“Uh....” He squinted at her, his vague acceptance of everything around him fading. He looked around, drawing on a lifetime of walking through Bright Bay in every kind of weather. His vision clarified. They stood in a pouring rain, one of the worst winter storms he’d seen in a while; a vicious wind was whipping around what street trash hadn’t been soaked immobile by the rain. What they were doing walking in this mess, Idisio couldn’t understand. Perhaps they were on their way to hire a coach.
He said, hopefully, “Are we going to the caravan yards?”
“No.” The woman tugged at his arm, but Idisio set his heels and refused to move. “We’re going home.”
“This is home,” he said, and backed up a step, clarity seeping into his mind. “Who the hells are you? How did I get—”
“You’re in danger here,” she said sharply, lunging to sink her fingers into his forearm.
He dodged, jerking away, and backed up several more hasty steps. Instinct turned a step back sideways and into a full-scale sprint. Buildings blurred by with unprecedented speed; a half-dozen heartbeats later, he went sprawling and tumbling across wet ground.
The tath-shinn loomed over him, hissing like an enraged goose. Idisio bounded to his feet, ignoring aches and scrapes, and launched into another run—
—his muscles froze. Off-balance, he stood on the edge of toppling for a stretched moment of terror. Then the tath-shinn stood beside him, steadying him; she patted his arm gently.
“Time to go home, love. Come, Idisio. Come with me. This way. That’s right... Good boy.”
He shuffled into motion again, his mind turning to a blank grey fog, content in the secure and absolute knowledge that she would take care of everything.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“She ought to ride in front,” Dasin said, squinting at their horses as though he knew what he was looking at. They were big, black beasts, with fine lines; Tank would have wagered with gold that they had once lived in a nobleman’s stables. “She won’t be able to hop off and run that—”
“She’s not going to run, you godsdamned ta-neka idiot,” Tank snapped.
Dasin turned a ferocious glare on him. “Don’t you talk to me like that!”
Tank grinned unpleasantly.
“Get on your horse, Dasin,” he said. “Then tell me, if she sits in front, who’s controlling the situation?”
Dasin glanced at the looming bulk of the horses, studying the lay of stirrup and saddle horn. “All right,” he said, “fine. You didn’t need to be rude about it.”
“So fire me,” Tank said, and turned to Wian, ignoring Dasin’s simmering irritation. “S’a, the saddles look to be big, but you’ll still have a tight fit. Best you sit with Dasin; he’s skinnier.”
She glanced at Dasin, then shook her head, moving three steps closer to Tank.
Tank sighed, not surprised at all.
After some scrambling, she sat pressed close behind him, which wouldn’t have been entirely unpleasant except for her occasional faint hisses of pain.
“Sounds like you shouldn’t even be riding,” Tank said over his shoulder. She tucked her forehead against his back and shook her head, then pushed the palm of one hand lightly against his lower back. He understood the signals: No, I shouldn’t, but let’s get moving anyway.
It was too much like the subtle sign language he’d grown up with for comfort, and he almost balked right then and there, unwilling to have anything to do with this increasingly distasteful matter. But Dasin scrambled into his own saddle and said, “Well, if she’s hurting, that makes her less likely to run, doesn’t it?”
“She’s not going to run,” Tank said.
“Why not? You’re the one said she doesn’t want to go back.”
Tank shook his head and nudged his horse into motion. As they clattered out onto the main road leading west, he said, “Why didn’t you ever run, Dasin? Why didn’t I?”
Dasin’s glare could have melted glass. “Tank.”
Wian stirred against his back, but didn’t say anything.
“You saw those guards same as I did, Dasin,” Tank said, staring straight ahead. “What kind of home do you think she’s going back to?”
“Shut it,” Dasin said sharply. “Shut it, Tank.”
Tank turned his head a little and spoke over his shoulder. “Are you going to run? I’ll look the other way if you do.”
He could feel her sigh. She laid her head down against his shoulder without replying.
