Nikoly wrote like someone trained to write well, but not as impersonally uniform as the other assistants tried to do in their copy work. Of course, he’d only been at the library for not quite a full year. Naturally, his writing stood out.
“Does he think I can’t manage even food for myself?” Tiiran was too tired to growl, his face stinging hot. “Just because I don’t eat fried potatoes in the capital every night….” He was reasonably sure Nikoly had mentioned friend potatoes as a selling point for capital visits, and how Tiiran could get cold cider with them. That did sound delicious but Tiiran imagined eating them by himself in a tavern while Nikoly cavorted somewhere else. “He can fuck off.”
Just when he’d thought Nikoly was being nice to him today. Just when he’d believed that Nikoly liked Tiiran’s work for the library.
“Tiiran, you know this means he….” Po tossed her head. “You know what? This is not my mess to clean up. Eat, though. And remember to thank him tomorrow.” Irritated or not, Tiiran already had the bun in his mouth. He scowled but nodded. Po just rolled her eyes. They were so blue they looked black in dim light, unlike Tiiran’s, which apparently could be any color but were black the most often. “Oh,” she went on, her tone shifting to extremely casual, “and Orin’s in the stacks somewhere, unless he left while I was asleep.”
“Asleepagain?” Tiiran poked at her, but with his mouth full so mostly it was mumbling that Po freely ignored. Then he straightened, setting off more pops in his spine. He had to use the water fountain to wash his sticky fingers so he could pat his hair.
It was a mess, as usual. He didn’t know why he bothered, especially in front of Po, who regarded him smugly.
“When…?” Tiiran stopped himself by chewing an orange slice, which would help his breath as well. “When did Orin get here? Never mind. He’s probably gone by now.” Tiiran picked up the plate of sectioned orange slices and held it to his chest. “I’ll take these anyway. No sense in wasting them. Did Nikoly…?” No, he didn’t need to know if Nikoly had yet again left the palace. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Tell Orin good night for me!” Po called after him, probably barely restraining herself from cackling. “If you two can find the time to talk!”
Po insisted on pretending that Tiiran was doing with Orin what most assistants would do with most outguards. Tiiran stung with embarrassment over the implication of her final words and how he knew his thoughts about it would be on his face when he found Orin.
That didn’t stop Tiiran from looking for him, although it did make Tiiran slow once he saw the light from one of the nooks on the second level. He took a deep breath and steadied his grip on the plate before he approached the tall bookshelf that served as one wall enclosing the space.
The nook was one with a small, heavily grated fireplace as well as a hanging lamp directly above a table and set of chairs. One high window might have offered some light in the daytime but its curtain was drawn. Orin would have pulled down the lamp himself to light it rather than call for an assistant to do so. Likewise for the fire in the fireplace.
He’d left a stack of books on the table, copies he’d take with him on his next assignment. That wasn’t strictly allowed; most visitors had to request copies of their own or stay inside the library to read, but Orin was a favorite and returned to the library much more often than most other outguards. Outguards tended to visit the library once or twice a year at most, some even less than that. Orin showed up every month, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, generally tired, hungry, with records for the assistants to file and a pile of finished books.
He’d been in the library long enough to have already selected his new reading material. Someone should have come to get Tiiran. Though the only one he’d even remotely want to know enough about his feelings to bother was Po, and she was far too amused at the tangled ball of anxiety and pleasure Tiiran had in his middle whenever Orin was mentioned.
Tiiran’s sole consolation was that there weren’t many assistants who caught sight of Orin whodidn’tturn into silly, mooning noodles and follow after him with lust in their eyes. For all Tiiran knew, a few had caught him. Orin had been an outguard for longer than Tiiran had worked in the library. He had most likely had several of the previous assistants, the ones who had left around the time of Queen Tye. He had likely also had some since. Tiiran didn’t listen when Orin was mentioned for that reason; it was better that he not know.
There was no sign of any bed sport on Orin now, at least. Although he had not come to the library directly upon arrival in the capital, since he was clean and wearing a shirt and coat instead of the padded armor and travel cloak those in the Outguard were generally seen in. He didn’t have his pack on him either, and no visible weapons—visible to Tiiran, anyway, who hardly knew where to look for hidden ones. But that only meant Orin could have met with a friend or a lover elsewhere in the palace. Which was really, truly, not Tiiran’s concern, and he didn’t know why he was thinking of it when he knew better. Like trying to fuss with his hair as Mattin did or taking the time to stir honey in his tea, there was no point because Tiiran got along fine without it.
But he felt like a liar as he stopped at the edge of the light to drink in the sight of Elorin Vahti lost in a book. Surely Tiiran could allow himself to look just for a few moments. No one else was around to remark on his silence, and Orin wasn’t Nikoly and Tiiran wouldn’t explode like dry wood in a hot fire if Orin caught him looking. It'd feel more like a slow burn if anything.
