The Mercenaries of the Stolen Moon Page 4

  Best to stop thinking about it, since the only lover he'd had in mind was going to tea with Jac.

  Charlaine couldn't even hate her or be especially bitter about the matter. Jac and Myra would get along well. It was easy to see once the idea had been put in front of him. Myra was probably hesitant about a lover so much younger than him, but he was so serious and acted older than his years all the time that a younger lover would be a good fit. Jac was always so cheerful, but she understood the way duty often had to come first—and given how their jobs overlapped, they'd see each other often anyway.

  The more he thought about it, the more depressed he became, but it wasn't like Jac and Myra being lovers would take away his friendship with Myra. Charlaine would get over his disappointment. Eventually.

  All right. That was enough sulking. Time for a distraction.

  Moving to his writing table, Charlaine picked up the playbills he'd left there and shuffled through them until he found a couple of shows that were happening that day: one at the Marla Theatre, the other at the Zelle Theatre, which was only a few streets over. Both were cheap theatres, the floor only went for a pin, and the best seats were a mark. If he was still feeling sorry for himself after all that, he'd dress up and go to a show at the Bellandra.

  He might not have his own suite in the palace, but he had a permanent box at Bellandra Theatre and owned two horses that he could afford to keep in the imperial stables. He might not know how to spend large amounts of free time, but he'd always managed to find a few hours here or there to see plays. It was all the other hours of the day he was struggling to fill.

  Thinking of the ongoing struggle reminded him of his conversation with Jac, drawing a smile to his face. He really couldn't begrudge her or Myra, in the end. He didn't know Jac nearly as well, but it wasn't hard to see she'd walked a hard road in life and deserved just as much happiness as Myra.

  Pulling on a jacket and hat that would keep off the road dust, Charlaine headed out of the barracks and across the palace grounds to the enormous stables that were practically an entire city all their own. Thousands of horses were kept in the imperial stable, not counting the military stable that kept the horses for officers and cavalry. Charlaine had never seen the stables anything other than busy, and given the influx of visitors for the festival, right then everything was barely contained chaos.

  Not bothering to flag a groom, Charlaine dodged and weaved his way through the mess, the smell of horse and hay and manure filling his nostrils and making him sneeze. Stupidly, the assault on his nose reminded him of the cologne Kamir had given him, that he'd worn to dinner last night in hopes of…something. The last time he'd tried courting anyone, it had ended in failure and he hadn't been nearly as disappointed as he probably should have been. He'd always been happiest with his work.

  He probably still would be, likely, if not for the peculiar assignment he'd been given: assume the role of court-ordered bodyguard, observe Lord Kamir, and protect him at all costs. It was not an assignment anyone would normally give him, as it was a waste of his time and skills to reduce him to bodyguard. His missions were more likely to entail getting past bodyguards.

  But Jader was involved, and so the task had to be given to a trustworthy officer. Since Captain Terrag and First Lieutenant Rinnark were only moderately more subtle and contained than Lesto, to Charlaine the duty had fallen.

  Civilians were not normally the type of people Charlaine spent much time around. He had the same loathing for most of them that nearly all soldiers carried. Even soldiers who were also nobles, like Lesto, held most of their peers in some measure of contempt. Though he was always honored to serve the High Commander, he hadn't expected much more than the usual nonsense that came with nobles.

  But Kamir had been nothing remotely like his peers, and his children were adorable, and Charlaine increasingly found he'd not wanted to return to his regular duties. He hadn't been sure what that meant, and he wasn't much clearer on the matter now.

  Finally reaching his allotted section of the barn, Charlaine led his roan mare out and got her saddled. When she was ready, he led her outside and mounted up, nodding to the grooms who waved at him as he rode off.

  Several decades ago, the city of Harkenesten had possessed multiple gates. In an effort to better contain and control the various problems that plagued the city, High Queen Sarrica—the current Sarrica's namesake—had ordered all but two of the gates closed. Most of them had been torn down and the walls joined. A few were now archways that led to expanded parts of the city, though those expansions were not nearly enough.

