The Pirate of Fathoms Deep (18 page)

He'd grit his teeth and get through the night in the palace, then leave in the morning when he was better rested and would have the energy to travel and earn some coin. He doubted he could convince any ship to take him, but there were always merchant companies traveling the continent who would hire him on as cheap labor.

Damn it, he'd like the idea of settling down with Lesto, being his scandalous lover, becoming friends with High Consort Allen and Lord Tara.

It wasn't fair that something so hard to reach was so easily snatched away.

He'd been better off with the goats and wishful thinking.

By the time they reached the palace, his vision was blurry and every step was a little wobbly. He let the poor soldiers assigned to be his babysitters haul him through the palace to what turned out to be the healing ward. They dropped him on a cot, and moments later, Shemal was asleep.

He woke to the chatter and bustle of the healing ward, groggy and stiff, but better than he'd felt when he'd fallen asleep.

A woman in a healer's jacket stopped as she saw him. "Good morning! How are you feeling?" She walked over to him and briskly went about checking him over. "You look much better than when they brought you in. You were pretty bruised, a few cuts and scrapes, but as long as you mind those ribs, you should be fine in a few days."

"That's good hearing," Shemal managed. "Um. Has anyone been by? Is there somewhere I should be?" She shook her head, and disappointment dropped like a stone into Shemal's stomach. Part of his mind tried to point out that Treya Mencee had practically declared war on Harken, so Lesto was probably busy helping to sort out the mess.

The rest of his mind wouldn't listen, not when Lesto had been so cold and angry. Not when it was obvious Shemal had done something wrong that couldn't be fixed.

"Guess I should be getting on with the day, then," Shemal said, mustering a smile he definitely didn't feel. "Thank you for tending me." He climbed off the cot, ignoring her protestations to rest a little longer, and slowly walked away.

Out of the healing ward, he looked around in confusion and picked a random hallway. It took him nearly ten minutes of walking before he found an area that looked familiar. From there, he was finally able to make it back to Lesto's suite, and thankfully, the guards let him past and the door wasn't locked.

The urge to curl up in Lesto's bed, lose himself in the comfort and memories it brought to mind, was so powerful that resisting was a physical ache. But Mother Ocean, how angry would Lesto be to find him there acting like he still had every right?

Shemal closed his eyes and stood still, until he was able to shove everything back enough to function. Opening his eyes, he drew a ragged breath, then crossed the bedroom to the dressing room. After a few minutes of searching, he found his old clothes packed away in the very back with some other items clearly kept more for sentiment than need. Discarding the ones he wore, he pulled on the slightly oversized clothes he'd borrowed from the garrison. Still not his own, but those were long gone. He'd be able to afford something more suitable once he found work and earned a bit of coin. Lesto would probably never notice if he took some money from the case he kept in the dressing room, but just the idea of doing that turned Shemal's stomach.

Returning to the main room, he looked around for something to write a note, his gaze finally falling on the writing desk in the corner. Going over to it, he sat down and slowly, painfully, wrote out his farewell in awkward, clumsy Harken. He cringed looking it over, like something written by a bumbling child, nothing at all like the pretty script on the letters and other papers stacked neatly on the desk. One more humiliating reminder that thinking he and Lesto would ever work had been a fool's wish. He hesitated a moment, then wrote out the same words in Islander, just in case his Harken was as shitty as he feared. Not that his Islander was much better, his little corner of the world had little use for such things.

Now, where best to leave the note? He wandered around the suite, considering his options, lingered in the bedroom where he finally settled on Lesto's bureau, on top of his jewelry case. He folded it in half and left it propped, stared at it as second thoughts and foolish ideas spun around in his head like a whirlpool trying to drag him under.

In the end, he resisted, though only by focusing on how humiliating it would be to find Lesto only to be cut down and thrown out in front of all the people perpetually surrounding Lesto. Including the man whose arm he'd broken, likely poised to gloat as Shemal got what he deserved.

Come to that, he was surprised no one had been waiting by his bed to arrest him.

