White Collar Fic: Circumvention (Ancient World AU - 1/2)
Title: Circumvention
Rating: PG-13
World Count: 13, 000
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Mozzie, Peter/Elizabeth
Genre: Gen, Drama, AU
Warnings: Moral quandaries, mention of torture (none shown/carried out), slavery, mild character injury.
Spoilers: N/A
Summary: In a black-and-white world of duty or consequences, Peter only sees one option before him, and if he takes it, it will cost him his life. But then he's introduced to the gray area-by someone who knows it well.
A/N: Written for this inspiring prompt left by ivorysilk at collarcorner . Hugs, thank-yous, and unlimited virtual!chocolate to imbecamiel for helping me hammer out the plot, being my faithful behind-the-scenes genius, hand-holder, and all-around beta miracle worker. I would be lost without you and your on-demand wonderfulness!
This is part of m ancient world 'verse. Previous stories fall roughly chronological as follows:
Worth
Precaution
Impulse*
Circumvention
*Explains events leading up to “Worth,” but probably works better read afterwards.
You should be able to understand this story alright if you simply read “Worth” (or even the A/N for "Worth").
***
Peter pulled up short, his purposeful stride nearly causing him to collide with the figure standing in the doorway.
Elizabeth, his weary mind supplied, recognizing her presence intuitively even in the dim light. Angry, his mind supplied, as a numb afterthought.
“How could you?” she whispered, and Peter realized she was more than angry. She was livid, furious, voice tight and quavering with emotion.
Peter didn't know how to answer. He was drained. So drained, he felt as if he'd been emptied of self- emptied of coherent thought and essence-and left with only an ingrained sense of what must be done.
“How could you?” Elizabeth repeated, even more quietly. This time the anguish in her tone prevailed over all else.
“Commander Gratis has summoned me to meet with him regarding-”
“-No. Commander Gratis has done no such thing. You were going to demand an audience with the emperor.”
“One does not demand an audience with the emperor. Much less in the middle of the night.”
“But you were going to. Because you did not plan on living to see the morning.”
Actually, he'd hoped to survive long enough into tomorrow that his death would be public. He was counting on being made an example of-because Peter couldn't believe the people would support the brutal torture of a ten-year-old boy, even if that boy were the son of Itiv Lonnum, a uniting chieftain among the nomadic plainsman.
But Peter knew the reason given for his own execution would almost certainly be kept vague and discrediting. A blanket accusation of “treason” was most likely, and no chance would be given for Peter to make known his reasons for disobeying a direct order. It wouldn't be a noble death, but it was the only option Peter saw, other than obedience. Which was hardly an option at all, under the circumstances.
He'd been wrestling for hours with the choice. He had even tried convincing himself the boy was old enough to know the risks he'd taken in coming to war with his father. But his conscience had refuted that suggestion easily. Plainsmen often brought their sons-and on some occasions, daughters, as well-on campaign with them. The boy-Emmik-had probably had little choice in the matter at all. He'd certainly had no choice about his parentage, and parentage was precisely what this was all about. The boy doubtless knew something of his father's plans, but Peter doubted he knew the intimate details. The retrieval of that information was, ostensibly, why Peter was being ordered to “persuade” Emmik to be forthcoming.
But even if the boy had known everything about his father's plans, Peter had come to the definitive conclusion that there was no argument he or anyone else could make that would convince him torturing a child was conscionable. He would not do it.
But by the gods, he would not wait for the soldiers to come and drag him away in chains while Elizabeth watched. Neither, however, could he fall on his sword in the literal sense-for, once again, he could not do that to Elizabeth, not in their home, where she might be the first to discover his body. It would have been the coward's way out, as surely as fleeing the country.
No, he'd found the only other way. And if it were also cowardly, in a sense, it would have to suffice.
He'd been planning on leaving a letter in the care of his trusted steward. The letter was to explain everything to Elizabeth in as a gentle a phrasing as he could manage, and also to urge her to leave the city as quietly as possible and remain at their villa until the storm had blown over. Now, confronted suddenly with Elizabeth herself, the scroll he gripped in his hand felt unbearably conspicuous.
Lying had never been among his greatest talents.
“I hope I did not wake you,” he said simply, wondering if his ruse was still salvageable.
It was not salvageable-her stony silence informed him as much. What was more, his feeble attempt at distraction only fanned the flames.
Elizabeth stepped fully into his study, snatching the scroll from his hand. He did nothing, standing there stiffly as if at attention, waiting for her reaction. This was why he had opted to slip away in secrecy, leaving himself the small hope that in time she would forgive him, instead of forcing himself to face the fact that of course she would not, and should not, be expected to accept his decision.
Coward. He gritted his teeth, letting the justly deserved self-accusation sink in fully, feeling like a green recruit awaiting the verdict of a superior officer.
She was silent for several moments more, holding the letter beneath the flickering light of one of the torches affixed to the wall. Then she began to sob as Peter had never heard her sob, and it was a means of accusation ten times worse than any amount of rage she might have righteously heaped upon him. She might as well have stabbed him in the heart.
He could not fathom what to do. It would not be his comfort she needed, for he was the one betraying her. But he had to try. He could not leave her like this.
“Please...El...” he began, words a struggle to produce as he drowned in uncertainty. “Don't cry. Please? Please, don't cry...” He was begging unashamedly, making no movement to comfort her with touch for fear of making things worse. He never knew what to do when a woman cried, and El had never been prone to cry, so it wasn't as if he'd had much opportunity to practice.
He was more bewildered than ever when she turned to him-still sobbing disconsolately-and simply clung to him in wordless misery, face buried against his chest. She was shaking, distraught, desperate. They were words he never would have used to describe his wife before.
And he was doing this to her. There was no one else to blame; no one to direct his rage at but himself.
There was nothing he could do but wrap his arms around her and murmur a litany of comforting words, however inadequate and easily depleted his vocabulary was when it came to these situations.
“Don't,” she whispered, almost inaudibly, “don't, Peter. Don't do this.”
“I must.”
“No.” She choked on a sob. “Nothing is decided yet.”
“It is either obey implicitly, or defy absolutely-and I cannot do follow these orders. I will not. You must know there is no room for compromise. You would not ask that of me.”
“No,” she agreed in a small, forlorn voice. “Not compromise. I know you will not harm the boy. Only think... There must be another way. An ally in the Senate you might call upon, or a comrade. Perhaps someone who owes you a favor.”
“My dear,” he informed her, gently, “I am afraid it will take more than a favor owed to convince any of the Senate to intercede in a matter like this.” Even if they could do anything to help him, which he highly doubted. “The emperor's will is clear. Unassailable. The boy must pay for his father's sins. It would not be a painless death, either, dearest,” he added softly. “Whatever the consequences, I have no choice but to go against my orders.”
He felt another tear roll down her cheek to dampen the front of his tunic. “I will not accept that.”
“You must. There is no other way.”
“We will flee-to one of the western isles. We have more than enough wealth for bribes, and if we move quickly we will be gone before anyone will know to look for us. We'll charter a merchant ship, or simply purchase one-”
“-And live in ignominy for the rest of our lives?”
“Yes.” Her voice was firm, and spirited with sudden hope. “Yes. You will be alive, which is what matters. And perhaps in time...”
Peter shook his head firmly. “We might get away. Or they might discover us, and kill you as well.”
“Then you must flee, alone.”
“You know I cannot do that either.”
“Because of your duty?” she spat bitterly. “For once in your life, Peter, forget your duty and think about your own life. Or if that will not sway you, then think of me.”
It was a statement so unlike her, Peter could not find a response.
“Yes, Peter,” she finally said, and her tone was quieter, though still resolute, “I would be that selfish if it meant keeping you alive. I never claimed to know how to be a soldiers' wife. I only know how to be yours. And understand that I cannot let you do this. Despise me for loving you more than my country, but I will not change my mind.”
