White Collar Fic: Circumvention (2/2)
Continued from part one.
***
“Chieftain Lonnum!”
Lonnum looked up at into the flushed face of the boy standing-suddenly hesitant-in the entrance to his tent. The boy dropped to one knee, head bent. “Forgive me, Chieftain, for intruding.”
Lonnum kept a private surge of amusement to himself. The boy might be a scarce year or two older than his own son, Emmick. But he if he was intent on riding with men, he would become a man, himself.
“On your feet,” he ordered.
The boy rose, waiting.
“You have news for me?”
Tan, but fresh-faced, and eager-eyed, he really was still a boy learning how to be a man. At his chieftain's invitation, he lifted his eyes and was enthusiastic once more. “A stranger has just entered the camp-some mad Cyresian, making demands to see you.”
“He simply walked into the camp?” Lonnum asked.
The boy nodded. “As if he were wandering for the pleasure of it and happened to stumble upon us.”
But, of course, they both knew that was unlikely. The plains were as vast and trackless as the arid deserts further east, and it was the plainsmen’s way to shift the location of their camps frequently, never allowing themselves the luxury of predictability. They were at least an hour from Cyrese by horseback, and many more hours for a man on foot. They had moved their location two days ago.
“Is he a soldier?”
The boy shook his head. “No armor. No weapon. He may not even be Cyresian.”
“Where is he now?”
The boy's eyes drifted towards the ground again. “Kaltor thought it best if he were to...question him, and find out his purpose, before troubling you.”
Lonnum considered this for a moment, wondering if they might have a spy in their midst. If so, Kaltor's “questions” would indeed put the stranger in a mindset to be more forthcoming and respectful when presented to Lonnum. There wasn't much time. After tonight, there were only two days remaining until the Cyresian's celebration. There had been no talk of negotiations, no message from the pompous fool they called “Emperor”-only arrogant silence had responded to Lonnum's attempts to pay a ransom for his son. Which meant the night of the feast was the night the plainsmen would make their move.
There were too many details yet to be decided upon. Lonnum had no time for foolhardy strangers, stumbling into their midst to make demands upon his limited time.
As an afterthought, Lonnum told the still-waiting messenger, “You were right to tell me. You may leave now.”
The boy ducked out, leaving the tent flaps moving restlessly in his wake. Lonnum stood, deep in thought, the lit brazier behind him causing his own shadow to alternately swell and ebb, flickering on the trampled ground in front of him like a separate entity. It must be past the middle watches of the night by now. Still, he might find an hour's sleep before the sun began to rise. More likely, he would not.
On impulse, he strode from the relative warmth of the confined space out into the rousing cold. At first he walked without any intentionality, slowly making his way between the rows of tents and fire pits. The smell of roast boar meat lingered in the miasma of wood smoke that hung over the camp. A gibbous moon above, just beginning to wane, would have provided enough pale light to see by, even without the occasional torch stuck into the ground along the main route through camp.
He followed the sound of dull thuds and muffled voices at first through simple instinct, because the noises where the only sounds of life within the camp. Then, as the noises continued unabated, rhythmically, Lonnum increased his pace with a frown.
Kaltor was beating the stranger with the aid of two other men, who held the “spy” between them for Kaltor's convenience. Lonnum was used to taking in a scene in a matter of moments-not the actions transpiring, alone, but the emotions present behind the actions as well. Leading men was relatively easy if you knew the right words to inspire trust. Keeping them from killing each other during moments of restless boredom was the far greater challenge. That was why Lonnum made an art out of reading his men. And Kaltor...Kaltor was a study unto himself. He was intensely and fervently loyal, always. It was what made him a good lieutenant. It was also what could occasionally turn him into an uncontrollable hot-head.
Right now, it was no mystery that anger was fueling his fist, as he cocked back his arm expertly to ram his knuckles into the vulnerable stomach of their captive. Lonnum understood Kaltor's anger. This was the first Cyresian face they'd seen since they had clashed with two regiments of Cyresian cavalry near the northernmost stronghold. When Emmick had been taken.
Kaltor was like an older brother to Emmick. A protective one, who hadn't liked the thought of Emmick coming to war so young. The choice, however, had been Emmick's, and Lonnum had been as privately worried about his son as he had been publicly proud of him. Kaltor had guardedly followed his example. But Lonnum had never had to ask him to keep a watchful eye on Emmick.
Now, the vehemence and energy of Kaltor's self-hatred for allowing Emmick to be captured was the driving force behind each blow being delivered.
Lonnum stepped behind Kaltor, grabbing his arm as he pulled it back again and began to swing it forward with renewed momentum.
“Enough.”
Kaltor turned on him with an expression of hate. Recognition bled the intensity from his expression, putting in its place careful, blank deference. “Chieftain,” he acknowledged, without excuse.
Lonnum would have words with him later. Not because the stranger deserved better treatment. Lonnum did not know what the stranger deserved, yet. But Kaltor was prone to think with his heart instead of his head. It was dangerous.
Lonnum examined the slumped figure, held now between two men who had become uncertain through the turn of events. Whatever, or whoever, this mad Cyresian was, there didn't appear to be much of him at all.
Then, pulling his head up, and squaring his shoulders, the man rasped, “Chieftain Lonnum. An honor.” And, ridiculously enough, he sounded as if he meant it. Blue eyes smiled with mild cordiality. Never mind that one eye was already beginning to swell shut, and blood had left a trail from his nose across lips and down his chin. It made his polite, self-possessed expression ludicrous, surreal in the flickering light of the nearby brazier. “Plainsmen hospitality,” he continued, eyes shifting in Kaltor's direction. “It takes some getting accustomed to.” He spit blood into the grass at his feet, grimacing. “Pardon.”
“Who... are you?” Lonnum finally managed to ask.
The man gave him a smile that was painful to watch, but with all continued appearances of good-will. “My name is not one you would be familiar with. But I intend to return your son to you.” He stopped with a yelp as Lonnum grabbed a fistful of his hair, stepping close so that a scant few inches were between their faces.
“If you are here to mock me...” Lonnum began warningly.
The stranger's eyes were wide with the unmistakable earnestness of surprise, as if he'd never expected hostility in response to his showing up, in the middle of the night, in an enemy's camp. “Not...here, to mock...you,” he panted. “Swear by the...gods.”
Lonnum snorted softly in derision. “That pantheon of stone you Cyresians so cravenly subject yourselves to?”
The stranger looked rueful. He managed to catch his breath, and sound dignified once more. “I've never placed great faith in trusting my life to pieces of stone, either. Though they are expertly-crafted pieces of stone. Beautiful work, really.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug, never breaking eye-contract. “It was the first thing I could think of that sounded solemn enough to swear by. Do you have something else in mind?”
Lonnum stared incredulously at him. He released his hold, taking a step back. He'd never been so caught off-guard while talking to a prisoner before. Surely, it was the lateness of the hour. He searched the stranger's face, not sure what he was looking for, other than... “The truth.”
