Harem Master - The King's Librarian

My final present to my darling readers, I hope 2017 is a lovely year for you all. Happy New Year!

Special thanks and all my love to Raelynn for providing the beautiful artwork for this story.

(TW for attempted rape)

Nima took a deep breath. He could do this. He was supposed to be here. He'd been invited here. He wasn't an imposter, he wasn't an imposter, he wasn't an imposter.

Clutching the strap of his satchel with one hand, papers clenched in the other, he finally crossed the courtyard with its lush, colorful plants and imperious statues, and came to a halt in front of the four guards, intimidating in their black uniforms, two with swords at their waists, two holding glaives, the sharp blades reflecting sunlight.

Admittance to the palace was restricted to those who lived and worked there, and approved guests. If you were not one of those three, you had to have papers. When one of the guards held his hand out, face stony, Nima gave him the papers with a hand that trembled slightly. Not an imposter, not an imposter. He'd worked hard to be here, he deserved to be here.

The guard flipped through the papers. "Your name?"

"Nima Karim."

"Who are you here to see?"

"Assistant Librarian Afzal."

"Why are you here to see him?"

"I've been invited to interview as a junior librarian, specifically for the poetry and music collections."

"How did you come to the attention of Master Afzal?"

"I was a junior librarian in the south district library, my superior there recommended me and Master Afzal bid me come this week to interview me. He sent the papers yesterday, along with the time and place to meet him."

The guard pulled something from a pouch at his waist, marked the last page of the packet, and handed them back, a smile cracking his marble façade. "Welcome to the royal palace, Master Nima. At the first intersection you'll come to, turn left. From there, take the third left, then the second right. Go straight until you come to the library."

"Oh—thank you very much. Um. Good day to you." Nima bowed slightly and hesitantly returned the guard's smile before hurrying on into the palace.

Inside the palace, he was met by the scent of fresh water and green things, a faint hint of sweet incense. The palace was even more beautiful than every rumor and tale he'd heard. There were colored tiles everywhere, forming stunning geometric mosaics, statues and decorative tapestries on the walls.

And guards. So many guards everywhere, nearly statues themselves. Nima clutched his papers close and followed the directions he'd been given—and barely avoided careening into a group of lords and ladies, only to knock into one of the guards. "I'm so sorry!" The guard didn't react, save to right him, though Nima thought he caught the barest hint of smile. "Sorry," he muttered again.

"You're not the one who should be sorry," said a bright, cheerful voice.

Nima turned, and mercy of the heavens, please let his face not be as flushed as it felt.

A concubine. He was staring at one of the royal concubines. Ever since the change in harem laws several months ago, the royal harems had been the source of endless talk, coming close only to the gossip surrounding the execution of the steward.

This was the foreign one, and like everything else about the palace he was even more stunning than rumor said—although Nima hadn't expected him to be short. He might actually be the barest bit shorter than Nima, which never happened. He wore black pants and a black skirt, and a rainbow of jewels at his waist, throat, and wrists. His build was familiar, much like what Nima saw in the mirror: that of a dancer, strong but lean, toned and flexible.

Nima realized he was gawking. "Um. My apologies."

The man's friendly smile widened. "Not at all. And it was those nobles who should have apologized, not you. Too many of them see everyone not them as furniture and decoration. You look new to the palace. I remember feeling exactly that look on your face." He winked. "Where are you going?"

"Um—the, uh, library."

"I'll take you there." The man bowed his head to the guards. "Please report this conversation to my king." Then he turned neatly on his heel and gestured for Nima to follow.

Taking a deep breath and holding his papers tightly, Nima hurried after him.

They reached the library just a couple of minutes later. "Here you are."

"Thank you, my lord," Nima said. "I am honored you would help me."

The man only winked again and departed.

"Can I help you?"

Nima turned, took another deep breath and tried to will away the flush still burning his face. He gave the woman looking at him a slight bow. "Pardon, my name is Nima Karim, I am here to see Assistant Librarian Afzal."

"Ah, yes, you're expected. Do you have your papers?"

Handing them over, Nima followed when she motioned for him to do so, and was led through the most magnificent library he'd ever seen. Was he ever going to stop gawking?

The woman caught his expression and smiled. "The palace is stunning, isn't it? I walked around in awe the first few weeks I was here—and that was before His Majesty's father died and everything surrounding that." She circled a hand in the air. "It's been wild around here, like a ballad. But here is Master Afzal's office. I hope you're able to join us for dinner." She bowed slightly, Nima did the same, and left him there.

Nima took a deep breath, then another. He deserved to be here. He'd worked hard for this. Five years of misery, another seven of schooling and training, three years in the city library, and here he was—not his first dream, perhaps, but certainly his second. He deserved to be here. He'd worked hard. His old life was gone.

Clutching his papers and satchel, he knocked on the door and entered when bid.

*~*~*

"Pardon me."

Nima looked up, blinking at the blurry figure before he snatched his spectacles off and hastily dropped them on the table. His mortification grew tenfold as he stared at the man before him—another concubine. Since his six weeks working in the royal palace, he'd gotten to know his fellow librarians, been told every scrap of rumor and bit of gossip that was to be had—especially about the royal couple and their harems—and drunk more wine than he'd had in his entire life.

A good measure of his paycheck went to room and board in the palace, but he wasn't remotely sorry about that. He would happily pay for all the comforts and luxuries he enjoyed: his own room, his own bed, a bath he shared with only nine other people, and food and drink whenever he wanted them.

But he couldn't deny he'd been disappointed he had not seen the friendly concubine again, or any of the others, save a glimpse of the queen and her harem at a distance.

Right before now, however, was the concubine, the one everyone whispered gleefully King Ihsan had stolen, or seduced, or bribed into joining his harem: former Harem Master Demir. He stood in front of Nima's little work table like a dream—like a breathtaking, painfully beautiful reminder of a lost dream. And oh, gods, he'd thought they'd all been lying to him about the chain that vanished into Demir's pants. "C-can I help you, my lord?"

Demir smiled, and Nima had the sense he was seeing more than Nima really wanted him seeing. "I was told you are the one to see about music. I am seeking a rather old piece, a fan dance composed by Jumana Saab. I'm afraid I don't remember the name of the piece, but it was an amalgamation of—"

"Of a Southern Rittuen fan dance and a Valta country dance," Nima said eagerly, pushing back his chair and standing. "Of course, I know it well. That one is called Dance of Sand and Roses, it's part of her second collection. We have a compiled volume, and of course the individual sheet music. Which did you prefer, my lord?"

"The individual, it's to be used for a performance." He winked. "A surprise for Their  Majesties, so I would appreciate your discretion."

"Of course, my lord. One moment and I'll have it for you." Nima hurried off through the stacks, pulling out his keys to unlock the door to the special room where the sheet music and special volumes of poetry and music were kept. Finding the music sought, he returned to where Demir stood waiting with the guard who'd escorted him. "Here you are." He bowed as he handed them over.

"My thanks." Demir gave him a slight bow. "You are Master Nima, correct? By your courtesy, what is your family name?"

Nima flushed, this time with shame and humiliation. Of course the former Harem Master recognized him. Unless there was some other reason he was asking, but Nima couldn't fathom it. "Karim, my lord."

"Ah, that's why you look familiar. Your mother was a remarkable person. I'm happy to see her son is doing so well. Thank you again for the music, Master Nima. Good day to you."

"G-good day, my lord," Nima said, and bowed again as Demir and the guard departed.

Demir had known his mother. He'd called her remarkable. Nima blinked rapidly to abate the sting in his eyes. Smiling faintly, he returned to his desk and the transcriptions he was making for a lady who wanted to read poems from a book not permitted to leave the library.

He was just contemplating stopping for lunch when a shadow fell across his desk. Nima removed his glasses and looked up with a smile—and forgot everything he'd been about to say as he stared at a face he'd hoped never to see again. A face he'd fervently hoped would not recognize him. "Can I help you, my lord?"

"I thought it was you I spied the other day, though I could scarcely believe the robes. I thought perhaps someone had smuggled you in, but here you are, a good little librarian. Do your superiors know where you come from?"

Nima didn't bother to reply; they both knew the answer. Of all the clients he'd had over five years working in one of the most notorious brothels in the city, only two stood out: Ziad, the old man who'd enjoyed watching Nima pleasure himself, but most often wanted to be read to and fussed over. When he'd died, he'd left a generous portion of his fortune to Nima, which had allowed him to work a smaller, if no less disreputable, brothel while he went to school. Near the end of his schooling, he'd quit and gotten work at a small branch library that mostly catered to old people and students. That had been the training he'd needed to move to the bigger library that had led to the position in the royal palace.

The second client was Yunis, who wasn't happy unless he was hurting someone—and he'd paid very, very well to hurt Nima. Some of the marks would never go away, and even the ones that faded wouldn't be forgotten easily or soon. Four of the five years he'd worked at that place had been spent enduring Yunis or recovering from him. Such behavior as Yunis exhibited would not be tolerated in other establishments, minus the one even worse than where Nima had worked, but Yunis had loved to tell him that Nima was the prettiest boy he'd ever seen.

"It's been some years—ten, in fact. But you're still the boy I remember. I think we should meet later, catch up on old times, don't you?"

Fighting tears, Nima said, "Yes, my lord."

"Splendid." Yunis smiled in a way that reminded Nima of a scorpion, one of the big, aggressive ones that would attack with no more provocation than the wind changing direction. He took a slip of paper and Nima's pen and wrote down a time, location, and directions. "I look forward to seeing you."

He left, and Nima went back to work, all thoughts of lunch thoroughly ruined.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of misery, and by the time of the dreaded appointment he was exhausted from worry and on the verge of screaming. He crept through the halls of the palace, eyes on the ground, grateful he only passed a couple of servants and fervently hoping they did not remember him later—and weren't around when he had to walk back to his room when Yunis was finally finished with him.

Damn it, he'd worked so hard, had come so far, this wasn't fair. He wasn't a prostitute at a disreputable house anymore. He was a librarian, a good respectable career. And maybe it wasn't the career he'd first dreamed of, but it was still a dream achieved and a good life. Hadn't he worked hard enough to leave his past behind him?

He shouldn't have aimed for the royal palace, that was his mistake. But after nearly ten years he hadn't thought any of his former clients would recognize him, not even Councilor Yunis.

Reaching the room, which proved to be a parlor of sorts, with a long, wide settee that made Nima shudder, he took a seat on one of the large cushions by a low table and folded his hands in his lap.

The door opened a few minutes later, and Yunis stepped in, wearing a robe so much like those he'd always worn to the brothel—enough for propriety in casual spaces, but easy to remove and put on. "It's so good to see you again, my sweet boy. How old are you now?"

Nima fought not to recoil as those spidery fingers he remembered stroked his hair and face, tugged for him to get to his feet. "Twenty-six." Nearly twenty-seven, but the younger he was the more pleased Yunis would be.

"Yet you look nearly as sweet as you did at seventeen. Good blood and bones, you have." Yunis licked his cheek. "I hope you remember what I like."

He liked Nima to suffer, and he liked Nima to scream. Unfortunately, there was no way he could make the kind of noise in a palace parlor that he could make in a sound-proofed brothel room. Which meant a gag, and Nima hated those the most because his lack of screams frustrated Yunis, which just made him more vicious.

It also meant he couldn't call for help—not that he thought anyone would ever rescue him. They never had before. Not when his father abandoned them to be with the lover he'd had before marriage. Not when his mother's family had refused to take them in because they'd never be able to marry off a woman who already had a child. Not when his mother had died. Not when he'd needed work and been forced under age into a brothel that shamed the illustrious history of concubines and pleasure houses.

Yunis clucked. "Pity we'll have to gag you. Well, get on with it, boy, I don't have all night. Don't worry, though, I'm working on arrangements that will allow us to do this whenever—and as often—as we like."

Barely avoiding throwing up the cup of calming tea he'd forced down earlier, Nima pulled his clothes off with trembling hands and left them in a neat pile on the table. Then he spread out the blanket Yunis handed him on the settee and laid out on it, his feet and ankles dangling off the end, head on his folded arms. Tears escaped despite his efforts to hold them back as Yunis yanked his head up enough to get the gag in place.

He'd endured this a thousand times, he could endure again—but as the first hit came, something in Nima snapped. Rearing up, he shoved Yunis away and climbed off the settee.

"How dare you!" Yunis snarled, and grabbed him.

Nima kicked him in the groin, and when Yunis dropped with a scream, he picked up a vase and dropped it on his head. Yunis slumped to the ground with a garbled groan. Nima hastily pulled on his clothes, then yanked the gag free and threw it on top of Yunis. Wiping away tears, ignoring the blood he could feel sticking to his clothes from the single blow Yunis had landed, he opened the door with trembling hands and hurried off.

What was he going to do? He'd just assaulted a noble—a councilor, at that. He was dead. Whatever he said in his own defense, nobody would take the word of a library clerk over that of a councilor. Especially when they learned the library clerk had once been a disreputable prostitute.

Another dream dashed. Maybe the city library would take him back. Or at least one of the small ones. Maybe he could get work in a bookshop?

But he'd been so happy putting all the knowledge from his mother, his family legacy, to use. He would never sing and dance and serve in one of the esteemed pleasure houses, would never be welcome in a theatre or dancing troupe, but he still knew song and dance and poetry. Tending the finest collection of music and poetry in the kingdom was a dream come true—a realistic dream, an achievable one, and six weeks after having reached it, he was going to be right back at the bottom, starting over again.

Nima slammed into something and went crashing to the ground, saving his head only by taking all his weight on one arm and twisting it. He looked up—and couldn't help the fresh tears as he stared in horror at the man he'd just crashed into. Another one of the king's concubines, this one tall and broad, muscled like one of the city guards, handsome like a wild cat.

Scrambling to his feet, Nima bowed low. "A thousand apologies for my clumsiness, my lord. I was not paying attention and I humbly beg forgiveness for troubling—"

"Are you all right?"

Nima didn't look up. "I'm quite well, my lord. Please, I really am very sorry—"

"It's fine, please rise."

Reluctantly Nima did so, and stared helplessly at the man watching him far too intently. Behind him, two guards eyed Nima with suspicion and wariness.

"You look to be in serious distress," the concubine said. "Where is your room located?"

"Um. The water lily hall."

"Ah." The concubine smiled. "Come, we'll escort you there." He gestured to the guards, and one of them fell into step alongside Nima, and without another word they were on their way.

Nima tried to think of something intelligent to say the whole way, but could not do more than struggle not to cry and steal glances at the man in front of him and the intimidating guards. When they finally reached his room, he was so exhausted he feared he wouldn't wake up in time for work.

"Thank you, my lord. You did not need to waste your time walking me to my room."

"Nonsense," the concubine said with a smile that set Nima at ease in a way nothing else ever had. How could something as simple as a smile make him feel safe? But it did. "Everyone in the palace should feel comfortable and safe. If there is a problem troubling you, know there are many who will listen. Should you need a friendly ear, I strongly suggest Captain Fatih or Lord Cenk. Please, sleep well and I hope tomorrow is a better day."

"Thank you, my lord," Nima said. "For your kindness and assistance. I hope tomorrow shines. Sleep well." He escaped into his room, locked the door, and collapsed into his bed clothes and all, where he cried himself to sleep.

*~*~*

Tomorrow, as he'd feared, was nothing close to better.

Instead, he was greeted by the severe-looking Head Librarian and a towering man with the marks of Captain on his uniform. "Master Nima, I'm afraid you'll have to come with us."

Nima's shoulders sank as he followed them out of the library and through unfamiliar palace halls, to what looked like the palace's jails.

In a small room that contained nothing but a chair and table, they bid him sit.

"Master Nima, do you know why you've been brought here?" the Captain asked. Was this the Captain Fatih the concubine from last night had mentioned? Dare he tell the truth? But the Head Librarian had obviously already decided he was guilty, to so quickly contact the guards and both men looked stone-faced and grimly set upon their unhappy task.

Nima's shoulder slumped. "No."

"Where were you last night, Master Nima?" Captain Fatih asked.

"In my room."

"All night?"

