3. THREE #3
Niklaus felt like a drop of honey in a warm mouth as he lay on his back, the growing pile of dishes abandoned at his side.
His shaking fingers found their way to his emergency flask—which, admittedly, he had been using in an extracurricular manner.
He drained it. Please let this torture end quickly.
Please let the rest of the day be painless. Easy.
A shadow passed over the sands beside the tent.
“Meyernes,” a familiar voice growled, somewhere between an order and a curse. Lieutenant Baem Limtush, his late father’s once-employer.
Well, there went any chance Niklaus had at joining the clergy.
Niklaus winced. Baem Limtush was the sort of man you didn’t want to know.
If there was anything that surpassed Baem’s greed, it was his lack of empathy.
If there was anything that could soothe his temper, it was his own self-righteousness.
And yet here he stood, Lieutenant in the Red Wing for twenty years.
That went to show that a single victory, like the one he’d gained at the Battle of Casowhatan, could earn a person credibility for life.
Just as one failure would get a person ostracized indefinitely.
Niklaus scrambled to his feet. “Limtush. Always a pleasure.”
At Limtush’s side stood the most unfortunate-looking young man Niklaus had ever seen.
Thin as a twig and with a nose entirely too large for his face, the boy wore large, dark oculars, fixed adamantly on the ground.
An Azadonian. By all accounts, unusual. Nelfindar had closed its borders to Azadonia—a southern nation of cave-dwelling matriarchs—nearly a decade ago.
“How are you finding your time in the Red Wing?” Limtush’s haughty sneer did nothing to help Niklaus’s stomach.
Niklaus swayed on his feet but steadied his voice. “Well, I can’t say I love the desert, but I’m sure I’m just seeing it under adverse circumstances, when it hasn’t rained in a while.”
Limtush pinched at the bridge of his nose. “The east quarter chef has asked to be removed from assignment with you.”
Niklaus stole a glance at the boulder-chef, who coughed and looked determinedly at the griddle.
“We don’t have that kind of flexibility. I need you to get your shit together. Now. Did you know Rebethel is working like a fiend to clear your name?”
Rebethel Gorovich, daughter of Aetech’s president: the paragon of empty-headed materialism. Niklaus held up a finger. “Only because she’s legally tied to it.”
“Meanwhile, every word that comes out of your mouth is a further denouncement of it.”
Niklaus tried to ignore the pounding in his head. The full body shakes.
“I need you to dig deep and find some motivation, some stake in being here, other than taking a forging hammer to the status quo for your own amusement.”
If only he knew.
“I have a task for you. I find myself in charge of…” Limtush jerked his head towards the young Azadonian man. “Give him something to do. If that means you want to sit on your ass and order him about, I don’t care. Just keep him busy and out of trouble.”
Custodial rights were not usually punitive; Niklaus couldn’t help but wonder what the little bastard had done to make them so deserving of each other.
Then again, the lieutenant was notorious for his anti-Azadonian agenda in Seraphinden.
It was just as likely the boy’s crimes didn’t extend past breathing.
“Thedexemore,” Limtush said, averting his gaze like Azadonian might be catching, “this is Niklaus Meyernes. He’ll be ensuring your occupation for the remainder of the recruitment. I’m sure the two of you will get on fine.”
The boy’s opaque oculars fixed on Niklaus, nose twitching shrewdly.
“A pleasure,” Niklaus choked out, unsure how much longer he could remain vertical.
“And, Meyernes, I’ll need weekly accounts on him. Keep him with you at all times. Understand me? If you fail in this, I will make sure that your revoked assets are returned with only Rebethel’s name on them.”
Killing with kindness usually elicited satisfaction when things were otherwise bleak. “Clear as day.” But today he wished he had something sharper in hand. “Thanks for the opportunity to turn my life around, lieutenant. You are the embodiment of generosity.”
Limtush glowered and stomped away.
Niklaus turned to address the young man—Thedexemore—who was staring at him the way a Skywalk lady in a ballgown stared at an impending thundercloud. “Ahm… you want to scrub dishes for me?”
“No.”
Who might have guessed this would go so well? “The lieutenant just said—”
“The lieutenant just told you to give me orders. He didn’t tell me to listen.” Thedexemore’s voice was unexpectedly low and impassive. He moved to the far end of the tent and seated himself in the sand, back against the tent-pole.
Niklaus straightened and made a paltry attempt at course correction. “You seem like a fine young man. A little scrubbing builds character.” He held up a lecturing finger, which his vision multiplied as he swayed. “An easy life does not a diamond make. That takes pressure.”
“Not. A. Chance. Meyernes.”
“Ay, I’m no more enthusiastic about this than you are. I have things to do besides babysit.”
One dark eyebrow rose. “Like cause a shit-show and drink yourself to death?”
Like identify the seeds of violent revolution and surface them before they have a chance to root. Niklaus was struck by a wave of heat that might have been the desert, and might have been the withdrawal, but felt entirely related to his molars grinding. “And whatever else suits my fancy.”
“Don’t be gross.”
Out-snarked by the only person less suited to the Red Wing than Niklaus was. This day was determined to make Niklaus its fool. He ran a hand over his throbbing head. “Listen, kid. You—”
“I’m not a kid. I’m rightfully enlisted in the Red Wing. I—for one—am not on restricted access nor dishwashing duty, and I—for two—don’t take orders from you.”
“Ay, lad,” growled the chef. “Can you just grab a brush and scrub? Meyernes hasn’t done a thing all morning beyond yak and stare, and we’ve got to pack up for the march by highsun. It’ll take a fated miracle to get through it at this rate.”
Thedexemore sighed heavily, then slowly stood. “Alright.”
Unable to contain it any longer, Niklaus turned from the tent and lost the contents of his stomach over the sand. As he retched, the cook showed Thedexemore where to pull water for the washbin, where to stack the trays, and where to discard the scraps.
“Bless the Fates you’re here. I take it you know how to clean?”
“Yes, it’s no problem.” Thedexemore began clearing trays.
Niklaus collapsed on the ground next to his own mess.
“Maybe you can smack some sense into that one,” the chef grunted, cocking his head at Niklaus. “This seems to be a routine.”
Thedexemore looked pointedly away from Niklaus and took a scrub brush to something sticky. “I’m not so sure. I wouldn’t want to get my hands dirty.”