Chapter Seventy-Three: Dependable Ally

Much-Adored Cemil,

Please forgive the brevity of this letter. I need to speak with you urgently. Might we come to you in Elmaluk?

Yours most reliably,

Osmund

PS: Unrelated, but I’ve had to reach into the coffers a bit. Sorry.

Every eye turned upon him.

Heavens, let this not be a terrible mistake. Osmund swallowed. “I needed an advance for a deposit on a room,” he said, shutting his eyes as he spun the lie. “So I…stole, thinking no one would notice. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. I swear I’ll bring the full amount to you. And more. Just leave the poor girl alone. She’s got nothing to do with it.”

The merchant stared him down. He hadn’t yet sheathed his sword, nor had Rylan’s hand moved in his pocket, where Osmund was sure he stowed a knife or some other weapon. “You can bring me thirty gold theckerils by tonight?” asked the richly-dressed man with cold skepticism. “The genuine article, no funny money. That’s twenty for the missing product, the rest to buy my leniency.”

“Would you accept payment in akçe—I mean, Meskato aspers?” Osmund ventured. “I-It’ll be quicker.”

Mylo snorted. “You’d have to blow the prince himself to come up with that kind of money.”

Well…he’s not totally off the mark. “I have it,” Osmund said firmly. “I swear.”

Mylo and the client exchanged a look. Osmund kept his eyes on them, and away from Rylan and Ken, who he felt staring him down, even more shocked by this declaration than were the two older men. Finally the merchant hardened his gaze. His long rapier disappeared at his hip with a sheer sound. “Bring it to my office by the end of the day,” he instructed Mylo sternly. “I suggest you hold the brother and sister as an assurance.”

“Of course, Lord Arren,” said Mylo. He was looking squarely at Osmund, mistrust cold and slithering in his eyes.

When this “Lord Arren” had gone, Mylo rounded on him in earnest. “I know you lied to protect the brat,” he snarled. “You’re a goddamn idiot, and it’s a fucking shame. I liked you. But since you insist on taking on her debt, I’ll let you know something. A man throws around promises, he better expect to uphold them. You make me look like a fool in this, and you will learn what regret is.”

The open-ended threat was almost worse in its vagueness. “I’ll go right now, and be straight back with the money,” Osmund swore.

His eyes slid finally over Rylan and Ken. As he suspected, they were looking at him as they might an uncaged manticore: a creature they had never before seen, and did not know what to make of.

The streets flew past as Osmund’s feet pounded the cobbles. Ordinarily he took great care in sneaking back to the grounds of the governor’s mansion on the outside chance he was observed or followed, but he could not risk caution’s delay. Sprawling Şebyan rolled up like a carpet before him—a thirty minute walk became a ten minute run. He darted through the servants’ entrance of the great house and beelined straight for his and Cemil’s room, ignoring the exclamations of surprise from all who saw him.

In the corner sat a chest with a simple enchantment which warded off thieves, but to Osmund the lid lifted obligingly open. Inside was an abundance of coin, enough to buy a dozen very fine horses, and according to Cemil it was his to spend if he so chose. An amount the Meskato prince would never miss, and likely more money than any of his coworkers had ever seen in one place.

Osmund did the quick conversions in his head—an exceedingly simple matter after three weeks decoding the world’s most heinous account books—and stuffed the appropriate amount into a coinpurse. Thankful for the magic that kept it small and light, he stowed it securely in his vest and was back out the door.

His lungs burned and his feet ached on his return. Osmund bowed in half at the storehouse door, panting furiously. Rylan and Ken were seated together against the wall as Mylo stared them down. It was clear by their expressions that no one had fully expected him to reappear.

“Eight, twelve, sixteen,” Mylo counted under his breath as he maneuvered each coin from pouch to table. Osmund had padded the amount with about thirty percent extra for safety, which the man immediately pocketed. “For losing me face with Lord Arren,” he snapped. He tossed the bag up and down. “Can’t believe you actually had it, boy.”

Osmund fumbled for a way to explain himself, anything to lift that suspicious stare. He recalled Mylo saying, You’d have to blow a prince for that kind of money. “W-well, it wasn’t a prince, but…after hours, I know plenty of men who…who want…” His cheeks burned with shame. “…It’s all real. I haven’t stolen it.”