  But closing those gates had helped immensely with controlling who went in and out of the city, curtailing the efforts of smugglers and other criminals. Most importantly, it had made it far more difficult to smuggle people out. It was impossible to stop human trafficking completely, but the efforts started by Sarrica's grandmother and continued by Sarrica had significantly reduced the number of people who went missing each year.

  But it also created a problem of congestion, as thousands of people went in and out of the city every day. Charlaine was not remotely sorry he had been granted permission to use the smaller, special access gate alongside the main one. Riding up to it, he displayed the medallion at his neck, waved to the guards, and rode through as they raised the portcullis.

  Unfortunately, getting into the city was the easy part. Like the palace, the city was overstuffed with visitors from across Harken—and even further abroad—eager to attend the Festival of Harmony. Maybe going to see a couple of plays hadn't been his smartest idea. He was there, though, and had nothing else to do with his day as he hadn't anticipated being given so much time off.

  Though he was friendly with countless soldiers, especially within Fathoms Deep and steadily more within Shattered Wind, Charlaine had very few friends. That was partly by his nature, partly by the nature of his job. It was hard to trust and befriend the man who might be stealthily gathering information to incriminate you or your friend. Nobody liked the people responsible for finding the enemies within.

  As he was a bodyguard now, he had more free time in one year than he'd possibly seen in a decade during his time with Fathoms Deep. Only so many hours of his day could be filled with plays and talking to those few friends he did have.

  He could be spending some of it with Myra, but it was his own fault that wouldn't be happening—at least, not the way he'd hoped it might happen. Charlaine set his jaw and pushed onward, carefully negotiating his horse through the crowded streets. The ordeal would have been infinitely easier if he were in uniform—though Shattered Wind did not inspire the low-level panic that Fathoms Deep did—but he didn't like to use it that way. It came too close to bullying for his taste.

  He reached the Marla Theatre just in time, hastily handing his horse over before darting inside and up to his permanent seat in the balcony close to the stage. It was a box he shared with two others, but they almost never visited, and the few times he'd crossed paths with them, he'd gotten the impression they liked the idea of it all rather than the reality.

  Which was fine by him. Settling into his box, which as usual was empty, Charlaine pulled out his flask and sipped leisurely at the potent brandy inside as he watched the comedy performed below. The Marla didn't boast the best actors, but they were far from the worst and many went on to better theatres. A couple of the best actors in the city had started at this very theatre.

  His mother had never had more than bit parts in various performances all over the city, but she'd enjoyed it, and Charlaine had enjoyed tagging along and helping out where he could behind the scenes until he grew old enough to take up acting himself.

  Until his mother had died, and his father had reluctantly taken custody of him and promptly put him in the imperial army, the most expedient method for dealing with an embarrassing bastard child who dared to stop being invisible. Not that it mattered in the end. The man had died only a couple of years later in a drunken riding accident. His daughter and heir had
taken over, given Charlaine a generous settlement, and they'd peaceably agreed to cut all familial ties. On the rare occasion their paths crossed, they were cordial acquaintances. Charlaine was two years the elder and could have easily fought for the title and inheritance, but he'd rather stab out his remaining eye than get tangled up in the high court.

  After a few years, Terrag had brought him into Fathoms Deep—with Lesto's approval, of course. He'd considered getting back on stage, but it had been so many years since he'd done that sort of acting, he was fairly certain he didn't have it in him anymore. Not to mention he was far too scarred for it. There were only so many roles that could be given to an aging, half-blind soldier with more scars than skin.

  When the play ended, Charlaine rose to clap and cheer. As the actors cleared the stage, he tossed down a handful of pins along with the rest of the audience for the performers and crew to collect and split among them.

  Heading back out and retrieving his horse, Charlaine worked his way through the streets to his favorite tavern. Handing the horse off to a girl to watch for him, he stepped inside the cool, dark building and walked up to the bar.

