Page 16

HENRIK

H e fell asleep.

Twice.

Whatever Kapurnickkian potion she slipped him did its work. The worst of his aches and pains dissolved, but took consciousness with it. He slept harder without her there, staring at him, bustling around, building herself into the fabric of his life with every ditty she hummed.

He couldn’t afford the light she offered, because she would leave once her purpose here finalized. It would be so dim, then.

Hours after he growled Britt out of his house, remnants of his patchy attention and groggy mind pieced together. He carefully stood, stretched, drank as much water as he dared. He’d been a real bastid to Britt, and he still hadn’t left his cottage.

He couldn’t help it. Einar used to help him recover after the early fights, when the wounds were more gnarly because his skill hadn’t been as strong, but this . . . care?

Never had someone bought soft foods, mixed up a potion, waited with fresh cool water, and watched with careful concern. That Kapurnickkian dragul keeper needed a stronger head on her shoulders. Whatever she sought at Stenberg, she wouldn’t find it while making friends with and caring for everyone.

Too strange.

Too . . . much.

Care wasn’t something he could bring himself to accept without understanding the steep price. Her unfettered benevolence created tendrils. Expectations. A draw.

He couldn’t afford a draw.

The only caring lines he’d ever drawn were toward Einar and Selma. Einar was his brother-in-arms. The only one he could truly rely on, proven after years of dedication and survival together.

His search for Selma, an impossible non-entity, was purely selfish.

Henrik splashed cold water on his face a tenth time, allowing the sting to rouse him from the potion-induced stupor. The sleep had helped, which only put him in a more foul mood, because she’d been right. Britt had drugged him into it, though he was glad. The cool water ebbed the stinging, but not the dull thud of his swollen eye. Only time would do that. How he loathed the wild repercussions of proving himself in such a stupid way.

He couldn’t take an assignment when he felt like this. Not that Oliver had assigned one. Henrik suppressed a curse when a rap on his door brought him to his senses. He spun, a towel in hand, to find Captain Oliver filling the doorway.

“Soldat.”

Henrik stared.

Oliver had never visited his cottage.

“Ease off,” Oliver commanded. Gingerly, Henrik patted his face dry. Oliver appeared as laden with stress as before, but not wildly so. His abrupt departure from Captain Arvid’s ceremony itched under Henrik’s skin, tainting the visit.

Henrik’s voice was a rasp.

“Captain.”

Oliver studied him. “I heard about last night.”

“Oh?”

Wryly, he waved a hand toward Henrik’s swollen face. “Few Stenbergians aren’t talking about it. Congratulations. I’m proud to cede the grappling title to you.”

Automatically, he said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Any updates on your jord shipment?” Oliver asked.

Shite.

He’d utterly forgotten about it.

“No, sir.”

Oliver’s gaze tapered. “You haven’t located the twenty bags that went missing?”

With painstaking care, Henrik licked his lips and forced himself to admit, “No, sir.” Excuses collected on his tongue. Captain Arvid’s memorial. Britt. The draguls, and the grappling title. But he wouldn’t betray them. Soldat’s didn’t receive the luxury.

“Twenty bags went missing under your care, soldat,” Oliver growled, fire lighting his eyes. “I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t search further. Have you attempted anything?”

“I spoke with the ship captain, Ossian.”

“What did he say?”

“He claims that two soldats took the jord and told him not to remove them from his inventory.”

“Soldats?”

“Perhaps His Glory’s, sir.”

With irritation, Oliver muttered, “Obviously, Ossian didn’t listen to them. Why?”

“Out of respect to me, I think.”

Oliver grunted and showed little change in expression. The air brittled like stale toffee. “What do you make of Ossian’s story?”

The sense of walking into a trap overcame Henrik as he said, “I trust Ossian.”

Oliver scoffed. “He’s a merchant that got caught stealing twenty bags of jord. You’re a fool if you believe him. Fools don’t become Second Captain.”

Henrik fought visceral annoyance. Even with forced relationships, like ship captains, the soldats pretended to trust, but conducted studious testing of the relationship. Once it ended, all bonds disappeared.

Yet, he still trusted Ossian.

Oliver leaned forward. “Figure it out, soldat,” he said with a soft undertone, “or your precarious position as Captain Arvid’s replacement will stand on very fragile ground. There’s more on the line than just jord.”

Henrik wasn’t entirely certain he cared. Harald’s haunting words of, you can have it , followed him everywhere. He rubbed a hand over his forehead, gingerly avoiding his left eye. Why didn’t this make sense? Because he’d been hit too many times? Or because it didn’t make sense. What were twenty bags taken by His Glory’s soldats set against a thousand?

What if he didn’t want the position of Captain?

“Are the twenty bags required somewhere, Captain Oliver?” he asked.

“They’re required,” Oliver barked, “because His Glory says they’re required. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It shows an egregious lack of thoroughness that is embarrassing for all of us. Figure it out, soldat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oliver went oddly silent, drawing Henrik’s scattered attention. The Captain studied the table with a slightly tilted head, gaze narrowed. Henrik’s stomach sank. What did Britt leave in plain sight? A moment of panic caught him in the belly. Had she left Denerfen?

No.

She’d never do that.

Before Henrik followed Oliver’s gaze to assess, Oliver returned his focus to Henrik. He blinked twice, as if extricating from deeper thoughts, and quietly said, “I am disappointed in your lack of motivation for the Captain’s slot, Henrik.”

“Sir, I?—”

Oliver lifted a hand. “You may not understand all that His Glory has to offer. The respect of the position alone should compel any soldat to service, but if that isn’t enough, allow me to extrapolate.” He leaned closer, his eyes dangerously intent. “As I have mentioned before, if you are the Second Captain of His Glory’s ranks, you would lack nothing, soldat. Nothing. Do you hear me?”

His words hung like honeyed syrup.

“You access whatever you want, no questions asked, all permissions given. Henrik, His Glory offers you all of Stenberg. All answers. All history. All paperwork .”

Oliver straightened into his crisp, disapproving posture.

“Find the jord.”

With that, he spun on his heel and left. Henrik, flabbergasted, fell silent.

All answers. All history. All paperwork.

What did Oliver know?

When Henrik spun, he saw what Oliver stared at. Nothing but small signs of feminine life. A bone comb for her hair, bits of cloth she made into a bed for Denerfen, and a half-eaten piece of fruit.

Not much.

But enough. He’d publicly taken Britt into Stenberg last night. Likely, Oliver heard the rumors. Having Oliver in his cottage, seeing her comb, felt like a deeper invasion.

Henrik reached for the envelope that Einar left behind, ripped it open, and dumped out a small piece of paper.

On assignment for a few days. Talk soon. Don’t trust Oliver.