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The moment the queen gave her approval for Costis’s departure, Relius turned and hastened out of the room. He didn’t slow until he had reached the stables, warm under the collar and a little out of breath.
“Saddle Keraunos,” he said to one of the grooms, preemptively adopting his haughtiest voice in case the boy tried to object, but there was no need.
“Captain Teleus already sent word, sir,” he replied, puzzled. “I thought it was Lieutenant Costis who needed him?”
“Oh. Yes—it is.”
Relius deflated a little. He had been in Teleus’s office when Costis came in to ask when he could be detached from the Guard to return to Roa; Teleus had been deeply displeased upon learning that his name had been used by Baron Orutus in his obfuscation, and offered the use of his own horse when Relius pointed out that ships to Roa had been suspended. The appearance of Baron Orutus himself soon after had thrown things into chaos—but of course Teleus hadn’t succumbed to it.
Now that he had arrived in such a state, Relius found himself reluctant to leave, and he stood there until another groom came out with Keraunos, tacked up and tossing his head with his impatience to be on the road. Relius took the reins and stroked the horse’s black nose with some murmured words of praise and encouragement. One of the few legacies of his country upbringing was an appreciation for horseflesh—the hayloft had been a favorite place of refuge in his youth—and Keraunos was a masterpiece of a beast, powerful yet lean, with a speed and grace that few other animals in the stable could match. He had been a birthday gift from the queen, sired from the same line as her own favorite mount. If there was any horse in Attolia who could get Costis to Roa in time, it was Keraunos.
If, he thought. If, if, if…
“Pencil and paper,” he said to a passing stablehand. “Quickly.”
No doubt Costis already had some supplies packed—he would be delayed a little getting food and water, not knowing that he had a waiting horse with full saddlebags, but that would not be a long delay.
The boy nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness to comply, and soon Relius was scribbling a note on rough paper balanced on Keraunos’s broad back.
K—
I tried my best to keep him away. If you are reading this, I’m glad I failed.
I told you my investigations of last fall had borne no fruit—I am no longer content with that, given some of the circumstances around Costis’s arrival and departure. He will know of what I speak. I am going to the Erondites lands to indulge my nosiness again.
I hope we will meet again soon, and that I have nothing at all of interest to tell you.
Godspeed.
—R
He had just finished folding the note into a half-decent pattern when Costis strode into the stables with a bag thrown over his shoulder and the expression of a man who needed a hard gallop over rough land, or a disagreeable person to punch very hard in the face.
“Ah,” Relius said. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” Costis agreed stiffly “Excuse me.”
He strapped the bag to Keraunos’s saddle, very pointedly ignoring Relius. There was a very good chance, Relius thought, that he was about to be hit in the face, but he persisted. He held up the note in Costis’s eyeline.
“Do me the favor of delivering that, please.”
Costis saw the name written on the outside and a look of outraged disbelief crossed his face, but he stifled it quickly, nodded, and tucked the note into the fold of his wallet before he swung himself into the saddle. It had been a long time, Relius thought, before he had seen anyone that furious at him—which was surprising, because on the few times their paths had crossed, he had gotten the faint impression that Costis was rather frightened of him.
He grabbed Keraunos’s bridle impulsively, and for the first time Costis actually looked at him.
“Costis,” he said. “I don’t want Kamet to die.”
“You—”
“And more than that, more than almost anything—I don’t want the last thing he sees before he dies to be you, completely alone and unthinking, flinging yourself at a squad of Mede soldiers with bared swords.” Costis’s expression was churlish, willing to hear but unwilling to listen… but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, and Relius was encouraged. “I know it may be difficult to accept, but my words were the actions of a friend.”
Costis’s gaze scoured his face. Relius released Keraunos’s bridle and stepped back, and slowly, Costis nodded.
“I understand,” he relented, gathering the reins in his hands.
“Don’t be stupid. Be quick, and blessed in your endeavors.”
Costis nodded again, ducking his head in an awkward bow, and then his foot nudged Keraunos’s side and the horse was practically skipping out of the stable, delight written in every line of its form. Relius watched them both go, rooted to the spot, as a litany of prayers coursed through his mind.
***
Teleus looked up at Kamet’s knock, and Kamet almost wondered if it was too late to pretend he was lost and go back down the steps. Lit by a single dying lamp, sitting at a desk piled with paperwork and scattered empty inkwells, the captain of the Guard resembled nothing so much as Unse-Sek in his skull-adorned den. Don’t be stupid, he reprimanded himself, and he forced a smile on his face and entered the office.
