[Closed] Share in Evening’s Cool and Quiet

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 25 Bethas, 2720
The Crocus’ Stem, Cinnamon Hill, Thul Ka

Ep’ama ep’ama,” Nkemi is laughing almost too hard to speak; the words emerge punctuated by giggles, when she can straighten herself up enough to try. She wipes glistening moisture from the corner of her eyes, and giggles again.

The coachman is lifting the chest to the top of the carriage; Ada’xa Uwexo is standing beneath, lifting.

Subprefect Nasana of Windward Market district cups Nkemi’s cheek in her hand; she smiles, and sighs out the last of her laughter. “You have only just returned,” she says.

“The time will pass as the blink
of a camel’s eye.” Nkemi says, cheerfully. “This journey I undertake with a glad heart.”

“Ule’elana!” Orexo tackles Nkemi with a swift hug; she giggles and squeezes the boy back.

“So tall!” Nkemi says, admiringly, not for the first time in this visit. “When will you pass me?”

“Very soon, I think,” Orexo says proudly, his eddle comfortable now in its caprise, his small boy’s chest thrown proudly out, puffed up with his breath. “It will not be hard, as you are so short!”

“Orexo!” Nasana laughs. Nkemi is laughing too.

“The tide waits for no farewells,” Nkemi says; she bows. “My gratitude is as deep as Hulali’s waters,” she says, taking Nasana’s hands in hers.

“You float upon the waters of our hearts,” Nasana says firmly; she squeezes Nkemi’s hands.

“May the currents guide you well!” It is Uwexo who calls out last. Nkemi is half-hanging from the carriage, waving to the three of them. She settles back against the seat, laughing still bubbling bastly through her. She breathes deep.

It was a long day well-spent; the day before found her speaking truth before the commission. They will make their judgments while she is gone; she can do nothing more. Whatever she has, Nkemi knows, she has left behind. Today was all errands; Nkese has asked for nothing and so Nkemi wishes to bring her everything - all of Thul Ka, if she could, and Vienda too. Nestled in amidst her own things, clothing and books, she has placed fabrics, lentils, spices, rice; there are dried fruits also, sealed, and dried flakes of onion and garlic. She knows better now than to bring pickles; this mistake she made only once. Anetol’s goggles, and her own, she has checked three times.

Tonight Nkemi wears blue to honor the river; her pants weave together all the colors of Hulali’s waters, flowing in loose wide stripes, with a black sash for a waist and loose wide cuffs at the hem. Her shirt is white , loose and flowing, with long sleeves for the chill of the river. Her head is wrapped up in blue shimmering with waves of black and silver threaded through.

The day is still cooling; the sun has begun its slow slant towards the horizon, and though the heat has broken, it is not yet night. Nkemi watches her city from the open window of the coach; they wind around the edges of Windward Market, and though she has spent nearly the whole day there she misses it still.

The only foolish purchase she has made are the oranges. They are underripe, she is promised; she wrapped them up, carefully, again and again, and tucked them separate, where no fall of books with crush them. She knows it may be an idle hope; she accepts that they are in Roa’s hands know. But they are thick-skinned, and she wishes to give her mother and father their tart sweetness enough to hope.

The streets are teeming busy; this is the hours when the market overflows what loose boundaries it has, when there are far too many coming and going for it to be contained. Listening, Nkemi hears the roar of voices like the rushing of the river, all their droplets flowing onwards; listening, she hears laughter and glad shouting, and an angry scatter of voices too. She looks, but not for too long; she grins, for there is no reason to hide it.

They keep going; soon enough the coach is in Cinnamon Hill, where by now the shade stretches over all the road, wrapping it in cool wind. Nkemi hops out of the coach and tells the coachman to wait, dodging the fluffing of his moa’s tail.

“Epa’ma, ada’na, they are too long,” the coachman says, rueful.

“They are lovely,” Nkemi says staunchly, and dashes up the stairs and inside.

[Tom Cooke]

The Crocus' Stem • Cinnamon Hill

Late Afternoon on the 25th of Bethas, 2720

I know this is not safe for me to send or safe for you to have. I suspect I’d best burn this after I write it – and that’s what I’ll do.

But I spent all yesterday in and out of shops all wreathed up in fabric.

I dizzied myself amid all of it. Layers in layers and folds in folds. I find myself guessing at what is behind them and what is hid even in the patterns and the rolls. But I admire the strong light linens plain and what they hide too…

T
he last thing that goes in the case is a small wrapped package. He’d thought of it first in the Rose in Ophus; he’d wanted to bring something of the Mahogany’s smell and of the qalqa of Rose hands, though he’d known it was still months away, and longer – and more difficult yet – across the desert.

