The answer was likely that Mattin was not in his office. If not there, then Mattin was usuallywiththe king and his husband, his betrotheds. If he wasn’t with them, then he would be found at a council meeting to represent the library as was tradition, or in the library… somewhere.
That last part had been Mattin’s habit for years and of no concern of anyone until The Tyrabalith had tried to kill Mattin to get to the king and his husband. Now, Mattin wasn’t supposed to disappear without at least telling someone where he was going. Even Tiiran had gone as far as to instruct the assistants to make a note of wherever Mattin had holed up.
He didn’t tell them to inform the guards assigned to protect Mattin, however. Tiiran didn’t care if the new Captain of the Palace Guard was the king’s husband and also in love with Mattin and soon to be Mattin’s husband. Library business was not Palace Guard business unless the Head of the Library decided it was.
Those in the group around the king as well as the king himself, turned almost as one to watch Tiiran approach the desk. Tiiran narrowed his eyes at Mil Wulfa, the king’s commoner husband and Mattin’s other betrothed, who grinned at Tiiran when he noticed he had Tiiran’s attention. Mil was the only person in the group of roughly the same size as Orin. But he was no bear. His grin was wolfish.
Seeing Orin with Mil was a surprise. Orin, like Mil, was in the plain clothes of an outguard, although Orin didn’t wear nearly as much armor as Mil did. But then, Orin had less reason to, at least, when within the palace. He had assured Tiiran that when he was on assignments, he was better protected and took precautions, but also insisted that hewantedto look as he did. As if he were an ordinary outguard, and not someone to be treated with wariness or suspicion.
Orin kept his fires banked unless necessary. The only signs about him that he might be more than a simple guard was the quality of his clothing—Nikoly’s doing—and the silver cuffs and pins in his ears. The silver was the work of his family, but the piercings were an entirely Rossick matter. Nikoly had been beside himself when it had been done.
There was something to the look, Tiiran could admit. Such decorations made Nikoly prettier, but shiny things on Orin did not make him a tempting bit of toast and jam. Their dainty loveliness only made Orin seem even larger, or as if Orin was a creation from a forge as well-fashioned and deadly as the sword Mil carried.
But that might have been Tiiran’s frustrated desires coming through. Orin had been gone for several days. He’d said he planned to return from his assignment in the south that morning, and evidently, he had, but Tiiran would have expected him to be resting, not following Arden around. If the king and all guards and friends had not been there, Tiiran would have run to Orin and pounced on him. Instead, Tiiran frowned at him, and at Mil, before fixing more of displeasure on Orin for bringing them here.
Orin raised his eyebrows at Tiiran, amused by his snippiness. It only made Tiiran want to be snippier. If Orin was back and walking the palace, he could have come to see them on his own. Nikoly had missed him.
Tiiran as well, but Orin would see that with a single look. Everyone who knew Tiiran would see that. Nikoly hid it better.
Tiiran turned to Nikoly as he came to a stop next to him. Nikoly gave him an innocent smile, then returned to his knitting. The tips of several of his fingers were purple-red from the pomegranate seeds he’d harvested and put into a bowl in anticipation of Orin’s return. Orin loved pomegranate.
Orin should have come to see them first. There was probably some important reason he hadn’t. Arden had perhaps summoned him the moment he’d entered the palace.
Arden could piss up a rope.
Tiiran continued to ignore him, cooing quietly over Nikoly’s work. Nikoly was excellent at picking up new skills and liked to have something to do when he wasn’t seeing to the details of Tiiran’s schedule or welcoming visitors to the library. He really was suited to being at the desk. Anyway, Nikoly had no desire to be a Master Keeper, and being in the center of the library put him in position to listen and report all gossip to Cael, an arrangement Tiiran did not remark upon or question because if he thought about it, he would worry.
Apparently Tiiran was “a right terror” when he was worried. Mil Wulfa, giant and looming, always wearing armor and a sword into the library, had said so several times. Not that he was remotely afraid of Tiiran. Not that he should be. Mil wasn’t the annoyance here.
Tiiran put his accounting notes down and finally looked up to face the king.
He crossed his arms. “Arden.”
Arden of the Canamorra, king and man clever enough to both adore Mattin and use Orin’s talents as they ought to be used, smiled.
Arden wasn’t beautiful like Nikoly, or obscenely handsome like his fearsome husband, but he was well put together and smart, and the combination was troubling. It was already bad enough that Arden was a beat-of-four who wasn’t a complete lobcock. He had no business being charming.
“Tiiran,” Arden returned Tiiran’s greeting with evident delight at Tiiran’s lack of fawning. He always did. And yet Orin and Nikoly had been so concerned about the king taking offense that they had pulled Tiiran away and clapped a hand over his mouth during Arden’s first visit to the library.
Tiiran stifled a grumble at the memory.
Nikoly, as if sensing it anyway, raised his head. Arden merely gave him a nod, although Tiiran would bet his entire stash of spring tea that Arden knew Nikoly was Cael’s eyes-and-ears. He had probably even seen Nikoly spar with Orin.
To be fair to Arden, even Tiiran would sometimes go out of his way to watch that. The sparring made Nikoly feisty and restless, and even when he won—usually through some incredibly reckless maneuver, it was as if he did it to make Orin chastise him for it later. He liked being chastised nearly as much as he liked being petted.
Tiiran reached out to stroke the side of Nikoly’s neck without looking away from the king. Arden only seemed more delighted. By which, Tiiran meant his expression was courteous and polite but his eyes were dancing. Arden had brown eyes but if they ever turned fae-black, Tiiran wouldn’t be surprised.
Nikoly’s skin was smooth and soft. He used soap made with honeysuckle but made sure Tiiran’s was scented with roses. He used oils as well, and applied them to himself and to Tiiran after baths, and now whenever Tiiran caught the scent, the tension left his shoulders.
Scheming sunflower had trained him to be calmer.
“I suppose you’re here for a reason.” Tiiran broke the silence. “If so, get to it. I have things to do.”
“Every time. Fuck me,” Mil commented in a low voice that was nonetheless clearly audible. Tiiran looked up sharply. Mil gave him the same hungry grin, then turned to wink at Orin.
Orin studied Tiiran, then, deliberately, pointedly, glanced to Nikoly, telling Tiiran to do the same.
Nikoly raised his chin to offer Tiiran more of his throat, meant as a distraction to “lower the spikes in Tiiran’s fur,” as he put it.