  The woman behind the counter saw him and smiled, pouring a beer before she wandered over. "Haven't seen your ugly mug for a while, Laine. How'd you slip free of the fancy folk?"

  "They told me to go away for a few days," Charlaine said with a laugh, and leaned over the counter to kiss her cheek. "Merry day, Midoki."

  "I wish somebody would order me to stop working." She swatted his arm and went to take care of some other customers.

  Several minutes later she returned with a second beer and a bowl of soup. "Eat up. Anything interesting up your way?"

  Charlaine shrugged. "Not really. Everyone is busy with the festival, you know how that goes. I'm glad it starts tomorrow. A week or so and this place will start to quiet down. As much as it ever does, anyway."

  "Tell me about it," Midoki grumbled. "After I'm done with this place, I have to go across town to help my sister. Her inn is so overrun with guests, she can't sit still two minutes. She swears up and down that some of them are from Soltorin, but she can barely tell the difference between Delfastien and Rilien, so I don't know what she's going on about."

  "Soltorin? Why would any Soltorin come here at all, let alone during the Festival of Harmony? The Triumvirate hates us."

  Midoki rolled her eyes. "They're probably from Rilen, mark my words. This lot can barely tell formal Harken from informal, most days, how would they recognize a language that even the Golden Tongue can't speak? You want more soup? You ate that fast."

  "No, but thanks. I've another play to catch before I need to get back to the palace."

  "Take care of yourself, then. Come by sometime and stay for a bit, hey?"

  "I will." He kissed her cheek again, left a mark on the bar, and departed.

  He arrived a few minutes late to the second play, and one of the seats in his box was occupied by a woman, but she only nodded briefly before putting her attention fully back on the play.

  Unfortunately, it seemed the understudies had needed to fill in for most of the roles, and the play, normally one of his favorites, suffered severely for it.

  Charlaine sat back with a sigh at the interlude. "This is rather disappointing."

  The woman, Kala if he recalled her name correctly, wafted a fan in front of her face. "Yes, quite. I should have listened to myself and not come when I heard the actors had been pulled from the play for the festival. Some la-dee-da performance is to be put on for the High and Mighty King and his Golden Tongue." She clucked. "As if they don't already have plenty of fancy entertainment in their stuffy palace. They could leave the rest of us our middling actors."

  Charlaine bit back a smile. "In their meagre defense, I'm certain they would be happy to do so if they knew. My impression is they seldom know about such things until it appears on their schedules."

  Kala scoffed. "One wonders what they do with their days that they can't even be bothered to learn what they're meant to be doing until it's shoved in their faces."

  "One wonders," Charlaine agreed with a laugh, though he hated to hear such comments. He might only recently have been spending large amounts of time around the imperial couple, but he'd heard stories from Lesto and Terrag for years about the way Sarrica pushed himself even when he was vomiting from pain. How Nyle had attended court, dinner and more while recovering from a broken leg. It wasn't exactly hard to see how exhausted Sarrica and Allen always were, but if they complained at all, it was good-natured and teasing. They had more luxury and wealth than the whole of the empire, but they paid a dear price for it.

  Thankfully, before she could say more, the bells rang and the theatre refilled. The lights were dimmed, and the dreadful play resumed. He could have left, but it was the kind of terrible that was hard to look away from. Normally this theatre put out better actors, even in understudies. Perhaps the original understudies had been stolen away as well.

  When it finally came to an end, Charlaine bid Kala good day and departed. Dusk was falling as he rode back to the palace, where he was happy to hand his horse and a couple of pin to a groom. Slipping into the palace, he stopped by the dining hall used by soldiers and staff to fix himself a plate of food to take away, and then slipped out a side door and across the military pavilion to his barracks.

  He'd barely stepped through the doors when someone called his name. It was the urgency in the voice, though, that stopped him more than anything. "Charlaine," Rella said again as she hurried over to him.

  "What's wrong?"