The soap is carved by a man he knew even as a boch. In with it there’s a blown-glass pendant a-swirl with colors, and a bottle of Plugit raspberry wine. He cushions all this with his other things, and can only pray; it’s his wish to travel light, but he’s more grateful than he can say. He’s buckled and tied his case and bags, the lightest of which he’s slung round his shoulder.

With the windows open to the breeze, the late afternoon’s full of sounds and smells only just growing familiar. He can pick the cadence of this or that insect out of the cacophony, has found himself a favorite bird-call; there’s a smell on the breeze he can’t name, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t come to know it.

The drapes ruffle, and the shadows of whorls of long leaves shift over the carpet. The other suitcases, and the biggest chest from Vienda, still lie half-unpacked on the bed, spilling out their tangled cloth and books. The smell of travel strikes him, of leather and tallow oil.

He moves again to the bath, brushing by dark green speckled leaves. He splashes his face with water and rubs his eyes, and though he doesn’t mean to, he looks in the mirror.

He blinks at his unfamiliar eyes and frowns his unfamiliar frown. “Be gentle to me,” he murmurs in his voice, easing back and leaning on the sink. The set of his lips is brittle, but they twitch, and there’s something sad about the crooked curl of the smile. He thinks he can see it; he thinks he can see something of what’s behind the eyes, fleetingly.

He lifts his chin, and the golden light from the bedroom catches on a curl of orange in his wrap, and limns a curl of orange on his head.

The natt come up, at last, to take his things down the stairs to the carriage. They’ve gone for some minutes when he finally works his way down the stairs, brushing past the shivering strings of green pearls.

He’s never worn such a garment in his life. It’s worth, he thinks wryly, yesterday – rounding a shelf of bolts and coming face-to-face (such as they have) with one of the mannequins, and making a sound like a moa with its tailfeathers pulled out.

Round his shoulders the amel’iwe is of rich deep turquoise, shot through with curling orange; his loose airy sleeves are hemmed in orange and turquoise, as is the hem of his asymmetric-wrapped robe, white covered in pale swirling patterns. He’d thought the wrap of the thing dizzying-complex, but he’s found his way round it in no time at all; he’s found it easier to put on than a dinner suit, and softer and looser by far.

His broad-brim hat is tucked under his arm with its new ties for under the chin. His sandals click on the polished wood as he comes to the lobby, where the natt have just carried his things out.

He’s left Nkemi the day before with kofi in his belly and the glow of her bright smile still in his chest. Somehow he expects the same orange head-wrap and the same patterned skirt. He sees her now across the polished floors, the long shadows and the light that slants through the windows. She’s wrapped in colors like the Mahogany on a dozen days – there’s the swirl of storm-green, of the cerulean waves on a sunny day; there’s the dark night sea at her waist and the foam at her sleeves.

“Good evening, sir.” Ada’na Osi’edú is at the counter, smiling, just across from Nkemi; he catches her eye, and watches the slight lift of her brows. “Float you well,” she says, bowing, with a smile for the prefect too.

“Good evening, ada’na. Thank you,” he says. He pauses to bow, smiling a sheepish smile of his own.

Then he crosses to Nkemi with an ease in his step, reaching out to brush her field with a caprise.

He’s not sure what he’s meant to say. He laughs soft, first, and grins. “Eyo’xaw i’xupo,” he says, and when he closes the distance, he reaches to clasp her hands.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 25 Bethas, 2720
A Coachride Through Thul Ka

Several men come first, carrying Anetol’s trunk. Nkemi shifts out of the way, sandals soft on the wood floor; they go past her and out, and she catches a glimpse of them starting down the steps and towards the coach. Nkemi glances up towards the map on the wall; she smiles, thinking of art – of connection – of hosts and guests.

She turns her gaze back to the stairs. There is color, then – swirling, drifting color – turquoise that gleams like stones, and a rich orange like that which Nkemi has tucked away, white borders with vivid color that spills over them. There is a familiar, sharp-planed face, and a thin, freckled, veined hands which holds onto a hat with straps sewn into it, and curly red hair shot through with gray and white. The expression on his face she knows; his smile is soft at his closed lips, and does not quite crinkle in his cheeks.

Nkemi is breathless; her eyes are wide, and her smile exultant. She bows to Anetol; he feels it first in the brush of her caprise, bubbling bastly, all joy. He grins with his full face now, and she is already grinning; she clasps his hands and squeezes lightly, smiling so hard it is difficult to find the words.

“Eyo’qaw i’xupo,” Nkemi replies, firmly. “The wind settles in mine.”

Once the last details are done, if any still remain, Nkemi tucks her arm through Anetol’s and they go together through the door. There is no distant color spilling over the horizon, not yet, but the light is beginning to slant, golden-soft. Nkemi pauses in the gleam of it through the trees, and steps back, and takes Anetol in; she cannot help her, her smile blossoming again, warmth and joy spilling through her field.