Nima shook his head. "I couldn't sleep, I went walking around the palace for a bit. Though I've been here awhile, I'm still not used to the quiet." That much was true, though normally he walked in the public gardens, not around the palace.

"I see," Captain Fatih replied. "You did not go to the library, or meet someone?"

"No, Captain," Nima said, for all the good it would do him.

Fatih said, "We are going to be searching your room. If there is something we might find that should not be there, you would do better to be honest now."

So that's what Yunis was doing in revenge. He couldn't very well admit he'd intended to rape Nima last night—he wouldn't be charged with such a crime, but the rumors would not do him any favors—so he was framing Nima for theft. "There is nothing remarkable in my room, Captain, only my clothes, an old dancing fan, and some old books—one of poetry that my mother received as a courting present from my father, with an inscription from him inside. The other is a history book, a gift to me from my mother and also inscribed. Oh, and my bathing supplies, of course, little things like that."

"I see," Fatih repeated. "We will know soon if you are telling the truth."

Nima bowed his head, hands clasped tightly in his lap. Six weeks. That was how long his dream had lasted.

Thieves were generally sentenced to a year in prison, though they could be sentenced to as many as three depending on what was stolen, and far more if other crimes—assault, murder, arson, and so forth—were involved. So three years in prison. His already ruined reputation would be so blackened he'd never find respectable work again. He'd thought Yunis would simply demand his employment be terminated. That would be a blow to his reputation, but many in the city would understand if he said he'd lost his job because he'd angered a noble.

But to be accused of stealing—and stealing from the library—was a death sentence for his fragile new career. His years in the brothel had already ruined his chances in the entertainment district, especially after all the harm his father had caused by running away with a famous actor.

So no library would take him. No shop would hire a thief. No dance troupe or theatre would have him. No reputable pleasure house would have him. His hands shook badly, and nothing Nima did could still them. He didn't want to go back to that life. He'd escaped. He'd rather kill himself than return to a house that was so used to their whores being hurt they retained in-house healers—and considered it a bad night if no one needed tending by morning.

A knock on the door made him jump so hard he slammed his knee into the table and pinched his fingers at the same time. Bowing his head and cradling his injured fingers, Nima waited to hear the inevitable conviction.

"This was found under his mattress, Captain."

Nima started crying, shoulders sagging.

"Thank you."

"Master Nima, do you know this book?" Fatih asked.

Slowly looked up, Nima stared at the book. It was an elegant volume, bound in purple leather, the lettering in gold, the covers edged in silver flowers. "A book of erotic poems by Lord Usama, second century, one of only three copies remaining. The original is with the monastery in the Fenn-Bar province."

"What was it doing in your room?" the Head Librarian asked, but fell silent at a sharp gesture from Fatih, who then repeated the question.

Nima shook his head. "I don't know. I did not steal it, I swear. I like this job, I was proud to be offered it. All I want is to work in the royal library in peace."

"Please," the Head Librarian said. "You don't know how—"

"If you cannot be silent during the interview, you will leave," Fatih said sharply. More gently, he said, "Master Nima, I promise whatever you tell me, I will take it seriously. You have not yet been accused of any crime. We seek only to determine what happened. This book was stolen late last night or early this morning, from a locked room to which only limited persons have access."

"The archives," Nima said. "I don't have permission to go to the archives; the only keys I have are to the special room for poetry and music."

Fatih nodded. "But you would know where the keys are kept and how to get to them."

"They're in a locked room, and I have no idea how to get through a door without a key."

The Head Librarian made scoffing noises.

"Get out," Fatih said, and when the man tried to protest, grabbed his arm and slung him toward the door. When it was closed again, he turned back to Nima. "Master Nima, please. I would like to help you, but I must know what happened last night if I am to do that."

Nima pinched his eyes shut. Guards didn't help. Guards never helped. They'd ignored his mother, they'd ignored him, they'd often dropped by the brothel to avail themselves of free pleasures and additional bribes. It didn't matter how nice they seemed on the surface, they always listened to those with the money. Councilors were wealthy, respected, and powerful. Library clerks cost less than a fried sweetbun at the market. "I went for a walk. I returned to my room. That's all. I'm not a thief."

Fatih sighed. "All right. Come with me."

Standing on shaky legs, Nima followed him out of the room and further into that section of the palace—and wasn't remotely surprised when he was escorted right into a cell. "Let me stress again that you are not yet in trouble or under arrest. To be perfectly honest, Master Nima, I am putting you here for safekeeping. Something is afoot that I do not like, and you, I fear, are caught right in the middle of it. I will return in a few hours. Food will be sent, and if there's anything else you need, you've only to ask a guard. If anyone but a guard comes to your cell, immediately scream for the guards. Understand?"

No, Nima really didn't understand a single bit of what was going on, but he nodded dutifully and slumped on the cot in his cell. To keep him safe. Did they think he was stupid? Since when was somebody locked in a jail cell for their own safety? No, Fatih was up to something, and he thought playing nice while still keeping him locked up was the way to go about it.

A few minutes after Fatih departed, a guard came with a tray of food and wine. He smiled as he opened the cell and set the tray on the cot. "Are you well, Master Nima? I can bring additional blankets if you like, books to read. The Captain said you were to be made comfortable."

"I—really? Um. I would not mind a book. Am I really allowed to have one?"

"If the Captain says so, then yes. I'll bring it along shortly. Anything in particular?"

"No. I enjoy reading, it doesn't matter what."

Smiling again, the man locked the cell back and slipped away. A few minutes later he returned with three small volumes and passed them through the bars, along with an additional blanket. "If you need anything, simply call out and someone will come at once."

"Thank you," Nima said.

When he was alone again, he looked at the books. There were two volumes of poetry, relatively new releases by the look of them, and a slightly older book that related the history of the palace. Setting the poetry aside, he dove into the history. It was highly abbreviated, clearly intended to be an overview before delving into denser books, but that made it no less fascinating.

The book was engrossing enough he nearly forgot to be upset about where he was—at least until he heard footsteps, and Fatih's voice. Closing his book and removing the blanket he'd spread over his lap, Nima tied his hair and smoothed his clothes just as the footsteps reached his cell.

Fatih smiled at him, as did the man beside him—the concubine who'd escorted Nima to his room last night. "Is this the man, Lord Haluk?"

Haluk nodded. "Yes, Captain. Hello again, Master Nima."

"Um. Hello." Nima looked down, fingers curling into the cuffs of his shirt.

"You should have mentioned running into Lord Haluk," Fatih said gruffly. "We would have been spared hours of work. Come along, Master Nima, you have an audience with His Majesty."

"What!" Nima slapped a hand over his mouth, face burning as he looked down again, cringing at their laughter, though it was gentle and kind. "Um. Begging your pardon, Captain, but I don't understand why I would have an audience with His Majesty. Surely the troubles of a thief are of no interest to him."

Fatih chuckled. "Usually such matters are left wholly to me, it's true, but when a councilor, an extremely valuable book, and the pleas of his harem are involved, our good king takes personal notice. Come along, we should not keep him waiting." He unlocked the cell and Nima slowly stepped out.

"I am sorry to see you are being even more poorly treated in the royal palace than I feared," Haluk said. "I promise all will be set to rights."

"Let's go," Fatih said.

Nima walked between them, painfully aware of the looks they received, the whispers that sprang up behind them. How ridiculous must he look, in his unremarkable clerk's clothes, between the fierce Captain of the Royal Guard and the stunningly handsome, decadently dressed Lord Haluk?

He was good looking, Nima had no illusions or false modesty there. His livelihood had once very heavily relied on his looks and he still went to great pains to remain attractive because it was too ingrained for him to ever relax. Given it still seemed likely he would end up right back where he'd started, the fear seemed a valid one.

Eventually they came to a halt in front of a set of double doors, the wood engraved with geometric patterns and covered in gold foil. The smell of incense and flowers was stronger than ever, reminding him strongly of both the temple he occasionally visited and the pleasure houses he'd once dreamed of working in.

The doors opened and Haluk and Fatih swept inside. Fatih stopped several paces from the small group of men sitting on a slightly raised dais, sank to his knees and bowed his head to the floor. Haluk continued up onto the dais and sat on the empty cushion right next to the man who was the focus of the cluster. Nima sank down next to Fatih.

Nima had heard over and over about how scarred the king was, how horrible and difficult he was to look at. But he wasn't horrible at all. Badly scarred, yes, but he had the most beautiful eyes, and a kind mouth despite the fact he was currently frowning.

Hastily Nima lowered his head to the floor, swallowing against the panic that wanted out. He was a clerk, a former prostitute with a blackened reputation. People like him did not get audiences with the king!

"So you are the man who has been causing such a stir in my court today," the king said, voice stern but threaded with amusement. "Please, sit up."

Nima slowly did so, and was unable to resist looking at the other men gathered on the king's left—and realized he knew them both. Well, had seen them both. One was Lord Demir, the second was the man who'd helped him his first day in the palace.

"Master Nima, correct?" the king said.

"Y-y-yes, M-Majesty. I am sorry you are being troubled with me."

"You are no trouble at all, I promise." The king smiled. "What troubles me is that you have been mistreated in my palace, and if what I have been told is correct, you have been mistreated in particularly terrible ways."

Nima flushed and bowed his head, shame and humiliation sweeping through him. "I am still sorry Your Majesty is being concerned with my trivial matters."

"There is nothing trivial about this matter. Captain Fatih, relate to me again what you believe transpired last night and this morning. Let us see what Master Nima thinks of your suppositions."

"Majesty," Fatih replied. "Lord Yunis visited the library yesterday afternoon and spoke briefly with Master Nima, after which several librarians noticed Master Nima appeared distressed. Late in the evening, he was seen by four servants walking through the resident-only portions of the palace. They report he looked upset, frightened. A short time later, perhaps a half hour or so, Master Nima ran into Lord Haluk, who reports he was in tears, terrified, and showed signs of having fled an attacker or an otherwise violent situation. He escorted Master Nima to his room and set a guard to keep watch for a time. That guard reported Master Nima did not leave his room the rest of the night; he left with the changing of the guard at dawn."

Nima's head jerked up in surprise and he hastily lowered it again, but not before noting that Haluk was watching him. He'd set a guard to keep an eye on Nima? Why?

Fatih continued, "Early this morning, the Head Librarian noticed something was amiss. He quickly found the missing book and remembered the librarians discussing Master Nima acting strange. I was summoned from the chambers of Lord Yunis, whose wife had contacted me about her husband being assaulted. Lord Yunis was uncharacteristically vague and gracious about the matter, insisting it was some drunk he did not get a good look at and the whole thing was a misunderstanding and he did want the unfortunate youth to come to harm for something he probably didn't even remember."

Nima started to laugh but choked it off, instead coughing briefly then lowering his head even further in mortification.

"The Head Librarian relayed his suspicions when I arrived, and we waited for Master Nima. What troubled me was that Master Nima did not appear surprised by my presence, but neither did he appear alarmed—only resigned and greatly distressed. Further questioning confirmed for me that he had no part in the theft, but that he did likely have something to do with Lord Yunis. My supposition is that Lord Yunis tried to force Master Nima into doing things he did not want to do, Master Nima protested, and Lord Yunis is behaving as he so typically does."

"But for once we have enough to catch the bastard at it and kick him off the council and out of the palace once and for all," the king said. "Master Nima, I am afraid the matter relies on you. We will need you to testify regarding his behavior, if you are willing."

Nima slowly looked up, heart breaking all over again, because for a moment there he had dared to hope he would be all right after all. "I'll do whatever you wish, Your Majesty, but you may not want me testifying. I am afraid they would only bring my past to light, and it would not do credit to your case."

The king frowned. "What do you mean? Are you a criminal? That would have been in your papers."

"Master Nima Karim," Demir said softly, drawing everyone's attention. "Only son of Mistress Wahida, great grandson of Mistress Thana, and your father was Master Essa Karim."

"Oh," Haluk said softly. "I did not realize."

"What does everyone know that I do not?" the king asked, and the foreign concubine looked equally confused.

Demir looked at Nima and smiled softly, reassuringly, and Haluk offered him that smile of warm safety again—but this time, Nima felt only misery. Turning to the king, Demir said, "His grandmother once owned a famous pleasure house, The House of the Crescent Moon. But there were… many problems, and the house closed in disgrace, and no other pleasure houses would hire her or her immediate family. His mother was a renowned dancer, famous especially for the ribbon dances of Kenira province. His father was a famous actor, but he's not been seen in some years, after he abandoned his family to run off with his former lover."

The king looked at Nima. "How does the son of a dancer and an actor become a librarian?"

Nima's mouth tightened. "My mother offended many when she turned down a better marriage to marry my father. When he ran away, she was left disgraced and humiliated—and of course unmarriable because of me. I was seven at the time. Her family would not take us back in, and her former dancing troupe would not help us. Neither would anyone else, for in the aftermath of her marriage, the rejected suitor had much to say on the matter and people believed him over my mother. We were left destitute. My mother got work where she could, but it was not good work. She died when I was sixteen, and I struggled along a few more months before I finally found work in the House of Frost."

Demir's face turned into a thundercloud. "That is no place for someone like you, especially at seventeen."

Hunching his shoulders and bowing his head, Nima said, "I worked there until a kindly patron died and left me a respectable portion, which I used for housing and schooling, and that is what eventually led me here."

"I am going to hazard," the king said in a soft, but sharp voice, "that this House of Frost is where you met Lord Yunis, and he recognized you in the library, and forced you to resume old practices—and you ultimately refused. Do I have the general shape of the matter?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Nima said, wishing the floor would swallow him.

The king's voice cracked out, "Captain Fatih, have Lord Cenk apprised of the situation and brought here, along with the necessary number of councilors to bear witness, whoever is immediately available. Lord Cenk can select them. After everyone is here, I want Yunis dragged in, and I want a production made of it. I would also appreciate if someone would let my wife know what is happening."

Fatih bowed low, rose to his feet and bowed again, and said, "Yes, Your Majesty."

When he'd gone, the king said in a calmer tone, "Kitt, have wine brought."

Nima dared a glance up, and saw the beautiful foreigner rise and descend the dais, walking as gracefully as a dancer to the door to speak with one of the guards outside. Dropping his gaze again before someone took note of his rude behavior, he tried to focus on… anything, but his mind would not settle. His heart wouldn't stop beating too fast. He didn't what to think, or even feel, other than mortification his pathetic past had been laid bare before the most powerful person in the kingdom and his beautiful harem, and try not to panic over what would happen next.

He tensed as Kitt walked past him again, fighting curiosity, instead counting to ten over and over in a futile effort to calm himself.

A knock came at the door a few minutes later, making him jump, then hunch all over again, face flushing anew.

Kitt once more rose, but on his return he stopped and knelt, setting a small tray of wine and sweets in front of Nima. "Drink. You look like you could use it, librarian."

"Kitt," the king admonished lightly.

Winking at Nima, Kitt rose and returned to the dais, grinning as he arranged the wine and sweets he still had. Pouring, he offered the cup to the king, then drank the remaining sip and leaned in to kiss the king softly.

Dropping his gaze was easier that time. Continuing to watch just hurt. He'd never dared to dream as big as royal concubine—and frankly, until several months ago wouldn't have wanted to be. But he had wanted to be one of the elite concubines of a private, luxury pleasure house, the kind where he'd get to pick his own clients—clients who would retain him for years, even decades, usually widowers or men who had no reason to marry and so could retain a concubine in ways married men could not. Eventually he would have retired from that, perhaps settled with a lover, and shifted to helping with the management of the house.

It was fine, though. He was happy as a librarian, especially as he slowly built a reputation for his knowledge of music and poetry. Hopefully the fragile foundation of that reputation had not been shattered by this scandal. At the very least, he hoped somebody would give him a recommendation.

"You look distressed, and for good reason, Master Nima," the king said, "but I promise you will not come to further harm. This matter will be properly addressed and Lord Yunis punished. I am sorry you were treated so in my palace."

"I appreciate your graciousness, Your Majesty," Nima replied. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he hesitantly asked, "Begging Your Majesty's indulgence, but does this mean I'll be permitted to keep my job in the royal library?"

