da’na,” he started, then hesitated.
It was colder even than last week. Achtus was whispering its cold breath against the back of Vienda’s neck, and Tom could feel it in every bone.
Winter in Vienda, untempered by the salt-sea breeze, by the call of the gulls. He had come to know it, the creeping chill not quite driven off by the hearth; the damp, clinging phlegm of it. The stuffy, almost-too-hot tomb of Stainthorpe, holding in its breath while councilmen and their staff bustled round inside, red-nosed and sniffling over their papers.
The chill breeze that wisped round inside a carriage. His second winter as Vauquelin. So much’d changed since last Achtus, it made his head spin. If he thought too hard on it, it’d eat him alive. Back then, the thought of taking a private carriage anywhere would’ve baffled him; now, it’d become commonplace.
He’d dared to brush the drapes aside and peer out, just to see the last of Uptown rattling by. To the tiny dock in Jeddering Gate, then up the tributary that ran through Uptown, to the river. To the Dives by the Arova, this time, quiet and wreathed in mist.
The street-lamps were still on, and would be for some time, spilling cold light; the rolling fog was edged with their phosphor blue. You could barely see the other side of the street, a row of dark shopfronts, brightly-painted awnings and shutters and signs leached of color by the rolling fog.
They were all closed, this early, this far Uptown. They hadn’t passed any other carriages on the broad-paved streets, and pedestrians were few. Just a handful of chimney-sweeps, little shapes darting to and fro.
A lone rider, once, bundled up on a tawny moa, headed in the direction of Ro Hill with bulging panniers. He’d caught his eye, inclining his head and tipping his dark hat.
Something about it had troubled Tom. He’d kept searching the quiet streets, just for a few more moments. The chill prickled in his cheeks, numbed his nose; he could feel it even through the thick black leather and fleece lining of his gloves. His hands ached.
He had let the drapes fall back into place, settling back against the cushions.
His second winter in Vienda; subprefect Nkemi pezre Nkese’s first winter, he thought, in Anaxas. He wondered what she’d make of the winter cold, when it finally hit, with the gutters frozen solid. He wondered what she’d made of ice on the river; he didn’t think the Turga ever froze.
He kept his eyes on the stirring drapes, but he could see her in the corner of his eye, sitting bundled in the seat across.
He itched to reach up and touch his throat, through his thick wool scarf, through his gloves. It still ached, but not so much as it had.
A week ago, he’d’ve searched the shadows underneath the rider’s hat for the glitter of his eyes; he’d’ve asked himself tirelessly where he was going, and why he had looked, and why he had tipped his hat, chasing the tail of it round and round. He’d’ve searched his waistcoat for his watch, felt the empty flat pocket like a knife slid between his ribs. He’d’ve demanded to know everything that’d happened in the prefect’s stakeout, turning over each word in her soft fluid accent like a stone he was terrified to see the underside of.
He could plant his feet, now, and the rocks were not so slippery. He could let the past slide away. He’s headed toward the courts, he could think, or Addington Hall, and let go of it; let it slide away, a dark shape disappearing into the mist.
And if the watch slid away into the mist, with it – he wouldn’t stop looking, but that would sink to the riverbed, too.
He’d been quiet since the empty street corner in Bellington where Nkemi had joined him. His caprise had been warm; it was warm even now, belike and unlike mona mingling, curious and free.
He felt free and warm; he felt closed and cold. He felt the prickle of dread, making all his hairs stand on end.
I want to understand, she’d said, and he had given her poetry. It was all an honest man could’ve given: the truth of his heart, he supposed.
“If a man,” he went on, then hesitated.
He still remembered her thanks, even for all he could not give her. For one thing, at least, she had never asked, though she had slid quietly away from sir and into a place that had been comfortable for him – comfortably ambiguous, and faceless – and a little sad.
“If a man wishes to be honest.” His low voice was soft, much smoother than it’d been last week. “If his name doesn’t feel like his, anymore.” If none of them do, he thought wistfully. “If he asks someone else to call him by it, even though it surprises him to hear it – is this – honorable?”