Chapter 21
Tobias
Tobias didn’t sleep that night. He’d kept his eyes trained on the hold, reaching for his sword each time someone neared it. Enzo had promised to protect Leila, but having Her out of sight left him on edge. How he could manage two days of this, he hadn’t a clue.
A man with a machete tucked into his belt hoisted up the hold’s grate and shuffled down the steps. Tobias flagged over the watchman. “What’s his business down there?”
“What does it matter to you?” the watchman said.
“My product isn’t to be meddled with, buyer’s orders.”
The watchman scoffed, then bit into a half-eaten apple. “You and your product. I’ve never seen a man so concerned over whores.”
Whores. Tobias bristled at the slur. The art of the courtesan was a respected and highly paid occupation in Thessen.
No one spoke like that where he was from, save for the occasional foreigner—and men like Flynn.
Tobias curled his hands into fists, and he could’ve sworn they were still wet with the noble’s blood, a stain that could never be washed away.
The smuggler emerged from the hold, and only then did a fraction of Tobias’s worries lift. Sighing, he leaned against the ship railing. “I fucking hate this.”
Raphael stood at his side as he had for the entirety of their journey. He gazed vacantly at the lake, uncharacteristically silent.
“Raph?”
“What?” Raphael flinched. “Yes, exactly.”
“Are you all right?”
Raphael scoffed. “Well, the last time I was surrounded by water, an enormous eel tried to eat me. But otherwise, I’m just grand.”
The labyrinth ravine bombarded Tobias’s mind, filling his thoughts with dark water and blood. “Right. That was a stupid question.” His stomach knotted. “Do you want to—?”
“Don’t,” Raphael said. “Just . . . don’t do that.”
A hard slap on the back sent Tobias lurching forward. Two meaty hands spun him around, bringing him face to face with a smuggler with bloodshot eyes and thinning brown hair. “Your turn, cunts.” His breath was pungent with the scent of liquor. “Bet on the bub.”
Tobias faltered. “Bet on the bub?”
The man gestured toward a group behind him. Smugglers of all backgrounds whooped and hollered, circling two red-faced men resting their hands on their knees.
“Thirteen’s the draw and fifteen’s the high,” he said. “Go on. What’s your call?”
Tobias stood blank-faced, eyes darting between the man in front of him and the horde paces away. What even was the bub? He opened his mouth to speak, but not a single word took form.
“Seventeen,” Raphael cut in. “Odds on the short one.”
The smuggler barked Raphael’s bet toward the group, and the two hunched men cringed in response.
Goaded by cheers, the taller of the two punched his opponent in the groin four times, sending him gagging and buckling forward.
The onlookers laughed and jeered at the dry-heaving man, but after some time he straightened himself, pain etched across his face.
He wound up his fist and returned the favor, punching the taller man in the cock just twice before he was on his knees retching.
The crowd roared, tossing coin at the shorter man that he pocketed eagerly.
“Look at that, we’ve got a natural!” The smuggler at Tobias’s side wrapped an arm around Raphael and gave him a too-firm squeeze.
“Short man, short cock.” Raphael shrugged. “Must be at least a modicum less painful. I wouldn’t know, myself.”
The smuggler guffawed, handing over a coin purse before returning to the most bizarre game Tobias had ever witnessed. As Raphael counted his winnings, Tobias eyed him up and down. “What was that?”
“That was blending in,” Raphael said.
The crowd lifted the winning bub onto their shoulders as he cupped his balls, a pained grimace plastered across his face. “Is this how we’re to spend our time?” Tobias asked. “Watching criminals punch each other in the cock?”
Raphael let out a long breath. “Two days. We can manage.”
His melancholic gaze drifted back to the lake. The last time Tobias had been so close to him, they’d sat on the palace steps, sharing secrets that could’ve gotten them killed—and nearly did. That moment might as well have been a lifetime ago, but Raphael’s far-off stare remained the same.
“How’s your brother?”
“What?” Raphael spun toward Tobias, eyes narrowed. “Why would you ask that?”
“I assume that’s where you learned all of this. Unless the archives have a wing devoted to the gambling habits of smugglers.”
Raphael went quiet for a long while, his frame slowly loosening. Their conversation from the palace steps was ingrained in Tobias’s mind—how Raphael had entered the tournament solely for the benefit of his degenerate brother, just as Tobias had done for Naomi.
A flicker of a smile crossed Raphael’s lips. “My brother traveled with all kinds of seedy sorts. He would’ve been perfect for this mission.”
“Is he well?” Tobias said.
Raphael’s shoulders stiffened, and he turned once more toward the water. “He’s dead.”
