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Quynh was Yusuf’s favorite. She takes all of two weeks to freeze in the middle of one of Nicoló’s stories and interject with, “Oh. So it’s you.”
Nicoló didn’t lose a beat, weaving his tale even taller until the man who killed Yusuf had wielded a sword as long as his body. He’d been all of 5’6” and his blade near-blunt from disuse, but none of these facts were as interesting as Nicoló’s ability to spit utter falsehoods with a straight face.
Yusuf has a moment of desperate hope that he’s found an ally in his campaign to prove Nicoló the provocateur, a wish quickly dashed as Quynh indulges Nicoló with questions designed to goad him into stretching the story further. Yusuf implores Andromache for aid with his eyes, but, not one for mercy, she begins to loudly gasp alongside the rising action.
“If this is how it’s going to be, at least make him work for it,” he tells Quynh, rescinding his favoritism. It goes back to Nicoló by default, which he resents.
“I worked very hard to kill that man for you,” Nicoló says solemnly, like hadn’t twisted his knee and lost an eye grappling with a man possessing decades less training. “But I won’t demand thanks not freely given.”
“I hate you,” Yusuf says, and then throws a pebble at him for good measure.
Yusuf learned early on that he had no talent for trouble. A disposition to it, perhaps, but a face readable as cloudy skies. He had to commit to mischief quickly, with little planning, and a surety that it was worth the inevitable consequences. His older brothers liked to include him in their scheming for this very reason: more often than not, they could evade his mother’s wrath when Yusuf couldn’t hide his smirk.
He’s somewhat better at it these days. Necessity has forced him to learn to lie to men’s faces or face consequences much worse than a whipping. Still, he’s never had a talent for long cons, his ability begins and ends with a companionable drink.
Nicoló has never told a lie in his life, which is a fabrication Yusuf still can’t believe so many people are fooled by. “I have an idea,” Nicoló will whisper, and Yusuf will bury his head in his hands and resign himself to sleeping with his sword.
“You sure do complain a lot for someone always at his side,” Andromache says.
“Where else would I be?” Yusuf replies.
Yusuf gives his frustrations to God, who stays predictably silent. Failing that, he searches for the hashish in his pack.
“You didn’t -” He waves the near-empty pouch at Nicoló, aghast. It had been a quarter-full mere days ago. “Without me?” He mimes a stab wound to the heart.
Nicoló frowns. “I did no such thing.”
“You should learn to keep better track of your things,” Andromache calls, leaning against Quynh’s side. Quyhn giggles into her neck. The four of them haven’t separated for days, Yusuf has no idea when they managed to go rummaging around his pack.
Nicoló tries to grab the herb from his hands, “Let me see -”
“Absolutely not.” Yusuf holds the pouch up and away. “It is because of you that I’m in need of it.”
Nicoló pouts. “We always share.”
“As we shared that man’s death?”
“It is no shame on you to succumb to a warrior of that size.” Yusuf hates how Nicoló can tell when he’s trying not to laugh, it only encourages him to carry on.
“I am taking the last of this, and getting a good night’s sleep for it,” Yusuf says. “No thanks to you lot.”
Andy looks absolutely unrepentant - he really is going to have to find a way to secure his things.
“Yusuf,” Nicoló pouts.
“No. Stop looking at me like that. No. If you want some, you can figure out where we can get more, big man. It should be easy for someone of your skill.”
A slow grin comes over Nicoló’s face.
Ah, fuck.
“I have an idea.”
Yusuf groans and hands over half of what’s left.
“You can find us outside town,” Andy says first thing the next morning, bags already packed.
“No one likes a fickle friend,” Yusuf accuses.
“Tough. I don’t like losing a hand for some damn fool idea.”
It isn’t…the best plan Nicoló has ever come up with, but that list includes the time he tried to pass as a prostitute to get a slave-trader alone, so it’s not the worst. The man had a penchant for ropes and Yusuf had to intervene. It was their most shoddy getaway to date, Nicoló spitting a sailor’s instructions at him in Ligurian while Yusuf fumbled with the knots.
Hashish has a way of focusing the world down to the sound of Nicoló’s voice, the feeling of him single-mindedly sucking him to completion. It makes Nicoló lazy in a way he rarely manages, spending ages gently kissing up and down Yusuf’s length before ever bothering to push towards anything more. Yusuf thinks he can be forgiven for ignoring all kinds of things in those circumstances, including Andromache’s yell across the fire to keep it down and the fact that Nicoló has the worst plans.