“I could never despise you, El,” Peter replied with helpless, earnest misery. “I only hope...” He swallowed thickly. “Perhaps you will learn to forgive me.”
Her only answer was to hold on to him tighter as the tears continued to flow.
When they finally ceased, leaving her leaning limply against him, he ventured to ask, “How did you know that I was leaving?”
She didn't reply.
“El?” he coaxed, struggling to keep the censure from his tone. “Did Ercan tell you?” He wouldn't have thought it of his steward, but he knew the loyalties in this situation were tangled, to say the least. If Ercan had warned Elizabeth, he would have done so in the knowledge that he would be incurring his master's wrath, but done it nonetheless, believing it was the correct thing to do. They were all fighting with their consciences tonight.
“Don't punish him. Please.”
“Ercan knew my wishes.”
“It wasn't Ercan.”
Realization dawned on Peter. Looking towards the doorway, which led out into the atrium, Peter ordered in a low and dangerous voice: “Come here.”
A few seconds later, an already chastened-looking Neal entered to stand before them with bowed head.
“I hope you have something to say for yourself,” Peter said with deceptive mildness, “because I am very eager to hear how you would excuse your actions.”
“I wasn't listening at the door,” Neal replied soberly, as if that were the crux of Peter's accusation. “I swear.”
“I told him to wait,” Elizabeth corroborated. She'd pulled back from his embrace, and was looking more in control of herself, though red-rimmed, fear-filled eyes continued to plead with him.
In hindsight, Peter would see his next actions to be those of a lesser man, one of uncontrolled passions. But at the time, perhaps he had been uncontrolled and impassioned-not to mention incredibly weary from hours of covert, painstaking planning. Planning that was supposed to have spared Elizabeth from being mired in the same turmoil and dread he was facing.
And now this slave had taken matters into his own hands, assuming liberties where he had no place to, spoiling in a moment's impulse all his careful strategy.
All the same, in hindsight, Peter would also see how much of his anger had been directed at himself, first and foremost, with Neal the unfortunately convenient recipient of his frustrations.
“How dare you,” he growled. “How dare you.” He'd grabbed the slave by the front of his tunic, pulling him closer, and might have struck him a moment later were it not for Elizabeth's cry of alarm. Her touch on his arm was enough to stay him, though he still stood breathing heavily, glaring at Neal, for several long moments.
With a shove, he released Neal, who looked duly shaken as he stumbled backwards, nearly falling.
“Get out,” he instructed bluntly.
“No-stay,” Elizabeth immediately contradicted.
Peter looked at her sharply in surprise. While she often spoke her mind, even-and especially-where it differed from her husband's, she rarely disagreed with him publicly, or before the household.
Neal's gaze darted uncertainly between the two of them, but he stayed, grimacing faintly.
“You have told me your plans,” Elizabeth continued, “but you have yet to hear mine. No,” she hastened to say, expression unyielding, “do not look at me so reproachfully. For if I were to stand by and do all you ask I would be a widow by tomorrow, and beyond your reproach entirely. I would rather have your disapproval, and have you.”
Gods above, but when he'd set out to marry a strong and clever woman he had certainly succeeded. Perhaps succeeded too well.
Elizabeth seemed to take his silence as a small victory, nodding, and prompting, “Neal. Tell him what you told me.”
Neal, who had been standing patiently in an attitude of penitence, now looked up, squaring his shoulders. “There's a third option, my lord, besides obeying your orders, or disobeying them.”
“I am not going into exile,” Peter retorted in annoyance. “That would be disobedience just as surely, with the added disgrace of cowardice.”
Neal shook his head. “Another option.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “Enlighten me. What is this third option?”
A slow, thoughtful smile spread across Neal's face. “If you cannot carry out your orders, then you change them.”
Peter stared at him. Several moments of silence passed before he realized the slave really did think it was as simple as that. Peter scowled, shaking his head and beginning to turn away.
“Please, Peter,” Elizabeth interrupted. “He has a plan.”
Peter threw up a hand in exasperation. “Well, in that case, by all means...”
“This is about your life,” she said fiercely.
Peter bit back more sarcasm. “Yes,” he agreed levelly. “And I have considered my options.” He gave Neal a stern look. “All of them.”
“Five days, Peter,” Elizabeth reminded him. “There are still five days left before the emperor will require you to carry out his command.”
Peter nodded. He'd seen no point in delaying the inevitable. He was a man of action, after all, and preferred to meet his fate boldly. But she was right, the feast would not be held for another five days. It was an annual celebration, commemorating one of the most notable of Cyresian triumphs over the plainsmen, her age-old enemy. This year would mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the event, and the emperor was clearly pleased with the ironic beauty of being able to present Chieftain Lommun's eldest son to Cyrese's populace on such a fitting day. Of course, since it was thus imperative that Emmik survive to be presented to the masses, Peter had been given a temporary reprieve in which to consider his response to the orders he'd been given.
Four days. And on the fifth, Emmik would be paraded through the streets with his fellow prisoners of war. That thought alone put a bad taste in Peter's mouth. As for the role he himself would be required to carry out after the feast...
“You will wait,” Elizabeth pleaded urgently, “You will let us try to find another way.”
Peter looked from Elizabeth to Neal: both ready, and eager, and optimistic, like a pair of irrepressible children. He returned his attention his wife, noting how her despair was being steadily eclipsed by hope. How could he refuse? Four days felt like an eternity to wait, but he would wait, for her sake, even if he could not share her hope.
He inclined his head, wearily. “Very well. Tell me about these ingenious plans.”
Neal looked appealingly to Elizabeth.
There was a wince in Elizabeth's tone as she suggested: “Perhaps...it would be best if neither of us knew the specifics.”
Peter tried not to groan aloud. He was placing his life in the hands of a slave-a former thief-and now he was expected to turn a blind eye on proceedings. He was beginning to feel positively corrupted. Perhaps he should submit himself to arrest before her sullied the good name of his house irreparably.
Not that dying accused of treason was a thing to be proud of.
“I will not admit any knowledge of your activities if you are discovered,” Peter admonished. “No one in this household will be implicated in aiding your 'plans.'” Even as he said it, it struck Peter with a pang that in a few days time he would be beyond protecting Elizabeth from such insinuations-or outright attack and threat of physical harm. He would no longer be able to protect her.
Meeting Neal's gaze pointedly, Peter willed the slave to understand and be warned. The repercussions of whatever happened would not, must not, touch Elizabeth in any way. It was not negotiable, and if Neal knew what was good for him he would calculate that into his plans, come success or failure.
Neal didn't flinch or look away, and Peter could only marvel at his nerve. He couldn't decide if what he was seeing was the daring recklessness of foolhardiness or true bravery. Perhaps the two weren't mutually exclusive.
“You understand?” Peter finished simply.
Neal bowed his head almost humbly, but not, Peter thought, like a slave. More like a man of princely heritage, being deferential out of etiquette. After an evening of tension, the subtle arrogance of it almost made him laugh.
“Then go,” he commanded gruffly, and Neal slipped into the shadows-reminding Peter uneasily of the “thief in the night” he knew Neal to be. “You're right,” he admitted ruefully, to Elizabeth. “I don't believe I do want to know the details.”
Her only reply was heavy sigh, of agreement, relief, or anxiety. Or possibly all three at once, in conflicted uncertainty to mirror his own. A moment later, she began hesitantly with: “Peter?”
“Hmm.”
“You won't try slipping off like that again, not without saying goodbye. Properly, in person. Tell me you won't.”
“El...”
“Promise me.”
