SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows) (34 page)

He didn
’t need George’s tentative plucking at his arm or the hoarse, “there,” to confirm what his entire being already knew.

Crowded as it was, the heat in the room had led many to remove coats and jackets, and the boy who
sat almost with his back to Jarlyth was one of that number. He was perched on the arm of one of the player’s chairs, intent on the game. The man had an arm around the boy as if to keep him from falling off, but his hand rested low on the boy’s hip, fingers drumming idly.

Nylan
’s hair had grown incredibly long and hung down his back in a thick, loose braid. A white dress shirt—which clung to his back here and there where the perspiration had trickled down—tucked into his close-fitting black trousers which tucked into provocatively-tall, black leather boots. He was small but long and lean and absolutely beautiful.

I
’m going to be sick. I can’t stand to see this. Vail, help me!

H
e couldn’t move, and Nylan didn’t notice him, so he watched, helpless and miserable and unbearably ill.

He could
guess which men had never purchased the boy’s time by the way he reacted when they addressed him—which they all did.
Because he’s famous,
Jarlyth remembered. George had said that he was as famous as royalty. As famous as anyone in Queen’s City.

If a man had no interest in his body, Nyla
n’s faint smiles would seem genuine, and he would talk to the person easily—answer a question, smile at a joke. If he was desired, his resentment stiffened his back and deadened his eyes. Jarlyth was shocked no one else seemed to notice the difference.

“
Blow ‘em for luck, eh?” a man asked Nylan, holding out his cards. The crowd, predictably, found this proposition amusing and the volume rose as everyone began calling out comments, taunts, or suggestions.

Nylan
’s lips twisted into something that might be interpreted as a smile but which Jarlyth saw as quickly-masked irritation. Nevertheless, the boy reached up a hand to hold his hair back as he leaned across the table toward the proffered cards.

George felt the need to narrate.
“He doesn’t say yes to very much. He has all these rules. He’s famous and everyone wants him so he can do what he wants.”

Jarlyth
flicked a glare at the man. “He doesn’t want to do
any
of this.”

The boy pursed his lips slowly, deliberately, and blew a near
-kiss across the cards. As he drew back again, the forced smile evaporated. A roaring cheer rose from the crowd with laughter and clapping playing counterpoint. The man whose cards he had blessed looked flushed and excited and couldn’t take his eyes off of Nylan.

“
What happened to his hand?” Jarlyth swallowed against the sickness rising in his throat. The elegant sleeve had brushed back from Nylan’s wrist when he’d leaned over, exposing ugly marks.

“
That’s his heretic’s brand,” George whispered. “And he has a tattoo that means something bad. It was new the last time I was here, but he wouldn’t tell me about it.”

The man who
’d needed luck apparently got it, for just then he shot to his feet, nearly knocking the table over, and did a little jig of celebration as the other players threw down their cards or pushed the pile of winnings toward the man’s place. It seemed to take everyone by surprise when he whirled around, caught Nylan’s chin with his fingertips, and kissed him.

Jarlyth, much to his dismay, had
a perfect vantage point to witness this kiss. He saw Nylan flinch as the hand touched him and then stiffen as the lips followed, but the boy recovered and reciprocated so quickly, his warder almost wasn’t certain he’d seen any resistance.

This
sort of thing must have happened before, for a chant began to clarify itself from the noise of the crowd. Jarlyth could make out the word being chanted: “Clink.”

“
What’s that mean?” he demanded.

It was George
’s turn to flinch, but he took a step closer in order to be heard without raising his voice. “He has to pay, now. A clink for a kiss. A crown.”

Jarlyth
’s eyes widened in shock. He was enough a man of the world to be aware what the services of a prostitute would generally cost—not that, as a Sensitive, he had ever been tempted to make use of one himself—and a crown for a kiss was beyond anything he’d ever heard of.

George nodded as if reading his thoughts.
“Aye, he’s very expensive.” The follow-up thought to this was so clear that, with the first officer standing so close to him, Jarlyth heard it as if the man had continued speaking aloud:
And he’s worth every bit of it.

Of course
. He would be,
Jarlyth thought, miserable. He’d proven that himself to many a young woman. There were reasons the salacious stories told about bedding a Sensitive were all but countless.
But he’s just a child! Can’t they see that?

And he was so unhappy.
Jarlyth could feel the despair radiating from the boy from across the room. The warder could only wonder how Nylan had survived such relentless physical contact. Even with his own poor Sensitivity, he thought he would at least have gone mad.

Jarlyth
’s hands gripped themselves into fists as the “for luck” man surveyed the chanting crowd, patting his lips with fingertips as if blowing kisses to everyone, though it was obvious he meant only to remind them all of whom he’d just kissed.

His
warder’s instincts became more and more in tune with Nylan the longer he watched, until Jarlyth knew the thought behind every movement, gesture, and expression.

Nylan managed to conceal a glare behind a narrow
-eyed, measuring expression, and made a deliberate show of wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

The crowd
’s response to this was approving, and the taunts turned back on the presumptuous man as some still chanted for the clink to be paid. Nylan extricated himself from his companion’s arm gently as he stood up, and now Jarlyth could see just how small the boy was.

The
“for luck” man towered over him, nearly three handspans taller, and he was big and muscular, besides. Nylan’s apparent fragility broke Jarlyth’s heart.
He’s nearly fifteen! He should be taller...like his father.

Fragile he might have been, but at the Red Boar, Nylan held all the power.
He looked up at the big man from beneath lowered brows and held out his right hand, palm up, wordlessly demanding payment. Jarlyth saw more scars marring pale skin.
Shize! What have they done to him?

