Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3)

by Leona Wisoker

“I’m your mother,” she said with fond patience. “You’ve had a nasty knock to the head, son, and you keep forgetting things; but I’m your mother, and I’m taking you home. Come, now, we’ve a ways to go yet.”

  Something didn’t feel quite right about that explanation. His intuition felt muddy and stifled for the first time in his life, but he knew that quivery chill across his lower back all too well: danger.

  “My mother?” he said. “I don’t have a mother. Or a father. I grew up—alone.” Memory cleared as he spoke, certainty solidifying as to his own background.

  “You grew up alone,” she agreed. “But you’re not alone any longer. I’m here, and I’m taking you to your father.”

  She pulled at his arm. He set his feet and refused to move; her eyes narrowed in disapproving startlement when she couldn’t budge him.

  “Wait,” he said. “Wait. This isn’t right. Who are you?”

  “I’m your mother,” she said. “Don’t you remember? We already spoke about this.”

  He rubbed at his eyes, frantically searching memory; came up with a fragmentary recall of her standing against the backdrop of a sunlit window, looking tired and old. No, he’d said, despairing, accepting.

  “Yes,” he said slowly now. “I suppose—I do. But—”

  “We’re going to Arason, as you wanted,” she said. “I’m taking you to Arason, where you wanted to go. It’s your home, you know—that’s where you were born, and where your father is, and where all the answers you’re looking for can be found. But we need to keep moving to get there, son. We need to go.”

  His muscles rippled with the force of that command. He held still and glared at her defiantly.

  “No,” he said. Don’t flinch, someone had said recently. He let determination fill his body, refusing to show fear.

  You don’t get to order me around, he said, as he would have to Deiq; the words fell flat against a pervasive grey haze. Switching to speech, he said it aloud instead.

  She squinted at him, lips thin; then she smiled. It was a horrible rictus of a grin, the expression of someone who had forgotten what good humor was really about. She said, “Are you hungry, son? If there’s a clean place to eat nearby, you can rest and recover your wits a bit, and we can talk.”

  His stomach rumbled immediate agreement. Idisio hesitated: he didn’t trust this woman, mother or not, but gods he was hungry all of a sudden.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go get something to eat. And you can explain what’s going on.”

  “Of course,” she said, and steered him into motion again. “But only if we can find decent food and clean rooms. Kybeach was so—so sad.”

  “We already went through Kybeach?” He looked around, bewildered, nearly dizzy with the need to fix his location to at least some degree. A massive pine tree stood not far ahead, on the left side of the path; its drooping lower branches had been trimmed sharply back from the road, presumably to allow travelers to pass without facefuls of needles.

  He remembered that tree. Remembered his horse veering, inexplicably, into the tree. Remembered Cafad Scratha laughing fit to fall off his horse as Idisio struggled to bring his recalcitrant beast under control.

  Obein. They were approaching Obein. His whole body relaxed.

  “Obein is a good place,” he said. “They’ll have good food and clean rooms.”

  “I’ll judge that, son,” she said sharply. “You don’t know good from bad, at your age.”

  He blinked, startled at the sudden change in her demeanor.

  “I’m not that young!” he said, then hesitated, frowning. “How old am I?” His mother, certainly, ought to know the answer to that.

  She stared at him for a long moment, her brow creasing. “Too young for proper sense,” she said at last, her confusion clearing into brisk command. “Come along. We’ll find you some food and a nice rest. And we’ll talk. I’ll explain. And you’re so hungry, I can hear your stomach.”

  As if on cue, his stomach rumbled again, and the haze of hunger and weariness increased. Questioning or arguing with her simply didn’t seem useful. He shrugged away a pointless surge of anger and trotted after his mother, hoping that whatever Obein tavern they settled into would have warm biscuits—and not at all sure where that thought had come from.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The Fool’s Rest Tavern sat, tidy and compact, on a small corner of land just inside the westernmost of the Gates. From the outside, it looked like a sleepy, conservative place to get a good drink in a clean mug or glass. Neatly trimmed hedge-bushes flanked the single door, and the bright blue paint on the wooden walls was fresh and crisp.

