Page 9 of Inferno

“Godspeed,” she said, scowling at Nerik in a way that he knew had nothing to do with him, personally. “Back to the trenches we go.”

Back to the trenches indeed. Some days, it felt like there was nothing in Nerik’s life but the futile struggle to rescue a tiny percentage of the thousands of refugees attempting to cross the gate, and the slow trudge of time.

He let himself out of the office, wondering what was the point of all this effort, and whether any of it would ever change.

◊ ◊ ◊

By the time Yorin closed the shop that afternoon, he was knee deep in orders. The afternoon had gone blissfully quickly, with two customers coming in for fittings. Then Fiki had come back, deciding that she did, indeed, want Yorin to make a new blue blouse for her, and Mr Ronton had admitted, shyly and hesitantly, that he’d very much like a shirt like the one Yorin was wearing, so long as Yorin helped him convince his wife that it was elegant, rather than outlandish. Yorin had solemnly promised to have a word to her, if Mr Ronton brought her into the shop, and he’d gone away after having his measurements taken, beaming from ear to ear.

Finally, as it was approaching five o’clock, Yorin had one new order for a shirt very similar to Nerik’s. “I saw that young messenger lad charging about up in the south end of town,” Yokuta had said, a man who was a little odd, to Yorin’s eyes, but pleasant enough to talk to. There was something just not quite right about his head. His eyes were a touch too far apart, his ears sitting slightly too low, and his skin colouring was too dark for him to be a native of Minia, but too much of a reddish-brown for him to have originated in Melhiti, which was the usual origin of the locals with dark skin. “I didn’t ask specifically, but I know he runs messages for you, and no one else in Minia would be so daring with colour. I simply must have one like it for myself.” Yorin had been delighted to oblige, though in the end, Yokuta had asked for the embroidery to be changed to black, rather than gold.

The late reminder of Nerik, though, had done nothing for Yorin’s peace of mind. He’d been trying hard to put Nerik’s request out of his thoughts – a task that had been helped by the influx of customers – but once he let Yokuta out of the shop and flipped the sign to ‘Closed’, a cold silence settled on the room.

It wasn’t the first time Yorin had felt alone after closing his shop. Some days, it was a relief to have some time to himself. But today was not going to be one of them.

He retreated to his kitchen, going about the methodical process of preparing a fire, firstly to cook his dinner, and secondly to heat a bucket of water to wash. The necessity of chopping vegetables and measuring beans and herbs into the pot kept his demons at bay for half an hour or so, but once that was done, the silence settled in again, deafeningly loud against a backdrop of crackling fire and simmering water.

Yorin went back into the shop, lighting three lanterns around his main work table and getting started on measuring the fabric for Yokuta’s shirt. He may as well do something useful while the stew cooked.

But barely five minutes in, he found himself sitting idly with a pair of scissors in hand, staring blankly at the wall. What on earth had he been so afraid of, that he’d turned down something he’d been longing for, for the past three years? Were local gossips really so malicious as to destroy his business because he wanted to kiss a man? He really didn’t think so. There were a couple of loud voices that would object, but the town as a whole held more people who simply couldn’t care less and would have continued buying from him regardless.

Was Nerik so cruel as to openly taunt Yorin for his lack of experience at relationships? Again, he found that hard to believe. Yorin had hardly been a suave suitor so far, and Nerik was smart enough to have realised that his potential love interest was the shy, introverted type. And yet he’d worked up the courage to ask him out anyway.

But all Yorin had was a small shop and a threadbare room above it. He didn’t have a proper house. He didn’t even have a cottage, like the one he knew Nerik lived in. Admittedly, he’d never been inside Nerik’s home, but he’d walked past it in the forest numerous times. Yorin didn’t have a wide circle of friends. He didn’t spend a lot of time in public spaces, like the pub or the Sunday theatre. He attended the festivals at the end of each cycle of the gate, but didn’t stay late to indulge in too much drink. What on earth did someone like Nerik see in him?

Nerik was probably at the pub already, chatting and laughing with a bunch of friends. Yorin knew which pub he’d be at, and somehow that fact made him feel even worse. Nerik’s favourite pub was the White Hare, two streets over from Yorin’s shop. Yorin wasn’t entirely sure when or how he’d learned that snippet of information, but if nothing else, it made the point that Nerik was the sort of person who had a favourite pub, while Yorin was the sort of person who sat at home and sewed clothing of an evening, perfectly content to obsess over symmetrical stitches and neat hem lines.

