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

by Leona Wisoker

“I don’t need no trouble here,” the innkeeper said, bringing Idisio back to the moment.

  “No trouble,” Idisio said. “Just lodging and peace for a few days.”

  “Someone attacked your friend there,” the innkeeper said. “That sounds like trouble to me.”

  “No trouble. She’s been ill. She’s not quite herself,” Idisio said steadily. “She needs to rest. She’s no danger to you.” He caught the man’s eye and held it. “Just lodging and peace for five days,” he repeated softly. “Please. Give us an east-facing room and keep your silence as to our presence.”

  The man blinked and ran a hand through his thinning, lank grey hair. “Take the room down the right hand hallway there, last door on the right. There’s no key. Most of these rooms bolt from the inside, is all you get.” His gaze went to Idisio’s unconscious mother again. “Sunrise rooms always go first. You’re lucky to get that one. If business was better—but it’s been a bad stretch. Pack of unsworn been driving regular guests away.” He looked to Idisio. “I’d say get her under cover afore they come back from their drinking night,” he added. “They’re not picky about awake or asleep.”

  “Which room are they in?” Idisio said.

  The innkeeper opened his mouth. In the fractional moment between that and speech, words spilled into Idisio’s mind: The west side/hope they leave soon and take broken collarbone with them/mannerless pigs/what they did to Neda/but I’m the only one believes her—

  “They’re on the other side of the inn,” the innkeeper said. “You shouldn’t run into them. Are you all right? You look ill of a sudden.”

  “Fine,” Idisio said through his teeth. He handed over the rose, suppressing a surge of guilt: he would have to send compensation to Alyea for what he’d stolen—no. He had the right to take anything he wanted; she was a desert lord; she would understand—and Deiq would make sure of that, if the issue came up. Still, it put a hard knot in his stomach, to rest on that right: he hadn’t taken the items as part of his due, he’d taken them as a thief fleeing the premises with filled pockets, and that distinction made all the difference.

  A sly line came to the innkeeper’s expression as he examined the small metal flower. Nice piece here/worth more than a few days lodging/wonder what else they have/strange sorts too/bet Yuer would like to know about them/if they’re fugitives he might even give a reward—

  Idisio said, sharply, “S’e—”

  The man jerked a startled, suspicious glance at Idisio.

  Idisio bit his lip, then forced his voice to soften. “Thank you for the room. For your graciousness. For leaving us alone for the next five days. For not telling Yuer anything about us being here.”

  The man stared, seeming bemused, then shrugged, sketched a lazy farewell with one hand, and turned away. Idisio scooped up his mother and headed for their room.

  Once inside, the door safely bolted and his mother laid out on the single, wide bed, Idisio sat down on the floor and let himself shudder all over for some time. He blinked in and out of complete darkness, his eyes flooding with tears every time the black returned; going dry with each phase of grey clarity.

  That in itself was disconcerting enough to make him want proper light. He rocked onto his knees, then tried to stand up: folded back to the floor in a graceless sprawl. He rolled back to his knees and stayed there, hands on his thighs as he tried to calm himself.

  “I’m tired,” he muttered, not believing it for a moment. “I’ll be all right with some sleep. But I can’t sleep, can I? Because if she wakes up—”

  He rubbed his eyes, swearing under his breath, trying to think through what to do next. Light seemed like a good idea no matter what the other choices wound up being, but he didn’t have a tinderbox with him and it was unlikely the room offered one. For that matter, he didn’t remember having seen an oil lamp in the room. He glanced around, squinting a little, and found a single fat, half-melted candle on the small bedside table.

  “Great,” Idisio muttered. “Now I have to figure out how to light the damn thing—What did Deiq say? See it lit—”

  With a sharp, crackling hiss, the wick burst into flame.

  Idisio stared, his mouth slightly open; patted the side of his own face a few times to check that he wasn’t dreaming, then staggered to his feet.

  “Developing,” he said under his breath. “Right.”