He'd thought “slipping away” was the kindest thing he could do for her. But he saw now that he had been wrong. Leaving quietly would not spare her pain, only delay it, and she deserved better than to wake up one morning and discover he was gone forever. It was not for her good that he'd made his plans to leave without facing her. It was for himself that he'd done it, like a miserable recreant, because he hadn't wanted see the grief he was causing her.
Yet here she stood, placing her hand lovingly-imploringly-on his arm. He took her hand in his, frowning at how cold it was, and instead took both her hands to warm them in his own. They were so small. So fragile and un-scarred. And so fully capable of commanding him.
“Is that a yes?” she asked softly.
He squeezed her hands lightly.
***
“You're certain you didn't see the man? Tall, bald, crooked nose-”
“-And a slight limp?”
Mozzie's eyes widened. “You've seen him.”
“No, Moz,” Neal replied patiently. “That describes the same man you told me was following you last time.”
“Precisely. I've seen him again. He's patient. Clever. But I am more patient, and more clever, by far.” He peered sternly at Neal. “He didn't follow you here? You made certain?”
“No, Moz. I wasn't followed.” Neal sighed, gazing at the “room” around them.
The only light came from the much-abused candle-stand guttering on the table, barely touching the curved walls with its illumination. He was vaguely aware of the assorted mysteries surrounding them: crates, earthen jars with lids, vases, woven baskets, and coarse sacks stacked one atop another. The whole place was an oddity. Hidden from plain view by heavy brush, the small, well-like opening above ground-with its downward-winding stone staircase-had been difficult to find. Mozzie's directions, which he'd made Neal commit to memory several years ago, had been cryptic to the point of uselessness.
Neal had never been at liberty to seek out the place before. “Liberty” being a relative and generous term for what he had, even now.
Leaning back in his chair, Neal returned Mozzie's scrutiny. “What does this man want from you?”
“For your own safety, it's better you remain ignorant. Unsavory, mercenary ties are involved, suffice it to say. Most unsavory.”
“It wouldn't have anything to do with the trapdoor under the table, would it?” Neal inquired, casually tapping his foot against the wooden planks so that the hollow sound resounded against the stone walls.
Mozzie's expression intensified, which was quite a feat for a man who lived in a perpetual state of paranoia. “Trapdoor? Under the table? I know nothing of a trapdoor. And neither do you.”
“Let me guess...”
“No,” Mozzie interrupted obdurately. “I won't let you guess. As far as I am concerned, the subject has not been broached. My host is graciously oblivious to my affairs, and in return I am likewise gracious in my lack of perceptiveness.”
“I see.”
Mozzie narrowed his eyes.
Neal gestured his surrender, holding both hands up. It never paid to fight The Rules, no matter how convoluted or ludicrous. “I see nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”
“Your sarcasm is duly noted.”
“Would you rather that I left?”
Mozzie scowled. “A man cannot be too cautious. You, of all people, should appreciate the fact.”
“What? You mean because I let myself become property?” With a derisive smile, Neal rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, displaying the metal band around his left forearm with mock pride. It had stopped chafing a long time ago, now rubbing only against the unfeeling calluses it has caused. They'd put it on him, welding it shut, years ago. It served a twofold purpose. First, it marked him as a slave, and one prone to attempt escape, at that. Secondly, the metal “eye” welded to the outside was there to pass chain through, making it a permanent, accessible tether. It was a standard means for securing the hundreds of slaves who labored in the quarries-and a commonly recognizable sign by which anyone could detect a runaway slave.
Mozzie was instantly regretful, even sorrowful. “You flew too close to the sun, my friend. They've clipped your wings.” He looked sharply at Neal. “Unless...”
“I'm not here to attempt escape. Not...yet.”
Mozzie ignored him, his strategic mind already perusing the prospect. Or else he was merely reciting strategy he had already crafted. “It would be difficult, of course. Those who can remove a shackle such as that without also removing your hand are rare. Those who can, and would do it at the request of a slave who has no proof of his manumission, are even rarer. But,” Mozzie held up a finger, “say the word, and I will scour the land for just such a man.”
“Thank you,” Neal said, and meant it. “I would be interested in meeting just such a man.”
“I thought you might be.”
“But not yet.”
“So you keep saying.” Mozzie's glee turned to sullen suspicion. “Please, don't tell me you've formed any false feeling of loyalty for that... hired killer who pretends to own you.”
“He's a commander in the imperial army, Moz.”
“Yes? And?”
Neal shook his head, yielding without a fight. Arguing with Mozzie about the evils of the empire was like struggling against the pull of quicksand. “He does own me,” Neal stated soberly. “And you know what they'll do to me if I'm caught escaping again.”
“Brand you,” Mozzie replied tersely, “and no doubt the high and mighty Burke would send you back to haul stone in that death-trap.”
“If I should be so fortunate.”
“Which is why you will be headed for distant lands, long before they've remembered to look for you.”
“Distant lands?” Neal raised an eyebrow, quelling the wanderlust the words instantly inspired. “Do you have some place in mind?”
“The far east? The mountains? Across the western seas?” Mozzie shrugged. “I leave it to you.”
“I don't know, Moz. These are the streets that taught me everything I know.”
“Yes, yes,” Mozzie said impatiently, “I'm sure you can show me the very spot where you... earned your first coin of the realm.”
Neal smiled, wistfully. “Less complicated times.”
“Really? That's what you call your street urchin beginnings.”
“Street urchin?” Neal scoffed. “I never went hungry.”
Mozzie stared at him.
“Not often,” Neal amended, “and never for long-not since the time I was seven years old.”
“You didn't stay in Cyrese exclusively, though, even then.”
“No. But...I always came back.”
Mozzie nodded sagely. “The wealthiest city-state of the known world. But there are other thriving cultures, with art worth stealing, you know. Take Issorium, or Tri-”
“-I know, Moz. I know.”
“But 'not yet,'” Mozzie recited dutifully, not angry, but getting closer. Then he seemed to come to some abrupt, inward decision, expelling a long breath and saying, “Very well. I won't ask why you prefer your cage, when I stand prepared to fling the door wide open and herald you into the skies once more...” But a sidelong glance added that he wouldn't mind hearing an answer, if Neal decided to suddenly change his mind. “Demand of me what you will,” he invited a moment later, with long-suffering sigh of magnanimity, when Neal didn't comply. “I assume you're here for more than the pleasure of my company.”
“It's good to see you again. Truly, Moz. And I appreciate everything you've already done for me.”
Mozzie “All right, compliments accepted. Can we get to the heart of the matter now?”
“I need get inside the temple.”
“The temple.”
Neal nodded.
“Not to pour your heart out to any of the statues they keep in there, I imagine.”
“Sacrilege. Cut the man's tongue out.”
“Why do I have the strangest feeling that what you're about to propose could get both of our heads cut off?”
Neal smiled.
Mozzie crossed his arms across his chest, not displeased, but keeping up the pretense of caution as a matter of principle. In a voice full of responsible mistrust, he asked: “What, exactly, are you thinking about stealing, Neal?”
“Only the best prizes merit the biggest risks.”
“You're not talking about...” Mozzie blinked, owlishly, stopping in awed realization. “You are talking about that, aren't you?”
“Exactly 'that.'”
“But...why?”
“You mean because I can't possibly hope to enjoy it?”
“Bluntly-yes. You're a slave. Slaves with no known relatives do not inherit vast fortunes over night. Even if you could find someone willing to turn… that prize into ready money.”
Neal shrugged. “I don't plan on enjoying it. Not in the conventional sense.”
“By conventional, I assume you mean in that sense whereby a profit is involved.”
“I won't see a coin of it, and neither would you.”
“Remind me again why I'm interested in this highly dangerous proposition?”
“I have to do this, Moz. With your help, or without it.”
Mozzie considered him broodingly. “How is it that you came to be at liberty for this visit in the first place?”
“I asked.”
“You...asked,” Mozzie repeated disbelievingly. “He let you go.”