Why had Nerik asked him out? The more Yorin thought about it, the more the sinking feeling in his chest solidified. This wasn’t some spur of the moment impulse. Nerik knew exactly who Yorin was. He’d been flirting with him for years. He’d tried a dozen different ways to get Yorin’s attention, Yorin admitted in hindsight, though he’d been all too ready to dismiss Nerik’s efforts at the time. So, for all that it made little sense to him, the only conclusion that he could reach was that Nerik actually liked him.

And he’d turned the man down. Gods above, he could be an idiot sometimes.

Though Yorin hadn’t been inside a pub in years, he could somehow picture the evening in perfect detail. Nerik would be sitting at one of the long, wooden tables, beer in hand, his blue eyes sparkling in the lamp light while he laughed at some joke or other. He’d flirt with the waitress – harmless and light-hearted – and then argue with someone else about whether the apple pie or the blackberry pie was better. He’d be at ease, happy, relaxed, if perhaps a little wistful about not having quite the company that he’d desired for the evening…

And suddenly, Yorin wanted nothing more than to be there with him. Yes, he would feel awkward. Yes, he would laugh at the wrong moment or fail to understand a joke. But he would be there, out in the world, doing something with his life more interesting than categorising his sewing needles and pondering which exact shade of blue thread he should use.

But… But hecouldbe there, Yorin suddenly realised. Yes, he’d turned Nerik down, but it couldn’t be too hard to find him in a pub where there were likely only fifty people at the very most. And he could apologise for saying no and ask for another chance…

Yorin leapt up off his stool, setting the scissors down carefully, so as not to damage anything. He dashed into the kitchen and took the slowly bubbling stew off the fire, setting the pot aside, though he left the boiler heating for his bath. One way or another, he was going to want a warm wash tonight.

The shirt he was wearing was not suitable for a night in the pub, he decided an instant later, and ran up the stairs to find a better one. Or, to be more exact, a worse one. Something more casual. Something that would blend in more with a crowd of labourers and shopkeepers making an easy night of things. A pale blue shirt was the first even remotely suitable thing to land in his hand, so he stripped off his current one and slid into that instead, not even bothering to hang the charcoal shirt up again.

The night was warm, so he didn’t bother with a coat, slipping the shop keys into his pocket and clipping his coin purse to his belt. Then it was down the stairs and out into the night.

It took only a couple of minutes to walk the distance to the pub. But when he got there, the reality of what he was doing hit him, and he faltered for a moment. Where exactly was he likely to find Nerik?

He checked on the veranda, where old, gnarled men were drinking beer and smoking pipes. Nope, not there. He went inside and checked the long tables up the centre of the room where patrons were eating bowls of stew and plates of roast vegetables. No Nerik, nor was he at any of the tables were the younger crowd were sipping wine and chatting as if their trip to the barber’s or the cobbler’s was the most exciting thing in the world.

In the end, Yorin made his way to the bar and flagged down the bartender, a middle aged man with a huge belly.

“Yorin!” Brass greeted him, all smiles and booming voice. “I haven’t seen you in here in ages! Good to see you’re still kicking around!”

“I’ll admit, it’s been a while,” Yorin said. He didn’t think he’d actually been in here since he’d turned eighteen and Mr Fensworth had insisted on buying him his first proper drink as an adult. But he wasn’t going to say as much to Brass. “I was actually looking for Nerik. He mentioned he might be here this evening.” Yorin deliberately didn’t say in what capacity Nerik had intended to be here. He didn’t need to go about starting rumours about himself.

But Brass frowned, his jowls sagging as he shook his head. “Nah, haven’t seen the lad all day. He must have got caught up with a late delivery, or some such thing.”

“Right. Of course. Not a problem, then. Thanks for your help.” Yorin headed for the exit, letting himself out of the pub as quickly as possible. He put his head down and put one foot in front of the other, until he was back in front of his shop. And then he managed to get inside and lock the door before the full weight of his disappointment hit home.

Nerik wasn’t at the pub. There was to be no second chance, no hope for an evening spent in company, rather than in the sad loneliness of his workroom.