ittle toff was a fish on land. Uh, lotsa – Tom watched him through his stuttering, just as intent as if he was speaking some kind of poetry; he blinked once or twice, nodding serious-like, just to show Ewing he had all his attention and more. Whatever else you could say about him, he wasn’t breaking under the pressure, even though he’d started looking a pina uncomfortable with his head tilted to look at him sidelong.
You got gollies of all stripes as liked to slum it. He’d been living in the harbor his whole life, all three flooding decades in this fish-smelling spitch pile they called the scenic bits of the benny Rose, so he’d seen it before. Uzoji and his rosh, however he felt about them, were different; Winngate was different. They were his brothers, and they’d been here long enough to know their heads from their erses, and – mostly – long enough to know how to remove one from the other in polite company. Even Kit, with his mung pretty smile and his guitar, knew how to stay afloat.
He still wasn’t sold on Ewing slumming it on a weekend away from da’s mansion. You couldn’t talk like this to their type. Eventually, a natt got too bold, their delicate freckly faces would go scarlet and they’d storm out – or try and throw a fist.
He’d’ve bet more than a ha’bird his macha face was here for more reasons than one. The question was what, and that qalqa might take all evening to unknot. He looked forward to trying.
What gave me away? asked Ewing, and Tom would’ve sworn he was leaning into it, taking the bull by the horns. That educated golly drawl spilled out and dripped on the bar like honey. He found himself grinning anyway, then laughing. Kov had balls; you had to give him that.
He laughed even harder, then.
“Maybe I am, Mr. All-Ewing,” he said, real slow-like, giving him a sizing-up sort of look.
He took another drink, then sat back on his stool, hearing it creak and wobble. He knew how to spread himself out just as much as he knew how to make himself look smaller. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the crackle of a few muscles in his back; he was still bruised from his last job a week before.
He crossed his arms over his chest, tracing the lines of Ewing’s pretty face again. His head was swimming. The more and more he looked, the angrier it made him. “Hard to choose,” he said, mock-thinking, shaking his head and sucking at a tooth. He looked down at the bar. “Well, kov, you got your – lessee – you got your dark alleyways, an’ your dark alleyways, an’ I know a few benny tumble huts – jus’ a pina, see…”
He couldn’t keep his lip from twisting. That was, after all, what toff probably thought of his Rose. He ran a hand through his hair again, shaking it out, pleased to catch a whiff of lavender where he’d put a little oil in it earlier.
“Boemo, Mr. All-Ewing.” It was a curl of a smile; he tilted his head. “If you’re a man for spilt sap, there’s the Arena or the dogyard; an’ – I’m told – the Queen’s somethin’ of a tourist trap.” Not that you ain’t already been there.
He shrugged, then leaned closer, tilting his head and lowering his voice. “I know a place you can get stronger shit than this in the Cat’s Paw, where the canals go down to the bay, but the way’s mant strange, oes? Some sights’re more interestin’ than others.”