“That,” the Cyresian said, with a nod, “I can give you.”
“You were sent by the emperor to negotiate?” For the first time since interrupting, Lonnum exchanged a sidelong glance with a still thunderous-looking Kaltor.
The stranger chuckled, gasping a little for air as if at unexpected pain. “Dear gods, no. I'd die before I became his lackey. Death being an extremely likely outcome if he finds out what I've done, and can catch me. But I do not think that he will. I intend to present you with something he will find so unexpected that he will have little thought left for finding me.”
“Unexpected?” Lonnum said icily, beyond losing his patience, but trying to keep from physically manifesting it in a demonstration such as Kaltor's.
“If you will listen to me now, he will be forced to negotiate with you, Chieftain. For the return of your son.”
“Forced?” Kaltor echoed in disbelief, clearly unable to contain his ridicule any longer. “The emperor, forced, by a slave?”
The stranger didn't appear to take any offense. “Yes. With your help.”
He addressed his words directly to Lonnum. Kaltor began to interject once more, still scornful, but Lonnum held up a hand, silencing him.
“What is your motivation in helping us?” If you can help us, he added mentally.
“My master's life is at stake.”
Lonnum raised an eyebrow. “Your master?”
“Commander Burke. I'm sure you've heard of him. Perhaps you've even encountered him. Even to his enemies he is well known as an honorable man.”
“That may be so. But I fail to see how you expect to save him by helping me-or how his life is in danger in the first place.” Lonnum let the anger creep into his voice. “It was Commander Burke, after all, who so recently returned victorious to his emperor. With many prisoners.”
“Yes. He did.” The slave squirmed uncomfortably against the restraining hands holding him firmly by the arm on either side. “Chiefton, there is little time. Will you hear what I have come to say?”
Lonnum nodded to the men who'd been holding the stranger, and they relinquished their hold. The slave immediately straightened, brushing his tunic-bloodied, and torn in several places-as if to smooth out a mere wrinkle or two.
“You had better make this worth my while,” Lonnum warned.
The slave met his eye, and suddenly there was something unsettling and keen in his gaze. “I assure you, it will be worth every moment.”
***
It was all a mistake, from start to finish. Instead of simply admitting defeat, he'd done exactly what he told men under his command to never do: compound a problem by shirking the inevitable.
Only Peter hadn't stopped at “shirking” the inevitable. Oh, no. That would have been too dignified. Too noble of him. Instead, he'd placed himself entirely at the mercy of a slave, and now he was reaping the harvest.
Should he really have been surprised at the results? No. But he was. Dear gods above but he was. Horrified was not too strong a word for his reaction to the news. Ever since he'd been awoken at dawn by summons from Gratis the day had proceeded from bad to worse.
The ceremonial robes. The wreath. The chain of office. All stolen from the temple during the night. The emperor was in a rage. The priests were in a rage. Gratis was in a rage. One day. One day until the celebration. The last thing the emperor needed was for the hungry, demoralized masses to take the theft as a bad omen-perhaps an omen that they would consider reflected unfavorably upon their rulers. But the truth would not be able to be kept from them. The emperor's lack of ceremonial garb during the celebration would be too conspicuous an omission to have the faintest hope of going unnoticed. And such pieces could not be convincingly copied-not if they’d had half a year, far less in a day.
It was a blow, and Peter knew who had dealt it. But it might as well have been his own hand that committed the dead. He had as good as authorized the theft himself.
He knew it had to be Neal, with a certainty that made his chest tight with anger. This was Neal's work. Only he could've been that bold. That brazen. Neal had committed reckless thefts before, but this left all his past misdeeds in the dust. He had stolen three priceless objects that belonged to the emperor-sacred objects no one had ever dared to even attempt stealing before, for fear of being struck down by the gods-which was suicidal enough. But had also had the gall to return to Peter's home afterwards, which was a death wish.
Thankfully, Peter had had the foresight to stay his own hand, leaving orders with his steward to restrain Neal, by any means necessary, should he return, and to watch him unremittingly so that he wouldn't have the chance to escape. Peter had then retreated to his study, his constant refuge of late, without harboring any real hope that Neal would return.
And yet Neal had returned, which turned Peter's certainty into confusion. Neal had to be behind the theft. But why return at all when he had to know Peter would, at the very least, suspect him?
Peter had a half a mind to beat some answers out of him.
Instead, he kept pacing until Elizabeth arrived, a frown of worry etched between her eyes.
“Peter...” she began, observing him almost furtively from the doorway.
“Yes, Neal has returned and I've had him tied up. No, I have no intention of rescinding my order for Ercan to keep him that way.” He knew he was being brusque, which she didn't deserve, and that he would regret it later. The key word being “later.”
The frown of worry faded, to be replaced by a look of unmitigated disapproval. “I was going to ask if you'd had anything to eat, and if I might bring you something. And...” She looked slightly abashed, but only for a moment, before she finished boldly: “And if I might bring Neal something, as well.”
“But by all means, bring the slave the best of our wine and larder. Spare no expense.”
Elizabeth's eyes flashed. When she spoke, her voice was controlled. Too controlled. “I do not know what Neal has done. But whatever it is, I hardly think starving him will solve anything.”
“You might think differently if you knew what he had done,” Peter retorted. If the emperor found out, starvation would be the least of Neal's problems.
“Then tell me what he's done.”
“I cannot.”
“Why? Has he done something so unforgivable?”
“Yes,” Peter growled. “He has. And I cannot tell you, because I'm under strict orders not to speak of this to anyone. Under the present circumstances, this…situation could well tear apart our nation.”
Elizabeth's anger was bleeding away. It never lasted long, her concern always prevailing in the end. “Gratis' news that called you away so early this morning...”
“Concerned Neal.” Peter nodded, turning away to pace in the direction of the doorway that led through into the gardens. He stood looking out at the sunlit scene, its tranquility irritating.
“Then why haven't they come to arrest him?” Elizabeth asked faintly.
“Because they do not know that it concerns Neal. Yet.”
Elizabeth considered this for several minutes. When she spoke again, her voice was nearer. “And you feel you must tell Gratis?”
“I do not feel that I must. I know I must.” He turned back to her. “They will kill him for what he's done, El. No question of it.” After they'd “convinced” Neal to return the stolen objects, of course.
“Whatever he has done,” El said cautiously, “it was to save your life. Was it not?”
“No, El,” he said, with true regret. “No, I do not think so.”
She shook her head. “He came back, of his own free will. Did he not?”
“Yes, but-”
“-Why would he?” She looked at him expectantly. “Tell me why he would do that. It is ridiculous. It makes no sense.”
“I know it doesn't make sense!” Peter exclaimed tersely.
“Then maybe,” El replied coolly, “he didn't do whatever it is you think he's done.”
Peter groaned inwardly, running a hand over his face. Of course she would remain level-headed and reasonable about it. She didn't understand the scope or magnitude of the situation. “He did it,” he stated simply, willing her to accept it, and leave it at that.
