11. The Rain Garden #3
They strolled away from the stall, drifting from the food and into other corridors.
The market was full of beautiful things.
Surreptitiously, he dragged a palm over an enormous blanket, so soft his fingers sank deep without effort.
Rerdas lingered at an apothecary booth, apparently just as enthusiastic about dried plants as he was about live ones.
Imalroc took the opportunity to watch him, the way his green eyes glimmered bright beneath the stall’s lanterns, his mouth soft and mobile, lip caught beneath his teeth.
A warm hum built beneath his breastbone. They walked on; they talked, in quick words and slower glances. They drained the cups, returned them for a token they spent on a packet of warm, flaky rounds dusted with sugar.
Imalroc’s shoulders loosened. He felt… good.
Almost too relaxed. He found a spot to prop his back against the wall and watch the cheerful pantomimes unfolding at each stall.
Rerdas, just in front of him, took a step back to get out of someone’s way, and Imalroc caught his hip, pulling him close until they were locked together.
Rerdas leaned against him with a faint, contented sigh. The long line of the huntmaster’s body pressed warm and tight down Imalroc’s front, curls tickling his cheek.
It felt like he’d escaped the cage of his skin.
Here, in the wavering shadows at the edge of the torchlight, he could pretend he was someone different.
He was a traveler come to Kibo, wandering a famed bazaar, resting for a moment with the man he fancied propped easily in his arms. Everyone could see him, and no one looked twice.
And there was the physical pleasure of it, too.
Gods, Rerdas was gorgeous. Imalroc was going to end up in a predicament if he let his thoughts linger too much on the firm curve of Rerdas’s ass.
Instead, he stared down at the bend of the huntmaster’s neck, visible just above the collar of his tunic.
He watched golden skin prickle and rise in response to his breath.
He had the sense of being observed. Imalroc lifted his head and saw a woman turning toward them, gaze curious beneath her gossamer veil.
Imalroc ducked and pushed his knuckles into Rerdas’s back, trying to sound some kind of wordless alarm. She was coming right toward them.
“Sir,” the woman called as she approached. “Do you have a battleboxer with you? Is that…”
Imalroc almost snarled at her, but Rerdas shifted to block him from view.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” his huntmaster said coolly.
“Apologies.” She let out a smoky laugh. She wore bangles on her arms, just as the man from earlier did. “I am Lady Nolbrathe.” She paused, as if waiting for Rerdas to fawn.
He didn’t, much to Imalroc’s elation.
“And you are?” She seemed unperturbed by Rerdas’s rude silence.
“Master Rerdas Toriem.”
She shifted eagerly. “Then that is him. The fighter you’ve got at your heel.
I saw him once in Kirinoll. So impressive!
I regret I could not book him as your cousin requested, but I thought him too wild for our particular kind of affair.
I’m afraid I assumed the rumors of your handling skill were overblown. But you have him out in the market…”
Imalroc had his chin tucked and couldn’t see her face, but he saw the gesture she made, as if Rerdas were displaying a particularly amazing object in the bazaar. His jaw clenched.
“You’re the booker for Tamasyad?” Rerdas asked quietly.
“No, no. I am the booker for Widran. Your sweet cousin may have mentioned us?”
Imalroc didn’t recognize the name. There were smaller boxes in most cities, amateur places for people who were desperate enough to put themselves into a battleboxing contract, but those places wouldn’t have anyone with a title booking for them.
There was another awkward silence, but Lady Nolbrathe went on undeterred.
“But I suppose we aren’t your first choice.
Pity,” she said teasingly. “Widran is a rare jewel. Our patrons have particular tastes. I didn’t think your fighter would satisfy them, but perhaps I was wrong.
I’ve been hunting for a suitable replacement after a dropped booking for tomorrow’s fight. ”
“My cousin arranges our fights. I just look after Imalroc.”
“You might be interested to know that we provide the most generous winner’s purses in the city.”
It took effort to keep his head bowed and silent.
Rerdas had promised him they were close with the onyx.
This might be a chance to leap ahead far faster than any of them had expected, and if he had to fight, he wanted it to be sooner.
He’d left the agreement all three of them had signed rolled up in the interior pocket of his cloak.
One abnormally large pile of onyx, and it might be fulfilled. His pulse thumped in his head.
He’d be finished with the boxes. It could end.
“I…” Rerdas sounded as if he edged out onto a narrow beam. “I don’t think—”
Nolbrathe stepped so close she was nearly touching him. Imalroc’s gaze flew up for a moment.
She wasn’t looking at him, entirely focused on Rerdas. The booker was shorter than Rerdas by a head, and tilted her chin back to look up into his huntmaster’s face, displaying her long neck. “Can I tempt you to at least come and see it? It’s not far. Come and walk the box.”
This time, the silence was loud with Rerdas’s uncertainty.
“Allow Widran a chance to convince you itself,” the booker purred.
Imalroc slid his toe forward to touch the back of Rerdas’s boot, and the huntmaster exhaled.
“I suppose…” Rerdas said, “it couldn’t hurt to look.”