Jean De Silver's Apartment, the Stacks
Uzoji glanced sideways at the doorway into the building, then back out at the street. He lowered his hands to his sides, clenched them into fists, inhaled and exhaled, finding a semblance of something like self-control. It was hard – it was damned hard – but, flood the Circle, Niccolette seemed to have a way of getting beneath his skin that he could not help.
The worst of it, Uzoji thought, was that he would have said everything was fine. Niccolette had been flooding glad to see him when he’d returned on the thirtieth; he’d come straight to her, as he’d promised, even though he’d been half-delirious from lack of sleep and flying for a dozen hours straight. Straight to her, and they’d made it worth every moment; he hadn’t regretted it for a godsdamned second. And of all the things he had thought to worry about with his beautiful, sharp, and devastatingly direct girlfriend, it hadn’t been that she was hiding something from him.
Uzoji gritted his teeth again; he clenched his hands back into fists. Hulali’s tits, but it was flooding hot!
Niccolette was capable of a great many things; Uzoji was well aware of it. They’d had dinner together on the thirty sixth, hadn’t they? And she’d smiled and she’d laughed and she’d – just like any other day, Uzoji thought, his jaw clenched so tightly he felt the strain up through his temples. And the next godsdamned night, to hear from Erhue that she’d been crying at some flooding old Gioran in Blessings of Hulali’s the weekend before – covered in dirt, no less – to hear Erhue tell it, crying and laughing all at once, Circle flood it all –
Uzoji took another deep breath. He loosened his fists, shaking his hands out, and flexed his fingers. He straightened his jacket, and ran his hand over his face. Calmly, he thought. Calmly. It hadn’t been hard to track Jean De Silver down; he had something of a reputation, it seemed. A rake, Uzoji thought, bitterly. Fine. He had known the moment he saw Niccolette that he would do anything for her; he had never felt less since. He had known, too, that his days of fighting for her were not over – but he had, Uzoji thought bitterly, at least thought they were on the same godsbedamned team!
The one thing he had not been able to bring himself to do was to ask her about it. In a few short hours they were to meet up for the night; in a few short hours, he would have to face her. He had not – he could not bear it. He had asked her, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he asked how her weekend had been? He must have. He couldn’t think what she’d said. Had she lied to him, outright? Uzoji thought he might be sick at the thought.
No, Uzoji thought, the time for deliberation was over. He’d charted his course, and he’d sail it, one way or another. He would get the answers he needed, and he would sort out what he’d done wrong, and Niccolette would love him – as she had before. She couldn’t have stopped; she couldn’t have! He would have known, wouldn’t he?
Uzoji banished the thoughts, taking a deep breath and carefully unclenching his jaw, running his tongue along the edges of his aching teeth. Calm, he thought. Calm. He turned and walked into the building; he went straight to the door of this so-called Jean De Silver, and knocked, a polite, even rapping. He stepped back, and smiled as best as he could manage, a polite, neutral sort of smile.
“Good evening,” Uzoji would bow politely when the door opened. The Mugrobi was small, but he held himself like a man who knew how to use his size, and the cut of his clothing hid more than a little muscle; his perfectly shaved head gleamed in the faint light of the hallway. He had a pleasant Mugrobi accent, light but distinctive, a musical sort of lilt to his Estuan, and he folded his hands behind his back, standing perfectly upright. “I’m looking for Mr. Jean De Silver.”