Page 10 of Fought it Through the Teeth

"Wouldn't dream of it." Bohdi stands, stretches, and feels something in his back pop. "Get some rest. I'll come find you before supper."

He is halfway to the door when Morgan's voice catches him.

"Bohdi."

He turns.

Morgan is still sitting at the table, cup in hand, looking at him across the empty hall. The light from the high windows catches his hair and his face is unreadable and he is no boy at all, only the man Bohdi cannot stop noticing.

"Thank you," Morgan says. "For not stepping in today."

Bohdi holds his gaze for one beat, then two.

"You didn't need me to," he says.

He turns and leaves the hall before Morgan can respond, because if he stays another second he will say something he can't take back, and the mission cannot afford that and neither can he.

Ivan's study is warm, well-appointed, and stinks of leather and tallow. The chieftain pours dark spirit into two heavy cups and settles into a chair that has clearly been built to accommodate his specific bulk, and gestures for Bohdi to sit.

Bohdi sits. He accepts the cup and drinks — a sip, not a swallow, because he is not going to make the mistake of trusting another man's liquor in another man's house, no matter how congenial the host. The spirit is good, smoky, with a burn that starts at the tongue and ends somewhere behind the sternum.

"Your prince has teeth," Ivan says.

Bohdi grins. "He does. The family resemblance. His brother's the same way — you don't see the blade until it's already in you."

Ivan hums. He drinks deeply from his own cup and settles back, ready to enjoy himself. "Eskil's reputation precedes him. The Conquering King of the North."

"He'd take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one."

They talk. Bohdi lets Ivan lead — gives him the reins and the illusion of control and watches to see where the man rides. Ivan wants to know about the north. He asks about the winters, the campaigns, the border wars that cemented Eskil's power. He wants to know about the army, not its composition or the details a spy would want but its character, its endurance, its temperament. The question underneath every question is the same: are these men hard enough? Ivan is a war general. He respects strength. He wants to be assured that the kingdom he is aligning himself with is led by a man whose teeth are as sharp as advertised.

Bohdi gives him what he wants. He tells stories — the kind that flatter Eskil's ruthlessness without revealing his strategy, that paint a picture of a king as savage as the winters he was forged in. He tells them well, because telling stories well is half of what he does for a living — the other half is executing the kinds of stories that don't get told politely. Ivan listens, and laughs in the right places, and refills Bohdi's cup without being asked, and Bohdi lets him do it and drinks slowly and watches the chieftain's defenses come down one cup at a time.

By the third round, Ivan is expansive. He leans forward in his chair and claps Bohdi's knee.

"I'm glad the king sent a warrior with the prince," he says. "Shows respect. The insult I felt at the gate was hasty. I apologize for it."

Bohdi waves him off with practiced ease. "I'd have had the same concerns in your shoes, chieftain. I'm happy to put your worries to rest."

"Tell me about the prince's temperament," Ivan says, pouring the fourth round. His voice has taken on a weight, steering toward something he has been circling all evening. "Be honest. You know the boy. Is he always this sharp?"

"Morgan's mouth is his weapon," Bohdi says, and it's easy to let the fondness show. It's calculated fondness, the kind that suggests he finds the prince exasperating and endearing in equal measure. "He'll argue with the gods at the gates of the afterlife and win. But underneath it?" He shrugs. "He's Eskil's brother. He's loyal. He does what's asked of him."

Ivan absorbs this. His eyes are working and taking the information in, turning it, fitting it into whatever shape the chieftain is building in his mind. Then he nods, slowly, and something in his expression settles into satisfaction.

"Good," Ivan says. "That's good."

He raises his cup. Bohdi raises his. They drink.

The evening ends with Ivan clapping him on the shoulder.

"You're a credit to the north, Bohdi. Sleep well."

"And you, chieftain."

Bohdi walks back to his quarters through dark corridors with the taste of smoke on his tongue and a map of the man's vulnerabilities taking shape behind his eyes.