full of drab trousers and waistcoats and frocks; it’s not as if Anatole’s coat hasn’t been to the drycleaner before, and with worse than this on it.
He watches Nkemi’s gloved finger trace through the curly white hair at the pup’s flank, nodding. “You’re right,” he says, remembering the dogs in Voedale and Redwine, hounds of the Yard. Not so well-fed as the banderwolves he remembers Hawke keeping, the few times he was dubiously privileged with a trip to the Palace.
“Not an easy life,” he murmurs, reaching down to play with a velvety ear; he shifts it aside, finds the line of an old scar through the fur there. “But somebody here cares for him. A scar can mean somebody’s loved enough to be kept afloat.”
His brow furrows, but when he looks up and meets Nkemi’s eye, it’s with as warm a smile as he can put to this face.
He runs a hand over the pup’s back, then – experimentally – gives it a good, pat pat. Harder than he’s patted a cat, but the dog doesn’t seem to mind. That tail goes on wagging; so does the erse, and both hind legs. “Ah, nanabo,” he laughs, taken again by surprise.
They come up off the steps, into the sparse crowd round this side of the bridge. The gatehouse is still teeming with demand, and the air still smells sticky-sweet and warm, with its faint citrus tinge. Tom’s lost his cup of wine, he realizes, he’s not sure where; still more surprising is the realization he doesn’t much care.
More than anything, it was for the sight of the orange in Nkemi’s cup, and her first sip. The thought warms him.
Once, he was tall enough to see over all these heads, he thinks, or at least most of them; now, it’s a forest. “Searching for one lad in this would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”
As they draw onto the bridge proper, flowing with the crowd, the pup trots behind; he can occasionally feel a snuffling nose butt the backs of his legs. How do you find a needle in a haystack?
“We’ve got a magnet, at least, whether we wanted one or not,” he says, with a wry grin sideways. “I’ve got a feeling that by the end of tonight, the lad may find us.”
All is color, even in dreary Ophus. Like King’s Court all year, he thinks. Strings of lanterns lining the way, a forest of tents and walkways. He feels the brush of a glamour as they pass a juggler with a fire-red beard. The sights and smells are almost overwhelming; they’re almost as thick as the mist.
Close by, he sees it – his heart clenches. He drifts closer; the dog is butting his head between them, and he buries his fingers in his rough curly hair absently, playing again with one soft ear.
A woman’s voice drifts up round a tambourine, courts the deft and skilful pump of an accordion. A loose circle of people – mostly natt; it’s a whirl of skirts and scuffed boots, of glinting eyes and laughter – turning haphazardly, looped arm-in-arm.
“One,” calls a woman’s voice, heavy-accented, “two, thrrrree!” trilling the R like a bird.
They break apart into couples; they break apart into beautiful, colorful, familiar chaos.
“Madame,” purrs a voice, stealing his attention.
He breaks into a grin. A young natt, can’t be much older than twenty – and not much taller than either of them, with a strong-boned-but-gangly look – has approached. His long, soot-dusted face has the look of a ne’er-do-well; his dark eyes glitter. They sweep over both the prefect and the incumbent, his eyebrows raising.
But he passes into their fields undeterred, and bows deeply to both of them. When he rises, he offers both hands to Nkemi. “‘Ave a dance, rosh?” he asks, grinning a challenge.