Chapter Eighty-Eight: Useful Instinct

They woke early for the last leg of the trip, the day of the fateful meeting with their Videlari hosts—and with Nicoleta. Osmund sat, drained and docile, as Cemil brushed out his hair for him. He felt a slight tug as the long strands, their dye fading, were pulled back from his face and tied snugly with a ribbon.

The anger had come and gone like a fever, and he was too brittle in its aftermath to feel anything but shame. The Meskato prince didn’t say a word about yesterday. Just took care of him, like a perfect gentleman. He really will make a good husband to that unfortunate girl, Osmund thought. The total stranger who he’d made into an adversary in his own head.

“Cemil,” he said, just after they’d finished dressing. The world outside was quiet, and the tent was still.

“Yes?”

“I never told you.” He took a breath. “When I was at the Guild house…that man, Baratte, he…”

He hadn’t known he was going to tell the whole sordid affair until it was out. Cemil’s expression grew more and more stricken as he listened. “I’m sorry I waited until now,” Osmund concluded, lowering his eyes. He could unburden himself of at least one secret. “I…I think I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Because it would mean that it really happened. Of course it didn’t happen, not the actual thing, but…”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” Cemil interrupted him. “But I wish you hadn’t shouldered it alone all this time. Osmund, I’m sorry. I knew something was wrong. I should have pushed more.”

Osmund shook his head. “You were doing as I asked,” he said softly. “I only wish I hadn’t turned you away.”

They held each other awhile. Unexpectedly, Cemil said, in a voice that was very unnatural, “When I was a child…” He trailed off.

Osmund looked up at him with slowly dawning horror. Cemil seemed scarcely able to continue. “…I was sure you’d figured it out by now,” he said. “Bayram…”

“No, I…oh, Cemil.”

Cemil took a deep breath. “It was a very long time ago,” he offered. “Before I…was myself. Emre found out and they came to blows over it. It wasn’t a fair match. I thought Bayram would kill my brother.”

Emre, a small man (especially by comparison), was practical and knew his own limitations, but apparently he wasn’t unwilling to use his fists if he thought the other party deserved a thrashing. Osmund longed to give Bayram that thrashing himself. “He got what he deserved at the end,” he said in disgust.

They stayed in that embrace until the world outside began to liven with voices. “You really do look good in this coat,” Cemil said, breaking the silence.

“No wonder it’s been so easy to seduce you.” This earned Osmund a laugh, and the tension dissolved in full.

Though they were riding to a much-dreaded meeting, Osmund felt steadier than he had in days. Not happy, no, and not really well. But he felt the pall of acceptance settling over him. For better or worse, he was in love, and the price was worth paying.

Castle Vide loomed like a sleeping behemoth. This finest of Videlari fortresses had thick barbicans and a towering keep. In the green but snow-frosted valley beneath lay the sprawl of the peasantry and their lands. One would have to ride through it to reach the citadel.

Banu perked up excitedly, catching the cloying urban smell of roasted fruit and sweetmeats just as Osmund’s own stomach gurgled. He rode a little behind the main column, behind the emperor and his retinue, and took in the sights: the little houses, the fields, and the common folk who worked them during the growing season. They watched the Meskato company with blank, wary faces. It was a similar reception to what they’d had in Kaliany.

The citadel’s main gate at the crest of the hill had been thrown wide to receive their guests. The horses filed five abreast into the lower bailey, their warm breath puffing white, the spectacle of their number suddenly stifling in this enclosed space. On the other end of the courtyard, flanked by imposing knights in full mail, waited their hosts: richly draped and, Osmund saw as they approached, grim-faced—except for one pointy-bearded man, who wore a frozen smile. Beside him stood a young woman and a small child. The royal cousins.

Princess Nicoleta of Videl wasn’t a tall girl, but she stood upright and composed. She had a healthy figure, pale skin, black hair that was very straight and long, and thick brows that accented her determined features. She was beautiful. Of course Cemil’s bride would be.

The rest of the column rode forward to line the walls of the bailey. Cemil, his father, and their closest retainers remained in the center. The Videlari group bowed low. “You honor us with the visit, my sovereign,” said the bearded man, who looked to be a robust sixty. “Welcome, Emperor Alemşah, and Şehzade Cemil. May I present our royal highnesses, Prince Luca and his lovely cousin, Nicoleta.”