“She won’t run,” Tank said, flicking a glare of his own at Dasin. “We could toss her off the horse and kick her to get away from us, and she’d walk right on back to Bright Bay on her own.”
Dasin, white-faced and taut as a drawn bow, was the one to stare straight ahead this time. “Loon,” he said. “Fucking loon. Shut up already. Shut up.”
Tank felt an agreeing prod to his left shoulder. He shrugged and let the silence settle in for a time.
The rising sun did little to take the chill from the air. Even though her cloak was a thick felted fabric, Wian shivered almost continually, her hands tucked up into her armpits, and leaned hard against Tank’s back.
He glared ahead and resisted with all his might the impulse to dismount, tuck his own cloak around Wian, and stroke her hair reassuringly. He couldn’t afford to do that. He couldn’t afford to care. His treacherous thoughts ran with that idea and looked backwards: had any of the handlers in the katha village ever wanted to offer comfort to their—? No.
Think on that too much and he’d cross the border into madness in short order.
It’s the past, he told himself. And she could say a word, one single word, and I’d—what? Run away with her, kill Yuer, kill the family waiting for her in Bright Bay? He had no better options at the moment than to keep moving forward along this road. Captain Ash might be able to find a way out of the mess Dasin had put them into, but Tank already knew without asking that Dasin wouldn’t leave Yuer’s service.
I ought to quit, take Wian off somewhere, try to convince her it’s stupid to go back—but she wouldn’t listen.
He’d seen that look in too many eyes while growing up: the certain, blank knowledge that there was nothing else, no other road, no other option. He’d probably worn that stare himself, before his removal to Aerthraim Fortress. No. She wouldn’t listen.
“You ought to run,” he muttered over his shoulder, unable to stop himself. “I’d help, damnit.”
Her head moved in slow negation against his back.
“Can’t change the world,” she murmured, so softly he barely heard her.
“You can change your world,” he retorted.
She shook her head again and made no other reply.
They rode into Obein as dusk made the path hard to see, and booked one room at Cida’s Haven for all three of them. The innkeeper, a stocky woman, squinted at them thoughtfully.
“Didn’t I see you just pass through, the other way, with Venepe?” she asked.
Her attention lingered on Wian. A frown deepened the lines on her face.
“We took another contract,” Tank said. He resisted the urge to tell the innkeeper that he and Dasin hadn’t been the ones to put the fading bruises on Wian’s face.
The woman nodded and handed over a room key. Tank felt her hard stare on the back of his neck for some time afterwards, even when they’d turned past her line of sight.
“You hungry?” Dasin asked as they tucked their packs and saddlebags under the two narrow beds.
Tank shook his head and sat on the edge of a bed, suddenly too exhausted to even speak clearly. “You g’n,” he managed. “You go.”
“Huh,” Dasin said, and glanced at Wian. After a moment, he added, with clear reluctance, “You hungry?”
She shook her head and sat on the edge of the other bed.
“Give me the money for a meal, then,” Dasin said, his face settling into sullen lines.
She lifted a blank, exhausted stare to him, apparently bewildered; then, sha
king her head a little, dug in her belt pouch and tossed him a single silver coin. Dasin caught it, scowling.
“More’n that,” he said.
“That’s enough for a meal, Dasin,” Tank said wearily, rousing from his half-sleep.
“Not unless I want rat shit in the soup! This is Obein, not Kybeach, Tank. A decent meal costs more, and after all day on the road I want a meal.”
Wian motioned listlessly at Tank with one hand, as though to say: It’s not important, never mind. She reached into her belt pouch and tossed Dasin another silver round.
“Thank you,” Dasin said heavily, and stalked out the door without looking back.
Tank kicked off his boots, peeled off stockings, and flopped back on the bed. As his eyes slid shut, he thought he heard the girl say something.
His muscles twitched in a futile effort to sit up and look at her. He couldn’t move past the crashing weariness. His whole body hurt, especially thighs, shoulders, and calves. The notion of getting back on the horse in the morning made overtaxed muscles twitch in protest. Behind closed lids, his eyes rolled uncontrollably for a moment. He hadn’t been this tired since Allonin’s intense training sessions.
