Looking for You Page 4

  "Not at all," Omar said. "You asked and listened. That is more than most people do. Most of the world, and even many of our own, consider us glorified bodyguards. But look at Prince Kallaar and his lovers—he and Princess Shanna are married, but they all three wear matching rings that show the bond between the three of them. Only a bloodgiver can offer such a ring to his sworn—and their spouse, later, if they so choose."

  "Shanna and her men do seem quite happy together. It is not an arrangement I ever considered. That sort of thing isn't common here. Well, it's not proper. Certainly behind closed doors it's common enough." She rolled her eyes.

  "I see." The hope Omar hadn't realized—or at least admitted—he'd let flare to life went out like a torch dropped in snow. When was he going to learn?

  It was fine. He could be a bloodgiver without any of the romantic or sexual components. He'd already told himself that. What had he really expected when he was to protect a powerful noble and his equally powerful ambassador's assistant wife? Stupid. He'd be lucky if he was allowed to stay at all, now the obvious had been pointed out to him.

  Not that anyone but his sworn and his king and queen had the right to remove Omar from his post without his consent, but that had never stopped rulers or politicians before.

  "Why do you look so sad all of a sudden?" Astira asked, reaching out to touch his hand.

  "Do I? My apologies. My thoughts wandered. I fervently hope finding and rescuing Symaia goes well, that's all."

  Astira covered his hand more firmly and squeezed it lightly. "With you as his lifesworn, I cannot see any outcome but success."

  "I will do my best to prove your faith and trust are not misplaced."

  She smiled and squeezed his hand again. "So tell me a story of the two of you."

  "I doubt I can tell you one that Symaia has not; he seems to have covered them all, though divine knows why."

  Pouting, Astira replied, "Even familiar stories are new when told from your perspective. I like hearing your versions of events."

  "Probably because I strip away all of Symaia's careful glamouring," Omar drawled, smiling when she laughed. "Very well—did he tell you how we met?"

  "A little. He said he was drunk, and nearly got into a very stupid fight with a dangerous person, and you got him away from it and took him back to his rooms. He insisted you stay the night, which you did, and in the morning he took you out for breakfast. You wound up spending the whole day together, even missing classes and practice, and were friends from then on."

  "Oh, is that how he tells it." Omar lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "When I finally locate him, and he is safe, I'm going to leave him tied up while I go through each and every one of his carefully edited and embellished stories. That brat. For one, he didn't almost get into a very stupid fight. He picked a very stupid fight with Lord Emra-Illar, though then he was the heir and did not yet hold the title. But his family is one of the most powerful in the country, and the man has a temper like a cat has fur. He was always a bastard, but he's smart and knows how to hold his own in a fight. Most people, when he angers them, ignore him. Symaia was ridiculously drunk and decided to punch him."

  "Oh, my Goddess. He punched the Marquis of Field-of-Gold?"

  "Yes. Then recovered just enough sense to realize he'd made himself a dead man and took off running. He met me when he was barreling through the streets in the vain hope that outrunning Emra-Illar would save him. When he realized he'd never find out because Emra-Illar was rapidly gaining on him, he looked for a new idea."

  "You."

  Omar dipped his head in a nod. "Yes. He threw himself at me, begged me for help, and before I could even ask what in the world was happening, he'd ducked behind me, and over my shoulder informed Emra-Illar that I was his friend, and one of the best bloodgiver trainees in the palace, and Emra would find himself in trouble if he didn't back off."

  Astira covered her mouth with her hands. Dropping them after a moment, she said, "That lying little brat! This is a completely different story! I'm going to—to—knock him silly!"

  "I'd prefer you somehow manage to knock sense into him," Omar replied dryly. "Anyway, Emra-Illar was not in the mood for discussion—he was in the mood to finish the fight Symaia started. But Symaia picked that moment to start heaving in the gutter, and I suddenly had my hands full fighting in his stead. It did not go well for any of us. By the time it was over, Symaia was passed out from booze, I had a dislocated shoulder and bloody nose, and Emra-Illar had a broken arm. We all spent the night in the city lock-up. I was given three months of confinement to palace grounds and soil-collecting duties in addition to my training. Symaia was given four months suspension, and Emra-Illar two months suspension, and Symaia had to pay for all the damage caused by the fight and Emra-Illar had to cover my medical costs."

