Chapter Seventy: Simple Life

Dearest Cemil,

Firstly, let me assure you that I have been spending lots of quality time with Banu, as you wished. It is often too dark for riding by the time I return, but I lead her for little jaunts where it is familiar. I dare not neglect your wishes, even those I know to be aimed at improving my own happiness. How I already miss riding together with you.

Emre seems well, and I see him often. He escorts me from work to help ensure I’m not observed. Regarding Yücel, know that I liked him immediately! You have needed an ally from the palace, I think. An insider, moreso than someone common-born like Mirhan, who relies on his wiles to maintain his position. I don’t envy you your present circumstances, though I know that you are equal to the task.

It has been an eventful day, enough that I must now doubt my memory of it. One of my coworkers, a girl named Kenadie (“Ken” henceforth), has hinted of some connection to the counterfeit coins. It seems so much like divine providence, but I dare not push too quickly. Stranger still, I happened to hear gossip today about your younger brother Safet. Well, gossip about all the imperial family. Even about you and me. I will write down every detail in a separate document (attached). I fear it may get a bit dense.

Sometimes I think of how complicated this all has become. The emperor. Your brothers. The Videlari and the Merchants’ Guild. In Valcrest, the firstborn prince becomes king, no matter what sort of person he is. I’m not sure which system is better. I only find myself wishing at times that our lives were maybe not so interesting. 

It is almost two weeks. Please tell me when you’ll be back.

Yours as ever,

Osmund

Curiosity hounded Osmund’s steps as he followed Ansley out the door, half-eaten skewer still in hand. He could see the lighter moored at the wharf, and further, anchored in the harbor, an elegant carrack of Meskato make. Without delay, Ansley nudged him onto the gangplank leading to the little freighter. Surrounded by other men (and a few burly women), they took their places at the oars.

“Where’s Rylan?” Osmund wondered, pushing past the reawakening strain. “He’s the biggest of you. Why does he—huff—stay in the storehouse?”

“Don’t worry about Ry,” Ansley said, who despite his average build kept pace on the oars without breaking a sweat. “He doesn’t much care for the ocean.”

“Too bad,” Sigebert added. “He grew up on a farm, he must be an animal lover.”

“Animals? Is that what’s on the ship?”

“Just you wait,” Ansley grinned. “I won’t spoil the surprise.”

They pulled up next to the carrack, which swayed in place on the sea. On the ship’s port side, in boastful, swirling letters, were the words Imperial Dragon. (What an ostentatious name. Were they really trying to avoid the attention of the authorities?) The seamen bridged to the Dragon’s cargo hold, hauling barrels up the gangplank. “Just sweetwater and feed,” said Ansley to Osmund’s silent question. “They aren’t allowed to dock at Şebyan, it’d be a whole kerfuffle.”

Stepping aboard the Dragon, Osmund understood why. It was an understanding that started in his nostrils and worked its way throughout his entire body.

It certainly wasn’t uncommon to set sail with horses and other beasts of burden in a ship’s cargo, but this was a regular menagerie. Horses, yes, but also birds and monkeys, wildcats and wolves pacing restlessly in barred enclosures that were much too small. His jaw dropped.

“This isn’t even the best bit,” Ansley whispered. He pulled Osmund’s arm past a row of cages. No amount of leadup could’ve prepared him for what lay ahead, just in the corner.

It was a manticore. Nearly as big as its cousin the gryphon, with a lion’s body, a serpentine tail riddled with barbs, and a strangely intelligent face. The beast was sedated and skinny, practically bones, stuffed mercilessly into a massive iron cage that barely contained its withered frame.

“Incredible, eh? Who’s ever seen a beastie like this up close without becoming dinner?” Ansley picked up a pole leaning against the wall of the wooden hold. With childlike delight, he slipped its blunt end through the bars and poked the unresponsive creature’s shoulder, the pole sinking easily through its skin.

“Stop that!” The harsh words came crashing out of Osmund’s mouth. “Why? Why would—”

“It’s fine, no one’s watching, and the client won’t know,” the man said, entirely unconcerned. “Not like it hurts the beast. He’ll get his living manticore at the end of the journey, and we’ll get a story out of it. Go on, have a poke.”

Osmund refused the offered pole. “What do you mean ‘client’? Who’s arranging for this?”

Sigebert appeared from around the corner. “It’s like a big housecat,” he said on seeing the manticore. He sounded distinctly disappointed. “Feels a bit wrong to put it in a cage like that, don’t it?” Despite his words, he took the pole from Ansley and gave the animal a nudge. “Give us a look, kitty. Won’t you show us those fangs?”