Whatever she wanted, it would have to wait.
Sometime later, a faint whimpering noise woke him. He pushed up onto one elbow and squinted into the darkness, listening: grunts, heavy breathing, the shifting of mattress and blankets. And the occasional, stifled whimper or yelp from Wian.
“You fucking ta-neka,” he said, already moving. His bare feet hit the cold floor; he lurched two steps, reached, grabbed what felt like a shoulder, and shoved.
Blankets thrashed. Tank sensed Dasin rising up, swinging blind and hard. He threw up his own hand, turned the blow aside, grabbed Dasin’s forearm and yanked hard. Dasin thudded onto the floor, cursing. Pillows and blankets scattered.
The smell of wine hung heavy in the air: Dasin had spent the extra coin on drink, not food.
Tank leapt backwards, misjudged the amount of room and tripped over his own bed. He managed to turn the fall into a graceless sideways roll that put the bed between them.
Only the sound of Dasin’s angry panting broke the silence. Nobody moved. Tank crouched behind the shielding bed, listening, straining his eyes to see through the dark.
“What’s the matter with you?” Dasin said at last, hoarsely. “You want some for yourself, you could have asked.”
Tank’s hands clenched. “Dasin,” he said, “I know you like to run rough, but with her? How could you?”
“She asked for it,” Dasin snapped. “Crawled under the covers and grabbed. She’s a whore, Tank.” His tone shifted to a sour amusement. “She’s a pretty good one, too.”
Tank held a number of responses silent. “Wian,” he said, trying for a level tone and almost managing. “Come here. Please.”
A faint shifting sound, a curse from Dasin: “Go on, then, damnit!”; and Tank could smell her approaching, moving tentatively through the dark room. She smelled like roses and dirt and arousal. He bit his tongue and gave silent thanks for the darkness.
“Get in the bed, Wian,” Tank said, not moving. “I’ll take the floor.”
He barely managed not to say the thoughts thundering through his mind.
Dasin muttered something, then blankets shsshed as he dragged them back over himself. Wian sighed as she settled into the warmth Tank had left behind. He let out a long breath and knelt beside his pack to dig out his rain-cloak; at least it might shield him somewhat from the chill of the floor.
“I was stupid,” she said in a near-whisper.
He stopped and stared at the barely darker spot where the bed stood. “What?”
“It’s why I’m in this mess,” she said. “I was stupid. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. And then it all got... out of hand. What Dasin did—wasn’t anything. Not to me. Not... not really.”
“See?” Dasin said. “Whore.”
“Shut it,” Tank said, biting the words off.
“I... I knew what he would do,” Wian went on. “And I don’t... I don’t mind so much.”
“I mind,” Tank said frostily.
“That’s because you’re too scared of women to really let loose and—” Dasin began.
“Dasin.” Tank glared through the darkness. Dasin fell silent.
“Thank you for caring,” Wian said, nearly whispering the words. “Please—don’t sleep on the floor because of me. It’s too cold for that. Please—”
Dasin snorted and said loudly, “Yeah, right. That’s what she told me. ‘I’m so cold, the floor is so cold.’ Then she grabbed my crotch and offered to help keep me warm if I let her stay. Go ahead, Tank, climb in bed with her. I’ll be listening to you riding her next!”
“Dasin,” Tank said, keeping his tone mild only because letting the anger into his voice would end with him charging across the room, “if you don’t shut up, you won’t walk, let alone fuck, for six months. I promise.”
Dasin made a disgusted noise and jerked blankets closer around him.
Tank stood quietly for a moment, considering the chill of the floor under his feet, thinking about how damn warm the bed had been.
“I’ll take the floor,” he said at last.
Nobody argued this time, although Wian gave what might have been a disappointed sigh.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The damp brought out insects: they flittered past on multicolored wings, settled in Ellemoa’s hair, crawled along her son’s shirt. She brushed away anything that could sting and let the rest be unless they crossed her face.
