The Pirate of Fathoms Deep (6 page)

Lesto's glare didn't lessen. "I can think of a few fitting punishments I'd like to administer."

Surprise rippled across Shemal's face, his jaw dropping slightly. Then he grinned as mischievous as Lesto had ever seen. "Why, Commander, I'm shocked."

"I very much doubt it," Lesto retorted.

Shemal's easy grin turned into a slow burn, and Lesto didn't have to ask what he was thinking. There was only one memory that potent shared between them, after all. Shemal surged forward, shoved him back so hard Lesto slammed into the wall at the back of the bath. It wasn't remotely comfortable, but he could not bring himself to care. It was infinitely more distracting to be pinned in place by a ravenous pirate.

The air was so thick and wet it was hard to breathe, and Lesto was overheated from being in the water too long. He hadn't behaved like an impatient youth in a long time, but fuck, Shemal suddenly made him want to try.

Drawing back, chest heaving, Shemal licked his lips and said, "Let's go eat, because I'm going to need the energy for all the irresponsible behavior I have in mind."

Lesto laughed and let Shemal help him out of the water. They dressed quickly and thankfully, his eyepatch was mostly dry. He hadn't been looking forward to everyone gawking at him more than they already would. The clothes were slightly too small and smelled faintly of bitter mothflowers, but they were clean and comfortable, which was all he really required.

His boots weren't so pleasant, so Lesto carried them back down the hall and handed over another bit to have them cleaned.

They then settled at a table in the back corner, and a serving boy brought them large bowls of shepherd's stew, a platter of bread and butter, and cups of dark beer. Lesto had just started on his second bowl when he heard the familiar jangle-rattle of armor and sword belts. The smile he'd just given Shemal faltered, soldier training rushing back to the fore as a group of ten rough-edged men stomped into the tavern.

And he didn't have even a dagger to work with, damn it.

The soldiers were all pale-skinned, which was strange. Pale skin was only predominant in a few kingdoms in Harken, and they weren't so prevalent an entire band of soldiers was likely to share the same old-milk skin tone. That usually indicated foreigners, a theory further substantiated by their strange armor—red leather trimmed in gold. Flashy, the kind of armor that was less for protection and more for intimidation.

They stepped further into the room, eyes skimming over the diners. The stick-thin man with cold eyes who seemed to be in charge went still as his gaze landed on Lesto. Looking pleased, he turned to the others and said something in a low tone, the words soft and rolling, almost lyrical.

Treyan, they were speaking Treyan.  That explained why they were all pale and skinny. What were a bunch of Treya Mencee mercs doing in a two-hut village in Gearth?

Lesto dismissed them, went back to his stew, murmured low, "I think we might have trouble, but I'm not sure. A group of Treya Mencee mercs is a far cry from the pair of halfwits that grabbed me. They've no business being in such a remote place as this without imperial escort."

"Maybe somebody figured out who it is they've actually kidnapped."

"Treya Mencee mercs kidnapping me would start a war," Lesto replied. "They don't want that. Treya Mencee's contracts with Harken are too lucrative."

Shemal gave him a look. "You're assuming Treya Mencee is sanctioning this."

Lesto frowned, mind spinning as he tried to sort out what could possibly be going on. It was too much coincidence that such a strange, dangerous group would appear in a tiny village shortly after Lesto and Shemal. And Treya Mencee had come up regarding the strange murders on that ship, too.

He glanced briefly around at the way the men had scattered—sitting so they could easily stand, blocking all exits. The serving boy who'd been tidying had vanished, and such strange guests should have drawn the woman who owned the place, but she too was notably absent.

Reaching beneath his tunic, Lesto removed the chain around his throat and slipped the rings free. He pushed them across the table. "Put those on."

Shemal frowned as he picked the rings up. He started to shake his head, but at a glare from Lesto, he obediently slid them on his fingers. The same warmth that had unfurled and spread through Lesto at seeing Shemal's tattoo returned at seeing his family ring on Shemal's finger.

He tucked it away to enjoy later, when they were safe again. "If something happens to me—don't give me that look, we know I'm the one they're after—do whatever it takes to get to Sarrica, Allen, or Rene. Get to a garrison and the soldiers will see to it you reach the palace. If they question you having the rings, tell them I said they know where I'll bury them if they don't listen to you. If Sarrica or my brother Rene get tetchy, tell them I said I was going to explain the coordinates to you."