“Very well,” she agreed, with far too much intentional and patient leniency for Peter's liking. “Let us assume that Neal has done it. How do you know he didn't have a good reason for doing so?”
Peter shook his head. “It's not like that.”
“He's stolen something, hasn't he?” She sighed at his impassive expression. “I know...I know you cannot tell me. But let me at least see to Neal's injuries. Ercan won't let me near him without your permission.”
“Injuries?”
She gave a small, helpless shrug of her shoulders. “His left eye is half swollen shut.” She frowned at him. “You mean you haven't spoken to him?”
“Believe me, it is better for him that I keep my distance at the moment.”
“You're going to bring him to Gratis, then,” El said quietly.
“No,” Peter said, without thinking, immediately murmuring an oath under his breath and contradicting himself just as fiercely: “Yes.” Then he looked at El's anxious expression, and finished with weary uncertainty, “I haven't decided yet.”
“Talk to him,” Elizabeth urged. “Perhaps you can convince him to undo whatever he's done.” She looked searchingly into his eyes, adding with firm conviction, “Whatever crime Neal has committed, I believe he did it for you.”
Peter groaned aloud this time. “Is that supposed to make me feel better about all this?”
“It is supposed to make you feel that you owe him the chance to explain himself.”
“I owe him the chance?”
She pressed her lips together, and made a small noise of frustration. “Peter, what harm can it do to simply speak with him?”
Peter felt as if he should have a valid argument against this, but he found that he did not. It was, after all, the logical thing to do. But something held him back. He didn't want to hear Neal lie, and have his last doubts over Neal's guilt removed. Because then he would indeed be left without a choice.
“I know you will do the right thing.” Without any further remonstrance, Elizabeth kissed him lightly on the mouth and departed.
***
Ercan had secured Neal toward the back of the house in one of the rooms used for storage. Inclining his head respectfully at sight of Peter, the steward wordlessly offered him a lit candle and opened the door for him.
Neal squinted up into the light from his position on the floor, hands tied behind him around one of the wooden support beams.
He looked so visibly relieved to see him that Peter found it hard to hold onto the rush of anger that had brought him here. Which was irritating, and left him momentarily off balance with contrary sympathy.
Peter took a deep breath. “What have you done?”
“You've heard about it, then.” Neal nodded, once. “I supposed as much, considering my greeting. Does the whole city know yet?”
“No. Which is why you are going to tell me where you've hidden them.”
“I haven't hidden them. I've given them away.”
“You've...given them away,” Peter repeated slowly.
Neal nodded again.
“Neal. You are going to tell me right now what you've done with the objects-and maybe, if you're extremely fortunate, you'll come out of this alive.”
“I can't give them back.”
All of Peter's sympathy was vanishing. “You're delusional if you think you'll ever escape to enjoy what you've stolen. Now tell me where they are.”
“I already told you,” Neal insisted, earnestly meeting his eye, “I've given them away. And I cannot tell you to whom. It wouldn't matter if I did, because you cannot change anything now.”
“Neal!” it burst from Peter as a roar of frustration.
Neal flinched, closing his eyes and bracing for the expected blow.
Peter clenched his jaw, but kept his fisted hand next to his side. “I want to help you. But you make it impossible.”
“I know,” Neal said, almost repentantly, examining the floor.
“My wife has shown you nothing but care and trust. And this is how you repay her?”
Neal looked up with sudden rebellion in his eyes. “You don't know what I've done,” he warned darkly.
It gave Peter pause, an angry retort dying on his lips. He knew what Neal had done. Neal had as much as admitted to the theft. And yet, something in Neal's tone confused him. His outraged reaction at the idea of betraying Elizabeth seemed too immediate to be contrived.
“Then tell me,” Peter invited, as reasonably as he could manage.
Neal drew his legs towards his chest, staring once more at the floor. “I can't.”
“Then I have no choice but to inform Gratis that I know who is responsible.” Peter turned towards the door.
“Wait-please. Don't.”
Peter closed his eyes, not turning back. “Give me a reason.” Dear gods, just give me a single reason...
“You have to wait. Please. Until tomorrow morning.”
Peter turned slowly back, examining the insistent expression being turned on him with unmistakable desperation. “Why does it matter?”
“Because...you'll see. You’ll understand, then.”
The cryptic answer was hardly the sort of “reason” Peter had been hoping for.
“I could tell you everything,” Neal said with further urgency, seeing that he was losing the battle. “I will, if you force me to. But it would be better for you if you knew nothing.”
Peter paced a few steps away, and paced back, thinking furiously, hating that Neal was in all likelihood right. Peter didn't want to know what he already knew. Once more he was faced with two equally distasteful options. “Why?” he demanded. “Why did you take them? Of all the things you could've have stolen...” He paused to look fixedly at Neal, bringing to bear upon him the full force his anger. “I let you leave. I trusted you.”
“Trust me for one more day.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you're a good man. A just man.”
“And you,” Peter retorted, pointing emphatically at him, “are wasting your flattery. You can't possibly expect me to turn a blind eye to what you've done.”
“Only for one more day. If my plan doesn't work, then you can commit your noble sacrifice, get killed, and be none the worse off.”
Peter glared. “I'm glad someone finds this whole debacle amusing.”
Neal's expression instantly sobered. “I don't. I swear, I have a plan. It will work.”
“You have a plan,” Peter repeated with dry sarcasm. He rolled his head in an attempt to work out the tension that had taken up permanent residence in the muscles of his neck. “If you had any sense, that plan wouldn't involve returning here to be strangled by your master.”
“But you haven't strangled me, have you?” Neal pointed out pragmatically.
“You had confidence that I would restrain myself, did you?”
“You're a good man,” Neal reiterated, with conviction. “A just man.”
Peter took in a deep breath that did nothing to fortify him. A good man? A just man? Maybe he was, or maybe he wasn't. But Neal was right on one count: against all common sense, Peter was neither about to strangle him, nor drag him before the Gratis. Neal would have his chance, because whatever else he was, Peter was not suicidal. He wanted to live, not least for Elizabeth's sake.
“One day,” Peter said simply, before storming from the room. Outside, however, he hesitated before Ercan's inquiring look. He was waiting for instructions, ready to comply with Peter's wishes, whatever they were.
“Keep him here, but...give him food.”
If Ercan disproved, he kept the emotion to himself, only bowing his head with a deferential, “Yes, my Lord.”
***
It was amazing how much could change in one day.
For the last week Peter had been in a hellish nightmare, and now he was a man stumbling through a surreal dream world that couldn't possibly be real.
When Gratis had summoned him early, for the second day in a row, Peter was certain his ruse was up. Elizabeth woke, dressing hurriedly to follow him as far as the street. She would have gone with him, but he'd stopped her, firmly, and forced himself to smile reassuringly. She hadn't believed it, of course, but she'd bravely pretended she did. If her embrace lasted far too long to be a casual farewell, Peter was no more willing to pull away than she was.
Gratis had met him with predictably stormy countenance. But the storm came from a direction Peter never would have guessed.