Osmund finally looked past the beautiful Nicoleta to the young prince beside her. The boy was a wisp, a shade of his cousin, though his mop of hair was the same midnight hue. His eyes were wide and fearful, reminding Osmund of a baby deer, and they were too big in his face.

Cemil offered the two cousins a small, polite bow. Nicoleta curtsied, expression unchanging, and said a brief greeting in rehearsed Meskato, followed by a string of Videlari. At her side, another young woman in a dark dress and cloak acted as translator. “My lady hopes you’ve had an easy ride,” the attendant said, her Meskato accented but competent. Chestnut hair clung to her skull in tight braids. “It isn’t the perfect season for travel, but the weather has been obliging.”

Cemil watched the servant briefly before apparently catching his mistake, switching back to Nicoleta as if she’d just spoken herself. “It was a fine ride,” he said to his fiancée in Meskato. On his face was a perfectly charming smile. “Thank you for the warm reception. I see that Castle Vide is a marvel, as are its people.”

The blushing attendant translated the sentiment, and Nicoleta nodded. Cemil bestowed her next with gifts, the usual sort—dresses, jewelry, as well as a coat, which stung—before turning to Luca. “For you, Your Highness,” he began, sounding as if he addressed a grown man and not a trembling ten-year-old, “Meskato-made weapons and books from our heartland. I hope you’ll find them entertaining. Additionally, my younger brother Yücel did some paintings of our journey, though he is unfortunately a frail man and was too sick to join us. Keep or distribute them as you will.”

The attendant translated this all, but didn’t wait for the boy’s response. “My prince thanks you very kindly,” she told Cemil with a nod.

“Sebry,” the emperor called, stepping forth. Hearing the name, the pointy-bearded man perked to attention at his place beside the royal cousins. “I gave you control of this land on a platter. Why are these upstarts in the countryside continuing to make trouble? I’ll have the truth before our witnesses.”

Every eye turned upon his victim. “My compatriots are proud and resilient, like anyone Videl-born,” said the bearded man—Sebry, bowing his head in submission. “We will win in the end, my lord sovereign. Even they cannot hold out much longer.”

“Winter thickens. Why are these riled-up peasants not at home, tending their hearths?”

“The marriage will win the hearts of the common people. These nationalistic passions will die soon enough.”

“And if they do not,” the emperor said, “then this alliance will be useless, and wasted upon us.”

The air rippled with tension. The attendant had leaned in close and was whispering breathless translations into Nicoleta’s ear.

“If the other barons and their separatist militias are troubling my future wife’s family and interfering with our vassal’s duties to us, then it must surely fall on us as Videl’s protector to rout them,” said Cemil boldly. “We are in the perfect position to assist.”

The emperor studied his son shrewdly.

“It would be our great honor to accept your help, Şehzade Cemil,” Lord Sebry said, carefully gracious. “If we can only capture the old voivode and his son, I believe the fighting will extinguish itself quickly. Then we may resume collecting dues from those lords on the kingdom’s outer reaches. The recent late payment of our—obligations, is a great shame to us all.” The pause before the word, obligations, was brief, but noticeable all the same.

All eyes followed the emperor. “Well, Cemil has decided. It shall be done,” He ruled, breaking a long, tense silence. “Let us cast off our cloaks and break bread together.”

The two parties headed as one into the castle, and a buzz circulated among the soldiers like wine. A campaign to bring the other barons to heel promised excitement and bloodshed. Osmund had had enough of both for a lifetime. He was unsure of how to feel, and in need of someone to give him direction. He found himself missing Emre with a fierceness he’d never felt before.

The great hall was an impressive expanse of stone, and it stank. That wasn’t the fault of their hosts, but rather of their own party, properly indoors for the first time in over a week. Osmund had practically lived in this handsome coat since Cemil had given it to him. Suffice to say he, and it, needed a wash.

Still, it was a very welcome change. The hearths glowed, faithfully tended, and the towering walls kept them insulated from the winter winds. The Meskato (and their contingent of soldiers, mercenaries, attendants, Tolmish princes, and other hangers-on) were welcomed and sorted by a small army of castle servants. Osmund watched, and took his time warming his boots by the fire. Cemil and the imperial party had disappeared somewhere, but Osmund spied Nicoleta with her attendant looking down on them all from the first floor, which was an open walkway. The princess scanned the crowd with intense eyes as a well-dressed man whispered privately to her.