"You don't make any sense," Shemal said. "It's not nice to say something mysterious right before we're about to get our asses kicked by a group of fish belly thugs."

Lesto grinned. "The short answer is I trust you as much as I trust Sarrica and Rene."

"Ah." Shemal smiled at him, soft and pretty. "I suppose I can settle for…" He trailed off as two of the mercenaries approached their table, his smile turning sharp and cold as he said something to them in Treyan. Shemal really was at least a little bit of a silver tongue.

The shorter of the two mercenaries replied, and as had been the case on countless other occasions, Lesto didn't need to know the words to understand the insult.

Shemal's smile grew even sharper, a look in his eyes that Lesto knew far too well. Then his arm flashed out, hand clutching his fish knife. He drove it into the throat of the shorter mercenary. As that one reeled back and collapsed, Shemal stood, grabbed his chair, and slammed it into the other one.

Lesto slid out of his chair to kneel on the floor and deftly relieved the dead man of his sword and one dagger. By the time he stood, the rest of the bastards were coming at them, and the small tavern crowded with tables and chairs made for a poor battleground.

He kicked a table into a cluster of three, which gave him a chance to bring one of them down. The other two shoved the table out of the way, came at him hard, and Lesto heard too late the one that came up behind him, jerked but not enough to avoid the thrust entirely, fire bursting along his side as the edge of the blade caught and sliced.

Shit. He slammed the dagger into the gut of the man behind him, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him at the other two before rushing them, stabbing one, snapping the other's neck.

Pain shot up his thigh and he looked down to see someone had tried to get in a last thrust—thankfully missing the place that would have left him bleeding out in seconds.

Lesto dropped, suddenly too hot and dizzy and struggling to breathe. Shit, shit, fucking
shit.

"Stupid fucking—" Shemal broke off and pounded across the room. "Lesto!"

Dragging his eye open, Lesto looked into Shemal's. "The fucking bastards had poisoned blades, I think. At least one of them. I'm not—"

"You can't die," Shemal said, voice cracking. "Damn it, I'll go find a healer."

Lesto managed a ragged laugh even as he slumped against Shemal. "You won't find one here. You have to get me to the nearest garrison. If I live that long. They're the only ones…"

Everything went black then, and the next time he managed to open his eye, it was still black. But he could make out stars, he thought, and from the way they were moving and the familiar pounding of hooves on dirt, they were on a horse.

Sarrica was going to have even more to make fun of him for, getting his ass kicked by Treya Mencee thugs. Lesto was too old for this shit. He was done being in charge of Sarrica's damned army. He would never understand Nyle's desire to go back into the fray when he'd had such a wonderful life. It wasn't Lesto's place to judge, but he wasn't certain he'd ever entirely forgive his brother either.

He drifted off again.

The third time he stirred, they were still on the damned horse. "Shemal…"

"Almost there," Shemal said, voice trembling. "You stupid, useless Mainlander." He lapsed into Farlander then, and Lesto smiled. Or thought he smiled. He wanted to smile. He could so easily see now why Sarrica was so fond of the way Allen lost track of his languages sometimes. It was probably far too late for Lesto to learn a new language, but it didn't seem right not to make the effort.

When Lesto woke yet again, he felt decidedly more lucid. He was also in a bed—in his private chambers at the imperial garrison in Brimin City.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted moving, pain slicing up his side and across his ribs, cramping down and making it impossible to breathe for a brief but terrifying moment. What in the fucking Realms had those buggering bastards done to him?

At least he was alive. Lesto looked around his room, which was as stark and clean as ever. A spare set of armor hung on a stand in one corner of the room, a large trunk beside it holding weapons and other equipment. A dark blue tapestry depicting a three-headed dragon hung over the window. From outside came the usual din of the garrison and more faintly, the noise of the city.

Someone had propped him up slightly, at least. Fuck, what was wrong with his side? Had the sword gotten him that badly? Gritting his teeth against the pain, Lesto carefully got the blankets out of the way. Thankfully, the cramping-can't-breathe moment didn't come again, just a slightly stabbing ache that wasn't even close to the worst pain he'd ever dealt with. That dubious honor belonged to his eye.

