Quiggs folded his arms. “I’m not leaving yet.”
Max tried a scientific approach. “You’re under the influence of the corrosive effect of the vine’s exhaustive gases compounded by a concussion, stress, hunger, grief.”
“It’s the goat milk.”
“Our scientists have tested the effect of goat’s milk. They documented thousands of diets on the dairy herds, including a diet of the older vines without success.”
“All documented centuries ago. The vines have certainly evolved since then. Why not our bioengineered goats?”
Max held out the end of a leash. “Don’t make me chase you.”
“I’ll prove my theory.” Quiggs patted his thighs and called out to the doe. “Hello, my sweetheart. Come here.”
The doe trotted from the vines over to her hero. Before she kicked away, Quiggs milked an ounce in his palm. He carefully divided drops on the ground between healthy stalks, then moved away.
“I feel anything crawling on my skin, we’re out of here,” Max muttered to himself. He’d give Quiggs five minutes.
A mad rustling began. The silvery tendrils shot out, behaving as Quiggs had described. The stalks trembled, and the canopy swayed. Leaves sprinkled down, and the ground vibrated as if rats crawled to the surface. Then the mother roots corkscrewed through. Nodes burst with tiny pops. The leaking sap triggered the spawning of hundreds of thirsty tendrils.
Max stood transfixed. He wanted to believe… he so wanted to believe…
“Fuck me,” Max breathed when the supporting stalks collapsed. He believed.
Max crumbled stalks in his hands and trampled roots into new soil. He threw back his head and roared his victory to the swathe of visible sky. Quiggs had done it. His ingenious concubine had figured out how to kill the vines.
Quiggs performed Beau’s silly happy-hoppy dance, then stopped and dropped his face in his hands, deep gulping sobs shaking his shoulders. Max let him cry it out. These were healing tears washing away the grief. Beau had taught his friend how to handle an ornery tri-color, and Beau should be here celebrating with them.
“We’ll return for Beau,” Max promised.
They spent the night where they were, in the middle of a bared acre of deep outland. Supper was a handful of nuts chased down with water. They collected leaves for a pallet. Max turned the hat, smelling like sour milk, inside out and pulled it low over Quiggs’s ears. “Tuck your hands and feet in against rats. They’ll sneak out later. Hopefully they’ll feed on the dead kid instead of us.”
The doe settled beside Quiggs. He snuggled into her furry warmth as the fog rolled in. Quiggs sniffled. “I’m glad I forgave him.”
Max spooned his concubine. He waited until the sniffling stopped and Quiggs’s breathing evened out before closing his eyes and falling into a deep dreamless sleep.
At the first rays of sunlight burning away the fog, Max awakened. He groaned when he rolled to his back. Shoulders, arms, back ached. He did a quick inventory of his fingers and toes. Nothing nibbled them overnight.
He inspected Quiggs, sleeping deeply snuggled against the doe, his dark beard scruffy on a pale face bereft of cute baby fat.
Shadows flitted over the clearing. Squinting up, Max watched a flock of gulls flying toward their morning feeding ground. He tracked their descent, encouraged the canal was close. But the gulls could be flying to a feeding ground in the city or toward the middle leg of the canal. If he overshot the leg of the canal, he’d never know he missed his target until he hit old vines on the other side.
The stillborn kid was gone, dragged away by rats. The stalks not attached to the dead mother roots appeared healthy, but they had not invaded the poisoned area. In fact, they bent away.
The doe woke up. She stretched her legs, then nosed at Quiggs, who flopped on his stomach, mumbling at Beau to leave him alone. The doe didn’t spare a glance where her baby had been. Out of sight, out of mind. She butted Quiggs, impatient for milking so she could graze comfortably.
Quiggs rubbed his puffy eyes. “Hello, sweetheart. Give me a few minutes to wake up.” He yawned and brushed fur off his sweaty face, unperturbed he’d awakened on the ground with a goat.
The doe’s hunger led her into the vines to graze until Quiggs was ready to milk her. Max squeezed a buttock. “You know we could—”
Quiggs rolled away. “Forget it, Max. All our morning fucks end with us nearly killed.”
True. Max laughed softly. They shared dried fruit, jerky, and half of the last canteen while they mapped their day.
