The Pirate of Fathoms Deep (8 page)

"How did you know it was Commander Lesto?"
the High Consort asked in a soft, pretty voice—and in perfect Islander. More than that, the High Consort spoke Shemal's dialect, from the island of Matarahira, what Mainlanders called the South Star Island.
"Have you encountered him before?"

Shemal's cheeks went hot.
"Yes, when I was arrested some time ago for piracy. I did my pardon service, though, and have been reformed since."

The High Consort smiled, turned to the High King, and repeated everything he'd said.

"He does what you do, with the back and forth that leaves the rest of us extremely confused," the High King said, looking at the High Consort with a fond smile.

"Lesto said that," Shemal said, then snapped his mouth shut, face burning hotter than ever. Mother Ocean drag him to the deep, he was not made for spending time around people like this.

The High King's head whipped back to him, brows shooting up.
"Lesto
said."

"I meant the High Commander—"

"Oh, no," the High King said, eyes gleaming. "You gave it away a little bit earlier, when I said you were Lesto's pirate. I know that look." He stood up, prowled close, green eyes intent and way more aware and knowing than Shemal liked. "Met him some time ago when you were arrested for piracy. Saved him from kidnappers instead of figuring out a way to earn money yourself. Risked your life to get him to safety, and you're wearing both of his rings which, until now, have never left his person."

"Sarrica—" the High Consort interjected, or tried to, but Sarrica carried on like he hadn't heard.

"So tell me pirate, are your intentions for my brother honest, or are you one more scheming bastard trying to use him?"

Shemal stared at him, eyes wide, heart thundering. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't try to lie to me!" Sarrica snapped and grabbed the front of his shirt. "It's obvious you've been fucking him. But I'm not going to let someone hurt Lesto again. So if you've managed to manipulate him and convince him that you care when you're just one more scheming bastard, if you've played him for a fool for his money and—"

Shemal didn't think, just reacted the way he always did when someone dared to insult and challenge him so. He might have been a pirate, a useless halfwit who could barely read and write and wasn't good for anything off a ship, but he wasn't the kind of bastard to lie or cheat a person, and he certainly wasn't the kind of bastard to play with someone's feelings.

So he swung, hard enough that Sarrica let him go and went stumbling back a step.

It was only as Sarrica gaped at him that Shemal realized what he'd just done.
"Oh, Mother Ocean."
He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands, not certain if he wanted to cry or throw up.

He'd just punched the High King of the Harken Empire.

"Sarrica!" the High Consort snapped. "What in the name of the Pantheon were you thinking?"

"He's the one who hit
me
, you know," Sarrica said, and Shemal really had lost his mind because he sounded
amused
instead of angry.

"You deserved it! He was already terrified, and then you get in his face and threaten him like that—"

"He's almost bigger than me."

"He's also a former—" the High Consort slipped into Gaulden, then said something in Tricemorien, then Gearthish—then abruptly cut off.

Shemal looked up slowly, face going hot as he saw the reason for the abrupt silence: the High King was kissing his consort breathless.

Maybe he could sneak away and vanish into the city before they remembered he was there.

He'd just started to stand again when they drew apart.

"Don't try to sneak off," Sarrica said cheerfully. "We're not done with you. You're not going to be punished for hitting me, either. Not when everyone who knows me would just say I deserved it. Sit down before you pass out."

Shemal stared blankly. "What? I mean, Your Majesty?"

Sarrica lightly tested his jaw as he motioned to the table. "Sit. Down. Finish telling your story." The High Consort gave him a look, and Sarrica added, "I'm sorry for alarming you. Nice hit. I can see why Lesto likes you."

"Uh—" Shemal couldn't think of what to say.

Laughing again, Sarrica grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the table, pushed him into a chair that left Shemal with his back to the door. "Speaking of Lesto, you would probably like to know I received word he is doing well. Already walking about terrorizing his soldiers despite the healer begging him to stay abed."

"But he needed stitches," Shemal snapped. "On his left side and his right thigh, never mind he was poisoned! He shouldn't be walking around yet."

