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Timothy carried the bucket up from the stream very carefully. He was bringing water for Sir Halvor to wash and shave in, and lately, the big knight had gotten very particular about how he wanted things done. Timothy had been beaten for bringing too much water and for bringing too little. He’d gotten a punch in the face for the water being cold, and a kick to the backside for water that was too warm.
As he came up to the tent flap, a messenger burst through it headfirst and tumbled over on the ground. Halvor came out next, fists clenched and shouting. “What in the Void do you mean you can’t find them? How hard is it to find a pair of fucking nuns?”
When he saw Timothy standing there, he grabbed the bucket away and dumped all the water over the messenger’s head. Then he smashed the empty wooden pail across his back. Groaning in pain and dripping wet, the man scrambled to his feet and ran away.
Halvor watched him go, then turned back to Timothy. “Find a new pail. And hurry.”
Working for Sir Halvor was rapidly becoming a nightmare. None of his scouts could find Sister Morwen and Sister Lillian. Practically his entire brigade had been deployed to the north, east, and south searching for Edwin and Elwyn. But there was no sign of them, either. Fragmentary reports kept coming in, claiming they had been seen in Keelweard, in Leornian, in Pinburg, and in Keneburg. But no matter how many men Halvor sent out, they never found the nuns or the royal siblings.
Halvor was almost more obsessed with catching Sister Morwen than he was with catching the king and princess. Somehow, in his mind, he believed that if he could prove the convent had something to do with the Sigors’ escape, then King Broderick might still let him confiscate the abbey’s lands.
Of course, there was a convenient scapegoat much closer to hand, if only Halvor had known it. That thought kept Timothy awake for hours every night, imagining all the horrible ways that Halvor would punish him if he knew the truth of what had happened.
One night there had been a brief moment of terror, when a report came in that Elwyn and Edwin had been recaptured, and Timothy honestly considered trying to drown himself in the stream. They would tell Halvor everything under torture. Then, only hours later, a correction arrived, courtesy of the Duke of Pinshire. The “royal siblings” were actually a luckless young pair of lovers who had chosen the wrong day to go riding in the woods around Pinburg. Timothy had almost burst into tears with relief. He wasn’t quite sure how much more of this he could take.
Halvor spent most of the day poring over maps and muttering under his breath. Even his father steered well clear of him. The big knight noticed this, and as he stalked around his tent, he said, to no one in particular, “It’s like when a ship goes down. The captain orders, ‘every woman for herself.’ That’s what’s happening now.”
In mid-afternoon, a lone rider came into camp. He carried a gilded baton and had on a black silk surcoat embroidered with the Gramiren arms in silver thread. Even Timothy knew a royal herald when he saw one. All the officers gathered around the man as he dismounted. The scouts and men-at-arms watched, too.
“I have a decree,” the herald said, pulling a huge scroll from his saddlebags. Two enormous seals hung off the end of the parchment; one blue, the other jet black. A murmur ran through the crowd of soldiers. The herald silenced them with a look and asked, “Where are Lukas Ostensen, Duke of Severn, and his natural son, Sir Halvor Ingridsson? I am required and requested to give this decree into their hands personally.”
Duke Lukas and Halvor were found and they came to meet the herald. Lukas approached warily, eyes narrowed and suspicious. Halvor rushed up like a watchdog straining at its leash, towering over the man and glaring at him.
“What’s all this, then?” Halvor demanded.
The herald looked coolly back at him, bowed, and then opened the decree to read it.
Be it hereby known that the lords undersigned, to wit His Serene Majesty Broderick Gramiren, King of Myrcia, and His Grace Arthur Ostensen, Bishop of Leornian, do confirm all past and current grants of lands to the Abbey of Erstenwell and the Convent of the Blessed Fenne located therein. These lords command all nobles and knights owing allegiance to the crown and acknowledging the faith of the Leafa Church to protect these aforementioned lands belonging to the abbey. And these lords command that any knight or noble who appropriates for himself those lands shall be subject to all penalties of the law, both civil and canon, up to and including death and the Obscuration of his soul from the Light of Earstien.
Halvor seized the scroll and seemed on the verge of tearing it in half, but his father wrestled it away and looked it up and down, scowling.