There was silence, and he looked up ready to apologize for his impertinence—and forgot it as he saw the king looked dismayed.

"Of course you'll keep your job," the king said, looking fierce. "That should never have been in question, once it was determined you were not a thief. I am sorry you have been worrying about that this whole time." He smiled faintly. "You are owed a great many apologies. I hope from here on your time in my palace is more pleasant. My concubines have spoken well of you, especially Lord Demir. It's not often anyone knows the pieces he is talking about, or so is my impression."

"I enjoy music, Your Majesty. It was an honor to be of assistance."

The king started to say more, but a sharp knock came at the door. At the king's bidding it opened to admit a tall, handsome man with gray-threaded dark hair, dressed in lavish robes and carrying an air of quiet authority.

"Lord Cenk, thank you for coming so quickly."

"Majesty, I am sorry I was summoned for so unhappy a purpose." Cenk climbed the dais and took his place far to the king's right. "Master Nima, I spoke briefly with the Head Librarian to let him know that you are in fact the one wronged in this situation." He turned to the king. "I'm not pleased that there were so many authority figures who should have been turned to for help, yet Master Nima did not feel comfortable going to any of them. I will see that is rectified. I know it's not always so easy, but leaders should be approachable regarding matters such as these."

Nima wished this whole miserable day would come to an end.

Thankfully, the doors opened again and admitted five imperious looking men, all with angry or sour looks on their faces. "Your Majesty," one of them said stiffly. He cast Nima a scathing look. "Are you certain the word of this… librarian… can be trusted?"

"More trusted than the word of my council, apparently, between all that you stood by and allowed to happen right beneath your noses while my father abused power, and now this attempted rape by one of your own. If you cannot say something worth my time, councilor, then keep your tongue still."

"Majesty," the man said stiffly, bowing low before joining the others on the left side of the room, sitting down heavily on a large purple cushion that clashed with his orange robes.

Servants entered to take away the trays of food and wine, and Nima was eternally grateful he hadn't dared more than a couple of bites and sips because his stomach was threatening to send it right back up.

Almost immediately after they vanished, the doors were thrown open and two guards came in dragging Yunis—actually dragging him, and from the torn and ragged state of his clothes it was because he had not been cooperative about the summons. Behind them came Fatih and four more guards, all of them of enormous size.

The doors closed, and the two guards holding Yunis forced him to his knees, and when he didn't bow quickly enough shoved his head to the floor.

"Your Majesty," Fatih said. "Lord Yunis, as ordered."

"Thank you, Captain," the king replied. "Lord Yunis, do you know why you've been brought before me and official witnesses?"

Yunis glared murderously at Nima before turning to the king. "Because some cheap whore librarian is spreading lies—"

"Watch your tongue," the king said, voice lashing out like a whip. "The fact he comes in here terrified for his life and apologizing for being a problem while you must be dragged here by force and start off by speaking crudely only reaffirms what I already know: you are guilty of coercion, blackmail, and attempted rape." The guards jostled Yunis when he tried to speak. "Normally this matter would be for the courts, but the council falls to me where I deem it necessary and I do not tolerate rape, Lord Yunis. I do not tolerate abuses of power. I most especially do not tolerate those things from the people I am trusting to help me look after my people. You are hereby stripped of your position on the council, stripped of your title—though I will permit it to go to your heir—and banned from the royal palace for life. Witnesses, have you comments or objections?"

"No, Your Majesty," they chorused, all of them looking like they'd rather be anywhere else in the world right then.

"Lock him up, and after his family is packed and in the city to wait for him, I want him escorted to the border of the province."

Fatih bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty." He signaled the guards, who hauled Yunis to his feet.

"You can't do this!" Yunis snarled, twisting free of the guards, knocking them over in their surprise, and surging forward—

And what happened next, Nima completely missed, but when everyone went still, Kitt had Yunis pinned in such a way that one wrong move would snap Yunis's neck. "Are you all right, Ihsan?" Kitt asked.

"Yes," the king said. "Are you?"

Kitt said something Nima didn't understand, though he recognized the words as Rittuen.

Smiling faintly, Ihsan replied, "No, Kitt. Captain, take him, and this time put him chains."

"Yes, Your Majesty. My profuse apologies." Fatih sheathed his sword, clapped both his guards lightly on the head and muttered some words that made them cringe, and signaled for the guard who had shackles secured to his built.

A few minutes later, Yunis was gone, still swearing and shouting.

Kitt returned to the dais, where he kissed Ihsan hard before resuming his place.

"You're dismissed," Ihsan told the councilors. "Thank you for supporting me. I trust there will be no further incidents of this nature from the council?"

"No, Your Majesty," said the man who'd complained upon his arrival, eyes skittering briefly to Nima. "We do apologize, Master Nima. What he did is inexcusable."

Nima nodded, then kept his head bowed, eyes stinging anew, head spinning with how this entire day had gone.

The councilors filed out, and Nima was once more alone with Ihsan and his concubines. "Thank you, Your Majesty. No one has ever done anything like that."

"That's a disappointing thing to hear, I am sorry for that," Ihsan said. "You have the rest of the day to yourself, Master Nima. You are not expected back at the library until tomorrow, and you'll be given a full day's pay."

Nima looked up. "T-thank you, Your Majesty."

Ihsan smiled, and Nima hated the lurch in his chest. But he could admire his king without turning into a fool about it. He knew better than to become besotted, no matter how beautiful and compelling Ihsan—and his harem—might be. Nima was a librarian with a blackened reputation. He was lucky to be where he was, and not foolish enough to wish for more. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your day, Master Nima."

"Your Majesty." Nima touched his forehead to the floor, rose and bowed again, then finally turned and departed, heart pounding in his chest the whole way back to his room—and for several minutes after.

Hopefully after this, his life would go back to quiet and peaceful, and he could put all thoughts of Ihsan and his harem out of his mind.

*~*~*

A week passed before he was proven wrong, by way of the only member of the king's harem he'd not yet met, but had heard plenty about: Sabah, the only concubine who had been a lord's son—and not just any lord, but the Steward's son. He was beautiful in a quiet, elegant way, with none of the flash or overwhelming presence of the others. Not that he wasn't overwhelming, but it wasn't because of his size, or impropriety or decadence. No, Sabah was overwhelming because mere moments after asking for a particular volume of poetry, they wound up talking about that poet, then another, then many more.

Sabah was overwhelming because if life had gone differently, they could have been friends. Or so it felt, but maybe Nima was getting carried away. But every time Sabah laughed or smiled, Nima ached to move a bit closer, wished they could sit somewhere, drinking wine as they talked and read poetry to each other.

They were interrupted by a polite cough, and a shiver ran down Nima's spine as a familiar voice said, "Sabah, our king is wondering where you have gotten to." Demir smiled.

"My apologies," Sabah said, laughing briefly. "Master Nima is an engaging conversationalist. Thank you for your help, and for talking with me. It's not often I can get anyone to listen to me prattle about poetry, let alone keep up with me."

"The honor was mine, my lord." Nima bowed as they departed, and watched them until they were out of sight.

Nima returned to his transcription work, but hadn't managed more than another page when footsteps approached his desk again. He looked up, eyes widening briefly to see yet another concubine in front of him—this one a woman, covered heavily in an intricate snake scale tattoo, jeweled gold hoops in her nipples and stomach. "Can I help you?"

"I was told you were the one to speak to about poetry."

"That is me." Nima rose. "What are you looking for? Something, um, from the Great Desert?"

Her mouth ticked up and she tossed her hair. "What gave it away? My hair?"

"Your eyes," Nima said, with a faint grin of his own.

She batted her eyes with terrible exaggeration and Nima laughed. Looking pleased, the woman said, "My queen actually seeks a book of poetry called The Flowers of the Sky Queen. But I would like desert poems if you have them; it never occurred to me the libraries here would have such a thing."

"Nothing new, I'm afraid; the most recent book is thirty years old, and was transcribed from scrolls. I'll pull a few for you, and Sky Queen as well." He slipped away and quickly pulled the books, recorded them in his logbook, and returned to the waiting woman. "Here you are."

She took the books, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you, Master Nima. I can see why Demir and the others speak so highly of you."

"It's my honor to serve," Nima replied, chest giving a funny flip to hear that the king's harem spoke of him. But they probably spoke of all good servants and staff—briefly, casually, passing on who was useful to speak to and who was best avoided.

Her smile widened and she bowed her head slightly. "A good day to you, Master Nima."

When she'd gone, Nima sank back into his chair, feeling frazzled and restless though gods knew he couldn't say precisely why. Every time his life started to calm down, it seemed something else came along to upend it—though a simple encounter with one of the queen's concubines shouldn't have that effect.

Still, he felt like the whole exchange had been more than a simple request for some books. What else could it be, though?

Shaking off the strange thought, he focused on the transcription, meticulously copying intricate, badly faded script onto pages that would later be bound. It was one of twelve books commissioned by a palace resident, though Nima hadn't bothered to learn who, as that never made a difference to his part of the work.

"Pardon me."

He looked up, and smiled politely at the man standing practically on his desk. "How can I help you?"

"There was a book I was hoping to look at—not check out, I plan to read it here."

Nima set aside his pen and rose. "Of course. What's the title?"

Licking his lips, the man rattled it off. "Hanu's Treatise on Remira Ballads in the Third Monarchy."

"One moment." Nima walked off, brow furrowing once he was well out of the man's sight. That was the second time this week that someone had requested the most boring book in the world—worse, it was also a bad treatise. The only time most people read it was when the wine came out and they wanted something to make fun of. He pulled the book and brought it back to the desk, handing it off the man with a smile.

The man took it and vanished with a half-hearted thanks.

Nima shrugged, made a note the book was being borrowed but not supposed to leave the library, and went back to work.

Less than an hour later, the man returned it and strode out of the library like he had somewhere to be. Nima returned the book and then finished another page of transcribing before the library closed. He tidied his desk, turned in his keys, and slowly headed through the palace intending to leave and head into the city for dinner simply for a change—but familiar music drew his attention, and before he thought about it Nima was following the sounds to the source.

Which proved to be Lord Kitt practicing a complicated fan dance, while Demir and a stern-looking man looked on. A dance instructor, Master Qusay. He'd never trained Nima, but they had crossed paths before Nima's respectable life had collapsed and been lost.

He hovered a few paces from the doorway, unable to tear his eyes away as Kitt practiced and the instructor called out criticism after criticism. If it bothered Kitt, he made no show, only obeyed and corrected and tried over and over. He moved even more beautifully than Nima remembered noting the day they'd met.

Someone jostled him from behind, and Kitt stumbled forward a few steps before catching himself on the wall—and drawing the attention of everyone in the practice room. Nima flushed. "My apologies, I did not mean to intrude."

"Master Nima," they all three said together. The instructor moved forward. "I have not seen you for some years. What are you doing here in the palace?"

Flushing again, staring hard at a worn spot on the floor, Nima replied, "I work in the royal library."

"I see," Qusay replied. "It's good to know you have taken up respectable work."

Anger flickered low in Nima's gut, but he ignored it. Anger and bitterness had never gotten him anywhere, no matter how good it would momentarily feel to lash out at Qusay and all the other people who had turned him away when he'd asked for help.

"You should come in," Qusay said. "Despite your past, and current occupation, I bet you're as good a dancer now as you were back before your mother died." Of Nima's father, he made no mention, but that was hardly surprising.

Kitt broke into a beautiful smile, and behind him, Demir seemed oddly pleased—even satisfied—though Nima could not begin to guess why. "You can dance?"

"I had lessons," Nima said quietly, dropping his eyes to the floor. "My mother was a ribbon dancer, but my specialty was bells."

Qusay snorted. "He had a talent for the bells, a true instinct, and training made him all the better. The library is a waste for someone with your training."

Frowning, brow drawing down, Kitt asked, "If he's so skilled, why did you not hire him? Demir told me you have one of the finest dance troupes in the city; if you are acquainted with Master Nima's family, and he's such an excellent dancer, wouldn't it make sense to hire him? Am I the foreigner missing something again?"

Nima dropped his gaze again, face burning hotter than ever.

Qusay shifted uncomfortably. "I was not able to take him on at the time, and then lost track of him."

Brows lifting, Kitt turned to Demir. "What's really going on?"

"Nothing," Nima said desperately.

Demir's voice was polite but cool when he replied, "If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that Master Qusay did not want the scandal surrounding Nima and his family to risk dirtying his dancing troupe, though a troupe nearly seventy years old could have weathered such a thing and made it trivial. Instead he left a boy who likely trusted him to have no choice but to take up ruinous work and further damage his reputation and future."

"I see," Kitt said, turning back to Qusay. "Is that true, Master Qusay?"

"I had to think of my people and family," Qusay muttered. "It was nothing personal."

Kitt sneered.

"I think we've had enough practice for one day," Demir said. "Master Qusay, thank you for your time, as always." He motioned to the guards, and one of them stepped forward to escort Qusay from the palace.

Nima bowed his head low. "My apologies, I did not mean to interrupt your lessons or cause trouble." He seemed to be doing that a lot around the palace. Perhaps this was only the second time, but it felt like a lot.

"Not at all," Demir said, voice warm and gentle, drawing Nima's eyes up, where he was unable to tear away from Demir's smile. "Are you familiar with fan dancing?"

"Y-yes…" Nima curled his fingers into his palms so he wouldn't fidget. "My specialty is the bell dance, but I can do ribbon, fan, and many traditional dances as well."

Demir cocked his head. "What else were you trained in before you switched to librarian studies?"

"The usual assortment: singing and recitation, serving, tea and wine. My mother wanted me to learn instruments as well, but there was no time, and then it was too late."

Kitt started to speak, but at a nudge from Demir fell silent. He cast Demir a look, and smirked over whatever silent exchange they shared.

Moving a few steps closer to Nima, but maintaining a respectful, proper distance, Demir said, "Would you be willing to take over Kitt's instruction? He doesn't honestly need much in the way of new instruction, mostly refinement of what he already knows. If Master Qusay remembered your skills, I think it safe to assume they are still commendable."

"I… I do not think I would be of sufficient skill to instruct a royal concubine."

Kitt scoffed. "Not so long ago I was a foreigner with no money, no particular skills, and honestly not much of a future. I have only been dancing for a few months now. My first performance was only several weeks ago. I promise, you could be years out of practice and still would surpass me." He winked.

Nima didn't believe a word he said, but it was hard to resist that smile and charm. Whatever Kitt had done before he became a royal concubine, it had required grace, dexterity, and an ability to make people do what he wanted—likely without drawing too much attention. He had that way about him, even now. Demir dressed to captivate the eye. Kitt dressed beautifully, but more quietly, as though he wanted to be appealing but was not used to being captivating.

Or maybe Nima was reading too much into what was merely personal style. Still, observation was a necessary skill for a concubine—and a cheap prostitute. All too often, avoiding pain and worse relied entirely on reading a person's mood in every little touch and shift.

"You would be paid," Demir said. "If you prove to be as excellent a teacher as I suspect then we will also offer you a royal contract—the very one I'm about to cancel with Master Qusay in fact."

Nima flinched. "I didn't mean to deprive him of work."

Demir shrugged one shoulder. "He has work aplenty, but I will not give work to a coward such as that." He smiled. "We must be somewhere else soon, but if you come here tomorrow at this time we will work out all the details and sign the necessary papers. Is that amenable?"

"Yes." Nima bowed low and made his farewells, then departed as quickly as decorum allowed.

His heart was still racing long after he reached his room. He was going to instruct a royal concubine in how to dance. He could get a royal contract out of it—a royal contract! People would happily murder to get one of those.

Smiling, mind spinning with thoughts and hopes he should probably quash before they got out of control, Nima went to get a bath before dressing for dinner.

*~*~*

"Hello, I need to see the treatise again."

Nima smiled blandly and rose. "Of course. One moment." He fetched the world's worse book about poetry and dutifully brought to the man, who wandered off and, as usual, returned a couple of hours later.

Unsurprisingly, later that afternoon, the other man came and requested the book again.

