Page 3 of Talismaker

Unlike everyone else in the room, Liste had skin nearly as pale as the snow outside, and dark mahogany hair he'd allowed to grow out and currently had pulled back in a bun. His eyes were the color of good claret, and once, just once, Millé had stood close enough to see the flecks of gold in them. Rather than the uniform in which Millé had last seen him, he wore a smart navy blue jacket and gray breeches, with matching blue shoes with buckles polished to a mirror shine. There was a neckcloth of silvery gray at his throat, held in place with an opal pin, with matching opals in his ears and a silver hoop in his nose.

He had no idea why Liste was playing at servant, but it was clear he didn't need to do it. Millé had always suspected, from some of the little things Liste said and did, some of his few personal possessions, that he was wealthy, just one more thing that had intimidated him away. Thank the gods Millé hadn't been stupid enough to seek him out, because he was even further out of reach than Millé had already known.

Millé was and always would be a stocky junkyard dog of unimpressive size, though he had enough bite in him to make up for that lack in a fight. Liste, though… Liste was a long, lean wolf, bigger and better than a junkyard mutt would ever be.

Glancing around the room, he looked hopelessly for a way out that would spare him the humiliation and heartache about to befall him.

"Liste, Tyri was accosted by a footpad who doesn't have long to live once I find him, and his rescuer has come for his promised reward of food and one your tea-flavored whiskies."

"Of course, my lord." Liste swept the room—and froze, eyes widening. "Greene?" He shoved the silver tray he'd been holding into Rathte's chest and strode across the room, catching Millé up by the shoulders. "Greene! What are you doing here? Why do you look starved to death? Why are you nearly blue?" He turned around sharply before Millé could reply. "Rathte, what did you do!"

Rathte rolled his eyes as he set the tray on a nearby table. "I didn't do a damn thing. I was in this room two whole minutes before you. How do you two know each other?

"He— He was my lieutenant, and then my captain," Millé replied. "I didn't think you'd remember… and I didn't know this was your house, Captain. I'm sorry to intrude." He drew himself up to attention. "It is good to see you again, though, sir. I'm glad you're doing well."

Liste snapped back around, those claret and gold eyes fastening on him with the focus of a hawk on the hunt. "Intruding? How are you intruding? I'm not a captain anymore, and you're not in the military either from what I can see, so quit that. What the bloody hell happened to your arm? Why do you look like you haven't eaten in six months? Why are you half fucking frozen? This is unacceptable! Stay here and don't so much as move a toe."

"Yes, Captain?" Millé replied, but Liste was already gone.

The door had barely closed behind him when Rathte crossed the room and stood before him like a fox scenting prey. That seemed to be a theme around here. "You seem to know Liste well."

"He— He was my commanding officer." And Millé's deepest, most cherished, most hopeless fantasy. He'd give up his remaining arm before he said that aloud, though.

"Mmm," Rathte replied thoughtfully, his wizard eyes swirling like a drunk rainbow. "Would you perchance be the 'pretty, stubborn sergeant who had more heart than sense that will probably get his dumb ass killed before he can escape that hellhole."

"Thewhat," Millé said, feeling as his face went hotter than could be blamed on the fire. "No. I mean, he did say I was stupidly reckless, but—" He gestured to himself. "I'm hardly pretty. He was probably talking about Kellman."

"No, Kellman he complained about by name. Kellman was the 'nasty piece of shit that a bullet couldn't find fast enough.' Liste only talks about his time in the army when he's particularly drunk, so we don't hear about it often, which means I remember everything he says, especially about Kellman and his precious, very carefully unnamed sergeant."

A laugh slipped out before Millé could catch it. "Um. Well. He's not wrong, but Kellman was exceptionally pretty." So painfully pretty that Millé felt all the more like a mutt.

"Pretty like a tepid painting in a Duchess's drawing room," Liste said tersely as he returned laden with a tray bearing two large mugs brimming with what smelled like whiskey, tea, and lemon. "Why are you talking about that stupid bastard?"

Rathte grinned in evil delight. "I wanted to know if our lad Millé here is the pretty sergeant you wax poetic about whenever you have too many of those toddies."

To Millé's absolute shock and amazement, Liste's cheeks turned the most enchanting shade of pink. "Rathte, shut your stupid mouth before I shut for you."

"I should go," Millé blurted out. "I didn't mean to intrude on the Captain or make everything awkward. I know I was a problem—"

"You're not going anywhere!" Liste snapped, and held out one of the steaming glass mugs filled with something that this close smelled like it must be at least eighty percent whiskey. When Millé stared at it instead of moving, Liste huffed, grabbed his right hand, and pressed the mug into it. "Drink it, you stubborn clod. It'll probably go straight to your head, but at least then you'll stop trying to do stupid shit like leave."

That did nothing to cool off Millé's face, but he drank all the same, never able—or inclined—to resist when Liste gave him orders. He took a sip of the toddy, which was indeed mostly whiskey with faint hints of lemon, tea, and honey. "Um. Thank you. But I really don't want to be a bother—"

"Shut up," Liste said briskly, and tucked the tray he was holding under one arm. "Rathte, get him clothes that aren't tatters. I've had a room made up for him. Cook is preparing dinner. It should be ready in a few hours, and a snack to tide everyone over should be ready shortly. Why are you standing about gawking? Get to it." Liste waltzed out of the room like he was the lord of the manor, which was completely in keeping with him. Not arrogance, exactly, just a confidence in himself and the orders he gave. He was a leader, a good one, and he knew it.

Rathte laughed and swept Millé an elegant bow. "This way, Master Millé. I'll show you the room I'd imagine Liste had prepared and then fetch you clothes. Do finish the toddy, though, because Liste will have another waiting by the time you return."

"He, uh, did always love his whiskey," Millé replied, flushing anew at his own audacity. Rathte and Tyri only laughed, though, and then Rathte was sweeping him up and leading him away, barely giving Millé a chance to finish the toddy and set the mug on the table by the door before they were off through a hallway and up a beautiful set of curving stairs.

At the top they went left, down to nearly the end of the hall, stopping in front of a door right as a chamber maid came out. "Oh! Your Lordship! Just finished the room," she said with a bow. "Please let me know if anything further is needed." She smiled shyly at Millé before bustling off down the hall.

"I don't… I just came for a meal, not to stay the night," Millé replied, even as Rathte practically dragged him into the room.

It was so much nicer than the room he was renting, he could have cried. Everything was clean, bright, not a single roach or mouse in sight. The room smelled like lemon and flowers, and there was faint lamplight coming through the window on the right side, from a street light the snow hadn't quite overtaken yet. The bed was enormous, and piled with plush blankets and cozy pillows, and a fire already burned. By the time he went to bed, the room would be blissfully toasty.

Rathte clapped him on the shoulder. "Liste would never tolerate you leaving his sight before he was satisfied you were properly clothed, fed and rested. Anyway, there's so much snow coming down, leaving isn't possible. Probably won't be for a good two, maybe even three days."

"But I can't—" Millé snapped his mouth shut.

---