“Temporarily.”
“I'm not going to like the rest of this story, am I?”
“If I succeed, it will humiliate the emperor.”
Mozzie's attention sharpened instantly. “How so?”
Neal knew he'd won. He sat back smugly, pulling the sleeve of his tunic down to conceal the metal band around his forearm once more. “Help me get into the temple and you'll see.”
***
The smell of food caught Peter's attention, and he looked up to find Elizabeth placing a tray on the table in front of him, partially covering the charts he'd been studying.
“It's not time for the noon meal.”
“No, it's not,” she conceded lightly, “it's nearly time for the evening meal. But I've heard a rumor circulating among the servants that there are standing orders that you are not to be disturbed at all today.”
“The rumors are correct.”
“I've also heard rumors that no food has entered this room since morning.”
Peter grunted noncommittally, trying to study the edge of the map not hidden by the wooden tray.
“You haven't had anything at all?”
Peter grunted again, leaving her to interpret. He traced a finger along the lines that marked the mountain range to the north of the plains. The pass that cut its way through the heart of those mountains was notoriously difficult to even find, much less maneuver an army through. He'd always wanted a chance to travel and see it for himself. Sometimes, he wondered if he'd missed his true calling as a scout.
“I believe I'll elope with the son of Lord Amron next week. He's wealthy enough, and certainly not bad to look at. Just imagine the scandal. My father would kill the nearest member of Lord Amron's family that he could get his hands on, and I would never be able to show my face in Cyrese again. It's an intriguing prospect, wouldn't you agree?”
“Mhmm. Intriguing.” Peter responded to her tone of voice before he'd processed the specifics of the question. When he did comprehend the part about her father killing the nearest member of Amron's family, and her never being able to show her face again, he looked up with a start. “No... I don't think that's intriguing.” He paused. Hesitated. Decided upon honesty. “What where you talking about a moment ago?”
She smiled, one of her clever, satisfied smiles. “I was only proving something.”
To which, Peter knew he could only respond, “And what was that, my dear?”
“That you are distracted. Too distracted to eat, or sleep, or listen to your wife.”
Peter gestured to the map. “I am preoccupied.”
“You've just returned from campaign. Those maps have had quite enough of your attention for the last two months. What is more, this is not a battlefield, and I am not one of your soldiers, and for a few precious days you are not a commander.”
She was right, and Peter wished she was not. He tried not to grimace visibly at the flawlessness of her logic.
“However, I know why you are so preoccupied. Why you wish to be so preoccupied. And...” she trailed off, then sighed at some inner resolution. “If that is truly how you wish to occupy the next three days, then I will not argue with your choice. But you must at least eat something.”
Peter surveyed the food she had brought: clusters of grapes, several cheeses, wine, and a large piece of honeyed cake with an accompanying pitcher of milk. He realized he had become, in fact, quite hungry. “I will,” he promised her.
She nodded, and turned to go. “I will tell the servants to leave you undisturbed.”
“El, wait. Please stay.”
She turned back, but shook her head. “I understand.”
And she did understand. Him. His need for space. His growing need to not dwell on the three remaining days. His restless nature, and the strange, contradictory ways that restlessness was sometimes expressed-often by a fierce need to plan and strategize in solitude. She knew that the alternative to obsessive concentration, upon something he understood and could control, was to simply give up as if the next three days were already spent and beyond being wasted.
“Please,” Peter repeated. “Stay?”
She did, quietly taking a seat, and waiting expectantly until he'd begun eating to being speaking again. And as he ate, she talked about ordinary things, offering him a window into the mundane, trivial, perfect life he'd had precious little time to enjoy for the last year. The attacks from the plainsmen upon the eastern front had been persistent. At first, the skirmishes upon the forts hadn't been serious enough to merit more than a flex of the muscle. A regiment from the cavalry had been sent, and the resistance was smothered. For a time. But Lonnum was not heralded as “The Unifier” without reason. Even though many of the clans were still wary of his leadership, with the support of those he had won he had quickly become a force to be reckoned with. This, combined with drought, had combined to create a very unsettled, unhappy populace in Cyrese. No doubt the emperor sought to woo back their love and trust through his pending display of dominance over the plainsmen, and Lonnum in particular. The emperor was not a militant man himself, nor endowed with great height or imposing physique, but he had a certain charisma.
Peter didn't know which he feared more: failure on the emperor's part to raise fervor, or his success in doing so. The last thing Cyrese needed was several days of city-wide drunkenness. They needed to be watchful and alert to Lonnum's movements, not reveling in the streets.
“Do you think it would do, Peter, for the garden?”
Peter started, realizing his attention had once more flagged, her question completely lost upon him. “I'm sorry, my dear,” he said, with a weary shake of his head, “I'm not worth much for company this evening.”
“You did warn me,” she allowed, generously. She'd drawn her feet up onto the small triclinium, arms encircling knees, peplos cascading over the edge so that the hem nearly met the floor. The posture made her look decidedly young.
He raised an ironic brow. “I did?”
“Well... Not with words.” Her gaze lingered on his face, considering it with the careful scrutiny of an artist trying to capture the essence of a person, brush stroke by brush stroke. “But when have we needed words?” she added in a near whisper.
He considered her as well, tracing the familiar lines of her face with his eyes. He felt a sudden urgency to memorize them-to drink in the sight of her until he could never forget. Because these three remaining days might be his last chance to do so.
But, of course, there was no need for urgency. He would never forget.
“Neal was here early this morning,” she commented softly, as if to deliberately turn his thoughts to other things.
“Good of him to visit.”
Elizabeth frowned in disapproval. “He hasn't broken your trust.”
“Yet.”
“If he planned to escape, why would he bother returning? Or bother with pretending he still intends to help?”
Peter had no answer. But there had to be one. Some hidden agenda he couldn't begin to fathom. He didn't want to know what Neal was doing when he slipped out in the middle of the night, only to return the next day, clearly exhausted, yet also clearly pleased with whatever he'd accomplished under cover of darkness. He was arrogantly pleased, like a cat with a cornered mouse.
No, Peter didn't want to know what was putting the self-satisfied gleam into his eyes. But El was placing all her hopes upon this slave, and Peter couldn't bring himself to say anything to shatter the illusion.
“Did he say anything?”
El shook her head. “Nothing that made any particular sense. Only...he asked for a candle.”
“A candle? Just 'a candle'? Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
The outwardly innocuous nature of the request did nothing to reassure him. If anything, it unnerved him further. It satisfied his need for answers about as much as a single drop of water would've satisfied a man dying of thirst.
“I gave it to him,” El added, in a subdued voice. “I know you don't trust him. But I do.”
Peter was stunned to see that she meant it, earnestly. “Why?”
Her arms tighten around her knees, pulling them to her chest. “Because I have to. There is no other option. And because he owes me his life, and he knows it.”
Maybe so. But thieves didn't often stop pay their debts. Peter didn't say it aloud, but his expression must have said it for him, because Elizabeth sighed heavily.
“I know, Peter. He's a slave, and a thief, and the gods know what else. But...”
“But?” Peter urged, truly at a loss to understand what had produced this inexplicable faith in someone who was a slave, and a thief-and the gods knew what else.
“But he has pride, and a unique kind of honor, I think. And...he promised, Peter.”
“Promised?”
“That he would find a way.”
“With a candle,” Peter muttered.
“It's a start,” El replied doggedly.
“It's...” Idiotic. Ludicrous. Among many other things. Finally, he settled for saying: “This is the most ill-advised venture I've ever allowed to take place under my authority.” With more than a little despair, he added, “I don't even know what the venture is.”
“Hush, dear,” El said, with an enigmatic, teasing smile. “You've only given him a candle. What could he possibly do with that?”
Peter hadn't the faintest idea. But he had a feeling he was about to find out.
