The Plover’s Song • The Stacks
In the Evening of the 67th of Roalis, 2719
Drinking in Brunnhold was just flooding different.
The Rose, oes, that was his home; he knew more watering holes there than he could count on both hands, the Dove and a hundred dives, knew how to slip in and blend ’til he was nobody and nothing. Theoretically, at least. Vienda wasn’t too much worse, in spite of all the clocking uncles and aunties. Dockers might give a face (and a field) like his funny looks, but if anybody recognized Incumbent Vauquelin slumming it, they kept their head shut.
The Stacks was a funny place. You’d asked Tom what a university town looked like three years ago, he’d’ve asked you what a fucking university was. Alive, he hadn’t spared Brunnhold a single thought, and if he’d tried to picture it, he’d’ve pictured a walled-off fortress populated by golly bochi with their noses in books, by dour magisters whispering secrets. He’d’ve been half-right: it was, after all, a walled-off fortress, full of galdori.
What he wouldn’t’ve pictured was places like the Brass Uncle, or the cascade of quaint pina taverns that catered to young gollies that wanted to sow their oats getting plastered for the maw they spent reluctantly being spoon-fed their letters. He knew better, now.
The first time he’d been to Brunnhold was during the political convention in Bethas, and he’d sampled a variety of upscale haunts, tagging along with other politicians and diplomats; that meant he knew what to avoid. Right now, in his foul mood, the last thing Tom needed was to be recognized by a gaggle of mung little aspiring-politician gollymancers, or some old friend of Anatole’s from his Brunnhold years. Right now, the last thing Tom needed was to be recognized at all.
The Plover’s Song’d seemed safe. It was a smoky, dark place, tucked away on the west end of the crescent, mostly frequented by humans and tekaa.
Nobody’d complained at the sight of a golly, ’specially not dressed plain and with a scattered porven like Tom’s. He’d been there for an hour or so already, nursing his first drink in weeks, soaking in the dull hum of the evening crowd and the incense of tobacco and liquor. He’d started to wind down, even, asking himself why he hadn’t come here sooner; his headache was laying off, and he was thinking tonight wouldn’t be too bad a night, after all.
He was thinking that, oes. He should’ve known better.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” slurred Tom, taking another long drink of whisky, swirling it round in the glass. He squinted across at the old wick, gesturing limply with a thin hand. “I’ve never been here before in my life.”
“No, I swear. I seen you someplace – not here.”
“You saw my brother, maybe.”
“You got a fuckin’ twin?”
“Hey, now, Davey.” The bartender was a squat, stocky human, maybe a little younger than Anatole, a decade older than Tom; he leaned on the counter, scratching his jaw.
“Ne, ne, I ent startin’ nothin’. Jus’ curious, is all.”
Tom shot a sharp sideways glance at Davey. The wick perched two stools over, a tall, gangly kov that looked like he’d been cobbled together out of wire and sinew; he had long, dark hair, streaked with grey, he kept pulled back, and a lined face like a twisted old root, and a voice like a parrot’s screech.
Wasn’t endearing himself to Tom tonight. The kov ran a bony finger along his chin, tapped it with a fingertip. “Jus’, Circle clock it,” he said, raising the hook of that finger to point, “I know. I seen you givin’ a speech.”
Martin gave Davey a withering look. “If I didn’t know you were guttered before,” he muttered.
Tom didn’t say a damn thing. Only, his shoulders kept drawing up higher round his ears, and the sour twist of his lips was just getting more sour. He finished off his glass with one long draught, and when he set it back down on the counter, it was a little too hard; the bottom clattered. Tom’s hand – Anatole’s thin, elegant, toffin hand – was shaking as he slid it over, fingertips jittering on the rim.
Frowning, giving Davey another warning glance, Martin poured him another. Tom took a drink almost immediately. Before he’d set the glass back down, Davey was talking again, and Tom squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his temple. “You don’t know me, kov,” he grated.
“Ne, ne,” repeated Davey, “you’re that politician, that, uh… huh.”
The wick snapped his bony fingers; the sound felt like a nail in Tom’s head, and he grit his teeth harder. He swirled his glass once, twice, took another drink, swirled it again, trying to ease his nerves. He could feel Davey’s eyes still on him. Stopclocker was lucky Tom wasn’t himself. He heaved a deep sigh.