Many hours later, he returned home in a daze.
Elizabeth was waiting in the atrium, as if she'd been pacing there all day, awaiting his return. Her eyes lit up with unashamed relief when she saw him. But something in his expression must have warned her against pouncing upon him for answers, because she took his arm, and led him. He allowed her, like a child, and she pressed him down into a seat.
“Food?” she inquired.
He shook his head. His stomach wouldn't accept it, not when his lungs would hardly accept air.
“What has happened?”
Peter had been considering that very question as he'd been returning him, and he still had no intelligent reply to make. “I...am not entirely certain.”
“What did Gratis want?”
“He wanted me for negotiations. With Chieftain Lonnum.”
“Negotiations? But I thought the emperor was determined not to negotiate. I thought...”
“He was determined-and he was less than happy to negotiate now. But negotiations have begun. And I am conducting them on behalf of Cyrese.”
“But...you are a soldier, my dear. And if the emperor wanted a soldier to conduct negotiations, wouldn't Gratis have been the natural choice? He is more...politically inclined.”
“You mean he possesses an ounce of diplomacy?”
She smiled faintly. “Yes.”
“Gratis would have been infinitely preferable,” Peter agreed, with a shake of his head. Diplomacy was for politicians, or for soldiers who liked politics. “Apparently, there was no choice. The Chieftain asked for me by name. He demanded it, or threatened to refuse to negotiate.”
El looked at him in astonishment. “And the emperor let him make demands? Lonnum is the one now making stipulations?”
“Lonnum has what the Emperor wants. No,” Peter amended instantly, “he has what the Emperor needs.” He met her gaze. “The ceremonial objects were stolen from the temple. And now Chieftain Lonnum has them.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “How?”
“That, Chieftain Lonnum will not discuss. He is only interested in the return of his son.”
“Will the emperor agree?”
“He will. He does. It will become official tomorrow.”
“In time for the feast to proceed.”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth nodded quietly to herself, considering this change of events. “And now...now you are free from your obligation. The boy will be returned to his family unharmed, and in exchange the ceremonial objects will be restored.”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth finally sat next to him on the triclinium, and she seemed to melt against him as the relief of the news finally began to fully sink in. She did not cry, but she rested her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes, and was quiet for a long time. It gave Peter the space to breathe at last, and to begin to grasp what this sudden change of events really meant. It meant life. It meant honor, name, and wealth would remain intact. It meant Neal's plan, somehow, had worked.
“He couldn't really have arranged it all,” he whispered aloud, more to himself than anyone.
“Who, dear? Arranged what?”
“Neal. He couldn't have really done all this.”
Elizabeth straightened, almost with alarm. “Neal. I had forgotten. Of course it is his doing. I must see him at once to thank him.”
Peter smiled. It was not a reaction any other woman of Elizabeth's standing in society would have had, no matter the circumstances. Neal was a slave, and as such, according to any Cyrecian wealthy enough to own a slave, she owed him neither thanks, nor anything else.
Also, there was her implicit assumption that Neal had arranged it. It was with unabashed urgency that she called one of the servant girls to have Neal brought immediately, and to “Tell Ercan that his master bids him do so. If he feels that he must, he may come as well to verify as much.”
Ercan did come to verify, bringing Neal with him as ordered, but only warily retreating when Peter confirmed Elizabeth's directions.
Neal was nearly as bedraggled as he'd been after Elizabeth had first brought him into their home. He'd even managed to get his face bruised in a similar fashion. The mottled purple and blue that all but shadowed the left side of his face was clearly the work of repeated blows, not a single lucky hit dealt during a scuffle. There was straw in his hair, and some clinging to his tunic and leggings as well, along with a copious amount of dried mud. Or something like mud.
Elizabeth had mentioned his injuries earlier, but he had not paid her words much attention then, and in the dim lighting of the storage room had missed seeing most of these details. He was too honest with himself to avoid admitting he had also been too angry at the time to care even if he had noticed. In fact, it was likely the bruises would have only added to his unease and distrust.
But while he would not accuse himself of being without reason for his reaction towards Neal, he could still feel remorse. Yes, even for his behavior toward a slave. Neither he nor Elizabeth had ever pretended to be as sensible or refined as popular Cyrecian nobility. He had never been known for his conformity to the mandates of society, and he wasn't about to begin to now.
He had acted out of anger and exhaustion. Maybe, at the time, Neal hadn't earned the right to better treatment from him. But he had earned it now.
Which was why noting the sight of Neal's hands, bound in front of him, became the catalyst that made Peter let out a soft oath and call for Ercan to return. But Ercan was out of earshot, and, being a man of action who was not accustomed to waiting for a servant to do what he was perfectly capable of doing for himself, Peter stood and retrieved his dagger from the nearby side table where he’d discarded it earlier, unsheathing it as he started forward.
Neal backpedaled immediately, causing Peter to pause and consider the picture he himself must present: swearing, scowling, and advancing purposefully with a dagger in hand.
“I'm not angry.” He tried not to sound angry as he said it, but two days with little sleep, and an abundance of pressure, seemed to have left him hoarse and permanently surly.
Neal didn't look convinced, but the room didn't afford him with the space to retreat any further, save for running for the door. He looked tempted by the option.
Peter closed the distance and cut the ropes before Neal could do more than flinch. He re-sheathed his dagger, and stated bluntly, “You stole from the temple.”
Neal rubbed at his wrists. “Do you really want to know?”
No, he didn't. Peter decided upon a different line of attack. “You met with Chieftain Lonnum.”
Neal reached up to gingerly feel his bruised jaw. “I enjoyed his hospitality, yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
Neal ran his tongue over cracked lips. “Do you really want to know that, either?” He wasn't being brazen about it. If anything, he still looked as if he expected to be run through on the spot.
“No,” Peter conceded, realizing he now understood all he needed to understand. He turned back towards Elizabeth, paced several steps, and then turned again. “You must be tired.”
Neal inclined his head.
“And,” Elizabeth spoke up, gently, “in need of new clothes.” She nodded towards his ruined tunic. “That was old to begin with.”
A smile crept into Neal's eyes, instantly producing a subtle alteration in his countenance. Somehow, it was a relief to see-as if the expression belonged there, and things could now officially begin to return to normal.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“No,” Elizabeth spoke in a measured tone, “it is I who thank you.”
Neal considered her words with a look not quite surprised so much as full of mild wonder. He looked at Peter more circumspectly, as if expecting him to temper her praise with contradictions and stipulations.
Peter painfully felt the need to say something-to add to, not subtract from, Elizabeth's gratitude-but he found he had nothing but the emotion, without tangible words to present as proof of it.
“I...” he began, then stopped to clear his throat. “I first allowed you to enter this house purely at the request of my wife. Now you are a member of this household.” He studied Neal pointedly, willing him to hear what he meant in what he said. “You are a member of my household.”
Neal's reaction was delayed with suspicion. Abruptly, the clouds lifted, and they did understand one another.
“Good.” Peter nodded in satisfaction, clasping his hands behind his back.