  She hissed, "The High Secretary, that's what!"

  "I told you to stop calling him that."

  "Whatever!" She waved her arms frantically about. "He's here! In your room! We tried to make him stay down here, but he wasn't having it, and you don't exactly tell the Head Secretary to fuck off. That's like smarting off to the High Commander. And he looks mad. The Head Secretary I mean, not the High Commander. I don't know what you did, but if you're the praying sort, you might want to do that now."

  Charlaine sighed. "I see. Well, I led a good life. Throw a beer on my ashes, eh?"

  Rella giggled. "Good luck."

  Bracing himself, Charlaine headed for his room. The smell of the food he was carrying soured his stomach, appetite completely ruined by the dread of a pending argument. He and Myra argued so rarely, it made him sick every time it happened. The last time Myra had been this angry with him was the day Charlaine had lost his eye because he'd been stupidly reckless and cocky. Myra had told him so, loudly enough for the whole camp to hear. His comrades hadn't stopped teasing him about it for weeks.

  He really should have seen this coming. Myra was not the sort to mince words. When he wanted something done, it got done. When he had something to say, it got said. That was one of the many reasons he and Sarrica got along so well. Most people made the mistake of stepping carefully and mincing words with Sarrica, never realizing they'd fare much better if they just got directly to the point and avoided flowery language.

  The first time they'd met, everything had gone well. Charlaine had been pleased with himself for so successfully completing the assignment when he'd been dreading going anywhere near the crown prince after all the rumors of his short temper and blunt manner.

  But his second encounter with Myra, he'd forgotten a form. Normally it was easy to wheedle the secretaries into not caring or allowing him to bring it later. Myra had eviscerated him. Charlaine had never forgotten the form again. He'd gotten teased mercilessly for that incident too.

  Pushing open the door to his room, Charlaine strode over to his desk and set the plate of food down before turning to where Myra was lying on his bed with a book he must have brought, because it wasn't one of the few Charlaine owned.

  He closed it and sat up. "So are you done sulking? Are you going to tell me what had you so upset earlier today? So upset you're backing out of whatever you were going to say last night?"

  "I told you, it'
s a moot point now. Let it go. I don't want to be pushed." Charlaine picked up a piece of bread, then dropped it with a sigh.

  Myra rose and closed the few steps between them. He was only slightly taller than Charlaine, but right then he seemed to tower. "Shall we walk? Unless you want to have this argument where everyone in the barracks is going to eavesdrop."

  "Can we just not argue?"

  Myra smiled, sweet and razor sharp. "Tell me what's bothering you and what you were going to say last night and we won't have to."

  "I don't know why it's a mystery to anyone why Sarrica loves you so much," Charlaine muttered. "Fine. Let's walk."

  Sighing, not looking particularly pleased with his victory, Myra led the way out—where Charlaine wasn't remotely surprised to see a handful of people who suddenly had a list of reasons to be standing around a hallway. It was little wonder Harken had a reputation for nosiness with the rest of the world. Rolling his eyes and giving them looks, he followed Myra out of the barracks and back across the pavilion.

  But instead of heading into the palace, Myra took one of the stone paths that led to the public gardens, until they reached a garden filled with small, flowering trees and a little artificial waterfall and brook. Walking over the arching bridge spanning the brook, Myra headed for the ivy-strewn gazebo tucked into one corner.

  Was this better or worse than going to Myra's rooms like he'd expected? Charlaine couldn't decide.

  Once inside the gazebo, Myra whipped around, the long tail of his hair tumbling over one shoulder. Most days he braided it, but today he'd simply bound it with ribbon at regular intervals. It would be so very easy to unbind it, set it free, enjoy the rare sight of Myra with his hair loose. In all their years of friendship, Charlaine had only seen that five times, and each had been far too brief.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Myra asked, "So why are you being such a brat?"

  "Me?" Charlaine's brows rose. "I have said repeatedly I don't want to talk about it. That the point is moot. You're the one who won't take no for an answer."