The words hit Tobias like a fist. “Raph . . . God, I’m so—”
“Why are you angry with your mother?” Raphael interjected.
A part of Tobias wanted to pry, but based on Raphael’s eagerness to change the subject, he thought better of it. “Was it that obvious?”
“It was extremely uncomfortable.”
Sighing, Tobias rested his elbows on the ship railing, joining Raphael in his lake-gazing. “She doesn’t like Leila.”
“Really? Why? Leila’s intelligent, She’s resourceful, She’s lovely when She isn’t in a mood.”
Tobias ground his teeth. “She thinks Leila turned me into a killer.”
“Oh. Hm.” Raphael wrinkled his nose. “Well, she does have a point.”
“She does not have a point. We’re trying to prevent the destruction of our realm.”
“Trust me, I understand completely,” Raphael said. “Your mother will see logic eventually. Besides, hating Leila is essentially sacrilege, so if reason doesn’t catch up with her, duty will.”
“Bitches!”
A rotund man wedged himself between Raphael and Tobias, wrapping his arms around their shoulders. He laughed heartily, his voice gravelly and thick. “Beautiful boy bitches. Welcome to The Oyster’s Tits, our vessel of sin and debauchery. We aim to corrupt you yet.”
Tobias frowned, crammed against the man’s sweaty tunic. “Corrupt us? We’ve been in this line of work for ages.”
“Fuck off. You’re five years old.” The smuggler pinched Tobias’s cheek like a doting grandmother. “Look at this mug. A mere babe fresh from the womb.” He turned toward the deck. “Men, help me welcome these cock stains!”
Cheers erupted from a group of smugglers a fair distance away.
Before Tobias or Raphael could protest, the man pushed them toward the throng, forcing their compliance.
The others were in varied states of rest, sitting atop wooden barrels as they chugged liquor and snacked on something from burlap purses.
Tobias’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten in hours, and as if reading his thoughts, a smuggler tossed two purses his and Raphael’s way.
Tobias pulled the drawstring, then stopped short.
Dried leaves. Was this to be their sustenance?
Raphael was already mirroring the others, so Tobias followed suit, taking a bite of a pitiful frond and grimacing over its acidic flavor. Food fit for horses.
“This here is my crew.” The large man gestured toward four smugglers open-mouth chewing their paltry meal. “Been sailing together for north of twenty years, I’d say.”
“Next to Kareem’s big mouth and bigger ass, it feels like longer,” one of them said, sparking an uproar.
The smuggler named Kareem feigned to slug him, then barked out a laugh.
His deeply cut tunic clung to his round form, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing light brown skin covered in black hair.
A faded blue turban wrapped his head, and three fingers on his left hand were mere stumps ending at the first knuckle.
“That’s Dutch over there.” Kareem flicked a dismissive wrist toward a muscled man with brownish-blond hair tied into a low ponytail. “Mainly deals in potions and elixirs—”
“I do it all,” Dutch said.
“You do it all to right shit, but your potion deals aren’t half bad.”
The entire group howled over Kareem’s joke, even Dutch, his freckled nose wrinkling as he slapped his knee. A scar ran down his cheek and split through his upper lip like a canyon forged through his pinkish flesh.
Kareem gestured across from him. “And this ugly wretch is Mal, our resident pisspot with the same rank smell.”
“Don’t test him, Kareem,” another smuggler added. “You’ll lose more than your fingers.”
The men whooped and snickered at Kareem’s expense, who waved them away. “I’m yanking his cock. You won’t find a better witch hunter in all the ally realms.”
Mal said nothing, grinding a leaf between his teeth.
Shoulder-length brown hair fell in greasy tangles down his face, and though he wasn’t particularly large or well-built, the glare behind his dark eyes and the scars crisscrossing his bronze flesh reminded Tobias of an enemy forever seared into his mind.
“And you are?” Mal said.
Tobias popped a leaf into his mouth, looking Mal hard in the eyes. “None of your concern.”
Kareem guffawed. “The babes are scared. Quivering in their dainty sandals.”
“We take caution in our line of work.” Raphael cocked his head at Kareem’s stumpy fingers. “Seems you’d be wise to do the same.”
The group erupted into laughter, save for Mal, who kept his attention on Tobias. “You trade in Ethyua?”
“For some time now,” Tobias said. “But the borders—”
“We know all about the borders.” Mal leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Won’t be much better where we’re headed, I’m afraid.”
Tobias glanced at Raphael only to be met by an equally confused expression.
“You haven’t heard?” Mal said. “Thessian soldiers are en route to Trogolia as we speak.” He smirked. “They’re searching for their Savior and Her precious Artist.”