  "And you still became his friend?"

  Omar rubbed the back of his head and laughed sheepishly. "He called me his friend, and said I was the best trainee in the palace. I knew he didn't mean it, but given the damage I did to Emra-Illar, and all the rumors that spread, it helped improve my reputation. And he was extremely contrite once he was sober. While I can't say he never got into further drunken debacles, nothing that bad ever happened again. He was a fool, but he's always had a good heart, and he never stopped telling everyone we were friends. Eventually, it was true. And that is how I met the oh so charming and friendly Duke of Valcour."

  "I'm going to make you retell all his stories now, that fiend. I cannot believe he downplayed it so."

  "In his meager defense, he is quite embarrassed about how wild and foolish he was in those younger days. The funny part is that he wasn't even half as bad as some of them."

  "That is terrifying but unsurprising." She leaned across the table and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for the story. I cannot believe my rogue of a betrothed left out so many details—especially just how above and beyond you went for such a spoiled, reckless brat!"

  "But wickedly charming and good at getting his way," Omar said with a laugh.

  Astira laughed with him. "All too true."

  Omar finished his wine and gathered all the dishes. Leaving them just outside the door, he then locked it and went to the bed closest to the door, hanging his sword from one of the posts and tucking a dagger beneath the mattress in a way he could easily unsheathe it in the night.

  Astira threw more wood on the fire then went to her own bed. "I do not miss sleeping on the ground. I never thought it was something I would spend so much time doing, but I do not prefer to travel the way so many other nobles do, with three carriages and five wagons and stopping every couple of hours. Better to travel light and quick." She pulled her hair down and brushed it, then deftly braided it. "I sorely miss my beds, especially the one in Symaia's manor." She brightened. "Oh! I will have the green guestroom made up for you, since you are going to be with us from now on. You'll love it; Symaia designed it to look as it would in Morentia."

  "That is kind of you," Omar said, too exhausted and worn to explain that strictly speaking, he should sleep in their room at all times. The only exception was when they required privacy, in which case he either slept on a cot in the dressing room—or valet's room if there was such a thing—or at worst in the hall until privacy was no longer needed. And that was only if Symaia or Astira was not under extreme threat, in which case he did not leave the room at all.

  Astira scoffed as she squirmed under the blankets and snuffed the lamp on the table between them. "Kind. You're quite absurd, Master Omar. I hope you sleep well."

  "And you, my lady," Omar said softly, focusing carefully on tedious counting and not on how much he missed sleeping with her pressed against his side, one arm slung over him, warm and comfortable and like she belonged there.

  *~*~*

  The morning brought clear skies, but also a further drop in temperature. It was the kind of cold that hurt to breathe, where the whole world was as sharp as a razor, cracking and cutting with every step, and even the hottest fire brought no comfort.

  "I think perhaps I'm lucky for not being allowed to join the hunt." Astira threw more logs on the fire and fussed with it as she drank her coffee.

  Omar snorted as he finished strapping weapons in place. "It's not the threat of violence and likely death that makes you feel lucky, it is not having to go out in the cold? I wish I could say that surprises me. Of course Symaia would fall in love with a woman as crazy as he is." She grinned unrepentantly, and Omar rolled his eyes. "I will try to be back by dinner, but do not be alarmed if I do not show up until tomorrow. If I'm not back by tomorrow evening, then you should worry. But I will send you updates if I can do so safely."

  "Be careful," Astira said, and set her coffee on the table before striding across the room and throwing herself in his arms. If she was bothered by all the armor and weapons, she gave no sign, only kissed him on the cheek—and lingered, but that was likely his own imagination. "I mean it. Anguish would kill Symaia if he learned you died trying to save him." She fussed with some of his buckles and straps, then smacked his chest lightly and stepped back. "I wouldn't like it either. Now go find our fool so we can go home."