They set out with Max maintaining a steady pace cutting the stalks and Quiggs occasionally sprinkling milk to test the toxicity further inland. Their dry throats limited talk, but their smiles spoke volumes.
As they neared the canal, the stalks became slenderer and more bendable, but they also entwined to form a tangled, suffocating mass. Max quit using a vine cutter and ripped them apart in fistfuls to create a path that closed up as quickly as they shouldered through. Quiggs stayed on his tail, the leash a lifeline when the vines blinded them with showers of silvery pollen. If the leash broke, Max could always locate him by listening for his rumbling stomach.
Max found a nest of leaf hoppers filled with fat yellow larvae. He chewed a squirming larva. “Tastes a lot like scrambled eggs.” He smacked his lips and offered Quiggs one, amused when he recoiled to the end of the leash. “Where’s your fearless stomach?”
Quiggs held the larva between his thumb and forefinger. “But it’s alive and gooey, and it stinks.”
“Close your eyes, open your mouth, and pretend it’s a glob of honey custard squirting when you chomp down.”
Quiggs stared at the squirming larva. “Honey custard, my ass. It has beady eyes.”
“We’re out of rations. Eat it.”
Quiggs pinched his nose to block the stench, then spat on the larva before sucking it down like a wet noodle. He massaged his neck to keep from gagging as it wiggled down. “Never chew a hopper larva. Tastes like rancid bacon grease. Beau taught me the trick of swallowing it whole instead of gagging on the insides when you bite down. I’m starving. Pass me another.”
Dark clouds blocked the sun at noon. Max ordered a halt until the skies cleared, rather than risk veering off course and traveling parallel to the canal.
The doe had disappeared. Quiggs believed she had found the canal nearby. “Don’t stop,” he pleaded. “We’re close. I know it.”
Max shook his head. “I’ve found dead soldiers fifty feet from the canal because the rustling vines blocked the stench and sounds from guiding them in the right direction. We wait until the clouds pass.”
Quiggs sprinkled a circle of milk to clear a resting area. The vines nearing the canal withered at a faster pace than the older vines in the deep outland. The fresh yellow exudate from the roots smelled like a row of plugged toilets, but the smell muted as it dried.
Max trampled the circle, creating a mound of pungent soil for them to sit on. They sat back to back, waiting for the sun to show. On Border Patrol, Max used these quiet times for fast, uncomplicated sex. Words were unnecessary. A direct look, a nod… two soldiers accommodated each other. It was all about physical relief without emotions demeaning their manhood. The academy trained cadets to reserve love for a wife. Wedded husbands enjoyed companionship with the benefits of convenient sex, but romantic expressions of love for one another drew ridicule.
Lavishing affection on a concubine did not demean a man; however, affection inadequately described what Max lavished on Quiggs when they were together.
It felt like a consuming need to melt into him until they were one.
Quiggs chose that vulnerable moment to reach around and clasp Max’s hand. He squeezed and shyly whispered, “I have strong feelings for you.”
He knew Quiggs waited for him to respond that three years together was not enough. To offer some hope that after his service ended, they stayed together in wedlock. It was illegal for two men to live together. They wedded and
reciprocated at leisure, or they met discreetly for quick sex.
When Max said nothing, Quiggs slid his hand away.
Chapter Thirty
Quiggs reeked of sour milk, musky goat, sweat. Dirt streaked his unshaven face, and his toes stuck out of the holes in his grimy socks. An insect bite swelled his left eye half-closed. What had he been thinking revealing he had feelings for Max? He should have waited until he was clean and dressed in one of Stefan’s soft seductive garments.
Now his feelings included embarrassed.
After his foolish admission, an uncomfortable hour of silence passed before the sun came out. Max acted as if he hadn’t heard the words, but he skirted Quiggs’s heart-on-the-line gaze as he ripped away at the vines. His tight-lipped concentration told Quiggs he’d heard all right, and the feelings were as welcome as a sore tooth.
Max’s clenched jaw was bristly. Sap stained his hands purple. Sweat soaked his tee and ran down his neck and arms. He was as grimy, hungry, and thirsty as Quiggs, yet he moved with an effortless grace. He was the commander worshiped by his soldiers, the undefeated Athletic Champion revered by cadets. He was courageous and generous and so magnificent that Quiggs’s gut knotted with the yearning to live with him forever.