They did it every two to three days, one in the morning, one in the afternoon, sometimes chatting with him, sometimes in a hurry or simply a bad mood.

Normally Nima was content to mind his own business. They weren't even close to the first pair who'd used dull, unwanted library books to pass notes. Lovers, students cheating on tests, people passing information… there were probably at least a hundred other people doing the exact same thing that very moment, for more reasons than even Nima would ever know. He'd learned quickly to leave it alone.

But something about these two bothered him. One of them always wore unremarkable clothes, but another had once hastily removed the trappings of a clerk who worked for a councilor before approaching Nima's desk. Given his last run-in with a councilor, Nima preferred to stay out of it—but that seemed cowardly, and irresponsible now that he had connections to the crown, however tenuous, to whom he could pass potentially important or dangerous information.

He waited until the library was minutes from closing and only librarian remained, then tidied his desk and went over to the treatise. Paging through it quickly, he found the slip of paper within moments and memorized the contents. Returning to his desk, he recopied them and tucked the paper into his sash.

Hopefully he wasn't about to make a complete fool of himself—but whatever the note was, it wasn't from one lover to another. No, it had been all numbers next to letters that looked like initials or some other abbreviation. If he had to guess, he'd hazard the numbers had to do with money, but thankfully guessing would be someone else's problem.

Leaving the library, he made his way to the practice room. He stared, lust and loneliness curling through him, as Demir and Kitt exchanged a heat kiss. Oh, what Nima would gladly give or do to see them do so much more than kiss. Between practicing with Kitt three times a week, always with Demir and guards supervising, frequently crossing paths with Haluk in the halls, and conversing often with Sabah in the library when he came to return and check out more books, Nima was caught in a sticky web of longing for something he would never have. Not if he prayed for a hundred years to have it for a single day.

When they drew apart, he stepped into the room and bowed in greeting.

"Good day, Master Nima," Demir greeted.

Kitt smiled his usual bright, indecorous smile that Nima adored. "What are you going to do to me today?" he asked, green eyes gleaming with mischief that got him a warning nudge from Demir.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could trouble you to set my mind at east on a matter," Nima said. "It's probably stupid, and I am being foolish and paranoid…"

"I doubt that," Demir said. "What troubles you?"

Explaining the strange men and their ongoing exchange of the past couple of weeks, Nima pulled out the slip of paper and offered it.

Kitt took it first, but shook his head after a moment. "I definitely agree it has to do with money, but the letters don't mean anything to me."

"I thought perhaps they'd be councilors, but I only see one set of initials here that might possible be one," Demir said. "I think something is definitely afoot, but we will need Ihsan and Sabah to make sense of this." He motioned to the guards, then to Nima. "Come. His Majesty will want to speak with you himself."

Nima bowed and followed behind them through the halls to the restricted portions of the palace." A guard slipped into a room and several long minutes later the doors opened and several people filed out, casting Demir, Kitt, and especially Nima curious glances. At the guard's nod, they filed into the room.

Ihsan sat with his other two concubines on a dais at the far end of the room, servants briskly clearing away the remains of whatever meeting had been taking place and deftly setting out a table and cushions. More servants came in as they reached the dais to lay out food and wine, a full, if light, dinner laid out in mere minutes.

"Sit, please," Ihsan said, smiling warmly. "I am told you have uncovered further mischief in my court, Master Nima. Join us for dinner and relate to me what you told Demir and Kitt."

Dinner? With the king and his concubines? Him? Nima was going to pass out.

For a single moment he thought he was going to be dining alone with them—but right as reality reminded him that would be improper, the doors were opened to admit Lord Cenk and Captain Fatih. Both of them looked at Nima with surprise. Cenk slid a glance toward Ihsan. "You have a knack for the trouble-attracting."

Ihsan smiled, the brightness of it softening the hardness of his ruined face. "Like to like?"

Fatih shook his head, chuckling faintly as he and Cenk took their places around the table. Nima took the place indicated by Demir, hoping he didn't look as flustered as he felt when Sabah settled next to him and poured them both wine, as Demir poured for Fatih and Kitt poured for Cenk.

"Now then," Ihsan said. "Tell me what you told Demir and Kitt."

Haltingly at first, Nima did so, handing the paper to Ihsan as he finished.

Unfolding it, Ihsan frowned and tapped his chin with the finger of his left hand, which was as badly scarred as his face. "SCH is definitely a councilor, but none of these others are." He tilted it slightly so Haluk, sitting on his right, could better see it.

"Bid numbers," Haluk said. "SCH also refers to the masons guild that same councilor owns. It's one of the guilds bidding to convert the jeweled garden back into a library. There are several other projects being bid on as well, for work here in the palace—including the pipe rooms—and more in the city. He's not allowed to sit on those matters because of a conflict of interest. I would have thought SCH would have the lowest bids, but they have one of the highest."

"Councilor Selaar is a good man," Cenk said as he took the paper passed around the table. "One of the few who is truly ethical without having to be threatened or punished into it. He removed himself from the matter. So if his office is involved, I do not think he is party to it."

Haluk shook his head. "The easiest way to acquire those numbers would be to get them from the office collecting the bids; otherwise someone would have to go to each and every mason, and I believe the total in the province who are fit to the do the work required totals fifty. Some of the projects will require at least two, if not three, masons since they all have different specialties. If I had to guess, this particular list is for those who will be working in the pipe rooms. The engineers have been working on the new pipes for months. The masons they hire will be building temporary bypasses, then knocking down a whole lot of the old pipes and maintenance rooms and rebuilding from the bottom up. Then they have to knock down the bypasses and get the new permanent system running. It will take five to ten years."

Sabah and the other concubines snickered and cast Haluk fond looks. "Leave it to you to know all about the pipes," Sabah said. "So whatever is being exchanged, I'm guessing it gives one mason or another an advantage in the bidding? But what good does it do if the bids have already been submitted? Where does a councilor's clerk come into any of this?"

"Maybe we're looking at the wrong thing," Fatih said. "That he works for a councilor may have nothing to do with it. We need to know more about this man, and whoever he is trading notes with. Would you recognize the men if you saw them again?"

Nima nodded. "Yes, Captain."

Ihsan tapped his lips with one finger. "The first man is a lost cause, so how do we contrive to get countless clerks before Master Nima in order to find the one we seek?"

"I think it would be easier to put me nearby," Sabah said. "I'm always stopping into the library to speak with Master Nima since he's the only one who can keep up with me regarding fourth monarch sonnets. If I'm already there when the clerk comes, I'll likely recognize him."

Fatih said, "Unless your presence there scares him off."

"He won't have much choice," Haluk said. "This process moves quickly to mitigate certain types of bid riggings. Whatever they're doing, I doubt they have the luxury of time."

Ihsan nodded. "Very well. Sabah, I hope you enjoy your trips to the library as much as you claim, because you'll be spending a great deal of time there the next few days."

Taking a sip of wine, Sabah replied, "I am more than happy to spend hours discussing poetry and music rather than sitting through another council meeting, love you though I do, my king."

"I'll remember that," Ihsan said with a grin.

Nima looked away and poured himself more wine as a distraction, chasing away the ache of longing in his gut with the bitterest wine he could easily reach. He'd been doing fine since the debacle with Yunis; fine since somehow becoming a dance instructor to Kitt. Yes, that teased him with the idea of being part of them, but largely he was content with everything the way it was.

But this, sitting around a table while they drank and laughed and plotted, watching them serve Ihsan's guests and fed him wine and food…

Why hadn't he been smart enough to stay in the city? Why had he decided to be ambitious instead of playing it safe?

He poured more wine, and sipped it between bites of food as conversation turned to other matters. It was easier than he liked to ignore his own problems and sink into conversing with the others, fall under the spell of acting like it was typical for a lowly librarian to have a private dinner with the king and his closest associates.

When the meal finally came to an end, and plans were firmed for Sabah coming to visit him in the library, Nima departed feeling more wretched than ever. Hopefully after this matter was resolved, he would be left in peace once and for all, and could focus on work.

Instead of on how much he wished he wasn't walking away from all of them and toward his lonely room for one.

*~*~*

It took two long, wonderful, terrible days of spending hours with Sabah either nearby or speaking with him for the men to show again. When the first one did, shortly after Sabah arrived, Sabah did nothing but bow his head over his book. Later in the afternoon, the second man came.

He'd barely left when Sabah came to Nim'as desk. "Get the paper he put in the book and come with me." He signaled to the guards who had been discreetly watching them the whole time.

Nima did as bid, not even bothering to notify the Head Librarian he was leaving. Minutes later, they stopped in front of a door that made his heart stop. Given the door, the guards, and the location, this could only be King Ihsan's private chambers. Please, no. Why would the gods be this cruel to him?

Tamping down on his nerves, he followed Sabah and the guards into the room. Sabah continued on to sit with Ihsan at the table, where Demir and Haluk also sat. Kitt was nearby, sharpening… oh, my gods those were daggers. Why was a concubine sharpening daggers? On second thought, he didn't want to know.

Instead, Nima stopped the appropriate distance from Ihsan and sank to the floor, then bowed so his forehead just touched the floor.

"Rise, please," Ihsan said. "What have you and Sabah to tell me?"

Sabah said, "The clerk is Abbas, who works for Councilor Taj."

"How does this relate to the matter of the bids?" Ihsan asked. "Though it pains me, I am still learning the nuances of all of this. I wish I'd paid half the attention you did before we ran away." He kissed Sabah softly, smiling as they drew apart. "Of course, I wasn't even smart enough to ask you to come with me."

Returning the smile full measure, Sabah replied, "Lucky for you I'm smart enough for both of us. And Haluk smarter still. As to the clerk, he is the cousin of one of the masons interested in work—but not one of the bidders. He's a sub-mason, who is hoping to appeal to those who win the bids. So I'm hazarding he's finding out ahead of time who is likeliest to wind the bids and doing what he can to make his business appealing to them. Relatively innocuous, all things considered."

Nima flinched. He'd wasted Ihsan's time, of course he had, and now he looked like a drama-mongering fool distracting the king with trivial matters. He should have gone to Captain Fatih, rather than running to Demir and Kitt.

"Innocuous but still illegal, and certainly it marks cracks in the system," Ihsan replied. "Haluk, have the guards summon Captain Fatih."

Haluk did so, and several minutes later Fatih arrived. Sabah related what he knew, and after a long discussion with Ihsan, Fatih departed. A moment later, Ihsan's harem departed as well.

Leaving Nima alone with Ihsan. His heart pounded so hard he feared it would burst. Why hadn't Ihsan dismissed him yet? It was highly improper for him to be alone with the king, unless…

"Master Nima," Ihsan said, rising slowly to his feet and crossing the room to stand only a few paces from him. "I've heard much about you from my concubines, beginning with the day of your arrival and every moment since. I was mostly amused, at first, but the trouble with Yunis brought you directly into my path. And I confess I admired watching you instruct Kitt."

"Majesty?" Nima's face burned. When had Ihsan watched them? How had he never noticed? "I am sorry I appear to have wasted your time with this matter. And that I keep troubling you."

"You've never wasted my time or been any trouble." Ihsan gently tilted his face up. Nima could feel the irregularities of his fingers where the wounds had not healed smoothly. He wanted to take Ihsan's hand, explore every scar, chase his touch with kisses and then do the same with the scars of Ihsan's face and neck. Ihsan's smile was as gentle as his touch. "Well, that is not entirely true. You are quite distracting, my beautiful librarian. Sweet and earnest despite a life that could have left you hard and bitter."

Nima swallowed. "It did, sometimes. I have my days. I try not to let them outstrip the good days."

"I know something about that, if for different reasons," Ihsan said softly. "Tell me, my sweet librarian, are you happy with your life as it is? Would you hate to cast aside the stable life you've worked so hard to build for yourself?"

He couldn't mean… all the signs were there but it still seemed too good to be true. "It's not a bad life, but it was also one of the few options still left to me with a blackened reputation."

"If you'd had your choice, what would you have been?"

Flushing, looking down again, Nima said, "My dream was to work in one of the esteemed pleasure houses, to be exclusive enough I could pick my one or two patrons."

"I see. If that's still what you want, I will see it arranged. There are times I do not mind that it's difficult to tell a king no. That being said, I was hoping you would settle for being my fifth and final concubine."

Nima's eyes stung as he looked up. "I would be honored to join your harem, my king."

Ihsan's smile become a full-fledged grin, and then he dragged Nima close to kiss him—deep, hungry, nothing held back, like Nima was a feast he'd been salivating over for hours and was finally permitted to devour. Shuddering, Nima threw his arms around Ihsan's neck and kissed him back with equal fervor.

He shuddered anew when Ihsan fell back, dragging Nima on top of him, and going sweetly pliant beneath him. That was a heady revelation. Nima shifted to straddle one of his thighs, rubbing the hard cock pressed against his leg, swallowing the noises that got him as a firm hand curled into his hair to hold him in place.

Nima had been trained to last for hours, since more than a few of his clients had liked to see him suffering so—though really the most difficult part some nights was not fighting a desperation to come, but struggling to stay hard. Thankfully, his clients were not the sort to pay attention to such details. All they wanted was to have their cocks and egos strokes.

Right then, twined with Ihsan and rubbing against him, drunk on the knowledge the most powerful man in the kingdom was coming apart in his arms, Nima had no capacity for restraint. When Ihsan bit down on his lower lip and thrust against him one last time, Nima groaned and came.

Untangling them, looking thoroughly mussed and pleased with himself, Ihsan said, "Thank you for joining my harem, Nima."

"The honor is mine," Nima murmured.

Ihsan rolled to his feet and carelessly stripped off his clothes, then pulled Nima up and did the same. "Shall we get a bath?" He kissed Nima briefly. "I'll join you once I go fetch the miscreants who think they're hiding oh so carefully in the storeroom."

But before either of them could move, a door on the far side of the room slid open and the rest of Ihsan's harem came tumbling out.

Nima's face burned, but he didn't even think of resisting when Kitt practically crashed into him and swept him into a wet, filthy kiss. When he eventually drew back, sucking on Kitt's bottom lip before licking his own, Kitt said, "I knew there was something about you."

"You do have a knack for trouble and sex," Sabah replied. "Especially when the two are combined."

Snickering, Kitt gave Nima a surprisingly chaste kiss then pushed him into Sabah's arms.

"Here I worried all my efforts at the flirting were for naught," Sabah said. "You're frustratingly contained when you want to be, pretty librarian."

"You were flirting?" Nima asked.

They all laughed, and Sabah kissed Nima exactly as he'd dreamed a thousand times—cupping his face, holding him like something precious, lips warm and soft, taking Nima's with all the care he'd show a fine, rare wine.

Then he was suddenly enfolded in Haluk's large, steadying arms. "I am glad you are safe amongst us now," Haluk murmured between kisses, calloused hands skimming down Nima's body to cup his ass and pull him even tighter against all those lovely muscles. "Though I hope you are aware we intend to do every last thing to you that many others about the palace will only get to dream of, pretty librarian."

Nima shivered, as enamored of the way they said those two words as he was enthralled by wicked promises. "I would be disappointed if you didn't."

That got him a much filthier kiss, the kind that left his whole body aching for satisfaction.

Instead, he received further torment—devastating torment, by way of the sensuous Demir. This was the man every prostitute and concubine whispered about, longed to meet, longed to bed, and those few who'd had the privilege never admitted to it. But even his most brazen dreams had only involved being taught and tutored by Demir, being a prized student so accomplished he was invited into the most esteemed houses in the kingdom.

Reality was for once proving to be so much better than dreams.

One kiss become several, and Nima swiftly lost track of who was touching who, lost to the sensations of eager bodies and hungry mouths.

He was definitely aware, however, that it was Kitt's mouth around his cock, taking him deep and making him spill in mere minutes. That it was Ihsan's cock he sucked as Sabah stretched him open and fucked him. He vaguely remembered Ihsan mentioning a bath, but that thought and every other were banished completely as Ihsan and Sabah finished with him and then it was Demir's pierced and tattooed cock filling his mouth and Haluk taking him hard and deep.