I have my son back. And they were clear of Bright Bay, clear of the madness that infested those streets. She could breathe properly, it seemed, for the first time since her precipitious departure from Arason.
A land bird with a fat body and skinny legs erupted from the brush to her right and ran recklessly in front of them. She watched it go, smiling; swasson, her son said drowsily.
She turned a startled glance on him. His eyes remained hazed and his gait remained under her control: still, it was worrying that he’d been able to perceive the bird, let alone remark on it. She thickened and tightened the layers of compulsion. He sighed a little, subsiding, a vague frown crossing his face.
Ellemoa bit her lip and glanced west: a light carriage rumbled toward them at a steady, early-morning pace. Beyond the carriage, dense black clouds obscured the towers and turrets of Bright Bay; she’d pitched the storm to stay over the central area of the city until she was well clear. It would take days for the torrential downpour to ease. To the east, empty road bent around a tall mass of trees and vanished from sight.
Kybeach, her son said: faint, fuzzy, but nonetheless alarming.
“I’m weaker than I thought,” she muttered aloud, and drew her son to the side of the road, watching the carriage approach with a sharp calculation. One driver on the bench, and—she focused vision and sight alike—one passenger, dozing within the carriage itself. Not a merchant’s vehicle, but a private, headed for a visit somewhere along the Coast Road.
The horse, a splotchy black and grey beast, began to balk as the carriage drew near. The driver swore and shook the reins, tapped with the whip; the beast planted its feet and refused to continue, tilting and tossing its head to keep a wary eye on Ellemoa.
“Clear out, then, you!” the driver called out, motioning Ellemoa aside. “The beast don’t like your smell, maybe. Whatever, you move yourself aside, I’ve no quarrel with you. Get aside, get aside!”
Two humans would be more than enough to restore her strength, and the horse would suit for riding—her son knew how to ride. He could teach her.
She set her son aside, commanding him without words to stay put, and took a single step forward.
His hands locked around her upper arms from behind. No, he said, very definitely. No.
She spun, badly frightened now, and searched his face for any trace of awareness: but the blank stare and clouded mind remained undisturbed. Tha
t protest had come from deep within him, from a consciousness that knew very well what she’d been about to do—and rejected it utterly.
Her breath caught and shuddered in her chest. She remembered, with abrupt clarity, the refusal of her lover to harm the humans to save her; remembered that he’d chosen to save the child rather than save her; remembered that her son had been among the humans his entire conscious life.
“Move aside, move aside!” the driver howled, shaking his whip at her in clear threat. Too rattled and anxious to take issue with the disrespect, she pulled her son clear of the road, deep into a thin spot of brush, and allowed the carriage to pass undisturbed. The horse broke into a gallop and charged by without pause, eyes white and nostrils flared; the driver shot a brief, dark glare into the brush where she’d withdrawn.
When the road lay empty once more under the rapidly blushing morning light, she steered her son back to an eastward path.
“So you don’t want me to hurt the humans,” she murmured as they walked, considering, and stole rapid glances at his slack face. “That’s going to complicate matters, son. It’s a very long journey to Arason, I think, even for us.” She mulled it over for a time, then sighed deeply and said, “For you, son—for you. I’ll try. To make you happy, I’ll restrain myself until you’re ready to understand. For you.”
“Kybeach,” he said aloud, the word so slurred as to be almost unrecognizable.
“What about Kybeach, son? Oh—you want to stop there?” She glanced back at the dark clouds obscuring Bright Bay on the western horizon. “Well—it should be safe enough. Yes, son, we’ll stop in Kybeach. I’ll allow you a human meal and a human rest, to set your mind at ease, and then we’ll go on.”
“Send word. Send. Send word.”
“Send word to who? Oh—those men I rescued you from? No, son, no, there’s no good can come of letting them know where we are. No, you don’t want to contact them. You don’t want to contact them.”
“Send. Send. Send. Word. Word. Send.”
She stopped walking and studied his taut face, frowning. “No, son,” she said. “No. Bad idea, son. No.”
Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) Page 29