The Rose, oes, that was his home; he knew more watering holes there than he could count on both hands, the Dove and a hundred dives, knew how to slip in and blend ’til he was nobody and nothing. Theoretically, at least. Vienda wasn’t too much worse, in spite of all the clocking uncles and aunties. Dockers might give a face (and a field) like his funny looks, but if anybody recognized Incumbent Vauquelin slumming it, they kept their head shut.
The Stacks was a funny place. You’d asked Tom what a university town looked like three years ago, he’d’ve asked you what a fucking university was. Alive, he hadn’t spared Brunnhold a single thought, and if he’d tried to picture it, he’d’ve pictured a walled-off fortress populated by golly bochi with their noses in books, by dour magisters whispering secrets. He’d’ve been half-right: it was, after all, a walled-off fortress, full of galdori.
What he wouldn’t’ve pictured was places like the Brass Uncle, or the cascade of quaint pina taverns that catered to young gollies that wanted to sow their oats getting plastered for the maw they spent reluctantly being spoon-fed their letters. He knew better, now.
The first time he’d been to Brunnhold was during the political convention in Bethas, and he’d sampled a variety of upscale haunts, tagging along with other politicians and diplomats; that meant he knew what to avoid. Right now, in his foul mood, the last thing Tom needed was to be recognized by a gaggle of mung little aspiring-politician gollymancers, or some old friend of Anatole’s from his Brunnhold years. Right now, the last thing Tom needed was to be recognized at all.
The Plover’s Song’d seemed safe. It was a smoky, dark place, tucked away on the west end of the crescent, mostly frequented by humans and tekaa.
Nobody’d complained at the sight of a golly, ’specially not dressed plain and with a scattered porven like Tom’s. He’d been there for an hour or so already, nursing his first drink in weeks, soaking in the dull hum of the evening crowd and the incense of tobacco and liquor. He’d started to wind down, even, asking himself why he hadn’t come here sooner; his headache was laying off, and he was thinking tonight wouldn’t be too bad a night, after all.
He was thinking that, oes. He should’ve known better.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” slurred Tom, taking another long drink of whisky, swirling it round in the glass. He squinted across at the old wick, gesturing limply with a thin hand. “I’ve never been here before in my life.”
“No, I swear. I seen you someplace – not here.”
“You saw my brother, maybe.”
“You got a fuckin’ twin?”
“Hey, now, Davey.” The bartender was a squat, stocky human, maybe a little younger than Anatole, a decade older than Tom; he leaned on the counter, scratching his jaw.
“Ne, ne, I ent startin’ nothin’. Jus’ curious, is all.”
Tom shot a sharp sideways glance at Davey. The wick perched two stools over, a tall, gangly kov that looked like he’d been cobbled together out of wire and sinew; he had long, dark hair, streaked with grey, he kept pulled back, and a lined face like a twisted old root, and a voice like a parrot’s screech.
Wasn’t endearing himself to Tom tonight. The kov ran a bony finger along his chin, tapped it with a fingertip. “Jus’, Circle clock it,” he said, raising the hook of that finger to point, “I know. I seen you givin’ a speech.”
Martin gave Davey a withering look. “If I didn’t know you were guttered before,” he muttered.
Tom didn’t say a damn thing. Only, his shoulders kept drawing up higher round his ears, and the sour twist of his lips was just getting more sour. He finished off his glass with one long draught, and when he set it back down on the counter, it was a little too hard; the bottom clattered. Tom’s hand – Anatole’s thin, elegant, toffin hand – was shaking as he slid it over, fingertips jittering on the rim.
Frowning, giving Davey another warning glance, Martin poured him another. Tom took a drink almost immediately. Before he’d set the glass back down, Davey was talking again, and Tom squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his temple. “You don’t know me, kov,” he grated.
“Ne, ne,” repeated Davey, “you’re that politician, that, uh… huh.”
The wick snapped his bony fingers; the sound felt like a nail in Tom’s head, and he grit his teeth harder. He swirled his glass once, twice, took another drink, swirled it again, trying to ease his nerves. He could feel Davey’s eyes still on him. Stopclocker was lucky Tom wasn’t himself. He heaved a deep sigh.