There are all the same lines on his face which were there before, though the dark spots beneath his eyes are less than they sometimes are. But he is smiling, too, and the bright colors soar up through him, and bring out all the vividness in his skin, and the freckles too – the little spots of color which Nkemi likes so well.

Nkemi gives the instructions to the coachman; he is settling the trunks together, and calls them back down to her; he finishes his work, and scrambles over onto the front box.

Nkemi climbs into the carriage with Anetol, and settles herself inside. She is grinning, still, delighted. “Is it comfortable, too?” She asks.

The coach begins to move. The wheels turn beneath them, the moa flap their long tails; they leave the Crocus’ Stem behind, and pull out onto the streets beyond, joining the flow of traffic. They are still, for a long time, as traffic bustles and flows around them; Nkemi twitches the curtains open, watching with a smile.

The coach sits in the midst of traffic, holding and waiting; before and behind are all other such vehicles, coaches and wagons of all sorts, and glimpsed between them moa, camels, horses and more besides. Pullers grasping handles weave through; Nkemi catches a glimpse, here and there, of bicycle pullers, pedaling steadily as carts rattle behind. Through the stillness of the bigger vehicles and all the quick movement of the smaller, people flow, steadily; all of it moves at its own pace.

“Sometimes I think to see Hulali in these streets,” Nkemi giggles into the space between them. “For surely it is a river, too.” She holds the curtain back a little more.

A cablecar rattles over not-too-distant tracks; they begin to move. They make their way through the big wide boulevards, and then out of the broad, market-heavy avenues onto other streets. The sidewalks overflow, at this hour; there are too many smells in the air to tease them apart, and Nkemi’s stomach grumbles in faint protest. She does not think she can be hungry, with the meal Uwexo made her before she left, but she supposes it likes to make itself known.

Nkemi lets the curtain fall; she turns back to Anetol. “How did you spend yesterday?” She takes his hand again, comfortable and easy. “It passed well?”

[Tom Cooke]

Across the Streets • Thul Ka

Late Afternoon on the 25th of Bethas, 2720

Y
es,” he says easily, for all it’s the most honest thing he can.

He sits across from her in the coach, his legs crossed easy, adjusting a light swishing fold of it over his knees. One sandaled foot bobs to some rhythm, and he listens to the rattle of the wheels as they lurch into motion. He’s sunk against the seat, feeling he might melt into it and pool like the cloth. The mingling warmth of her caprise is as much a relief as it ever was; he felt it fill him with color in the lobby.

He’s not sure if the wind has settled in his heart, so much as billowed up and out. Strange enough when he sees the brilliant blue of her garb he feels an impression of a great big sky, and all the wind in it like one sprawling spirit. He’s full up with moths and their wings are dancing, still, but if it’s reflected in the dancing of the mona, it’s not an unhappy dance.

“I don’t wonder if the Anaxi parliament will adopt it.” She brushes the drapes aside, and soft gold light flickers through them. So do the noises of the streets. “I only brought one Anaxi suit, and I’m starting to regret it,” he adds.

They’re at a standstill, like a small boat weaving itself round a big rock. He hears a whistle and a call. There are pullers outside, he notices, deft and strong and faster than their coach, navigating the river with the ease of fish. The late afternoon sunlight glistens on bared muscles.

The walks are busy this time of day, too. He laughs when Nkemi giggles. He’s eased himself over closer to look out the window, skimming the streets and the facades – with an eye that can’t even begin to follow the faces, the bright swishing cloth; with an ear that can’t hold onto a fraction of what it hears. Some of it’s in Mugrobi, lilting in the voices of women and men and bochi, some greetings, some arguments, and the Estuan melts underneath the press of all the words, so he only gets wafts and draughts of meaning.

His glance flicks up to a distant spark of light off a cablecar’s tracks, like a bridge over the river. He wonders if a little lad with glasses has ridden it again today.

He eases back as the moas’ claws scratch the stones again and the coach lurches elegantly into motion. The curtain falls, and they’re in the cool dimness again, with such flickering light as creeps and flutters through the cracks. It glitters in Nkemi’s eyes and catches in the silver woven through her headscarf.

He smiles. “Well,” he says, again truthful, inclining his head. “Busy.” I spent the morning having the room secured, he doesn’t say; he lifts an eyebrow. “Most of the afternoon I passed in Nutmeg Hill. I went to see the merchant you recommended – ada’xa Jima – first.”

Jima pez Jinwe had been a tall, heavyset man with a great belly and a greater laugh; he’d looked more like a docker than a cloth merchant, but he’d been swathed from head to toe in silk, humble-colored but well-cut. He’d had spectacles, too, and he’d peered down through them exactingly at the neat curling writing in his book. They’d shot jokes back and forth the whole time, though there was always something in the twist of his lips as he turned away, and he’d caught him looking at him narrowly as he inspected linens.

“And then ada’na Ebele.” He smiles, now.