He grimaced at the wound revealed, a nasty gash lurid with redness and black healer thread, glistening with the sharp, pungent ointment smeared over it all. From the look of the damned thing, it had been some sort of rough-edged blade. No wonder it had hurt so much. Reaching beneath the blankets, he could feel a similar wound on his thigh.

Pantheon, he was definitely too old for this nonsense. He wanted to be home worrying about crop yields and contemplating finding Shemal to do something inappropriate in his private sitting room.

Where
was
Shemal? Hopefully headed for Harkenesten like Lesto had told him, but anything could have happened while Lesto was unconscious. At the very least, a few days had passed. His head felt too wooly to be anything but still feeling the aftereffects of sedation.

He looked to the side of the bed, gritted his teeth again, and leaned over enough that he could snatch up the large, gold bell sitting right at the edge of the bedside table. He hadn't rung it more than once when the door flew open and an unfamiliar, alarmingly young soldier stepped inside. "You're awake! I'll inform the captain at once! I'm glad you're doing well, Commander!" The door slammed shut as abruptly as it had opened.

Lesto set the bell down and sighed at the ceiling as he settled back in the bed. Who in the Pantheon had put a fresh recruit on his door? Whatever, he'd sort that matter out later. He rested back against his pillows, closed his eye, and tried to sort his thoughts out.

He still could not explain why they'd been attacked by Treya Mencee mercenaries. He'd been kidnapped by men who had thought he was some fat, officious, useless Rilien noble. What the fuck did Treya Mencee have to do with that? This must all go back to the ship, but damned if he knew more than that.

Thankfully, he was spared thinking about it for a little while longer as the door creaked open and Mishi, the garrison healer, stepped into the room and shuffled across the room to him, a large, looming, black-skinned woman behind him—Ofera, the garrison captain.

Mishi smiled in his warm, grandfatherly way. Lesto had seen him put an arrow in a man's eye from two hundred clicks; he wasn't fooled by that smile for a moment. "Good afternoon, Commander. We've been searching frantically for you. Leave it to you to show up half-dead, carried in by a pirate. Never do anything by half—including injuries. Lucky for you, it was bubble fish poison."

"Lucky," Lesto drawled, though in fact it was. He and Sarrica had both been victims of bubble fish poison when they were young, one of several reasons he wished Sarrica would heed Lesto's orders to take bodyguards wherever he went.

But the one good thing about bubble fish poison was that, once survived, it was a lot harder to be too severely affected by it again. Given how much time had passed since he'd accidentally ingested it, he wasn't terribly surprised it had still caused him trouble—but it hadn't been fatal, which it would have been otherwise.

"That certainly explains why I feel like old shit," Lesto replied. "Where is Shemal? What is going on? Have I missed anything important?"

Mishi rolled his eyes. "Let me look over your wounds before you start in with barking orders and sending everyone scurrying."

"Speaking of sending people scurrying," Lesto said as Mishi threw back the blankets and began to examine him. "Why is there some ten-year-old watching my door?"

Ofera grinned. "He's your greatest admirer, Commander. Begged for the honor, sweet as you please."

Lesto groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. Absolutely not. I'm not putting up with that again." He grunted, leg jerking. "Damn it, man."

"Oh, quit your fussing," Mishi replied. "You're missing an eye—you can handle me poking at your leg."

Lesto glared. "Stop dragging on about it."

Mishi just clucked his tongue and kept going at the exact same pace he'd been working. Lesto heaved another sigh. Honestly, the man poked and prodded just to be an ass; what was there to look at? The leg was stitched and itchy enough it must be healing properly.

He looked at Ofera again. "Where is Shemal?"

"He left yesterday morning. You've been asleep a little less than three days. Got here late a couple nights ago. You've been in and out ever since. He refused to leave your side until he knew you were stable, and I think he only left at all because he was doing as you told." She smiled. "He seems quite fond of you, Commander."

Lesto grunted but didn't confirm nor deny it. "I want a group sent back to the damned village to look over those fucking mercenaries."