***
Thanks for reading!
***
“Chieftain Lonnum!”
Lonnum looked up at into the flushed face of the boy standing-suddenly hesitant-in the entrance to his tent. The boy dropped to one knee, head bent. “Forgive me, Chieftain, for intruding.”
Lonnum kept a private surge of amusement to himself. The boy might be a scarce year or two older than his own son, Emmick. But he if he was intent on riding with men, he would become a man, himself.
“On your feet,” he ordered.
The boy rose, waiting.
“You have news for me?”
Tan, but fresh-faced, and eager-eyed, he really was still a boy learning how to be a man. At his chieftain's invitation, he lifted his eyes and was enthusiastic once more. “A stranger has just entered the camp-some mad Cyresian, making demands to see you.”
“He simply walked into the camp?” Lonnum asked.
The boy nodded. “As if he were wandering for the pleasure of it and happened to stumble upon us.”
But, of course, they both knew that was unlikely. The plains were as vast and trackless as the arid deserts further east, and it was the plainsmen’s way to shift the location of their camps frequently, never allowing themselves the luxury of predictability. They were at least an hour from Cyrese by horseback, and many more hours for a man on foot. They had moved their location two days ago.
“Is he a soldier?”
The boy shook his head. “No armor. No weapon. He may not even be Cyresian.”
“Where is he now?”
The boy's eyes drifted towards the ground again. “Kaltor thought it best if he were to...question him, and find out his purpose, before troubling you.”
Lonnum considered this for a moment, wondering if they might have a spy in their midst. If so, Kaltor's “questions” would indeed put the stranger in a mindset to be more forthcoming and respectful when presented to Lonnum. There wasn't much time. After tonight, there were only two days remaining until the Cyresian's celebration. There had been no talk of negotiations, no message from the pompous fool they called “Emperor”-only arrogant silence had responded to Lonnum's attempts to pay a ransom for his son. Which meant the night of the feast was the night the plainsmen would make their move.
There were too many details yet to be decided upon. Lonnum had no time for foolhardy strangers, stumbling into their midst to make demands upon his limited time.
As an afterthought, Lonnum told the still-waiting messenger, “You were right to tell me. You may leave now.”
The boy ducked out, leaving the tent flaps moving restlessly in his wake. Lonnum stood, deep in thought, the lit brazier behind him causing his own shadow to alternately swell and ebb, flickering on the trampled ground in front of him like a separate entity. It must be past the middle watches of the night by now. Still, he might find an hour's sleep before the sun began to rise. More likely, he would not.
On impulse, he strode from the relative warmth of the confined space out into the rousing cold. At first he walked without any intentionality, slowly making his way between the rows of tents and fire pits. The smell of roast boar meat lingered in the miasma of wood smoke that hung over the camp. A gibbous moon above, just beginning to wane, would have provided enough pale light to see by, even without the occasional torch stuck into the ground along the main route through camp.
He followed the sound of dull thuds and muffled voices at first through simple instinct, because the noises where the only sounds of life within the camp. Then, as the noises continued unabated, rhythmically, Lonnum increased his pace with a frown.
Kaltor was beating the stranger with the aid of two other men, who held the “spy” between them for Kaltor's convenience. Lonnum was used to taking in a scene in a matter of moments-not the actions transpiring, alone, but the emotions present behind the actions as well. Leading men was relatively easy if you knew the right words to inspire trust. Keeping them from killing each other during moments of restless boredom was the far greater challenge. That was why Lonnum made an art out of reading his men. And Kaltor...Kaltor was a study unto himself. He was intensely and fervently loyal, always. It was what made him a good lieutenant. It was also what could occasionally turn him into an uncontrollable hot-head.
Right now, it was no mystery that anger was fueling his fist, as he cocked back his arm expertly to ram his knuckles into the vulnerable stomach of their captive. Lonnum understood Kaltor's anger. This was the first Cyresian face they'd seen since they had clashed with two regiments of Cyresian cavalry near the northernmost stronghold. When Emmick had been taken.
Kaltor was like an older brother to Emmick. A protective one, who hadn't liked the thought of Emmick coming to war so young. The choice, however, had been Emmick's, and Lonnum had been as privately worried about his son as he had been publicly proud of him. Kaltor had guardedly followed his example. But Lonnum had never had to ask him to keep a watchful eye on Emmick.
Now, the vehemence and energy of Kaltor's self-hatred for allowing Emmick to be captured was the driving force behind each blow being delivered.
Lonnum stepped behind Kaltor, grabbing his arm as he pulled it back again and began to swing it forward with renewed momentum.
“Enough.”
Kaltor turned on him with an expression of hate. Recognition bled the intensity from his expression, putting in its place careful, blank deference. “Chieftain,” he acknowledged, without excuse.
Lonnum would have words with him later. Not because the stranger deserved better treatment. Lonnum did not know what the stranger deserved, yet. But Kaltor was prone to think with his heart instead of his head. It was dangerous.
Lonnum examined the slumped figure, held now between two men who had become uncertain through the turn of events. Whatever, or whoever, this mad Cyresian was, there didn't appear to be much of him at all.
Then, pulling his head up, and squaring his shoulders, the man rasped, “Chieftain Lonnum. An honor.” And, ridiculously enough, he sounded as if he meant it. Blue eyes smiled with mild cordiality. Never mind that one eye was already beginning to swell shut, and blood had left a trail from his nose across lips and down his chin. It made his polite, self-possessed expression ludicrous, surreal in the flickering light of the nearby brazier. “Plainsmen hospitality,” he continued, eyes shifting in Kaltor's direction. “It takes some getting accustomed to.” He spit blood into the grass at his feet, grimacing. “Pardon.”
“Who... are you?” Lonnum finally managed to ask.
The man gave him a smile that was painful to watch, but with all continued appearances of good-will. “My name is not one you would be familiar with. But I intend to return your son to you.” He stopped with a yelp as Lonnum grabbed a fistful of his hair, stepping close so that a scant few inches were between their faces.
“If you are here to mock me...” Lonnum began warningly.
The stranger's eyes were wide with the unmistakable earnestness of surprise, as if he'd never expected hostility in response to his showing up, in the middle of the night, in an enemy's camp. “Not...here, to mock...you,” he panted. “Swear by the...gods.”
Lonnum snorted softly in derision. “That pantheon of stone you Cyresians so cravenly subject yourselves to?”
The stranger looked rueful. He managed to catch his breath, and sound dignified once more. “I've never placed great faith in trusting my life to pieces of stone, either. Though they are expertly-crafted pieces of stone. Beautiful work, really.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug, never breaking eye-contract. “It was the first thing I could think of that sounded solemn enough to swear by. Do you have something else in mind?”
Lonnum stared incredulously at him. He released his hold, taking a step back. He'd never been so caught off-guard while talking to a prisoner before. Surely, it was the lateness of the hour. He searched the stranger's face, not sure what he was looking for, other than... “The truth.”
“That,” the Cyresian said, with a nod, “I can give you.”
