1. Return to Kirinoll #2
It was more likely that the Advocate was a fanciful construct, but Rerdas didn’t say it. He was grateful for anything, imaginary or otherwise, that brought Imalroc back to Inofar with him.
Cheek still resting on Imalroc’s shoulder, he traced his fingertips along Imalroc’s jaw and up his hollow cheek. He thought of the room in Draal, of Imalroc’s fist clenched in his hair.
The battleboxer angled toward him, drawing him closer.
Rerdas leaned in, lips parting in anticipation.
Newly kindled desire warmed him like sunlight, spreading through his limbs.
He closed his eyes, and the world slowed to the even pace of Imalroc’s breath.
The warm hand that cupped his chin. The thumb sweeping across his tingling mouth, back and forth.
Everything else retreated, and the darkness, the stillness, was not so bad with Imalroc in it.
It was such a relief to be unable to hold any other thought but wanting him.
Neither of them moved. They stayed like that, the promise of a kiss shivering between them in what short night was left before dawn lit the way onward.
***
The rest of the journey offered no dark and quiet spaces where time trickled and slowed. Rerdas almost wished to return to the stable, or better yet, the privacy of the room in Draal. But they needed him at home, and he was nearly there.
When they finally passed into Kirinoll’s market district amid the rumbling wagons of the caravan, he was almost spent and dizzy from lack of proper sleep. His back throbbed from the days on horseback.
The long journey must have been worse for Imalroc, unaccustomed as he was to riding.
But if the battleboxer was in any pain, he confessed nothing and went on without complaint.
Rerdas stopped making concerned noises about it at some point.
There wasn’t anything he could do to ease whatever Imalroc might be feeling, anyway.
They were both too tired to manage much more than plodding in the right direction.
On unsteady feet, Rerdas veered through throngs of people, making for the well-worn cobblestones of the West Outer Ring.
He was dimly aware of passersby bumping his shoulders, the shouts of vendors hawking their wares, the babble of indistinct conversations bouncing off the stone edifices of the administrative buildings that lined the broad street.
It was chaotic enough that he didn’t realize the crowd was scrambling off the road until open air abruptly encircled him. And then hooves rang out behind him.
“Oy! You in the green cloak! Stop and stand.” The order came from one of the Red Guard riding around to block his way.
Rerdas halted. He glanced nervously to his side for reassurance, but Imalroc was not there. Heart in his throat, he spun and found the battleboxer standing directly behind him. Something was wrong. Imalroc’s head hung, his shoulders pulled inward, expression hidden beneath the hood of his cloak.
“What the fuck are you doing?” snarled the first guard. There were two others with her, both peering at Imalroc. The one who had called out leapt off her horse.
Shit. She’d spotted the Draalish sword hooked over Imalroc’s shoulder.
Rerdas attempted a smile. “I—”
“That’s a battleboxer you’re skipping about with, yes?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“It’s wearing a sword. You think it safe to arm one of those things?”
“Of course! He’s.. he’s”—Rerdas found the word caught in his throat and forced it out hoarsely—“broken. Perfectly safe.”
“Still against the law, friend,” a second guard said. He cocked his head. “The houses always need fresh blood, and we’re not against country folk bringing in new ones, but you’ve got to follow the rules. For everyone’s safety.”
“Understandably.” He was suddenly aware of the dirt crusting his clothes and face, his hair unkempt and wild. They didn’t know he was noble-born.
“What’ve you got there?” The man swung down from his own horse. The third guard did the same; all three marched far too close.
Rerdas’s protest came too late. The man reached out and tugged the cloak off Imalroc’s head. Recognition and shock rippled across the three guards.
“Holy blessed Eternals, that’s—”
“Get on your fucking knees!” roared the female guard, her shortsword a hand’s breadth from Imalroc’s chin.
Rerdas’s heart thudded in his ears. Imalroc sank obediently to the ground.
“Stand away from the battleboxer!” Her eyes darted toward Rerdas.
“He’s not a threat. I swear. I’m his handler—”
“Away!” This time the gleaming sword-edge flashed beneath Rerdas’s nose.
“Alright, alright. Calm down!”
“Don’t tell us to calm, you sneak. You’re sure as shit not this one’s handler. Where are you from? You taking the champion south? You’re one of the freedom traders?” the second guard demanded.
A crowd gathered in a wide circle around them, torn between staying far enough back that they could run, but wanting to see. One of the guard’s arms trembled.
Rerdas groped for the way out. He could practically feel everyone around him tallying the odds of Imalroc versus three of the Red Guard.