***
Part two.
Rating: PG-13
World Count: 13, 000
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Mozzie, Peter/Elizabeth
Genre: Gen, Drama, AU
Warnings: Moral quandaries, mention of torture (none shown/carried out), slavery, mild character injury.
Spoilers: N/A
Summary: In a black-and-white world of duty or consequences, Peter only sees one option before him, and if he takes it, it will cost him his life. But then he's introduced to the gray area-by someone who knows it well.
A/N: Written for this inspiring prompt left by ivorysilk at collarcorner . Hugs, thank-yous, and unlimited virtual!chocolate to imbecamiel for helping me hammer out the plot, being my faithful behind-the-scenes genius, hand-holder, and all-around beta miracle worker. I would be lost without you and your on-demand wonderfulness!
This is part of m ancient world 'verse. Previous stories fall roughly chronological as follows:
Worth
Precaution
Impulse*
Circumvention
*Explains events leading up to “Worth,” but probably works better read afterwards.
You should be able to understand this story alright if you simply read “Worth” (or even the A/N for "Worth").
***
Peter pulled up short, his purposeful stride nearly causing him to collide with the figure standing in the doorway.
Elizabeth, his weary mind supplied, recognizing her presence intuitively even in the dim light. Angry, his mind supplied, as a numb afterthought.
“How could you?” she whispered, and Peter realized she was more than angry. She was livid, furious, voice tight and quavering with emotion.
Peter didn't know how to answer. He was drained. So drained, he felt as if he'd been emptied of self- emptied of coherent thought and essence-and left with only an ingrained sense of what must be done.
“How could you?” Elizabeth repeated, even more quietly. This time the anguish in her tone prevailed over all else.
“Commander Gratis has summoned me to meet with him regarding-”
“-No. Commander Gratis has done no such thing. You were going to demand an audience with the emperor.”
“One does not demand an audience with the emperor. Much less in the middle of the night.”
“But you were going to. Because you did not plan on living to see the morning.”
Actually, he'd hoped to survive long enough into tomorrow that his death would be public. He was counting on being made an example of-because Peter couldn't believe the people would support the brutal torture of a ten-year-old boy, even if that boy were the son of Itiv Lonnum, a uniting chieftain among the nomadic plainsman.
But Peter knew the reason given for his own execution would almost certainly be kept vague and discrediting. A blanket accusation of “treason” was most likely, and no chance would be given for Peter to make known his reasons for disobeying a direct order. It wouldn't be a noble death, but it was the only option Peter saw, other than obedience. Which was hardly an option at all, under the circumstances.
He'd been wrestling for hours with the choice. He had even tried convincing himself the boy was old enough to know the risks he'd taken in coming to war with his father. But his conscience had refuted that suggestion easily. Plainsmen often brought their sons-and on some occasions, daughters, as well-on campaign with them. The boy-Emmik-had probably had little choice in the matter at all. He'd certainly had no choice about his parentage, and parentage was precisely what this was all about. The boy doubtless knew something of his father's plans, but Peter doubted he knew the intimate details. The retrieval of that information was, ostensibly, why Peter was being ordered to “persuade” Emmik to be forthcoming.
But even if the boy had known everything about his father's plans, Peter had come to the definitive conclusion that there was no argument he or anyone else could make that would convince him torturing a child was conscionable. He would not do it.
But by the gods, he would not wait for the soldiers to come and drag him away in chains while Elizabeth watched. Neither, however, could he fall on his sword in the literal sense-for, once again, he could not do that to Elizabeth, not in their home, where she might be the first to discover his body. It would have been the coward's way out, as surely as fleeing the country.
No, he'd found the only other way. And if it were also cowardly, in a sense, it would have to suffice.
He'd been planning on leaving a letter in the care of his trusted steward. The letter was to explain everything to Elizabeth in as a gentle a phrasing as he could manage, and also to urge her to leave the city as quietly as possible and remain at their villa until the storm had blown over. Now, confronted suddenly with Elizabeth herself, the scroll he gripped in his hand felt unbearably conspicuous.
Lying had never been among his greatest talents.
“I hope I did not wake you,” he said simply, wondering if his ruse was still salvageable.
It was not salvageable-her stony silence informed him as much. What was more, his feeble attempt at distraction only fanned the flames.
Elizabeth stepped fully into his study, snatching the scroll from his hand. He did nothing, standing there stiffly as if at attention, waiting for her reaction. This was why he had opted to slip away in secrecy, leaving himself the small hope that in time she would forgive him, instead of forcing himself to face the fact that of course she would not, and should not, be expected to accept his decision.
Coward. He gritted his teeth, letting the justly deserved self-accusation sink in fully, feeling like a green recruit awaiting the verdict of a superior officer.
She was silent for several moments more, holding the letter beneath the flickering light of one of the torches affixed to the wall. Then she began to sob as Peter had never heard her sob, and it was a means of accusation ten times worse than any amount of rage she might have righteously heaped upon him. She might as well have stabbed him in the heart.
He could not fathom what to do. It would not be his comfort she needed, for he was the one betraying her. But he had to try. He could not leave her like this.
“Please...El...” he began, words a struggle to produce as he drowned in uncertainty. “Don't cry. Please? Please, don't cry...” He was begging unashamedly, making no movement to comfort her with touch for fear of making things worse. He never knew what to do when a woman cried, and El had never been prone to cry, so it wasn't as if he'd had much opportunity to practice.
He was more bewildered than ever when she turned to him-still sobbing disconsolately-and simply clung to him in wordless misery, face buried against his chest. She was shaking, distraught, desperate. They were words he never would have used to describe his wife before.
And he was doing this to her. There was no one else to blame; no one to direct his rage at but himself.
There was nothing he could do but wrap his arms around her and murmur a litany of comforting words, however inadequate and easily depleted his vocabulary was when it came to these situations.
“Don't,” she whispered, almost inaudibly, “don't, Peter. Don't do this.”
“I must.”
“No.” She choked on a sob. “Nothing is decided yet.”
“It is either obey implicitly, or defy absolutely-and I cannot do follow these orders. I will not. You must know there is no room for compromise. You would not ask that of me.”
“No,” she agreed in a small, forlorn voice. “Not compromise. I know you will not harm the boy. Only think... There must be another way. An ally in the Senate you might call upon, or a comrade. Perhaps someone who owes you a favor.”
“My dear,” he informed her, gently, “I am afraid it will take more than a favor owed to convince any of the Senate to intercede in a matter like this.” Even if they could do anything to help him, which he highly doubted. “The emperor's will is clear. Unassailable. The boy must pay for his father's sins. It would not be a painless death, either, dearest,” he added softly. “Whatever the consequences, I have no choice but to go against my orders.”
He felt another tear roll down her cheek to dampen the front of his tunic. “I will not accept that.”
“You must. There is no other way.”
“We will flee-to one of the western isles. We have more than enough wealth for bribes, and if we move quickly we will be gone before anyone will know to look for us. We'll charter a merchant ship, or simply purchase one-”
“-And live in ignominy for the rest of our lives?”
“Yes.” Her voice was firm, and spirited with sudden hope. “Yes. You will be alive, which is what matters. And perhaps in time...”
Peter shook his head firmly. “We might get away. Or they might discover us, and kill you as well.”
“Then you must flee, alone.”
“You know I cannot do that either.”
“Because of your duty?” she spat bitterly. “For once in your life, Peter, forget your duty and think about your own life. Or if that will not sway you, then think of me.”
It was a statement so unlike her, Peter could not find a response.
“Yes, Peter,” she finally said, and her tone was quieter, though still resolute, “I would be that selfish if it meant keeping you alive. I never claimed to know how to be a soldiers' wife. I only know how to be yours. And understand that I cannot let you do this. Despise me for loving you more than my country, but I will not change my mind.”
