Yuer went on, “Business is quite good, but I’m in need of an extra hand, as it happens. Someone to take a route from Bright Bay to Sandlaen and back. Would you happen to know of any responsible young merchants looking to take over a very profitable trade route?”
The silence hung for a moment. Dasin opened his mouth.
Too easy, Tank thought. He knew what Dasin wanted. He knew our names. This isn’t just a bad idea; it’s a flat-out trap.
“We’re signed with Venepe through Isata,” Tank said loudly, and ignored Dasin’s furious hiss.
“Ah,” Yuer said, squinting at him thoughtfully. “I didn’t realize you were a trader, s’e Tanavin. I’d been told you trained as a mercenary.” He pronounced mercenary in tones another might have used for diseased rat.
“Yeah,” Tank said, deliberately lapsing into a coarser accent. “But Dasin’s signed with Venepe too.”
Dasin glared at him.
“But all I asked,” Yuer said, smiling, “was whether you knew of anyone interested, s’e Tanavin. I’ll take that as a no.” He nodded to Wian; she rose, collected the teapot, and left the room without once looking at Tank or Dasin directly. “So nice to meet you both.”
Tank set down his untasted cup, a foul taste in his mouth. “How did you know our names?” he asked bluntly.
Yuer’s smile became even more predatory. “Good day, s’es.”
Before Tank quite realized he was moving, he found himself standing outside with Dasin, hands filled with a clumsy tangle of pack, saddlebags, and sword harness. The blond shot him a hard, hostile glare and stalked away. Behind him, the guards coughed sniggers of laughter; Tank hunched his shoulders and followed Dasin without looking back.
As he walked, the wind rummaged through his hair, as though trying to get his attention. A voice without a throat whispered: Forest. No go. Elder woman say, no go Forest. Stay on Road. It didn’t—quite—have the slick, greasy feel of one of those voices; instead, it carried a fragmented, fractured feeling to it. Where the voice in the darkness under Bright Bay hadn’t cared about knowing human speech, this voice once had understood it very well indeed—but couldn’t quite recall how to produce it any longer.
Gods, Tank thought, panic turning his skin icy for a moment. Now I have ghosts following me around... Either that, or I finally am losing my mind completely.
He tried to shift everything to one hand, to allow himself to bat at the air by his head, stupid as he knew that would look. Straps slid and weight shifted; he went down on one knee, grappling at the cascading weight of his belongings.
The low, mean laughter of the guards came to his ears clearly, and the breeze stilled for a moment. Then, abruptly, it whiffled through his hair with renewed force, whispering: Elder woman. Tee. Low. Say no go, no go, no go inside Forest... . The voice faded away along with the wind and stayed silent.
Tee Low? “Oh, hells,” he said aloud. “Teilo?”
Dasin had very nearly disappeared in the murky darkness ahead. Cursing under his breath, Tank stood, hoisted everything into an awkward armful, and hurried after him; wishing he could outrun the shivers that were settling into his very bones.
Chapter Forty-Three
The Palace lay inside a wide belt of connected gardens: Idisio cut through each one, following the often meandering paths without really seeing his surroundings. The conversation with Deiq cycled and recycled through his mind: I should have stayed on the streets; and Deiq’s prompt, unsympathetic response: You’d be dead by now.
Idisio had assumed that the trip south with Scratha had somehow triggered his heritage, but Deiq seemed certain that Idisio had been about to start changing anyway.
Like Alyea’s going to change soon. He tore his mind away from the implications of how all the desert lords had been covertly watching her — as though they expected her to throw herself at them any moment. Idisio didn’t see himself ever being that overcome by baser impulses. Not after what he’d been through. Not unless he went completely mad.
But Deiq had been positive in his response to that fear: You’re not going mad. All the changes you’re going through, however strange they may feel, are normal. Thin reassurance, but better than the gut-wrenching fear that he couldn’t trust his own mind or body in the coming days.
At least he didn’t have to worry about dying. It’s very hard to kill an adult ha’ra’ha, Deiq had said. Apparently it had taken a considerable effort, and more than a little treachery, to even damage the one beneath Bright Bay. Several desert lords, some of whom had died or gone mad in the effort... and Tank.