Ebele Tsade’tsúda had been a softspoken woman, small and thin, old enough that her face was a web of lines and her eyes were faintly rheumy. He’d thought her a galdor until he had stepped close enough; he’d wondered at the name alone in Nkemi’s note, and had been grateful for her trust. Ada’na Ebele hadn’t touched the cloth or the needle and thread herself, but her words had been sharp and precise, and three lasses had flocked round him taking measurements and holding up cloth.

None of them had had fields; all of them had resembled Ebele strongly. The eldest, serious as Ebele, had been round Nkemi’s age; the youngest was barely ten.

He’s grinning, though there’s some color in his cheeks. “They were having trouble with her youngest, she was giggling so hard. Ada’na Ebele told me she’s never seen an Anaxi,” he says. “At least – not my kind of Anaxi.”

He’s the sense the coach is moving down. The sounds outside have changed, softened; other smells – faintly like the Rose, he thinks, fish cooked and uncooked, spices – swim in. “And yours, Nkemi?” He looks over at her.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 25 Bethas, 2720
The Etoririq’dzwei, Iyiqa'dzor Wharf

Nkemi turns to Anetol as he speaks, her attention on him. She smiles when he speaks of ada’xa Jima pez Jinwe, and her smile widens by a careful fraction when he smiles at the mention of ada’na Ebele. Nkemi had wondered only afterwards if she ought to have – it had not occurred to her until it was too late that he would not know from the name, and she had not known, then, whether she had made a mistake.

She was glad that she had not; she was gladder still that she had not sent the note she had thought of, annotating the list.

The sound of the road changes beneath the wheels; they are on the slick-smooth stones of the wharf, and even the moa’s talons barely scratch. There is a pause at the gatehouse, the sound of murmured voices outside, and they roll on, closer to the river.

She has seen it by now, of course; Nkemi went the night before, and stood on the edge of a rooftop overlooking the Turga, and watched the sunset distant across the horizon, all the light spilling over. She spilled over too, and did not try to contain herself, though in the end she had not wept. Something which she had not known was clenched in her chest had loosened, and she had slept soundly, dreamless.

In her letter, Nkemi had mentioned that his second day in Thul Ka would find her busy with prefect work. She had said nothing more, but he knew many of her truths, now, the whole clay of that which had brought her to Vienda. Nkemi looks at him, now, and she smiles, and it is an honest smile. “I offered all that I have,” She says.

The carriage comes to a stop; the air outside is full of the smell of frying fish, crackling oil and sharp spices, and Nkemi sighs with longing. “If Hulali blesses us, they will catch fish on the steamboat for dinner tomorrow,” she says, brightly, and grins at Anetol. She looks forward, and comes out of the carriage.

There are men already on the rooftop with the driver, untying the ropes which hold their chests in place. The wharf is busy; the light glows golden over the Turga, which here at the edges of the city is as wide as a lake. It stretches from side to side, vast and unfathomable, the water moving swiftly through a tangle of piers and boats.

Etoririq‘dzwei stands before them, solid in the water; one large smokestack stretches from the steamship into the sky, masts set on either side of it. Small rectangular windows line either side; a rope-lined gangplank leads up to the deck of the ship. A steady stream of all sorts of passengers make their way along it; there is a waving crowd on the dock, hands and handkerchiefs and kisses blown to those who pass by.

Nkemi takes the tickets from her satchel, holding them in her hand. She smiles at Anetol, and nods, for there are no questions left to ask. If he is ready – if she is ready – if they are not – there is no sense in asking. What can his words say that his actions have not?

The gangplank is faintly slick underfoot; the Turga is busy and churning, and the spray of water from all sides catches the places where bare ankles peek out from between sandals and cuffs. Nkemi descends down to the deck first, and hands the purser her tickets as she waits. She does not offer Anetol a hand, but her shoulder is there, small and steady, her knees lightly bent, and if he chooses to rest his weight on her as he comes down the steps, she will not be surprised.

“Prefect,” The purser says, bowing his shaved bare head. “Incumbent. Welcome aboard the Etoririq’dzwei. We are honored by your presence.”

“We hope for His blessing on our journey,” Nkemi says, solemn.

“As do we all,” The purser agrees. He gestures; one of the men dressed in a long white shirt and pants with cuffs emblazoned with repeated blue swirls like breaths comes over, and bows.

“I am Kigaya,” their porter says, smiling; he will take whatever cases they allow him, although Nkemi is comfortable with her satchel and soft bag, and refuses him with a small shake of her head. Their chests are stored beneath, for this part of the journey. “Anything you need, you may find me, or any of us. We are as one.”

“Thank you, ada’xa,” Nkemi says, cheerfully. She follows.

“Prefect,” Kigaya stops at a door in the hallway inside, gesturing with a half-bow.