  Tank stepped ahead as they approached the tavern and opened the door, holding it for Wian and Dasin to pass through; Wian expressionless, Dasin sullen.

  “Now you show manners?” Dasin muttered as he passed.

  “I think she deserves it, don’t you?” Tank retorted in as low a voice. Dasin didn’t answer.

  They stepped into a large, wood-floored room. Sunlight flooded down from narrow glass windows high overhead and wide ones set lower to the ground. The amount of fine glass alone indicated the massive amount of wealth passing through this seemingly simple building; more than a whorehouse would reasonably bring in, if that were the only trade in question.

  A sour taste began building in the back of Tank’s mouth.

  Several round tables stood in a ring around the center, which had been left clear; for dancing, Tank guessed. From that perimeter to the edges of the room were rectangular bench seats, their length set parallel to the walls. The back wall boasted a well-filled wine rack and a series of sturdy shelves on which more potent liquors lined up in variously colored bottles and jugs. No rough mugs here: the drinkware was all cast from fine silver or glass.

  A desultory dice game rattled at one of the tables, the four players heavy-eyed and quiet. The dice were a fine blackwood marked out with divots of a paler wood, and had probably cost more than Tank would have spent on a week’s lodging.

  From his spot behind a long, polished table by the shelves and racks of drink, the thin, narrow-faced barkeep squinted at them sourly.

  “Welcome back,” he said without enthusiasm, then pointed to a curtained-off doorway past the end of the bar. “Seavorn’s waiting on you.”

  Wian froze, staring at the barkeep; her breath hitched. “Geil?” she said. “Seavorn?”

  The barkeep—presumably Geil—grinned.

  “Dincha know, sweet?” he said. “Owner of this place didn’t make it through the Purge, an’ he was kind enough to sign it over to his dear friend Kippin just afore he was marked out. A few others did the same, by pure chance.” He tilted his head, his grin widening. “Did you actually think you was clear of us? Not in this city, sweet. Not nowheres in this city. Not now, for sure.”

  “But he said—” She stopped and shut her eyes.

  “You thought Yuer was sendin’ you to allies as could stand up against us? Aw, now, that’s a shame. Dreadful, innit, when men lie to pretty girls like you?”

  Wian let out a low whine, as though her throat had suddenly grown too tight for breath.

  “Wian,” Tank said under his breath. She shook her head without looking at him, lifted her chin, and walked to the curtained doorway without apparent hesitation; but he noticed her hands were clenched into tight fists.

  “You two wait a bit,” Geil said, and pointed to a bench near the curtain. “Sit. Seavorn will call you in when he’s ready to talk to you.”

  The gamblers hadn’t looked up from their game even once.

  As he and Dasin sat down, Tank found himself very aware of how close Dasin had chosen to settle; close enough for the scent of the rough soap Dasin used, not to mention the sweat and dirt of a day’s riding, to fill Tank’s nose. Wian’s comment of the night before rolled treacherously through his mind. You want him... You called for him twice.

  He edged sideways a little, trying to make it a casual movement. Dasin’s instant glare said
he’d failed.

  “You stink too, you know,” Dasin snapped.

  Geil glanced toward them with a distinct smirk of amusement. Tank looked away, his gaze roving around the tavern for a few moments, then settled on staring at his hands.

  It seemed like an endless stretch of time before the curtain drew aside and Wian beckoned to them, her face dead white and her hands trembling more than a little. Walking past her without comment took a tremendous effort of will.

  The long, narrow room behind the curtain was obviously intended as a storeroom. Barrels and jugs, racks of spare goblets and bottles, cleaning supplies, and all the miscellanea of a busy tavern lined the walls, leaving little room for the small rectangular table tucked into the back corner. Behind the table sat a short, dark-haired man wearing finely tailored clothes and a smug smirk. He managed to lounge in his simple chair, and made no attempt to rise as Dasin and Tank came to a halt in front of the table.

  “You’ve offered her freedom,” he said without preamble, nodding past them.

  Dasin made a faintly strangled sound. Tank reflexively glanced over his shoulder and found Wian standing, her back to them, near the curtained entrance to the main room.

