Chapter Fifty: Don’t Die

After great deliberation, Osmund left the sword with Emre. He couldn’t see anything good coming of bringing it back to the crossing, even if he was defenseless without it.

“Are you sure you won’t take this, at least?” Emre was offering him a knife, a sharp, ornate little piece he still had on him. Osmund shook his head.

“It’s best if your former allies don’t figure out that I met you out here,” he said again. “I’m liable to cut myself anyway, knowing my luck.”

“Fuck. You won’t even take some damn pants?”

The change of clothes, on the other hand, was viciously tempting. “I really ought to go back exactly as I left, or it’ll be suspicious,” Osmund decided, though the idea of wandering back into camp wearing only a dirty, oversized ripped-up shirt that barely protected his modesty made him want to jump into a lake and never come out. At least it would be buttoned up this time.

Emre’s attitude towards him had changed noticeably since they’d begun working out this plan together. Since they’d first met, he’d largely treated Osmund as an insignificant, uninteresting man, especially where princes were concerned. Now, however, that he believed him to be a lunatic with a death wish willing to try any mad plan on the off chance it wouldn’t spectacularly blow up in his face, the Tolmishman seemed to have only gone up in his estimation. “Are you sure you can handle Bayram?” Emre asked once more. “I grew up with him. He’s all the worst parts of what a prince can be.”

“I grew up with my share of Bayrams too,” Osmund maintained, though the truth was, he was scared. “I just have to manipulate him correctly.”

“No offense—really—but I have trouble imagining you as a master manipulator.”

Osmund ignored that. He stood before Emre now for what he hoped—for once—wasn’t the final time. “Is there anything you need me to do for you before I go?”

Emre thought it over for a moment. One arm was curled loosely around his injured side. “Don’t die,” he requested, an ironic echo of the night before.

“Same to you.”

And like that, they parted ways.

The sun crept higher and higher as Osmund made his slow descent. Rising fear strained his breath. What if everything had already fallen apart in his absence? What if he’d disappeared right when Cemil had most needed him? …But if he started down that road, there’d be no hope left. He had to use every last bit of his meager wits to pull this off. There was no room for error.

Cemil deserved someone better on his side. But, he had Osmund. So he’d just have to do his best.

He continued on, praying he’d reach the camp with time enough to maneuver. It was still early morning, and the forest was quiet, disturbed only by his hurried paces, but then the sloping hill tapered into flat grassland, and he knew he was nearing his destination.

Who would find him first? Cemil’s people, or Bayram’s?

The tree cover began to drop away, individual firs and beeches and conifers dwindling until he stood distinct among them. Now not so distant, he saw people and heard voices. His heart quickened its hummingbird flutter.

No one had noticed him yet. How should he approach? Experimentally he brought the beaded bracelet to his mouth to see if the invisibility enchantment had somehow returned, but it was fresh out of its maker’s magic. He hadn’t asked Emre to try and replenish it—the other man needed every bit of his own energy to stay alive.

Fat good my own “power” does, he thought, after a vain attempt to try and will it back to life by concentrating really hard.

There was no way around it. On uncertain legs, he started towards the camp.

He’d expected—well, he’d expected something a lot more dramatic. Instead he saw yawning soldiers in and out of their armor, getting ready for the day around their cookpots and water basins as if this were a perfectly ordinary morning. Finally, someone looked up and noticed him. He saw the double-take as they registered his stained, scant clothing (and probably ghastly hair).

The soldier stood. So did several others around them. “You,” someone said.

Osmund couldn’t claim to recognize every last person in Cemil’s camp, but he saw enough wholly unfamiliar faces here to know these soldiers weren’t Cemil’s, but Bayram’s. Murmurs and whispers started up all around him. A hand closed painfully tight over his arm. “Bring him here,” one of the nameless voices called, and he was being shoved roughly along until he was practically stumbling over his own two feet.

Whatever was going to happen here today, it was already in motion. And there was nothing he could do to stop himself playing a role in it—whatever that might be.

Bayram’s tent was a lot like Cemil’s, if you looked past all the weapons.

Rather, that was how Osmund might’ve described it in his journal. The truth was, he did look past all the fearsome décor (why did he need so much baggage on a campaign? Wasn’t it cumbersome?) and the rows of swords, spears, and elaborate armors on display. His terrified eyes went right to Bayram.

The elder prince was seated languidly on a low cushion, eating with one hand while another rested on the thigh of the servant girl combing his hair. Osmund’s stomach roiled at the sight. In his homeland of Valcrest there had been many lecherous nobles, the kind who used to fondle the castle servants right in full view of everyone. Of course, if he’d been a better prince and a braver man, he would have put a stop to it. But he’d been weak. Useless. Unreliable. Oh heavens, what was he doing here? He was going to get himself killed!

Stay focused! he reminded himself urgently. You’ve changed!

Bayram’s eyebrows arched on seeing him. His easy smile widened. “Osmund the Tolmishman,” he greeted in an amiable voice. “What are you doing showing your face here again?”