  Remembering that conversation with Deiq put him in mind of another trick he’d seen the elder ha’ra’ha pull off ever-so-casually: Wards, to ensure our privacy. They’re fairly simple... I’ll teach you. But he’d never gotten around to it, of course. Trying to explain how to light an oil lamp and steady his body temperature had been all the instruction Deiq had really offered; but if it was simple, perhaps Idisio could figure it out on his own.

  What had Deiq done, exactly? Idisio remembered him walking around the area, passing his hand along each entrance—pointing when he couldn’t quite reach a spot—and an odd shimmer had followed his fingers, settling into the rock and fading away almost immediately.

  Idisio began to raise his hand, then stopped and lowered it again. He’d been out on the streets long enough to know that anything dangerous was best attempted with absolute confidence; from picking a pocket to making a chancy jump, uncertainty almost guaranteed failure.

  He drew a deep breath, then another, summoning up the old street-thief brashness; sauntered over to the door and traced his hand along the frame, thinking: Privacy. Leave us alone. Nobody here. Go away. Idisio had no doubt that Deiq would walk right through, but hopefully those less skilled—all right, humans—would be turned away.

  A pale blue line ghosted behind his fingers, sinking into the worn, gapped wood so quickly that Idisio wondered if he’d imagined even seeing it. Setting aside doubt, he went to the single wide, low window and traced the frame of that as well. This time he made sure of what he was seeing. The ward line seemed hazy, compared to the hard golden sparkle of Deiq’s wards; Idisio set that aside as something to puzzle over later and turned to check on his mother.

  She lay still, breathing shallowly but evenly. While blood matted her hair, the wounds beneath had almost completely disappeared. Idisio rubbed his hands together, considering, then frowned and leaned in to study her more closely: the dress she wore looked oddly familiar.

  A faint waft of sweetened ginger rose to his nose.

  He straightened and backed away from the bed a hasty step, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Oh, gods,” he said, one hand over his mouth. “Oh, gods, no.”

  He looked down at his own clothes, nausea rising in his throat: a maroon peasant shirt and dun trousers, the latter almost more patches than original cloth. He couldn’t remember having seen anyone wearing the outfit in Obein, but that dress hadn’t been a voluntary gift—and his mother wasn’t the type to simply steal a garment.

  Unless the shirt and trousers were the serving girl’s spare clothing, which seemed unlikely, he had to believe that his mother had killed two people in Obein: the serving girl and whoever was with her at the time of Ellemoa’s attack.

  She’s killed before, Tank had said. Doesn’t regret it one bit.

  Idisio’s certainty that his mother wouldn’t hurt him wavered like the smoke curling from the candle flame. He looked at the door and the window, considering; thinking through implications. If he could set wards to stop people getting in, surely he could set wards to stop someone getting out. That seemed only reasonable. How was another matter, especially as she, like Deiq, would probably walk right through any attempt of his to hold her.

  But then again, she’d admitted he was stronger than she’d expected. She’d used reason to convince him to go with her voluntarily, because forcing him to move along was tiring her. So maybe she would have some trouble, after all; enough that the ward might alert him, wake him, if she tried to pass them.

  He had to try. He could feel exhaustion racking aches up throughout his body, and didn’t dare risk falling asleep without at least some effort to c
ontain his mother from seeking out another victim—or unleashing her frustrated rage on her own son.

  Please, gods, let Deiq get here soon, he thought, and began tracing ghostly blue lines around the bed.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Tank paid a half silver round for the stableboy to take care of his horse, flopped down across a line of hay bales and fell asleep instantly. Before noon he was awake and saddling the horse again; it stared at him with what might have been reproach but proved energetic enough for a steady canter once they cleared town.

  He had to admit he missed the grey mare he’d left with Venepe; while this beast was definitely the equal of any King’s Rider’s mount, it lacked the mare’s sassy attitude. Tank couldn’t imagine this proud horse ever biting its rider or groom; that would be far too undignified.

  He laughed at himself. “Now I’m putting personalities on horses,” he muttered. “Next I’ll be hearing them talk.”

  He wondered if he ought to give the horse a name. It hadn’t seemed important up to that point, but with a long road ahead, it was a usefully trivial thing to think about, with endlessly amusing possibilities. By the time he reached Kybeach, he was trying to decide between Snake and Sin.

