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Ilya throws open the door with a flourish. “Here we are. The Rowdy Raven. Stays true to its name after dark, but we should be able to find a cozy spot—ah, there.”
Ilya’s arm across his shoulders makes Asra bristle; he has half a mind to go in the opposite direction that Ilya is guiding him, just to be contrary. But when he scopes it out, there’s not much future to it. Too many strangers cluster throughout the room, ranging from burly types fresh from the port to old people playing cards. As a child Asra would weave in and out of market-goers’ legs, avoiding snatching hands while Muriel found some way around, and he’s become used to crowds paying him too much mind. This crowd isn’t, other than a few curious looks at the colorfully dressed stranger Ilya has brought with him, but it’s hard to relax.
Besides, Faust is at the palace with their friend (and she would tell him if something happened to them, he reminds himself yet again), and he misses the pressure around his shoulders. He tries not to think about how he leans into Ilya, though Ilya’s probably overthinking it.
Ilya finds a private booth and settles across the table from him. “How’s that?” Ilya asks. “Too rowdy?”
Nothing resembling a fight has broken out. In the opposite corner, someone plays an accordion, enough background noise to make the other tavern goers’ chatter blend together. “Nah.”
As if summoned by the tavern’s name, Ilya’s raven swoops in through the window and circles before perching in the rafters. Ilya gives his familiar a relieved glance. While they drink, he points out the regulars. It’s strange how after all this time, Asra can fall back into this—looking over his drink while Ilya almost knocks over his own with wild gestures, the fire lighting his jaw and flopping hair like he can catch and hold its sparks. He tells a story about he got dragged into a heist while bandaging a rogue’s arm, and Asra’s lips travel unbidden into a smile and stay there, comfortable enough to make Asra wary.
What makes you think this time will be different? The thought coils around his mind, constricting it until he can barely hear. He escapes it by imagining what the landscape in his personal gate looks like right now. In the evenings the sky turns from pink to purple, and the last time he went the constellations were...
“Am I boring you?” Ilya asks. He’s leaning forward, making Asra realize his own gaze is unfocused. “I promise better company will join soon.”
“Tell me about your friend,” Asra says, forcing his face to lighten.
“You’ll like her. Doesn’t miss a beat, that one. Might see through even you. She should be here any—ah! Back in a jiffy.” Ilya leaps to his feet and meets his friend at the door with a kiss to either cheek. As amusing as it is to see him escorting someone so short, Asra knows better than to underestimate her. She finds him with sharp and curious eyes.
“Asra, my dear friend Mazelinka. Mazelinka, my—my, ah...”
“Asra,” he says. Mazelinka reaches out a hand, which he takes. Her other hand clasps his as if in a leathery sandwich. It gives him an odd feeling, a warmth that makes him want to either run or never leave.
“Always a pleasure to meet a friend of Ilya’s.”
“Oh? Have you met many?” He casts Ilya an amused look that seems to startle him.
“Oh, yes,” Mazelinka says. “He’s always introducing me to the ladies that frequent this place. Thinks I need a new wife.” She waves in the direction of one of the card games, and a couple of elderly women lean to wave back.
Ilya takes Mazelinka’s coat. “I’m only saying, it’s been a long time of living alone, and you deserve every happiness—”
“He fusses,” she confides.
“Have a drink,” Asra says.
He’s glad not to be the shortest person at the table, but he’s not sure if he’s glad she sits across from him, taking up the rest of the bench with her bag. Ilya scoots in beside him, his wide shoulders boxing in Asra, whose own bag ends up on his lap. Silently Asra holds and releases a breath until he feels a thin bubble around him.
Before he can lose his nerve, Asra fishes in his bag for a bundle of herbs and pushes them across the table. “Ilya thought you might use these.”
Mazelinka inspects them carefully. “You either travelled far or paid a small fortune.” Asra’s hands twist together behind his bag, but he only gives her a mysterious smile. “Thank you,” she says. “If I’d been in my right mind I would have brought you some eggs.” She pulls out a deck of playing cards and begins shuffling it with practiced hands. “If you don’t mind a game instead? There’s no better way to get to know a person.”
