like rats and would do most jobs for a single small scale, but with the gift of a free apartment and a steady income, Tauran wasn’t one to refuse a favor.
Locating Lilypetal Street number 21 wasn’t difficult. While he’d never been inside, he’d passed by the old archive many times while he’d lived in Valreus.
He paused at the sight of the two ground guards flanking the front door. Maybe whatever was in the envelope was too important to hand over to a messenger boy.
“I’m here to see the archivist,” Tauran said. “Is he in?”
The left guard nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Tauran grabbed the brass door knocker shaped like a curved dragon tail and knocked three times. The house was silent.
He waited, studying the grain of the crimson-painted wooden door before he knocked again, a little harder. He tilted his head back. A window was open upstairs. “Hello?” he called.
Another long moment passed. Tauran was about to give up when a man’s faint voice sounded from inside.
“I’m coming down! Just a second.”
“Take your time,” Tauran called back, not sure if he’d been heard.
The door opened, and a disheveled-looking young Sharoani man appeared in the doorway. At the sight of Tauran, he blinked in surprise, then stepped back, waving Tauran inside. “Sorry for the delay. Come on in.”
“Uh...” Tauran had expected to just hand over the envelope and go, but he complied anyway. “Thank you. I’m looking for the archivist.” He nearly tripped over a pile of books beside the door and shuffled sideways down the two steps to the main room. It was cavernous, but the sheer amount of books and papers on every surface made it cramped.
“Suppose that would be me,” the young man said, running a hand through his black hair in what looked like an effort to smooth it back, but only ruffled it further. His words flowed with the unpredictable melody of someone not speaking their native tongue. “Be careful where you step. I’ve already bumped my toes too many times to count.”
“You’re the archivist?” Tauran asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“Oh, it’s just that—” Tauran navigated toward the desk in the center, which seemed to be where the young man was headed. If only he’d stand still. “I expected someone...”
“Older?” the young man cut in. He smiled, the expression bringing Tauran’s attention to his jawline, sharp and well-defined, darkened by a few days worth of stubble.
“I didn’t mean to offend.” Tauran stepped around another pile of books, taking pains to hide his limp as best he could. Even ruffled and unkempt, something about this young man made Tauran want to appear from his best angle. He stood up a little straighter. “I’m Tauran Darrica,” he said, and held out his hand. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
The young man took his hand. It struck Tauran that he was really quite beautiful. A few inches shorter than Tauran and maybe a year or two younger. Slender and narrow-waisted, with a balanced physique. A few strands of black hair dangled over his brow above a pair of dark, finely slanted eyes. Emilian’s younger self would have had nothing on this guy, Tauran decided.
“Kalai Ro-Ani. And you didn’t. I mean, you did. But... it doesn’t matter.” He frowned a little.
Tauran hummed. He seemed a tad odd, but in a sweet way. Tauran smiled his most charming smile, the one dimpling his cheeks. He couldn’t help himself. Kalai was exactly the type he might have picked up in a bar and asked for a dance, had he been four years younger.
Shit, he had to keep his mind on track. When was the last time he’d even seen another person naked?
“I have a letter for you, Mister Ro-Ani,” Tauran said, and reached inside his jacket.
“It’s just Kalai,” Kalai said, and took the letter from him between two elegant fingers.
Tauran flushed, which was stupid. He wasn’t twelve years old. “Oh, I... didn’t want to be awkwardly familiar.”
Kalai tore the top of the envelope, glancing briefly at Tauran as he did. “You wouldn’t be,” he said. “Ro-Ani means ‘of the people.’ You’re calling me ‘Mister of the People’ and that sounds terribly awkward.” He smiled again, highlighting that cut-glass jawline.
“Oh.” Tauran hadn’t considered if the Sharoani used a different form of address. He’d already messed up. “I’m sorry. Kalai, then.”
Kalai pulled the letter from the envelope which turned out to be just a small square of paper. He narrowed his eyes, glanced up at Tauran, then down again.
Tauran opened his mouth to make a polite exit and