Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (18 page)

He found his gaze drawn to the building the rose lay against. A recessed doorway, three steps up from the street; shuttered windows; no sign or decoration announcing whether it was a home or a business. The hair rose on the back of his neck, and he looked around again, nostrils flaring as though scent might catch the source of his unease. Only the smell of damp, muddy stone came back to him. He glanced down, realizing for the first time that this particular street boasted actual cobblestones, not dirt and sand. That meant wealth, although every building he could see was starkly plain.

He found himself looking back at the rose, and a shiver ran down his spine.

Intuition said, as in the bar:
Get out of here.
He resisted this time, turning in place, and focused with more care on the various shades of grey and brown surrounding him. His attention snagged on a patch that wasn’t—quite—right. Squinting a little, he made out a grey heap, much like the sleeper in the market square, tucked up under a stand of drooping featherleaf bushes at one corner of the shuttered building.

He swallowed back prescient nausea and edged forward. Squatting beside the bushes, he could see that the lumps beneath the brownish-grey cloak bore no resemblance to a sleeping human form.

Faint pink rivulets threaded through the puddle of water around the cloak. The tip of a black shoe protruded in one spot. The heel of another, or perhaps the end of a bone, tented the cloak at an impossible angle.

No intact human form, other than that of a child, could have fit beneath the cloak; and the visible shoe was too large for a child.

Tank stood and backed away without bothering to lift the blanket. He swallowed hard, looking around, every sense bristling at full alert: Nothing. Whatever had happened here was over. Whatever had done this was gone.

He yielded to the imperative prod of intuition, all the same, and got the hells out of there without further delay.

A fine drizzle muted the smells of the caravan yard, but failed to entirely wash them from the air. Kolan didn’t mind. He’d smelled worse, over the years, and at least there was fresh air moving against his face, and rain from the sky, not the dank condensation of the catacombs.

He found the carriages-for-hire paddock and paused by the gate, watching men and horses swear at one another. After a while it occurred to him that he was hearing the men swear at the horses, which was unremarkable, but he was also hearing the horses curse back, which seemed a bit odd. And the men didn’t seem to notice the barrage of irritable complaints:
Watch it, there,
said an elderly grey mare, turning her head and flicking long ears as a man tightened the straps of her harness.
That’s tight enough, you hoofless gelding!

The man paid no heed, yanking the strap another notch in with a grunt. The grey mare stepped back and sideways and kicked, all at once; straps broke and tangled into a hopeless mess. Then the mare stood still, placid once more, her tail twitching in what Kolan read as vivid amusement.

Fix that, you lice-ridden worm,
she snorted.

“Stupid whorebag rackrib,” the man swore, picking himself up, and swatted the mare on the rump. She turned her head and stared at him with large, mild eyes, to all appearances unmoved; but Kolan heard her laughing.

The mare lifted her head and looked directly at Kolan then, and her eyelids slid down in a slow blink. No—a horse wink.

This is the only outgoing carriage today,
she said, one ear swiveling.
The others are already reserved or gone. You’ll have to wait a bit, until they find a driver with sense. I’m too old to put up with fools.

“I see,” Kolan murmured. “Well, thank you.” He bowed, prompting a strange look from a few people and a tail-twitch burst of laughter from the mare.

Perhaps he could get a ride with one of the caravans, instead. He wandered through the rows of paddocks for the rich merchants and the picket lines of the less-wealthy, looking for someone who felt honest, or at least reasonably reliable. He paused by one paddock, watching a skinny blond boy arguing with a plump merchant, then went on without calling out: the man radiated a slick green sourness, and the boy was laced with the black lines that led to the place of screaming. Neither one would be safe companions for him. He wondered, idly, how they’d get along on the road.

After an hour of wandering through the caravan yard, he sighed, accepting the inevitable, and asked directions to the northeastern gates of the city.

