Uccello di Hurte • Aloft
Evening on the 25th of Yaris, 2719
H
onest, if you can force them to be direct. He thought of Uzoji’s graceful way, and then of…
His mask was full of hairline cracks. Tom didn’t know what his face was doing anymore; he was afraid he’d lost Anatole. His glance flicked between Capaldi and Niccolette, fixed itself on Giordanetto at his side, the profile with its proud chin and smiling dark eyes. Those eyes never left Niccolette for long. All those years, she repeated, and he thought she must’ve cast a spell, though he’d heard no Monite; surely the captain wouldn’t step into it, he thought, wouldn’t step through the door she’d opened.
All those years your husband was alive, he said, and Anatole broke completely. Tom couldn’t help but shut his eyes for a moment, mouth set thin and brittle, the lines on his face deep and tired.
But when he opened them, she was looking at him with a smooth, broad smile, and her green eyes drew his back, and he had nowhere else to look — and he felt her field like a wall of vivid color, and for a moment, he grinned. He wasn’t thinking of food. He was thinking of Giordanetti’s silvery little scar, and what others he might have, and the thought didn’t turn his stomach; he’d lost his appetite awhile ago.
“I look forward to it,” replied Tom, smoothing his face out into another polite little smile, “very much, Mrs. Ibutatu.” By then, Fernando was rattling in again, a thin layer of sweat on his brow. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but now, it dawned on him: the chef’s little dance to get them in order, ’cause of how the captain’d sat; first Vauquelin, then round to the widow, then the two officers.
Tom finished off his glass with a careless-long draught, lips twisting faintly. His cheeks were burning, and he must’ve been red in the face. He didn’t realize the captain was looking at him ’til he heard the name, Anatole, and he turned, and he burbled something and smiled, and the hiccup gave way.
He breathed in the mingled scents of fruit — fruit and cold cheese, sweet and bitter rind — and tannic, sour wine-breath; the captain was laughing again, at something or another. The fruit went, scarce-eaten, and was replaced by some sort of pale, sweet-smelling custard, topped with an even sweeter sauce — scarce-noticed, except when Tom cut a little crescent and found it more yielding than butter.
All the light’d faded from the windows, and now it seemed to him they were no windows at all. The phosphor light shivered over the cream, and the cream shivered. Suddenly he could feel the creak of it under his feet, like the sighing of an unsettled sleeping beast.
He heard Anatole’s voice less and less, and he ached with the effort of pulling it out of himself. It should’ve been a relief, stretching his aching legs to move back to the study, leaving the uneaten cream and cloying fruit and wine behind. As he got to his feet, he had to catch himself on the table; he felt the groaning underneath him, and he felt his stomach turn, but there was nothing to fix his eyes on but the phosphor lights that moved with the Uccello. He recovered himself quick enough, running his hand back along the heavy table, but he knew it was too late.
The stars were at least fixed, bright out the window, bright as they’d been on the deck. He gave them a longing look, even as he felt Giordanetto’s strong hand on his shoulder. His back ached. His lip twitched, and he stifled the urge to jerk himself out of the other galdor’s grip.
“I, ah,” he started, looking glassy-eyed at the captain, at Capaldi. He trusted himself for one last look at Niccolette, fear spiking up through his gut, sharpening his eyes. But she met his look with a little smile like a secret, and his brow knit, and he nodded. He said softly, “Yes, thank you, Isidore, Mr. Capaldi. I should, ah – I should like to retire.”
Tom heard the lock click on the door behind. In the narrow dark hall, he could hear his breath loud in his ears. He hadn’t looked back, not at the captain or at Niccolette. He could hear something behind him, occasionally, soft, but it was swallowed up by the creaking boards of the ship, the footsteps, the rushing in his ears.
Capaldi didn’t take his arm, not exactly. They moved down the hall slow enough, and Tom felt the brush of his hand occasionally on his elbow, or his shoulder, or his forearm, if the wind tilted the Uccello too far one way or another. His back ached, his hip tweaked with every shift, and he felt sick as a banderwolf fed on sweetmeats – but he could feel the muscles in his legs adjust to take the weight, and his bones bore it well.
He’d expected the captain’s second to say something, anything, but they moved down the hall to his door in silence. “Good night, Incumbent,” he said finally, when the door was open a crack. He bowed, deep and respectful.
Tom stared at him in the dark. There wasn’t much light to see by, but he could see the glisten of his eyes; he couldn’t read his expression. “Thank you, Mr. Capaldi,” he said. “Give the captain my apologies.” He’d meant it to sound neat, polite, but he could hear the broadness in the vowels, the faint slur. He could hear the rough, tired scrape of it.
“Of course, sir.”