There are hammocks inside, hung from each wall – two on the long side, one on the shorter sides, and one next to the door. Nkemi goes inside, glances around, and sets her soft bag down next to the window with a smile. She comes back out. “I will see you to your quarters,” she tells Anetol, cheerfully.

There is an increase of noise from outside – no raised voices or shouting, no scrape yet of the boat leaving the dock, but a readiness which grows with each passing moment, and the thrum of the engines through the floor.

Kigaya leads them down the hall. The second door he stops at is closed, with a key set into the lock; he opens it, and offers the key to Anetol with a fuller bow. “Incumbent,” he says.

It is a small cabin, but meticulously clean. There is a window, a bed set against the wall, and a unexpected wash of bright blue carpet on the floor. The window is open, now, letting the cooling evening air trickle it; it smells of freshwater inside.

“It is well?” Nkemi asks, turning to Anetol with a smile.

[Tom Cooke]

Across the Streets • Thul Ka

Late Afternoon on the 25th of Bethas, 2720

H
e has dreamt of many things in the last two nights. Sometimes his dreams have found him in the desert with Nkemi, following a herd of goats through the whipping sand. Sometimes his dreams have found him the Turga, or the sight of it from a rooftop – in them, the great glittering band doesn’t look much different from the Arova glimpsed atop a roof in the Soots, with laundry hung out to dry rippling and snapping in the breeze.

It’s wider than the Arova, he sees now. The wharf is full of sounds and sights and smells, and he’s glad for the sight of the river stretching beyond, for all it reminds him – stand with his feet on the riverbed and let it wash round him. For all the bustle, all he can see is the Turga, the shapes of warehouses and buildings on the other side dwarfed by the twin expanses of water and sky. This, he thinks, barely aware of the men fetching the chests from atop the carriage –

This is more like the place where the Arova spreads out into the Mahogany, squeezing itself out of its narrow channel and sprawling comfortably into endlessness, nothing to contain it. He’s not sure what brings his eyes to Nkemi beside him, but he finds a look on her face like nothing so much as peace.

I offered all that I have, he remembers. The smell of fried fish hits him again and brings a smile to his face like he hasn’t smiled in a long time; he stands a moment in the midst of all of it, and just breathes it in.

There’s a steamboat ahead on the river, and they’re weaving their way through to it, Nkemi with the tickets already in her hand. He steps with care, but less care than he stepped the day before yesterday, his hems swishing about his ankles, and smiles back at Nkemi as they cross the gangplank and onto the steamboat. The brush of spray on his bare skin reminds him of something half-forgotten; he almost wishes he could linger in it, too.

He doesn’t put his weight on her, but his fingers brush her shoulder, as if to help guide him through the first shifting of the boat underfoot.

After the purser, the porter comes to get them; he bows to ada’xa Kigaya long and deep, and offers one of his bags, though he keeps the satchel slung round his shoulder. They follow the porter inside, blue-swirl hems tugged and rippling by a breeze that sweeps over the deck, carrying with it the smells of the Turga. Some are familiar; some unfamiliar.

Down the hall they go, through the muffled murmurs and the rumble of the engines beneath. He’s an easier time with the floor, now that he cannot see the shifting water.

He’s a brief glimpse of their room.

He has dreamt of many things in the last two nights, arranging the security of his room in the Crocus’ Stem. He’s never ridden a steamboat himself, but he’s known kov who have, and he’s ridden a handful of aeroships by now. He’s dreamt of a few hammocks braced against walls, of strangers’ faces, of croaking for the prefect with his hand clasped round the wrist of a hand that holds a knife – trussed up in rope and swinging.

It’s a fool’s dream – he doesn’t think himself in much danger, not really. But something about the room with only two hammocks sets him at ease, until Nkemi comes out and offers to see him to his. They leave Nkemi’s room behind.

He doesn’t know what to expect; it’s not a wave of relief, not quite, as Kigaya takes the key from the lock and hands it to him. Incumbent, he says.

“Thank you, ada’xa,” he says, feeling oddly numb; he bows, and when he rises, he looks into the small, well-appointed cabin. He steps inside, taking a deep breath. Kigaya has gone somewhere else, by then.

He moves, slowly, to the bed, looking out the window at the lapping water and the busy wharf overhead, and then turns to Nkemi.

His smile isn’t exactly sad. “Very well,” he says truthfully, thinking of the key and the lock; he fixes them in his mind, as if they can reinforce his honesty as well as his door. “I am honored by your wisdom and forethought.”

With the admission, he lets himself feel the relief; he breathes through it, breathes deep and easy, and sits himself on the bed. He smooths the crisp soft linens, then smiles at the bright carpet. Behind him, he can hear the creak of the moorings, and the breeze picks up, ruffling his hair and bringing another waft of oil and fish and breading to his nose from the banks.

