Sandsplit spread out beneath him in a hazy patchwork of fields and houses and roads; at the same time he could feel his mother’s grip on his arm and the firm ground under his feet. Nausea burned the back of his throat.
“Think of finding an inn,” his mother said from somewhere at once near and far. “A cheap place that will treat us well. Someplace nearby.”
His stomach steadied. He found his vision drawn to the west, to a small, dilapidated-looking inn; found himself absolutely aware of what streets to turn down in order to reach it.
“Now shut your eyes, blink without opening your eyes, then open them to look at me,” his mother said.
Patchwork vision disappeared. He felt a light wind riffling through his hair. When he opened his eyes again, his mother was smiling. The serene expression and the setting sun combined to lend her a fragile beauty.
“Very good, son,” she said. “Very, very good.”
She sighed, peace fading, and was once more a skinny, exhausted-looking woman with ragged light brown hair and large grey eyes, standing by the side of the road in a dress much too large around hips and bosom. For some reason, seeing that dress sent a sudden chill through Idisio’s nerves. He squinted, trying to pick out details in the fading light.
She hissed softly, then said, “The inn, son. We’re going to the inn now, like you wanted. Lead the way.”
After a few steps, her hand crept into his. He gripped it tightly and grinned, absurdly enthusiastic. Crickets chirred as they walked through the darkening streets. Torches flared into life, casting erratic, flickering pools of shadow. A gnawing unease took root in Idisio’s stomach.
The dark splotches of shadow moving across his mother ate away shape and line, turning her strides into a flowing movement of gaunt edges.
Am I really doing this of my own will? Is she still pushing me around? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t feel hazed—and his reasons for agreeing to travel to Arason with her hung clear and logical in his mind—but there had been a suspicious moment of disorientation when he’d tried to look at her dress more closely. The light was too poor, now, to make another attempt; he’d have to try again in better light, when she wasn’t paying attention.
That might take a while. Like Deiq, she didn’t seem to miss much.
She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Not much farther,” she said.
They turned down a narrow, uneven street. The houses to either side seemed blank and indifferent until Idisio realized that the back side of the buildings faced them. A distinct stink of rotting garbage and urine hung in the air. He glanced down at his shadow-shrouded feet as he trod in something slick, fairly sure it hadn’t been mud.
His stomach clenched and cramped. This was entirely too familiar—he’d spent most of his life in streets like these. All the moment needed to turn into a walking nightmare was—
Someone belched ahead. A large form staggered toward them. Two. Three large men. Idisio blinked, panic rising, and vision cleared into grey clarity: three burly men, one with his arm in a sling. Memory escaped control: sequences that had begun with similar encounters flashed through his mind.
Beside him, his mother began to hiss, like a kettle gathering steam.
“No,” Idisio said, fighting to gather his composure. “They’re just walking through, move over, let them go by—”
“Bad men,” his mother said in a low, venom-filled voice. “I won’t let them hurt you, son.”
“No, they won’t, it’s all right—these aren’t the ones who—”
She hissed and shook off his restraining hand.
“No,” he said, grabbing after her as she started forward, and missed his hold completely.
“Hey, pretty pretty,” the lead man said, grinning. “Two pretties, I’d say.” The reek of heavy drinking drifted from him in a rotten miasma. “How much, sweet?”
“You misunderstand,” Idisio said loudly, lunging; caught his mother’s arm and dragged her back and sideways a step. “We’re only passing through to the inn beyond, s’es. We’re travelers.”
“There’s a thing,” another man chuckled. “As if I wouldn’t know a whore when I see one in the dark.”
One of his companions erupted in laughter. The other, darker-haired and older, stood still and quiet at the back. As the laughter died from the air, the older man said, “She’s not a whore, Frenn. Neither is he. Let ‘em by.”
“Aw, what?” Frenn protested, half-turning to glare back at the last man. “You been around Venepe too long, Rat. Or did that wet ta-neka get to you? Angling for that pretty coin now, are you?”