Not that he was complaining. He'd find some labor in the city, earn a bit of coin, then find cheap passage out of the city and be on his way to the border by end of day tomorrow. In a few weeks, he'd be back in Gearth and hunting down his poor, neglected goats. Life would be back to dreary, boring normal, and maybe he could finally put away hopeless dreams of the man who would always be out of reach.

Getting out of the palace was easy enough, almost depressingly so. He both hoped and dreaded that someone would call his name, come rushing to stop him. Beg him not to go. Ha. His own family hadn't begged him to stay when he'd said he was leaving. None of his friends had asked him to stay, or tried to go with him when he'd said he was quitting the pirate life. Why in the world would anyone else? He hunched his shoulders as he passed through the main gates and folded into the general throng of people leaving the palace. When they were clear of it, he edged away from the crowd, more comfortable with space around him. His ribs ached, but he ignored the pain as best he could and tried to think of places that were likely to offer work so late in the day with no questions asked.

He was standing in line to pass through the city gates when he heard the crowd stirring, followed almost immediately by the thundering of a horse underscored by a familiar jangling. But that made no sense, and really, Lesto wasn't the only soldier who jangled. Rolling his eyes at himself, Shemal turned to see what had the crowd whispering and exclaiming—and froze as he saw Lesto pounding down the line, his eyes sweeping the crowd.

Lesto stilled as their gazes collided, face darkening like storm clouds overtaking a clear sky. Riding over to Shemal, he said, "I knew I should have set guards to watch over you. Get on the damned horse."

"But—"

"Shut up and get on the damned horse, or I will throw you over this saddle," Lesto said.
"Now."

Apparently he wasn't going to be allowed to leave quietly and without fuss. Shemal stepped out of line, took the hand Lesto offered, and swung up behind him on the horse. Before he could even draw breath to ask a question, Lesto had heeled the horse into motion again, and they were riding off far too quickly for speaking to be possible.

They also weren't heading back to the palace. Shemal rested his head between Lesto's shoulders to keep the road dust out of his eyes and waited miserably to find out what was going on.

It was the dead of night when they reached Fathoms Deep, though they'd stopped only for necessary breaks and to obtain fresh horses. Lesto could barely see straight by the time he dismounted. The door flew open and two of his footmen came rushing out just as another figure came from around the house to take the horses.

"Your Grace, welcome home," one of the footmen said. "Do you need me to take anything?"

"No, thank you," Lesto replied. "We would like something to eat in my sitting room. Tell the chef something quick and light is fine. I'd like my bedroom prepared as well, please. No additional room. Lord Shemal will be staying with me. Introductions can wait until another day. We're not to be disturbed until I say otherwise."

"Yes, Your Grace," the footmen chorused and vanished into the house to dispense his orders.

Lesto turned to Shemal, stopped as he saw the way Shemal stared at his home. Not with greed or approval or feigned disinterest, but awe. Lesto's stomach clenched, mind replaying for the thousandth time how it had felt to walk into his bedroom in search of Shemal, worried after the healers had reported he'd left looking distraught, to find nothing but a note.

A note that had made him feel even more horrible than he already had. It had obviously been written with care, but Lesto had still been forced to find Allen to make sense of it, and hearing the words had felt like someone had torn his chest open.
You were my port. I'm sorry I ruined everything.

He stepped closer, reached out—and flinched slightly when Shemal tensed, dropped his gaze to stare at Lesto, and then stared at the ground as he muttered, "Sorry, I didn't mean to gawk like a halfwit."

"You weren't," Lesto said gruffly. "It's my home. I want you to like it."

Shemal opened his mouth, closed it, stared at him like he had no idea what he was looking at. Lesto tried not to wince. "I don't understand why I'm here."

"Because I keep hoping it will be your home, too," Lesto replied. "Come on, I'm hungry." He strode off, hoping if he kept moving forward with little chance for argument Shemal would keep following him.