His smile comes easier. “Strange to think,” he says, turning the smile from Nkemi to the window behind. “The water out there is one with all the Turga, and that feeds into the ocean, and somewhere the same water is in the Mahogany and the Arova.” He pauses, and grins. “I hope for His blessing,” he repeats warmly, thinking of fresh fish.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Late Afternoon, 25 Bethas, 2720
The Etoririq’dzwei, the Turga

Anetol goes into the room, slowly; he looks around. Nkemi watches the frown on his face, small, knitting his brow together. He stops at the window, looking outside; the water laps at the sides of the ship, the Turga so close they could reach down and brush it. There is no swimming, not from a steamboat; they and the Turga both move too quickly for that, here, but they have been sprayed with the water already, and on deck they can touch it more.

Anetol turns back; he smiles, although his brow is still knit. Wisdom and forethought, he says, and Nkemi bows lightly. For once she feels almost wrong-footed; she does not know, she thinks, what he expected. For all they discussed, she never thought to ask.

But his smile eases, and he sits on the bed and smooths his hand over it. Nkemi lingers in the open doorway, accustoming herself to the gentle shifting of the ship beneath her feet.

Nkemi looks to the window again with Anetol. She smiles. “Each droplet on an ending journey of His devising,” Nkemi says, cheerful but not without a weight. She watches the dark blue out the window as well.

There is further shifting; something groans, and the engine is humming loudly through the ship now. Voices call bright and loud from outside, mostly Estuan; slanted light gleams off the water.

“I like to watch the leaving from the deck,” Nkemi says; she smiles an invitation at Anetol.

They go up a narrow flight of stairs to a small deck curved around the front of the ship; there is another woman already standing there. An awning covers part of it, light blue fabric crisp in the breeze; some chairs and fastened to the walls and deck beneath. Nkemi goes past the edges of it to stand at the railing, her hands soft on it.

The gangplank is being taken up now, put away in the deck; the woman next to Nkemi is laughing and waving to a small group on the dock. Nkemi smiles at her; she smiles back through a glittering of tears; the two exchange a polite belike caprise, but at a rising call from below she turns back once more.

Smoke trickles into the air; the steamboat belches out a warning. It parts from the dock; there is a sliver of Turga between them, and then more and more wide frothing blue as it turns towards the river. Nkemi breathes in deep the water-scented air; she turns to Anetol and beams.

There are scattered clouds overhead; they are catching the gold of the sun as it slips towards the horizon. They sail nearly due East, at this part of the journey; it is as if they will sail into the sunset.

“Good evening, ada’na, sir,” the woman says, smiling, turning to them as the dock grows too far distant. She bows to Nkemi and Anetol, wobbling with the shifting of the ship and taking hold of the railing with one hand to steady herself. She wears a vivid orange fabric, elegant and ornate, with gold thread through the trim; her hair is in a head wrap of the same fabric.

“Good evening, ada’na,” Nkemi says with a smile; she bows as well, and keeps light fingers on the railing as she rises once more.

“I am Keraxa pezre Ole’alaxa,” Keraxa says with a smile.

“I am Nkemi pezre Nkese,” Nkemi says, smiling; she turns to Anetol, and comes back to sit beneath the shade. Keraxa comes as well, sitting straight backed and comfortable on one of the white-painted chairs.

“It is a blessed journey which is begun with an ache in one’s heart,” Keraxa says. There are no tear tracks down the planes of her face, but she blinks lightly, as if to be sure.

“It is wisdom to know such truth,” Nkemi agreed. “Where do His waters take you?”

“Asha Morais,” Keraxa says with a smile. “And you?”

[Tom Cooke]

Across the Streets • Thul Ka

Late Afternoon on the 25th of Bethas, 2720

U
p on the deck, he’s still thinking of it. Looking out over the water – to the west, where they’re creeping along and the banks are sliding away behind them – it’s hard to imagine it a swarm of droplets; it seems like nothing so much as a single sprawling body.

The gold in the sky hasn’t touched the water, yet, though there’s glistens here and there where it stirs with such things as fish. It slants over the deck, catching the boards to glow and lengthening the shadows, and he thinks if he looked far enough behind them he might see a darkening blue in the east, though not, he thinks, stars. The awning ruffles in the river-smelling breeze, and he sees the vibrant shimmer of orange beyond it.

She was waving at the dock behind; the gap’s grown larger, and though he skims the sun-blurred faces and the waving arms and fluttering kerchiefs, he couldn’t possibly guess at whom. Her hand drops, and he’s looking out over the water; he looks back, and she’s smiling, though there’s a different glitter in her eyes.

Something in the way she wobbles when she bows tickles his heart. He holds onto the railing himself when he bows; a vertigo nearly threatens to take him, but he rises with more ease, though his knuckles are white for a few moments on the metal.

“Anatole,” he lies easily, “Vauquelin,” and is grateful for the leaving-off of anything else that might’ve gone with that name.