The marshes between Bright Bay and Kybeach emitted a rotting stench far too similar to that of the catacombs. Kybeach itself was little more than an arc of ill-built houses slouching in sullen heaps, their backs to the marshes as their inhabitants turned away from outsiders.

Kolan stood at the edge of the village, looking it over under the pale light of a dying moon—the Healer’s Moon, he thought, accepting the knowledge as calmly as he had that of hearing a horse speak.

Stranger things were possible. He’d seen them. He’d done a few of them.

But never for Rosin. Never for that monster. I can be proud of that, at least.

Ellemoa broke. I didn’t. Can I be proud of that?

He looked down at his hands, rubbed them together, then walked unhurriedly into the quiet village. The shadows seemed oddly sharp and dark for a waning moon.

“What’s that? What’s that?” someone croaked nearby. A hooded lantern clattered open; light spilled out, washing over Kolan like pale sunshine. An elderly man hobbled forward a step, squinting, sneering. “No time to come in daylight like an honest man, eh?” he demanded.

Kolan stared at him.

The elderly man stared back, uneasy now, then pushed forward a step. “Off with you, beggar,” he snapped, “or I’ll roust the town for a thief-hanging. On through, now, we don’t want your kind here, day or night!”

“I’m not a beggar,” Kolan said mildly. “I’m a priest.”

The elderly man recoiled several steps, his face twisting. “The Northern Church is gone,” he said. “Gone! All above the line of the Hackerwood, now, all but the swamp priests. You’re coming from Bright Bay and expect me to believe you’re a priest? No, no, there are no more priests coming from there. Not anymore.”

Kolan blinked, surprised only that he wasn’t surprised. “All the same,” he said, “I’m a priest. Not a thief. Not a beggar.”

“Ah, well, you’d say that,” the old man said. He moved a step forward, thrusting the lantern ahead of him, studying Kolan’s face with nearly manic intensity.

Something moved nearby; Kolan squinted, trying to see past the glare of the lantern.

“What’s that?” The old man backed up and half-turned, peering at the motion, then made a disgusted sound.

The figure ambled closer, staggering a little every few steps: the sour, sweaty reek of too much hard liquor preceded it. The watchman made the disgusted sound again as a blond man stepped into the circle of lantern light. The drunk’s face was as sallow and shadowed as one of the
others
at the beginning of a fit; Kolan stood very still, watching with care.

“Lashnar, be off to bed!” the watchman said sharply. “All respect,
s’e,
you’re in no state. Go home to bed!”

The blond man stared at Kolan, ignoring the old watchman entirely.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “You can’t have her. She’s not here anymore. She’s dead. Go away!”

“He’s going,” the watchman said. “He’s
going.”
He shot Kolan a fierce glare.

Kolan studied the blond man, assessing his temper, then said, “It’s very late,
s’e
s. I’d like to rest. Is there an inn here?”

“No rooms left,” the old man said severely.

The blond man staggered a step sideways. “Outsiders,” he said. “It’s always the damned outsiders that bring the trouble. Well, I’ve nothing left, d’ya hear? Nothing at all! Not even my daughter! All because of you!”

He lunged forward. Kolan stood still; backing up would only make the man more aggressive.

“Lashnar!” the watchman said shrilly, retreating several steps. “Leave off!”

The blond man’s hands closed around Kolan’s neck, but loosely. Nearly nose to nose now, Kolan could read in the man’s face that he’d expected Kolan to fight back and was uncertain how to handle the lack of response.

The touch sparked a wave of
other
memory; Kolan reflexively shifted the flow over to an outer loop and bled it off into the ground, unwilling to see anything this man had gone through. He couldn’t remember: had Ellemoa taught him that trick, long ago in Arason, or had he picked it up during their captivity?

I wish I’d known I could do this sooner,
he thought.
But then Rosin would have known, too, so it’s just as well.

The blond man staggered back, gagging. His skin went a pasty white, and his eyes seemed apt to go larger than his face as he stared at Kolan.