It’s a tougher calculus in the harsh light of day, but the need to see Nicoló giggle like a young boy just outweighs his concerns about needing to avoid another town for the next some-odd decades. At least Quynh had point blank refused Nicoló’s appeals to borrow some of her clothes. There was no way that would have improved their chances.
“Right. Let’s go.” Yusuf allows himself to be dragged away, looking pleadingly back at Quynh. She waves goodbye good-naturedly.
Jattab is a merchant with a penchant for herb, wine, and the two combined. He specializes in the tea trade and unfavorable loans to those who can’t afford not to take them. Not enough of a scumbag to kill, but enough of one Yusuf doesn’t feel any guilt about lightening his pockets.
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Yusuf calls, raising a hand in Jattab’s direction.
Poor liar or not, Yusuf is a merchant’s son. His brothers oversaw the deals where subterfuge was essential, but he was more than capable of handling the daily trade. Death may not be certain, but a trader’s reliance on everyone being a friendly face stayed true.
Still, making Yusuf the center of these plans was always a risk.
A look of faint confusion crosses Jattab’s face before it’s quickly wiped away. “And you,” he pauses slightly.
“Sumayl,” Yusuf supplies. “Ah, no, do not look troubled, it has been many years! And we are turning into old men, are we not?”
“Speak for yourself!” Jattab laughs, unknowingly accurate. He claps Yusuf on the back. “Come now, let me buy you a drink. You can tell me what brings you to these parts.”
Yusuf lets himself be dragged towards a tavern, extolling his father’s good health along the way. His job is the easy one - keep Jattab distracted and away from his quarters for the next few hours. Their conversation flows well for the first drink and the second keeps it lubricated enough to prevent lulls, but by the third Yusuf is running out of excuses to turn the conversation away from business. To his dismay, there’s still no sign from Nicoló.
“Not to be indelicate,” Yusuf hedges, appealing to Jattab’s greed, “but I heard of poor harvests in the area. My family has similar - interests - to yours and I hoped we might reach an understanding.”
Jattab’s eyes flick over in interest and he raises his hand, calling for their tab. “Perhaps. But these are conversations best had in private, no?”
Fuck.
Luckily, Jattab is too busy eyeing up the girl who comes to take their coin to notice Yusuf’s look of panic. He searches his mind for a plausible excuse and finds none. He can play a merchant well enough, for it’s not really acting at all, but he is ever hopeless off-script. Nicoló should have turned up to make his excuses already.
Yusuf tries to stall as they make their way back towards Jattab’s quarters, pointing out architectural marvels and asking questions about the city’s history. But Jattab is no scholar and they reach his dwellings in short order.
There’s no sign of Nicoló as they enter the household, nodding at the servants in turn. Yusuf continues to make polite conversation about the new war brewing to the east and the opportunities it might provide, searching for a way to extract himself from the situation. His cover might have held so far, but there was no way he would be able to muddle through once they got down to brass tacks.
Yusuf is cursing Nicoló’s name, his cock, and his mother as Jattab opens the door to his study.
Nicoló looks up in surprise, one hand down the decorated vase that Jattab must have stored his hashish in. He was dressed in servant’s garb and his arms were covered in soot, like he’d somehow ended up spending the day actually scrubbing dishes.
“What now?” Yusuf mouths at Nicoló, eyes wide. Surely Nicoló had a contingency plan -
“Guards!” Juttab cries.
“Run!” Nicky shouts, tossing the bag of herb his way.
Yusuf already is, clenching the neck of the bag closed in a vice-grip. He bolts down the stairs, then turns down the first street he sees, narrowly avoiding a linen-trader’s stall and leaping over a chicken. He swerves right, hears his pursuer’s footsteps coming around the bend, and doubles back the way he came.
A familiar hand grabs his shirt, dragging him down a dark alley. “Took you long enough,” Yusuf gasps, letting Nicoló guide the way.
“Yes, well, in for a penny,” Nicoló shakes a pouch of coins in Yusuf’s face, his fingers still cracking back into position.
Yusuf curses him, grinning. “He’ll never stop following us, now.” He picks up the pace, scampering over a low fence and into a shaded grove.
Nicoló shakes his head. “Tomorrow is a festival day. Do you think he pays those men well enough to skip out on the fun? We’ll be long gone.”
Yusuf stops to breathe, resting his hands on his knees. “I love a bastard.”
“True. But at least you’ll suffer in new shoes. Come on.” Nicoló drags him towards the city wall. “The girls are waiting.”