Chapter Forty-Five: Amateur’s Game

Before turning in for the night, Osmund made one last stop.

Though they’d parted only hours ago, Banu reacted excitedly when she noticed his approach, shuffling in place and snorting through her teeth. In spite of everything, Osmund smiled. Both of their spirits lifted on seeing each other.

“Have you been good, princess?” His hand ducked into his pocket for scraps he’d set aside from dinner. “Rest up and behave. We’ll be out of here and back home in no time.”

From his right side, Osmund heard a feminine giggle. With a flush, he turned to see a woman—another stablehand, maybe, from Bayram’s camp—standing nearby and watching him.

“You treat her like a favorite mutt,” she remarked. Osmund was quick to notice the practiced, easy way she was brushing her own horse, and so forgot to be embarrassed.

“That horse really trusts you,” he noted brightly.

“I sure hope so. I helped raise him, back when I worked at the palace stables.” By her side the even-tempered little black gelding stood swishing his tail, enjoying the treatment. “I never expected to see him again in a place like this.”

Osmund’s brow wrinkled as the words registered. “What do you mean?”

“He didn’t ride in with us. But he appeared with the other mounts one day and has been here ever since, and no one’s come for him even once.” The woman patted the horse’s nose affectionately. “I wonder where his rider went.”

Puzzled, Osmund came around to look at the apparently riderless gelding. A first-class specimen, he quickly ascertained, the kind he’d expect someone from an established family to own, and his saddle looked artisan-made with tasteful embroidered accents. It was unthinkable that anyone might suddenly abandon him.

So someone rode in quietly, and is either somewhere in the camp, or has since wandered off into the wilderness without their horse, Osmund thought, no closer to understanding.

Further nudging didn’t yield much else. Only that Bayram’s camp had indeed been here for days not knowing their own purpose. He also learned one other curious thing:

“The only ones who ever come for their horses are Nadir Başa and the prince’s wife. And Zeyni, of course.”

“Zeyni?” The casual mention of a name he’d never heard before caught him off-guard. “Who’s that?”

“Lalezar’s handmaid,” The woman explained. Her face was wary. “She’s an odd one. I’ve never heard her speak even once. I swear she doesn’t even blink.”

Osmund turned this all over in his head after they exchanged their polite goodnights. There was Lalezar and General Nadir, and their supposed extramarital affair. The missing rider. A strange woman named Zeyni. (The third figure he’d seen, maybe?) Was any of it important? Maybe Cemil would be able to get some value out of these strange fragments Osmund had brought for him. He’d just have to wait and see.

He headed in the direction of Cemil’s tent, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. (It was with a small measure of satisfaction that he observed the guards recognizing him and nodding to let him pass, acknowledging his right to be here.) Once inside—and finding he was first to arrive—his mind started to work.

Cemil had looked so highly-strung at dinner. Possibly he’d return to the tent still in a bad mood. Since Osmund’s intel-gathering mission had been a bust, maybe there was something else he could do to be useful. Something to cheer Cemil up, or at least offer him a pleasant diversion.

And with that thought, a whole new realm of possibilities opened.

He started fidgeting as he roamed the tent, tamping down his budding excitement before giving into the thrill. How should he prepare for tonight? Should he wear something sexy? But then, what? He’d never dressed to impress a lover before. Wait a moment, he suddenly realized—this was exactly the kind of specific real life situation his novels could actually help him with!

Something sexy. In the world of romance fiction, that usually meant sheer or lacy. But he didn’t have anything sheer or lacy lying around, nor any idea where to procure such items even if the idea had occurred to him before now. Maybe I could just be naked? But he chased that thought away at once! Putting everything on display with no preamble was an amateur’s game. Sure, it would probably achieve one’s ultimate goal of arousing a partner, but it spoke to a lack of artistic vision! He needed a sight that would keep Cemil awake at night remembering it!

After fruitlessly rummaging through his own things, Osmund’s eyes subconsciously wandered to the ornate trunk sitting in a corner of the tent. It was definitely too much to hope that Cemil—a man who kept his clothes on almost all the time—would have something risqué he could wear. (As enjoyable as that thought was!) It was probably just more of his regular caftans, trousers, and undershirts.

This last thought gave Osmund exactly the inspiration he’d been waiting for. Seized by creative gusto, he crossed the room and flung open said trunk, digging around until he found something suitable. Too fancy…too long…ah, perfect!

With as much care as he could muster in the throes of visionary zeal, Osmund lifted out one of Cemil’s long buttoned shirts, the base layer worn beneath regular Meskato clothing. It was a simple white garment—nothing that would be mourned too much if things got a little rough or messy. Osmund immediately set about stripping himself out of his own clothes, removing every last scrap (except the enchanted bracelet, which he’d gotten used to keeping on) until finally it was just him, standing nude in Cemil’s big empty tent with gooseflesh raising over his arms and legs. Just him, and the shirt.

Cemil wasn’t a great deal taller than him, but the difference in their builds was such that Osmund could slip it on over his head without fussing with the buttons. His first thought once it was on was that this probably wasn’t going to work after all—this thing was already a bit loose on Cemil, and frankly felt gigantic on him, draping nearly to mid-thigh. Maybe it just needed a little fine-tuning?

Steadfastly determined, Osmund reached up and started unbuttoning from the top. He kept going until the shirt was open nearly to his navel, then stopped. It would help if he had a mirror, but he could tell this was already a big step in the right direction. Briefly he considered letting one side hang to flirtatiously expose his whole shoulder—hmm, nope, definitely overdoing it. But just the threat of the shirt falling open was plenty sexy. He was beginning to feel more than a little hot and bothered, himself.

Osmund flopped down on Cemil’s cot, satisfied with his work so far and looking forward to wherever this evening was headed. He gathered a fistful of the shirt and brought it to his face, shamelessly inhaling. It had primarily a clean cotton smell, but there was something underneath that was only the Meskato prince. Closing his eyes, he could almost pretend he was here, and near enough to touch.

He wondered when Cemil would arrive.

Justifying his early start with the thought of how enticing he’d look if discovered, Osmund slipped his hands into the wide open front of the shirt and started playing with his nipples until they were flushed and peaked. His breaths started to come faster, and he shifted restlessly on the furs. He was just starting to wonder if he should prepare in other ways when he heard them. Voices.

He froze, listening. The speakers were close, too close. He couldn’t make out any words, but it sounded confrontational, and he didn’t hear the distinctive undertones that he recognized as Cemil. One of them at least was probably a guard outside, but who was the other?

Then the worst imaginable development. Footsteps. Coming closer!

Osmund belatedly shot out of bed, panicking. What should he do, dressed like this?! Heavens, where were his pants?!

He had just formed an idea of tossing himself into Cemil’s clothing trunk and shutting the lid, but he was too late. The tent flaps opened, and in walked Şehzade Bayram.