  Sweeping her a deep bow, Omar replied, "My lady," and departed.

  His levity fell away as he left the inn, all his thoughts and attention narrowing to his quest. He pulled up his face masks, tugged up his hood, and headed for the market. A few coins at various vendors, and nudges of conversation at others, and he had all the gossip he needed to know where to start.

  Leaving the market behind, he threaded his way to the poorer parts of town, where he found a promising pawn shop that looked as though it was open only because of the right combination of pity and apathy. He pushed open the creaky door and grimaced at the smell of mold and forgotten pisspo
ts that assaulted him, even through the thick fabric of his outer protective mask.

  A bell rang softly as a man who looked like he'd slept in one of the neglected pisspots came from a door in the back. Even his skin looked like something closer to piss than the healthy pinkish-white it should probably be. He stilled as he took in Omar, and approached the scuffed, stained counter slowly. "What do you want?"

  Pulling down the outer mask, but leaving on the thinner one so his face could not be marked, Omar said, "Assistance. You are Pesker, I presume?"

  "Him, or nearest you'll be getting."

  Omar set a gleaming silver rok on the counter. "There is a person I want to see, who refuses to see me. I want people who would be willing to bring him to me."

  The man looked at the coin, his wary look turning predictably pensive. "What sort of person are you wanting to speak to?"

  "High ranking. Well-protected. The kind of figure whom people would quickly notice was missing."

  "You'll need to be flashing more than that." Pesker sneered at the single coin.

  Omar put another one down, but kept his fingers over it. "You'll need to assure me I'm not wasting time or money."

  Pesker laughed meanly. "I've got better things to do than waste my time by wasting yours. Go to the Drunk Eel, speak with Crim. He'll be able to arrange the kind of appointment you're looking for—or whoever is paying you to arrange it, anyway."

  Omar withdrew his hand, and Pesker snatched up the coins. "My thanks." He turned and departed, and it took only asking one person to find his way to the Drunk Eel.

  If the pawn shop had smelled like an overfull pisspot, the pub reeked of something even the soil-collectors wouldn't touch. This didn't seem right, not even close. The kind of men who could be trusted with something like the kidnapping of Symaia wouldn't be found in a dump like this—and dump was being kind.

  Well, if they wanted to play games with him, let them. After weeks of hard travel, frustrating want, and hopeless pining, he was more than ready to punch some people.

  A few paces from the door, he pulled out a small glass vial and unscrewed the top, which was attached to an eyedropper. He put two drops in each eye, and once the counter solution had settled, he tucked the vial away and stepped into the pub.

  He skimmed the room for the likely Crim, and finally settled on the innocuous, pasty figure at the bar—the too innocuous figure. Approaching the bar, Omar took a seat and ordered a beer. The bartender brought him something that made the smell of shit appealing.

  "If you really want to drink something in this place, I'd go with the gin. It's mostly what it claims to be."

  "Thanks," Omar replied, turning to spare the man, his target, a mild glance. He was met by dark, sharp eyes in a face that was too clean, too well-cared for, to be in a place like this. The man's accent, too, spoke of the better parts of the city. "Are you Crim?"

  "I know the name, at any rate. What's a desert rat doing in a dive like this?"

  Omar shrugged. "Business." He flicked his fingers and suddenly held a gleaming double rok.

  Crim, for this must be him, didn't look entirely unimpressed by the sleight of hand. "Come with me, then." He didn't wait, but abruptly abandoned the bar and headed for a door at the back of the room. Omar left a coin for the tankard of piss and followed. He used the opportunity of having Crim's back to him to reach into one of his pouches and palm one of the objects inside.

  Right into a room of six well-armed men, and Crim made seven. "I'm guessing they're not here to chat."

  "No," Crim said with an ugly smile. "Owner doesn't like when we get blood out in the main room; attracts flies."