“You were sent by the emperor to negotiate?” For the first time since interrupting, Lonnum exchanged a sidelong glance with a still thunderous-looking Kaltor.
The stranger chuckled, gasping a little for air as if at unexpected pain. “Dear gods, no. I'd die before I became his lackey. Death being an extremely likely outcome if he finds out what I've done, and can catch me. But I do not think that he will. I intend to present you with something he will find so unexpected that he will have little thought left for finding me.”
“Unexpected?” Lonnum said icily, beyond losing his patience, but trying to keep from physically manifesting it in a demonstration such as Kaltor's.
“If you will listen to me now, he will be forced to negotiate with you, Chieftain. For the return of your son.”
“Forced?” Kaltor echoed in disbelief, clearly unable to contain his ridicule any longer. “The emperor, forced, by a slave?”
The stranger didn't appear to take any offense. “Yes. With your help.”
He addressed his words directly to Lonnum. Kaltor began to interject once more, still scornful, but Lonnum held up a hand, silencing him.
“What is your motivation in helping us?” If you can help us, he added mentally.
“My master's life is at stake.”
Lonnum raised an eyebrow. “Your master?”
“Commander Burke. I'm sure you've heard of him. Perhaps you've even encountered him. Even to his enemies he is well known as an honorable man.”
“That may be so. But I fail to see how you expect to save him by helping me-or how his life is in danger in the first place.” Lonnum let the anger creep into his voice. “It was Commander Burke, after all, who so recently returned victorious to his emperor. With many prisoners.”
“Yes. He did.” The slave squirmed uncomfortably against the restraining hands holding him firmly by the arm on either side. “Chiefton, there is little time. Will you hear what I have come to say?”
Lonnum nodded to the men who'd been holding the stranger, and they relinquished their hold. The slave immediately straightened, brushing his tunic-bloodied, and torn in several places-as if to smooth out a mere wrinkle or two.
“You had better make this worth my while,” Lonnum warned.
The slave met his eye, and suddenly there was something unsettling and keen in his gaze. “I assure you, it will be worth every moment.”
***
It was all a mistake, from start to finish. Instead of simply admitting defeat, he'd done exactly what he told men under his command to never do: compound a problem by shirking the inevitable.
Only Peter hadn't stopped at “shirking” the inevitable. Oh, no. That would have been too dignified. Too noble of him. Instead, he'd placed himself entirely at the mercy of a slave, and now he was reaping the harvest.
Should he really have been surprised at the results? No. But he was. Dear gods above but he was. Horrified was not too strong a word for his reaction to the news. Ever since he'd been awoken at dawn by summons from Gratis the day had proceeded from bad to worse.
The ceremonial robes. The wreath. The chain of office. All stolen from the temple during the night. The emperor was in a rage. The priests were in a rage. Gratis was in a rage. One day. One day until the celebration. The last thing the emperor needed was for the hungry, demoralized masses to take the theft as a bad omen-perhaps an omen that they would consider reflected unfavorably upon their rulers. But the truth would not be able to be kept from them. The emperor's lack of ceremonial garb during the celebration would be too conspicuous an omission to have the faintest hope of going unnoticed. And such pieces could not be convincingly copied-not if they’d had half a year, far less in a day.
It was a blow, and Peter knew who had dealt it. But it might as well have been his own hand that committed the dead. He had as good as authorized the theft himself.
He knew it had to be Neal, with a certainty that made his chest tight with anger. This was Neal's work. Only he could've been that bold. That brazen. Neal had committed reckless thefts before, but this left all his past misdeeds in the dust. He had stolen three priceless objects that belonged to the emperor-sacred objects no one had ever dared to even attempt stealing before, for fear of being struck down by the gods-which was suicidal enough. But had also had the gall to return to Peter's home afterwards, which was a death wish.
Thankfully, Peter had had the foresight to stay his own hand, leaving orders with his steward to restrain Neal, by any means necessary, should he return, and to watch him unremittingly so that he wouldn't have the chance to escape. Peter had then retreated to his study, his constant refuge of late, without harboring any real hope that Neal would return.
And yet Neal had returned, which turned Peter's certainty into confusion. Neal had to be behind the theft. But why return at all when he had to know Peter would, at the very least, suspect him?
Peter had a half a mind to beat some answers out of him.
Instead, he kept pacing until Elizabeth arrived, a frown of worry etched between her eyes.
“Peter...” she began, observing him almost furtively from the doorway.
“Yes, Neal has returned and I've had him tied up. No, I have no intention of rescinding my order for Ercan to keep him that way.” He knew he was being brusque, which she didn't deserve, and that he would regret it later. The key word being “later.”
The frown of worry faded, to be replaced by a look of unmitigated disapproval. “I was going to ask if you'd had anything to eat, and if I might bring you something. And...” She looked slightly abashed, but only for a moment, before she finished boldly: “And if I might bring Neal something, as well.”
“But by all means, bring the slave the best of our wine and larder. Spare no expense.”
Elizabeth's eyes flashed. When she spoke, her voice was controlled. Too controlled. “I do not know what Neal has done. But whatever it is, I hardly think starving him will solve anything.”
“You might think differently if you knew what he had done,” Peter retorted. If the emperor found out, starvation would be the least of Neal's problems.
“Then tell me what he's done.”
“I cannot.”
“Why? Has he done something so unforgivable?”
“Yes,” Peter growled. “He has. And I cannot tell you, because I'm under strict orders not to speak of this to anyone. Under the present circumstances, this…situation could well tear apart our nation.”
Elizabeth's anger was bleeding away. It never lasted long, her concern always prevailing in the end. “Gratis' news that called you away so early this morning...”
“Concerned Neal.” Peter nodded, turning away to pace in the direction of the doorway that led through into the gardens. He stood looking out at the sunlit scene, its tranquility irritating.
“Then why haven't they come to arrest him?” Elizabeth asked faintly.
“Because they do not know that it concerns Neal. Yet.”
Elizabeth considered this for several minutes. When she spoke again, her voice was nearer. “And you feel you must tell Gratis?”
“I do not feel that I must. I know I must.” He turned back to her. “They will kill him for what he's done, El. No question of it.” After they'd “convinced” Neal to return the stolen objects, of course.
“Whatever he has done,” El said cautiously, “it was to save your life. Was it not?”
“No, El,” he said, with true regret. “No, I do not think so.”
She shook her head. “He came back, of his own free will. Did he not?”
“Yes, but-”
“-Why would he?” She looked at him expectantly. “Tell me why he would do that. It is ridiculous. It makes no sense.”
“I know it doesn't make sense!” Peter exclaimed tersely.
“Then maybe,” El replied coolly, “he didn't do whatever it is you think he's done.”
Peter groaned inwardly, running a hand over his face. Of course she would remain level-headed and reasonable about it. She didn't understand the scope or magnitude of the situation. “He did it,” he stated simply, willing her to accept it, and leave it at that.