By the time they were finished and sprawled across the lounging area they'd moved to at some point, Nima was too exhausted to do more than curl into Ihsan's side before sleep overtook him.

When he woke later, he had been moved to the enormous bed he'd only glimpsed before. Through the diaphanous curtains he could see the others moving about, though their voices were pitched too low for him to hear what they were discussing. Tamping down on his ridiculous shyness, Nima rolled out of bed and pushed through the curtains.

The conversation paused as they all saw him, and Nima noticed they were in the middle of dressing for dinner. If he'd thought them distracting before, seeing them in banquet finery only taught him he hadn't known what distracting really was.

And he was one of them now. That thought was terrifying and delighting—and still felt fragile and likely to be taken away. "I hope I'm not delaying anything. Someone should have woken me."

Sabah smiled. "We were just discussing who would have that honor." He crossed the room and kissed Nima softly. "We were also pondering what you might like to wear. Get a quick bath while we finish laying out what we decided on." He winked and withdrew.

Obeying, Nima bathed as quickly as he could, grateful when Demir appeared to help with his heavy hair. Once that was braided and bound with jeweled combs, and he was wearing the black pants and skirt that would be all he wore for the rest of his life, he looked at the jewelry they'd laid out.

"Bells," he said with a laugh—and laughed harder at how pleased they looked. Glancing at Kitt, he asked, "Am I to assume we'll be dancing together at some point?"

"I certainly hope so," Ihsan said from behind him, wrapping arms around Nima's waist and kissed the side of his throat. "Are the bells suitable? Should we have something else brought from storage?"

"I'm happy to wear whatever you desire," Nima replied, and turned his head to take a kiss before letting the others pull him away. In short order he had jeweled hoops in his ears, a choker of bells and more jewels, that were matched to bracelets at his wrists and ankles. The final touch was a delicate chain of bells and jewels that wrapped around his hips.

Turning to Ihsan, smiling shyly, he asked, "Do I look suitably worthy of my king?"

"It's not for a concubine to be worthy of his king," Ihsan replied, taking his hand and kissing the back of it before gently tugging him in close. "It is for a king to be worthy of his concubines. I am honored you've agreed to be mine." He kissed Nima, then drew back to kiss each of the others, holding fast to Nima's hand all the while. "Shall we to dinner?" When they nodded, he squeezed Nima's hand and let go, and Nima fell into step with the others as they surrounded Ihsan and headed off.

 Fin

The High King's Steel Heart

I don't now if this is very Merry Christmas per se, but I've been wanting to write it forever and it finally cooperated so. Here is ten thousands words of 'Wow, Sarrica really never learns'.

Sarrica laughed as he dropped the empty bucket and shoved his now-soaked hair from his face. The air was cool, and the water frigid, but after a long, grueling day of travel and an unexpected ambush from Carthians it felt good. "How do I look Lesto?" He touched his fingers lightly to the stitched up wounds on his left cheek, the work of Bentan bear claws that had grazed him instead of raking his face open as they'd intended.

"Like a buffoon who should learn to duck faster," Lesto said shortly, and upended a bucket over his own head, sluicing away the soap. A cadet stepped forward to dry him off, but Lesto took the towel and did it himself, dismissing the cadet with a jerk of his head.

Another cadet stood nearby, and at Sarrica's indication, came forward to dry him off, taking care of the many cuts and bruises that covered him, though thankfully his armor had done its job and the damage was minimal.

"Stop being cranky just because those Carthians managed to surprise us."

Lesto cast him a look full of hostility, but Sarrica had learned only months after they'd met that this sort of behavior meant Lesto was mad at himself for not knowing every last little thing in the world. He would find at least a dozen ways to blame himself for not anticipating the ambush, even though the entire point of an ambush was the element of surprise. Not to mention there were dozens of officers above Lesto, including the damned High Commander, who were actually responsible for knowing such things. If they weren't to blame, Lesto certainly wasn't. But there was no point in telling Lesto that.

"Come on, we kicked their asses and didn't lose a single soldier. For being on the wrong end of an ambush we did damned well. Father will be pleased when he reads the reports later." If he read them, but Sarrica wasn't going to ruin his own good mood by thinking too hard about his father's increasing apathy. "Can't you be pleased about something for five minutes?"

"I'll be pleased when I'm home in my bed and no longer out here getting stabbed and shot at—and listening to your yammering."

Sarrica rolled his eyes. "Oh, whatever. Go yell at some cadets, or find Captain Dinaari and compare notes on strategy or sword-sharpening methods or what lullaby you sing to your armor at night."

Lesto gestured crudely as a pair of cadets finished securing his armor, snatched up his sword belt, and stormed off.

Well, so much for enjoying a relaxing dinner with his best friend. As hostile and snippy as Lesto always was, and worse lately since they gave up the stupid idea of being lovers, Sarrica wondered if they were friends. Or if Lesto was just one more person who felt like he had no choice when it came to the imperial crown prince.

Sighing, he motioned for the waiting cadets holding his clothes. He'd only just pulled on his breeches when a familiar, yet unknown figure approached at a brisk pace, a frown on his face that Sarrica knew all too well. Sarrica had thought he'd grown immune to the beauty and draw of the Arseni family, especially given Lesto was rarely further than an armlength away, but watching Nyle Arseni walk toward him was like good brandy and a punch to the stomach all at once. He was even more beautiful than his brothers, gray eyes touched with blue as he drew close, hair actually long enough the curl showed. Like his brothers, he wore armor and weapons with ease, carried himself in that way only an experienced soldier could. Lesto had said Nyle had come back even healthier than they could have hoped after his years abroad in a last, desperate attempt to overcome the illness nothing else had fixed—he hadn't mentioned his brother had come back gorgeous and sexy. Sarrica really wanted to know what he looked like naked.

Nyle stopped short a few paces from Sarrica and looked him over briefly, disapproval flickering over his face. "Beg pardon, but have you seen Lieutenant Lesto? I was told he was here…" He glanced around the small area of camp that had been marked off for Sarrica, Lesto, and the commanding officers to use as a makeshift bathing room. "Did he get called away?"

"No, he stomped off in one of his snits," Sarrica said with a grin. "You know Lesto. If he's not perfect, he's mad for half the day. I'm sure he's nagging his long-suffering captain about everything they should have done—or has been given shit work for nagging."

Instead of laughing with him as Rene would have, Nyle narrowed his eyes. "Who in the Realms are you to speak so flippantly of my brother?"

Sarrica's jaw dropped, and nearby his bodyguards all had a sudden coughing fit. Shooting them nasty looks, waving off the one about to explain Sarrica's identity, he turned back to Nyle. "Who am I? Are you just trying to be funny?"

"Do I like look I want to amuse you?" Nyle asked scathingly. "I am long past tired of people in this camp deriding my brother simply because he's good at what he does and is friends with the imperial crown prince. Now where is he? I need to speak with him and I don't have time enough to waste on one more spoiled brat jealous of my brother."

"I'm not a spoiled brat," Sarrica snapped. "I'm his friend."

Nyle's lip curled. "I doubt that. My brother doesn't waste his time befriending buffoons who spend their time standing around camp half-naked and making snide remarks rather than doing actual work."

The guards were almost crying with their efforts not to laugh, and the poor cadets were too horrified to run or speak.

"Then he must really hate having an arrogant ass who makes sweeping judgments based on little to no information for a brother," Sarrica snapped. Why had he thought this irritating, condescending bastard attractive? The only thing he wanted to do now was break his fucking nose.

"You know nothing about me and my brother, I assure you. Now stop wasting my time and tell me where he's gone."

"You're so fucking smart, figure it out for yourself," Sarrica said. "I have better things to do with my time than put up with rude, disrespectful asses like you. But if you try asking politely, and curbing that insolent tongue, maybe I'll tell you."

"I beg your fucking pardon?" Nyle demanded. "I'm disrespectful and insolent? Better an arrogant ass than a spoiled brat about as useful as a bag of sand."

"Better a spoiled brat than an arrogant ass so fucking annoying my family had to ship me overseas to get some peace."

Nyle's face turned red, and the tumble of colorful epithets that left his mouth then was all the warning Sarrica got before he went stumbling back from a punch at least as nasty as one of Lesto's.

"Don't interfere," Sarrica said when his guards made to interfere. Then he returned the punch full measure. After that, it was violence and cursing and people scrambling desperately to get out of their way.

By the time someone grabbed him, and he and Nyle were dragged apart, Sarrica was a mess of bruises and blood, and his breeches were beyond saving. Nyle looked even worse. Sarrica writhed and jerked and twisted, but Lesto kept firm hold of him. Heaving, wiping blood from his face with a bare arm and only managing to make the mess worse, Sarrica glared murder at Nyle, who returned it full measure.

"Sarrica," Lesto said sharply.

Finally jerking free, Sarrica said, "It's over. I want him out of my sight."

Nyle bristled. "Who are you to—"

"He's the imperial crown prince!" Lesto bellowed.

Nyle's mouth dropped, then snapped shut. He looked about half a step from throwing up. "Oh," he said weakly. "I didn't…"

Sarrica accepted the towel one of the cadet's handed him with a trembling hand and cleaned the blood from his face. Looking to Rene, who was still holding on to Nyle, he said, "Get him out of my sight, and keep him out of my sight until I say otherwise." Turning away, he barked for more water and clean breeches and started the process of bathing all over again.

Thankfully, everyone but the cadets and bodyguards left—even Lesto, and Sarrica hoped he was tearing Nyle apart. What sort of Pantheons-damned halfwit didn't know who he was? Even being away for years didn't excuse it—Nyle been home for two already, and even if they hadn't properly met there were plenty of other things that should have made it obvious.

And he wasn't a spoiled brat!

Seething, Sarrica jerked on his clothes as the cadets handed them to him, then stood still as they got his armor and tunic in place. Taking the sword belt when it was handed to him, he carried it as he crossed camp to his tent in the center, bodyguards flanking him.

He ordered them to remain outside the tent—and stopped as he finally noticed a cadet standing there holding a sealed leather message tube stamped with the imperial crest. A message from or regarding his father. Sarrica's anger was replaced by fear, worry, and exhaustion. Thanking the cadet, he took the missive and slipped into his tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him.

The scratch of pen against paper and the rattle of the coffeepot on its heater were the only sounds in the tent, the ruckus of the camp muffled by the semi-isolated location of his tent and the quality of it. At the far end, the only secretary he could stand was busily working on compiling reports and writing out the letters Sarrica had dictated the day before.

Going over to the coffeepot, Sarrica poured a cup and topped it off with sweetened cream. "Thank you for the coffee, Myra."

Myra looked up with a brief smile, but didn't slow in his work, and Sarrica left him to it. Going over to his bed on the opposite side, he pulled off his boots then sat on the bed. Heaving a sigh, he broke the seal on the message tube and tipped out the contents.

The letter was from his father's head secretary, brief and disappointing: his father was being even more apathetic and unpredictable than usual. Worse, he was becoming increasingly forgetful, with flashes of irritability that made him highly unapproachable. The healers had examined him again as Sarrica had requested, but found nothing amiss, though they'd advised rest and given him some soothing tonics, and claimed it was likely simply overwork. Sarrica sighed and kept reading, but the rest of the letter was only what he'd expected: there were things that needed to be done that his father was not able or willing to do. Sarrica would have to abandon the army to return home to deal with them, unless he could convince his father's secretary to send as much as he could to the front so Sarrica could deal with it there. Which would be preferable; if he went home he wouldn't be able to leave again for at least a month, and he was needed here, damn it. At least until he had a High Commander he could fully trust, not the worn down, increasingly selfish bastard who'd long ago lost any desire to do his job but wasn't willing to relinquish the perks. And crown prince Sarrica might be, he didn't yet have the authority to toss the man out.

"Sarrica!"

Sighing again, Sarrica said, "Myra, you might want to take a break."

Myra looked up with sympathy, brushing back a strand of shoulder-length hair that had slipped free of its knot. "Yes, Highness." He put all his papers away with brisk efficiency and slipped out of the tent right before Lesto barreled in.

"Sarrica! What in the Pantheon were you thinking!"

"Thinking? I was thinking your brother is an arrogant, foolish ass who got exactly what he deserved."

Lesto looked like he wanted to do some hitting himself, despite the bags under his eyes and the strain turning them a dark, stormy gray. "You should have told him who you were!"

"He should have known who I was," Sarrica snapped.

"How could he know? He's never met you. He's never met your father. Ever since he returned he's been at the Fathoms Deep estate or with the army. How could he possibly fucking know what you look like?"

"It doesn't take a genius to figure it out," Sarrica muttered, and at Lesto's glare added, "Whatever. Ignorance doesn't excuse how damned rude he was, all the assumptions he made and conclusions he leapt to."

"You are a spoiled brat, and an ass, and—"

Sarrica shot to his feet. "You know, you could try to understand my side of the matter."

"He's my little brother!" Lesto bellowed. "And you're the imperial crown prince—"

"I know! No one ever lets me fucking forget it!" Sarrica shouted over him. "Crown prince this, imperial that. I have to be fucking perfect all day every day, and your stupid brother strides up and is rude right from the start for no reason, but somehow it's entirely my fault and not his at all."

"Sarrica—"

"Get out," Sarrica snapped. "I'm not in the mood to deal with you anymore than him. I've had my fill of Arsenis lately."

Lesto's mouth hung open. "What—"

Sarrica barreled on. "I'm sure you'd prefer not to see me anyway. Go back to your brothers and all three of you can complain about how spoiled and stupid and unbearable I am." When Lesto just stood there, Sarrica snarled, "I said get out."

Lesto looked like he'd been slapped, but after a moment anger took over and he said coldly, "Yes, Your Highness. My honor to serve." Turning on his heel with military precision, he strode out of the tent in the same fury he'd arrived.

It should have felt like a victory, but instead Sarrica just felt more miserable than ever.

He glanced at the message he'd dropped on the bed, and picked it up as he slumped down. What had he been thinking? Nobody needed him here. Realms, they'd obviously all be happier if he left. Anything he could do on the field, Lesto could do a hundred times better. Even High Commander Palmay gave Lesto a wide berth, although that was probably more because he knew damn good and well that Lesto was already better than him. Lesto wouldn't be Palmay's replacement, that was probably going to be General Verence. But given how quickly and early Lesto had risen to Second Lieutenant in Fathoms Deep, and how much of the general army already did his bidding because to not do his bidding was at best a death sentence, it was already widely acknowledged that one way or another, Lesto would succeed Verence.

All Sarrica had wanted was to celebrate their victory in what could have been a nasty, tragic ambush with his best friend. His only friend, if he was being honest. Who was too busy with his brothers to have time for Sarrica.

Stupid to feel jealous. Of course Lesto wanted to spend time with his brothers, especially now that Nyle wasn't just home or training to adjust to life in the Harken army, but actively a part of Fathoms Deep. Now that Sarrica thought about it, maybe that was why Lesto had seemed more distant lately: he didn't need Sarrica anymore now that Nyle was back.

Gripping the missive tightly, Sarrica strode to the tent entrance and flung it open. Looking at the bodyguard who turned, he said, "My presence in Harkenesten has been urgently requested. Have someone come pack my things. I'm leaving immediately."

The bodyguard looked started, but only bowed. "Yes, Your Highness. Shall I summon Lieutenant Lesto to—"

"No," Sarrica said. "He has plenty of better things to do. Thank you." Letting the flap fall, he set to work packing the personal effects he didn't want anyone else touching, stomach churning with the love-hate of seeing his father, all the problems that would be waiting for him, and the realization that the man who'd always been the brother he'd never had didn't hold him in the same esteem. Why should he, though? He had real brothers. It was always Sarrica who'd needed Lesto.

Of an infuriatingly beautiful, breathtakingly arrogant bastard with gray-blue eyes and a mean right hook, Sarrica didn't think at all.

*~*~*

Sarrica wanted to die. He didn't care how, he just wanted somebody to come along and put him out of his misery. He heaved again into the chamber pot, stomach, chest, and throat aching because it wasn't even close to the first time they'd joined his fucking head in rebelling against him.

