Page 3 of Inferno

“NO!” Nerik said, clutching the shirt to himself. Then he seemed to get a hold of himself. “No,” he repeated, more calmly this time. “This is absolutely beautiful. I would love to wear it. But… just out of curiosity, why me? You’ve never asked me to wear anything of yours before.” There was something hesitant about the question, a notable difference from Nerik’s usual direct manner.

Yorin shrugged. “I really couldn’t say. It was nothing in particular. Just a vague feeling that it would suit you, somehow.”

Nerik looked bashfully pleased, and to be honest, his enthusiasm for the gift was just a little unnerving. While Yorin had hoped he’d like it, he hadn’t intended to imply anything too intense with the gift.

Had he?

“Let me put it on,” Nerik said. Yorin opened his mouth to point the way to the shop’s large dressing room – one full corner curtained off to allow for even the most elaborate of wedding gowns to be tried on – but before he could say anything, Nerik simply pulled his shirt over his head, right there in the middle of the shop, tossing it carelessly over a vacant rack.

Yorin’s mouth sat there, hanging open, and it seemed he couldn’t quite remember how to breathe. He’d never seen Nerik without a shirt on before, and in a heated rush, he realised he’d underestimated the man. Lean he might be, but his body was made of refined muscle, every individual bulge and groove smooth and clearly defined. When he lifted his arms to put the new shirt on, his abs stood out like they were carved from granite. Yorin stood simply frozen, willing himself to look away, and knowing he never would.

As a haphazard detail of the view, he also noticed that Nerik wore two necklaces. One was an obsidian gem, about half the size of Yorin’s thumb. It hung on a metal chain, and while the chain was worn and stained, the gem itself shone flawlessly. It was an expensive piece for a messenger, but it was entirely possible it was some kind of family heirloom, rather than something Nerik had bought with his own money. But the other necklace was more interesting, a little metal medallion, the metal folded around and in on itself to create an intricate symbol of some sort. Its chain looked like it might have been made of bronze.

Nerik finished tugging the shirt into place and stood back, arms held wide. “Well? What do you think?”

Yorin forced himself to focus on the shirt. The shirt he had made. The one he’d asked Nerik to wear. His voice croaked and he cleared his throat. “Looks great,” he said. The red of the shirt made Nerik’s black hair stand out against his paler skin. It made his lips look redder and his cheeks pinker. “Looks… Yeah, it looks really good,” Yorin said, wondering if he sounded entirely foolish.

“Thanks. I love it.” Nerik ran his hand over the golden threads down the front, and Yorin felt an entirely unreasonable jealousy of the shirt.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, needing to snap himself out of his daze, “I couldn’t help but notice your necklace.”

Nerik looked startled, and his expression turned suddenly guarded. “What…? No, I… Um… What about it?”

“What symbol was that? The metal one.”

Nerik relaxed a fraction. “Oh, that.” He tugged the chain out of his shirt. “It’s an old family heirloom. This is something like my family’s crest, but from hundreds of years ago. I don’t actually know what it means, but it was my mother’s. It’s supposed to be handed down from mother to daughter, but she never had a daughter, so she gave it to me.”

In all the time they’d known each other, Nerik had never mentioned his mother before. Yorin thought about asking where she was now… but then reconsidered. Given his own mother’s situation, it was perhaps one of those things best left alone.

“It’s beautiful,” Yorin said. “Sorry for being nosy, it just seemed like an interesting design. I’ll let you get back to work now.”

“See you in a bit,” Nerik said, heading for the door with a wave. Yorin watched his hips as he walked, encased in sturdy buckskin trousers, and almost regretted asking him to fetch the rubies. Now he’d have to be distracted all over again later in the day, when Nerik came back.

This time, when the door closed, Yorin took the time to glance around the shop to make sure he was actually alone, and then let out a heartfelt sigh. Seeing Nerik always left him feeling off balance, energised and disappointed with himself at the same time. Perhaps he should have made more of an effort to get to know the man when they’d first met. Now, it had been so long that it seemed like they should be better friends, and yet there remained an impassable distance between them, business acquaintances, free to chat about clothing or the weather, but never venturing onto more personal territory.

