The answer to her question about whether he traded often in weapons was both complicated and uncomplicated. It was true that he dealt in a great many wares from time to time. However, the majority of his business was in the skin trade. Humans were easy to capture, easy to sell, and easy to move from one place to another. And even the worst one was easier to move than a bullock. He’d had a deck full of cows, once, and swore never to do it again, no matter what the price. Never again.

She was very good and sweet to slow down enough to accommodate his pace. It was somehow worse to ask it of a man. She was small and nonthreatening and he didn’t mind too terribly if she saw him in a weaker state than normal. That was just as well; he could only pretend for so long and he’d done enough of that on the way to the palati behind that guard, and then in the room with Achilleas. Now his muscles ached and he was tired and, more importantly, hungry.

The hunger only grew worse as they neared the kitchens. The air hung heavy with the scent of roasting meat and mint. He could almost taste the cool yogurt that would no doubt be drizzled over the king’s roast lamb. How well that arrogant bastard ate. Lukos had nothing so fine most of the time. Onboard ship, it was difficult to keep anything like fresh vegetables or cooked meat. Everything was dried, salted, or pickled. Even the water he drank tasted like the woody inside of a stale barrel. His mouth watered and he followed along at her side, dark eyes on the looming door of the kitchens that promised so very tasty a treat.

She laughed a little about his comment with the chicken, then rattled off several other things that he should have guessed were in there. With a palati this large, this many nobles to feed, along with servants and helping hands, it would be nigh impossible to keep them supplied with only wild game. There was probably an entire stockyard of geese, ducks, chickens, cattle, goats, sheep, quails, pheasants, and any number of other animals to keep this beast of a building satisfied. That, alongside their daily bread. The kitchen would be responsible for procuring cheeses, yogurts, wines, vegetables, fruits, seeds, nuts, along with other delicacies like honey and spices to keep the royal palettes interested. One couldn’t have the likes of Achilleas eating the same thing every day, after all. The man’s tongue would be too tender, too discerning.

Lukos, meanwhile, was pretty sure that once Sara got him into this most hallowed of place, she’d have to roll him back out again and down the hall like he was a barrel with arms and legs. ”What else is in your basket?” she asked presently. “It’s color is...quite interesting for a man.”

He lifted the basket, looking at its lurid pink surface again, considering it. “Yes,” he agreed, and then flipped back the cloth covering. “Let’s see what’s in it…” he sifted things about. The hastily re-wrapped, slightly eaten chicken. “Seems there’s a bit of cheese, some bread...grape clusters...you would think they’d have wanted dessert,” he complained, lowering the basket again and not quite answering her unasked question of where it came from.

”As an apology, I’ll help you fill that basket with plenty to take with you. I’m sure it won’t be missed.”

He was suspicious of this kindness, and narrowed his eyes at her. What did she want in return? Apologize for what, exactly? But by then they were in the doorway of the kitchens and the constant motion of the servants had him looking away from Sara. He did not miss the dumbfounded surprise on the faces of some and the closed off disapproval of others. What was a wounded, shirtless man trailing bandages and an alarmingly pink basket doing in here, in the company of Sara of Vasiliadon, no less? In fact, what were either of them doing in here?

He nodded when Sara asked if he wanted chicken. His eyes were roving from kitchen maid to kitchen maid, glowering at them every bit as darkly as they scowled at him. He was not unused to hateful looks but usually he’d done something to earn them. At this precise moment, he merely happened to be breathing air in the wrong place. Following after her, he sat where she bade him and situated himself a little more comfortably while she sought out the meat. Setting the basket down, Lukos pressed at his side again and then bundled the bandages into his lap. They were less to keep the wound closed, now, and more to give his midsection a bit of support.

Sara returned bearing meat fresh from the spit. It was still so hot that steam rose from its surface. He was not starving, just hungry, and was able to take the plate from her with a bit of decorum. ”We’ll have to be quicker than I thought. It seems your appearance doesn’t instill confidence in anyone else either.”

“It rarely does,” he said dryly. He was looking down at his plate, preparing to eat literally everything on it, and didn’t look up when she asked to touch him. Without being lulled into this false sense of security, he wouldn’t have allowed it. Out in the hall, it was too open and they could be set upon from any angle. But Sara had been clever. She’d taken him to a room with all sorts of interesting and distracting smells, sounds, and tastes. She’d placed him in a corner where his back was against stone and he was half concealed from view. They were surrounded by servants who did not like his presence but were prepared to do nothing at all about it. He was, in short, safe. Or, safe enough.