Finally finished with the last round, he sprawled on the floor and closed his eyes, tears threatening as his head continued to do its best to tear itself apart. Pantheon, he hated this—especially when he couldn't even lock himself in his room to hide his pathetic, humiliating behavior from the rest of the world. No, anybody could stride into his tent and see him lying on the floor, close to tears like a child, all because of a glorified headache.

He'd returned to the front barely two weeks ago, depressed and desperately hoping somebody had missed him.

Instead, Lesto was avoiding him, Nyle kept shooting him nasty looks and the few occasions they'd spoken he'd been so painstakingly polite Sarrica wanted to punch him, and Rene was avoiding all of them.

If he sent Lesto a note right now, would he put Sarrica out his misery? But that required getting up, and if Sarrica moved he would be right back to throwing up. Instead he kept his eyes closed to ward off as much of the damned light as possible, and tried to focus exclusively on breathing.

"Your Highn—" the voice cut off. "Are you all right?"

"Go away unless you're going to kill me," Sarrica muttered, cringing inwardly. Of course, of fucking course it was Nyle who entered his tent right now. The one Arseni who never had any reason to come see him had to pick this particular moment to need him for something. Hadn't he told his guards not to let anyone in unless it was an emergency? Or had he just thought about telling them? He couldn't remember.

He didn't move, or even open his eyes, as he heard Nyle crouch down beside him. "Go away."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Nyle huffed. "You really are too stubborn for your own good. Why are you sprawled on the floor like you lost a fight with a hangover?"

"It's not a gods-damned hangover!" Sarrica snapped, eyes opening as he sat up—and immediately regretted it, barely shoving Nyle out of the way in time before he heaved up his empty stomach, leaving behind the vile taste of stomach acid. When his stomach finally gave up, he crawled over to his bed and climbed slowly up into it, flopping onto his back and dragging a pillow over his head to get rid of that wretched, evil light.

Pantheon, he wished he could take his powders and sleep for a day or two. But once the scouts returned they'd be on the move again. If they didn't push Benta back now, they'd be stuck in Cartha through the winter, and Harken did not have the edge in winter—and Cartha and Benta knew it. Whoever those two didn't kill, the weather would.

Not that he was eager to be home either, but he wasn't going to leave his people out here to die because he was a coward when it came to his father and all the people who expected Sarrica to be a perfect High King, and to be so now and didn't hesitate to rebuke and harangue him whenever he did something wrong.

Why hadn't Nyle put him out of his misery yet? Why did he keep thinking about useless Arsenis?

"Lift up the pillow."

"No," Sarrica said.

Nyle said something crude and yanked it away, but before Sarrica could order his execution, he laid an ice cold cloth across Sarrica's forehead. "Try that."

Sarrica almost cried, it felt so good. "What did you do?"

"I melted snow and soaked the rag in it. I had a friend in Illiar who suffered crippling headaches. Their word for them is 'migraine'. I didn't know you suffered them."

"Why would you know? It's not exactly the kind of thing one puts in a letter to a brother," Sarrica said. "What did you need? I don't think you were sent here to help me with my headache. I haven't snarled at the healer or my bodyguards that much." And he hadn't even seen Lesto in three days, let alone talked to him, but he had enough misery to deal with currently without thinking about that.

Nyle's hesitation was palpable, but before Sarrica could snap at him to get on with it, he said, "I came to apologize, but I think it should wait until you're back on your feet. It seems wrong to apologize to a man who can't even stand up right now."

Sarrica dared to crack one eye open at that. "Apologize? For what?"

"Getting into a fight with the imperial crown prince, after being too stupid to recognize him?"

"As was loudly pointed out to me, you couldn't have known I was the crown prince. That's hardly stupid. Also, being crown prince never kept Lesto from yelling at me like a drunk soldier two hours late to training, or Rene from calling me a sandbag ten times a month. I don't see why you should be any different." He closed his eye again. "Anyway, that was six…or maybe seven…weeks ago. It's over and done. Forgiven and forgotten."

"And yet you and Lesto are still at odds, and I feel that's my fault," Nyle said quietly, and so sadly that Sarrica opened both eyes that time and even dare to sit up. His stomach lurched, and his head wasn't happy with him, but he shoved the misery away by focusing on Nyle's distracting presence and the worry on his lovely face. "So I was hoping to set things right."

"What's between, or not between, me and Lesto is our business and nothing to do with you."

"You fought with him because you fought with me. He's been even more hostile and snappish and unreasonable ever since you left, and I didn't think it could get worse but then you returned and now he's tipped right into despondence."

Sarrica snorted at that, then immediately winced. "Lesto couldn't be despondent if he had to do it to save Fathoms Deep."

"He's been acting like somebody cut off his limbs. If you don't believe me, summon him and see for yourself. I've done my part, you two clods will have to work the rest out. Lay back down before you heave all over me."

"Nothing left to heave," Sarrica replied, but gladly laid back down. "I'm sorry, too, by the way."

Nyle smiled, and Sarrica really wished he hadn't done that because now Sarrica was never going to be able to not think of Nyle, and what it might be like to get along with Nyle, and get along well enough to fuck Nyle. "Feel better, Highness." He dipped his head slightly and strode off in the perpetual rattle of sword belt and armor.

Sarrica closed his eyes and, with the soothing cold rag on his head, managed to doze for a bit.

When he was stirred awake a few hours later, the tent was dark save for a single lamp, and one of his bodyguards was shaking him. "Your Highness, the scouts have returned. The High Commander is waiting to speak to you."

"All right. Send for Lesto."

"Yes, Your Highness." The bodyguard faded off and Sarrica stumbled over to the table where his coffee, water, and a single bottle of wine were kept. He didn't as a rule allow alcohol in the camps; too much trouble came from giving soldiers access to it, and he preferred they not go into battle drunk or hungover. And he didn't make a rule he wasn't willing to follow himself, but he had the bottle saved for when they were able to go home. The first night back in Harken, he'd buy them all beer and wine and let them celebrate until they fell over, and he had one good bottle for himself—and anyone who might drink with him. Usually that would be Lesto.

The familiar rattle of Lesto's sword belt alerted him a moment before Lesto swept into the tent like he owned it, like they hadn't ignored each other for nearly seven weeks.

"Did you need something, Your—why in the Realms are you standing when you look two seconds from falling over? Get your stupid ass in bed."

Sarrica refused to cry about being yelled at by Lesto. He wasn't that pathetic. "I'm fine. These stupid headaches haven't killed me yet, more's the pity, so I doubt they'll do it today."

"You shouldn't be up," Lesto snapped.

"The High Commander is waiting to tell me what the scouts had to say. Do you want to keep nagging me, or do you want to get on with business?"

Lesto glared at him, but whipped around and told the guards to admit High Commander Palmay.

He stepped inside a moment later, sour-faced and flushed from contraband alcohol, looking between them disapprovingly. "Your Highness, I've come to report."

"Then report, please," Sarrica said, finally surrendering to his headache and Lesto's glaring by taking a seat at his work slash dining table. "I don't suppose it's good news?"

"It's not bad news," Palmay said. "The Carthians have withdrawn, and there is no sign of them in the vicinity, and barely any trace at all even a day's journey out. The Bentans are where they have been, but seem settled for the winter. There are indications there's a second camp further west, and possibly something smaller—perhaps a scout party—to the east, but there's no signs of activity. If they're planning to attack again, they're not doing it anytime soon."

Lesto looked at him like he was the stupidest thing Lesto had ever seen. "Are you kidding me? They're not settling in, you imbecile, they're waiting. The Carthians withdrew because it will take at least three weeks for additional Bentan forces to arrive, and they may as well use the time to resupply themselves and prepare for whatever winter will throw at us. That scout party is probably there to alert the main camp their reinforcements are arriving—and to be the first to know if the reinforcements send out a distress signal, and the first to act if they go missing. You're the fucking High Commander—"

"And you're being insubordinate and disrespectful," Palmay snapped.

"Not if he's pointing out things you should have," Sarrica said.

Palmay shifted his contempt to Sarrica. "With respect, Your Highness, I do not need two little upstarts barely out the classroom telling me how to do my job. Lieutenant Lesto sees a fight in every nook and cranny, and you do whatever he says because you're incapable of thinking for yourself."

"Get out," Sarrica said. "Don't bother leaving your tent until I say otherwise. You are temporarily relieved of duty." When Palmay bristled and made no move to go, Sarrica summoned his guards and ordered him removed. Jerking away when the guards grabbed him, Palmay stormed out in a flurry of threats and curses.

Lesto sighed. "I might feel bad if he hadn't slurred every last damn word."

Sarrica jerked his head at the guards. "Make certain he goes to his tent, see that he stays there, and no one goes in or out, not even to deliver his meals. Anything he needs gets left at the entrance."

"Yes, Highness."

Exhaustion, anger, and helpless frustration gnawed, driving his headache right back from bearable to agonizing. "Lesto, go find General Verence and sort out how we're going to deal with this. If we're going to be stuck here through the winter, which it sounds like we will if you're correct, then we need…" He dropped the cold rag and just barely reached the chamber pot in time to heave up the water he'd drunk. "Go fix it, Lesto. Please. I'll help as soon as I'm functional again."

Lesto nodded and strode off, but cast a look over his shoulder, equal parts worry and silent order to actually get some rest.

Some imperial crown prince he was. Sarrica dragged himself back to bed, buried his face in his pillow, and tried to will himself to die. As usual, it didn't work. Eventually, though, the exhaustion won out.

When he woke, it was to hazy sunlight and the smell of fresh coffee, the familiar clatter and bang of the camp rousing. His head, mercifully, was behaving. Sarrica slowly sat up and climbed out of bed, and walked over to the coffee. When his stomach didn't rebel at the first sip, he took several more and went to the entrance. "Find Lesto and tell him to come here."

"Yes, Highness."

Sarrica sat at his table and sighed at the pile of missives and reports that had appeared while he slept.

Before he could look at it all, Lesto swept in, followed by a cadet bearing breakfast. Sarrica's stomach growled at the smells. Camp food wasn't his favorite thing in the world, but neither was he going to complain about it, not when he'd missed dinner and the camp cooks for once seemed to know what they were doing. A bowl of meat and gravy, glistening with fat, and a stack of fresh bread had never looked so good.

"Feeling better, then?" Lesto asked.

Sarrica was too busy eating to reply, but when he'd swallowed he said, "So are we talking again?"

"You're the one who told me to get out," Lesto said. "That you were sick of Arsenis. You made it sound like we weren't friends anymore."

Sarrica scowled at his breakfast. Why had he opened his mouth? He hated this sort of thing, especially first thing in the morning. "You've been distant since we stopped trying to be lovers. You defended Nyle but wouldn't defend me—"

"How do you know I didn't defend you? I yelled at Nyle first, you know."

"You did?"

"Yes. If you'd held off throwing a temper tantrum, I would have told you that. You're my brother too, even if you have all the sense of a rock, and I was furious he'd gotten into a fight with you—especially that he threw the first punch. He's too smart to behave that way."

Sarrica laughed. "None of us is too smart to behave that way. We're at war, behaving that way is precisely what we're supposed to do." He laughed harder at Lesto's expression. "I'm not wrong."

"Whatever," Lesto groused, and stole a piece of bread from the plate beside Sarrica's half-empty bowl.

"Order your own breakfast, ass. Why didn't you?"

Lesto shrugged.

"Go."

Standing, Lesto went to the entrance and requested another breakfast tray.

When it came, Sarrica stole a piece of bread, grinning when that got him another look, and used it to sop up the last of the gravy and bits of meat in his bowl. "So what did I miss?"

"We're stuck here. If we leave, Benta is going to make a move. Cartha doesn't like them anymore than they like us, but I get the feeling they'll let Benta pass with little trouble simply because they hate us a little bit more—and Harken wouldn't fare well against that kind of attack right now."

No, it wouldn't, not with Tricemore being difficult and everyone around them being useless, and the High Court a Pantheon-damned nightmare because his father wasn't doing anything, there wasn't a consort to do it for him, and Sarrica couldn't be in two places at once—and it was slightly more important he be here, especially since he couldn't trust his High Commander.

"Oh, marvelous," Sarrica said, grateful he'd already finished his breakfast because his appetite was gone. "So if we go home, we're fucked, and if we stay here Cartha and Benta will put up with each other just long enough to crush us from all sides."

Lesto didn't bother to reply, simply continued eating his own food.

"I hope you've come up with a plan."

"Of course I have, and the general is helping me refine it." He looked proud of that, but he should. Lesto was made for the military in a way even Sarrica wasn't, though he didn't think it was exaggerating to say he was a close second. At the very least, he was the only one who could knock Lesto flat in the sparring rings. "It still needs a bit of work, but we'll have it ready to present tomorrow, I think. At worst, the day after. I'm already working on supply lists and such."

"That's not your job."

Lesto jerked one shoulder in a shrug that said there were many reasons he was stuck doing it anyway, but he didn't feel like elaborating.

Sarrica sighed. Once upon a time, the Harken Imperial Army had been one of the most revered in the world. Since his great-grandfather's day, that reputation had steadily declined. He and Lesto were going to have a long, hard road repairing it—and that was on top of all the other reformations and changes Sarrica was working on, or waiting patiently to implement. "Try not to kill anyone, Lesto. Bottle all that frustration of yours to take out on Bentans."

"I intend to, unless you act like a hole-ridden bucket again," Lesto said, finishing his coffee and standing.

"Do you really think of me as a brother?" Sarrica asked, then immediately regretted it because it sounded even more plaintive and pathetic out loud than it had in his head.

Lesto stared at him, expression flickering between surprise and anger. "Why are you asking such a stupid question?"

"I told you!" Sarrica snapped. "Ever since we quit the lovers thing, you've been distant—and even more so since Nyle officially joined Fathoms Deep. I thought maybe…" He shrugged and looked down at his hands in his lap, curling and uncurling his fingers.

Lesto cuffed him.

"Hey!" Sarrica snarled, surging to his feet, one hand going to his throbbing head. "What was that for, you ass?"

"I already have enough stupid people in this camp to deal with! I don't need one of the few other persons with intelligence suddenly turning into a halfwit. Stop asking such ridiculous questions." Lesto scrubbed at his face. "I didn't mean to be distant. I've been tired. What little free time I have usually goes to doing things that shouldn't be my problem or trying to keep Nyle from getting his fool self killed."

Sarrica smirked. "Let me guess: his arrogance and his mouth get the better of him."

Lesto narrowed his eyes.

"What?" Sarrica asked.

"Something you want to tell me?" Lesto asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"What are you talking about? No." He would quite literally rather die than ever admit to Lesto that he thought his brother was eminently fuckable. "Stop glaring at me, what's your problem now?"

Lesto dropped his arms and stole Sarrica's coffee, draining the cup and setting it back on the table with a bang. "That explains a lot." He laughed—long and loud and really, Sarrica was going to punch him in another minute.

"Don't make me regret reconciling," Sarrica said with a glare.

Lesto's grin was worse than any of his glares. "You have my permission, if that's why you're prevaricating."

Damn it. Sarrica desperately persisted with ignorance. "I still have no idea—"

"Don't insult me. Just remember he's an Arseni, so you'd better have respectable intentions."

Sarrica gave up, burying his face in his hands. "I hate you. I never want to see you again. Go away."

Laughing again, Lesto swept from the tent in that way of his that had left more than one unwitting foreigner confused as to which of them was the crown prince.

Sarrica slumped in his seat and groaned. Great. Not only was he still interested in Nyle, now Lesto knew. Not that it would have taken him long to figure it out once…

Once nothing. Nyle hated him. He might have been nice when Sarrica had his headache, and apologized because of Lesto, but that didn't mean anything. Especially since Lesto was right: Nyle wasn't the kind of person to have an affair with. He was courting material. Consort material. Sarrica hadn't really thought that far until now.

Why had he wanted to reconcile with Lesto? How had he managed to forget Lesto was an unbearable, domineering ass who always saw and figured out too much?

Pushing to his feet, Sarrica went to get washed and dressed.

*~*~*

Whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, Sarrica could never decide, but preparing his army for a long winter campaign where the odds were stacked against them kept him busy and in twenty places at once, and he didn't see Nyle again for two weeks.