  “Oh, she didn’t tell me. I can tell by the way you looked at her as you came in. I’m a fair judge of character.” His eyes narrowed, his gaze switching between them. “Obviously she refused, and that’s wise; she knew what she was dealing with. You don’t. I don’t want you to have any more contact with her after today. Is that clear? Not a word, not a touch, not a glance. And if she disappears on me of a sudden, I’ll be calling for the two of you to answer for it.”

  Dasin stared straight ahead, jaw rigid, and said nothing. Tank studied the ceiling and said without inflection, “Yuer said you have a package of rare spices for us to bring back to him. Is it ready?”

  “Spices,” the man repeated, and laughed a little. “Rare spices? Yes. I have the package ready.” He chuckled again.

  Tank lowered his stare to the man’s face. The man’s amusement faded, his expression chilling to a harsher cast.

  “Don’t tangle with me, boy,” the man said softly. “Name’s Seavorn. Remember it. Ask around what happens to those as cross me. I’m Yuer’s ally, for the moment; that doesn’t mean I won’t kill you soon as see you if you annoy me. Giving me Wian was a goodwill gesture on his part; sending the spices is a goodwill gesture on mine. They don’t need to be carried by you, and believe me when I say Yuer won’t miss either of you a bit.”

  Tank blinked and dropped his gaze to the floor. Dasin cleared his throat, then said, “I’m not inclined to get into a tangle of politics at the moment, s’e Seavorn. I’m aiming to handle a trade route for trader Yuer, nothing more, with Tank here as my guard. Your arrangements with Yuer are your own business; but if you have any complaint against Tank, now or future, that needs to go through me. I’m the one holds his contract, and he’s sworn out through the Freewarrior’s Guild here in town as well, so there’s Captain Askhis to deal with.”

  Tank shut his eyes briefly, grateful that Dasin had at least been careful to pronounce the name with the proper inflection. He’d always found it safer to say Captain Ash, himself; a decision the dour captain encouraged among his hires.

  “He doesn’t worry me,” Seavorn said. “And neither do you.” He stood and offered them a bright, unpleasant smile. “I’ll give you the box only because it’s Yuer you answer to if anything goes wrong; I’m clear of responsibility for the mistakes of his own messengers. If I sent my own man, I’d be liable if he went off course. You two aren’t my problem.”

  He reached to the back of a shelf near his right hand and pulled out an ornate box slightly larger than Tank’s fist. Setting it on the table, he looked at Dasin and Tank, the mean smirk reappearing.

  “This box is sealed,” he said, pointing to a band of braided leather strips wrapped around the center of the box and a thick coating of wax along the rim and hinges. “Don’t open it. Don’t let it get wet. Don’t crush it. And don’t turn it over to any guards or allow it to be stolen. Yuer probably mentioned all of that, but no harm repeating his instructions. The value of this box is rather higher than I think either of you would like to repay.”

  “What’s inside?” Dasin said, still staring straight ahead. “Need to know what I’m transporting, s’e. For the gate tax.”

  “Spices,” Seavorn said, “what else? And you’re an ass and a fool for even thinking of declaring that.” He cocked his head to the side, studying their faces, then shrugged and added, “If you’re that intent on putting your neck in a noose, declare it as salt.”

  “Salt,” Dasin said flatly. “How is that a dangerous thing to declare?”

  “You’ve a lot to learn,” Seavorn said. “That there is a damn fine batch of Horn salt—with no southern gate tax mark. That might cause the eastern gate some concern, but that’ll be on your neck, not mine.”

  “You’re asking me to carry smuggled goods?”

  “It slipped someone’s mind to declare it,” Seavorn said, grinning unpleasantly. “Understandable mistake, really. But if that makes you wet yourself—as I said—you don’t have to be the ones carrying it.”

  That hung in the air for a few moments. Then Dasin said, still not looking directly at Seavorn, “Thank you for explaining, s’e Seavorn. We’d best be going. It’s a long trip back to Sandsplit, and we’ll be wanting an early start in the morning.”

