Free The Pirate of Fathoms Deep by Megan Derr

abruptly cut off.
    Shemal looked up slowly, face going hot as he saw the reason for the abrupt silence: the High King was kissing his consort breathless.
    Maybe he could sneak away and vanish into the city before they remembered he was there.
    He'd just started to stand again when they drew apart.
    "Don't try to sneak off," Sarrica said cheerfully. "We're not done with you. You're not going to be punished for hitting me, either. Not when everyone who knows me would just say I deserved it. Sit down before you pass out."
    Shemal stared blankly. "What? I mean, Your Majesty?"
    Sarrica lightly tested his jaw as he motioned to the table. "Sit. Down. Finish telling your story." The High Consort gave him a look, and Sarrica added, "I'm sorry for alarming you. Nice hit. I can see why Lesto likes you."
    "Uh—" Shemal couldn't think of what to say.
    Laughing again, Sarrica grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the table, pushed him into a chair that left Shemal with his back to the door. "Speaking of Lesto, you would probably like to know I received word he is doing well. Already walking about terrorizing his soldiers despite the healer begging him to stay abed."
    "But he needed stitches," Shemal snapped. "On his left side and his right thigh, never mind he was poisoned! He shouldn't be walking around yet."
    "Oh, I like you," Sarrica said and pushed a platter of bread, cheese, and olives toward him as well as a cup and a pitcher of dark, spiced wine. "Eat, drink. Tell us the rest of your story so I know how many heads need to roll."
    Ignoring the food and drink, no matter how much his stomach growled, Shemal told them the rest of it. Leaving out, of course, the more personal interactions. From Sarrica's narrowed eyes, he wasn't fooling anyone with the omissions.
    When he was finished, his voice had gone faintly hoarse.
    "Drink," the High Consort said and pushed the cup and pitcher closer. "Please."
    Shemal nodded stiffly and finally poured a cup of wine, some of his tension easing to have something wet on his throat and anything at all in his stomach. Four hard days of traveling practically nonstop had left him ready to eat a whale and sleep for a month. "I—I'm sorry he was hurt. I tried—"
    "I've every faith you did your best, but ten against two is not odds I would enjoy." Sarrica smiled wryly. "Though I might have bragged about being more than capable of beating them as a youth. From what I've heard, you are the reason he's alive and safe." He slapped the table. "Once I've put the fear of the Pantheon into Treya Mencee, we will head for Brimin and drag our good Commander home where he is certain to be safe until this matter is sorted." The High Consort rolled his eyes, and Sarrica scowled. "What?"
    "It's just funny how alike the two of you are. You do something dangerous, he throws a fit about your reckless stupidity. He does something dangerous, you throw a fit about his rash behavior. You're like two sides of a mirror."
    Sarrica grinned. "Now, now, High Consort, I think you are not fit to chide anyone for reckless behavior."
    Allen's cheeks flushed. "I wasn't chiding, I was observing and mocking."
    Laughing, Sarrica rose and stepped clear of the table, extended a hand that Allen took as he rose to his feet. "Shall we go have a proper meal and plot all the ways we are going to make Treya Mencee cry?"
    "Yes," Allen said, the warmth of his eyes fading as anger overtook them, gave the jewel blue of them a storm cloud edge. He glanced at Shemal and the warmth returned. "If you'll follow us, one of the guards will escort you to your rooms. Eat, rest, and in the morning, you and Sarrica can leave for Brimin."
    Shemal stood and obediently followed. Out in the hall, Allen spoke with the towering guard, who bowed and motioned for Shemal to follow him. They cut through several hallways, and more than a few soldiers stared at Shemal as he passed.
    Was it always going to be like this if he was with Lesto? Staring, gawking, whispering. On