At once, the previous night returned: the flash of his anger, the looming shadow of his raised palm. At the time Osmund had been angry, too, with fury that in this moment he could no longer access. “I,” he stammered, but his rehearsed words melted away.

Bayram lifted his grip from the girl’s leg and shooed her off without a glance. She bowed away and out of the tent as the prince levered a nearby pipe to his lips. “My brother is looking for you,” he announced, taking a long puff. “You should count yourself lucky I got my hands on you first.”

The words cut deeply. So Cemil is angry with me. Maybe even angry enough to… “Of course, I don’t really have any use for you,” Bayram continued flippantly. “And you’re very plain, after all, to sober eyes. Even wearing that. Hells, you look ridiculous.”

His interest in Osmund had begun and ended with his place in Cemil’s good favor. “I,” Osmund tried again, but the sound died before it left his throat.

Bayram leaned back and blew smoke into a thick cloud. “Maybe I’ll be a generous older brother,” he mused. “I’ll send you back to him before our duel. Which pieces is he fondest of? Your head? Heart? …Cock?”

The terrible imagery paralyzed him with fear. What are you doing?! A voice in his head screamed. You had a plan! You need to say something! Say something or you’ll die!

But the elder prince only continued blowing smoke. “Hmm.” His eyes moved, as if taking account of his own possessions all around them, the immaculate armors and pristine weapons, untouched by even a hint of blood. And he turned his head just so. “Bah. Get me the general.”

He was talking to another servant just behind; Osmund hadn’t even noticed they weren’t alone. The man ducked away, and before long, General Nadir darkened the entrance to the tent. In spite of everything, Osmund let out an awed breath. The man’s natural presence pulled the air out of the room, almost like he were a cursed weapon himself.

“Yes, my prince?” Nadir Başa inquired. His tone was clipped, but respectful; voice, low and controlled. His attention flicked to Osmund. “Who is this?”

“Only my brother’s wayward pet,” Bayram answered. “Can you think of a good use for him?”

Nadir’s shrewd eyes lingered on him only a moment. Evidently he’d done his calculations and seen nothing worthy of his notice. “He doesn’t matter. I say kill him quickly and have the matter done with,” the man advised.

Bayram shrugged, no longer concerned. And just like that, time had run out. “Very well. Take him outside and slit his throat,” he bid, as casually as asking for a meal.

“Wait!” Osmund yelled.

They were both looking at him, momentarily surprised, he supposed, by the force of his outburst. Osmund turned to Bayram. “I want to talk to you about Cemil,” he cried.

But Nadir had hold of him already and was pulling him to the door. “D-don’t just kill me before you hear what I have to say!” The words came pouring out in a deluge.

“Wait,” Bayram commanded. And just a bare moment before Osmund was yanked back out into the cool morning, the general paused mid-action.

“Şehzade, this is a waste of time.” The old man was so close that his breath brushed up against Osmund’s ear. “Cemil is already destined for death. Let me dispose of this one for you.”

With the arm that wasn’t subduing his quarry, he was going for a knife sheathed in his sash. He really meant to dispatch him as expediently as possible. Does he suspect something after all? Osmund wondered with a chill.

But it didn’t matter in the end. Şehzade Bayram’s word was that of an imperial prince. “Leave him,” he ruled with an annoyed flick of his wrist. “I’ll send for you again later.” The tone brokered no debate. Obediently, Nadir dipped his head. Then he slipped out of the tent, silent as a shadow, leaving Osmund and the elder prince truly alone.

Bayram set down his pipe, crossing his arms as he gestured for his guest to sit. “Start talking,” he directed. “And for every minute of my time that you waste with nonsense, I’ll have the old man cut something off before he kills you.”

If there was any mercy in this world, it was that Osmund’s voice didn’t abandon him again. He sat up straight, resting his clenched fists on his bare knees. “I-it’s about why I came back,” he began.

“Go on.”

Osmund took a deep breath. “I-I can’t make it out there on my own,” he stammered. “I-I only know how to survive under powerful men. And Cemil is done with me for good. S-so…if I help you today, I-I want you to offer me your protection. Don’t give me back to him.”

Bayram studied him for a moment, expression stern. Then, he chuckled. Casual, like he’d just been told a joke. “Where did my brother find you?” he pondered aloud. “Never have I met such a homely servant who would dare make such bold requests.”

Osmund hoped he was on the right path. It’s good if he underestimates me. “L-let me serve you,” he rushed to add, letting his voice tremble with exactly how scared he felt. “I’m very skilled with horses. And I have, um, other skills as well.”

But Bayram cocked his head. “Enough of that,” he barked, irritated again. “I’ve plenty of competent stablehands and bedwarmers. Say what you’ve come to say, and I’ll consider your request.”

He was looking at Osmund like a bothersome insect—someone so far beneath his notice as to be practically subhuman. Osmund looked conspicuously over his shoulder, and rubbed his arm.

“It’s just, well,” and he braced himself to tell the lie of his career. “I th-thought you might like to know about the meetings between Cemil and General Nadir.”