"Oh, I like you," Sarrica said and pushed a platter of bread, cheese, and olives toward him as well as a cup and a pitcher of dark, spiced wine. "Eat, drink. Tell us the rest of your story so I know how many heads need to roll."

Ignoring the food and drink, no matter how much his stomach growled, Shemal told them the rest of it. Leaving out, of course, the more personal interactions. From Sarrica's narrowed eyes, he wasn't fooling anyone with the omissions.

When he was finished, his voice had gone faintly hoarse.

"Drink," the High Consort said and pushed the cup and pitcher closer. "Please."

Shemal nodded stiffly and finally poured a cup of wine, some of his tension easing to have something wet on his throat and anything at all in his stomach. Four hard days of traveling practically nonstop had left him ready to eat a whale and sleep for a month. "I—I'm sorry he was hurt. I tried—"

"I've every faith you did your best, but ten against two is not odds I would enjoy." Sarrica smiled wryly. "Though I might have bragged about being more than capable of beating them as a youth. From what I've heard, you are the reason he's alive and safe." He slapped the table. "Once I've put the fear of the Pantheon into Treya Mencee, we will head for Brimin and drag our good Commander home where he is certain to be safe until this matter is sorted." The High Consort rolled his eyes, and Sarrica scowled. "What?"

"It's just funny how alike the two of you are. You do something dangerous, he throws a fit about your reckless stupidity. He does something dangerous, you throw a fit about his rash behavior. You're like two sides of a mirror."

Sarrica grinned. "Now, now, High Consort, I think you are not fit to chide anyone for reckless behavior."

Allen's cheeks flushed. "I wasn't chiding, I was observing and mocking."

Laughing, Sarrica rose and stepped clear of the table, extended a hand that Allen took as he rose to his feet. "Shall we go have a proper meal and plot all the ways we are going to make Treya Mencee cry?"

"Yes," Allen said, the warmth of his eyes fading as anger overtook them, gave the jewel blue of them a storm cloud edge. He glanced at Shemal and the warmth returned. "If you'll follow us, one of the guards will escort you to your rooms. Eat, rest, and in the morning, you and Sarrica can leave for Brimin."

Shemal stood and obediently followed. Out in the hall, Allen spoke with the towering guard, who bowed and motioned for Shemal to follow him. They cut through several hallways, and more than a few soldiers stared at Shemal as he passed.

Was it always going to be like this if he was with Lesto? Staring, gawking, whispering. On his fingers, Lesto's rings weighed heavily and seemed to burn.

It was a relief when he was finally ushered through another set of double doors, into a large, handsome room. A meal had been set out on the table off to one side, the smells wafting from it making his stomach growl all over again.

But it looked like an awfully nice room for a pirate. He turned to the guard. "Are you sure this is my room?"

The guard shrugged. "Commander Lesto's room, which amounts to the same thing, right?" He flashed a quick grin. "So there's a rumor about you going 'round the garrison, bit of a wager, too."

Shemal felt faint. "Oh, no."

"Some are saying you're the fella what punched the Commander last year. They said those tattoos of yours are pretty memorable. Was that you?"

Shemal couldn't
breathe.
Was there any point in denying it? By the look of the guard's grin, there really wasn't. "If I say yes, will you promise not to tell His Majesty? And don't tell Lesto I told you."

The guard threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, Pantheon." He clapped Shemal on the back. "Wait until I tell everyone. They're going to lose it." He laughed a few seconds more, then straightened and tried to return to his serious demeanor. "If there's anything you need, there will be a guard stationed outside at all times. All you have to do is ask and the matter will be taken care of. We'll come wake you tomorrow. There should be clothes in the wardrobe. If none of them fit, just let us know. I hope you have a good night. If you want company, there are always people in the great hall, and they'd all love to talk to you." He flashed a last grin, then bowed and departed.

Well, that was new. Shemal wasn't certain he liked being bowed to. On the other hand, it was a vast improvement on being arrested.

He looked around the room again. There was the table, a large, stately four poster bed with dark blue drapes that had been tied back. A matching duvet covered the bed itself. There was also a large wardrobe, two chests, and a stand meant to hold armor.

Near the table was a fireplace and a tub full of steaming water with a basket containing soap, rags, and other wash items nearby.

