Chapter Forty-Four: Mismatched

“Princes of Meskat all so tall men. Know why, little Tolmish?”

Osmund dragged his attention back to the assembled mercs—and the expanses of food and drink—here around him in this informal circle. Nienos had an expectant look on his cragged face. “Is the emperor tall?” Osmund guessed halfheartedly.

“Not so tall. But he like big women!” the orc cackled. “Big beautiful women from all over empire. Right idea, no? He hear of big woman somewhere, he say, go and bring her here, she will live at palace now with me!”

Though the others were their usual rambunctious selves, Osmund couldn’t feign interest in their antics. At a proper table, far enough away that he could barely see their features by the light of the bonfire, sat the two princes beside one another. Their body language hadn’t changed from earlier that evening; Bayram looked easy and confident, while Cemil looked ready to snap in two, like a branch tensed to its breaking point. It almost reminded Osmund of himself, sitting next to his father. He’d never seen Cemil like this before, not ever. The sight of it rended his heart.

“Heard his mum is from Karnsa,” Gudrun said of Bayram, sounding disdainful. “Thought he’d be easier on the eyes.”

Nienos turned to Osmund to explain. “Big prince is Felklander-born, like Gudrun here.”

It would explain why he was so pale, at least. Osmund wondered if all the imperial princes had such varied looks, being born to different mothers. “The only men worth looking at are wide as they are tall,” Gudrun ruled. She seemed a little intoxicated.

Osmund’s eyes drifted back to the princes’ table. On Bayram’s other side sat a tired-looking little wisp of a woman with an unadorned, shoulder-length hairstyle, and to her other side sat a wiry, weather-worn older man with an eyepatch.

“Who are that man and woman next to Şehzade Bayram?” he found himself asking. Beside their prince, they were dressed modestly, and weren’t doing anything to draw attention to themselves, and yet he found his wary gaze drawn to them all the same.

Gudrun and Nienos’ expressions communicated that they didn’t know, and couldn’t care less. (Ratface was face-down on the hard dirt, babbling drunkenly.) It was Kasri and Keldin, the fire and ice mage twins, who reacted.

“Don’t know who she is,” Kasri said guardedly, “but isn’t that man the one they call the emperor’s vulture?”

“His vulture?” Osmund parroted, unsure if he was recalling the wrong word, which he’d only learned recently. He focused his attention again on the older man.

“Apparently he served at his side for a long time,” Kasri continued on as Osmund looked. “He was an advisor, I guess. A real famous one. Gazi Nadir Başa, his title is.”

So, an old general, and a veteran of war. General Nadir’s movements were so unassuming, almost to a calculated degree. He’d open you up if you crossed him, Osmund suddenly felt in his bones. And you wouldn’t even see it coming. He must be Bayram’s mentor from the palace, like Lala Muharrem was to Cemil.

Osmund pressed the twins for more details, but they were out of useful facts to share. “We only saw him in the capital the one time,” Keldin said with an annoyed pinch of his brows as he sipped at his drink.

“It was years ago. He was receiving some kind of distinction,” added his twin.

Their little group in its entirety were well on their way to getting blackout drunk, Osmund noted with unease. He wasn’t ready to join them: he couldn’t risk being so out of it, not tonight. He’d told Cemil he’d stay safe and out of the way, but—wasn’t there anything he could do to be useful without breaking his promise?

“Nienos,” he said abruptly. “I’m going over to talk to some of Bayram’s soldiers, those, just there next to us. Would you come with me?”

Nienos lowered his cup, intrigued. “Hmm. Little Tolmish wants to make some new friends? Why? Handsome princey not enough for you? Such big appetite. Heheh.”

“I just want to see what they know,” Osmund explained, ignoring the taunt and throwing another sneaky glance at the group in question. Those soldiers from the other camp were drinking heartily and lazing about on any box, blanket, or bundle they could find, much like Osmund’s party was. “I thought, maybe you could serve as backup.”

Gudrun gave Osmund a testy look. “You want this big lug protecting you, Valcrest?” she griped, slurring her words. (She and Nienos together had been putting away enough alcohol to drown a horse, but it was catching up to her and her lithe frame faster.) “I could have him on his back with a spear in his gut in a heartbeat. He’s not so tough.”

Osmund crossed his arms, unimpressed. “You’re welcome to come too, Felklands.”