Tom sidled in and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against it, resting his head against the wood. His stomach gave another lurch. It was a few moments before he heard boots creaking back up the corridor, and even then, he didn’t move, though he felt untethered in the dark, as if he lay in a fishing-boat tossed by the waves.
He brought himself to a little while later; a little light drifted in through the shutters, and when he fixed his eyes on it, it didn’t move. He licked his teeth, tasting the clinging dark stain. Something like shame drained through him, though he was scared to give it a name.
When he slipped back out into the hall, he scarce knew what he was doing. His fingertips wandered, danced across the wood on one side; he could feel something through the sleek wood, something subtle but there, like pained breath. Rough patch of air, he thought, and the thought was crystal-clear in his swimming head – rough flooding patch of air, my erse – and even if he knew himself paranoid, he found himself creaking back down the hall, down to the door he knew was the imbala’s. He halfway-regretted not doing it earlier.
He leaned on the doorjamb for a few seconds, pressing his palm to his forehead, catching his breath. He could feel a headache coming on; he felt like laoso. He rapped gently at the door, then called, “Ada’xa Ediwo,” soft-like, then more rough, “If you’ve a moment, Ada’xa Ediwo, a moment to…”
The words dropped off, bounced down into a chasm of silence. Tom heard nothing on the other side. His chest felt strangely tight. Nothing to be done. He shot a look back up the hall, back down it; the ship rocked, and he felt himself pushing back against the wall, felt his knees shift. He swallowed. Nothing to be done. He turned, then paused, then looked down in the dark at his feet.
He leaned there, staring, and strained his ears. Then he started in the other direction. The kitchen at the end of the hall was empty and dark; Tom could see slices of starry sky out the tiny windows, and he stopped, briefly, to stare. But then he kicked himself, and turned down a side door on a guess, groping his way breathlessly down a twist of creaking stairs. He felt the air grow hotter on his face. The wine in his throat felt stuck; it was as if it’d congealed like blood.
It was a shuffling’d drawn his attention. Not like boots creaking confidently on the boards, or even like a man scuffling his soles and dropping clumsy-like. As he went down, he heard other sounds, too soft to’ve made their argument through the cracks between the floorboards: breathy gasps, like love or fear or pain.
Faint warm light drifted up, and Tom smelled something burnt. “What the flooding hell’s going on down here?” he snapped, just as his shoes creaked the bottom step. He squinted through the hazy dark, his pulse loud in his ears as his eyes adjusted.
onest, if you can force them to be direct. He thought of Uzoji’s graceful way, and then of…
His mask was full of hairline cracks. Tom didn’t know what his face was doing anymore; he was afraid he’d lost Anatole. His glance flicked between Capaldi and Niccolette, fixed itself on Giordanetto at his side, the profile with its proud chin and smiling dark eyes. Those eyes never left Niccolette for long. All those years, she repeated, and he thought she must’ve cast a spell, though he’d heard no Monite; surely the captain wouldn’t step into it, he thought, wouldn’t step through the door she’d opened.
All those years your husband was alive, he said, and Anatole broke completely. Tom couldn’t help but shut his eyes for a moment, mouth set thin and brittle, the lines on his face deep and tired.
But when he opened them, she was looking at him with a smooth, broad smile, and her green eyes drew his back, and he had nowhere else to look — and he felt her field like a wall of vivid color, and for a moment, he grinned. He wasn’t thinking of food. He was thinking of Giordanetti’s silvery little scar, and what others he might have, and the thought didn’t turn his stomach; he’d lost his appetite awhile ago.
“I look forward to it,” replied Tom, smoothing his face out into another polite little smile, “very much, Mrs. Ibutatu.” By then, Fernando was rattling in again, a thin layer of sweat on his brow. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but now, it dawned on him: the chef’s little dance to get them in order, ’cause of how the captain’d sat; first Vauquelin, then round to the widow, then the two officers.
Tom finished off his glass with a careless-long draught, lips twisting faintly. His cheeks were burning, and he must’ve been red in the face. He didn’t realize the captain was looking at him ’til he heard the name, Anatole, and he turned, and he burbled something and smiled, and the hiccup gave way.
He breathed in the mingled scents of fruit — fruit and cold cheese, sweet and bitter rind — and tannic, sour wine-breath; the captain was laughing again, at something or another. The fruit went, scarce-eaten, and was replaced by some sort of pale, sweet-smelling custard, topped with an even sweeter sauce — scarce-noticed, except when Tom cut a little crescent and found it more yielding than butter.
All the light’d faded from the windows, and now it seemed to him they were no windows at all. The phosphor light shivered over the cream, and the cream shivered. Suddenly he could feel the creak of it under his feet, like the sighing of an unsettled sleeping beast.
