To Target the Heart Page 8

  He turned back to the ambassador, who sat with his back hunched to the crowd, idly swirling his drink. “I was wondering, what—?”

  Darshan held up a finger as, with the other hand, he knocked back his drink before setting down the empty tankard. “Right, I believe I am sufficiently lubricated for questions.” He grinned up at Hamish. There was definitely a touch of cockiness to the quirk of his lips. “Ask away.”

  “What’s with the eye windows?” Glass was expensive, with the best stuff coming from Niholia, maybe it was different in Udynea, but he’d never heard of people putting small circles of it in front of their eyes.

  The man peered at him, those dark brows squeezing together in confusion. “The what?”

  “The thing on your face.” Hamish twirled his finger near his eye, just in case the man still didn’t understand what he was enquiring about.

  “You mean the glasses.” Smiling, Darshan touched the side of the frames where they seemed to curl behind his ears. “The lenses help me see. I am as blind as a mole without them.”

  Hamish had heard of farmers struggling in their later years to pick out their stock on the fields, but never thought it could happen in younger people. What would a Udynean prince need to see so badly that he would be tied to such things as glasses? “And here I thought a powerful spellster would’ve had his slaves fetching him everything he could possibly need,” Hamish said, the words escaping perhaps slightly more acerbic than necessary.

  The man blinked owlishly at him.

  Unable to bring himself to rescind the words, Hamish pressed on. “I’m assuming that, being the emperor’s son, you would have slaves. Or do they all belong to your father?”

  Darshan frowned into his empty tankard, likely lamenting that state. “No, I have a handful. Gifts accumulated throughout my childhood, for the most part, which I share with Anjali. My twin sister,” he clarified, swirling his tankard then tipping it to drain the last few drops. “The nobility likes to make a show of gifting imperial children with their best and brightest. There were quite a few when we were born; wet nurses, valets and the like.”

  “Gifts?” Hamish echoed, the word barely passing through his lips, shock near stealing his breath. He knew about the barbaric practice of buying and selling people like cattle, but gifting another as if they were mere trinkets? “They’re people.”

  “Yes.” Darshan gave a bittersweet smile. “I am well aware of that, thank you.” He twirled his tankard, letting it rock on the counter without him laying a finger on it. The act got a few stares from nearby customers, but little else.

  Hamish bit the inside of his cheek. The details he had heard of the Udynean slave markets was that the people weren’t considered as such. They were ranked as animals and—to his surprise and disgust in himself—he had been expecting such a response from their imperial prince. “I notice you didnae bring any with you.”

  Laughter rumbled out the man’s barely-parted lips. “No doubt some kind-minded soul would have tried their hand at convincing them to stay.” He flashed another mirthless smile. “Simply put, a great deal of them are quite elderly, I would not have them risk their lives taking such a journey.”

  “Elderly?” He supposed, given that the man looked to be in his late twenties, that the wet nurses and valets were likely to be at least a decade or two older. “All of them?”

  Darshan gently rocked his head from side to side. “I do not like to consider their children as in my ownership, although they technically are, but yes. That neither I, nor my sister, have purchased younger slaves to replace those who are getting on in years is a topic that often circulates the court’s gossip wheel.” He snickered and flapped a hand. “Besides, even if I had done so, I can survive without people waiting on me.”

  “Then why dinnae you free them?”

  The man grew silent, running his tongue along his top lip as he clearly searched for an answer in the countertop’s beer-stained wood.

  Hamish set his drink down.

  “I will confess, the thought has crossed my mind.” The words grew quieter the longer Darshan talked, as if he dared not speak them. He swung about on his seat, all focus trained on Hamish like a boarhound on the hunt. “But it is a little more complicated than simply signing their freedom papers. There are laws in place for such acts. Mitigating factors on how many can be absolved of ownership at once, the amount they must be paid, where they must live afterwards, the sort of jobs they can take up…”

  Hamish hadn’t ever considered there’d be any laws involved in slavery. Or that once being a slave would carry such a stigma. Yet Darshan spoke as if he expected any of his people to be treated in a manner akin to those branded with the Black Mark. Like criminals. His mother had abolished the punishment, which often didn’t fit the crime, before he was born, but people still eyed those carrying it with great suspicion.