“Fucking Muriel,” Duke Lukas muttered. Then he handed the scroll off to one of his squires and announced the army was returning to Severn.
But Halvor was not quite finished. He strode around the camp, ranting and swearing for a few minutes, before riding up to the convent gate and screaming at the top of his voice that he was going to burn the place to the ground. Once again, his knights and Timothy managed to restrain him before he did any real violence to anyone. When they were back in his tent, Timothy got out the little bottle of sleeping draught that Vittoria had given him and put several drops in a glass of wine. Halvor drank it all in one gulp, and in minutes, he was passed out cold and snoring in his bunk.
As Timothy watched, a group of knights and officers—both Halvor’s and Lukas’s—gathered around and discussed how they were going to restrain Halvor so that he could be carried back to Severn. It was common consensus that ordinary rope wouldn’t stop him. They all agreed he would need chains or possibly a set of stocks until his rage passed and he was himself again.
It took Timothy only a few seconds to come to a fateful decision: he was quitting his job. He didn’t care if Halvor doubled his pay or tripled it. Working for a man like that simply wasn’t worth it anymore. He calmly took off his apron and his livery coat, folded them on a chair, and walked off through the camp.
His first idea was to go home. It was barely a ten minute walk away. He could go there and work the fields and help his cousin, Olivia, make cheese and butter. He could sit there in the kitchen and listen to his mother and his aunt whine about all the wrongs the abbey had supposedly done them long ago. He could suffer in silence as his mother nagged him about finding “a nice girl” in Basington and settling down. Or maybe they would try to marry him to Olivia. He would never go anywhere exciting again. His idea of a big night out would be getting drunk at the Vine and Bramble and flirting with the bar wenches there. He would never find a man to love who could make him happy.
When he thought of it that way, he almost wanted to go back and take his chances with Halvor.
Then, in the middle of the High Street of Basington, a voice hailed him, and he looked around to see Vittoria, of all people, arriving on a big red coach, drawn by a team of four huge black horses.
“What are you doing here?” he asked her. He looked the coach up and down. “And what’s all this?”
She handed the reins to a man in red livery to her left, and then she jumped lightly down to join him. “Get in, and I’ll explain.”
Then she opened the carriage door, which was emblazoned with the letters, “S.P.Q.I.,” and ushered him up. To his shock, he found Milo Malleus was there already, lounging with a bottle of wine across a thick red velvet seat.
Vittoria followed Timothy up the step, pushed him gently into the seat next to Milo, and then shut the door. “Drive on,” she said, tapping the roof with her knuckles, and the coach started moving.
“Where are we going?” asked Timothy, as Milo handed him a glass of wine.
“Well, Milo here has decided that his work on the personal staff of Legate Talius is finished. He has graciously accepted my offer of a new job in Presidium, but he made a special request that we stop and see you, as well.”
Milo leaned over and kissed Timothy’s cheek. “I want you to come with me.” He sat back again, blushing. “Assuming you want to, of course.”
“You mean come to Presidium with you?” Timothy’s mind was reeling, and his cock was starting to twitch. “What would we do there?”
Vittoria laughed. “Mainly I imagine the two of you would have lots of really excellent sex. But from time to time, Milo will write little reports for my employers. Maybe run an errand or two, once in a while. Nothing terribly strenuous.” She smiled at Timothy. “You could do the same, if you’d like.”
“You want me to be a spy?”
“I would say ‘analyst’ might be a better term for it,” Vittoria said. “But yes, that’s the general idea.”
The choice was easy, considering his other options. But even if Halvor had been a model employer, or his family had been sweet and loving and accepting of his proclivities, he would have chosen life in Presidium with Milo. How could he not? This was everything he had ever wanted. He took Milo’s hand and kissed it. “I think I’d like to do it.”
“You ‘think’?” said Vittoria, rolling her eyes. Reaching over her head, she opened a little window that led out to the driver’s seat. “Milo, see what you can do to make him more certain.” She slipped through the window like a cat and shut it behind her.
Timothy kissed Milo and said, “I really do want this.”
“Oh, good,” said Milo. “I’d hate to think I was dragging you into this against your will.” Then, grinning, he sank down onto the floorboards and opened Timothy’s trousers.