Excerpt: A Smart Little Fool
Sevika and Silco share a meal.
From 'both sides of the moon,' a oneshot exploring Silco and Sevika's relationship through a series of business ventures.
Full story on AO3
She isn't a mistress to be toted at his arm, even in the weeks business demands them to walk stride-for-stride: their city's Eye and Teeth, dagger and shield, blood-peppered and glistening and crowds carved in their wake.
Other men may have tried. Worn her strength off the crooks of their elbows, like a weapon flashed in the face of more foolish eyes. Seen her companionship as a blessed respite from it all, and let their treatments of her unfold into gauzier territories.
She'd snap their wrists, before they even dared.
There's nothing she so despises as pampering. Kindreds forbid any man get in her way, try to sweeten her up like some solstice water-pig, and dream of walking free with his head still attached.
As such, his versions come passively.
On a given day, it's in the form of extra coin—an unspoken gratitude for the disposals she ensures, the weaklings she delegates, the wreckage she suffers by the day under the brat he hasn't yet the nerve to call his own.
(His ward, his foundling, the youngest in his care—those titles, he throws about freely. Never daughter.)
She may have tried to pick through the layers of that—unravel the threads of his insistence on keeping all things at arm's length, even the girl he himself had carried back from the fires—had housed and clothed and armed and cared for, of his own will—if the sentiment, strangely, didn't seem to resonate.
The little sprite can't string together any paternal words, in his company. Not Father, not Dad—not even Sir, as Sevika's own cracked cattleprod of a sire had insisted upon. But she gravitates to him, like a moth to a flame. Stays sewn at his hip, now, more days that not—even more than Sevika, herself.
A part of her will not chew on the threat that sits in that. In the reality of a child placed above her, in the seat of his succession.
But the threat is there—and Silco knows it.
He observes, as equally as he is observed by her.
The coin and speciality shipments and allowances for more evenings than she needs run deeper than gratitudes—a sign that he's routed every inch of her doubts, before she's even let herself crack open the lid of them; that he will squash them where they lay, before they grow four limbs and crawl.
The rarest of his privileges is a meal.
Some nights, they're given in white-tableclothed businesses of his own, surrounded by up-and-coming Zaunite work-classes and dinners expensive enough to strip common-folk of their month's salary. Others, in the Drop's back kitchen, bowed about the heads of a hand-selected few.
The old pub had been a headquarters, before—and had since blossomed beneath his hand, to become one, again. History bled through the cracks in the walls: a place surrounded by myth. Revolutionaries had plotted war and reparation for two decades, in the Drop's mildewing cellars—revolutionaries and unionists and a Hound and a Bloodshark, freeing laborers and leading surges of protests, taking their city by the horns.
Times had changed.
The Hound was dead, now; the Shark still living—standing at the head of his table, surrounded by the knights of his keep, in a long sweep of black and red and a cigarette at his fingers: pouring out short-glasses of whisky and gin and stories few could claim the privilege to hear.
Tonight, though, the meal isn't around the war table.
They sit in one of their six main Sumpside fronts: a blue-walled, low-lit monstrosity of posters and portraits, clustered around a catacomb of varnish. It's the newest of his ventures. Among other social frivolities, the Siren boasts smuggled cross-river fare and live folk-players, and deals backhanded trades of shimmer from the storerooms.
On a better day, Sevika may have been more mindful of the gesture—may have found herself more appreciative of the steaming plate slid before her—if that blue-headed spitfire wasn't ticking the silence to a metallurgy seminar.
At his side, Jinx sits in a self-sewn patchwork of purples and blacks: finger-sheared gloves and striped stockings and hacked off assortments of fabric, all cross-hatched together in bright thread. A fork jitters in her knobby fingers, the skin stained with soot. She prods at her food, like it's waiting to bite back at her.
Those storm-blue eyes leap across the table, catch Sevika's own, and glare. In tandem, the two of them make an educated choice to look elsewhere.
A glass of scotch lazes between long fingers.
Half-mindedly, Sevika follows the sharp cut of his ice as it clatters around the crystal. He's slouched back in his seat, one arm hooked over the cushion's spine. He favors corner booths like this one: clear vantage points across his constituents, tucked away from prying eyes.
Subconsciously or not, she mirrors him. Plucks up her pint by the rim and swigs it. Sees the spearhead of his conversation coming, before it's thrown.
"Your meeting with Ilanna." Order, more than inquiry.
Sevika scowls. "As we expected." The young heiress had made a mess of her evening, in no small part for her under-table dealings with Finn. They'd had an eye on her, for weeks—waiting, inevitably, for the ball to drop. "Has the worm wrapped around her little finger."
His eyes lift. Teal skewing blue, in the room's light: a scepter forged in jade and moonstone. The lamps play a trick on the ink-smear of his dead iris, as though the thing was still living—golden, instead of bloody tones.
Silco sips down his liquor, clean as water. Mulls over the glass, "And what do you make of her?"
Sevika chews on that. Waits for him to reorient on her. He's wandering, again—plotting an unhurried assessment of the movement that unspools around the room. The lamplight cuts his profile to a hawkish point: turns the flick of his eye feline.
"She's like every damned heiress I've seen," she answers him. "Used to getting things at her beck and call." At his shoulder, the little runt fidgets with her plate. Sevika pulls her eyes away from her: cocks her brows at him, instead. "What do you?"
The scarred edge of his mouth thins. His breath portends a sermon.
"She's a smart little fool." He's fixed on the reflection that circles his liquor. The lowball finds an unhurried lay upon the varnish, tipped corner-to-corner: crystal prisming blue-gold light. "She knows what she wants—and what to play, to get it. I'll give her that."
Ire, in that admission.
For a man housed on the highest rung of their city's polluted circles, it puzzles her.
She would have assumed that he, like most of the power-hungered blights she had spent her youth guarding, would drain their streets of every pretty, handsome thing in reach: would claim it all, devour it, with a vile entitlement.
For reasons she does not understand, he won't.
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