“You’re working late.”
“Am I?” Teleus glanced at the window. Dusk had fallen. “So I am.”
“I brought wine, but perhaps I should have asked if you’ve had dinner.”
Teleus frowned at him, but Kamet stared back placidly.
“Why?”
“I thought we might have a drink together.”
“No,” Teleus replied, like a reflex, and then he gestured at his desk with an air of embarrassment. “I—thank you, Kamet, but I’m busy and—in no state to be entertaining.”
Kamet stepped forward and picked up a small stack of paper. At a glance he saw it was the draft of a schedule from last week; he spotted another, similar pile from an earlier date beside it and combined the two, and set the jug of wine in the empty space this left behind. He sat down in the chair before the desk and began to flip through the paperwork, organizing it by rote.
“First you would not dance with me, now you will not drink with me. Have I done something to offend you, captain?”
“If I’m not mistaken, this is only the third time we’ve ever spoken.”
“Yes. But I have certainly decided I disliked someone based on fewer than three conversations, so that is not a convincing denial. Then again, I am not a very forgiving person.”
“Do I strike you as a very forgiving person?”
“No.” He reached for another, shabbier stack of papers. This one was a mix of reports from various outposts and disciplinary write-ups, and he noted the names in the back of his mind as he began to sort through them. “But if you tell me what I’ve done to offend you, we can begin with a single apology and perhaps work our way from there.”
“I don’t need your pity, Kamet.”
Kamet glanced up. Teleus had been tired more than anything when he first entered the room, brusque by habit more than intention. Now his face was rigid, his eyebrows drawn down and his mouth set in a fixed frown. It was a forboding look. Many men, confronted by such a look, would happily murmur “yes, captain” and slink away, but Kamet was not so easily intimidated. He spoke with a matter-of-fact voice with just a hint of softness around the edges.
“No,” he agreed. “But you do need a friend. I have heard a little, here and there—” Teleus’s eyes narrowed, and Kamet faltered. That was a little more intimidating than before. He swallowed and kept going. “—and as far as I can tell, the only person you have confided in for the last six months is Pheris.”
“What’s wrong with Pheris?”
“Nothing, but he is a boy, a boy who admires you very much and is too wrapped up in his own grief to see that you are drowning in yours.” His voice as soft. The flame of the lamp was still, no longer flickering but shrinking, and in the shadows Teleus looked… less fearsome than fearful. That happened sometimes, Kamet knew, with people who were content to sit in the dark. “You don’t have to confide in me tonight, Teleus. We hardly know each other. You can sit there and do your work and be silent for the entire rest of the evening, but I am going to light another lamp, pull the cord for a boy to bring your dinner, pour two cups of wine, and sit in this chair talking for an hour or two, and I expect you to eat and drink and occasionally nod as if you were listening.”
For the first time since Kamet entered the room, Teleus put his pen down. He still didn’t speak, but Kamet was not going to let himself be intimidated, and instead he fell back into useful old habits. He let his eyes slide away as if there was nothing to be seen at all, and stood and began doing all the little fussy things a good secretary did, just as he had promised. Finding matches and lighting the lamp, pulling the bell cord, fetching cups. He set them on the desk, and Teleus reached for the jug.
“You’re not what I expected,” he admitted as he poured.
Kamet sat down and accepted a cup. He shrugged.
“I’m not what I expected, either. The last few years have been… transformative.”
“I’m not a person of influence in this court,” he warned. “I do not meddle in the affairs of the aristocracy or prevail upon the queen on behalf of others. I serve the crown—that is all. And Costis in particular has had enough favors done for him to expect any from me,” he added, looking down his nose. Kamet took a sip of wine to hide his smile.
“Costis, as you well know, is on the walls tonight—he has no idea I’m here. And with all due respect, I think I would be much better suited to advocate for myself if I wanted to weasel my way into power in this court, which, as of now, I do not.” Teleus picked up his own cup, but he still looked wary. Gods, this was difficult, Kamet thought. “I am here,” he said gently. “As a favor to a friend, who would have done the same.”
Teleus’s eyes were flat, like shale. He nodded once and drained his cup. With a heavy sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and looked askance at the wreckage of his desk.
“Haven’t been able to focus lately,” he mumbled. “Could before, can’t now—funny how…” He shook his head and picked up a large sheaf of paper, dropping it down in front of Kamet. “Here. If you’re going to be nosy, at least make yourself useful.”
“It would be my pleasure.”