  “Not to mention the likelihood of them becoming victims to exploitation,” Darshan continued. “Without the tie of my ownership, I am uncertain what would become of them. I would not like to think my father would see them shuffled onto the streets, but the palace chamberlain might. The very reason as to why they were given their freedom can often turn a dedicated, hard-working slave into an impoverished free being.”

  “But they would have their freedom.”

  Darshan frowned. “Do not mistake it as twisted excuses. If there is one thing Udynea fosters in all her people, it is pride. And I know of many a poverty-stricken citizen who has preferred to die in the Pits than accept a helping hand in return for their freedom. But the very thought of my Nanny Daama relegated to the streets of Minamist…” He clapped a hand over his mouth, the lantern light flickering on his rings as he took a shaky breath. “I would be foolish indeed to think an elderly elven woman like her would survive long on her own, even if she is a strong woman.”

  Hamish remained silent. It seemed the wisest option given that the man looked on the verge of tears. It was far from the reaction he had been expecting. It had to be the drink opening him up.

  He ordered them another pint. He certainly needed another, what with the way the conversation was going, and having Darshan carted back to the castle draped unconsciously over the back of a pony might be preferable.

  Darshan knocked back a few hearty swallows of his drink with barely the bat of an eye. The tankard slammed onto the counter, slopping more over the rim. “Alas, I think Daama might actually give me another of her clips over the ear if I tried to free her. She is a bit of a traditionalist.”

  An odd expression took Darshan’s face. It was almost as if he spoke not of a slave, but of family, such as a cherished aunt or grandmother. Perhaps he did see her as such.

  Hamish tapped on the handle of his tankard. His memories of his grandparents before the plague took them were dim, but he could imagine having a part of his family sent away without warning. The priests had done that when they’d cloistered his younger sister.

  “I suppose there are also others who would react poorly to losing her,” Hamish murmured before drinking deeply. He peered at the ambassador out the corner of his eye, trying to gauge Darshan and finding the man favoured not reacting. “Children, maybe? It must be hard being so far away from your family.” The Udynean capital of Minamist was literally on the other side of the continent. He couldn’t imagine having such distance between him and home.

  Darshan shook his head. “I have no children.” Chuckling, he scratched at the side of his nose with a thumb. “And what a bone of contention that is.”

  “Your wife must be eager to remedy such an oversight.” Hamish knew without an ounce of doubt that he would already be a father if it wasn’t for the truth of what he’d have to do to turn that into a reality.

  A weak, and slightly queasy, attempt at a smile stretched the man’s lips. He snatched up his tankard and mumbled into its depths, “Not married.”

  “Oh?” The man was perhaps a little too pretty and foppish for Hamish’s tastes. And a little on the le
an side, despite his protests at Nora pointing out the same thing at dinner last night.

  “There is a very good reason for that.” Darshan set his mug on the counter and, giving a smirk, motioned him closer. “It is something of a secret.”

  Intrigued, Hamish closed the already small distance between them. Amusement danced in the man’s eyes. Hazel. This close, the separate rings of brown and green in Darshan’s eyes were clear in the pub’s light, colours muddied only where they met and merged. That’s nae fair. Of course he would find the prettiest eyes belonging to a man he shouldn’t consider being alone with.

  He also couldn’t help noticing the ring of black around the rim of Darshan’s eyes seemed slightly smudged in the inner corners, near where the glasses sat. Was it some sort of powder? The clans would sometimes plaster dyes and paints across their skin during war, but he had heard of men in foreign lands using such things in a more civil setting as fashion and tradition dictated.

  The ambassador clapped a hand on Hamish’s shoulder, tearing his attention back into the present. “It goes a little something like this…” In one swift move, Darshan slid his fingers into Hamish’s hair and sealed their lips together.