“I’m slighted,” came a complaint, and Osmund turned to see the impostor angrily shoving a wad of snow off his cloak, talking seemingly to no one. “Wasn’t Cemil supposed to introduce me? Aren’t I a prince too?” He was clearly out of his depth. Osmund wasn’t above some petty satisfaction at his expense.

He felt the exact moment that Nicoleta’s eyes fell upon him. Osmund looked up again. Some force kept him from shying away as their gazes locked. And though her face was a mask, Osmund knew she’d been told exactly who he was. Or at least, who he was in relation to her future husband.

“Things are ’bout to go sideways, aren’t they?”

He dragged his gaze away from that inscrutable face and found Kasri and Keldin and their associate Ratface, the short, eccentric man who always wore his seemingly endless armor of knives into every engagement. (Nienos and Gudrun were likely off somewhere, already making friends.) “What makes you say that?” Osmund asked Kasri.

It was Ratface who answered. “It’s a feeling one gets in this job,” he gruffed. “Useful instinct, mostly.”

Osmund frowned. “Is that what your ‘instinct’ says too?”

“Oh, yes.” And he grinned, showing his yellowed teeth. “We’ll have a good story if we survive whatever’s coming.”

Eventually, a serving lad came round to fetch him, and Osmund followed him up the stairs, feeling a shortage of optimism. He wondered what drafty tower dungeon he would be consigned to. It was certainly Nicoleta’s right. But the chamber he soon found himself standing in was clean, warm, and cheerily lit, with a crackling fireplace and a bed that looked soft and freshly laundered. There was no slight intended in any of its furnishings. That almost made the whole thing worse.

Osmund stripped off the coat and sank into the unfamiliar mattress. His mind went blank. He was unaware of how much time had passed, except that it was dark outside his window by the time he heard the knock.

He stared confusedly at the ceiling, coming back to himself. The knock wasn’t Cemil’s or Sakina’s. “Yes?”

He rose to his feet as the door opened, and found himself face-to-face with, of all people, Mirhan. The other man smiled. His eyes were narrowed, and Osmund’s gut clenched. Does he know that I know?

“Half the emperor’s camp is waiting for you to ruin this alliance,” said Mirhan the instant the door was shut behind him. “They’re watching you like a whistling pot.”

If the other’s aim was to throw him hopelessly off-balance, he’d succeeded. “Everyone knows you and Cemil fought on the way here,” Mirhan continued. “And that you’ve got him tucked under your thumb.”

“I’m not going to sabotage the marriage!” Osmund sputtered, pulse quickening with fear.

“Whether or not it’s true, it’s what people believe that’s important,” said Mirhan, sounding rather like Yücel. “And what they believe is…troublesome for you.”

“You think what people say about you doesn’t matter,” the fifth prince had said to Cemil. “I’m telling you that it does.”

Was Mirhan…trying to help him?

Osmund looked into his eyes, but he didn’t see malice, nor did he see some false display of concern. Mirhan wore a very neutral expression, only vaguely curious to see how he’d react. “…What should I do?” The words tumbled out, unbidden. 

“Stay away from Cemil where people can see you, unless it’s in a large gathering,” Mirhan instructed, “but don’t give him cause to worry—that will be noticed, too. If you need something to do, try displaying an honest interest in our hosts. The thing that most endears you to the Meskato is how quickly you adopted our language and culture. Your closeness with our prince would not have been half so tolerated otherwise. If you use that same skill to earn the friendship of the Videlari, it will go a long way with the princess and her guardians, who, along with most of our sovereign’s court, currently see you as an inconvenience. Or worse: a problem.”

Mirhan’s advice was blunt, but not false. Msaybe it was a truce. You don’t fuck me, and I don’t fuck you. Once had been enough. And with his lips to the emperor’s ear, Mirhan was in a position to fuck him pretty badly.

Osmund felt like he should say something to acknowledge the advice. Thank you would’ve felt wrong on his tongue. He fumbled.

“…Will that be all?” he asked.

Mirhan inclined his head and said pleasantly, “That’s all. Goodnight.”