Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Fifteen: Heat

Kaal jumped to his feet before the end of the word 'fucked.' Nazir's hand immediately went to his sword by reflex and realized he'd misjudged the situation. The captain straightened, turned to Baaku, and dipped his head in a ceremonious show of respect, coming up a little too fast than one ought to have done. "Baaku Kha'a." The address was formal, if edged with something keen enough to bleed the receiver, the expression was masked aggression, held back by a thin, thin line.

It made sense, Nazir thought, removing his hand from the blade, both the respect paid and the aggression being held back. Kaal was an orann and a mere captain. Baaku, as kha'a, outranked him by at least five titles. The city was filled to the brim with White Warriors. Here, protocols were observed as strictly as any army's headquarters, if not a royal palace.

Baaku ignored the man, turned to Nazir and proceeded to make himself comfortable. "We need to talk."

That, they did. "Not here," Nazir said crisply, sweeping his eyes around the tavern, found a few Whites from his khagan watching. Across the table, Kaal was still standing, waiting for permission to sit down. Nazir turned to him and nodded.

"In private, if you don't mind," Baaku said, crisply.

Kaal straightened again halfway through reclaiming his seat and glanced at Nazir for direction. An order from a kha'a was to be respected, only there were two kha'as seated at the table whose commands contradicted each other, and he belonged to neither of their khagan.

"Sit down, captain. That is an order," he commanded without turning to look at Kaal, raised his voice a little too loud and realized more heads were turning their direction, took it down a notch. "You are not welcomed at this table. Leave, Baaku Kha'a, before I call on my men."

The formality of address should have been enough to remind Baaku where they were. The display of hostility should have been enough to bring the man to his senses. Approaching him this way was both stupid and inconsiderate. The heat between their two khagans was at its peak. They could not be seen having a conversation in public unless it was to declare war with each other. Baaku should know this. There were also a few Kamaras in that tavern, watching.

"You call them," said Baaku, lightly, nonchalantly, "and I will throw you on this table and kiss you right here, never mind who's watching. Give it a rest, Nazir. The entire desert and its stinking camels know about us. They'll talk whether or not we're talking. You might as well take that stick out of your ass and breathe for a second." He turned to look over his shoulder, pitched his voice to carry. "Any of you fucks have a problem go say goodbye to your mother and we take it outside. Yeah, you, me, and my axe. Go on, get in line."

Nazir shut his eyes, realized he needed to rope in his anger before he strangled the man to death, and began counting to ten. Didn't make it past five when the screech of three chairs from the far end of the room jerked his eyes open. The same sound, repeated within seconds by a different set of chairs, erupted in answer before he had time to look at the first.

The room went into shocked silence, as if someone had just burst in through the door and tossed a severed head in the middle of it. Nazir followed the gaze of the guests in that tavern, found three Visarya Whites whose names had slipped his mind up on their feet, sheathed sword gripped tight and ready to come out. Four tables down, five Kamaras stood, also with weapons in hand, staring at the first three. Kaal stepped protectively in front of him, fingering the pommel of his sword. Next to him, Baaku sat with both hands on the table, drumming his fingers leisurely, didn't even move a brow. The rest of the population flicked their gaze back and forth between the two tables, holding their breaths in anticipation for the fight of the week.