The boy hesitated before speaking again. "Horsey, if it is really true…"
"Yes, boy," Horsey interrupted, his skepticism palpable. "If it is really true…"
"Then it would not be a problem if I…," Swinebroth let the thought flutter, unfinished.
"Steal it?"
"No!" Swinebroth exclaimed. "I just want to see this relic with my own eyes."
"And then what? Steal it?" Horsey countered.
"Do that yourself," Swinebroth protested.
"And risk rotting behind bars?" Horsey retorted with a snort.
"Who, pray, is rotting behind bars?"
They turned to see Ticklebones, resplendent as ever. His kaleidoscopic robes shimmered in the fading light, each movement sending ripples through the gold and feathered accents. An ornamental delirium. Swinebroth squinted; next to such spectacle, even Horsey's red-lacquered skin looked positively pallid.
"Had to be you, freak," Horsey groaned.
Ticklebones spread his arms in welcome as though revealing a particularly expensive trick. "Horsey! Swinebroth! I have been looking for you." He leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Important guests tonight. Did you know that they have sent for the Setikosi after the banquet? And here is what made my day…"
Neither Horsey nor Swinebroth bit the bait. Ticklebones' grin widened.
"Every night. For the rest of the week."
Horsey's grimace deepened. "So you will be needing my help."
"Who better to organize these performances," Ticklebones chirped, head tilting—too large, the boy noticed, for so delicate a neck. "Without your guidance, our Setikosi would still be juggling fire in the ministers' courtyard."
"Spare me," Horsey said, already angled to leave.
Ticklebones cackled. "You are a treasure, Horsey. Say the word, and I might consider letting you take my place as Her-Ku'am!"
"As if," Horsey muttered several paces away.
Swinebroth hesitated before trailing after his master.
"Halt, boy."
Swinebroth froze, dread curling in his stomach.
"You have yet to say a word to me for two summers since. Is that courtesy among the Setikosi now—silence?"
Swinebroth pivoted slowly, posture wooden. Ticklebones observed this lanky child who adorned the same lime green robes as the Setikosi, the same painted patterns on his face. He would recognize him anywhere, even in a crowd.
"Now then, where exactly did the two of you disappear to all afternoon?" Ticklebones asked, his tone light but his gaze piercing.
"Nowhere," Swinebroth blurted. "Certainly…not too far."
Ticklebones tilted his head, considering the boy. "No one saw you."
"Yes," Swinebroth replied too quickly, his nods almost frantic. "I am sure of it."
Ticklebones chuckled, expression softening behind the lines of jewels that hung from his headdress. "You know, Swinebroth, I did not always want to be a Setikos."
Swinebroth blinked.
"Before I donned these robes, I wanted to manage my own trading fleet." His lips twitched, eyes looking far off into the distance. Perhaps this may be the first time Swinebroth ever looked straight at it. "A good trader, you see, knows a liar when they see one."
He looked straight into Swinebroth's eyes. "And you, boy, are not a very good one."
Swinebroth swallowed hard, his mind racing. Was Ticklebones testing me or threatening me?
He could stay behind with Ticklebones—submitting to his questions, his demands for servitude—or follow Horsey, and endure another night of being ordered around, pretending the fear in his chest did not exist. Both paths were prisons of their own design. But at least with Horsey, he knew the shape of the bars.
"I will go," Swinebroth said finally, his voice steadier than he felt. "to Carnelian Hall."
He turned stiffly, feeling Ticklebones' gaze clinging to his back. As short-lived the relief was, peeling away from the edge of Ticklebones' blade led him to the shadow of the old master he was obligated to protect. Only when distance swallowed that stare did Swinebroth breathe. He lengthened his stride, slicing through the moon-washed courtyards.
His legs ached to chase after Horsey, to close the gap, but he restrained himself. He could not appear too eager.
"Do not run, boy. You are treading on borrowed ground," Horsey muttered without bothering to turn.
Swinebroth said nothing. The boy obeyed, hands burrowed into robe pockets, fingernails carving crescents into his palms. Another night under Horsey's rule. Better the devil you know, but the thought brought little comfort.
Ahead, Carnelian Hall was in view—blood-warm stone beneath a sky the color of extinguished coals. And for a single, treasonous heartbeat, Swinebroth dared imagine the luxury of a third road entirely: one beyond cages, beyond relics, beyond masters who measured worth in cunning or cost.
Imagination was never his strongest suit. An empty stomach took far better precedence in his mind, for he could only take his meals in the evening, meager and portioned. Horsey dreaded this evening banquet; Swinebroth thought it a superior luxury.