Now there was a name Idisio hadn’t ever expected to encounter again, for all that he’d been having visions about the redheaded boy for weeks now. He’d assumed those visions had been prompted by wondering whether there could be a connection between the big, funny sailor Red and the skinny, mad-eyed redhead he’d found huddled in a trash-filled alley years before. It still seemed an insane coincidence, even with Deiq’s careless comment that ha’ra’hain were apt to draw such connections to themselves; and Deiq’s explanation of Tank’s true purpose had left a hard, uncomfortable feeling in Idisio’s stomach ever since.
He’d been a distraction. A sacrifice. Bait.
And now they’re using me the same way: as bait to catch another mad ha’ra’ha. Just like they used Tank. And he’s dead because of it. They killed him.
Idisio wasn’t sure why that upset him so much. He’d barely known Tank; the redhead had stayed for a matter of days before the incident with Blackie—and other matters—had driven him out of Idisio’s life. So why am I having visions about him all the damn time?
They didn’t tell Tank the whole story, and they’re not telling me the whole story. Once more, so much for the vaunted status of being ha’ra’hain. I can’t even trust Deiq, apparently—he’s perfectly willing to put me out on the hook.
Idisio slowed, looking around, and found himself in an herb garden. To his left, a long, raised bed of fennel served as a feathery screen considerably taller than himself. To his right, a lower, circular raised bed overflowed with a ruddy-tinted, small-leafed sprawling plant. A stubby-legged wooden stool sat at one corner of the fennel bed. Idisio sighed and sat down on the stool. Walking wasn’t helping to sort out his thoughts.
A breeze wandered by, stroking a cloud of licorice aroma into the air; Idisio half-turned on the stool, watching the thread-thin fennel branchlets shiver and sway. There was something hypnotic about the movement, and the smell seemed to collect at the base of his spine, spreading a thick warmth along his entire back.
He inhaled deeply, smiling, his anxiety easing. When I get home, I’ll plant some fennel, he thought. Lots and lots of fennel.
What an odd thought that was! Home? What was home?
It hit him like a blow to the head: I don’t have a home any longer. Granted, a corner up out of wind and rain where he could bury his small cache, a small patch of territory he called his—that didn’t make for much of a home. But since Scratha had lifted him out of the muck into this new, strange life, he didn’t have even that much certainty of a place to stay at the end of the day. He was entirely dependent on the respect and kindness of the people around him for a bed and a bath and a meal.
He didn’t like that notion at all.
He shook his head, standing, and turned back the way he’d come. A young woman in a light blue dress was standing a hefty stone’s throw away, apparently examining a gigantic rosemary bush. She shot a quick glance at Idisio, ruining the pretense completely.
He walked toward her, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused; she ducked her head, her light skin flushing to a bright pink, as he neared.
“You’re following me,” he said.
“Yes, my lord.” She smoothed her hands across her stomach, as though to ease wrinkles from her dress, and nodded without meeting his eyes. “Lord Eredion said you oughtn’t to be left wandering about alone.” She flashed him a quick, impish smile. “So did the king.”
A su
rge of aggression brought sharp words out: “So you’re one of the spies around here?”
Her smile faded. “No, my lord,” she said. “I’m not one of the Hidden. I’m a servant, sent to keep an honored guest company.”
Idisio opened his mouth to retort that he didn’t want company—especially since, whatever the girl said, her purpose was mainly to supervise his wanderings. Then he paused, thinking about the situation more carefully. “Lord Eredion sent you after me?”
“Yes.”
The king might well have sent the girl after Idisio as a thinly disguised spy, but Eredion was a desert lord. Anada’s face and voice surfaced in Idisio’s memory. Did this girl count as kathain, in Eredion’s eyes? Would it be offensive to Eredion if Idisio sent this girl away?
Don’t flinch, Deiq had said, and: You need their respect.
He studied the girl more closely. She had rich chestnut hair curled into soft ringlets around her narrow, aristocratic face. Her dress, while it covered all the requisite skin for modesty, fitted closely enough across chest and hip to leave no doubt about the curves beneath.