He was being ridiculous, Yorin told himself, as he went to retrieve Mr Fensworth’s tunic from the wardrobe and get to work on finishing it. Nerik was a messenger. A fellow businessman. There was no reason to think they should be anything more, regardless of the number of times Nerik had flirted with him. After all, he flirted witheveryone. Yorin had witnessed enough of the behaviour to know that.

He’d first met Nerik some three and a half years ago. It had been early spring, a week before the gate was due to open. And the fact that Yorin knew which year, which season, and which cycle of the gate it had been probably told him everything he needed to know about how much of an impact the young man had had on him.

Don’t be ridiculous, he scolded himself again, as he finished off the hem on the tunic, needle darting in and out of the fabric in a neat row. Nerik had come into the shop, offering his services as a messenger. At the time, there had been an outbreak of the flu, which meant that all three of Yorin’s usual messengers were out of action. Trusting a newcomer was always a risk – one of the reasons Yorin stuck to the same people most of the time. There were other messengers in the city, but they tended to be on the slow side, or items showed up damaged, or in one particular case, rumour had it that the messenger liked to help themselves to coins, suppliers often coming up short when they counted their payments.

But Nerik had been charming, smiling and cheerful, and all too eager to run a package all the way out to a cottage in the forest, so Yorin had taken him up on the offer. And Nerik had complimented his shirt, preened a little, batted his eyelashes, and flitted off like a bird in spring. For about half a day, Yorin had felt flattered, cautiously optimistic about meeting another man who was interested in men, rather than women, and curious about where this dark-haired newcomer had come from.

But later that afternoon, he’d been out at the bakery buying his weekly loaf of bread when he’d seen Nerik outside, flirting up a storm with Grenia, the butcher’s daughter. Grenia was a pretty thing, with long, blonde hair and fine, high cheekbones, and Nerik had gallantly offered her a flower he’d found in the forest and bowed to her, blowing her a kiss as he trotted away.

Thoroughly confused and feeling rather let down, Yorin made his way back to his shop… but before he arrived, he ran into Nerikagain, this time outside the pub. Nerik was helping old Mrs Jenson down off her cart, and as he passed, Yorin heard him compliment Mrs Jenson’s hat, the firmness of her grip, and then saw him wink at her. Mrs Jenson must have been pushing seventy and what little beauty she’d had in her youth had long ago faded.

Well, that had cleared up the confusion about Nerik’s flirting. Or rather, it had cleared up the idea that his flirting was in any way related to his preference in a potential partner. Nope, Nerik was just a habitual flirt, going out of his way to make everyone around him feel good about themselves, while the words themselves were as shallow as a roadside puddle.

The following day, however, Nerik had returned to the tailor shop. “Eight copper coins,” he announced with a flourish, displaying the payment in his outstretched hand. “And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Mrs Edie says the flowers on the shawl were, and I quote, ‘too blue’.”

It was never pleasant hearing that a customer was not satisfied with their purchase, but in this case, Yorin could only smile. “If that’s the worst of what she had to say, I’ll take that as a win. Mrs Edie is never entirely happy about anything,” he explained to Nerik, who looked confused by his response. “It’s the wrong colour, it’s the wrong size, the fabric is too harsh or too soft or too warm. No matter what you do for her, she’ll find something to complain about.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief,” Nerik said. “Since she also said I’d delivered the package at the wrong time. According to her, it was ‘too close to midday’. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.”

“It’s her way of saying good morning,” Yorin told him. “Think nothing of it.” Interestingly, though, the complaint had served a deeper purpose, given that this was Nerik’s first delivery for him. It confirmed that Nerik had, indeed, delivered the shawl to the correct recipient. Yorin didn’t think he’d have bothered making up a complaint if he’d stashed the package somewhere or sold it to someone else. He had also faithfully relayed a message intended for Yorin, albeit a less than favourable one, and he’d provided the correct money for the venture. In return, Yorin thanked him, handed over the two copper coins that were standard payment for a delivery outside the city limits, and gone about his day.

Over the next few months, Nerik had become a regular at the shop, and gradually, Yorin had stopped using his other messengers. Nerik never seemed to get sick, never complained about the weather, was always on time and none of his packages were ever damaged. Yorin was very willing to reward diligence when he found it, and so Nerik had earned himself a permanent position as Yorin’s messenger of choice.