Page 5 of Talismaker

"No!" Liste growled, surging forward and once more capturing him by the shoulders. "It was never an obligation, you dumbass. I always wondered how you were doing. I even wrote to a few people to see how you were, but all they said was that you'd been discharged, and they had no address. I've tried to find you, but nobody knew where the fuck you'd gotten to."

Millé's chest gave another stupid lurch, the kind it only ever did when Liste was around. "You looked for me?"

"Of course, I did," Liste said softly.

"What does that mean?" Millé asked, feeling like the rug had just been yanked out from beneath his feet and he was a breath away from his head slamming against the floor.

Liste let go of his left shoulder, but slid his right hand up to cup Millé's cheek. "You can't really believe that—"

"Liste! Stop cozying up to your sergeant and get your ass down here!"

"I'm going to kill him," Liste muttered, and dropped his hand. "Come on, you need food, not me nattering at you. I came to ensure your room was adequate, not to harass you in the hallway."

Millé only nodded, not trusting himself to speak, because if he did, something abjectly stupid like 'please keep harassing me if that means touching me,' would fall out and neither of them wanted him to make such a cake of himself.

Liste sighed and turned sharply, as neat and precise in his movements as he'd always been, and led the way back downstairs, where he said drolly, "You bellowed, my lord?"

"Yes, I did," Rathte retorted. "Something is on fire in the kitchen, and I'm apparently not allowed in there."

"Oh, for—" Liste stormed off, calling Rathte names that no real employer would ever tolerate from an employee.

"Why does he—" Millé stopped, because that question was far too impertinent for a stranger to be asking.

Rathte only grinned. "Why does he talk to me like that? He's my oldest and dearest friend. He runs my household because he likes doing it. I'm not interested in Liste's dubious employee performance, though, I'm more interested in why your name sounded so familiar—other than being Liste's precious sergeant, I mean."

"I have no idea what you mean with anything you say, my lord."

Laughing delightedly, Rathte slung an arm across his shoulders and led them back to the sitting room they'd been in before, where Tyri was reading over some papers, occasionally writing on others with the unmistakable pen and ink of a runescribe.

A sudden realization struck Millé over the head, and he felt the biggest fool for not making the connection sooner. "Are you by chance Wizard Rathtelon Rediburgh?"

"I am!" Rathte said with a grin, sweeping him another bow. "You, if I am not mistaken, are a talismaker. A good one, that's why your name was familiar. I've seen it in the papers a few times, remarking on how your skills turned the tide of more than a few battles."

"Not really," Millé replied. "I was hardly the only talismaker, and we all learned to be quick and accurate." Making talismans for hard use, like spelling weapons for accuracy, endurance, sharpness, and more, became rote rather quickly. When he wasn't actively making talismans in battle, he was working across camp to strengthen tents and other equipment, boxes that slowed the spoilage of food, and of course, always doing little favors for the others in camp. Sometimes it felt like he'd made every type of talisman that was possible.

He hadn't known the papers wrote about him. That was embarrassing. They could have at leastaskedhim about it, but newspapers hardly ever cared about the truth, so why would they care about permission?

"I am seeking a talismaker," Rathte said.

"I saw your name in the job listings," Millé replied, "but I'm hardly fit to work in a household such as this."

Tyri made a noise that was part scoff, part laugh. "You may as well give up. We met when he crashed into me, broke my glasses, and kidnapped me. He gave me new clothes, new glasses, and a job."

Rathte shot him an amused look. "I'm fairly certain I gave you more than that."

Tyri flushed as he hissed, "You behave."

Grinning even more widely, Rathte turned back to Millé. "Come, come, you must have all the official paperwork if you've been job hunting, which you obviously are if you were perusing listings."

"It's in my jacket," Millé said. "I'll get it." He strode off before anyone could reply, not that they really needed to, and found his jacket where he'd left it hanging near the front door. He pulled the packet of papers, which had seen better days but were all he had, from an inner pocket. Thankfully, the pocket had done its job and the papers were completely dry.

When he returned to the sitting room, it was to find Liste had reappeared, now smelling ever so faintly of smoke and burned meat. "Are you all right?" Millé asked.

"Hmm? Fine, fine, but the new cook's assistant isn't going to be if she gets distracted one more damn time," Liste grumbled, wiping a smudge of soot from his cheek. "What's that, then?"

Before Millé could reply, the 'that' in question was snatched away by Rathte.

Liste rolled his eyes. "I knew that wouldn't take long, the moment I realized it was Millé."

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