  There was no hesitation in the act, nor any forceful prying open of his mouth to invade with a tongue, just the bold press of his lips. There for a blissful moment then gone.

  “Oh,” Hamish breathed. “I… er…” In all his years of fooling around, of rutting with strangers in the dark, he’d never met a man that forward.

  Darshan returned to his drink, his face flushed by more than alcohol. His gaze slid back to Hamish as he drained the last of his drink. There was certainly something of an invitation lurking in that multi-coloured depth.

  Hamish wet his lips. Should he dare to answer such an invite? It could cause a lot of trouble for the both of them if it was found out they had done anything more than a kiss. Probably best to leave it. The ambassador didn’t need Hamish’s past stirring up the future prospects for their countries.

  He opened his mouth, prepared to tell Darshan as such.

  “Oi!” a man roared from the other side of the room. “Udynean!”

  Hamish hunched his shoulders. He recognised that voice. Big Billy. He winced as Darshan turned at the cry with one brow raised in question.

  The man was one of the dockmasters, built like a bull and belligerent when drunk. He was also responsible for several people needing to be rushed to the cloister for healing. If Billy objected to Darshan’s presence, then things were going to get messy.

  Please, dinnae be right. Hamish twisted in his seat, hoping that having to defend the ambassador wasn’t going to be necessary. His hopes sunk as he spied Billy stalking his way through the hastily parting crowd, flanked by two of his lackeys.

  “You,” Billy growled, jabbing a thick finger at Darshan. “Just what did you think you’re doing planting your filthy mouth on our prince?”

  Smirking, Darshan stood to face Billy. “What did I think I was doing?” He squared up before the three men, swaying slightly with his arms akimbo. “I was kissing him.”

  Hamish groaned, leaning on the counter, his head in his hand. There went any chance of leaving without a fight.

  Billy laughed coldly. He loomed over the ambassador, his shoulders squaring, his work tunic barely containing them. “You looking to die today, lad?”

  The two men flanking the dockmaster gave twin chuckles. One rolled his shoulders, clearly eager to begin such a task, whilst the other cracked his knuckles.

  Hamish laid a hand on Darshan’s shoulders. “Come on, the drink’s clearly gone to your head.” A drunk spellster. He thought the man’s magic would’ve kept him from reaching such a state. “You cannae win a fight with him. He makes two of you.”

  “As if that matters,” Darshan replied. “I can still kick his arse.” Even so, he lowered his fists.

  Billy’s lips parted to reveal broken and stained teeth. Hamish had seen similar expressions on starving feral dogs. “As if I’d let you near me arse, rutter.” He cocked his head and spat onto the flagstones at Darshan’s feet.

  Hamish held his breath, tightening his grip on the spellster’s shoulder. Please, dinnae understand him.

  The whole pub seemed to grow still the longer Darshan stared at the man, his expression blank.

  “Bill,” Hamish hissed at the dockmaster. “That’s enough.” The man must have realised it would be the grandsire of all bad ideas to piss off someone capable of setting things on fire with a thought.

  Ignoring Hamish, Billy continued to give the spellster a smarmy smile.

  Darshan returned the grin, his tongue snaking out to run along the underside of his teeth. He calmly unhooked his glasses from behind his ears. “Hold these, will you?” he asked, waving the frames in Hamish’s general direction.

  Hamish took a cautious step backwards. He couldn’t be certain if Darshan was merely posturing or actually planned to attack the man, but it would be better if he stayed out of it. After all, he couldn’t haul Darshan back to the castle if they were both unconscious.

  He delicately reached for the glasses.

  Darshan barely waited for Hamish to properly grasp them before he swung at Billy, clearly aiming for the man’s head.

  Billy jerked back, too late in mounting a defence against the attack.

  The spellster’s fist—heavily bedecked in jewelled rings—connected with Billy’s face like a hammer. The definite snap of breaking bone was almost an exhalation.