“Step off it,” Rat said without visible emotion. “Let ‘em by.”
“Aw, I know a whore,” Frenn declared. “They’re just tryin’ to up the bid price. Well, look—” He fumbled in his belt pouch.
“Frenn,” the first man said, moving to set his back to a wall, “Rat’s right. You ain’t seeing what you think you are. Let ‘em by.”
“The two of you are turning into right purse-lickers,” Frenn said, and tossed a coin toward Idisio. “Here, now, don’t you tell me that’s not enough—”
A flicker of silver flashed through Idisio’s vision and landed in the muck at his feet.
His mother let out a shivering screech and ripped her arm from his grasp.
He threw himself forward and slammed her sideways up against a wall before she made more than a single bounding step. “Get out of here!” he shrieked at the startled mercenaries. They needed no second invitation to take to their heels, dragging their still-protesting friend along.
A stone wall thudded up behind his back a moment later, knocking him breathless and dizzy; his mother’s nightmare glare filled his vision with blackness more complete than that of an underground pit.
“How dare you,” she snarled, face rigid and white with rage.
He gasped for breath, coughing, unable to answer coherently.
“Never get in my way again,” she snapped. “You haven’t earned the right to interfere, son! And those were bad men.”
“They were drunk,” Idisio choked. “You can’t punish them for being drunk!”
“I can do whatever I please, to any human, for any reason, or none at all if that suits me,” she said. “Don’t you dare forget that. Ever.”
He shut his eyes and shook his head, fighting to ease his breath back into a steady rhythm. “No,” he said. “No, that’s not right. That’s not—that’s not right.” He couldn’t put any better words to his refusal: had no breath, had no clarity to work with.
“The only reason for us to restrain from violence,” she said, “is that it generally causes more trouble than it’s worth—not because of some puerile human notion of right and wrong. Their laws and their morals don’t apply to us, son.”
“Maybe they should,” Idisio said, catching his breath at last. “Maybe they’re something worth listening to.”
“No,” she said. “Their morals and laws keep them from killing one another, nothing more.” She blew out an irritated breath. “Never mind. We’ll speak more of this later. For now, let’s get to that inn.”
Idisio eased away from the wall, rubbing the back of his head gingerly; it felt as though a lump were forming where his skull had hit the brick. He straightened and studied his mother with a cold eye. Believing that humans would never trust him because of his heritage: that he accepted wholeheartedly; Deiq had said as much, himself. Believing that he had the right to kill humans at any moment for any reason—no. That way lay chaos on a grand scale; he flinched from even thinking on the potential for disaster if all ha’ra’hain believed as his mother did. But Deiq hadn’t acted that way; Deiq had kept a sane view on the matter. Deiq, as he had said, cared about human political and economic stability. The path his mother suggested gave no care for anything human—and regardless of Idisio’s own past, that was just too far of a step for him to take.
Some things do not require violence to a lesser form of life. That sounded much more sensible than
We can do whatever we please.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s go to that inn. I think that’s a very good idea.”
She stared at him, her eyes filled with black, and said, “You’re still not understanding, son. We’re ha’ra’hain. We do not accept the disrespect or abuse of humans, drunk or sober or witless fools. I thought you grasped that concept already.”
“In the south,” he said, recalling conversations with Deiq, “I’d agree with you. But this is the northlands. They don’t remember. Why punish them for ignorance?”
“It is not my problem that they are ignorant,” Ellemoa said. “They only exist on our sufferance, son. They exist because of you and because of me—because of the agreements the ha’reye have formed with the desert lords. If they’ve forgotten, then it’s past time they’re reminded of the situation.”
“So you’re calling the humans our slaves?”
“Slaves, cattle, insects, whatever term you want to use,” she said. “They don’t matter, son. They’re meaningless to us.”
“Except when we want something from them. How is that different from what you accuse them of doing?”
She shook her head, her eyes fading back to pale grey.
“You’ll learn,” she said. “You’ll learn. Let’s go to that inn.”