And when he did see him, he was once again almost entirely naked and not at his best, though this time it was from a long battle that included getting a weighted fist to the face.

"Your Highness."

Sarrica looked up from the table he'd rested his head on. "Yes?"

The bodyguard nodded toward someone he couldn't see. "Sergeant Arseni has come to see you, and has your dinner."

The need to be alone warred with a spark of interest Sarrica had given up fighting. Ever since Nyle had come to apologize, he'd been nibbling and gnawing at Sarrica's thoughts. And doing a great deal more when he fell asleep and let his guard down, but he wasn't thinking about that. "Let him in."

Nyle stepped in a moment later, bearing a tray that smelled divine.

"Is that lamb?" Sarrica could have cried. Lamb was his favorite, and he'd been so busy at camp—and his month at home—that he'd never had time to sit down and enjoy it. "Where did someone find lamb all the way out here?"

"It's probably better you don't know, to be perfectly honest," Nyle said, looking pleased as he set the tray down. "Lesto was going to bring it to you, but he got called away and I volunteered to do it in his stead."

Sarrica eagerly dug in. "I appreciate it. How are you enjoying our oh so exciting winter in the Cartha Mountains?"

Nyle made a face. "I prefer the heat. Illiar was more like Harken in that. Why would anyone want to live in all this wretched snow?"

"Don't ask me." Sarrica took another piece of lamb, which was seasoned exactly the way he liked. There was also fresh bread, mint sauce… in fact, this wasn't just his favorite lamb, it was his favorite meal. He paused. "Am I being buttered up for something?"

"Not that I'm aware," Nyle said, and his mouth ticked up faintly. "Not really Lesto's style either, so if someone is attempting to soften you it's not us."

Sarrica laughed. "True enough. But if someone wanted to really coax me into agreeing to what they wanted, they should have included a proper cup of tea, too."

"I'll be sure to see that's spread around camp so whoever it is does a better job next time."

Smiling, hating the stupid fluttering in his chest when Nyle's tiny smile widened, Sarrica said, "Did you need something? Or were you just running Lesto's errand?"

The barely-there smile went out like a snuffed candle. "Just the errand, my apologies. I'm sure—"

"No!" Sarrica said, not quit surging out of his seat to stop him. "That's not what I meant. I just didn't know if you did want something. If you're not busy, you're welcome to stay. I like company when I eat, especially when it's not someone who's going to make me work between bites."

"Oh." Nyle still didn't move.

"Sit, sit, unless you'd rather go—and I won't be mad if that's the case." Sarrica wanted to beat his head against the table, even though it already felt like he'd slammed it into a wall—which, given the weight of the fist that had struck him, wasn't far off the mark. He was lucky nothing had been broken.

He swore it wasn't always this difficult to talk to people.

Nyle slowly took the seat across from him, and Sarrica tried not to be dejected that he looked like a child being put before his father after angering the tutor.

"So what called Lesto away?"

That was clearly the wrong thing to ask from the further tensing of Nyle's shoulders. "I honestly don't know. There was a lot of shouting and swearing and Lesto threatening to remove organs."

Sarrica ate more lamb then said, "Sounds like I don't want to know, either. So what do you do when Lesto isn't running you ragged?"

"Train, spar, the same thing anyone else does." Nyle looked up briefly, then back down at the table.

"Surely you must do something for fun. Even I get to enjoy my hobbies once or twice a year."

"What hobbies are those?" Nyle looked up, and this time kept his eyes up, which was nice, because Sarrica had been starting to think Nyle hated looking at him.

Had he always been this terrible at talking to people he was interested in? On second thought, he didn't want to know the answer. "Pissing off Lesto, horse racing, chess—and I honestly can't remember the last time I got to ride a horse for anything more than battle." Even then, he was usually not right in the middle of the fray, as that was a stupid place to put the only heir to the imperial throne. "Do you play chess?"

"You say that like I would have had any choice in the matter," Nyle said wryly. "Even oceans away, I was thoroughly tutored in chess and other such games."

Sarrica laughed. "Foolish question. You still haven't told me your hobbies. Is it sitting in the family vault like Lesto?"

Irritation flickered on Nyle's face, but before Sarrica could apologize for whatever he'd said wrong, Nyle said, "Art. I like art. I have a rather impressive collection, I like to think, though I'm sure it's nothing like the imperial palace boasts."

"You'd know better than me, likely, what sort of art is around the palace. That was my mother's interest. I'm so busy whenever I'm there that I wouldn't notice if somebody painted a picture of me naked across the floor of the compass hall."

Nyle laughed, and hot satisfaction swept through Sarrica, along with a low curl of lust. "You may not notice, but I am fairly certain many others would and make your day even busier." He looked up, the blue in his gray eyes even more apparent. He was so beautiful it hurt, especially when he smiled so openly. Sarrica had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life.

As his laughter faded Nyle said, almost shyly, which wasn't nice of him at all, "I like gardening, too. I had a beautiful garden back in Illiar. I hated to leave it, but gardens can't exactly be packed in trunks and I could only bring a few cuttings with me. I've got them at Fathoms Deep for now, until I have time to make a proper garden."

"Well if Lesto throws a fit about you mucking about his precious estate, you are welcome to garden all you like at the palace. We've got more of them than I think even the gardeners know about."

That got him another smile, even if it was coupled with a spoiled brat look that Sarrica knew all too well. It was a look Lesto gave him whenever the subject of money came up. "I'll keep that in mind, though I think the High Court would take it amiss if you just let some stranger traipse about planting gardens."

"At least you wouldn't be traipsing through the gardens naked singing bawdy ballads," Sarrica replied. "Or releasing the damned songbirds for the thousandth time."

"Why would someone release the songbirds?"

"Usually it's children who feel sorry for them, the rest of the time its drunk youths amusing themselves."

Nyle snorted. "Drunk youths—you say that like you're not a youth yourself, Highness. Lesto is twenty-one, so you're what, twenty-two?"

Most days, Sarrica didn't feel anywhere close to twenty-two. Other days, he was painfully aware of his age and how inadequate everyone found it. "And you're what, eighteen?" He grinned.

"Nineteen." Nyle glared at him in a way that said he knew damn good and well Sarrica had gotten it wrong on purpose.

Sarrica just grinned more and leaned in slightly, pushing his empty food tray out of the way. "Barely out of training and already punching crown princes. You must have been a handful to raise."

"You wish you knew how much of a handful I—" Nyle broke off, his face turning an alarming but adorable shade of red. He surged to his feet so quickly his chair tipped off. "Excuse me, Your Highness." He fled the tent, nearly tripping over himself in the process, startling the bodyguards.

Sarrica stared after him, mouth hanging open. He snapped it shut and sighed. Nyle had flirted with him. Then run away he was so horrified by his own behavior. Why? Was the idea of flirting with Sarrica that awful?

His mouth turned down in a tight, sour frown. No, probably the idea of flirting with the imperial crown prince was that horrifying—even for an Arseni, who had a longer history of friendship with the imperial throne than anyone else in the empire. It was why Sarrica had so few lovers to his name, and no real relationships. Everyone else his age spoke and boasted of lovers and affairs and betrothals. Even Lesto had a string of people constantly vying for his attention, because to marry into Fathoms Deep was to obtain wealth, power, and prominence beyond compare.

To take up with Sarrica was to put one's self at risk, and for all the perks that came with ruling the empire, there was also a great deal of work—never mind the bodyguards and the constant threat of assassination and other dangers. It was only a few years ago that Myra had saved him from an assassin. Most people decided that being that close to Sarrica was too much of a good thing, and not worth the cost.

Stupid him for thinking Nyle might have been different. It wasn't like he really knew Nyle—it only felt that way, to some degree, because he knew Lesto and Rene so well.

Whatever. He had work to do, work he should have been doing instead of trying to flirt with a man who'd bolted the moment he'd realized they were flirting. Shoving the hurt down to join so many others, Sarrica rose and went to have the bodyguards recall Myra so he could start dictating replies to the council's many, many letters.

*~*~*

Pantheon and all the Realms, Sarrica was sick and tired of the cold. If he never saw snow again, it would be too soon. At least the fighting had tapered off again. Even Benta seemed to be getting sick of trying to crush them. Sarrica was simply relieved that Lesto's plans were working. Of course, part of that plan had entailed summoning Penance Gate, who true to their name seemed to thrive in the settings that made everyone else miserable. But between Penance Gate's brutality, Winter Dark's effective scouting, and the general efficiency and stubbornness of the general army, all held together by the relentlessness—and audacity—of Fathoms Deep…

They may yet get through this campaign and drive Benta back enough to be able to go home in the spring. But Sarrica wasn't counting his victories before he'd won them.

Wincing as he slipped on the ice and pulled at the wound in his side, Sarrica stopped until the pain settled back to a throb then carefully continued on his way to the Fathom's Deep portion of camp. Lesto would probably scream at him for not having his bodyguards, something he'd been annoyingly rabid about ever since the assassination attempt where Myra had saved Sarrica's life, but Sarrica honestly didn't care right then. All he wanted was a friendly face, someone he should share the letter from his father with.

Sarrica loved his father, he did. But right then he was tired. He couldn't run a brutal campaign and the empire all by himself. His father should be doing things, and instead he spent his energy yelling at Sarrica for things he didn't fully understand because he let the court gossip get to him. Because Sarrica's abysmal ability to play politics definitely came from his father—but at least he had the sense to know he could ignore most it and there wasn't much anyone could do about that. If only someone could get that through his father's head.

Shivering in the cold, which just seemed to make every ache, pain, and bruise worse, he threaded through the maze of the Fathom's Deep camp until he reached the area slightly set apart for Captain Dinaari and his Lieutenants. Anticipation and relief swept through him as he finally reached Lesto's tent. Pulling back the flap, he stepped inside. "Lesto, you won't believe—" He stopped as he realized it wasn't Lesto he was staring at, but a very naked, very beautiful Nyle. "S-sorry. I was—"

"I don't care!" Nyle snarled, snatching up a nearby robe. "Why are you still standing there gawking? How typical of you to just walk in wherever you want, while expecting everyone to stand around waiting permission to enter your tent."

"Sorry," Sarrica said again. "I don't—that's not—sorry." He turned and fled, crashing into several soldiers who were passing by. Muttering yet another apology, he headed back the way he'd come, emotions knocking around in his head like a box of broken glass being heavily shaken.

Gods, why couldn't he do anything right where Nyle was concerned? Every time he tried, he managed to make Nyle angry. Every time it seemed things were going well, something invariably interfered or Nyle bolted. And sometimes, like now, Sarrica messed up without any warning at all and without any hope of setting things right.

It was long past time to give up hope of Nyle seeing him as anything but an annoyance to be tolerated, but Sarrica couldn't. Every smile he extracted left him happy for hours, and the rare laugh bolstered his spirit for days. When they managed to get along for more than ten minutes, all his hopes bubbled up again. As much as he had wanted to see Lesto… gods, he wouldn't have minded if instead Nyle had listened to him fret and worry, and made him feel better simply by being someone Sarrica could talk to. He loved Lesto, but right now he wished it was Nyle who strode into his tent without so much as a warning, that it was Nyle who made the guards sigh because he completely ignored their protocols but insisted on them for everyone else.

But Nyle didn't want him, didn't even want to be anywhere near him—not as a comrade, not as a friend, and certainly not as a lover. As a man Sarrica would gladly court with every intention of marrying someday. No wonder his father and the council were always screaming at him. If he was too stupid to manage a simple courtship, too stupid to have the sense to give up on a man who hated him, how would he ever be fit to be High King someday?

Sarrica slowed his steps, looking around the camp, desperate for any friendly face at all.

"Looking for someone, Your Highness?" asked a familiar-looking soldier. Charlaine, Sarrica thought his name was. "If it's Lieutenant Arseni you're seeking, I think he went to see Lance Corporal Arseni." He winked.

"Thank you," Sarrica said with a smile. "Do you just use their first names when you don't have to be proper?"

Charlaine laughed. "Yes. Except for the Lieutenant."

With a laugh of his own, Sarrica thanked him again and headed off for the Winter Dark section of camp, which was headed by Captain Quin Arseni, Uncle to Lesto and the others. It was rumored he expected Rene to someday take over Winter Dark, but there were also rumors that several other mercenary units were trying to coax Rene away.

He heard Lesto before he saw him, the ache in chest easing slightly to finally hear a friendly voice. But right as he turned the corner of the long row of tents, Nyle's voice chimed in. "I don't care what you say, that man is a spoiled, entitled ass."

"Yes, I'm well aware of your opinion of Sarrica—better than you, in fact."

"What in the Realms is that supposed to mean? Have you listened to a word I've said? What he did?"

Lesto snorted. "Yes. But do you really listen to you?"

"Lesto, I will punch the shit out of you! Listen to me! Sarrica just blazed into your tent—"

"The same way I always blaze into his. The two of us have done that for years. Enough, Nyle."

"Oh, whatever," Nyle snapped. "I don't know why I thought you'd listen. The man could murder a hundred people in front of you and you'd still defend him. It's a wonder to me you're not lovers given how much time you spend up his ass."

"Nyle!" Lesto jerked like he was barely refraining from doing some punching of his own. "Do you listen to yourself? Do you know what you sound like?"

"Like somebody who is damned tired of being harangued and harassed and tormented by a spoiled brat prince who doesn't care about—"

Sarrica turned away, unable to help the rough, pained noises that escaped. He fled, ducking and weaving through the tents to evade whoever was calling his name and coming after him. Lesto, probably, but Sarrica no longer wanted to talk, even to him. Damn it, all he'd wanted was not to feel alone for an hour or two. He was so tired of feeling alone.

Eventually he reached the eastern edge of camp, which was quiet and still as it was where most of the soldiers assigned night shifts slept while the rest of the camp was bustling. His bodyguards and Lesto would tear him apart later, but he didn't care. If he couldn't have a friendly face, he would settle for absolute peace and quiet.

He found it in a small clearing, bordered by a circle of dense winter-green trees that didn't block the snow, but did block most of the frigid wind. Sarrica brushed snow off a stump and sat down, drawing his knees in close and wrapping his heavy, fur-lined cloak rightly around him, drawing the hood up. Despite that, he still felt wretchedly cold. But the thought of returning to his tent made him ill, and there was nowhere else in camp he could go.

He must be the spoiled, entitled brat Nyle accused him of if he had missed that Nyle felt harangued and harassed and tormented. Gods. Tormented. Sarrica cringed inwardly. Had he really been that bad? How could he miss it? He'd been so eager for every smile and laugh he could earn, he apparently hadn't noticed they were all forced.

It was fine. He'd made mistakes. He'd get past it. From now on he would make every effort to avoid Nyle, and when he couldn't avoid him, he'd be polite and courteous and nothing else. Long past time he moved on anyway.

The sound of footsteps crunching in snow and ice made him tense. He dragged his eyes up, unsurprised to see a figure in Fathoms Deep teal, wrapped head to foot in cloak, scarf, and additional furs. No one hated being cold more than Lesto. "Go away," Sarrica said. "You can lecture me later, but right now I'm not in the mood to hear it. I've had all the being yelled at I can take today." When Lesto didn't leave, just hovered at the edge of the clearing, Sarrica glared. "I mean it. I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone, not even you. I'll apologize to Nyle later, or maybe send a written one since he apparently thinks I'm a vile, contemptible bastard. You could have told me how much he hates me, you know, instead of letting me keep making a fool of myself trying to court a man who can't stand to be around me."

There was a sharp intake, and then the furs were stripped away—and Sarrica felt like throwing up to see it wasn't Lesto at all. Anger coursed through him, so sharp and hot that for a moment he stopped feeling the cold. "Get out of my face. What are you doing here, anyway?"

Instead of leaving, Nyle walked across the clearing to him, and it was only then that Sarrica noticed the fresh bruise on his cheek. "Who hit you?"

"Who do you think?" Nyle asked bitterly. "You talk incessantly about Lesto, and he speaks incessantly of you. Lesto this, Sarrica that—it's no wonder the whole camp thinks you're only waiting until we're back in Harken to announce your betrothal."