Once, a stranger’s caprise would’ve set his spine to tingling; now, it’s easy, and as he rests his back against the painted wood with a sigh, the polite mingling is almost comforting. The engine rumbles underneath, and the sun sinks toward the water, and Thul Ka sinks away on either side.

With an ache in one’s heart, she says. He lets out a breath he doesn’t remember having held. The crowd on the dock is more than indistinct, now, though there’s no one there for him.

Asha Morais, he thinks, wondering. Something’s familiar about the name, but he can’t think where he’s seen it. On one of the atlases that he read on the aeroship, maybe.

He wonders at the wisdom of telling her. The door is open; there’s space for him to speak – space, and necessity. He knows something of the way Mugrobi ask questions, and he doesn’t think Nkemi would’ve asked her, direct and unhesitating, if she had not expected the question to be turned round. There are people among whom such a question can’t be asked. Ada’na Keraxa, blinking and smiling, her clairvoyant field soft and friendly against his and Nkemi’s, doesn’t seem such a person after all.

Asking a question, in that way, seems to him now a bit like handing someone a knife; you’ve to be careful you’re handing it hilt-out, and your fingers must be deft with the blade.

He smiles at Nkemi, then smiles back at ada’na Keraxa, having paused only a second or two. “Ada’na Nkemi is my host,” he says, smiling over momentarily. “We’re headed to Dkanat, eventually, near Serkaih, but up the river only a ways. Most of our journey will be across the desert.”

The wind picks up and ruffles his hems, ruffles the awning overhead. He breathes in deep more smells – fish, this time, fresh and not cooked, algae, water. Over the railing at some distance, a small flopping shape leaps out of the water and splashes back. The sun is sinking steadily, and the reflection is just starting to spread gold on the water, like concords scattered to Hulali.

“Crossing the desert,” says ada’na Keraxa. “May Roa bless and guide you.” She’s managed to stay her tears; there’s no more blinking, though there’s still a sadness to the set of her brows. She tilts her head, and the light from the west – melting steadily into many colors – catches on the gold hem of her headscarf and on one of her dangling earrings. “Is it your first crossing?”

“Mine,” he says lightly, and at her smile, laughs; then smiles at Nkemi, raising his brow.

[Nkemi pezre Nkese]

Early Evening, 25 Bethas, 2720
The Etoririq’dzwei, the Turga

Nkemi smiles at Anetol when he calls her his host, then turns her gaze back to Keraxa. “I have crossed the desert many times,” Nkemi says, cheerfully. “And yet no two crossings are ever the same.”

Keraxa inclines her head, gracefully. “The same may be said of the Turga,” she says, smiling. “I have crossed to Asha Morais many times; each journey is its own river.”

“True for rivers of sand as well as water,” Nkemi says, smiling. “May His waves carry you well.”

Keraxa smiles. It is not long before she rises, gracefully, one beringed hand resting lightly on the wall; she bows to them once more. “May the currents of the rivers and your dreams both be smooth.”

“And yours,” Nkemi bows her head. Keraxa goes inside, and the door shuts gently behind her.

Nkemi turns back towards the sunset; she sighs with pleasure. The sky is spilled over gold and pink; it is shading darker, here and then, and bright red begins to come out as the sun spills over the distant waters. The banks cannot even be glimpsed; the whole of the world is the Turga and the sun setting into it, as if Hulali has swallowed it up whole.

Slowly, night dawns behind them, pale blue shading to black. Nkemi does not hurry, not even when the wind begins to pick up, cold over the water; not even when the lights are all gone, and they are watching the last wisp of the sunset sink over the edge of the world.

“Come,” Nkemi says, softly. She stands in the dark; she finds Anetol’s hand in hers, and takes it firmly.

There is a sliver of deck which wraps around the side of the boat; it is enough for the two of them to walk on, cradled between the hull and the railing. Nkemi leads Anetol along, until they may see back, behind, where they have come from.

There are few stars overhead; only the brightest shine through the lights of the city. However far they have come, Thul Ka is vast; its lights do not fade so quickly. It glows brilliant and shining in the distance; there are drops of light through the river since, other boats scattered, as if the city has cast them off like jewels from its hand. Thul Ka wraps itself over its hills, and lights shine up and down them, gleaming along streets; if they were closer, perhaps they could make out the pattern of it, like thread sewn into a tapestry. From here, it is only life, all of it, gleaming and brilliant.

“If we travel through, it will be out of sight before morning,” Nkemi says, softly. She watches the distant city; she smiles at Anetol. The wind whistles crisp along the edges of the ship, and Nkemi shivers. “Before Anaxas I might have complained of the cold!” She says, and she cannot help but giggle.