”I...am not a healer by any means, but I do know a little. We probably could make do with what they have here.” She pressed and he glanced at her with brown eyes less wary than they’d been before. He very much had the qualities of a half feral dog that had learned early on to bite first and trust less. His gaze trailed down her, from cute button nose to stubborn chin, to skinny shoulders and soft hands. She wasn’t any kind of laborer, that was for certain.

“If you want,” he finally said. Shifting gingerly on the bench to offer her his right side, she’d see the jagged stitches Neena had made over the hideously deep gouge the knife had left when his assailant had plunged it in the blessedly wrong place. Just a wee bit too much to the side. The wound still would have killed him but for the cold water he’d been immediately plunged into and the quick rescue right after by Kreios and Neena. The wound was healing and there wasn’t too much to do for it at the moment except to re-wrap his bandages.

The slice on his chest was completely closed but still angry pink and clean cut from Achilleas’s well kept sword blade. There were other silver scars and scratches and bruises from all kinds of fights and abuses and accidents that came with his line of work. His body was not, in short, like a nobleman’s might be. He lived. His skin was a dark, deep tan. He was not shut away like some caged animal. He roamed and sailed and fought and loved and plundered and did generally whatever he wanted to do. Any other way was unthinkable.

”Dessert is arguably the best part. Maybe whomever you lifted that basket from just decided to eat it first.” Sara said and Lukos frowned at that. This was something he hadn’t considered, nor had he ever done. Eat dessert first? It was true that he was a man of the world but even he knew that there was a certain order to things. Dessert first, indeed. It was as though he’d never seen noble women clearly until that moment; pretty things, gliding about like swans on a placid lake, and of course, just as liable to cause trouble. The world didn’t end because someone ate dessert first but it was jolly rude of them when he’d gone to the trouble of stealing their lunch, as though they’d known it would happen and took the best of it for themselves. Of all the nerve.

When the time came to look at his wounds, he’d noticed her flinch and it made the corners of his mouth turn up. Ah, so that was where her courage failed. It was hardly surprising, considering her situation and age. If she’d had some battle hardened reserves, he’d have had a few more questions.

”That looks pretty bad.” She said dubiously and Lukos gingerly shifted so that he could see it too.

“Oh it was.” His voice was as vague and interested as if he was agreeing that they were having exceptionally nice weather, and wasn’t it nice that rain wasn’t likely?

”I think the best I can do for it is to clean it up a little, and get it rebound, to keep the dirt out of it.” Her upturned face, with her wide eyes and adorably earnest expression so stroked his pride and vanity that he was inclined to be gentle with her as a reward for treating him as he deserved.

“I’m quite at your disposal,” he said and leaned back against the wall, intending to be no trouble to her for the time being. Sara rose from her knees and looked him dead in the eye, telling him not to move. Lukos held up his hands with a wide eyed innocence of his own, stating he’d never dream of such a thing. Move from somewhere so comfortable? While smells of meat roasting on spits and the roaring of fires on the far side of the kitchen made it so warm and drowsy? No. He’d stay right here until he was kicked out. If he could have turned into anything at that precise moment, he’d have turned into a dog so that he could curl up right by the ovens and make everyone step around him while he dozed.

He tipped his head back against the wall and watched her go through half lidded eyes. She was a funny little thing and nothing like her brother. Of course, the king was a mighty warrior and of noble breeding. It’d been beaten into his royal head not to mess with those of more common origins. Sara, it would seem, had not been taught that lesson and he was willing enough to be her pet for a little while, so long as it served or interested him to do so.

The kitchen was full of the murmur of voices, of clanking pots, knives chopping away on wooden boards. The air was rife with delicious aromas and every so often, the fire spit and sizzled. Wood snapped and logs slid against one another as they burned down into a rippling bed of orange coals. Lukos sniffed once, watched the servants long enough to realize no one was paying him the least bit of attention, and finally settled enough to doze like he’d wanted to a few seconds ago. He was still in that dreamy state when Sara returned, trailing ointments and bandages with her.

”Is it good, Lukos?”