“You’re a witch,” he said. “A witch and a demon.” His hands came up in the sign against evil: crossed at the wrists, fingers splayed out, thumbs curved forward.

Kolan blinked, surprised: had the light physical contact been enough to show the man his memories? Best he stay away from human company, if he was that open at the moment.

The watchman crowded between them, hissing at Kolan.

“You’d best be off,” he snapped. “Merchant Lashnar needs his sleep. You get clear, you hear me, or I’ll see you strung up as a thief and a witch before dawn.”

Kolan shrugged and began walking.

“Not that way! Road runs east.”

Kolan paused and pointed. “There’s a road there.” A silvery trail, little more than a footpath, really, ran ahead of him. It felt more interesting, more peaceful, than the prospect of walking the eastern road through the dark and hostile streets of Kybeach. “Where does that go?”

“Road runs east,” the old man repeated stubbornly. “That way only goes to the witch’s place. You’ve no business there, priest or thief; she’ll take you apart no matter what you be.”

Kolan looked at the slender path and smiled. “I doubt she’s a witch, watchman,” he said. “There’s no such thing as witches.”

There were only ha’ra’hain, and a female ha’ra’ha this close to Bright Bay—it
could
be Ellemoa. She
could
have escaped, and be trying to start over. He wanted that to be true. It was worth walking a little way to find out.

And if it wasn’t Ellemoa, but another ha’ra’ha—well, it couldn’t do anything to him that hadn’t already been done. There was no reason to be afraid. More than likely it was merely a wise-woman who’d been unfairly persecuted by the ignorant villagers, and she’d be glad of some uncritical company, whether middle of the night or center of the day.

“Shows all you know,” the old man snorted. “Witches all
around
us.”

“He’s
a witch,” the blond man said with idiot persistence.

Kolan turned and said, “If it takes me away from your village—”

“Town!” the old man interrupted, scowling ferociously.

“Village,” the blond man muttered. “Stinking little pissass—”

The watchman elbowed him quiet.

“—what do you care which way I go?” Kolan went on. “I’ll be gone, one path or another.”

The watchman shook all over with what might have been fury or fear, but neither man had any answer to that; and Kolan, very quietly, very definitely, walked away down the path to the witch’s house.

As the teyanain camp rose and readied themselves for the next leg of their trip across the desert, Deiq’s mood turned sour. He barely glanced at anyone, and when Idisio risked a quiet “Thank you—for last night—for helping me sleep,” he received only a brooding glare. He retreated hastily. The similarities between Deiq and Lord Scratha were uncanny at times, and while Scratha had been apt to knock Idisio into a wall when peeved over something, Deiq would probably do real damage.

A moment after retreating, Idisio found himself deeply irritated at that reaction. Deiq and Scratha were entirely different, and Idisio himself was no longer a street thief trying to avoid notice. He had status now. He had capabilities he’d never expected: popping open locks and hearing people’s thoughts was apparently the least of it.
I need to stop backing down all the damn time. I can stand up—even to Deiq.
Fear shivered along his spine at the thought.

To distract and test himself, Idisio decided he would try to figure out how the teyanain managed the traveling-trick. A heartbeat later, Evkit turned his head and stared directly at him, eyes black as night and expression cold as midnight-chilled stone.

“You no do,” Evkit said. He blinked once, lizardlike, then looked away again.

Idisio’s breath caught in his chest. Deiq prodded him ungently in the shoulder and motioned him into the middle of the forming group.

Deiq said sharply,
You don’t even
look
at the athain for too long, let alone try to figure out what they’re doing or how.

“How was I supposed to know that?” Idisio muttered.

“Because you’re supposed to have some godsdamned
wits,”
Deiq shot back in a low voice, and for all his plans to push back next time Deiq snapped at him, Idisio couldn’t make himself answer that with anything but silence.