He stood still, dissatisfied with that answer, his confidence shaken. She was so ready to attack over nothing at all; what was the trip to Arason going to be like? What would she do if he wasn’t there to stop her from overreacting?
What would she do if he refused to travel with her at all, come to that? Looking at the chill in her pale eyes, he wondered if that ever had been an option.
“I won’t force you to take a single step,” she said, clearly tracking his thoughts. “But if you turn aside and leave me to go on alone, your father will be very disappointed in you, son. Think on that, before you carry through on any thoughts of running back to the humans. And think on this: you have an obligation waiting for you in Arason. A sacred trust.”
“Obligation?”
“You are the last of the Arason ha’ra’hain,” she said. Her eyes darkened again. “You must go back. You must take over protecting the area when your father cannot do so any longer. He needs you to come home. Arason needs you to come home.”
He stood still, shock searing like ice throughout his whole body.
“I didn’t want to tell you, because it’s such a large burden to bear,” she said. “It’s a terrible burden for a boy who’s barely aware of himself as anything other than a street thief and toy for men like those to....” She stopped and visibly shuddered, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, the black had faded to a blurry ring.
He shook his head, barely comprehending her words. His mind, so clear and certain a moment before, was hazed and grey once more: from shock, no doubt. His legs felt strangely weak, as though he were in danger of collapsing.
“I need to sit down,” he said. “I need to go—just—sit down. Let’s go to the inn. A tavern. Something. Let’s go—just—sit.”
“Of course, son,” she said, hooking her arm through his with tender solicitude. “Anything you want, my love. Anything at all.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
By late afternoon, the air had turned chill enough that Tank looked forward to the roaring heat of Yuer’s oversized hearth. Dasin tucked his rain cloak more tightly around himself, sullenly silent as he had been all day. Tank let him be. Prodded by the previous night’s talk, his own mind kept returning with treacherous clarity to those days, and comparing them to today: This is better, he thought. No matter the situation with Yuer—this is better.
It was a shaky balance, but it served the moment and allowed him to walk between the leering guards at Yuer’s door with barely a flicker of terror; allowed him to follow Dasin’s lead and offer a grave bow, take a seat, then meet Yuer’s hooded stare with a blank expression.
“Tea,” the old man said after a moment, motioning. A slender young woman with loose red-blonde hair came into the room with a tray. She knelt beside the low table, set out cups, poured tea, put three full cups in three empty hands, then retreated with the tray and without the least glance at anyone but Yuer.
Tank set his back teeth together—lightly, to avoid his jaw hardening visibly—and kept his blank expression in place. Yuer, watching him, smiled. Tank sipped tea, not quite looking at anything in particular; in the chair next to his, Dasin did the same, breathing evenly.
“This is lovely,” Dasin said after a moment. “Mint?”
“It’s a combination of Stone Island white and a bit of mint,” Yuer said. “It’s proving to be a very popular blend along the southern coast and lower northern cities. Sells for a silver the ounce.”
Dasin blinked, sleepily appreciative, and finished off his drink. Tank cradled his nearly empty cup in his off-hand and went on staring at the space past Yuer’s left shoulder.
“How was your journey?” Yuer said. “Bit of a storm, as I hear it, in Bright Bay.”
“Yes,” Tank said when Dasin didn’t answer. “Rainy. And cold. Windy. Delayed us a bit.”
Yuer waited a few moments. The silence stretched. At last the wrinkled old man said, “You’re very good at acting stupid, Tanavin.”
“Tank.”
“Precisely my point.” The old man snapped his fingers; the blonde girl came back in, refilled his empty cup, then retreated once more without offering Tank or Dasin any tea. “I can see at a glance that your mentor trained you well past the level of a common mercenary; and you have to know by now that you’re in the middle of a deadly serious game. This posturing of mercenary fits you like a consumptive man’s suit on a blacksmith.”
Tank looked at the hearth, watching the crackling, dancing flames, and said nothing. Dasin, slumped back in his chair, began to snore lightly. A moment later, his hand opened, the cup spilling out. Tank lunged and caught the cup before it hit the ground. He set it on the table and eased back into his seat.