Sarrica wrinkled his nose. "I love Lesto dearly, but I wouldn't marry him if my father issued an imperial decree."

Nyle didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "I came to apologize, Your Highness—"

"I don't want your fucking apologies," Sarrica snapped, surging to his feet. "I want you to not hate me. I want you to think well of me. I want you to like me. But you've made your feelings about me perfectly clear." Painfully, agonizing clear. "So if it's all the same to you, I'd rather you just leave."

To his astonishment, Nyle abruptly looked close to tears. "I don't—I don't think any of those things I said. Lesto was right, I wasn't hearing myself. Or rather, I wasn't admitting things to myself. Like I just said, I thought you and Lesto were, if not lovers, probably going to be. My mother told me over and over again that there was a good chance an Arseni would be marrying into the imperial family one day, so when I returned and learned how close you two were, I shrugged and went on. Then I met you and… the more I got to know you, the more I resented that Lesto had gotten to you first. Bad enough I spent my whole life somewhere else, and everything I hear is just a reminder how much I'm not like the 'real' Arsenis. How much I'm not like the rest of Harken. Even my accent isn't exactly right." He seemed to shrink further in on himself. "I don't think your spoiled or entitled or—or—" He swallowed, staring at the snow like it might rescue him from his own misery. "I think you're marvelous, and untouchable, and at this point probably too good for me. I-I really am sorry."

He turned away, and Sarrica finally remembered how to move—mostly. He lunged forward, but the combination of snow and stiff legs sent them both crashing into the snow.

Nyle shoved and jerked and twisted until he was lying on the ground, surrounded by and covered in snow, staring up at Sarrica with a mixture of annoyance and hope. "What in the world did you do that for?"

Sarrica kissed him.

Nyle froze beneath him—then melted, threw his arms around Sarrica's neck, and kissed him ardently back. His mouth was cold, but warmed quickly in the fervor of the kiss, arms almost painfully tight, and Sarrica would never forget how it felt to have that lithe, trim, muscled body shiver against his. Bracing himself, he leveraged up to his knees, dragging Nyle with him. The kiss broke, but only for an instant before Sarrica dove to take another. Nyle whined and loosened his arms to shove back Sarrica's hood and sink his fingers into Sarrica's hair.

When they finally drew apart, Sarrica nuzzled against him, cold and sore and absolutely uncaring about both. "So you don't actually hate me?"

"No," Nyle replied. "I'm sorry."

Sarrica kissed him again, hard and quick. "I am, too. It seems like every time I opened my mouth, I always said the wrong thing."

Nyle grinned, bright and mischievous and incredibly distracting. "You?"

"Be quiet," Sarrica said, and smothered his laughter with another kiss, already addicted to them, drunk on the idea that he could kiss Nyle, that Nyle wanted to kiss him.

He drew back again only because he started shivering in a not good way. "Come on, let's go before Lesto actually does show up to yell at me." He gave Nyle a look. "You could have said sooner it was you."

"By the time I realized you thought I was Lesto, it was too late—and I'm not terribly sorry given how it turned out."

"Fair enough." Holding fast to his hand, Sarrica headed back to camp, keeping to the fringes to minimize the chances of someone waylaying them.

When they finally reached his tent, Sarrica could barely feel his face. He told the guards he wasn't to be disturbed the rest of the day and pulled Nyle inside—and stopped short to see a meal for two had been arranged, complete with contraband wine. There were also fresh clothes for Nyle.

"I'm going to kill Lesto," Nyle muttered.

Sarrica laughed as he stripped off his soaked, snow-covered clothes. Hurrying over to his chests, he quickly pulled on dry clothes and shrugged into his heavy, warm winter dressing robe. When he turned, Nyle had done the same, and was sitting at the table sipping wine.

"Am I the only one in this camp who actually bothers to follow your rule about no wine?"

"Probably," Sarrica said. "I mean, other than Lesto, Rene, and I. But as long as it's kept to a minimum and not causing problems, I don't say anything. General Verence and the various mercenary captains can crack down when it starts to get out of hand." Except, of course, for the High Commander, but that was a problem best waited out.

They settled in to eat, the hot, spicy mutton curry the best thing Sarrica had tasted in ages. He had a sneaking suspicion Lesto had been responsible for the lamb Nyle had brought him forever ago—and responsible for making certain it was Nyle who brought it. Looking up, feeling almost shy, Sarrica said, "So you really want to give this a try? Us, I mean. I know being anywhere near me is more trouble than it's worth…"

"It's not," Nyle said. "I mean, you're worth it. I won't lie, it's intimidating, especially when the first thing everyone will say is that I'm three years younger than you and far too young to know my own mind. But I want to try. I'm tired of being at odds, of watching you from afar and disliking you because that's easier than admitting I'm hurt and jealous."

Sarrica reached across the table and took his hand. "Don't worry, I get the too-young speech as well—generally in the same breath they're demanding I do something my father should be doing. We'll manage. I'm glad I'm not the unbearable bastard constantly forcing himself on you like I thought."

Nyle smiled, soft and sweet, and Sarrica ached with the thought that he just might get to see that smile every day for years and years to come.

Finishing his wine, Sarrica rose and offered his hand and a slow grin. "Would you like to join me in bed? It's warmer than the rest of this drafty tent. We don't have to do anything—"

Nyle pushed into his space and kissed him hard, nipping at Sarrica's lips. "We'd better do something."

Laughing, a bit breathless, so happy he didn't know how to handle it, Sarrica dragged him over to the bed and discarded their clothes. Normally he would have liked to drag it out, but the tent wasn't much warmer than outside.

He kissed Nyle again, tangling their limbs together and holding him close. Drawing back just enough to speak, Sarrica said, "So I remember a taunt about you being a handful."

Nyle flushed, but beneath the blankets he grabbed Sarrica with intent. "Find out."

Sarrica rolled to push him into the bedding and did precisely that.

Tournament of Losers - The Wedding Gift

"Most people don't look so terrified the day before their wedding," Tress said, sprawled like a cat in the window seat of the room they were in. Parlor? In Rath's world, it would just be the front room. The palace had rooms upon rooms upon rooms. What to call them all, Rath hadn't the slightest. He was still sorting out how to feel about the fact he lived in the palace. Lived. As in, permanent dwelling place. Home. "You're looking more terrified now."

Rath finally looked at him, heart trip-trapping.

Ordinarily, the planning alone would require a royal wedding be at least a year in the future. And the Tournament of Losers had a trial period where the winners and their prizes could get to know one another to be certain the marriage would not end up making everyone miserable.

But the king and queen had said there was little point to waiting overlong given that practically all the guests who would have been invited were already present because of the Tournament, and the few missing were already on their way in anticipation of the wedding. Also, they'd been courting the whole time and hardly needed the trial period, though that wasn't common knowledge.

Four months after being declared tournament champion, Rath still couldn't entirely believe he was betrothed to a prince, was going to be a prince. No matter how many times he tried to wake himself up, he seemed to be in a permanent state of dreaming.

"Are you going to pass out?"

"No," Rath said, but the tremble in his voice was humiliatingly apparent.

Tress made a soft, distressed noise and uncoiled from his window seat, crossing the room to crouch in front of Rath and take his hands. "Are you really so unhappy about this?"

"Given all your fancy schooling," Rath replied, dredging up a smile that only wobbled a little bit, "I would think you'd know that terrified and unhappy are not necessarily the same thing. Of course I'm terrified. This is not where I thought I would end up when I joined the tournament to pay a debt. Normally this time of year I'm working extra hours at the docks because of all the extra foodstuffs and supplies ordered to tide the city over through winter. This time of night, I'd be drinking hot ale or, if I was really lucky, eating a good bowl of soup or chowder. Instead I'm still so full from whatever we ate for dinner I don't know if I'm going to be sick or simply fall asleep."

Tress snickered. "Neither, not as nervous as you are. Though sleep would do you some good, or you'll be even more of a mess tomorrow—and if you collapse from the fits on our wedding day, I will never cease to tease you."

"Yes, you will, when I murder you," Rath replied, but his smile then didn't wobble a bit. He cupped Tress's head, running his thumbs along his cheeks, and bent to kiss him. "Brat."

"You've always liked that I'm a brat," Tress said when they finally pulled apart. "Admit it."

Rath pinched his nose. "I'm not admitting any such thing because it isn't true. I remember quite a few times when I wasn't at all amused by you."

"Generally when I was trying to be nice," Tress said.

"Doesn't mean you weren't also being a brat."

Tress grinned. "Speaking of you liking me the way I am…"

"Yes?"

Tress pushed him back slightly and pulled something out of his jacket—his wedding gift to Rath, left in the inn where they'd had the fight that had nearly cost Rath everything. "You should open it now."

"That's unlucky!" Rath pushed the gift away.

"You and your superstitions," Tress said with a huff.

Rath narrowed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tress said, lifting one hand, the other still clutching the gift. "I do not think the gods will take it amiss that you open it tonight instead of tomorrow night. Come on, haven't we been bending and breaking rules all along?"

"All the more reason not to test good fortune now," Rath said, folding his arms across his chest. "A wedding gift is for a wedding night, and it's unlucky to open it before then."

Tress tucked back a curl that had fallen in Rath's face. Though the servants Rath now possessed to help him dress—which, honestly, he would never get used to being treated like a child who couldn't yet dress himself, but neither could he manage all his fancy new clothes by himself. The servants also constantly did battle with his hair, no matter how many times he told them it was a wasted effort. Thankfully, no one else seemed to mind, and even if they did, Rath wouldn't care. The only thing he cared about was how much Tress liked his curls, especially when they were messy. "Most people are one step away from passing out in terror, and most wedding gifts are minor things, like jewels, horses, knick-knacks, alcohol…"

Rath gave him a look.

Tress thrust the package at him. "Would you just open it?"

"Sorry, now I'm being a brat," Rath said, and reeled him in close, leaned up kiss him, and draped his free arm around Tress's neck. "It better not be jewels."

Tress smiled against his mouth. "I would never give you jewels." Rath relaxed slightly, and Tress added with obvious relish, "My mother would be furious if I copied her gift to you."

Rath heaved a sigh, but his smile won out as he stole Tress's window seat and slowly untied the ribbon binding the small package. It was not quite the size of his hand, rectangular, and hard. But when he pulled away the silly paper, he saw only a plain brown box. Opening that, he stared in confusion at the little book inside. "Is this more manners? Haven't I been doing well in my lessons?"

"Marvelously," Tress replied, "though I don't think I like the way your tutor flirts with you."

"He does not," Rath said absently as he pulled the book out and flipped delicately through—and laughed as he realized it was a book of erotica. "You bought me a book about sex?" He looked up through his lashes. "I think I know more about sex than you. There's probably nothing in this book I haven't done, and plenty I've done that isn't in this book." He almost started laughing at the emotions that did battle on Tress's face, contorting it in truly hilarious ways. "Are you trying not to be jealous? You've never been jealous before."

Sheepishness finally won out. "Jealous? No. But I'm your tournament prize, and we're getting married tomorrow. I don't want to hear about all the people who helped you build those delectable skills I enjoy."

"You're absurd." Rath kissed his nose. "I don't think I signed up to win an absurd prize."

Tress bit at his lips, slid his fingers into Rath's curls and kept his head tilted up. "Beloved, the only person in this room more absurd than me is you."

"Oh, be quiet," Rath muttered, face flushing.

"Speaking of absurd," Tress said. "You haven't looked at your book properly."

"I what?" But at Tress's slight pout, he opened the book—and stopped at the inscription on the title page.

To the man who drew me from my books, but never took me from them. All my love, Tress

"This…" Rath smiled, blinking away the sting in his eyes as he looked up. "This is the book you were reading the night we met."

"Why else would I give you a book of erotica? I'm the absurd one, honestly."

Rath set the book on the window seat, stood, and pulled Tress in close. Leaning up, he kissed Tress with every bit of skill gained from years of working in a brothel, as wet and filthy as he knew, not breaking away until Tress was trembling and whimpering and rutting against him. "Are you certain that's the only reason you gave it to me? Because you are a bit of a brat."

Tress grinned and dragged his tongue across Rath's lips. "Brat, but not coy. My favorite story is number five and you do that very well indeed."

"I'm not looking to see what story number five is."

That grin just turned more wicked. "You'll look later."

"I will not," Rath muttered, and forestalled Tress's reply by kissing him again. Grabbing hold of the blue velvet jacket that had distracted him all through dinner, he turned them around and pushed Tress onto the seat. "I don't know what annoys me more: that you insist on wearing velvet, or that your clothes fit you so well."

Tress reached out and teased fingers along Rath's hard cock where it was still confined by his breeches. "I think you don't know what 'annoyed' means."

Finally getting his breeches open, Rath pulled Tress's cock out, gave it several quick, hard strokes—then let go and stepped back.

"What are you doing?" Tress demanded.

"Stopping. Why? Are you feeling annoyed?"

Tress yanked him back in close. "Get back to work or I'll show you annoyed."

Rath laughed against his lips and kissed him. "Bossy prince."

"Yes, very. Get to work enjoying your prize."

Still laughing, Rath sank to his knees, dragging Tress's pants and underclothes with him, making quick work of his stockings and shoes before throwing everything aside and turning his full attention to Tress's cock. He licked the tip, then suckled teasingly before drawing back to press kisses to Tress's thighs and along the length of his cock, then started all over again—until a hand sank into his curls and kept him on Tress's cock. Looking up through his lashes just because that drove Tress wild, Rath finally set to work in earnest. He took Tress's cock deep, tongue working along the length, cheeks hollowed as he sucked hard, head bobbing. More than a few of his tips had been the result of his mouth, and while there was many a dick he'd been glad to wipe from his memory, he wasn't sorry he had all those skills to put to use now.

Tress groaned, both hands in his hair now, urging him on without taking control, pleas and curses and Rath's name spilling out across the room. Rath tried not to think about the fact that it was a parlor, not their bedroom, and they could be caught at any moment unless Tress had been smart enough to lock the door.

A shiver ran through Tress, all the warning Rath needed before he spilled.

When his shudders finally ceased, Rath pulled gently off his softened cock, and went easily as Tress pulled him up. Tearing Rath's breeches open, Tress pulled out his cock and wasted no time in showing off his own not inconsiderable skills. Rath would have loved to drag it out, fuck his mouth until his lips were swollen and his face sweaty with exertion, but he'd spent all day caught between dying of anxiety and exploding from lust. Tress took him deep, hands on his ass, and a moment later Rath moaned his name and came down his throat.

Drawing back, Tress pulled out a kerchief from the jacket he was still wearing and cleaned them both up before kissing Rath soundly. "I do like giving you presents," he said as he went to fetch his clothes and pull them back on. "Shall we adjourn to our room and further explore your most recent? I know you're dying to find out what story number five is about."

Rath tried to look exasperated, but Tress only smiled in that evil way of his and offered a hand. Retrieving his book, Rath took it and let himself be dragged off to further distractions.

Hopefully by tomorrow he'd be too exhausted to be terrified. Or to say something stupid. Or to mess up the ceremony. Or—

"Stop fretting," Tress said. "You won a tournament, despite your best efforts to lose and various attempts to remove you. How hard can a wedding be?"

"Only a hoity-toity would think that's the easy part," Rath said with a shaky laugh. "It's very permanent. What if I'm terrible? What if you eventually—"

"Don't even say it," Tress interrupted, and stopped them in the hallway to kiss him so long that Rath was left breathless and momentarily dizzy. "I love you. You won me fair and true. If anyone is going to get fed up and walk away, it's the man who hates everything north of the bridges."

"I don't hate everything north of the bridges." At Tress's look, Rath relented, "All right, I never loved any of it. But I've been persuaded by my hoity-toity tournament prize." He opened the door to their suite, grabbed the front of Tress's jacket, and dragged him inside. Closing the door, he leaned against it and reeled Tress in. "So what's story number five?"

Tress kissed his nose, then his cheeks, then his mouth. "Come to bed and I'll read it to you."

"If you insist." Rath pushed him away and led the way into the bedroom, trailing clothes as he went.