CRYS

       Eleventh moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

       The palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

      A couple of easy years, they said. A rest from the threat of border patrols, they said. Crys stood in the audience chamber and tried to keep his eyes open. He’d been here a few weeks and was bored out of his mind. Most of his wages had gone on drinking and gambling and he’d been threatened with a flogging already for being late on duty. That was Rivil’s fault, though; the prince could drink like a horse. Though it wasn’t exactly the done thing to blame your superiors for your own tardiness.

      His Hundred were in charge of the king’s honour guard this week, and he’d thought that’d liven things up. So far he’d stood and listened to the king mumble for four days. He couldn’t make out most of it, and what he could didn’t make much sense. And the court? Crys had never seen such a bunch of expensively clothed arse-lickers in all his life.

      Only Rivil’s endless supply of court gossip had kept him going, and he’d discovered which of the twittering court ladies was not blind to a dashing young officer offering a supportive hand during a turn in the gardens.

      He’d spent the morning amusing himself by examining their outfits, grateful for the fashion for low-cut necklines. He’d be asleep if there wasn’t an army of well-endowed bosoms parading in front of his face.

      The doors opened and the princes entered together. Crys snapped to attention, thumping his pike on to the marble, the sudden movement sending a rush of blood to his numb feet. Rivil winked as he walked past and Crys fought to remain stoic as the prince flicked him the finger for good measure.

      Galtas followed a few paces behind, as always. The bastard’s single eye blazed a challenge at him. Crys really was going to have to give the little prick a beating at some point. He was bigger, but Crys would bet he was faster – he’d just stay on the side without the eye.

      The princes bowed to the king and Rastoth beamed at them. ‘My boys,’ he boomed cheerfully, ‘my good boys. You are well?’

      ‘Very well, your majesty,’ Prince Janis said with another bow, ‘and how is your health?’

      ‘Excellent,’ Rastoth said, though Crys noted that Rivil glanced to the physician for confirmation. Hallos inclined his head. Janis stepped forward and offered Rastoth his arm as he rose, and the three of them made their way about the throne room, courtiers simpering and smiling like a flock of birds around them.

      Crys followed, his knee stiff from standing still for hours.

      Rivil dropped back to walk at Crys’s side. ‘Bit of a limp there,’ he whispered.

      Crys glanced at Janis, then back to Rivil. ‘It’s the size of my cock,’ he whispered, ‘drags me to the right. What’s a man to do?’

      Rivil burst out laughing and Crys grinned. Janis looked back and frowned. ‘I’m not sure our wise and devoted heir approves of our friendship,’ Rivil joked, giving Janis a little wave.

      ‘He’s just fuming because the king’s stopped next to Lord Hardoc. Or is it Lord Haddock? His breath smells like a week-dead fish, anyway.’

      Crys kept a wary eye on Commander Koridam as Rivil sniggered. ‘His daughter, though,’ the prince said and whistled. ‘Have you seen the tits on her? Face like a cow’s, but with tits like that I’d – Commander, what a pleasure.’

      ‘Your Highness, if you are finished with my captain, may I have a word with him?’ Durdil asked.

      Gods, what now? Crys saluted, bowed to Rivil, and gestured to Weaverson to take his place. He followed Durdil out of the audience chamber and down the long corridors to the commander’s study. Whatever it is, it can’t be more boring than guard duty.

      Durdil sat at his desk and stared at Crys. He cleared his throat. ‘Captain Tailorson, Prince Rivil has requested you to lead his honour guard when he and Prince Janis travel west. They’re going to visit the West Rank before winter sets in.’ Durdil’s eyes were narrow with calculation, so Crys kept his face neutral, as though this was only to be expected. ‘I understand you’ve become quite the prince’s boon companion lately.’

      Crys’s elation died rapidly. ‘I – It is difficult to refuse a prince, sir, when he gives an order.’

      ‘I see. And drinking until dawn with him, that’s because he orders you to, is it?’

      Damn. ‘Well, no, sir, but when I’m off-duty—’

      ‘An officer is never off-duty, Captain Tailorson. Especially not an officer serving within the Palace Rank. One who is under my direct command.’

      Shit. ‘If my actions have been improper, sir, then I apologise. I will decline the prince’s request.’

      Durdil huffed. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Captain. As I noted on your first day, you have the potential to be an outstanding officer. You are not embracing that potential. Captain of the princes’ honour guard will necessitate you performing at the highest level for an extended period of time. The safety of the princes is paramount, so I expect regular reports and thorough examinations of everything the king wishes examined. And I have asked the heir to keep an eye on you – I have mentioned I am considering you for promotion and would value his opinion on his return.’

      He grinned, though Crys felt no desire to smile in return. ‘I may also have mentioned that in your desire to achieve that promotion, you will be taking your duties extremely seriously and will have little time for carousing.’

      Godsdamn shitting shit. ‘I am indeed honoured, sir. I will serve to the best of my ability.’ Crys wondered if it rang as hollow in Durdil’s ears as it did in his own.

      ‘It will be a testing of your mettle, captain.’ Durdil leant forward and put his palms flat on his desk. ‘Do not let me down.’

      ‘Of course not, sir,’ Crys said in his blandest voice. He snapped out a salute, spun on his heel, and exited the office.

       Careful what you wish for, imbecile. Sometimes you actually get it.