She stood still under his inspection for a few moments, eyes politely downcast, then lifted her chin and met his gaze directly. He smiled, aggression fading: she reminded him of, well, himself. No point in cowering, her demeanor said clearly. Might as well stare him in the eye; he won’t respect anything else.
It amused him that she was right. “I’m Idisio,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Taci, my lord.”
“Idisio.”
She hesitated, then said, “No, my lord. Lord Eredion was quite firm about that. He said if you insisted, to say that it was a matter of northern culture and to stop arguing.”
“What else did he say?”
“That as long as I stayed honest I had nothing to fear from you,” she said promptly. “He said that you would consider treating me kindly as a sacred obligation.”
Idisio let out a long breath. Sacred. That came too close to the phrasing Anada had used. So this girl was, for all intents and purposes, kathain: well, so, Idisio wasn’t inclined to argue. He didn’t mind a bit of distraction from his sour thoughts just at the moment.
Remembering the reaction Deiq had provoked from the Peysimun servant, Idisio smiled at Taci brightly. Color flooded her neck and face as her eyes widened. His breath thickened as he took a step toward her; and in the back of his mind, so faint that he almost dismissed it as an illusion, came the sound of Deiq’s sardonic laughter.
“Lord,” Taci breathed, blinking hard as though against tears, “please, not—not here, not so—brazen. Don’t treat me as a whore.”
He stopped, his whole body suddenly icy.
She wiped a hand across her eyes, her color fading into a mottled embarrassment. “I’m sorry, lord,” she said. “I’m not refusing you, just asking for—”
“Dignity,” Idisio said. “Yes. I understand.” He swallowed hard, thinking: I don’t deserve any special status. I’m no better than those gate guards. I would have used the bench, right out in the open—
So what? Deiq said, cold and precise. If being seen troubles you, I’ll set wards to avoid interference.
Idisio met that suggestion with a ferocious No. Aloud, he said, “Let’s just—walk, then, Taci. And you can tell me—about the gardens. Or whatever interests you.”
She smiled at that, relief returning her skin to its normal pale color.
“Thank you, lord,” she said, and took his arm in a carefully proper manner. “As it happens, I do know a bit about these gardens....”
So you care about the feelings of the humans around you, Deiq observed. Lovely. I care about the economic and political stability of the humans around me, as it happens; and the tath-shinn threatens all of that. I’d put myself out on the hook if I thought it would work, Idisio; but the tath-shinn is interested in you, not me. So get your nose out of the air, take the girl on the damn bench, and clear your mind for the night’s work ahead. It’s not going to be pleasant, however it turns out.
Idisio set his teeth together and said aloud, “What’s that flower there called, Taci?”
Deiq snorted and withdrew; as Taci began to chatter cheerfully about plants, Idisio drew a thick block across his mind, a refusal to hear anything else Deiq might have to say.
Chapter Forty-Four
The inn where Venepe and his mercenaries had booked their rooms was quite probably the cheapest in town: a wooden building, its walls and floors gapped and warped with age and humidity. The doors were as crooked as the rest of the place, so light—and shouting—came through clearly.
Tank leaned against the wall to the right of Venepe’s door, arms crossed, and stared bleakly into the light-striped darkness of the hallway around him. Dasin had been right to order him to stay outside, galling as the submission had been; Tank would have long since planted a fist in the fat merchant’s face for a few of the more lurid comments that had drifted out through the cracks.
The shouting was mostly on Venepe’s part, so far, but Dasin’s voice was rising steadily.
Something moved in the darkness. Tank straightened, one hand going to his belt knife; too crowded here for a sword to be of any use at all. One foot brushed against his pack and saddlebags. He moved a step away from the trip hazard, squinting at the approaching figure.
“Rat?” he guessed.
“Yes.” The big mercenary stopped a pace out of arm’s reach. “Heard the shouting. Dasin?”
“Yes.” Tank hesitated, then said, awkwardly, “Breek and Frenn?”