Max stopped ripping about a stone’s throw away from where they’d rested. His hands fell to his sides, and he turned around, grinning sheepishly. “You were right.”
Ahead of them was a herder’s station with Milepost Three painted on the red shingled roof. Vines had invaded the enclosure, already reaching knee-high around the hut. Max cleared the vines off a water barrel behind the hut. The spigot was too slow, so he removed the heavy lid, and they scooped up handfuls, drinking until their bellies cramped.
No one manned the watchtower across the canal. Today marked the fourth day of Max’s ban on grazing the canal. The herds were starving now, and all archers in the watchtowers followed protocol by moving to the cities to guard herders and soldiers cutting wagonloads of vines and carrying them over the drawbridge to the barns.
Inside the hut was an undrained community washtub. It was scummy and smelled like goat and farts. Max and Quiggs preferred the stench they wore.
The food cabinet offered a stiff wedge of fruit cake. Quiggs shared half with Max. While Max raised a flag on the bank for the next boat to pick them up, Quiggs inspected himself in a shaving mirror. The swelling in his left eye had receded. The fuzz on his scalp was definitely curlier. He’d look like a mop in another month. The baby fat had melted away, leaving interesting hollows in his cheeks. He patted the firm flesh beneath his chin with the back of his hand, pleased at his manly profile.
“My baby cadet is gone.” Max had returned and placed his hands on Quiggs’s bony shoulders. “I will miss him.”
“Feed me a tray of honey custards if you want him back.”
Max kneaded his shoulders. “It’s the expression in your eyes. Harder. You’ll never look the same.”
Their gazes locked in the mirror. “My looks might change, my feelings for you—never.”
Max pulled away. “Three years of familiarity will change your feelings. You’ll want reciprocation from a husband, and you’ll have proposals pouring in from good men who will promise what I refuse.”
“It’s you I want,” Quiggs insisted.
“Only because you don’t know what you’re missing. Lose your virginity in a pleasure house with my consent. I’ll ask Stefan to arrange a whole night.”
“After what we’ve shared… y-you’d actually send me to a pleasure house?”
Max gave a mirthless laugh. “Spare me the details when you thank me later.”
Quiggs spun around and stabbed a finger at Max’s chest. “Maybe it’s you who can’t wait to be free. You’re accustomed to variety. Maybe the real problem is your baby cadet is gone. You can’t fuck the new me unless the room is dark.”
His face livid, Max jerked a thumb at the door. “Outside. I will fuck you raw in broad daylight until you apologize.”
Quiggs blushed. “Now?”
“Now. Filthy sex in broad daylight. Hands and knees on the ground. Bring lube.” Max unfastened his belt and dropped his pants as he pushed through the door. Quiggs hadn’t budged an inch before Max backpedaled inside, clutching his pants up, his face redder than Quiggs’s. “The rescue flag’s been spotted. My barge is poling toward the bank.”
Quiggs hugged his stomach, laughing.
Max muttered under his breath. “And the baby cadet is back.”
With their throats parched and their focus on navigating the vines, they hadn’t discussed how to handle the announcement of Quiggs’s discovery. The news would create chaos if not handled properly. “Where do we begin, Max? Everyone who hears how to kill the vines will grab a milking pail and chase down a doe to see if it’s true. Imagine how many bucks your soldiers will try to milk when they get drunk on shore leave tonight?”
Max snorted.
Quiggs elbowed him. “You know they will.”
“Say nothing until we meet with the officers of the Herders Guild. They’ll want you to design an efficient spraying method to kill the vines. Once the killing is confirmed, the Ruling Mothers will award you the bounty and a seat in the Assembly. The Ruling Mothers dislike men with power. They’ll involve you in petty political committees and find endless reasons to separate us and dilute our influence. We’ll spend little time alone together.” Max adjusted himself. “I see a future where the only skin I’ll fuck raw is my palm.”
“Uh-uh. I go where you go. The law states a concubine’s priority is to obey his owner.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “We both know I get as much obedience out of you as a drunkard gets milk from a buck.”