  Omar didn't comment on that, but only barely.

  Crim's ugly smile took on a meaner edge. "Any final words you'd like us to pass on to the lovely Lady Astira before we kill you?"

  He didn't bother to reply to that either, though he burned hot with anger—mostly at himself, because he should have known they'd still be after her, damn it. They'd probably staked someone at the inn on the chance she'd go there just like always. He was a fucking fool.

  Omar slammed the smokebomb he'd palmed earlier to the floor, filling the room with peppersmoke, and fled.

  One of them managed to follow him into the hall; Omar kicked him in the gut, slammed him into the wall, and slid a knife into his gut. Bastard should have worn better armor.

  He darted off as he heard two more coming, slipping through another door, relief pouring through him to see he hadn't just walked into a closet. He took another door and spilled into a rancid alleyway. Too narrow for a sword, so daggers it would have to be. He drew the long ones at his waist, and the moment two men came out the door he rushed them, knocking one to the ground and getting the other in the throat.

  The rest of them came before he could finish the one on the ground, but the narrow alley worked against them. He killed two more, then got the one he'd missed.

  That was five. Crim appeared and signaled the remaining goon to hold. Omar pulled a throwing knife and got the bastard in the throat, then rushed Crim and pinned him to the wall with an arm across his throat and a knife to his dick. "Where is Lady Astira?"

  "Like I'm going—" Crim screamed as the knife drew blood.

  "Don't make me ask again," Omar said.

  Crim glared at him, frustration, fear, and pain having replaced all the malice in his demeanor. "They said you were just a bodyguard."

  "I'm a lifesworn," Omar replied. "Now tell me where they've taken her."

  "Timor's Wine and Spirits. They're going to transport her in a wine barrel."

  "If I find out you lied, I'll be back to make you eat your dick one piece at a time." He dug the dagger in again.

  Crim whined. "It's the truth."

  Omar knocked him out and used the couple of minutes of unconsciousness that gave him to tie Crim up. He'd probably get free, but it would be an additional warning.

  Storming off, he walked until he found a passerby and got direction to the wine shop.

  When he reached it, he looped around to the back and watched from an alley across the street. There was a cart being loaded with barrels, but they didn't strike him as filled with anything but wine.

  He was just about to go with the reckless option when someone came scuttling-hurrying into the warehouse yard and hastened inside. A few minutes later came an angry bellow, and a tall, enormous figure with pale skin quickly turning red and a beard twice the size of his head came out dragging the unfortunate messenger. "Find him! If he gets away, matters will only get more complicated! I paid them to kill him, not to fill an alley with their own festering bodies." He booted the guy in the ass, looked disgusted when that caused the man to fall to the slick, filthy ground.

  Omar waited until he'd departed and the big man had gone back inside. He slipped out of the alley and across the street to the yard. It took very little work to damage the wine barrels and cut the straps of the horses meant to pull the cart. Then he tucked himself in the shadows of a stack of empty crates and waited.

  A handful of minutes later, the big man returned, and bellowed in outrage. Several more men came running out, and in their distraction, Omar slipped into the warehouse.

  The barrels he sought weren't hard to find. There was four of them, all with a simple, unremarkable red 'x' on the lid. He grabbed a nearby crowbar and set to work.

  The first barrel contained a young woman. The second held an old man. The third one contained contraband goods. Omar's heart was in his throat as he pried open the fourth barrel—and he barely reared back in time to avoid the dagger that flew at him. Then a familiar fiery head appeared, and she clapped her hands over her mouth, the dagger clattering to the ground.

  Omar signaled her to silence, swearing as he could hear the men returning. He jerked his head at all three of them, heading for a door that must be the front street. "Get back to the inn," he said to Astira. "I'll follow as quickly as I can."

  She nodded, squeezed his arm, and led the other two away.

  He watched them go until they were safely gone, then drew his sword and ducked out of sight—and not a breath later the big man and his companions saw the opened barrels. The big man's bellow this time was loud enough Omar was astonished the warehouse didn't shake.