  Seavorn snorted. “Take it,” he said, pushing the box forward, “and you cease to be my problem for a good few days, and hopefully longer.”

  Dasin stood rock-still for a long, taut breath, staring at the wall past Seavorn’s head; then, in a graceful movement, scooped up the box and tucked it into his belt pouch.

  “Gods hold you gently, s’e,” he said.

  Seavorn rolled his eyes. “Save the blessing for those as believe,” he said. “My view, either they don’t exist or they’re nothing I’d be willing to pay service to, given the job they’ve done handling matters so far.”

  “What parting words do you use, then?” Dasin said distantly.

  “I generally find that a kick upside the arse suffices for anyone horsey enough to expect parting words,” Seavorn said.

  Dasin turned sharply and strode from the room without further comment. Tank followed on his heels, and kept his gaze straight ahead as he passed Wian’s rigidly still form.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Wide, low-silled windows, shutters closed against the evening chill, stood above raised beds filled with herbs and flowers, many withering down as the growing season drew to an end. A large rosemary bush stood as proud welcome near the front door of the inn; beside the rosemary, a brightly painted sign read “Cida’s Haven.”

  Idisio stared at the sign, trying to figure out why it looked so familiar.

  “I’ve been here before. I think. Why can’t I remember anything?”

  “That’s the knock on the head again, love,” his mother said, looking a little anxious for some reason. “You’re all muddled, you poor thing.”

  The front door opened and a plump woman came out, a lit longmatch in hand. Idisio’s mother startled back a step, hissing a little; the woman cast her an odd glance, then set the match to the lantern hanging ready by the door. As it flared into warm light, the plump woman shook out the longmatch and secured the cover. Then she turned her attention to them, a frown creasing her face.

  “Now, you look familiar,” she said, nodding at Idisio. “Didn’t you come through this way with that great looming noble lord of yours? And took Riss with you when you went. I’m not liable to forget that kindness! She’s a good girl. Is she well?”

  Idisio’s grey bewilderment cleared instantly. Riss. Sweaty stablehand in the moonlight, a stubborn jaw and a black sense of humor—

  “Yes,” he said. “She’s doing very well. She’s going to be an ambassador to a noble southern Family.”

  “Ah, well, that’ll keep her occupied until you ge
t back to her, then,” the woman nodded. She beamed at Idisio’s mother. “And who’s this, now? Another noble you’re escorting along the way to somewhere?”

  Idisio’s mother went very still, eyes widening. “A noble?” she whispered, scarcely audible. One hand crept to the base of her throat. “Me?”

  “Ah, well, you have that look, you know,” the innkeeper said. “You’ll want a room for the night? You look exhausted. Been walking all day, I imagine? I’ve one single-bed room to the west and one two-bed to the east, if you want private; two four-beds on the west with a spot open in each. More for the private rooms, of course, but I’ll cut the price from this one’s kindness to Riss. She deserved more care than her own family gave her, to be sure—”

  “Private room,” Idisio’s mother said, firmly cutting off the woman’s friendly babbling.

  The innkeeper nodded, apparently not in the least offended. “Well, then—dawn in your face, or do you sleep in?”

  “Sunlight,” Idisio’s mother said. “Sunlight.” She hesitated; with care, as though the word were unfamiliar to her, added, “Please.”

  “Well, of course,” the innkeeper said. “Right this way.” She ushered them inside, humming to herself contentedly. “Dinner’s about ready next door, I should think. We’ve hired on a new cook; I ought to have gone with someone less skilled....” She patted her stomach, chuckling, then stepped behind a narrow desk standing inside the front door. A heavy lantern on a hook beside the desk cast a wide arc of light across the wooden surface. “Just a moment there, let me sort out the right—here we go.” She set a key on the desk. “Four silver bits, if you would.”

  Idisio’s mother made a vague, helpless motion with one hand, then looked at Idisio. “Son?” she said.

  “Oh, this is your mother?” the innkeeper said delightedly. “Well, that’s not half sweet! I can see the resemblance, now you say so. Was that your father, then, before, not your lord?”

  “His father lives in Arason,” Idisio’s mother said with sudden acidity. “And my son bows to no lord.”