“I could never despise you, El,” Peter replied with helpless, earnest misery. “I only hope...” He swallowed thickly. “Perhaps you will learn to forgive me.”
Her only answer was to hold on to him tighter as the tears continued to flow.
When they finally ceased, leaving her leaning limply against him, he ventured to ask, “How did you know that I was leaving?”
She didn't reply.
“El?” he coaxed, struggling to keep the censure from his tone. “Did Ercan tell you?” He wouldn't have thought it of his steward, but he knew the loyalties in this situation were tangled, to say the least. If Ercan had warned Elizabeth, he would have done so in the knowledge that he would be incurring his master's wrath, but done it nonetheless, believing it was the correct thing to do. They were all fighting with their consciences tonight.
“Don't punish him. Please.”
“Ercan knew my wishes.”
“It wasn't Ercan.”
Realization dawned on Peter. Looking towards the doorway, which led out into the atrium, Peter ordered in a low and dangerous voice: “Come here.”
A few seconds later, an already chastened-looking Neal entered to stand before them with bowed head.
“I hope you have something to say for yourself,” Peter said with deceptive mildness, “because I am very eager to hear how you would excuse your actions.”
“I wasn't listening at the door,” Neal replied soberly, as if that were the crux of Peter's accusation. “I swear.”
“I told him to wait,” Elizabeth corroborated. She'd pulled back from his embrace, and was looking more in control of herself, though red-rimmed, fear-filled eyes continued to plead with him.
In hindsight, Peter would see his next actions to be those of a lesser man, one of uncontrolled passions. But at the time, perhaps he had been uncontrolled and impassioned-not to mention incredibly weary from hours of covert, painstaking planning. Planning that was supposed to have spared Elizabeth from being mired in the same turmoil and dread he was facing.
And now this slave had taken matters into his own hands, assuming liberties where he had no place to, spoiling in a moment's impulse all his careful strategy.
All the same, in hindsight, Peter would also see how much of his anger had been directed at himself, first and foremost, with Neal the unfortunately convenient recipient of his frustrations.
“How dare you,” he growled. “How dare you.” He'd grabbed the slave by the front of his tunic, pulling him closer, and might have struck him a moment later were it not for Elizabeth's cry of alarm. Her touch on his arm was enough to stay him, though he still stood breathing heavily, glaring at Neal, for several long moments.
With a shove, he released Neal, who looked duly shaken as he stumbled backwards, nearly falling.
“Get out,” he instructed bluntly.
“No-stay,” Elizabeth immediately contradicted.
Peter looked at her sharply in surprise. While she often spoke her mind, even-and especially-where it differed from her husband's, she rarely disagreed with him publicly, or before the household.
Neal's gaze darted uncertainly between the two of them, but he stayed, grimacing faintly.
“You have told me your plans,” Elizabeth continued, “but you have yet to hear mine. No,” she hastened to say, expression unyielding, “do not look at me so reproachfully. For if I were to stand by and do all you ask I would be a widow by tomorrow, and beyond your reproach entirely. I would rather have your disapproval, and have you.”
Gods above, but when he'd set out to marry a strong and clever woman he had certainly succeeded. Perhaps succeeded too well.
Elizabeth seemed to take his silence as a small victory, nodding, and prompting, “Neal. Tell him what you told me.”
Neal, who had been standing patiently in an attitude of penitence, now looked up, squaring his shoulders. “There's a third option, my lord, besides obeying your orders, or disobeying them.”
“I am not going into exile,” Peter retorted in annoyance. “That would be disobedience just as surely, with the added disgrace of cowardice.”
Neal shook his head. “Another option.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “Enlighten me. What is this third option?”
A slow, thoughtful smile spread across Neal's face. “If you cannot carry out your orders, then you change them.”
Peter stared at him. Several moments of silence passed before he realized the slave really did think it was as simple as that. Peter scowled, shaking his head and beginning to turn away.
“Please, Peter,” Elizabeth interrupted. “He has a plan.”
Peter threw up a hand in exasperation. “Well, in that case, by all means...”
“This is about your life,” she said fiercely.
Peter bit back more sarcasm. “Yes,” he agreed levelly. “And I have considered my options.” He gave Neal a stern look. “All of them.”
“Five days, Peter,” Elizabeth reminded him. “There are still five days left before the emperor will require you to carry out his command.”
Peter nodded. He'd seen no point in delaying the inevitable. He was a man of action, after all, and preferred to meet his fate boldly. But she was right, the feast would not be held for another five days. It was an annual celebration, commemorating one of the most notable of Cyresian triumphs over the plainsmen, her age-old enemy. This year would mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the event, and the emperor was clearly pleased with the ironic beauty of being able to present Chieftain Lommun's eldest son to Cyrese's populace on such a fitting day. Of course, since it was thus imperative that Emmik survive to be presented to the masses, Peter had been given a temporary reprieve in which to consider his response to the orders he'd been given.
Four days. And on the fifth, Emmik would be paraded through the streets with his fellow prisoners of war. That thought alone put a bad taste in Peter's mouth. As for the role he himself would be required to carry out after the feast...
“You will wait,” Elizabeth pleaded urgently, “You will let us try to find another way.”
Peter looked from Elizabeth to Neal: both ready, and eager, and optimistic, like a pair of irrepressible children. He returned his attention his wife, noting how her despair was being steadily eclipsed by hope. How could he refuse? Four days felt like an eternity to wait, but he would wait, for her sake, even if he could not share her hope.
He inclined his head, wearily. “Very well. Tell me about these ingenious plans.”
Neal looked appealingly to Elizabeth.
There was a wince in Elizabeth's tone as she suggested: “Perhaps...it would be best if neither of us knew the specifics.”
Peter tried not to groan aloud. He was placing his life in the hands of a slave-a former thief-and now he was expected to turn a blind eye on proceedings. He was beginning to feel positively corrupted. Perhaps he should submit himself to arrest before her sullied the good name of his house irreparably.
Not that dying accused of treason was a thing to be proud of.
“I will not admit any knowledge of your activities if you are discovered,” Peter admonished. “No one in this household will be implicated in aiding your 'plans.'” Even as he said it, it struck Peter with a pang that in a few days time he would be beyond protecting Elizabeth from such insinuations-or outright attack and threat of physical harm. He would no longer be able to protect her.
Meeting Neal's gaze pointedly, Peter willed the slave to understand and be warned. The repercussions of whatever happened would not, must not, touch Elizabeth in any way. It was not negotiable, and if Neal knew what was good for him he would calculate that into his plans, come success or failure.
Neal didn't flinch or look away, and Peter could only marvel at his nerve. He couldn't decide if what he was seeing was the daring recklessness of foolhardiness or true bravery. Perhaps the two weren't mutually exclusive.
“You understand?” Peter finished simply.
Neal bowed his head almost humbly, but not, Peter thought, like a slave. More like a man of princely heritage, being deferential out of etiquette. After an evening of tension, the subtle arrogance of it almost made him laugh.
“Then go,” he commanded gruffly, and Neal slipped into the shadows-reminding Peter uneasily of the “thief in the night” he knew Neal to be. “You're right,” he admitted ruefully, to Elizabeth. “I don't believe I do want to know the details.”
Her only reply was heavy sigh, of agreement, relief, or anxiety. Or possibly all three at once, in conflicted uncertainty to mirror his own. A moment later, she began hesitantly with: “Peter?”
“Hmm.”
“You won't try slipping off like that again, not without saying goodbye. Properly, in person. Tell me you won't.”
“El...”
“Promise me.”
He'd thought “slipping away” was the kindest thing he could do for her. But he saw now that he had been wrong. Leaving quietly would not spare her pain, only delay it, and she deserved better than to wake up one morning and discover he was gone forever. It was not for her good that he'd made his plans to leave without facing her. It was for himself that he'd done it, like a miserable recreant, because he hadn't wanted see the grief he was causing her.