“Hmm? Yes, no wind-” he snapped awake and blinked at her. His eyes strayed to the kitchen and then at his mostly eaten plate. “Good…” he thought for a second. “I suppose it’ll do.” Never mind that it was more delicious than anything he’d had in time out of mind. Sara held up the bandages and ointment pot to him, beaming and looking for all the world like she’d won a game.

”I got the goods.”

“Then get to work, girl,” he lifted his arm a bit to make it easier for her. There was no bite to his words and he watched her in undisguised curiosity to see how she got on. Neena had been a bit rough in her treatment of him - the sort of way physicians tended to be when they’d seen wounds like this so often that it was a matter of routine. Lukos highly doubted that Sara was out during the day mending the unapproachables. She took the lid off the jar and dipped her fingers into the poultice. He merely nodded at her when she warned him it’d sting and she was right. His jaw tightened but he said nothing while she slathered it on. As was often the way with medicines, it didn’t smell half so good as it looked.

”It’ll help keep infection out, and keep the skin soft enough so the stitches should not pull.” She went on.

“Yes, I do need baby soft skin,” he cleared his throat, frowning down at her hand as she pressed her fingers on his wound. Though he’d resolved not to complain, he did anyway with things like “Not so rough, love,” and “I’m not a horse,” or “Think we can get to those bandages now?”

Though once they did get to the bandages, he wasn’t much better. She had to deal with “That’s pretty tight, don’t you think? Perhaps unwrap it and make it less tight?” or “Are you sure this is what you’d like to do with your day?” as a way to make her leave his poor wound alone. Or “If you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask,” when they were close enough for their noses to touch if they’d moved their faces that way. Just because Lukos experienced pain on a regular basis did not mean he was patient with it.

And once the bandages were on and he was settled back against the wall, he said, “That wasn’t so bad. And you were worried.”

Lukos made a frowning, grinning expression paired with an “Oohoo” at her sass. “Kitty has claws.” For some reason, he’d kept expecting some sort of gentle nature and maybe she did have one but she had a barbed tongue, too. Nothing that offended him, though, including the bath comment. He heard that one far too often and, in cases like these when he was definitely clean, it was obviously a joke. Now, when he’d spent a month at sea and had to bathe out of a bucket of sea water? ...yeah. Yeah then he needed a proper bath. There was only so much you could do on a ship of men, rinsing the same clothes and leaving them to dry in the wind. When he stepped off the ship, he smelled of sweat and salt and usually some sort of horrible stench that plagued the slaves that came over on slaver’s ships.

Would he need a bath then? Yes. Yes he would and whenever he rolled into port, the bathhouse was the first thing he hit. The kinds of whores Lukos liked wouldn’t touch him if he was fresh off the boat and the kind that would...Lukos didn’t mess with.

He eyed the maid who brought the basin with the kind of look that told the woman to scram. Whether because she’d seen him half snoring or because he was under the care of this unassuming girl, he wasn’t sure, but the maid seemed rather unaffected by his glare and only stayed as long as she had to in any case. His eyes remained on the woman’s back as she walked away until Sara’s voice pulled his attention back.

“Have you had enough?”

“Hmm?” he frowned. That phrase held too many meanings and he waited until she clarified by nodding her head to the food. “Oh.” He looked down at it. “Not really but my stomach has.” How much of this could he fit in his picnic basket? Unfortunately Sara did not seem inclined to fill said picnic basket. Her attentions were on the jar, which she was holding up within his line of sight. Lukos glanced at it and then at her. “What?”

“I’ll give you this, if you promise to use it.” He gave her a skeptical squint. “I want your word on it...and I’ll assume your word is good, Lukos.”

“When I give it,” he hedged and then eyed the jar again. With a sigh he finally took it from her and held the jar on his lap, giving it the same mistrustful look he’d been giving her a second ago. “Fine, fine,” he glanced at her now. “I’ll use it.” Though why it or he mattered so much to her, he was beginning to seriously question. What was her angle...she had to have one. People were not this nice for no reason.

Sitting up a little, he tilted his head, considering her anew. “And what is it you want?” he finally asked. “What am I to do for you?” That was it. She’d seen him and needed some sort of favor. All this was to butter him up. Make him drop his guard until he was feeling generous and then she’d ask. Little minx. It’d worked and he was prepared to let her win whatever little game she was playing. He smirked.