“I don’t mind. But you have to tell me that’s how you met Ilya.”
“In this very tavern. He almost had me with a lucky draw, but he threw the game.”
Asra snorts. “Of course.”
“Then she learned what a gentleman I was,” Ilya cuts in. Mazelinka gives him a pointed look.
“Then I learned you were a fool, and someone needed to look after you.”
Ilya flushes. Asra laughs.
Before they can establish rules, Asra gets a thought and takes the deck, spreading it out. “Pick one,” he says. Clearly wise to him, she nevertheless does. He shuffles the deck and holds up a card. “Is this it?”
“You know it’s not.”
“Ah, my mistake!” Asra reaches behind a bemused Ilya’s ear and pulls out the right card, which he presents to Mazelinka. “There we go.”
“A parlor trick. I can tell you’ve more magic in you than that,” Mazelinka says, but the skin around her eyes crinkles.
“You can tell?” Ilya asks, startled. Asra can tell, too—what few plants grow in cracks in the nearby alley are calling to Mazelinka. He doubts Ilya knows, or wants to know. But the magic in Asra’s tarot deck is more familiar than anything else in the room, so he reaches for it.
“In that case, can I interest you in my style of cards?” Asra asks, holding up the deck with a flick of his wrist. With it in his hands, he feels more in control. What reason does he have to feel small in a tavern crowd, or even next to Ilya?
“My dear,” Ilya starts.
“My name is Asra.” It comes out on instinct, sharpened by the magic jumping from the deck to encircle his wrist. As if sensing that, Ilya winces.
“I, er, was talking to Mazelinka. I was going to say, if she doesn’t think this is the time...”
“Oh.” Asra’s ears flame, and he shoves the deck back in the bag. “Maybe later.”
“It would be a treat,” Mazelinka says. “But if you’d like to know anything, you can ask me directly.”
Breathe in. Hold. Out. He picks up his drink and smiles at Mazelinka. “So, what’s the most embarrassing thing Ilya has ever done?”
Despite Asra’s worries, when they part at the door, Mazelinka clasps his hands long enough for him to feel her knots. “Take care, dearie—Asra.”
“You should stop by the shop sometime. Friends get discounts,” he says like he doesn’t make up that stuff on the spot.
“It will be my pleasure.”
“Let me walk you home, Mazelinka,” Ilya says, starting forward, but she pats his arm.
“I walk this route all the time. Stay with your friend.”
Asra senses the protections around her and holds Ilya’s wrist while she hobbles away, her shawl shaping her into a round silhouette.
Ilya runs a hand through his hair. “That went remarkably smoothly.”
“Did you not expect it to?”
“No, I mean—I never expect things to, no.” Ilya exhales, then brings back his smile. “She likes you, you know.”
“Good. I like her, too. She’s welcoming,” Asra says, placing the odd feeling he had at the beginning. There are few people he’s felt that with, and he’s always kept them close, or tried to.
With a bittersweet pang he studies Ilya, who moths are keeping company this close to the lamplight. They scatter when the raven flaps out of the tavern. He touches on Ilya’s shoulder before disappearing into the night, and Ilya looks at ease in a way that makes Asra settle.
As he turns to Asra, clear worry breaks the effect. “About earlier… Did, ah, would my calling you dear really bother you?”
“Nah.”
Ilya sucks in a breath. “I don’t have to, we don’t have to—”
“It’s fine, Ilya. It’s just not my name.” Asra scuffs a foot on the ground. His voice comes from another time, another, more vulnerable person. “I picked it myself.”
“Oh.” Ilya exhales. “It’s beautiful.”
Asra shakes off thoughts of childhood, of struggling to find a place. “That wasn’t too rowdy,” he says, and Ilya gives him a rakish grin.
“The night’s still young. What do you say to heading back in for a little dancing before we part ways?”
“Sounds fun,” Asra says, casual as he takes the hand Ilya offers, though he’s finding he’d rather not part ways at all.