But as expected, the rest of the mercenaries couldn’t actually be bothered, and were too plastered anyway. And so, he and Nienos headed over without them.

“Hello there!” Osmund greeted in his most casual Meskato, carefully holding back his habitual stammer. “Might we join you?”

Bayram’s soldiers looked up. Fortunately, it seemed the flow of drink had them in a cheery mood. “Come, sit, brother!” one hailed, and Osmund marveled at how apparently easy it was to mingle with strangers when you didn’t enter every interaction assuming the worst. “And an orc too! Friend, what does it cost our emperor to feed you?”

Nienos flexed one bicep and turned to show off the axes slung across his back. “The cost of my throwing arm,” he said brightly.

This answer made him very popular. The men and women of the little group made approving noises, and opened to let them inside the circle. Just like that, they’d been accepted.

“What’s your name?” a man to Osmund’s left asked. He extended the hand that wasn’t gripping his cup. “I’m Arif.”

“Halwyn,” Osmund lied as he completed the gesture, using the name he’d prepared in advance this time. Halwyn Truemane was the memorable protagonist of a certain romance novel; he’d already secretly adopted his family name when writing in his journal, seeing as how he couldn’t exactly use “Haldebard” anymore. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Arif winked. “You picked good company. The wine is fine here tonight, and the women are finer.”

“I do love women,” Osmund concurred, faltering for the first time in his rush to answer naturally. “And their—breasts.” Oh, heavens, what a disaster. But to his surprise, Arif only raised a glass.

“I’ll drink to those.”

Was it really this easy to be—normal? But then, this was possibly the first time in Osmund’s entire life that he was approaching someone not as a prince or an inexperienced servant, but as, apparently, a social equal. These people must have seen the useless saber at his hip and assumed he was a merc, too.

No time to question it. He had to keep the momentum. “Where do you come from, uh, brother?” Osmund attempted, though the term of endearment was alien on his tongue. “Have you come very far to get here?”

“Not far. Only from Konunkuyu,” Arif said. Osmund didn’t know the city, but it was interesting to note the difference in his regional dialect. “Şehzade Bayram is a hard master. But, it’s good to leave my own land. What about you? You are a foreigner?”

Osmund was thankful he hadn’t pretended to be Meskato when supplying a name for himself. It would’ve been too much trouble to invent a backstory, or explain his own strange accent. “I’m from the Tolmish Isles,” he said rather smoothly. “Yes, it’s good work.”

“How do you like the prince you serve? Şehzade Cemil, yes?”

A flash of inspiration had him remembering a recent conversation with the mercs. “He pays on time,” he said with impressive disinterest, capping it off with a shrug.

Arif laughed. “You know what matters, friend.”

He had a clear window now—time to make his move. “We’re just on our way home from Kaliany,” Osmund threw out casually as he pretended to take a sip from a cup someone had handed him. “They were struggling with a gryphon problem. What are you all doing here? Hunting for rebels?”

“No rebels yet,” Arif said, shaking his head. “Who knows what Şehzade Bayram and Nadir Başa are after.”

General Nadir again! “The old man?” Osmund pressed, acting ambivalent. “Isn’t Şehzade Bayram the one in charge?”

“Sure, sure,” Arif agreed, “but everyone knows he follows his mentor’s will. Even shares his wife with him.”

What. “His wife?” Osmund echoed, at a loss.

“Her, see?” And Arif pointed to the little plain woman seated next to Bayram. “Lalezar. She is Şehzade Bayram’s wife.”

For a moment, all Osmund could do was stare. That woman and Bayram—they were married? The fact that they were sitting so close should’ve been an obvious clue, and yet, he never would’ve guessed it in a million years. In terms of general bearing and appearance, they were more mismatched a couple than, say, himself and Cemil, and that was saying something.

“Bayram really shares his wife with another man? Why?”

“I don’t understand it myself, brother,” Arif responded with a sigh. “But we all see her and her paramour going off together, barely making a secret of it. What else could they be doing? And Şehzade Bayram isn’t a faithful man, either. Any pretty thing who catches his eye, he makes his own. There are rumors about how he treats the servants in his house.”

Osmund shuddered. His displeasure must’ve been obvious, because Arif said, “But, isn’t it the same for your prince too?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“We’ve heard from your own camp that he’s been taking a stablehand into his bed.”