“Well past the level of a common mercenary,” Yuer murmured. “You have exceptionally good reflexes.”
Tank sat back into his chair, realizing that he hadn’t let go of his teacup during that hasty grab for Dasin’s—and hadn’t spilled a drop of the liquid remaining in his own cup. He shrugged and took a careful sip, avoiding Yuer’s intent stare.
“Aerthraim is a name to raise significant caution,” Yuer said. “Apparently, so is that of Tanavin.”
He paused. Tank could feel that black gaze boring into him.
“I have two approaches when dealing with such names,” Yuer said finally. “One is to recruit them to my side. The other is to be sure they can’t damage me. I prefer the former, naturally.”
“I’m just a mercenary, trader Yuer,” Tank said, and met the withered man’s gaze full on for one long, ferocious moment. “Nothing in that to raise any sort of caution. Don’t know what people have been telling you. My name’s Tank, and I’m a mercenary. Nothing else.”
Yuer’s thin lips moved in what might have been a smile.
“Indeed,” he said. “This will surely be an interesting arrangement; amusing, if nothing else. Well, setting your identity issues aside, do you have my delivery?”
Tank drew in a long breath, set his teacup on the table, and said, “Yes.” He made no move to reach for the saddlebags at Dasin’s feet.
“Ah,” Yuer said softly. “You’re not happy about something.”
“I won’t be involved with delivering whorehouse drugs,” Tank said flatly.
Dasin’s light snoring deepened to a raspy snorking. Yuer lifted a hand; a husky man came into the room a moment later and scooped Dasin up from the chair. “Take him to the second guest room,” Yuer directed. The servant nodded silently and retreated.
Tank watched the man’s retreating back and felt a sudden chill. His gaze went to the two small white cups on the table, and his heartbeat staggered in his ears. “He wasn’t that tired,” he said, scarcely audible, and met Yu
er’s amused stare.
“Neither are you, apparently,” Yuer said. “Here you are, wide awake and arguing with me.”
Tank sat very still, his hands loose in his lap. “You’re going to kill us,” he rasped.
Yuer shook his head. “My delivery, please. Put it on the table.”
Not seeing anything else to do, Tank leaned over, pulled Dasin’s saddlebags up into his lap, and dug out the bundle of oilcloth and padding. Yuer grinned as Tank unwrapped the box, apparently highly amused by the care Dasin had taken in protecting his delivery.
Tank slid the box onto the table and dropped saddlebags and wrapping to the floor at his feet, and waited, watching Yuer steadily.
The old man said, “Break the seals and open the box. Carefully.”
Tank’s belt knife took care of the seals in a few moments; lifting the lid revealed a tightly packed mass of translucent white crystals. The smell of the sea filled his nose.
Tank sat back, staring, knife loosely held in one hand.
“Horn salt,” Yuer said. He inhaled loudly through his nose, his eyes drooping half-shut. “Very valuable, and very tasty. I’m excessively fond of it, but it’s difficult to lay hands on without certain connections. I lost many of my former connections over the course of the Purge; I’m not ashamed to say this single item is much of the reason for my alliance with Seavorn.” He blinked, lizardlike, at Tank. “No doubt you don’t believe me. But then, you’re very young, and inclined to be suspicious. And you don’t understand the value of good food to an old man. Perhaps I can show you the difference. Are you hungry?”
Tank looked up at that, his hand tightening on the knife. Yuer laughed.
“Ah, you don’t trust me,” he said. “Well, then—go your way, if you wish. You’ve done this one thing for me, and I’ll give your friend a chance at that caravan he wants to lead.” He paused. “I do know my reputation,” he added, his face stretching into a leering grin again, “but I’m not nearly so fierce as people think. I’ve simply found it useful to have a ferocious reputation. Go your way. I won’t cause you a word of trouble, and I’ll tender your farewell to your friend when he wakes.”
Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) Page 38
