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Everyone breathed a little easier when Tatiana and Shyama had left. The Gramirens were saved, and the bank would survive. Even the queen managed to reconcile herself to the “humiliation” of giving up the crown and the other treasures. Of the entire group, the one person who seemed less than thrilled was Faustinus. He stood at the edge of the fort with an oddly melancholy expression, watching the two hillichmagnar assassins ride away. Gina came over and tried to pull him back to the little celebration she had started.
But he gave her a quick kiss, patted her head, and said, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Hamon couldn’t tell if Faustinus regretted not getting to fight Tatiana to the death, or if maybe he regretted the loss of her love. In either case, Hamon felt that Faustinus would have probably done better to focus on what he currently had, rather than what he had lost.
Moira noticed Hamon watching Faustinus. “Don’t worry about him,” she said. “He gets that way sometimes. He’ll snap out of it soon enough.” And as she predicted, he soon rejoined the party and put an affectionate arm around Gina.
There was some thought of staying the night at the old fort, but they still had hours of daylight left, and Faustinus recommended that the Gramirens try to get as far inside the borders of Loshadnarod as they possibly could before stopping.
“Until Astrid and Edwin Sigor agree to the deal,” he said, “you’re still theoretically in danger.”
Broderick thanked everyone for their help, especially Hamon. “If you weren’t a monk,” he said, “I would give you a knighthood.”
Hamon explained that he was leaving the Leofine Order, so the king asked him to kneel. Then he smacked him in the face with a thick, winter glove and dubbed him Sir Hamon Friel of the Order of Shaela.
“I hope you will forgive me,” said Broderick, “but I am unable to give you the traditional grant of crown land at the moment.”
Hamon said he understood perfectly.
The king was visibly disappointed when Hamon explained he wasn’t going into exile with them. Hamon even wondered for a few seconds if the king was regretting the knighthood now. But then his majesty sighed and, looking at Queen Therese, said he supposed that he understood Hamon’s motivations.
That wasn’t the only reason Hamon was going back to Presidium, though. Yes, he loved Moira, but he also loved the work at the bank. And he liked his colleagues—Quintus and Gina and Lily and all the other Emissariae. And the truth was that living at an Immani inn—even one as decrepit as the Prefectus Arcus—had cured him of any desire for the simpler life of a refugee or a monk.
He wanted to be warm in the winter and cool in the summer. He wanted a big, comfortable bed. And yes, he wanted to find Moira in that bed every night. He wanted to sleep in and have late morning sex with her, rather than having to trudge to the chapel early and then sit around taking dictation from the king. Yes, he still admired the Gramirens and supported their cause, but he would be supporting it from comfort in Presidium. Maybe that made him a coward, but even if it did, he didn’t care.
Faustinus offered to accompany the Gramirens to guard them until they found a Loshadnarodski camp, but Broderick said that, if it was all the same to everyone, he and his family would continue on alone.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, “but I think everyone on that side of the border remembers what happened the last time you and Moira were in Loshadnarod.” By which he meant the invasion and the assassination of Daryna Olekovna.
“You were there, too,” Moira said.
“I seriously doubt most people even remember that,” said Broderick. “In any case, with all due respect, I think our chances of a warm reception are much higher if I’m not accompanied by the dreaded Legate Faustinus and Prefect Moira.”
“As for the rest of you,” said Queen Therese, “you are more than welcome, though I suspect you would much rather return home.”
So, the royal family would ride into the next stage of their exile alone, without any visible Immani help. And truth be told, the queen was right that everyone wanted to go home. Even Gina, who never shirked any duty, looked relieved when it became clear she wouldn’t have to accompany the Gramirens, either.
They shared hugs and handshakes all around, and then the little family rode out of the ruined fort to the east, while Faustinus, Gina, Moira, Hamon, and Quintus rode west. A light snow began to fall, and before they had even crested the next hill, the Gramirens were gone out of sight.