“
Don’t be that way, sweetling.” The man reached for Nylan’s hand, but the boy snatched it back, fingers curling into a fist as his body fell into a defensive stance, stunningly familiar to Jarlyth from their training sessions years ago.

The man
took a step back, surprise blossoming on his face. The crowd jeered, now that it was obvious how inaccurately the man had read the situation. He’d thought his next move would be to the bed of the most desired streeter in Camarat.

“
I could have you thrown out for theft, you know?” Nylan said. These were the first words Jarlyth heard him say, and far more than a trace of the boy’s Serathonian accent remained even after all these years—though the rasp was new. “It’s against the rules here to steal a kiss.”

Chagrined,
the man reached into his pile of winnings and fished out a large, gold coin which he tossed at Nylan, forcefully. Angrily.

Nylan, without even looking, snatched the coin out of the air with a snap
of his wrist, pocketed it, and turned away from the man and the table. If he’d told the man to go to the Fires, he could not have dismissed him more thoroughly. Whoops of laughter and more jeers at his suitor followed, but they all died away to Jarlyth’s ears as Nylan finally noticed him.

He
’d braced himself for this reunion for over six years. He’d braced himself for what Nylan would feel at being discovered in this place for days.

But he
’d braced himself for nothing. The boy’s eyes skimmed over him without doing more than taking note of his existence, and Jarlyth felt his jaw slacken as Nylan’s face shifted from leftover annoyance to delight at the sight not of him but of his companion.

“
George!” He walked over to greet the man. Jarlyth detected a slight limp which attested to more injuries he’d failed to prevent.

“
All my favorite people are here tonight—did you see Jack? He’s here for the festival, too.” Nylan didn’t pause for any answers. “When did your ship get in?”

George
’s eyes flicked to Jarlyth’s face before returning inexorably to Nylan’s. “Just now.”

“
And you ran right over to see me?” A coy smile curved Nylan’s lips as he looked up at the man through his long, black lashes. “How flattering.”

“
Well—” George gulped, a blush reddening his face.

The dissonance between how Nylan was behaving and how he truly felt was so jarring, it made
Jarlyth want to vomit. He wanted to draw his sword and start separating heads from bodies, beginning with George’s.

Nylan managed to look both youthfully innocent and shockingly wanton at the same time.
“I’m not busy right now.” He reached out to run a teasing finger over the buttons on the man’s uniform jacket.

George stammered out,
“I—I can’t—”

Nylan
’s eyes widened slightly. Jarlyth sensed the boy’s surprise at being put off. It was something that likely never happened to him.

“
Oh...” he began, as his body language altered completely, any trace of flirtation vanishing as he took a step away from George and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked almost hurt though what Jarlyth sensed was panic. “Did you get married? Or...” he glanced at Jarlyth and came to a new conclusion. “Do you want to introduce me to your friend?”

“
Don’t you know him already?” George asked, confused.

Nylan looked at Jarlyth, a faint, equally confused smile playing around his lips.
“Should I know you?” he asked finally. “I’m sorry. I seem to have forgotten.”

“
You...forgot...” Jarlyth choked out. This shock was the last one he could bear. His vision went black, and, the next thing he knew, he was staring up into Nylan’s worried face as the boy knelt beside him. He hadn’t noticed before how intricate the room’s ceiling was, painted with fanciful, provocative scenes which wreathed Nylan’s head, making the moment surreal to the point of ridiculousness.

“
Are you all right?” Nylan reached out a hand toward Jarlyth’s forehead to check for fever.

“
Don’t touch me,” Jarlyth snapped, and the hand shot back as if it had been slapped away. His reaction had been automatic, but Jarlyth knew he’d made what could turn out to have been a fatal mistake.
Stupid. That was stupid. All he may have needed was to touch me to remember.

“
He was sick off and on all the way here,” George said. His eyes were wild with hysteria, and Nylan looked up at him, his worry deepening.

“
George, what’s going on?” A note of fear bled into his voice. He seemed to be almost pleading with the man. “I don’t understand. Why are you acting like this? Did I do something to make you angry?”

A powerful
-looking man with a shaved head and a deceptively sleepy expression appeared, shoving away the crowd that had gathered around their little tableau. “Michael,” he barked. “Everything all right?”

The boy reached up automatically
, and the man pulled him to his feet. “I don’t know.” Nylan still looked worried. “This is George’s friend. He passed out.”

The man grunted.
“I’ll look after ‘em. Lord Fitch is asking for you.”

Nylan
’s expression went blank at this, but he nodded and vanished into the crowd.

By the time the Red Boar
’s strong-arm decided he wasn’t sick or hurt, Jarlyth had lost all track of Nylan—until he saw the boy being guided up the Red Boar’s gaudy staircase by a man who’d apparently just paid him for a bit of his time.

George
looked even more ill than Jarlyth felt. “Was that really him? Have I really been—?”

“
What is it about you? Why was he so desperate for you to want him?” Jarlyth demanded.

George
’s last bit of spine melted away as he slumped onto the table. “It’s just that I promised to help him.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper. “If he ever got enough money together to pay all the bribes plus his passage, I said I’d help him leave here. He wants to go to Mirthia and start over. They don’t have heretics there or brand people. Streeters are illegal. I think he thinks it’s Vail’s Country.”

“
So he pretends to like you, plays up to you...so that you’ll help him.”

“
Yes. And so I’ll keep his secret,” George admitted. “I’m a bastard. I blackmailed the Prince of Sorrows.”