Yet here she stood, placing her hand lovingly-imploringly-on his arm. He took her hand in his, frowning at how cold it was, and instead took both her hands to warm them in his own. They were so small. So fragile and un-scarred. And so fully capable of commanding him.
“Is that a yes?” she asked softly.
He squeezed her hands lightly.
***
“You're certain you didn't see the man? Tall, bald, crooked nose-”
“-And a slight limp?”
Mozzie's eyes widened. “You've seen him.”
“No, Moz,” Neal replied patiently. “That describes the same man you told me was following you last time.”
“Precisely. I've seen him again. He's patient. Clever. But I am more patient, and more clever, by far.” He peered sternly at Neal. “He didn't follow you here? You made certain?”
“No, Moz. I wasn't followed.” Neal sighed, gazing at the “room” around them.
The only light came from the much-abused candle-stand guttering on the table, barely touching the curved walls with its illumination. He was vaguely aware of the assorted mysteries surrounding them: crates, earthen jars with lids, vases, woven baskets, and coarse sacks stacked one atop another. The whole place was an oddity. Hidden from plain view by heavy brush, the small, well-like opening above ground-with its downward-winding stone staircase-had been difficult to find. Mozzie's directions, which he'd made Neal commit to memory several years ago, had been cryptic to the point of uselessness.
Neal had never been at liberty to seek out the place before. “Liberty” being a relative and generous term for what he had, even now.
Leaning back in his chair, Neal returned Mozzie's scrutiny. “What does this man want from you?”
“For your own safety, it's better you remain ignorant. Unsavory, mercenary ties are involved, suffice it to say. Most unsavory.”
“It wouldn't have anything to do with the trapdoor under the table, would it?” Neal inquired, casually tapping his foot against the wooden planks so that the hollow sound resounded against the stone walls.
Mozzie's expression intensified, which was quite a feat for a man who lived in a perpetual state of paranoia. “Trapdoor? Under the table? I know nothing of a trapdoor. And neither do you.”
“Let me guess...”
“No,” Mozzie interrupted obdurately. “I won't let you guess. As far as I am concerned, the subject has not been broached. My host is graciously oblivious to my affairs, and in return I am likewise gracious in my lack of perceptiveness.”
“I see.”
Mozzie narrowed his eyes.
Neal gestured his surrender, holding both hands up. It never paid to fight The Rules, no matter how convoluted or ludicrous. “I see nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”
“Your sarcasm is duly noted.”
“Would you rather that I left?”
Mozzie scowled. “A man cannot be too cautious. You, of all people, should appreciate the fact.”
“What? You mean because I let myself become property?” With a derisive smile, Neal rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, displaying the metal band around his left forearm with mock pride. It had stopped chafing a long time ago, now rubbing only against the unfeeling calluses it has caused. They'd put it on him, welding it shut, years ago. It served a twofold purpose. First, it marked him as a slave, and one prone to attempt escape, at that. Secondly, the metal “eye” welded to the outside was there to pass chain through, making it a permanent, accessible tether. It was a standard means for securing the hundreds of slaves who labored in the quarries-and a commonly recognizable sign by which anyone could detect a runaway slave.
Mozzie was instantly regretful, even sorrowful. “You flew too close to the sun, my friend. They've clipped your wings.” He looked sharply at Neal. “Unless...”
“I'm not here to attempt escape. Not...yet.”
Mozzie ignored him, his strategic mind already perusing the prospect. Or else he was merely reciting strategy he had already crafted. “It would be difficult, of course. Those who can remove a shackle such as that without also removing your hand are rare. Those who can, and would do it at the request of a slave who has no proof of his manumission, are even rarer. But,” Mozzie held up a finger, “say the word, and I will scour the land for just such a man.”
“Thank you,” Neal said, and meant it. “I would be interested in meeting just such a man.”
“I thought you might be.”
“But not yet.”
“So you keep saying.” Mozzie's glee turned to sullen suspicion. “Please, don't tell me you've formed any false feeling of loyalty for that... hired killer who pretends to own you.”
“He's a commander in the imperial army, Moz.”
“Yes? And?”
Neal shook his head, yielding without a fight. Arguing with Mozzie about the evils of the empire was like struggling against the pull of quicksand. “He does own me,” Neal stated soberly. “And you know what they'll do to me if I'm caught escaping again.”
“Brand you,” Mozzie replied tersely, “and no doubt the high and mighty Burke would send you back to haul stone in that death-trap.”
“If I should be so fortunate.”
“Which is why you will be headed for distant lands, long before they've remembered to look for you.”
“Distant lands?” Neal raised an eyebrow, quelling the wanderlust the words instantly inspired. “Do you have some place in mind?”
“The far east? The mountains? Across the western seas?” Mozzie shrugged. “I leave it to you.”
“I don't know, Moz. These are the streets that taught me everything I know.”
“Yes, yes,” Mozzie said impatiently, “I'm sure you can show me the very spot where you... earned your first coin of the realm.”
Neal smiled, wistfully. “Less complicated times.”
“Really? That's what you call your street urchin beginnings.”
“Street urchin?” Neal scoffed. “I never went hungry.”
Mozzie stared at him.
“Not often,” Neal amended, “and never for long-not since the time I was seven years old.”
“You didn't stay in Cyrese exclusively, though, even then.”
“No. But...I always came back.”
Mozzie nodded sagely. “The wealthiest city-state of the known world. But there are other thriving cultures, with art worth stealing, you know. Take Issorium, or Tri-”
“-I know, Moz. I know.”
“But 'not yet,'” Mozzie recited dutifully, not angry, but getting closer. Then he seemed to come to some abrupt, inward decision, expelling a long breath and saying, “Very well. I won't ask why you prefer your cage, when I stand prepared to fling the door wide open and herald you into the skies once more...” But a sidelong glance added that he wouldn't mind hearing an answer, if Neal decided to suddenly change his mind. “Demand of me what you will,” he invited a moment later, with long-suffering sigh of magnanimity, when Neal didn't comply. “I assume you're here for more than the pleasure of my company.”
“It's good to see you again. Truly, Moz. And I appreciate everything you've already done for me.”
Mozzie “All right, compliments accepted. Can we get to the heart of the matter now?”
“I need get inside the temple.”
“The temple.”
Neal nodded.
“Not to pour your heart out to any of the statues they keep in there, I imagine.”
“Sacrilege. Cut the man's tongue out.”
“Why do I have the strangest feeling that what you're about to propose could get both of our heads cut off?”
Neal smiled.
Mozzie crossed his arms across his chest, not displeased, but keeping up the pretense of caution as a matter of principle. In a voice full of responsible mistrust, he asked: “What, exactly, are you thinking about stealing, Neal?”
“Only the best prizes merit the biggest risks.”
“You're not talking about...” Mozzie blinked, owlishly, stopping in awed realization. “You are talking about that, aren't you?”
“Exactly 'that.'”
“But...why?”
“You mean because I can't possibly hope to enjoy it?”
“Bluntly-yes. You're a slave. Slaves with no known relatives do not inherit vast fortunes over night. Even if you could find someone willing to turn… that prize into ready money.”
Neal shrugged. “I don't plan on enjoying it. Not in the conventional sense.”
“By conventional, I assume you mean in that sense whereby a profit is involved.”
“I won't see a coin of it, and neither would you.”
“Remind me again why I'm interested in this highly dangerous proposition?”
“I have to do this, Moz. With your help, or without it.”
Mozzie considered him broodingly. “How is it that you came to be at liberty for this visit in the first place?”
“I asked.”
“You...asked,” Mozzie repeated disbelievingly. “He let you go.”
“Temporarily.”
