Reign of Darkness (The Prince's Assassin #2) - Ariana Nash Page 0,14

an eye out for thieves.”

“Lycus is a competent swordsman,” Vasili added, finishing his lunch and washing it down with ale. Yasir didn’t see his quick, sideways glance aimed at Niko.

“More than competent, eh?” Yasir’s eyebrows lifted appreciatively. “I know a soldier when I see one. With your looks, you’ve got some southern blood in you too?”

Niko grunted noncommittally. “My mah was southern.”

Recognizing a fellow southerner, Yasir’s grin broadened. “How long did you serve on the front?”

“Eight years.”

“The whole war,” Yasir said, impressed. “Must have Walla’s luck on your side.” Gods, he was loud and animated, like a southern clown seated beside Vasili’s restraint.

“I killed elves before they killed me.”

Yasir conceded with a nod. “I dare say that’s it.” He glanced at Vasili, who returned the man’s light smile with one of his own. It wasn’t real. Niko knew his real smiles, and they were fleeting, twitching things he rarely released into the wild. What game was this now? What did Vasili want from this man?

“And where were you, Yasir, during the war?” Niko asked. He didn’t look like a soldier. He had the wiry physique of someone better-suited for stealth than swinging a blade. He reminded Niko a little of the poet he’d known, and beautiful men like him hadn’t lasted long in the ugly face of war. “Which front did you fight on?”

The man’s grin slipped sideways. “There’ll be plenty of time for talk on the road. Are you both ready? Time and tide wait for no mortal soul.” He donned a wide-rimmed hat designed to keep the rain from his neck and tossed a few coins on the bar. “I’ve had more than my share of Loreen’s damp air and your huddled little houses. The south, she does-a beckon me into her ample bosom.” He strode from the bar with a swirl of colored cloak, taking his dramatic flair with him.

Niko frowned after him, then arched an eyebrow at the prince. “Lycus?”

“Old Loreen for wolf.”

Niko snorted. “Better than dog, I suppose. And what am I to call you?”

“Varian,” Vasili slid from the stool. “I trust you won’t get confused.” Vasili’s gaze snagged on Niko’s and lingered.

Did he want Niko to ask about the traveler? Niko didn’t even know where to start. “Why? We don’t need him.”

Vasili glanced at the door. “He has a wagon,” he said.

“Oh. Well. I’m sure that will be some comfort when he stabs us both in the back, steals our horses, and hands you over to Amir. I shall say to myself, At least he has a wagon.”

A glimmer of Vasili’s real smile thawed some of the ice in his eye. “Come along, Lycus.” He straightened the bar stool and realigned his cloak and hood. “Didn’t you hear? Time and tide wait for no soul.”

Niko gestured with a flick of his wrist for Vasili to walk ahead and muttered, “Assuming you have one, Your Highness.”

Yasir said a whole lot. In less than a day, he’d spilled how he came from a coastal family of six brothers and one sister, all of whom were apparently older than Yasir, who, as a self-proclaimed free-sprit and the youngest, had broken from his familial fisher business to set up trade in silk. He talked about trade and about his beloved city of Seran, and Vasili rode alongside him on the wagon on the uncovered bench-seat, silently soaking up the information.

Niko rode ahead to watch for damaged sections of road or thieves. Adamo was hitched to the rear of the goods wagon, content enough to plod along behind its clattering wheels.

Earlier in the day, when they’d stopped to water the horses, Niko had taken a look under the wagon’s covers and found colored silk, just as Yasir had said. But something about Yasir and his tales made Niko’s instincts itch, and it had nothing to do with the way he occasionally watched Vasili when the prince was looking away, a hungry look in his eyes like those men and women from the Stag and Horn who’d just been shown a fat bag of coin.

Admittedly, Vasili outside the palace—with his hair loose and his porcelain skin warmed by the sun—had a magnetic elegance Niko had too often caught himself admiring. Like the easy, graceful way Vasili mounted Adamo, or the brush of the reins through his long, elegant fingers. Or when he thought nobody was watching and he tipped his face skyward. Niko could hardly fault Yasir for noticing Vasili when the prince was so difficult to ignore. But Yasir