Orin had pushed a chair farther back from the table and pulled another out, arranging himself to be as comfortable as possible in simple chairs with cushions that needed to be replaced. Which meant he’d filched one cushion from the second chair to give himself more padding. He was near the fire, probably for light more than warmth, with one foot on the ground and the other propped up on the cushionless chair, his leg bent slightly at the knee. He made both chairs look sized for the fae.
He had the book up near his face as he read; even firelight would not be enough to read by if the book was older and the writing faded. The title was across the front and the spine of the book:Landaun, Across the Seas. The work of a noble scholar a century or so ago who had compiled and discussed the legends and tales of Landaun, an island that supposedly existed although the location changed and the inhabitants varied wildly in their descriptions. Most thought Landaun wasn’t real, or if it was, that it was the doing of the fae, or the home of the fae.
Orin seemed interested, if not entranced, by the dry, scholarly work, despite how he would claim to be a simple guard with no studious ambitions. Except for the book, helookedlike a simple guard; whatever the shade of their skin in their childhoods, outguards were always darker from the sun, and some looked quite weathered, as if they did not bother with cloaks or hoods. Most outguards also kept their hair short for practical reasons. Orin’s was sleek and dark, with just enough length to be worn up at the back of head in a single loop. He wore no ear cuffs or jewelry of any kind, except for a pin that went with his cloak. He had a mustache and short beard, untamed if his travel was rough, but neat and shining and even occasionally softly perfumed when within the palace walls. He had likely done so tonight, although all Tiiran could smell at the moment was oranges.
Tiiran could find no injuries on him, or hints that there might be any, and sighed in relief.
“Since when do you carry food with you in the evenings without being prompted to, I wonder,” Orin remarked without looking away from the book he apparently wasn’t that interested in. His voice, smoky but pleasingly so, made Tiiran drop his head both to hide his flush and to consider the snack he’d brought up.
“It isn’tthatunusual,” Tiiran finally replied with an old noble’s offended dignity in his tone, perhaps because hehadbeen prompted to. “I ate before I came up,” he added, then raised his head.
“And what was that?” Orin turned a page without looking up, quietly merciless. “A bun or roll snatched from the kitchens this morning oryesterdaymorning and left to grow stale?”
Tiiran curled his lip in a weak snarl. “Maybe.”
With a sigh of his own, Orin closed the book and moved to sit straighter. “One of these days, kitten,” he began, pausing when their eyes met, “over my knee you go.”
Tiiran felt himself push up anxiously onto the balls of his feet and glanced away to give himself a chance to calm. Orin sighed again, then put the book with the others and stood up to stretch. He was suddenly as big as a bear, or at least as big as the bearskin rug in one of the Master Keeper’s abandoned offices.
Orindidhave a weapon, a knife tucked into one boot, the hilt nearly invisible next to his dark pants. The pants weren’t as tight-fitting as some that the palace guards wore, which probably indicated something about the palace guards being for ornamentation more than real protection, because the guards for the noble families didn’t wear restrictive clothing either. His coat was dark green and his shirt was white. Maybe the casual dress was why Orin was permitted the knife. Or maybe outguards could arm themselves as they pleased when in the palace, since they were supposed to serve the needs of the ruler. The guards of the noble families were not allowed weaponry inside the palace walls. The nobles were also only allowed to have one or two guards with them for the same reason. Neither rule had prevented any past violence, but everyone still pretended the rules mattered.
The outguards in the library often bore weapons, a lot more than one knife. But many of them came straight to the library after arriving in the capital, and Tiiran had assumed that palace guards didn’t care, because what harm could be done in a library?
The very first time Tiiran had noticed Orin as anything other than an outguard-shaped figure moving past him as he’d stared at a page in a book trying to remember the meanings of so many new words, he had been struck by Orin’s size. Everyone was taller than Tiiran, which meant he generally didn’t regard height as a detail worth bothering over. Orin was large in the way some guards were, Outguard or otherwise: tall and broad, gambesons stretched over chests and stomachs, shirtsleeves tight on their arms, thighs sturdy as oaks. What had caught Tiiran’s attention was how Orin moved while being so large, stepping through darting assistants and harried library visitors without seeming to pause or move from his path and yet disturbing not a single person.
The heavy sword on his back had startled Tiiran into letting a drop of ink splash onto his paper. He’d noted the road dust and mud on Orin’s boots then, and been annoyed at the mess he’d likely have to clean up. Then Orin had turned to address Yiti at the desk, and Tiiran had gotten his first good look at Orin’s face and thought that he’d never see anyone in the library again who would compare tothat.