“Very well,” she agreed, with far too much intentional and patient leniency for Peter's liking. “Let us assume that Neal has done it. How do you know he didn't have a good reason for doing so?”
Peter shook his head. “It's not like that.”
“He's stolen something, hasn't he?” She sighed at his impassive expression. “I know...I know you cannot tell me. But let me at least see to Neal's injuries. Ercan won't let me near him without your permission.”
“Injuries?”
She gave a small, helpless shrug of her shoulders. “His left eye is half swollen shut.” She frowned at him. “You mean you haven't spoken to him?”
“Believe me, it is better for him that I keep my distance at the moment.”
“You're going to bring him to Gratis, then,” El said quietly.
“No,” Peter said, without thinking, immediately murmuring an oath under his breath and contradicting himself just as fiercely: “Yes.” Then he looked at El's anxious expression, and finished with weary uncertainty, “I haven't decided yet.”
“Talk to him,” Elizabeth urged. “Perhaps you can convince him to undo whatever he's done.” She looked searchingly into his eyes, adding with firm conviction, “Whatever crime Neal has committed, I believe he did it for you.”
Peter groaned aloud this time. “Is that supposed to make me feel better about all this?”
“It is supposed to make you feel that you owe him the chance to explain himself.”
“I owe him the chance?”
She pressed her lips together, and made a small noise of frustration. “Peter, what harm can it do to simply speak with him?”
Peter felt as if he should have a valid argument against this, but he found that he did not. It was, after all, the logical thing to do. But something held him back. He didn't want to hear Neal lie, and have his last doubts over Neal's guilt removed. Because then he would indeed be left without a choice.
“I know you will do the right thing.” Without any further remonstrance, Elizabeth kissed him lightly on the mouth and departed.
***
Ercan had secured Neal toward the back of the house in one of the rooms used for storage. Inclining his head respectfully at sight of Peter, the steward wordlessly offered him a lit candle and opened the door for him.
Neal squinted up into the light from his position on the floor, hands tied behind him around one of the wooden support beams.
He looked so visibly relieved to see him that Peter found it hard to hold onto the rush of anger that had brought him here. Which was irritating, and left him momentarily off balance with contrary sympathy.
Peter took a deep breath. “What have you done?”
“You've heard about it, then.” Neal nodded, once. “I supposed as much, considering my greeting. Does the whole city know yet?”
“No. Which is why you are going to tell me where you've hidden them.”
“I haven't hidden them. I've given them away.”
“You've...given them away,” Peter repeated slowly.
Neal nodded again.
“Neal. You are going to tell me right now what you've done with the objects-and maybe, if you're extremely fortunate, you'll come out of this alive.”
“I can't give them back.”
All of Peter's sympathy was vanishing. “You're delusional if you think you'll ever escape to enjoy what you've stolen. Now tell me where they are.”
“I already told you,” Neal insisted, earnestly meeting his eye, “I've given them away. And I cannot tell you to whom. It wouldn't matter if I did, because you cannot change anything now.”
“Neal!” it burst from Peter as a roar of frustration.
Neal flinched, closing his eyes and bracing for the expected blow.
Peter clenched his jaw, but kept his fisted hand next to his side. “I want to help you. But you make it impossible.”
“I know,” Neal said, almost repentantly, examining the floor.
“My wife has shown you nothing but care and trust. And this is how you repay her?”
Neal looked up with sudden rebellion in his eyes. “You don't know what I've done,” he warned darkly.
It gave Peter pause, an angry retort dying on his lips. He knew what Neal had done. Neal had as much as admitted to the theft. And yet, something in Neal's tone confused him. His outraged reaction at the idea of betraying Elizabeth seemed too immediate to be contrived.
“Then tell me,” Peter invited, as reasonably as he could manage.
Neal drew his legs towards his chest, staring once more at the floor. “I can't.”
“Then I have no choice but to inform Gratis that I know who is responsible.” Peter turned towards the door.
“Wait-please. Don't.”
Peter closed his eyes, not turning back. “Give me a reason.” Dear gods, just give me a single reason...
“You have to wait. Please. Until tomorrow morning.”
Peter turned slowly back, examining the insistent expression being turned on him with unmistakable desperation. “Why does it matter?”
“Because...you'll see. You’ll understand, then.”
The cryptic answer was hardly the sort of “reason” Peter had been hoping for.
“I could tell you everything,” Neal said with further urgency, seeing that he was losing the battle. “I will, if you force me to. But it would be better for you if you knew nothing.”
Peter paced a few steps away, and paced back, thinking furiously, hating that Neal was in all likelihood right. Peter didn't want to know what he already knew. Once more he was faced with two equally distasteful options. “Why?” he demanded. “Why did you take them? Of all the things you could've have stolen...” He paused to look fixedly at Neal, bringing to bear upon him the full force his anger. “I let you leave. I trusted you.”
“Trust me for one more day.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you're a good man. A just man.”
“And you,” Peter retorted, pointing emphatically at him, “are wasting your flattery. You can't possibly expect me to turn a blind eye to what you've done.”
“Only for one more day. If my plan doesn't work, then you can commit your noble sacrifice, get killed, and be none the worse off.”
Peter glared. “I'm glad someone finds this whole debacle amusing.”
Neal's expression instantly sobered. “I don't. I swear, I have a plan. It will work.”
“You have a plan,” Peter repeated with dry sarcasm. He rolled his head in an attempt to work out the tension that had taken up permanent residence in the muscles of his neck. “If you had any sense, that plan wouldn't involve returning here to be strangled by your master.”
“But you haven't strangled me, have you?” Neal pointed out pragmatically.
“You had confidence that I would restrain myself, did you?”
“You're a good man,” Neal reiterated, with conviction. “A just man.”
Peter took in a deep breath that did nothing to fortify him. A good man? A just man? Maybe he was, or maybe he wasn't. But Neal was right on one count: against all common sense, Peter was neither about to strangle him, nor drag him before the Gratis. Neal would have his chance, because whatever else he was, Peter was not suicidal. He wanted to live, not least for Elizabeth's sake.
“One day,” Peter said simply, before storming from the room. Outside, however, he hesitated before Ercan's inquiring look. He was waiting for instructions, ready to comply with Peter's wishes, whatever they were.
“Keep him here, but...give him food.”
If Ercan disproved, he kept the emotion to himself, only bowing his head with a deferential, “Yes, my Lord.”
***
It was amazing how much could change in one day.
For the last week Peter had been in a hellish nightmare, and now he was a man stumbling through a surreal dream world that couldn't possibly be real.
When Gratis had summoned him early, for the second day in a row, Peter was certain his ruse was up. Elizabeth woke, dressing hurriedly to follow him as far as the street. She would have gone with him, but he'd stopped her, firmly, and forced himself to smile reassuringly. She hadn't believed it, of course, but she'd bravely pretended she did. If her embrace lasted far too long to be a casual farewell, Peter was no more willing to pull away than she was.
Gratis had met him with predictably stormy countenance. But the storm came from a direction Peter never would have guessed.
Many hours later, he returned home in a daze.