“I’m going back,” Osmund muttered. “The smell in here.”

He helped the others unload the rest of the freshwater and the hay, oats, and bonemeal meant for the animals. When he felt he’d done his part, he lingered a while by the horses. These at least were not underweight, although they clearly hated the sea journey. Wish I could give you back the grassy hills, he thought morosely.

They filed back aboard the lighter and took their places at the oars. “I’d like to see it,” Ansley said, effortlessly working his muscles again. “The zoo of this mysterious collector. Last month, it was a basilisk.”

“Who are you talking about?” Osmund pressed again, grateful to have the oars in hand to focus his energy into.

“Rumor is it’s one of the imperials. A boy prince, eighteen, nineteen, something like that. After daddy loosed him from the palace, he built himself a pleasure garden to entertain his guests and sweethearts, and fills it with exotic plants and beasties, whatever they ask for.” Ansley sighed. “Must be nice to be a prince.”

A boy prince… “Would that be Şehzade Safet?” Osmund guessed, guarding his feelings on the matter.

“Oh, that’s the one,” Sigebert said. “Easy to get them all confused.”

“I don’t bother with the names,” Ansley said dismissively. “They’re so alien to me, and there’s too many to remember. But the girls love gossip and they love princes. There’s the boy living the high life, right? ‘Safet’, or whoever. Then there’s the cripple—the one who follows his dad around like a dog—and the dead one, slayed by our local man, the pervert, eh? He’s got a fetish for blokes like us.”

Osmund nearly squawked. “Pervert?! You don’t mean Şehzade Cemil?!”

“Yeah,” said Ansley brightly. “Acts all self-righteous and important, but he harasses the Guild cos he’s jealous of our power, yeah? Takes out his frustration by buggering one of our men, that’s what everyone says. Just sick.”

Sigebert seemed to notice Osmund’s appalled expression. “Not that we have any problem with stick-riders,” he said clumsily. “What two grown people do to each other in private, well, that’s their business and no one else needs to know about it.”

Osmund couldn’t believe how twisted the rumor of their relationship had become in the public imagination. Cemil had always been popular among his own people—was it just the Tolmish who spoke about him this way, or had these unsavory whispers reached Meskato coffeehouses, too?!

“Hal, join us for a drink after the work’s done,” Ansley said after a time. His tone had become something almost sympathetic. “We were there for what Mylo said the other day. You’ve got no people, right?”

It was a blunt statement, said without reservation. “Though perhaps there’s a lover you’d rather be spending your time with,” Sigebert said delicately, and Osmund cringed. Sigebert had the other day chanced upon him and Emre in the street and had made some—assumptions. It had been terribly awkward, and Osmund had made everything worse by acting guilty of something.

“No, I haven’t got plans!” he said without thinking. “I’d love to.”

“Great! You can meet the whole family,” Ansley said affably. “Or Siggles’ family, anyway. Don’t be nervous. Ro tolerates all sorts, and little Alice is a charmer. You’ll feel like you were married yourself.”

Osmund wasn’t worried about finishing the accounts by the end of the week. Now that he’d gotten the hang of it, the work went steadily. So he went, curious how much looser these wagging tongues would become.

All three of his new companions—well, four, including Ken—lived in the same brick boardinghouse a few minutes’ walk from the sea. It was a shabby place, but the hearths were warm. Sigebert’s wife and child were darling, and as promised, they treated everyone as part of the flock. Ten minutes in and chubby-cheeked Alice was leaning against Osmund’s arm, nodding off and drooling a little.

Sigebert seemed to have a local hookup to some alcohol, which he selflessly shared. He and Ansley were all laughs, while Rylan and Ken sat quietly, the siblings seeming content just to be part of the tableau. Osmund felt much more at ease in this company than he had at the Golden House under Mirhan’s influence.

“Hal,” Sigebert said out of the blue. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Ever celebrated Hollow Saints’ March?”

Osmund knew the name. It was a pre-Ocentine Tolmish folk tradition, though one more commonly practiced in the North, about which he knew little. “No, I haven’t. What is it like?”

“It’s great fun,” said Ansley, pouring himself another drink. “There’s masks, dancing, mummeries. Not practiced so much in the motherland, these days. Anyway, we’re organizing one right here in Şebyan this year.”

“There are lots of Tolmish here now,” said Sigebert. Alice had begun squirming again, and he hoisted her onto his lap, kissing the crown of her tawny head sweetly. “Who knows how long we’ll be here in the Empire? Us expats need a tradition of our own. Something to bring our community together.”