The crew recognized the imposing height of their Commander. As he strode the short distance from the hut to the canal, they leaned over the rail waving their hats and cheering. The gangplank lowered, and Max led the way up, dwarfing Quiggs. The soldiers snapped into rank and file on deck, holding a fist over their heart.
Quiggs was unrecognizable in his baggy uniform, backpack, and hat as he followed Max. The crew saw a scruffy herder rescued from the ferals. They never expected to see the commander’s concubine again.
His men at attention, Max announced, “The ferals are dead. The grazing ban is lifted. All couriers report to my cabin. I want a summary of events during my absence before sending dispatches.”
The commander’s six couriers stepped front and center with their slates. Sergeant Miller, rumpled and sweat-stained, glanced at Quiggs without recognition before quietly asking Max, “Private Beau, sir?”
Max shook his head no.
The soldiers bowed their heads for a moment of silence for one of their fallen.
Cutty hustled on deck. His brown suit was fastidious as ever, except for the line of his left sleeve crumpled by a black mourning band. His steps slowed as he approached Max. Struggling to compose his leathery face, he shook his commander’s hand, gripping a long minute before speaking. “Welcome back, sir. How many skulls am I adding to your cuffs?”
“Over a hundred. Right, Quiggs?” Max nudged him forward.
Quiggs gave the startled manservant a tired smile. “Hello, Cutty.”
Cutty’s brows lifted to his hairline. “You can’t be alive.”
The couriers squirmed, their markers shaking over their slates. Soldiers dropped their saluting fists to their sides. Their gazes fixed on Quiggs with what seemed like contempt. Well, yes, he knew he smelled as bad as he looked. But why contempt?
“What the fuck is wrong with you men?” Max barked.
Sergeant Miller’s blue eyes held pity. The rest lowered their gazes, their lips tightening.
Quiggs had faced a den of ferals with friendlier faces. Cutty cleared his throat and spoke for the men. “About Quiggs, sir. The thing is… the thing is… yesterday, the Assembly signed a death warrant on his head for raping Rosamunde. He’s to be drowned in the canal if ever… whenever… he returns.”
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Which was now. With the canal steps away.
Raping a virginal deb was a horrific crime. Quiggs had fantasized returning a hero with citizens hoisting him on their shoulders, not being bound and thrown into the canal by an angry mob. The law obligated Max to carry out the execution straightaway without mercy shown. Actually, any man confirming Quiggs’s identity could toss him overboard and collect an executioner’s fee.
Quiggs swayed. This was not happening. It was a delusion. He’d gone vine daft. He was wandering the outland, imagining he was aboard the barge.
Max closed a hand around Quiggs’s nape. The padded fingertips twitched on his skin. His voice soft, he asked, “Did you ever lose control with Rosamunde?”
The question wounded Quiggs. He shoved away Max’s hand. “If Rosamunde stripped naked, got down on her knees, and wrapped her lips around my cock, I’d have to close my eyes and pretend she was a man to get off.”
“I’ll speak to the Assembly tomorrow and request a reversal of this idiotic charge.”
Quiggs’s voice trembled. “You believe me?”
“Always. Duty compelled me to ask.” Max hugged Quiggs into his side, claws displayed, tawny hairs stiff as needles daring any soldier to carry out the execution. “Rosamunde lied. She’s angry because Quiggs refused to give her the design to his combustion engine. She believes he gave it to me for safekeeping. With Quiggs and me dead, she accused him of rape. The warrant gives her the right to search my headquarters and apartments for the design as recompense.”
The slap of waves against the bow emphasized the men’s ugly silence.
Max’s patience snapped. “She can’t prove Quiggs touched her.”
Miller answered for the edgy soldiers. “Her proof is she’s pregnant. Quiggs is the father.”
Quiggs’s ingenious mind slipped its moorings. The rest passed in a blur as he pitched face-forward.
When the lines of the moorings tightened, Quiggs found himself sitting at the table inside the commander’s cabin with a cold wet cloth wrapped around his neck. Cutty’s wiry arm held him upright in a chair, waving a bottle of herbal spirits under his nose. He turned his head, his eyes watering from the sting.
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