Mylo made a face. There were still a few stray coins in the bag when he flung it away back to Osmund as if it were slimy. An unexpected change came over him. “You think I like it?” he gritted out, shaking his head and looking almost sorry, like they were misbehaving children and not underlings he was sick of. “Knowing our women and girls and even our men whore themselves out just to buy their families some dignity, or to put a roof over their head without having to bunk with strange Meskato in their charity kitchens? You two, miserable pups, get up.”

Rylan and Ken stood. “It’s a hard world out there,” said Mylo sternly. “I won’t shield you from it. You steal, you face the consequences. That’s that. There won’t always be an idiot like this one around to shoulder the blame for you.”

Ken suddenly erupted. “I was only doing it to help Lana the old tailor’s wife, who’s in over her eyeballs in her late husband’s debt, who you said I should let alone even though we’re ’sposed to be a community what helps each other,” she snapped. “And you’re here ready to sell me off to some rich lecher!”

“To teach you,” Mylo growled out. “Haven’t I invested plenty in you and your brother!? Gave you those coins to spread around town?!”

Osmund jolted.

“It’s hard spending fake gold without ’rousing people’s suspicion! You’re using us as bait!” Ken cried.

“No, I’m using you because I thought you were smarter than this,” Mylo snapped. “That widow of yours hitched herself to a gambling drunk. Not every one of ours is worthy of our help. If you want to survive, you’ve got to cut loose the undeserving!”

These words were underscored by a cruel thrust of steel, plunging a finger’s length deep into a wooden shelf before any of them could shudder or flinch.

“Rylan, if you ever threaten a client again, I will string you up by the balls, do you understand?” Mylo said in a low tone, as he drew out the knife again.

Ken opened her mouth wearing a fiery temper on her face, but at a look from her older brother, she shut it again. “Yes,” said Rylan. Any feelings he might’ve had were shuttered entirely behind that stony mask.

“Good.” Mylo pocketed the dagger again. “Because there’ll be no second chances for any one of you.”

He stalked out of the room, and Osmund exhaled.

Weeks perfecting that ledger. Nearly a month doing what that detestable fellow wanted of him, and it was all gone to pieces. The only path to Pravin he’d had.

“I don’t even like that old bat.” Ken’s voice sounded small. “Was it so wrong to help her anyways?”

Rylan nudged his sister, very gently. “Get back to work.”

“After a dressing-down like that?! And Ry, you big—idiot! You were going to let that rich swine stick you with his sword! What was I supposed to do with no brother?!”

Osmund reasoned away his despair. Maybe, he thought, this is salvageable. He might still earn himself that invitation to Mylo’s hideout. He hadn’t stolen, hadn’t made threats. His crime was being soft-headed and soft-hearted.

Traits Mylo seemed to truly despise.

He spun on his heel, but Rylan caught up with him at the door.

“Thank you.”

Osmund waved him off. “Nevermind,” he said tiredly. “Anyway, I knew she was doing it and didn’t tell you. You shouldn’t be too grateful.”

“It was her secret, not yours,” Rylan ruled, unswayed by Osmund’s words. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Please don’t,” Osmund said hurriedly. “I don’t need it as much as you do, I’m sure.”

Rylan looked at him oddly, and Osmund cringed, remembering the lie he’d told Mylo. “I didn’t really do those kinds of things to get it,” he babbled. “In fact I don’t even need this job. Not for the money. I—” He’d truly put his foot in it now. The room swam before him. “I-I have to go.”

Before he could charge outside into the drizzle, Rylan caught his arm and held fast. He really was strong. “What do you need?” he asked. “I’ll help you get it.”

Osmund looked at him then, this potential dependable ally, as he hadn’t before. The other man was sturdily built, arms corded with muscle, and beneath very short-cropped pale hair were his hazel eyes, unflinching. They were not dishonest eyes. But in this moment they made Osmund somehow uneasy.

It was this feeling he could not name that made him turn away. “Thank you for the offer,” he said. “But…I think I’d like to be alone for a little while.”

“…What about your mask?”

Osmund laughed. He had entirely forgotten.

“Make whatever you like,” he said faintly. “I don’t care.”