That night, when they were in their tent, Hamon asked Moira what she thought would become of Broderick and Therese and their children. “He’s a good man,” Moira replied. “But he’ll never be king. At least not a reigning king, anyway. Did you know his father well?”
“A bit,” said Hamon. “He was a very different sort of man.”
“Yes. If he were in this position, he would already have raised an army and invaded. If he went to Loshadnarod, he would talk King Vadik into marching on Leornian. Or he would go south through Sahasra Deva and join up with his brother-in-law, the Duke of Severn, in Annenstruk. But Broderick Jr. won’t do that.”
“So, it’s hopeless, then.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. Maybe we’ll have peace, finally. But the little boy, Alfrick, might turn out to be more like his grandfather than his father. I suspect that if Queen Therese has anything to say about it, he certainly will. Now come to bed. It’s cold in here.”
No wonder she felt cold—she was naked in her bedroll.
“We need to be quiet,” said Hamon, gesturing to either side, where the other tents stood only a few yards away.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Moira, shifting around. “And clearly what we need to do is make sure both our mouths are busy, so our moans are muffled.”
Even if it didn’t keep them much quieter than usual, they found it an interesting new experiment.
Afterward, as he started to drift off to sleep, she said, “You are going to keep working at the bank, aren’t you, Sir Hamon?”
“Of course,” he said, yawning.
“And you’re going to move in with me, yes? No more of this nonsense about keeping a room at that dreadful inn, right?”
He couldn’t resist, and frankly he didn’t want to. “Of course.” And on a sudden impulse, he added, “I’ll even marry you, if you like.”
She laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m a bit down on marriage right now. Ask me again in five or six years.”
Even without a wedding, their return to Presidium soon took on a honeymoon quality. They rode quickly, thanks to the new post stations all through Myrcia, northern Odeland, and Denizvatan. But he and Moira took every possible opportunity to have sex. So much so, in fact, that he soon had sores and abrasions and strained muscles that had nothing to do with horseback riding.
On a bright, wintry afternoon, they finally reached the straits, and could see the sprawling city of Presidium before them, covered in ice and snow and sprouting from the hillside like a long cascade of crystal.
Gina instigated a snowball fight on the deck of the ferry, and by the time they landed, Hamon and Moira were damp and cold. And although they were still smiling, they both wanted nothing more than to ride up to Moira’s house and take a long, hot bath together. Quintus insisted they stop by the bank, though, before going their separate ways, and it was lucky they did.
Lucius Verrus, Quintus’s older brother, gaped at them all as they trooped into the lobby. “You got back without a minute to spare,” he said, rushing over to shake hands. “I’ve done everything I can to put them off, but the Treasury is demanding answers, and they say that they’ll suspend our license if they can’t speak to one of the directors by noon tomorrow.”
Lily, who was there, as well, explained that she had duly forwarded to the Treasury all the messages they had sent about the Gramiren treasure, and about how the crown, sword, and book were now in a secure location known to the bank.
“But Vice-Tribune Flaccus refuses to believe any of it,” said Lily. “I’m not sure why, but he seems to have gotten it into his head that we’re some kind of center for spying and money-laundering.”
“Well, fancy that,” said Faustinus, chuckling. “I can’t imagine how anyone would get that idea.”
“You laugh,” said Lily, “but you won’t be laughing when he suspends our license.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” said Moira.
Hamon volunteered to go with her, and he was half-hoping she would tell him there was no need, and he could go back to the house and start his bath.
But she beamed at him and said, “Oh, that would be very nice. Yes, please do. It won’t take long, and then we can have supper together.”
They rode over to the Treasury building, near the palace. The emperor and the court had gone to Vinopolis for a month, so the parks and parade grounds in the neighborhood had a quiet, empty feeling. Snow lay almost entirely undisturbed across the front steps of the palace. The Treasury’s Presidium office, in contrast, still bustled with activity. Messengers ran in and out, pushing past Moira and Hamon as they searched for the correct office.
