Hama’s Hands, The Stacks
Jean put the cigar into the holder for her, and Niccolette brought it up to her lips, settling it between them. It was a quiet street, this one where they had found themselves, and yet there was a magnificent rush to it – holding a cigar holder between her lips outside, where anyone might see! Holding a cigar of her own. Niccolette inhaled just enough to light the cigar when Jean held the match to it, careful not to inhale the smoke into her lungs.
She turned the end towards herself, glancing up at Jean, and blew on it gently, as she had seen Uzoji do, until the flames seemed evenly distributed. Niccolette settled the other end back into her mouth, tasting it better this time. It was faintly sweet, strong – there was a hint of something dark and fruity to it.
It was wonderful.
Niccolette eased the holder from her mouth and giggled, feeling the rush of the tobacco through her, mingling pleasantly (dangerously so) with the cigarette she’d already smoked and the drinks they had downed inside. She glanced around, almost shyly, and took another drag from the cigar. Hers; her own cigar.
Niccolette followed Jean through the narrow winding streets of the Rose, past any places she might have known, into dark corners that, in her years of exploration, she had never even known existed. They were off the beaten path now, off the places where Brunnhold students drunkenly lurched, fumbling about in an attempt to discover themselves. Niccolette had to focus rather hard to keep her footing, and more than once she stumbled slightly and had to catch herself.
But none of it dimmed her enthusiasm, not in the least, and Niccolette grinned back at Jean, no less excited now than she had been before, her heart pounding in her chest and throat. She watched Jean knock on the door, and followed him into the yard, into the building beyond.
Niccolette giggled again at Jean’s welcome, bowing back. She did not know what to make of the crowd, at first – there were so few galdori – but she bowed back to the gentleman who approached them, her head spinning a little, and smiled politely through the introductions. She did not hide the cigar; she would not hide it. She kept her holder firmly in hand, and if she did not take a drag on it as they spoke to the galdor, neither did she put it away, or attempt to return it to Jean.
Niccolette followed Genevieve through the curtains, admiring the woman with her black hair and blood red dress – impressive, for all that she was a human – and found her way into the crowd. She did not dampen her field; perhaps she was too drunk for such measures. It hummed bright and vibrant in the air around them both, and throbbed with the pulsing energy of this place, of the tension of the bloodlust in the air around them.
Niccolette did not seem to mind the press of bodies around her. She was not terribly small for a galdor, the Bastian about average height for one of her countrymen and even in Anaxas, but within a crowd of humans and wicks she was dwarfed, and slight besides. She did not yield; if the rough physicality of the men around her intimidated her, she gave no sign of it, and if she stumbled to the side, buffeted by the fierce energy of it all, it was with evident glee. All the same, she found herself pressed close to Jean.
The first two fight was between two humans, big, muscle-bound things. One had short-cropped blonde hair, the sun-tanned skin of an Anaxi, even over his bare, muscular chest. His fists were wrapped in slightly yellowed cloth, covering his knuckles. The second was Mugrobi, a scant inch or two shorter than the Anaxi, with a narrower frame, light brown skin, with a shaved head. Both men gleamed in the lamplight, circling one another on the sandy ground.
There was a loud bang, a stick striking a gong, and the two men rushed once more. They hit; they wrestled. Nothing was off limits; the crowd erupted into wild cheers as the Mugrobi slammed his knee between the Anaxi’s legs, striking him solidly. They parted – clashed, came together again. The Anaxi slammed his fist into the Mugrobi’s face, sending blood and what looked like a tooth flying through the air, absorbed into the soft sand which had seen so much of the same.
Niccolette was cheering with the crowd, her whole body taut and humming with the excitement of it all. There was no concern on her face, no distaste, only a vibrancy to match her field still, a wildness that she could no longer contain. She shrieked aloud when the Anaxi got behind the Mugrobi, trying to wrap his arm around the other man’s neck, and yelled her enthusiasm when the Mugrobi ducked his chin and bit down, hard, leaving a bloody crescent when the other man pulled away.
It was a short, brutal fight; they often were. The two man collided, again and again, testing the limits of their own endurance; testing each other’s limits. Blood splattered against the once-white wrapping on their fists; it spilled out onto the floor of the arena, sopped up by the sand; the crisp, metallic scent of it poured into the air, mixed with alcohol and the rich smell of tobacco, a strange, nauseating, exhilarating combination.
Niccolette shrieked louder when the Mugrobi won at last; when he hit the Anaxi so hard, squarely on the chin, that the other man crumpled and did not rise. She was laughing, excitedly, her whole body thrumming, and she turned bright-eyed to Jean, glowing. “I like him!” She said, enthusiastically. “He reminds me of Uzoji,” it did not occur to Niccolette that the name would be unfamiliar to Jean; in that moment, high on alcohol and the fight alike, it did not occur to Niccolette that anyone in the world might not know Uzoji. She turned back to the stage, cheering again.