He heard Anatole’s voice less and less, and he ached with the effort of pulling it out of himself. It should’ve been a relief, stretching his aching legs to move back to the study, leaving the uneaten cream and cloying fruit and wine behind. As he got to his feet, he had to catch himself on the table; he felt the groaning underneath him, and he felt his stomach turn, but there was nothing to fix his eyes on but the phosphor lights that moved with the Uccello. He recovered himself quick enough, running his hand back along the heavy table, but he knew it was too late.
The stars were at least fixed, bright out the window, bright as they’d been on the deck. He gave them a longing look, even as he felt Giordanetto’s strong hand on his shoulder. His back ached. His lip twitched, and he stifled the urge to jerk himself out of the other galdor’s grip.
“I, ah,” he started, looking glassy-eyed at the captain, at Capaldi. He trusted himself for one last look at Niccolette, fear spiking up through his gut, sharpening his eyes. But she met his look with a little smile like a secret, and his brow knit, and he nodded. He said softly, “Yes, thank you, Isidore, Mr. Capaldi. I should, ah – I should like to retire.”
Tom heard the lock click on the door behind. In the narrow dark hall, he could hear his breath loud in his ears. He hadn’t looked back, not at the captain or at Niccolette. He could hear something behind him, occasionally, soft, but it was swallowed up by the creaking boards of the ship, the footsteps, the rushing in his ears.
Capaldi didn’t take his arm, not exactly. They moved down the hall slow enough, and Tom felt the brush of his hand occasionally on his elbow, or his shoulder, or his forearm, if the wind tilted the Uccello too far one way or another. His back ached, his hip tweaked with every shift, and he felt sick as a banderwolf fed on sweetmeats – but he could feel the muscles in his legs adjust to take the weight, and his bones bore it well.
He’d expected the captain’s second to say something, anything, but they moved down the hall to his door in silence. “Good night, Incumbent,” he said finally, when the door was open a crack. He bowed, deep and respectful.
Tom stared at him in the dark. There wasn’t much light to see by, but he could see the glisten of his eyes; he couldn’t read his expression. “Thank you, Mr. Capaldi,” he said. “Give the captain my apologies.” He’d meant it to sound neat, polite, but he could hear the broadness in the vowels, the faint slur. He could hear the rough, tired scrape of it.
“Of course, sir.”
Tom sidled in and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against it, resting his head against the wood. His stomach gave another lurch. It was a few moments before he heard boots creaking back up the corridor, and even then, he didn’t move, though he felt untethered in the dark, as if he lay in a fishing-boat tossed by the waves.
He brought himself to a little while later; a little light drifted in through the shutters, and when he fixed his eyes on it, it didn’t move. He licked his teeth, tasting the clinging dark stain. Something like shame drained through him, though he was scared to give it a name.
When he slipped back out into the hall, he scarce knew what he was doing. His fingertips wandered, danced across the wood on one side; he could feel something through the sleek wood, something subtle but there, like pained breath. Rough patch of air, he thought, and the thought was crystal-clear in his swimming head – rough flooding patch of air, my erse – and even if he knew himself paranoid, he found himself creaking back down the hall, down to the door he knew was the imbala’s. He halfway-regretted not doing it earlier.
He leaned on the doorjamb for a few seconds, pressing his palm to his forehead, catching his breath. He could feel a headache coming on; he felt like laoso. He rapped gently at the door, then called, “Ada’xa Ediwo,” soft-like, then more rough, “If you’ve a moment, Ada’xa Ediwo, a moment to…”
The words dropped off, bounced down into a chasm of silence. Tom heard nothing on the other side. His chest felt strangely tight. Nothing to be done. He shot a look back up the hall, back down it; the ship rocked, and he felt himself pushing back against the wall, felt his knees shift. He swallowed. Nothing to be done. He turned, then paused, then looked down in the dark at his feet.
He leaned there, staring, and strained his ears. Then he started in the other direction. The kitchen at the end of the hall was empty and dark; Tom could see slices of starry sky out the tiny windows, and he stopped, briefly, to stare. But then he kicked himself, and turned down a side door on a guess, groping his way breathlessly down a twist of creaking stairs. He felt the air grow hotter on his face. The wine in his throat felt stuck; it was as if it’d congealed like blood.
It was a shuffling’d drawn his attention. Not like boots creaking confidently on the boards, or even like a man scuffling his soles and dropping clumsy-like. As he went down, he heard other sounds, too soft to’ve made their argument through the cracks between the floorboards: breathy gasps, like love or fear or pain.
Faint warm light drifted up, and Tom smelled something burnt. “What the flooding hell’s going on down here?” he snapped, just as his shoes creaked the bottom step. He squinted through the hazy dark, his pulse loud in his ears as his eyes adjusted.