  The dockmaster fell back, howling. Blood poured from beneath the man’s fingers, staining his blonde beard. At first, Hamish thought the ambassador had only broken Billy’s nose, until he caught sight of the dockmaster’s jaw. One side bulged alarmingly, whilst the right, the side Darshan had hit, was caved in.

  The two men flanking Billy lunged at the spellster.

  Sneering, Darshan flicked both his hands as if brushing the dust from his outfit. The men went flying, smashing into the walls. Neither one got up.

  More men jumped up from their seats, agog. One ran out the door screaming. Not a one of them seemed to know what to do about the spellster who had made short work of three men; a foreigner who still stood over Billy without a care as to the bleeding state of his hand. Hamish wasn’t entirely certain it was even Darshan’s blood. Surely, with the force he’d hit the dockmaster, he must’ve broken something.

  Darshan turned. He squinted at Hamish, then held out his bloodied hand. The fingers and knuckles seemed normal enough. No twists or swelling that suggested any harm had come to them. “My glasses, if you please?”

  Hamish returned the item in question back to their owner. “I think this might be the best time to leave.” There’d be trouble once word of this got out—and a lot of questions Hamish wasn’t looking forward to answering. But if they returned to the castle now, then Gordon might be able to help him wrangle a more palatable version of events for his mother.

  With the glasses once more firmly in place on his face, Darshan glared at Billy. “One moment.” He strode over to the howling man and grabbed his head. “Do not move or I will leave you injured. And I would advise against trying to talk.”

  Billy stilled. Panic and fear flashed in his tear-redden eyes.

  It had been some years since Hamish had last been in the presence of healing magic. But he’d been in no position to objectively watch either. Seeing the man’s face slowly reform to its previous state was something he’d never thought he would witness.

  Billy’s cheeks shifted alarmingly, like a bubbling pot of porridge. The skin constantly changed colour, from the pinkish-red of freshly-struck to the bruised rainbow hues of blue, purple and green, then fading to trout-brown before regaining its natural wrinkled and heavily-tanned state.

  Throughout it all, Billy’s eyes grew wider. He whimpered and fisted at his trousers. If Darshan hadn’t already stipulated stillness, he likely would’ve bolted from the spellster’s grip.

  When Darshan was done,
he released Billy’s head and let the man tumble onto the floor. “Call me that again and I shall do the same,” he snarled as he bent over the dockmaster. “Only next time, you can keep the broken jaw. Understood?”

  Billy nodded. “Aye, your lordship.” He back-crawled across the flagstones, pausing only to rub his jaw and standing once Darshan was well beyond physical reach.

  Dusting his hands, the ambassador returned to Hamish’s side. “As entertaining as that was, I think you are right, we should return to the castle.”

  Hamish expected them to be attacked as they left the pub. Hindered by guards or a small mob, at the very least. That the streets were empty certainly didn’t bode well. He caught flashes of life on the edge of his vision as he removed their mounts from the pub stables; little more than figures at doorways and windows, looking out for possible danger. No one appeared, much less dared to approach them.

  The streets began to fill out the further they got from The Fisherman’s Cask. People bustled about their tasks, children played amongst their elders with some wrangled into working alongside them.

  They rode in silence, partly because the noise around them made any sort of conversation beyond shouting at each other impossible. That Hamish couldn’t think of a topic not pertaining to what had happened in the pub didn’t help matters. It certainly wasn’t the type of thing he wanted to discuss where others could hear.

  Their journey was halted several times; once for several men pushing rattling barrows laden with goods, and again as a cart packed with bleating sheep passed through the main street, heading for the southern hillside.

  Hamish barely noticed they had left the rest of the city behind until they’d begun the upward path towards the castle gates. He eyed the man on his periphery. Away from everyone else, the silence didn’t quite sit right with him. Not after that kiss. And the brawl. Although it seemed ridiculous to call it such when only one punch had been thrown.

  But that kiss…

  He rubbed a hand across his mouth as if that would scrub the memory of how Darshan’s lips had felt against his own. Sure and supple. Dominating, but not to the point of overbearing.