Elizabeth was waiting in the atrium, as if she'd been pacing there all day, awaiting his return. Her eyes lit up with unashamed relief when she saw him. But something in his expression must have warned her against pouncing upon him for answers, because she took his arm, and led him. He allowed her, like a child, and she pressed him down into a seat.
“Food?” she inquired.
He shook his head. His stomach wouldn't accept it, not when his lungs would hardly accept air.
“What has happened?”
Peter had been considering that very question as he'd been returning him, and he still had no intelligent reply to make. “I...am not entirely certain.”
“What did Gratis want?”
“He wanted me for negotiations. With Chieftain Lonnum.”
“Negotiations? But I thought the emperor was determined not to negotiate. I thought...”
“He was determined-and he was less than happy to negotiate now. But negotiations have begun. And I am conducting them on behalf of Cyrese.”
“But...you are a soldier, my dear. And if the emperor wanted a soldier to conduct negotiations, wouldn't Gratis have been the natural choice? He is more...politically inclined.”
“You mean he possesses an ounce of diplomacy?”
She smiled faintly. “Yes.”
“Gratis would have been infinitely preferable,” Peter agreed, with a shake of his head. Diplomacy was for politicians, or for soldiers who liked politics. “Apparently, there was no choice. The Chieftain asked for me by name. He demanded it, or threatened to refuse to negotiate.”
El looked at him in astonishment. “And the emperor let him make demands? Lonnum is the one now making stipulations?”
“Lonnum has what the Emperor wants. No,” Peter amended instantly, “he has what the Emperor needs.” He met her gaze. “The ceremonial objects were stolen from the temple. And now Chieftain Lonnum has them.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “How?”
“That, Chieftain Lonnum will not discuss. He is only interested in the return of his son.”
“Will the emperor agree?”
“He will. He does. It will become official tomorrow.”
“In time for the feast to proceed.”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth nodded quietly to herself, considering this change of events. “And now...now you are free from your obligation. The boy will be returned to his family unharmed, and in exchange the ceremonial objects will be restored.”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth finally sat next to him on the triclinium, and she seemed to melt against him as the relief of the news finally began to fully sink in. She did not cry, but she rested her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes, and was quiet for a long time. It gave Peter the space to breathe at last, and to begin to grasp what this sudden change of events really meant. It meant life. It meant honor, name, and wealth would remain intact. It meant Neal's plan, somehow, had worked.
“He couldn't really have arranged it all,” he whispered aloud, more to himself than anyone.
“Who, dear? Arranged what?”
“Neal. He couldn't have really done all this.”
Elizabeth straightened, almost with alarm. “Neal. I had forgotten. Of course it is his doing. I must see him at once to thank him.”
Peter smiled. It was not a reaction any other woman of Elizabeth's standing in society would have had, no matter the circumstances. Neal was a slave, and as such, according to any Cyrecian wealthy enough to own a slave, she owed him neither thanks, nor anything else.
Also, there was her implicit assumption that Neal had arranged it. It was with unabashed urgency that she called one of the servant girls to have Neal brought immediately, and to “Tell Ercan that his master bids him do so. If he feels that he must, he may come as well to verify as much.”
Ercan did come to verify, bringing Neal with him as ordered, but only warily retreating when Peter confirmed Elizabeth's directions.
Neal was nearly as bedraggled as he'd been after Elizabeth had first brought him into their home. He'd even managed to get his face bruised in a similar fashion. The mottled purple and blue that all but shadowed the left side of his face was clearly the work of repeated blows, not a single lucky hit dealt during a scuffle. There was straw in his hair, and some clinging to his tunic and leggings as well, along with a copious amount of dried mud. Or something like mud.
Elizabeth had mentioned his injuries earlier, but he had not paid her words much attention then, and in the dim lighting of the storage room had missed seeing most of these details. He was too honest with himself to avoid admitting he had also been too angry at the time to care even if he had noticed. In fact, it was likely the bruises would have only added to his unease and distrust.
But while he would not accuse himself of being without reason for his reaction towards Neal, he could still feel remorse. Yes, even for his behavior toward a slave. Neither he nor Elizabeth had ever pretended to be as sensible or refined as popular Cyrecian nobility. He had never been known for his conformity to the mandates of society, and he wasn't about to begin to now.
He had acted out of anger and exhaustion. Maybe, at the time, Neal hadn't earned the right to better treatment from him. But he had earned it now.
Which was why noting the sight of Neal's hands, bound in front of him, became the catalyst that made Peter let out a soft oath and call for Ercan to return. But Ercan was out of earshot, and, being a man of action who was not accustomed to waiting for a servant to do what he was perfectly capable of doing for himself, Peter stood and retrieved his dagger from the nearby side table where he’d discarded it earlier, unsheathing it as he started forward.
Neal backpedaled immediately, causing Peter to pause and consider the picture he himself must present: swearing, scowling, and advancing purposefully with a dagger in hand.
“I'm not angry.” He tried not to sound angry as he said it, but two days with little sleep, and an abundance of pressure, seemed to have left him hoarse and permanently surly.
Neal didn't look convinced, but the room didn't afford him with the space to retreat any further, save for running for the door. He looked tempted by the option.
Peter closed the distance and cut the ropes before Neal could do more than flinch. He re-sheathed his dagger, and stated bluntly, “You stole from the temple.”
Neal rubbed at his wrists. “Do you really want to know?”
No, he didn't. Peter decided upon a different line of attack. “You met with Chieftain Lonnum.”
Neal reached up to gingerly feel his bruised jaw. “I enjoyed his hospitality, yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
Neal ran his tongue over cracked lips. “Do you really want to know that, either?” He wasn't being brazen about it. If anything, he still looked as if he expected to be run through on the spot.
“No,” Peter conceded, realizing he now understood all he needed to understand. He turned back towards Elizabeth, paced several steps, and then turned again. “You must be tired.”
Neal inclined his head.
“And,” Elizabeth spoke up, gently, “in need of new clothes.” She nodded towards his ruined tunic. “That was old to begin with.”
A smile crept into Neal's eyes, instantly producing a subtle alteration in his countenance. Somehow, it was a relief to see-as if the expression belonged there, and things could now officially begin to return to normal.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“No,” Elizabeth spoke in a measured tone, “it is I who thank you.”
Neal considered her words with a look not quite surprised so much as full of mild wonder. He looked at Peter more circumspectly, as if expecting him to temper her praise with contradictions and stipulations.
Peter painfully felt the need to say something-to add to, not subtract from, Elizabeth's gratitude-but he found he had nothing but the emotion, without tangible words to present as proof of it.
“I...” he began, then stopped to clear his throat. “I first allowed you to enter this house purely at the request of my wife. Now you are a member of this household.” He studied Neal pointedly, willing him to hear what he meant in what he said. “You are a member of my household.”
Neal's reaction was delayed with suspicion. Abruptly, the clouds lifted, and they did understand one another.
“Good.” Peter nodded in satisfaction, clasping his hands behind his back.
***
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