Martin paced beside Peter, breath fogging. Chill fingers of the coming winter caressed Martin’s face and stung his nose, or chill for E’Skaara. The scent of smoke mingled with seawater and the ever-present fishy odor of the harbor district. They left cobblestones for packed earth.
“You said Aggie’s family,” Martin ventured. “What about your own? You didn’t tell me a lot during our brief time together.”
Peter pulled his hat down more firmly over his ears. “Da was the only member of my family I knew of after my mum died. With him gone, it’s just me. I’ve never felt the need to take a mate, though many have tried to persuade me.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Da told stories of my grandmother. Tough when she had to be, with a kind heart. She never let circumstances get in her way and raised my father alone.”
“She sounds like a good woman.” Those words held a lot of meaning to Martin, who’d met good women who sold their bodies to feed their families and others who’d been called good without the slightest bit of love in their hearts.
Peter barked out a rueful laugh. “It depends on who you ask. The townsfolk saw her as a woman of ill repute, spat on the ground when she passed. Da saw her as a woman who did what she had to in order to raise the son she refused to sell no matter the sum offered her.”
Shock halted Martin’s steps. “Sell?”
Peter continued on, bootheels clicking over the packed dirt. Martin hurried to catch up. “People here think there’s a huge divide between the rich and the poor.” He shook his head. “Where she was from, the richownedthe poor.”
Now came Martin’s turn to gasp. “Surely not. For what purpose?”
Voice even, carrying none of the contempt the subject deserved, Peter replied, “For servants mostly, but many found other uses for a comely young lad.” He spoke so casually.
Breath wouldn’t come. People would have used Peter’s Da? “But don’t your people follow the ways of the Father? Isn’t that forbidden?”
“People have a way of twisting doctrines to suit their own whims. Two men together are forbidden, but if you take an indentured servant, and… Well, they don’t have the same rights in that world and aren’t considered equals. One of Grandmother’s… friends owned a merchant vessel and promised to take care of my da. She kissed Da, saw him safely on the ship, and he never saw her again. When he returned home a few seasons later, someone else lived in the house, and all her things were gone. Sold, most likely. He didn’t realize at the time that, with no one to protect her, she’d fall prey to dishonest neighbors.”
“That’s horrible.” Demons didn’t only live in shadows, apparently.
Peter shrugged. “It’s the way of the world. I’ve seen atrocities committed by pirates. Nothing came close to what’s been done by so-calleddecentpeople, in the name of their deity, no less. She was kinder than any of them.”
While Martin grew up working hard for his supper, he’d slept safely in his bed at night. Never would he have dreamed another, especially a mere child, faced such horrors. Yet, he’d seen street children here. Were they at such risk? “Your… your mother died when you were a small child.”
Peter removed his hat, running fingers through dark, cropped hair so different from the gold highlighted brown mass Martin remembered. “My father took me to sea, not trusting our neighbors not to take advantage.”
“They worshipped the Father?”
Peter nodded, lips pulled tight.
Dmitri’s religion allowed such? Wait until Martin saw the priest again. “But you got away.”
“I got away. Some tried to say I’d be better off with a local farming family with too many daughters and no sons. They actually came in the night and demanded Da hand me over.” Peter gave a toothy grin. “My father was a persuasive man, particularly when he held a blade at your neck.”
Martin’s father? Holding a blade at someone’s neck? A scythe, maybe. “So, you lived the life of a pirate.” Envy sank hooks into Martin’s heart. He missed his parents, but Peter had his da for a time. Oh. The envy twisted into guilt. The captain died horribly, leaving Peter as alone as Martin. “You’ve lived on the sea. Saw other lands.”
“Yes.” Peter stepped onto the pier, placing his hands on the railing. He stared out over the dark water. Lanterns hung from ships in the harbor twinkled, tiny stars reflecting off the bay.
“Why settle here, then, if you had the world to choose from? Do you have any connections in E’Skaara? Your mother’s people, perhaps? Didn’t your father meet her here?” Martin regretted his words the moment Peter’s shoulders slumped. He couldn’t recall everything that Peter had said about family.
“I have no one, anywhere. But I also had no desire to dance on the end of a rope, never having known life.” More quietly, he added, “Known love. Da protected me from the crew’s advances. Though I’d have loved to stay at sea, as far as anyone knows, my ill uncle called for me here, I worked for him, and I took over his business when he died. The man in question had no kin and willingly went along with Addie’s plan in exchange for not allowing the magistrate to benefit from his death. Mitta was a good man. I greatly respected him.” Muscles twitched in Peter’s jaw. “What about you? I’ve searched for you for so many seasons, you know. I gave up, figuring you must have left the city.”
Once again, guilt sank in its icy blade. Martin drew fingers through his hair, admitting only part of the truth. “I’ve never fit in with the others here, so keep mostly to myself. I’m a city guard.” How much, if anything, should he say of Dmitri? He cocked his head to the side, facing Peter, and turned the topic away from himself. “And you, who’ve seen not only the city but the world. Don’t you long to see what’s beyond the next voyage?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes you have to sacrifice what you want for survival.” The longing in Peter’s gaze said he’d sacrificed more than just the sea.
Never had Martin seen such hunger turned his way, not from anyone, the women who thought he’d make a fine bond mate, not even the demons starving for his power. He sent his senses out, seeking, seeking. No waking minds were close enough to him or Peter to make out faces or voices.
With slowness bordering on pain, Martin leaned in, inch by inch, until Peter’s ale-scented breath warmed his face.
Peter’s eyes widened, and he sucked in a startled breath before resignation filled his shadowy features. Keeping his eyes open, he held his ground, neither meeting Martin’s mouth nor retreating.
Did he not want this?
Martin pressed his lips to Peter’s, who held rock still. After a moment, he relaxed, his mouth pliant, opening to accept Martin’s tongue. Gently stroking, Martin began a slow dance, not the passionate play of tongue-on-tongue he wanted. If he proceeded too quickly, Peter might run.
