Quintus glowered at him. “I don’t disagree with your choice to keep your distance, but unless you’ve got a heart made from the same black rock as that tower, you might consider easing her fears about your intentions. Because if she doesn’t know your plans, she’ll make plans of her own.”
Irrational anger replaced his guilt, but Marcus bit down on it. “I don’t involve civilians.”
Quintus’s eyes darkened, a reminder that he was the deadliest assassin Marcus had in his service, but all he said was, “Teriana’s not a civilian. She’s your girl, even if you refuse to admit it.”
Then he twisted on his heels and strode away.
“Quintus needs some discipline,” Marcus vaguely heard Gibzen say, but that was the furthest thing from his mind.
It seemed a lifetime ago that he and Teriana had held each other in the darkness of his tent and whispered words of building trust. How it would be the foundation of everything between them, sturdy and unshakeable. They’d built a palace upon that foundation, little knowing that it was not trust they’d built upon but lies, everything beautiful and pure set to crumble the moment the truth was revealed. A desperate part of him wanted to preserve that palace, to protect it at all costs, yet he was afraid of what it would do to her if it crashed down upon her head.
Better to push her away so that she wouldn’t be crushed.
She’s your girl.
Teriana would never be his. Could never be his, and yet some greedy part of his heart refused to give her up even if keeping her close was hurting both of them.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, the glint of gold caught his attention. The shop was a goldsmith’s; a hulking man with a cudgel stood guard out front. Ignoring him, Marcus stepped up to the window, looking through the glass to a display of fine jewelry. Aracam was an absolutely ridiculous location for such a shop, for few Arinoquians had risen high enough from the ashes of Urcon’s oppression to afford such goods, so it was no surprise the shop was empty. For that reason, Marcus would also bet all the gold in his camp that the man had been placed here by Queen Erdene to show off the skills of her nation’s craftsmen in the belief there’d be interest in Celendor. The Katamarcan ruler was playing the game.
His eye caught on a pair of gold earrings shaped like tiny ships, the embellishments jewels and enamel.
Reaching for the handle of the shop, Marcus said, “Wait here.”
Gibzen threw up his hands, but gave the order to those forming their bodyguard, the noise of their protests muffled as the door slammed shut behind him. A tiny man with black hair leapt up at the sight of Marcus, the stool he’d been sitting on falling over. “My lord legatus,” he blurted out in heavily accented Mudamorian. “It is an honor to have you in my shop.”
“I’m not a lord, only a soldier,” Marcus answered him. “Legatus is fine. Did you craft all of these?” He gestured to the displays.
“Yes, my legatus.” The craftsman’s eyes skipped from Marcus to the window, where Gibzen no doubt stared through the glass.
“Do you take commissions?”
“From you? Of course, my legatus! It would be an honor!”
Resting his elbows on the counter, Marcus drew a piece of paper and charcoal stick in front of him, his brow furrowing as he sketched, drawing up details from his memory, adding touches from the set of pastels sitting on the table. He swiftly finished his sketch by indicating the scale of the project and how it would be worn.
“You have skill,” the man said, bobbing a bow at Marcus as he took the paper and examined the sketch. “Few can claim such a talent for creation.”
“It’s wasted on me, I’m afraid.” Marcus knew his real talent was destruction. “Can you make this in gold?”
“It would be an honor to demonstrate to you the talent of Katamarca’s artisans.” The man bowed deeply. “When do you wish it completed by?”
“I trust you’ll find the balance between quality and speed.” Reaching into his belt pouch, Marcus extracted ten Cel dragons andplaced the heavy gold coins on the table one after the other. “Is this sufficient?”
The man’s eyes bulged, then he shook his head. “I cannot accept payment, my legatus. It would be my honor to gift this to you.”
“I pay my debts, as does the Empire,” Marcus said, watching the man stare at the coins, then slowly lift his head, the message received. “Have it delivered to my camp when it’s completed.”
Inclining his head, he turned on his heel and exited the shop.
“What did you buy?” Gibzen demanded furiously.
Marcus paused in putting his helmet back on, slowly lowering it as he fixed Gibzen with a stare. “Pardon?”
The primus’s cheeks colored, and he looked away. “We just got you back and already you’re taking risks you shouldn’t.”
Marcus moved so that they were nose to nose. “I need a bodyguard, Gibzen. Not a nursemaid.”
The primus’s eyes shifted sideways. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