“Mad as hell, but they’ll live. Don’t turn your back on them anytime this side of the Black Gates.” Rat paused, then said, “Be best if you didn’t continue on with us, though. Same with Dasin.”
“I know,” Tank said, and resisted the impulse to apologize. It would only make things worse. “Dasin’s trying to get me to sign with Yuer.”
Rat said nothing for a long moment. In the pauses between the moments of shouting, Tank could hear his breath whistling between his teeth. At last, he said, “Bad notion to draw his attention. I’d stay out of that yard.”
“Dasin’s already dragged me over there,” Tank said. “We’re just back from talking with him, in fact.”
“He made you a offer?”
“Not in so many words, but yes.”
“Then you’re in it,” Rat said. “Your boy’s a damn fool, and you’re stuck.” He paused, apparently listening to the argument going on inside Venepe’s room. “Good and friendly gods. Is that little ta-neka actually trying to convince Venepe that he’s worth keeping around because he’s smarter than Venepe?”
“Yes.”
“What a fucking idiot.”
“Yes.”
Rat shook his head, the motion barely visible in the dim light. “You might as well sign with Yuer,” he said, “because Venepe won’t have you back, and he’s not going to keep Dasin around either, at this point. And at least under Yuer’s hand, you won’t have Breek and Frenn coming after you.”
A heavy feeling settled in the pit of Tank’s stomach. “Why not?”
“Nobody touches Yuer’s people,” Rat said. “He owns this town, damn near. Most of the Coast Road, too, at the end of the day.” He paused, as though listening to the much quieter conversation for a moment, then added, “We may not carry that pretty little wooden coin, but we’re not stupid.”
Tank winced. “I’m sorry,” he said before he could stop himself. “I really didn’t mean to say that to Breek. I really didn’t.”
“But you did,” Rat said without any sympathy. “Keep in mind, you mouth off to Yuer—he don’t scrap or posture. He kills you.” He paused and seemed to be regarding Tank thoughtfully. “Doubt you’ll make it a full tenday under his hand.”
“That ought to make Breek happy,” Tank said sourly. “I’m sure you’ll all lay wagers on—”
The door jerked open and Dasin stormed out, nearly crashing into Tank.
“Let’s go,
” he snapped. His pack was looped carelessly over one shoulder. “I’ve got your pay.”
Rat melted away into the darkness, silent as a shadow; but Tank could feel the big man’s grin boring into his back as he followed Dasin out of the inn.
“This tea,” Yuer said, “is a lovely white rose hip from the edge of the Ugly Swamp. I find it helps my digestion and eases stress.” The wrinkles around his mouth moved as though he were smiling.
“Merchant Venepe has—” Dasin began; Yuer raised a withered hand, shaking his head.
“No business yet,” he said mildly. “Tea first. One cup each.” He lifted his own cup and took an ostentatious sip, his gaze steady on Tank’s face.
Tank leaned forward and collected the small cup of nearly colorless liquid. All three sipped without speaking for a few moments. The dark-haired girl sat mute and motionless, staring at nothing in particular. Tank didn’t need any warning that he had to ignore her for the moment.
He won’t scrap. He’ll kill you.
Tank sipped tea and kept hands and shoulders relaxed. The tea held a delicate perfume that seemed to rise from the back of his throat into his nose, reminding him of sunny days and lush flowers. Dasin’s breathing steadied and lengthened, his nerves visibly settling.
Yuer watched them from under drooping eyelids. While the ruin of his face generally made expression hard to read, Tank suspected the old man was tremendously amused by the situation.
He knew. Somehow, he knew we’d be forced into his service.
Wian slipped from her chair, collecting and refilling empty cups one by one. When everyone had a fresh cup of tea in their hands, Yuer took a ceremonial sip, then said, “Now. What brings you back to my door, barely an hour after I asked you to leave?”
While his tone remained polite, the underlying danger put a razor edge on the words. Dasin shot a quick sideways glance at Tank, then dipped his chin toward his chest and said, “We talked it over, and we’d like to sign with you after all. I’ve ended my contract with Venepe.”
Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) Page 27