“That’s a wonderful idea! And it’ll give our Meskato neighbors here a window into our culture, as well.”

“Ah, well, most Meskato don’t take much of an interest in outside affairs, I think,” Sigebert said. He cleared his throat. “Which is fine. Though you, Hal, seem to have made some local connections…” This seemed to be his way of encouraging him to open up to the group, Osmund realized. Maybe it would be okay to share just a little.

“I suppose,” he agreed, emboldened. “I…do have a Meskato lover. A man here in town.”

“Alright, Hal, alright!” Ansley said, sounding proud. “What’s he like? Don’t know what one bloke fancies in another—he tall? Rich?”

“If he was rich, why would his man be working here?” Ken grumbled. “Can’t you leave him his private business?” Rylan seemed surprised to hear his sister coming to someone’s defense, or as surprised as a simple head turn could suggest.

“He’s a good man, very kind and generous, and tall and handsome too,” Osmund gushed, completely buzzed. “And so funny, almost boyish sometimes, enough to make you forget he’s a master with the sword! …And, I suppose he is from an important family.”

At this, Ansley and Sigebert’s amused little smiles transformed into something else. “‘Important family,’” Ansley echoed, with a click of his tongue that suggested he was pitying him. “Explains why you haven’t married such a stud. Hell, you’ve got me sold. It’s been a while for your pal Ansley. He need an extra mistress? …‘Mister’? I’ll learn the ropes.”

“Not actually so tall though, is he?” said Sigebert with a smile. “But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and all.”

“What’s that, Siggles? You’ve met him?”

“I’m not a…” Osmund mumbled belatedly, “an illicit paramour, or whatever you’re imagining…”

“Ah well,” Ansley rounded on him again. “Say, know any beautiful single Meskato ladies in need of a good man?”

Osmund sized the other up with his eyes, just for a moment. “I don’t, sorry,” he lied.

“Ah, to be young,” Sigebert sighed as he took a fresh swig from his cup. “Have as much fun as you can before you find the one willing to settle down with you. Why, if I were still a wild stallion…”

“Why don’t you tell me more about this festival?” Osmund interrupted, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Hollow Saints’ March?”

Ansley suddenly nudged Rylan. “Right, you big lug, you’re up. Go get the masks.”

“Masks?”

Something about the way Rylan turned his attention to his cup seemed embarrassed. “Fine,” he said at last, rising.

When he returned a few short minutes later, he had the masks in question with him. Wood-carved, with some basic paint, each lovingly handmade. Osmund seized one to admire it up close.

“And I’ve got the costumes,” said Ro, Sigebert’s wife, appearing behind them. She spread out cloaks and mantles, straw and fabric twined to great theatrical effect.

“How unique!” Osmund flipped through everything with delight. “This mask, it’s in the shape of a wolf? My, it’s like a masquerade!”

“It’s not just for the joy of dressing up and running about,” Ro informed him. “It’s a celebration of every single person who joins the festivities. That’s why everyone gets to pick the mask they wear. You will too, of course, if you join us.”

Osmund picked up mask and cloak one by one, wonderingly. He was ready with praise for Rylan and Ro, but then he stopped, and worried his lip.

“Taken with that one? I don’t take you for a ‘cat’ fellow,” Ansley said.

“I was just thinking of the…the thing we saw today,” Osmund said carefully, setting the mask in his hands back down. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

“Aw, that big kitty frighten you, Hal?”

“That’s not it, I just…”

“The manticore.”

Rylan had spoken. It was so rare to hear his voice unprompted that they all turned to look. “Was in a cage. Right?”

“Right,” Osmund agreed, hesitant. The other had apparently heard. “Lots of animals were. Ones that don’t serve man at all. They were there as trophies. I suppose it felt…odd to see.”

“A manticore!” Ro exclaimed, leaning on her husband. “My dear, if you dare leave your child fatherless—”

“O sweet blade of summer grass, I went nowhere near the foul beast, I swear on my soul!”

While the couple bantered, Rylan spoke to Osmund directly. “You can’t change it,” he said. “What the lords do. Not here. Not back home. It’s not for us.”

Osmund stared, surprised to hear him speak so firmly. “He’s saying you’ll drive yourself mad feeling sorry about things you haven’t got any say over,” Ken interpreted for him.

“We don’t have much,” Rylan said. “We do our job. We come home. This is what matters.” He gestured at the others. “This. It’s good. A simple life.”

The fire was warm, Osmund thought. And the people.

“Yes,” he breathed. “A simple life.”