  He’d also ridden through a sharp rainstorm that appeared out of nowhere and left as quickly, leaving him sodden and cursing. His temper hadn’t eased by the time he dismounted in the shabby stableyard, and the horse seemed as irritable; it jerked its head and stomped a hoof perilously near Tank’s foot.

  “Knock it off,” he muttered, swatting it on the side of the neck. “I’m not happy either.” It snorted and stamped a back hoof this time.

  A skinny blond boy peered at them from the open stable door, apparently unwilling to emerge into the cloud-weakened sunlight. Tank stared back, scowling, and waved, beckoning the boy out into the open.

  The boy sidled out a step, another, his narrow-eyed gaze fixed on the horse; then, abruptly, scuttled back into the stable.

  Tank swore under his breath and led his horse forward. It balked, tossing its head, a few steps before the threshold; Tank’s efforts to persuade it forward only made it back up.

  “Come on,” he said aloud, half to the horse and half to the rapidly clouding sky. “Come on!” The horse only backed up another step, lashing its tail.

  The temperature dropped, fast enough to prickle Tank’s skin with foreboding: he glanced up at the darkening clouds and redoubled his efforts to wrestle the horse forward into shelter. It snorted and reared; he ducked aside as a heavy hoof swept past his right ear.

  “All right, damnit,” he said aloud as the beast thudded back to earth, “that’s enough of that!”

  His breath plumed in the air as he spoke. He stared at that, horrified and realizing that the horse’s breath was coming out in heavy clouds now; his skin was burning from frost, not fear. The horse danced sideways, dipping its head and tossing it high as though trying to fix on the source of its own unease.

  Something small and sharp smacked against the top of Tank’s head, hard enough to make him yelp. Tilting his face to look up, he caught a dozen frozen missiles full on against his cheeks and forehead before he managed to duck into a protective hunch.

  The horse let out a rumbling neigh of complaint and bolted for the barn. Tank held onto the reins for the first three steps, then gave up and did his best to at least flip them over the saddle before they were completely torn from his hand.

  Ice rattled down in thickening sheets as he followed the horse into shelter. Someone shouted incoherent protest. Tank caught up with the restlessly turning horse in a few swift strides and grabbed the trailing reins, thankful it hadn’t stepped on them during its flight.

  “Easy,” he said, slapping it on the shoulder. “Easy, easy.”

  It slowly quieted, glaring at one of the stalls, its ears pricking forward, then slanting back sharply. Tank grinned and led the horse forward; yanked the unlatched half-door open fast and said, in false surprise, “Oh, hey, sorry about that, didn’t know you were in there.”

  The blond boy, nearly plastered into the back corner of the stall, glared at him sullenly. “Keep that devil-beast away from me,” he said. “Get it away!”

  Tank looked at his horse, back to the stable boy. “You know this horse, or you don’t like black horses in general?” he asked.

  “It bites,” the boy said; a heartbeat later, the horse lowered its head and extended its neck, snakelike, teeth bared.

  “Whoa,” Tank said, pulling the horse’s head sharply sideways. “None of that! So much for dignified,” he added under his breath as he turned the horse around and aimed it toward another empty stall two doors down.

  The stable was empty, no question; he hadn’t had much hope that Kybeach would offer anything by way of a remount to begin with, but it seemed that there weren’t even any travelers passing through who might be willing to loan their horse out for a price.

  His legs, back, and shoulders ached as though he’d been dipped in fire. He needed a rest before going on, and his horse’s slowing pace and irritability on the road told him the gelding felt the same way.

  “Gods, I hate this place,” he muttered as he began unhooking saddlebags. “Be happy never to stop here again.” Raising his voice, he called out, “Feed and water, please!”

  “Gold round up front,” the boy retorted, appearing at the stall door and glaring in at them. The horse, head toward the far end of the stall, kicked out at the sound of the boy’s voice; a heavy back hoof thudded into the stall door, cracking one of the boards. The boy yelped and dove aside; Tank swatted the gelding’s shoulder hard.