The drift of the laughter carries them back inside; the ship is quiet for the night so far, passengers settled comfortably in their quarters. There are a few white-clad men and women in the halls, who stand aside to let them pass; out of one set of swinging doors drifts cheerful conversation and laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

Nkemi leaves Anetol to unpack at his door with a smile; she goes herself to her own berth, and looks through her things. Set into the wall beneath the hammock is a small drawer with a key and a lock; some things she places there before she secures it shut against the wall. Her other things she brings to the heavy compartment at the other side of the cabin, putting them away and closing it with a thump.

There are five hammocks, in total; Nkemi goes back to hers, and settles comfortably, cross-legged. She has read for only a few moments when the door opens again, and cheerful voices enter first. Nkemi rises; she smiles; she bows, and they bow too. There are no caprises to be had, but polite greetings are exchanged.

“To Tsaha’ota,” Nkemi says, cheerfully; to Dermoga, the others reply. The wind down the river; cool air drifts in off the water, and the stars slowly brighten overhead.

[Tom Cooke]

The Etoririq’dzwei • The Turga

Late Afternoon on the 25th of Bethas, 2720

T
hey linger quiet in the sunset.

It’s easier, with Nkemi at his side, this – the shoreless Turga. He thinks this must be the closest he’s ever seen to a sunset at sea; he finds himself thinking, Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Only it isn’t only red in the sky: this, at least, he knows from watching the sunset over the bay hundreds of times, his legs dangling over the boards and a bottle of Low Tide between his knees.

There’s pink and purple edging the red, and yellows both mellow and bright spilling round. White edges some of the clouds, still, and the scarlet that spreads out in the water bleeds into orange.

It’s easier than a sunset in the sky. At least there’s the water beneath; and he knows he’s not in the ocean, not really, and so there’s the knowledge of banks just out of sight. Still, he finds it stirring up in him all those memories from when he was a lad, from before he knew just how uneasy he felt with no solid ground beneath his feet. When he thought he might go for a sailor. There’s plenty of wind leaping in his heart now, but he settles back against the seat and loses himself to the dreaming, wondering if Nkemi can see anything of Serkaih in all the colors.

It’s when there’s not even the tiniest sliver of sun above the water that she guides him back, one hand clasped tightly round his. On the narrow way, he finds his fingertips tracing the railing, too; he keeps his head up and does not look down at the water that laps below.

There’s no need to wonder what she’s brought him back to see. But he lets out a gasp of surprise, leaning on the railing; he hasn’t realized how long they’ve spent watching the sunset, how far the steamboat’s glided out of the hands of the Vein. Nor has he realized, though he should’ve known, how Thul Ka isn’t in the least bit flat: the lights are scattered up and down just like the stars above, though they’re brighter by far.

The breeze to him is a reprieve. He laughs, squeezing her hand when he feels the shiver go through her. He wants to say it’s beautiful, but the word isn’t what he means; he doesn’t want to lie. He squeezes her hand again, and breathes in deep.

Later that evening, he’s left the laughter and the lights and the cool breeze over the water behind, though it still whispers through his window.

Now, there’s the soft crackle and smell of old paper, and the familiar pages of a grimoire under his fingers. The phosphor lamp is as blue as the carpet, and there’s only a scattering of lights on the broad river outside the window. He’s only half-unpacked, the case open on his bed; there’s something he knows he must do first. There are so many aches he can barely count them. The sight of Thul Ka’s dizzying constellation, and what it reminds him of, is the last of them.

He’s been away from it too long. It’s been a week, at least, since he’s drawn the familiar lines and beckoned them near him. He hadn’t dared yesterday, or on the airship; last night was the last full night of sleep he’s had in nearly a week, for all the preparations in Vienda kept him up.

Now that his hands are steady, he is able to draw the lines steadily over the boards. He wondered, at first, if he ought to – before he rolled up the bright blue carpet and found, underneath it, the traces of faded old lines.

In, out, he breathes; in, out. He knows the diagram so well now he doesn’t have to look at the grimoire; the shape of the movements themselves he’s memorized, as if the push and pull of the lines is written onto his muscles. Soon enough, he’s sitting in the midst of them, his robe a pool around his crossed legs, the book open again in his lap.

He begins the incantation.

If he hears any creaking of the boards outside, he doesn’t pay it any heed. No porter would interrupt a spell to knock mid-cast, and in this place, he has no hesitation and no fear. He speaks even-voiced and clear, the well-worn monite rolling off his tongue.

He beseeches the mona that they hold the dead in place, along the lines; he doesn’t ask them to lay the dead to rest – he doesn’t ask so much – but he asks the mona that they be held and quieted, that they be bound to the chalk and the wood even as they float above the water.

The feeling floods him. Each droplet aflame. Something sings in him.

Then, as he curls, it settles through him. It’s like being shoved against a wall, every time, except this time he knows the hand doesn’t mean to kill him. There’s something refreshing – bracing – about the suddenness of it. He stiffens, back utterly straight, then relaxes. He breathes in and out through his nose. He holds the last of the upkeep, silent.