That night, he sat down with Sakina and read all 342 pages of The Flowering Maiden’s Court. He gave her each and every one of his unfiltered opinions as they came to him.

“…Anyway, I just think Dalan is too rude,” he declared. “He spends nearly eighteen chapters insulting every aspect of her appearance, her manner, even calling her beloved cat ugly. Who would dare?! And she falls in love with him for it! I’m sorry, I know you love this book.”

“Oh, hardly!” Sakina objected. “The whole point of wanting you to read it was so we could grind it into the dirt where it belongs.”

He cuddled up on her knees, a little bit drunk, and she cradled his head like he was himself a lap cat. “And Lord Solandis,” he announced, instantly animated again. “How I hate that man.”

“You absolutely must read book three.”

“What happens to him in book three?”

“I won’t spoil the surprise, but it involves a cake.”

“It’s poison, and he eats it.”

“Nope.”

“He gets baked into it.”

“You won’t ever guess. It’s magnificent.”

“I can’t wait.” Osmund shifted contentedly, getting more comfortable still. “We should have done this ages ago.”

Sakina flicked his light brown hair, which was looking more gold again by the day. “How can you say that, villain? It’s you who has been so busy. I hope you are baked into a cake and stuck by knives.”

Osmund just hummed and closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be so bad to fall asleep like this.

“Where is your reply for Cemil?” she prodded after a time. “I’ve got mine to Mirhan ready.”

“Oh…” He let loose a yawn. “It’s gotten late. I’ll send it with tomorrow’s man.”

“I know Cemil will pester the poor courier endlessly if there is nothing from you. You won’t lift your pen to spare them both?”

“Why don’t you write to him, for a change?” Osmund proposed. “Tell him…tell him I’ll write him soon, but right now, I’ve a strain in my hand.”

“Oh? Sounds like you’ve missed him very much.”

“From my job, you dirty woman. Hand me book two.”

“Osmund, you won’t make it ten pages in.”

The Tolmishman set about proving her wrong. He made it about ten sentences.

When Osmund let himself into the office that next morning, a little stumbling and hungover, he wasn’t alone. Someone had followed him.

The knowledge was cold as a blade, and as certain, though the room looked empty and still. “H-hello?” he whispered into the gloom. He felt foolish. And he was terrified.

Emre appeared, materializing from nowhere, and Osmund nearly soiled himself. “Emre, heavens, I thought I asked you not to do that!” he cried. “A hundred times I have—”

The other raised a hand to silence him. “Show me where you found this symbol,” he demanded, holding up one of Osmund’s drawings. “Now.”

Osmund shut up. He took up the piece of paper with the seal, studying the notes he’d scribbled in the margins, and pointed Emre towards one of the books along the wall, where records of the merchants’ agreements were kept. Emre seized the recent volume and dropped it down on the desk when it proved too unwieldy to hold. “When did it arrive?” he asked distractedly.

“When the—what?!”

“The ship!”

Osmund peered over Emre’s shoulder as he ruffled violently through the pages. “Be gentle with it!” he said in alarm. “I just wrote down the—there. It must be that one.”

They studied the pages together. Tucked into the spine was a folded-up document. Emre laid it out on the desk.

There was the seal Emre had been so interested in, next to a name Osmund didn’t recognize. The ship name, however, was familiar.

Imperial Dragon.

“The manticore,” Osmund breathed.

“As I suspected,” Emre growled. “It didn’t strike you as suspicious that someone is shipping a rare and powerful magical creature across the continent? After what you and Cemil went through with the gryphon and those ‘undying weapons’?!”

“But Lalezar and General Nadir are on the run! And this collector—even if it is Safet—has been active for years, long before those weapons started popping up!”

“And if it’s true? It threw you off the trail, didn’t it?”

The signatories’ names were scrawled in flamboyant calligraphy Osmund could not hope to parse, but he knew those little symbols were the thing of most significance. He pointed to the first one, the imperial flower crowned with a stag’s horns. “This one must be Safet’s. Then, the other—?”

“A false identity assumed by General Nadir whenever he sought to mask his involvement,” said the man who’d spent weeks in the general’s camp and confidence. “We go to Cemil with this. Right away.”