When they found Vice-Tribune Flaccus, he sat among neat stacks of thousands of scrolls and ledgers. He had little more than a cold granite cubicle for an office, and it seemed only Flaccus’s obsessive neatness prevented it from being swamped in paper and parchment.
Moira introduced herself, explained that she was one of the directors of the bank, and demanded to know why Flaccus was threatening to revoke their license.
“I am an Imperial Prefect,” she said, glaring down her nose at him, “and another of our directors, Count Servius Faustinus, is a Legate Emeritus. I assure you that we have very, very powerful friends at court. Moreover,” she held up a hand and kindled a pulsing green flame in the air, “Legate Faustinus and I have considerable talents that make us far more valuable to the Empire than, say, a junior Vice-Tribune in the Treasury.”
Hamon thought she was laying it on a bit thick, and he felt sorry for Flaccus. But then the stupid little man opened his mouth and destroyed any sense of sympathy that Hamon had.
“I understand that, Prefect Faustina, but I have the power to revoke your license for irregularities. It seems to me that there is an awful lot of money flowing through your bank, going here and there.” He grinned. “It seems to me that if some of that money found its way here,” he pointed to his desk, “then I might be persuaded to ignore everything else you’re doing.”
The stupid ass was actually trying to solicit a bribe from a hillichmagnar. Hamon gave a polite cough and said, “I really don’t think you want to try that, Mr. Flaccus.”
“I think ten aurei would do,” Flaccus went on, heedless of the danger. “Ten per month. And if you’ve got all those wonderful friends at court, I think you really ought to put in a good word for me. There’s a job in Albus Magnus that’s open, and I’m sure that if I had the backing of Prefect Faustina and Legate—”
Moira lunged forward and leaned over his desk, sending a cascade of parchment scrolls onto the floor. “Let me be clear. I have ridden more than a thousand miles and back. All I want to do is go have some food and then a hot bath and then maybe, if we’re both not too tired, some excellent sex with my new lover here,” she pointed to Hamon, then reached out and rested a hand on Flaccus’s cheek.
“And I can say whatever I like right now,” she continued, “because you’re never going to remember this. You’re going to write out an official warrant ending your investigation into us, and you’re going to seal it. And then, in return for letting you keep your balls, you will report to me once a week on what your superiors in the Treasury are doing.”
Hamon didn’t hear the words of the spell, but he saw how Flaccus’s eyes rolled back for a second, and even though Hamon was not in the direct path, he still felt a powerful sense of calm and contentment settle over him. This was all perfectly right, he thought, and Moira wasn’t doing anything more than what Flaccus deserved. In fact, the Vice-Tribune, he thought, deserved much worse, and for a few moments, Hamon longed for Moira to tell him to kill Flaccus, so he could prove his loyalty to her.
Soon, they had the sealed warrant in hand and they beat a hasty, triumphant retreat, leaving a stammering, drunken-looking Flaccus alone to restore order to his office. The effects of the spell wore off Hamon gradually, and by the time he and Moira were halfway through their meal at a little Brigantian restaurant around the corner, he ventured to ask exactly what she had done to Flaccus.
“A calming spell,” she answered, “but a very, very powerful one. It may affect his mind permanently, in fact. Although, if it does, it will simply make him a bit more cheerful and tolerant.” She took a sip of wine. “It’s the sort of thing they’d call ‘dark magy’ up at Diernemynster, but I don’t see anything wrong with it under the circumstances.”
He took her hand. “Do you mind if I ask...if you ever used a spell like that on me?”
“Not quite so strong, but yes, I did.”
He hadn’t expected her to be quite so bluntly honest about it. “Oh...well, would you be offended if I asked that you never use magy on me again?”
She took his collar and gently pulled him closer across the table. “You’re only asking that because I haven’t shown you what else magy can do...in the bedroom.”
“Like what?”
“I guess you’ll never find out, will you?” she said, smirking.
Even before they got back to her house, he had broken down and told her that he didn’t mind in the least if she used magy on him, as long as she asked first.