Osmund didn’t know whether to be horrified that word had already traveled so fast, or relieved that the story didn’t come with more detail. He forced himself to shrug again. “I don’t really pay attention to gossip like that,” he managed to say.

Everyone seems to think I’m getting routinely ravished by Cemil, he thought just a little morosely. If only it were the truth! Though if all went according to plan, maybe tonight they’d finally get some quality alone time. Osmund still wasn’t sure if Cemil was functionally the same as other men, but heavens, it didn’t matter how he did it, if he had to use his hands or something else—Osmund just wanted to see stars and yell his name while he did it.

Shaking away those distractingly lust-addled thoughts, he chanced another look at the Meskato prince. Immediately, his heart dropped into his stomach. Cemil’s shoulders were set stiffly, and he was gripping the sword hilt at his waist as he spoke. He wasn’t actually going to pull his sword on Bayram, was he?

Osmund was just about to turn away again when he felt it.

Eyes, directly upon him. No, it couldn’t be. But yes. It was Bayram. In this moment, Bayram was looking back at him.

In a panic, Osmund pulled his gaze away and stared into his cup, pulse pounding. Don’t be absurd, he told himself, calling upon every bit of reason he could muster. Why would he be looking at you? You, in this whole crowd of people?

Only two explanations existed. Either one, Osmund was indeed mistaken, or two—Bayram had heard the rumors about Cemil’s new favorite, and knew he was the subject of them.

“Okay, little Tolmish?” Nienos asked. He’d surrounded himself with admirers already. (Hopefully his wife was the understanding sort.) Osmund took a deep breath, and nodded skittishly.

“What is Şehzade Bayram really like?” he ventured, turning to Arif. “Why does their relationship seem so…off?”

He’d meant Bayram’s relationship with Cemil, but had forgotten to specify. “Who knows why he took such a bride,” Arif replied. “She’s not from a special family, and they say he looks down on even the highest of women. There’s a rumor, although—you didn’t hear this from me, alright brother?”

Osmund was at attention. “O-of course.”

Arif leaned in close, as if he feared the prince himself could somehow be listening in. “The rumor goes that at the palace, Şehzade Bayram was humiliated in a childhood duel by a younger sister. Apparently he’s never forgotten it.”

Sister? For a moment, Osmund’s eyebrows furrowed as he processed this new detail. A princess…? Then, the obvious explanation hit him all at once, and he knew.

Nausea hit. Bayram as an adult already reminded him of his father, and men like that learned their cruelty at a young age, shielded from consequence by their wealth and status. It was a human law that transcended nations and borders. What kind of hell would a boy like that create for someone—a younger “sister”, no less—who had publicly shamed him?

“Hm—yes, there they go now. You see?”

At his prompting, Osmund looked up again. It was exactly as Arif said—Bayram’s wife Lalezar was pushing away from the table with General Nadir in tow. The two princes beside them didn’t even spare them a glance.

“Um, excuse me,” Osmund heard himself saying. Then he stood.

Heart still racing anxiously, he stepped away from the crowd. The only others here were those angling for a bit of quiet, nursing their drinks alone. Osmund pretended to use a bush and had a clear view as Lalezar and Nadir marched together towards an ornate tent much like Cemil’s—the nicest in Bayram’s camp. Wait, is that Bayram’s tent? Osmund wondered. Aren’t they much too bold, carrying on an affair in a place like that?!

Comforted in knowing he was still close enough to Nienos that he could holler for help—and that he was hidden by cover of darkness anyway—Osmund watched from afar as a third figure emerged from the tent, standing near the others as they spoke amongst themselves. This person was too far away to make out in the low light, appearing only as blurs of color, but Osmund felt for some reason as though he’d seen them somewhere before. But where?

Emre’s bracelet sat heavily on his wrist. If Osmund wanted, he could eavesdrop, with no one the wiser.

But, there was that promise he’d made to Cemil. What was he doing even considering such an idea? He didn’t know how long that invisibility spell would last! Enchanted items were notoriously fickle, and illusory enchantments in particular were highly intensive bits of magic.

Anyway, he missed his window. The three of them disappeared into the tent, and the door closed on that mystery, for now.

Chapter Forty-Four: Mismatched

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