“I'm not going to like the rest of this story, am I?”
“If I succeed, it will humiliate the emperor.”
Mozzie's attention sharpened instantly. “How so?”
Neal knew he'd won. He sat back smugly, pulling the sleeve of his tunic down to conceal the metal band around his forearm once more. “Help me get into the temple and you'll see.”
***
The smell of food caught Peter's attention, and he looked up to find Elizabeth placing a tray on the table in front of him, partially covering the charts he'd been studying.
“It's not time for the noon meal.”
“No, it's not,” she conceded lightly, “it's nearly time for the evening meal. But I've heard a rumor circulating among the servants that there are standing orders that you are not to be disturbed at all today.”
“The rumors are correct.”
“I've also heard rumors that no food has entered this room since morning.”
Peter grunted noncommittally, trying to study the edge of the map not hidden by the wooden tray.
“You haven't had anything at all?”
Peter grunted again, leaving her to interpret. He traced a finger along the lines that marked the mountain range to the north of the plains. The pass that cut its way through the heart of those mountains was notoriously difficult to even find, much less maneuver an army through. He'd always wanted a chance to travel and see it for himself. Sometimes, he wondered if he'd missed his true calling as a scout.
“I believe I'll elope with the son of Lord Amron next week. He's wealthy enough, and certainly not bad to look at. Just imagine the scandal. My father would kill the nearest member of Lord Amron's family that he could get his hands on, and I would never be able to show my face in Cyrese again. It's an intriguing prospect, wouldn't you agree?”
“Mhmm. Intriguing.” Peter responded to her tone of voice before he'd processed the specifics of the question. When he did comprehend the part about her father killing the nearest member of Amron's family, and her never being able to show her face again, he looked up with a start. “No... I don't think that's intriguing.” He paused. Hesitated. Decided upon honesty. “What where you talking about a moment ago?”
She smiled, one of her clever, satisfied smiles. “I was only proving something.”
To which, Peter knew he could only respond, “And what was that, my dear?”
“That you are distracted. Too distracted to eat, or sleep, or listen to your wife.”
Peter gestured to the map. “I am preoccupied.”
“You've just returned from campaign. Those maps have had quite enough of your attention for the last two months. What is more, this is not a battlefield, and I am not one of your soldiers, and for a few precious days you are not a commander.”
She was right, and Peter wished she was not. He tried not to grimace visibly at the flawlessness of her logic.
“However, I know why you are so preoccupied. Why you wish to be so preoccupied. And...” she trailed off, then sighed at some inner resolution. “If that is truly how you wish to occupy the next three days, then I will not argue with your choice. But you must at least eat something.”
Peter surveyed the food she had brought: clusters of grapes, several cheeses, wine, and a large piece of honeyed cake with an accompanying pitcher of milk. He realized he had become, in fact, quite hungry. “I will,” he promised her.
She nodded, and turned to go. “I will tell the servants to leave you undisturbed.”
“El, wait. Please stay.”
She turned back, but shook her head. “I understand.”
And she did understand. Him. His need for space. His growing need to not dwell on the three remaining days. His restless nature, and the strange, contradictory ways that restlessness was sometimes expressed-often by a fierce need to plan and strategize in solitude. She knew that the alternative to obsessive concentration, upon something he understood and could control, was to simply give up as if the next three days were already spent and beyond being wasted.
“Please,” Peter repeated. “Stay?”
She did, quietly taking a seat, and waiting expectantly until he'd begun eating to being speaking again. And as he ate, she talked about ordinary things, offering him a window into the mundane, trivial, perfect life he'd had precious little time to enjoy for the last year. The attacks from the plainsmen upon the eastern front had been persistent. At first, the skirmishes upon the forts hadn't been serious enough to merit more than a flex of the muscle. A regiment from the cavalry had been sent, and the resistance was smothered. For a time. But Lonnum was not heralded as “The Unifier” without reason. Even though many of the clans were still wary of his leadership, with the support of those he had won he had quickly become a force to be reckoned with. This, combined with drought, had combined to create a very unsettled, unhappy populace in Cyrese. No doubt the emperor sought to woo back their love and trust through his pending display of dominance over the plainsmen, and Lonnum in particular. The emperor was not a militant man himself, nor endowed with great height or imposing physique, but he had a certain charisma.
Peter didn't know which he feared more: failure on the emperor's part to raise fervor, or his success in doing so. The last thing Cyrese needed was several days of city-wide drunkenness. They needed to be watchful and alert to Lonnum's movements, not reveling in the streets.
“Do you think it would do, Peter, for the garden?”
Peter started, realizing his attention had once more flagged, her question completely lost upon him. “I'm sorry, my dear,” he said, with a weary shake of his head, “I'm not worth much for company this evening.”
“You did warn me,” she allowed, generously. She'd drawn her feet up onto the small triclinium, arms encircling knees, peplos cascading over the edge so that the hem nearly met the floor. The posture made her look decidedly young.
He raised an ironic brow. “I did?”
“Well... Not with words.” Her gaze lingered on his face, considering it with the careful scrutiny of an artist trying to capture the essence of a person, brush stroke by brush stroke. “But when have we needed words?” she added in a near whisper.
He considered her as well, tracing the familiar lines of her face with his eyes. He felt a sudden urgency to memorize them-to drink in the sight of her until he could never forget. Because these three remaining days might be his last chance to do so.
But, of course, there was no need for urgency. He would never forget.
“Neal was here early this morning,” she commented softly, as if to deliberately turn his thoughts to other things.
“Good of him to visit.”
Elizabeth frowned in disapproval. “He hasn't broken your trust.”
“Yet.”
“If he planned to escape, why would he bother returning? Or bother with pretending he still intends to help?”
Peter had no answer. But there had to be one. Some hidden agenda he couldn't begin to fathom. He didn't want to know what Neal was doing when he slipped out in the middle of the night, only to return the next day, clearly exhausted, yet also clearly pleased with whatever he'd accomplished under cover of darkness. He was arrogantly pleased, like a cat with a cornered mouse.
No, Peter didn't want to know what was putting the self-satisfied gleam into his eyes. But El was placing all her hopes upon this slave, and Peter couldn't bring himself to say anything to shatter the illusion.
“Did he say anything?”
El shook her head. “Nothing that made any particular sense. Only...he asked for a candle.”
“A candle? Just 'a candle'? Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
The outwardly innocuous nature of the request did nothing to reassure him. If anything, it unnerved him further. It satisfied his need for answers about as much as a single drop of water would've satisfied a man dying of thirst.
“I gave it to him,” El added, in a subdued voice. “I know you don't trust him. But I do.”
Peter was stunned to see that she meant it, earnestly. “Why?”
Her arms tighten around her knees, pulling them to her chest. “Because I have to. There is no other option. And because he owes me his life, and he knows it.”
Maybe so. But thieves didn't often stop pay their debts. Peter didn't say it aloud, but his expression must have said it for him, because Elizabeth sighed heavily.
“I know, Peter. He's a slave, and a thief, and the gods know what else. But...”
“But?” Peter urged, truly at a loss to understand what had produced this inexplicable faith in someone who was a slave, and a thief-and the gods knew what else.
“But he has pride, and a unique kind of honor, I think. And...he promised, Peter.”
“Promised?”
“That he would find a way.”
“With a candle,” Peter muttered.
“It's a start,” El replied doggedly.
“It's...” Idiotic. Ludicrous. Among many other things. Finally, he settled for saying: “This is the most ill-advised venture I've ever allowed to take place under my authority.” With more than a little despair, he added, “I don't even know what the venture is.”
“Hush, dear,” El said, with an enigmatic, teasing smile. “You've only given him a candle. What could he possibly do with that?”
Peter hadn't the faintest idea. But he had a feeling he was about to find out.
***
Part two.