Page 4 of Winter's Fate

Callum didn’t know what hour it was. He was aware, dimly, that his first-favorite pub—which he preferred for the central placement of the hearth as much as the quality of the ale—had kicked him out several hours ago. The scrapes on his knuckles suggested he might’ve indulged in a fight, but his memory was already scattering the incident to the winds.

His second-favorite pub was his second favorite because the proprietor gave little care to anyone’s behavior. The old man kept the bottles beneath the bar in case of fights, which were common enough. Short of lighting the place on fire, the patrons could do little to attract the old man’s notice. Callum had seen them scratch their marks into the antlers that graced the walls and spit tabac in the corner, hoping no one would notice. He’d seen punches thrown for bets, dice thrown on bad faith, and men thrown into the street by lovers who deemed it well past time for bed. The owner never so much as batted an eye. Just kept serving.

Paradise, as far as Callum was concerned. Though the hearth was sadly inferior.

He leaned his elbows on the bar and buried his nose in hisale, trying to mask the smell of sweat that otherwise permeated the place. Rarely did music play here, and the conversation was muted where it happened at all. Though that might just as well have been the roar of ale in his ears. As long as that roar remained loud enough to drown out the whispers of the past, the drink was doing its job. His skin stuck to the wood as he adjusted his arms, but he didn’t much care. He’d bathe come morning. Or perhaps the next. What did it matter?

The door crashed open, but Callum didn’t bother to glance over. He merely signaled for another ale, since newcomers meant the barman might be busy for a while. Callum had been coming here for years, and he didn’t even know the skinny fellow’s name. Which suited him just fine.

One of the newcomers swaggered over, bringing the cloying scent of over-spiced soap as he set his elbow on the bar, intentionally invading Callum’s space. Out of the corner of his eye, Callum could see the man grinning, satisfaction oozing even more potently than that eye-watering cologne.

Of course, Landon Moore would not have chosen this pub randomly. The king’s favored general would no doubt prefer to frequent a more high-class establishment. Or perhaps one that served whores alongside its refreshments. But such a choice would leave Landon Moore with no one to torment. Though Callum supposed the whores might not agree with that assertion.

The bartender delivered his ale, and Callum swallowed half the glass, ignoring the way Moore sidled up close enough for his sleeve to brush against Callum’s.

Callum had to resist the urge to take the man by the throat. The pub’s proprietor might not lift an eyebrow, but the king certainly would. And Callum was in enough trouble as it was.

“Captain Farrow,” Moore said. “What a delight.”

Yes. Callum supposed it was. Moore would just love to goad him into a punch, to sport a black eye that Callum would haveto explain away. And the king did not accept ‘he was being an ass.’ Callum had tried it.

“Your cologne doesn’t disguise the stink of your breath, Moore,” Callum said.

The general didn’t budge, and the grin on his face didn’t slip. He was too pretty for his own good, Moore. All blond and rugged, with that square jaw of his. He looked like a prince out of a fairy story, and he made good use of that likeness; the man had a reputation for tricking innocent debutantes into thinking he planned to marry them. He’d bed them and then jilt them, leaving them heartbroken.

And now he was the Aglyean general. A post that ought to have gone to Callum. He couldn’t begin to guess what King Hawk had been thinking; he only knew it wasn’t his problem. Not anymore.

Moore tapped a fingertip to his bottom lip as Callum lifted his glass again. He could no longer taste the stuff, and might be paying top prices for the lowest on the shelf, but he didn’t much care as long as it did the job.

“Can I still call you Captain Farrow?” Moore asked. “Perhaps not.”

Callum grimaced. Not only had he failed to secure a promotion, but he’d been removed from his post altogether. From Defender of the Realm to nobody special in the time it took to say a few irretrievable words. Hawk hadn’t waited long to start spreading the news.

“It’s a pity,” Moore continued. “We could have used you on the journey. Someone else will have to get his hands dirty this time around, eh, Farrow?”

Callum couldn’t even fault Moore for the taunt. Not when it was true. Not when Callum had forged that reputation for himself. When borders needed crossing, when laws needed bending, when blood needed spilling… it was Callum who saw it done.

I need a captain who won’t flinch from the difficult work, the old king had said, time and time again. He never called it the ‘dirty work,’ but he didn’t need to. Callum knew what he meant. Just as Moore and everyone else knew.

King Magnus had relied on him. And Callum had failed him, in the worst possible way.

Moore knew it, too. And he wasn’t finished. “As it stands,” he went on, “I suppose we’ll have to manage the trip to Etra without you.”

Callum snorted into his glass. If a single jibe from Moore was enough to push the memories to the surface with such force, then Callum needed a great deal more drink. “Just now promoted and already going on a fishing trip in the farthest backwater? I wish you well.”

Moore clapped him on the shoulder, and Callum tensed. It was all he could do to keep his fists wrapped around his glass instead of swinging them in Moore’s face. A solid elbow to the cheekbone would mar that pretty face for a good week.

“Not a fishing trip, Farrow,” Moore said. “An official delegation.”

“What the hell for?” The words left Callum’s mouth before he could snatch them back, the drink loosening his tongue along with his thoughts. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter anymore. It had nothing to do with him.

Moore actually threw his head back and laughed, showing off his too-white teeth. Callum wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the man express such glee before. Had he even had a single drink tonight? It would be like him to stay sober just to goad Callum further. Just to lord his worthiness all over town like a shining trophy.

“You don’t know? Of course, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Moore affected a slight frown as if in pity, but the laugh shone too brightly in his eyes. “We’re going to get the Etran emissary. Escort them here to speak with the king.”

Why in the mages’ tits would Hawk summon an emissary from Etra, of all places? They traded together, certainly, and relations were better than with next-door Silerith. But unless Callum had spent a lot more hours in this pub than he thought he had, Etra’s newly appointed heir to the throne would not have come of age yet. And would not for another year still.

Callum scowled into his drink. Be it Etra or Silerith or the Miragelands themselves, a mission like that needed an experienced commander. Admittedly, he’d been out of touch with palace workings for a few months now, but it was the kind of mission he’d have expected Hawk to put him on. Maybe even as a leader. His new pretty-boy ass of a general would offend the emissary, particularly if she was a woman—which was all too likely, in a country that took pride in its long line of queens.

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