Page 4 of Talismaker

"Can't what?" Rathte asked, far too much knowing in his swirling, multicolored eyes.

"Nothing. My problems are not for you or anyone else to be troubled with."

Rathte laughed, an open, unguarded sound so rare amongst his class, at least in Millé's experience. "That is not how this house operates at all. You are here, you are in our clutches, and either Liste or I will get it out of you before the night is out."

Millé rolled his eyes and didn't bother to argue, because he did not know Rathte, but he knew Liste, who had always had a knack for getting information out of Millé. Because Millé was nothing if not hopelessly besotted where Liste was concerned.

If only…

He banished the thought before it could torment him again.

"There's water aplenty there for you, so wash up, and I'll be back in a snap with some fresh clothes for you, my dear new friend," Rathte said, and was gone before Millé could reply.

With little choice in the matter, and honestly sick of his tattered clothing anyway, Millé did as told, washing up with the large pitcher of steaming water, even shaving properly with the wickedly sharp razor that had been left for him. Nothing he could do about his hair, sadly, except pin it up with the hairpins he found in a drawer of the vanity. There was also, thankfully, a robe hanging on a hook next to it, so he wasn't naked when Rathte came blowing into the room like a winter wind. Millé had a strong suspicion he didn't know how to enter a room any other way.

"Here you are, clothes aplenty, and I'll have even more ready for you by tomorrow. Shoes, too, though you won't need them here, not with the woolen socks. Get dressed, get dressed, then come downstairs and have another toddy before Liste loses his mind."

"Yes, Your Lordship?" Millé said. "I feel I should address you as General."

Instead of looking annoyed as he'd half feared, Rathte laughed. "General, eh? Most say I act with all the arrogance of an emperor. I must be losing my touch."

Millé surprised himself with a laugh. "Anyone who says that has never had a general after them."

Rathte grinned. "Hope you're ready to have a former captain after you." He laughed when Millé's face went hot, but only dropped the pile of clothes he was holding on the bed before leaving the room as dramatically as he'd entered.

What in the world was happening? He'd been heading back to his shitty bed and depressing dinner. How was he in the house of a half-mad wizard getting dressed in fancy clothes so his former captain could give him more whiskey?

Gods, his head was already spinning, the last thing he needed was to get out right drunk.

On the other hand, he would get to spend a few hours, if not days, in Liste's presence, nobody had said a single damn word about his eyes, and he was warm, dry, floaty from the whiskey, and would soon have a good meal. If the only prices he had to pay were embarrassment and getting drunk, he wished his life were so easy more often.

He'd embarrass himself a thousandfold for just a single kiss from Liste.

Face hot all over again, he rifled through the clothes, automatically sorting them as he went, until he settled on breeches, stockings, and a proper shirt and vest for dinner. No jackets were in the pile, but he sensed formality wasn't much of an issue in this household.

There was a mirror in the corner next to the vanity, a full length one that cost more than the month's rent on his hovel. Unfortunately, and predictably, the mirror showed nothing promising. A dog in fine clothes was still a dog, and he looked all the more awkward with his left sleeve pinned up, arm missing from just above the elbow down. The scars on his face ensured he'd never be fit for even the barest of polite society, and even all pinned up fancy his hair was just one breeze away from being a disaster again.

And his eyes. One brown. One blue. The contrasting colors made them look different sizes, giving his whole face an uneven look. Combined with the scars…

Turning away with a rough noise, he left the relative safety of his temporary bedroom.

He hadn't gone more than a dozen or so steps when a familiar figure turned the corner. "C-Captain."

Liste scowled. "I'm not an officer anymore. Use my name."

"Master Fair."

"My name, you smart ass!" Liste said, eyes narrowing as he closed more of the distance between them.

"I'm not—" Millé huffed. "Liste, then."

All the tension seemed to bleed from Liste's shoulders, tension Millé hadn't even noticed until it was abruptly gone. "Good. What happened to your arm, Millé? Did they at least pay for treatment before they threw you out on the street?"

The words surprised a laugh out of Millé, tired but true. "They did. Friendly fire, oddly enough. A private lost his shit in the middle of a battle, started swinging wildly, struck pretty far into my arm. Couldn't be saved." He gestured to his face. "Shrapnel did the rest."

Liste grunted, but he understood shrapnel well, as there was some still buried in his back where it was simply too dangerous to extract, even with healing magic. Shaking himself from bad memories, he stared intently at Millé, those claret eyes burning, voice quiet as he asked, "Why didn't you come see me when you got out, Millé?"

"I wasn't sure you'd remember me. Why would you?" Millé asked. "I wasn't going to show up to harass a man who was no longer obligated to look after me. You had your own life, your own problems, without me showing up like some sad beggar—"

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