Pre-TerraFae
Page 2
“You’ve really done it this time,” Cosimo said as he dropped his walking hat upon the narrow table, he’d barely made it ten steps out the door before the streets rang with gossip.
“Done what?” Matteus asked as he whacked into the boiled egg in front of him and recoiled at the innards oozing from the crack. His old friend was a life reviver in many ways, and his tracking skills were none to compare, but his mastery of the kitchen left most stomachs aching for the sweet embrace of death.
“You do not know?” Cosimo shook his head, “No, of course you don’t.” The night had been a long one of healing wounds and feigning interest in Matteus’ tales as he wyrmed his way across the Empire and into as many beds as possible. The fact that his friend did not notice his disinterest was a perfect example of why he stopped traveling with him all those years ago.
“The news is all across Falcrine, and soon enough shall make its way to Avar herself; a man dared to defile the Praetor’s wife.”
Matteus paused in his egg slurping, “Oh, oops.”
Cosimo massaged his temples, “Yes, ‘oops.’”
“Well, give it time. From the eyes she was giving me, I’m certain she’ll have some new beau she can lure to her web for her husband to maul upon. In the mean time I’ll visit with the western counties; I hear they finally got a horse.”
“This is no laughing matter, the man is also a close relation to the Emperor.”
“How close?”
“I believe they are already drawing lots to see who gets to dangle your intestines from the city flag pole,” Cosimo glared at Matteus but even the threat of draw and quartering rolled off his massive back like a duck in water. He looked away, not wanting to look his old friend in the eye, “I cannot protect you; if the council learned of my involvement I would lose my home, my inn, my wife.”
“No big loss there,” the ox shrugged.
A hardened fist slammed onto the table, shattering what little was left of the egg, “Gods damn you! I’m over fifty now, I cannot give up everything I have worked my bones for to chase after you while you continuously play the part of wounded adolescent. Even if you still look the part, maybe it’s time you stopped acting it.”
Matteus frowned. It had been this way with Prisco and Fabian in the end, both slowing as their age caught up to them and shooting jealous daggers at the man it seemed to have forgotten. He’d never admit it, but it bothered him just as much to watch his boyhood friends succumb to the grave dance, but he thought Cosimo was different. The man was born to be a middle-aged grouch and seemed to revel in it; these should be the best years of his life.
Without saying a word, Matteus rose from the table and mumbled about finding his shoes. Luckily Cosimo’d been able to smuggle his kit out of the rented room before the arrest warrant hit the streets.
The old man watched his friend with weary eyes as one does a baby bird stubbornly attempting to walk its way out of the nest rather than fly like the rest of its brethren. “I do know of a captain that runs some illegal goods on occasion out of the Heathen territories. He could smuggle you out.”
Matteus grinned wide at that, “Perfect. Wait a few years with the towel heads, sample some of the exotic wonders, and, when the Praetor’s died down, come back.”
Cosimo shook his head, “No, I am sorry my friend. You may be able to outrun assassins,” at that Matteus frowned and looked away, not wanting to remember what he lost to the ones chasing after his family name, “and other jilted lovers, but as long as the Empire stands so does this warrant. Even your unnaturally long life will not dull it.”
He looked around, trying to shake off the dread of leaving behind the only land he knew and feign nonchalance at the prospect of a lonelier life, not that his old friend was buying it for a second, “Ah, a fresh start, just what I could use. No more bumping into forgotten lovers who I owe money and pigs to. Um,” his voice dropped low, afraid to ask the burning question for the only part of the world he dared care for, “would you mind tending the…the graves?”
“Of course, my friend,” it was agreed long ago to never bring up either woman’s name around Matteus lest he lapse into that rage who got them banished from the Avar court.
“Then I suppose that’s it; off to new adventures, new heights, and all that other clap trap, people who were exiled blather on about before getting eaten by a dragon,” he slapped on his scabbard and slotted on his giant greatsword, trying to not bang it into the low ceiling of the cramped room.
Before heading towards the basement and the secret tunnel to the harbor and a life as a Duneclaw mercenary, he turned and winked at Cosimo, “Give Domitilla my love.”
The poor, beleaguered man snapped a spoon in half, cursing to the gods, before accompanying his friend for the last time.