“Which one are you going to keep?” Andros asked as he took Theos’s empty plate.
Theos hadn’t considered the question yet. As leader of the patrol that had captured the prisoners, he had the right to claim one of them. The rest would be divided up and sold, with most of the profit going to the army but a small bonus paid to each of the soldiers on the patrol. “I don’t know. I’ll ask the evaluators, I guess, and take the one worth the most.”
“And then just sell him?”
“What else would I do with him?”
Andros shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. You’re not likely to start a band of mercenaries, are you? And you’re still young and pretty enough to find your own bedmates; it wouldn’t make sense to have a captive bedwarmer.”
Theos snorted. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“Not to mention how worn out you must be with so many calls to the city . . .” Andros grinned. He got a fair share of calls himself.
“Right,” Theos said. “So I’ll just take whoever’s most valuable, sell him, and spend the money on new armor so I can fight better and takemoreprisoners.”
“That’s the spirit,” Andros said. He raised his tankard of creek water in toast, and Theos returned the gesture. Itwasthe spirit. What more could a man want than good armor, a good sword, and good men to fight by his side? And then tolieby his side at night, of course.
Theos had been abstaining since he was in command of the patrol; sex wasn’t forbidden for an iyatis, but he hadn’t wanted the distraction. Now, though, he looked over at the prisoners, at the “pretty” boy Andros had admired, and he let his mind wander a little. The boy’s skin and hair were fair. Theos, like most Torians, was a mix of practically every culture the Empire had absorbed over the past several generations and had the usual brown skin and dark hair. What would it be like to be pressed against someone so pale?
What would any of it be like, with someone like that? Theos had always been precocious as a warrioranda lover, and he’d found his way into the barracks when he was much younger than the prisoner was now. For the first couple of years he’d been the less experienced, less aggressive partner to whomever could teach him. Later he’d found himself in bed with men who were his equals, and he’d enjoyed the comradeship, the boisterous challenges and easy laughter so much like the interactions on the drill grounds. Now he was often more dominant, but he didn’t do muchteaching. What would it be like with someone who needed guidance? The boy was Elkati, and everyone knew they were strange about sex. Was it possible the prisoner had never taken someone to bed? How would it feel to be his first? To teach him how to find and give pleasure, to touch him in ways no one had ever touched him before . . .
Theos shifted to give himself more room, and Andros glanced at his crotch and laughed. “You’ve been quiet this whole patrol,” he said. “Keeping to yourself. That’s not like you.” He reached over and laid a friendly hand on the fabric covering Theos’s growing erection. “You want a little attention? I’m a bit tired, myself, but my hand or my mouth . . .”
It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had given the other relief. They were friends, after all. And the camp was quiet; a few of the soldiers had paired off and there were soft moans and murmurs coming from their blankets. The prisoners were huddled together, clearly working hard to pretend they were somewhere else, or that they didn’t notice what the Sacrati were doing. And the rest of the soldiers were either on duty or getting ready for sleep. No one would care if Theos let his guard down for a few brief minutes.
He shifted away anyhow. “No, I’m okay. I should get some sleep.”
But first he had to make sure everything in the camp was safe. So he stood, ignoring the roughness of his canvas trousers against the sensitive skin of his erection, and headed for the prisoners.
He found the boy and held out his hand. “Knife,” he said quietly.
The boy handed over the whetstone.
“Knife,” Theos repeated more firmly.
The boy rolled his eyes and produced the knife, handing it to Theos with exaggerated care. Theos squinted at him. The small show of rebellion, as if anyone would ask for a whetstone when he knew a prisoner had a knife.
“Hands,” Theos ordered, gesturing to show what he wanted. The boy raised his hands and Theos took the slack out of the rope and then refastened it. He tugged, testing the strength, and found no give. But there was still something he didn’t like. Something he didn’t trust. He stood there, watching the boy feign confused indifference, and thought back. The kid had spent time with three prisoners. Two of them had pretty obvious injuries. The third? The kid had fussed over him, over his hands . . .
Theos took a couple of large steps, not too careful about any prisoners he might be landing on, and found the kid’s third patient. A big man. His hand was bandaged, but there was no sign of blood. Theos yanked on the ropes holding the man’s hands together, and felt them give. The kid had sawed almost through them, leaving just a few strands to make them look secure. Theos yanked again and the ropes split. The man sprang to his feet, and that was when Theos saw the rock in his fist.
The other prisoners were part of it now, roiling and struggling up, all still bound but trying to help their comrade. Theos lost his balance as they rolled into his knees, and the freed prisoner lunged forward, his feet clearly untied as well, the rock aimed right for Theos’s head.
Theos got his feet under himself and ducked beneath the man’s reach. Then he brought his hand up, the heel of his palm hard and flat, right into the man’s nose. The enemy had been coming toward him and Theos had put his full strength behind the blow, so he wasn’t surprised when the man toppled. The bone of his nose had been driven back into his brain, killing him instantly.
The camp was silent, the prisoners still and shocked, staring at their fallen friend. Theos turned to the boy who’d started it all and pointed at the dead man. “Your fault,” he said quietly. He didn’t know if the kid understood the words, but he was pretty sure he got the message. The man had been alive, and now he was dead, and there’d been no point to it. A stupid waste, just because the Elkati boy had thought he was clever.
Theos stepped carefully out of the crowd of prisoners. “Leave the body there,” he told his men, who’d been drawn by the ruckus. “As a reminder. Check all of their bonds and make sure they’re tight.” He shook his head. “And keep that scrawny Elkati tied up—no more knives.”
So that was that. It should have been over. They’d been a little careless, but Theos had caught the problem before it got serious.
Except he hadn’t, because there was a dead body lying among the prisoners. A man who’d never see another sunrise. And it was partly the kid’s fault, sure, but it was partly Theos’s fault too. These prisoners were his responsibility, and now one of them was dead.
Theos spat his disgust out onto the dirt.
Andros approached cautiously. “Apologies.”
Theos glanced at him, then turned back to watching the prisoners as they were reinspected. “I was right there, letting you give him the knife. If I’d thought it was a bad idea, I would have stopped it.”