Inside, Shemal muttered something in Farland, and when Lesto turned to look at him, he was once again staring around in awe. Even Lesto was still impressed with the entryway: all white stone threaded with veins of gold that led up to the stained glass roof of a white and black compass surrounded by teal. It mirrored the very same on the floor. At the far end was the long, wide, winding staircase that split in two directions at the first landing, leading to three doors of dark wood and more stained glass which led to the west, north, and east wings of the manor. The doors were exactly in line with those below that led to the downstairs portions of the same, save the middle door, which led to the public rooms of the house and eventually the servant quarters. The second floor landing wrapped all the way around the hall, the area over the entrance leading to a balcony that overlooked the whole front of the manor and the road leading to it, the fields and work buildings off in the distance.

"Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful," Shemal replied, looking at him briefly before shyly glancing away again. "It's as stunning as the palace without being quite as intimidating. Though it's still far too much for a pirate." His gaze dropped unhappily to the floor.

Lesto's mouth tightened. Food and rest would have to wait. "Come with me."

Shemal gave a soft huff, mouth curving ever so briefly in a familiar smile—but it collapsed in the next moment. Lesto hated seeing Shemal so wary, but he had only himself to blame for ruining the easiness between them. Hopefully he would be able to recover it.

He led Shemal through the door on the left, into the depths of the lower west wing, down all the way to the end to a large, heavy metal door. Where the lock should have been was instead a large, round dial. "Do you remember when I said I wanted to tell you about the coordinates?"

"It would be hard to forget, given you nearly died," Shemal said. "That aside, I can count on one hand the number of people who have said they trust me, and only one of them was a High Commander."

Lesto smiled briefly. "They're not actually coordinates. My family has long used sailing coordinates to write in code, and teaching you the code is part of 'telling you about the coordinates.' But the ones on my ring, on the full crest, are the secret to getting into this room. Though only the family knows the correct order." He turned the dial to the first number, then the next, going through thirteen numbers in all before the door gave a muted click. Lesto pulled open the door, motioned for Shemal to precede him, and pulled the door shut behind them.

Lesto walked across the room with familiar ease, lit the lamp he knew was on the shelf directly across from the door, and used its light to see by as he lit the rest. When he was done, he motioned for Shemal to join him in the middle of the room.

"What is this place?" Shemal asked quietly. The floor was made of dark and light stained wood that formed the crest of Fathoms Deep. It was large enough to show the one detail the smaller versions had to leave out: the compass in the right eye was framed by a circle of coordinates, the same ones wrapped around the outer edge of his signet.

Around the rest of the circular room was shelves filled with books: journals, diaries, memoirs, sketchbooks, manuals, and volumes of art done by the Arseni family, as well as history books. A single space was left open in the walls of shelves, filled with the original teal flag with the Fathoms Deep crest, set in a frame made from the wood of the last ship the first Duchess had sailed. Around the top of the wall was carved the family motto, and the ceiling was made of light and dark wood shaped into a compass.

Lesto smiled proudly. "We call it the memory vault, except for Rene, who likes to call it the mausoleum."

Shemal winced slightly. "What's a mausoleum?"

"A tomb for multiple people," Lesto replied. "Rene tends toward the morbid."

"I can see where he'd get it, if this place stores memories," Shemal said. "Memory and memorial are pretty close."

Lesto laughed softly. "Fair point, but I'm not telling Rene that. Anyway, the point is that this is a place for family. Access to this room grants access to full knowledge of our family. All the good, great, bad, and terrible. Secrets that could be used against us. Secrets that could be used to hurt others. Only those the Arseni consider family are allowed in here. We aren't allowed to share the secret without the approval of the rest of the family—approval Rene, Tara, Sarrica, and Allen didn't hesitate to grant. Currently, they, you, and I are the only ones with access."

Shemal looked around the room again, mouth opening and closing several times before he finally looked back at Lesto and said roughly, "You were so angry and cold, and I know I was a burden, never mind I assaulted a noble and broke his arm. I thought you'd decided you were better off without me."

"I didn't mean to be cold; I was hurt you weren't happy to see me when I came to rescue you. I should have listened better, had more patience. As to that little rat who harassed you—he and his family have been banned and fined, and if he's smart, he'll stay out of our sight for a very long time," Lesto replied, angry all over again at the vindictive little bastard's gall. "You've never been a burden. Why would you think that?"