  “What the hells did you do to this horse to make it hate you like that?” Tank said. “And a gold round is absurd. Half a silver and you’re lucky at that.” He dropped the saddlebags near the stall door, then began on the bridle.

  The boy said, from considerably farther away now, “Didn’ do nuthin’. It’s evil, that beast. Come through here once afore, under the hand of a couple outsiders as thought themselves better’n everyone local here. It’s a gold round because it’s the last good feed we got left. Witch came through and took up all the rest, sayin’ it was hers by right.”

  “A witch?” Tank said. He leaned over the stall door to hang the bridle on the outside peg; the boy was squatting across the aisle. Tank squinted at him. “There’s no such thing as witches.”

  “That’s all you know,” the boy retorted. “We’ve a witch not a half-day’s walk from us, I’ll have you know. We usedta run supplies up to her—well, Kera did, anyways. But now Kera’s dead, and nobody else dares go out to the witch, and so the witch sent a servant out to collect her due. And part of that due was all the winter feed we had. Don’t have no money to buy more, not with no travelers stopping of late; and without feed we don’t get travelers, if you see. So I want a gold round, or you can use your own stores, or go hungry for all I care.”

  Tank shook his head and started on the saddle.

  “Give him the feed, Baylor,” someone else said: a world-weary child’s voice.

  The boy yelped again; there was a scrambling noise, then he said, panting, “Stop sneakin’ up on me, witch-brat!”

  Tank moved to the stall door and looked out. The boy was facing off with a familiar young girl: the street thief Tank had picked up in Bright Bay. She was considerably cleaner now, and with her hair tightly shorn, her eyes seemed unusually large under a widow’s peak hairline. Her dress, while worn and patched, was respectably fitted and clean: so she’d found someone to take care of her.

  She flicked an amused glance at Tank, then returned her attention to the boy. “There’s more feed left than you’re saying, Baylor. I watched what she took, an’ it wasn’t all your stores. Besides, this ain’t your stables. You don’t get to set the price. You just work here, for as long as the village master lets you stay.”

  “Bitch,” the boy snarled. “You ain’t got no say here neither, so get out afore I put a pitchfork up your skinny arse.�
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  “Be the first time you did anything with a pitchfork,” she taunted.

  “Stop it,” Tank said mildly. “Go get me the feed. Half silver. Or I’ll show you what I can do with a pitchfork.”

  The boy glared at him and sulked off. The girl laughed and came over to the stall door, peering in at the horse.

  “He rid that beast out to Sandsplit once,” she said conversationally. “Doesn’t know how to ride worth a damn, and the horse knew it was bein’ stolen, is my guess. It remembers. Horses is smarter than people think.”

  Tank went back to unbuckling the saddle and didn’t say anything, but his stomach sank at the confirmation that he was riding stolen property.

  “I was wrong,” she said, sounding not in the least embarrassed about it.

  He heaved the saddle up and over, brought it to the stall door, and balanced it on the rim of the door, staring down at her. “About what?”

  She wouldn’t quite meet his gaze. “About—the demon. I didn’t realize until I got to Kybeach—that she was already on the road, with Lifty—ahead of you. I woulda warned you, if you’d kept me along with you.” She cocked her head and shot him a fast glance, unsmiling. “I can see you’ve already run into her. I—I’m sorry for getting it wrong.”

  “So much for sight,” he said a little sourly.

  She shrugged, her gaze sliding aside again, and said, “I don’t always get it right, do I? Otherwise I’d be making a living at tellings, wouldn’t I? Pays better’n begging, for sure.”

  “With more risk of your head in a noose for witching.”

  She ignored that. “I see one thing clear and no mistake to it—you got ghosts trailing around you that need rest.” Her eyes searched the air around Tank’s head, and she gave an uneasy shudder.

  “Ghosts,” he said, his voice flat with skepticism.

  She shook her head. “Not dead spirits, not always,” she said a little impatiently. “Sometimes just—things you got to do, things you’re hanging on to that you can’t let go of—I ain’t got fancy words for it. But you’re weighted with ‘em, and some of ‘em are near burning you up. You ought to be on the road. Longer you wait, worse things’ll be.”