Being treated like he was important was more than a little strange, but he wasn't going to complain. Left to his own devices, he might have been able to scrounge up enough coin to rent a room in a vermin-infested hostel for the night, and his bath would have been a wash down with water he hauled from a public fountain with whatever he could borrow to carry it.

Stripping off his grimy clothes, he climbed into the tub and happily scrubbed himself clean. When he was done, however, he belatedly realized he needed a towel or—oh, there was a dressing robe hung by the fire. It was warm and soft as he pulled it on and belted it closed, and it seemed the epitome of luxury to sit and eat dinner wearing a dressing robe while still damp from his bath.

But all he could think about was the village where everything had gone wrong, the way he and Lesto had planned to enjoy the night before heading out in the morning. It had been a selfish, indulgent plan, but he wished it had happened. As it was, who knew what would happen next. What if Lesto changed his mind now that he was back where he belonged? What if the High King forbade the relationship and sent Shemal away? For all that Lesto seemed indifferent to Shemal's past, scores of others would not be so accepting. Lesto could do far better than a lowly pirate, and every single person in Harken probably wouldn't hesitate to remind him of that.

That was a problem for another day, though. For the present, his only dilemma was whether he should he start with the lamb, the fragrant rice, or the wine. He wished Lesto was there to share the meal with. For all he'd been looking forward to fucking Lesto when their meal was over, sitting and eating with him, talking and drawing out more of Lesto's smiles, had been more than enough.

Mother Ocean, he was not used to life moving quite so fast. It didn't seem like he should be hooked by someone so hard and fast, so immediately. But was it really immediate, given Lesto had been the driving force in his life the past year and a half? Shemal didn't know anymore. He just knew he missed Lesto and was worried about him. The fool should be resting, but Shemal had the feeling Lesto didn't rest unless he was tied down.

Smiling faintly at the thought, he finally filled his plate and began eating, moaning and marveling at the flavors, the skill with which everything had been cooked. Not the sort of fare he was used to, not by a league.

By the time he finally stopped, he was ready to pop. When was the last time he'd eaten so much? Probably the last time he'd slunk home to recuperate and add to his tattoos. Years, then.

After washing his face and hands, he doused all the lamps save one then crossed the room, stripped off his robe, and climbed into the enormous bed. It was wickedly soft; he was half afraid he'd go through it to the floor.

He lay back against the ridiculous pile of pillows, exhausted but still wound too tightly to sleep. The remaining lamp light gleamed on his rings. He ran his thumb over the griffons of the High Crown, surrounded by starflowers and blood orchids.

But it was the other ring that really drew him. The bottom half he couldn't read; he recognized it was shorthand formal Harken but reading it was beyond his skills. He was more interested in the markings that formed the top half of the circle that surrounded the skull and swords. Those he could read, or should have been able to. They were sailing coordinates, but not quite right. They were, in fact, gibberish. Anyone who tried to use them to sail would wind up lost or dead, assuming they even managed to make sense enough to sail at all.

Lesto was going to tell him the secret of the coordinates. Shemal didn't understand how, after a year and a half, they had moved so far so fast. Part of him wanted to run away, flee back to a life that made sense, even if his options then were piracy or goats.

Though he was still at a loss as to what he would do when they reached Harkenesten. But that storm was still far off on the horizon. He could focus on other matters for a little while longer.

Blowing out the lamp by the bed, he shoved most of the pillows off the bed, pulled the blankets up, and fell asleep smiling.

*~*~*

He jerked awake to the sound of someone pounding on the door, shoving the heavy mass of his hair from his face as he stared blearily at the guard at the foot of the bed. "What?"

The man grinned. "Breakfast is ready. We depart in an hour for Brimin. Your boots have been cleaned; they're waiting by the table. If you need anything else, sir, just let us know."

"Um." Before Shemal could formulate a better reply, the man was gone.

He climbed out of bed and went to the wardrobe, pulling out clothes that looked like they might actually fit him. They couldn't be Lesto's. He wasn't as big and broad as Shemal, more the tall, lanky sort. Well, whatever, they were clean and they fit—why was he puzzling over them?