“Yes, um …”
Heat rose to her cheeks as she was suddenly at a loss for words. Broaching the subject was more difficult than she had thought it would be. Finally, she mumbled, “I was hoping to talk to you about … something. We haven’t spoken in a while.”
“We spoke yesterday,” he said. “Several times.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but, I mean we haven’t really spoken. You know, between you and me.” He furrowed his brow in confusion. She said, “I guess I have some concerns.”
His gaze shifted to scan the tops of the courtyard walls, and then his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. “Very well, Frisha. What is it that concerns you?”
She dropped her gaze to his chest and immediately regretted it. He wore a thin linen undershirt that was unlaced down to his navel and soaked in sweat to translucence. She jerked her eyes upward, cleared her throat, and said, “Striker Farson says you know how to sing, that you can serenade your love with the best of them. He says you know poetry. Why don’t you ever recite any to me? Why don’t you sing for me, Rezkin?”
He tilted his head curiously. “Why would I?”
Flustered, she said, “Because I’m your girlfriend, of course!”
He nodded. “Exactly. Ballads and poetry are meant to coerce, to entice a lady into feeling a sentimental attachment. Why would I do that to you, Frisha? You are already my Girl Friend.”
She thrust her hands onto her hips and scowled furiously. “So you think I don’t deserve to be enticed?”
Rezkin looked at Frisha uncertainly. He had thought it strange when she followed him from the palace, but since Farson’s name had graced the conversation, he knew this was more than the typical social call. With her hostile stance and angry gaze, this felt like a trick question. Slowly, he drawled, “No?”
“Oh! I can’t believe you,” she screamed before storming out of the courtyard.
A hearty laugh, followed by slow applause, erupted behind him from across the yard. Recognizing the voice, Rezkin inwardly groaned. He turned. “What do you want, Farson? Why do I feel like this was your doing?”
Farson strolled forward. As usual of late, he took no precautions, and Rezkin wondered if the man had already accepted his fate. Farson said, “You have no clue what just happened, do you?”
Rezkin furrowed his brow and glanced in the direction Frisha had fled. He considered bluffing, but he doubted the striker would buy it at this point, and he needed information. “No, it makes no sense.”
Farson looked at him with a familiar expression, the one he had worn when Rezkin was young and unable to grasp a concept that should have been obvious. “She wants you to sing and spout poetry to her, Rez.”
“Why would she want that?”
Farson chuckled. “You are asking me to explain women?”
Rezkin said, “You are a trainer. It is your job to explain.”
Meeting his gaze, Farson said, “I was a trainer.” He paused then seemed to think better of his next words. Looking away, he finally said, “I suppose it is for the thrill of it. People want to be drawn by another’s desires.”
“You are saying she wants me to manipulate her?”
The striker sighed heavily. “No, she wants it to be real, for you to express your genuine feelings.”
“But I have none.”
Farson’s gaze hardened and his hidden contempt reemerged. “Therein lies the problem.” The striker backed toward the gate and disappeared around the corner.
Rezkin stood in the courtyard alone for several minutes. He was not supposed to develop feelings for anyone, yet his former trainer seemed to disapprove, and Frisha was angry and hurt. He decided to focus on more immediate tasks. He finished collecting his personal supplies and then headed toward the docks to survey the progress on the ships.
Two ships now belonged to their armada, Stargazer and Marabelle. Marabelle had been a passenger vessel independently owned and operated by its captain. The collectiare in Channería had selected it for refugee transport because it was not associated with any of the great merchant companies and had no political affiliations. Rezkin had been told that one of the priests knew the captain personally and felt it unlikely the passengers would end up at the slave market. The Marabelle’s Captain Geneve had been determined to retain ownership, but Rezkin’s offer was more than she could refuse, especially since she would maintain possession of the vessel. The Marabelle’s purpose was to shuttle passengers and supplies; while Stargazer was, at that very moment, being outfitted as a military vessel and its crew trained accordingly.
Carpenters, metal workers, soldiers, and mages worked with enthusiasm to complete the tasks assigned to them. Rezkin had thought most of the outworlders on the mainland lacked resolve, but this group seemed driven.
“Why do they work so hard?” he said as he watched the laborers.
Captain Geneve, a fiery Sandean woman nearing thirty, turned to look as well. She said, “They need something to keep their minds off their troubles.”
Captain Estadd said, “Some of them seem to think that if they work hard, they’ll get to go home.”
“You do not believe it?” said Rezkin.
Estadd’s shoulders tensed, and his expression was troubled. “I think too much has changed. It has been changing over the past couple of years, slowly at first. Maybe some of them will return home, but I believe they will not like what they find.”
Rezkin narrowed his eyes as his gaze landed on a man who stood wrestling with a thin rope between two posts from which hung a half-made fishing net. He nodded in the man’s direction. “Who is he?”
Geneve hummed under her breath as she thought. “I believe his name is Connovan. He came here with a woman on the last ship. He’s a Channerían fisherman.”
“What else?” said Rezkin.
Tiny, silver charms twinkled in her short, onyx hair as she shook her head. “He’s good with rope. He’s been making nets and lines for the ships. That’s all I know of him.”
After dismissing the captains, Rezkin watched the man work his way down the row of his net, his movements sure and practiced. After a few minutes, Rezkin stepped into the shade of the warehouse and headed toward the palace. He still needed to choose his companions for the next trip, and it would require careful consideration. If the Adana’Ro truly wanted him dead, he would not prevail against them alone. After witnessing the events at the Black Hall, they were unlikely to offer him the same courtesy.
He entered the palace through the kitchen, sending the staff into a tizzy. They provided him a meal, which he scarfed down quickly. He was still uncomfortable with eating food that he had not prepared; and, in that moment, his concerns were validated. His face heated like the midday sun and the roof of his mouth itched as though swarming with ants. He used his knife to shuffle through the items on his plate—a pile of beans, sliced potatoes, a few chunks of gamey meat, and a green vegetable he did not recognize. He waved to the cook. Before his throat swelled completely shut, he said, “Who prepared this meal?”
The head cook appeared a bit concerned, but he smiled. “It has been my pleasure to prepare your meal, Your Majesty.” He nodded toward the other occupants of the kitchen, a young woman and man, each barely old enough to be considered grown. “My assistants helped.” They both grinned and nodded enthusiastically.
Rezkin fished in one of the small pouches on his belt. He drew out a small packet and dumped its contents into a fresh goblet of water. Then, he opened a small vial and heated it over the candle the cook insisted he have for ambiance. He poured the warm liquid into the goblet, stirred it with the tip of his knife, and then forced the entire contents down his swollen throat. Meanwhile, the cook watched with worry.