Red Heir - Lisa Henry Page 0,57
Greylord must have felt the same, because he was careful to address Loth as the prince, and not Quinn.
It was a very uneasy fellowship indeed that headed to Callier. The four soldiers took up the lead, with Ser Greylord riding behind them. He wouldn’t slow them down too much if they had a moment of independent thought and decided to turn on “Prince” Loth, but Loth appreciated the sentiment. He was thankful that none of the soldiers appeared to be interested enough to betray them. Then again, he supposed that in their line of work, a total lack of curiosity when it came to questioning their orders was a good thing. Soldiers weren’t supposed to be creative thinkers, and Loth didn’t see any signs that these four were eager to break the stereotype. These four, in various degrees, seemed to be mostly entertained by Pie, intimidated by Dave and Ada, and quietly fascinated by Calarian, who really had no business being that attractive.
Scott had to stop and vomit every few miles because he was convinced he was going to be arrested every time Ser Greylord glanced at him. Calarian kept calling the soldiers bootlickers just to see if any of them would fight him. Only Ada and Dave didn’t really seem to care about their new companions.
Loth was worried. He was worried that he was going to die, but, oddly; he was more concerned that Quinn was going to die. Mostly, he thought, because if he died it would be tragic and unavoidable, but if Quinn died, it would just be stupid. Ser Greylord had offered him an escape on a ship to an entirely new kingdom, so why the hell was he so keen to go and get himself killed in Callier? Was revenge that important? Did he not want to live? Had nothing that had occurred between them convinced him that there were better options than certain death?
Ah. There it was. The fact that Quinn was lining up to be a martyr hurt Loth’s pride. He’d foolishly thought that maybe he’d showed Quinn a couple of things worth living for—mind-blowing sex being the most obvious—and somehow Quinn hadn’t yet turned around and embraced him and said, dewy-eyed, “Oh, Loth, let’s just forget all this prince nonsense and run away together, you and I, and get married and spend the rest of our lives fucking like rabbits, because your dick is magnificent, and I want to sit on it forever.” Quinn was choosing certain death over Loth’s dick. Clearly, he was irrational. Maybe he was even unwell. He’d probably eaten the wrong sort of mushrooms or something because anyone in their right mind would choose Loth and his dick. Mushroom poisoning and the subsequent hallucinations were the only explanation.
Of course, that didn’t explain why Loth was still on the road to Callier. By rights, he should have handed Quinn’s care over to Ser Greylord and made himself scarce, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He told himself that it was because Scott still thought he was the prince, and it would be just his luck that the untrustworthy little bastard would track him down and ruin his plans of a quiet life as a gigolo. Yes. It was Scott’s fault—which reminded him.
“Scott!” he called out. “A word?”
He stopped his horse, dismounted, and walked to the side of the road, and Scott scurried over to meet him there, still doing that weird bob-walk-wobble thing that made him look like a drunken seagull on stilts. Loth beckoned Scott closer and leaned in like he was about to impart great wisdom.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Scott asked, eyes wide with excitement.
Loth punched him right in the balls, holding nothing back. Scott dropped to the ground like a sack of shit, a strangled noise coming from him as he clutched at his squashed nuts.
Loth shook his fist out and flashed a grin at a slack-jawed Quinn. Yes. That had felt just as good as he’d imagined.
At Quinn’s stunned expression, Loth said, “I told myself I’d do that if we survived the bandits, and I’m trying to be a better person and keep my promises.”
“He certainly had it coming,” Quinn said, and for the first time in what felt like days he gave a smile.
“He seems to have missed the basic premise of being a hero—the part where you protect others instead of ratting them out,” Calarian observed. “Can I punch him as well?”
“He didn’t try to throw you to the wolves,”