And he knew what they all knew. If Imalroc went for the sword, the guards did not stand a chance.
The coming violence hung heavy in the air like gathering thunderheads.
Imalroc was on his knees, but his spine was rigid, his hands clenched.
“You! Sound a horn!” the female guard barked at a bystander. A girl ducked into the nearest pub and emerged with a curving white-metal horn.
A mournful call rose, echoing off the buildings.
Every guard in the area would come. Rerdas’s sluggish mind had yet to supply a plan.
He might be able to convince them of who he was eventually, but if they searched him...
The tiny packet on his chest containing the purging tonic ingredients felt like an anchor tied to his neck.
“Rerdas?” called a disbelieving voice.
The crowd dove away from the enormous wheels of a tasseled hansom and the snorting horse who towed it. Rerdas stared up at the man enthroned in the ornate leather seat. The Duke of Umber gazed back at him with a bemused expression.
“Your Grace, keep your distance, please!” cried a guard.
Umber did not stop his climb out of the hansom. He strode forward and stood beside Rerdas. “Don’t be silly. Master Toriem is the fighter’s handler. He has control,” he said.
The guards’ attention twitched between the duke, Rerdas, and Imalroc still poised on the ground.
“I tried to tell them.” Rerdas hauled his shoulders back and attempted the casual annoyance of a young lord.
He was so tired, he was afraid he sounded drunk.
Although that might not be entirely out of character for a young lord either.
Maybe he should pretend to be drunker. He certainly felt like vomiting.
“I’m sure they didn’t recognize you. You are, ah”—Umber arched an eyebrow, taking in Rerdas’s appearance—“not exactly looking like yourself.”
“Your Grace…” the male guard squeaked, “I’m afraid we cannot allow... He let the fighter have a sword, for sake of the Eternals!”
“That can be remedied. Rerdas?” Umber turned to him.
The exchange bought Rerdas a moment to collect his misplaced wits. “Yes. Imalroc, take off the sword, pl—” He stopped himself just in time. Orders, not requests. They were back in Inofar.
Imalroc swiftly unbuckled the strap that held the scabbard in place and offered it, his gaze pointed down at Rerdas’s boots.
Rerdas wasn’t prepared for the awful swell of guilt. Imalroc couldn’t look at him; they had to keep this farce intact if they were to stay safe, but seeing him even pretend to be defeated felt like being punched in the gut.
He faced the guards. “Good enough?” he snapped.
The female guard’s expression was stony. “We can allow just a warning for now... sir,” she said, “but we can’t overlook something like this again.”
“Of course. My apologies for such thoughtlessness.”
“Good!” Umber clapped his hands. “Let’s all be on our way! I will escort you.” He looped an arm through Rerdas’s and snapped his fingers without looking at Imalroc, signaling with his bejeweled forefinger where the battleboxer might walk.
Rerdas barely kept from glaring at the duke. Imalroc shouldn’t have to suffer orders from Umber on top of everything else. But the absurdity of his protest withered almost as quickly as it took shape in his mind. Everything in Inofar, save the royal family, was at the duke’s command.
Imalroc rose and fell into position behind Rerdas like a ghostly shadow.
They formed a strange procession, with Rerdas and the duke strolling as if they walked Marasette’s private gardens, Imalroc trailing at their heels, and Umber’s driver keeping the hansom cab rumbling in their wake.
No one came close enough to bump into him anymore.
It occurred to him it wasn’t a good sign that Umber had not enthusiastically insisted he ride up in the hansom with him.
The duke’s intervention had saved him, but it wasn’t as warm a reception as he might have expected if Umber was still thoroughly enamored with him.
He couldn’t afford to lose the duke’s favor. Not yet.
“Thank you,” Rerdas whispered as soon as he could relax his jaw enough to speak.
“It’s nothing. I’m just glad that I happened upon you. Although, really, that’s a careless mistake. I know you feel quite safe with it”—Umber jerked his head back toward the battleboxer—“but you really must take precautions. Even tame dogs will bite.”
“Right,” Rerdas mumbled.
“Where have you been, Rerdas?” His arm around Rerdas’s was suddenly oppressive.
“North, for necessary travel. I missed you.”
Umber glanced over at him. “You’re not to do that again. You left me without entertainment.” He said it with a smile, but it didn’t entirely hide the annoyance beneath.
Rerdas did what he knew Umber wanted and looked at him with beseeching eyes. If the duke wanted him anxious to please, raw nerves could pass well enough for that. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’d rather not be parted from you, of course, but—”