Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (33 page)

“What the hells is he doing back in town?” the first voice exclaimed, distinctly unhappy: a desert lord, carefully shielded, but she could tell he didn’t like or trust this
Deiq—
another familiar name she couldn’t quite place at the moment.

“He’s lying,” another voice said. “He’s just a street thief, lying to get out of trouble.”

“I wouldn’t lie to desert lords. I know better.”

Ellemoa lost the next few sentences as she struggled with an unexpectedly difficult current of rain, and a blast of wind that almost tumbled her from the roof. At last she had the immediately local weather under control—a moderately hazy rain, enough to keep their attention on the ground—and focused on the conversation below.

“—is that supposed to
help
your case?”

“That depends on whether you respect ha’ra’hain. Because I’m one too, you know.”

Ellemoa screamed, batting aside the last of the mist and rain, and leapt.
My son. My son!

She reached the group in two long bounds, her attention only on her son, on his wide grey eyes and pale skin, on the shocked expression on his face as he staggered back, away from her
—No, no, I won’t hurt you, I’m rescuing you,
she tried to call to him: found his mind shut, reflecting back images of
white, screaming, whirling motion—
herself, through his eyes.

A moment later a foulness coated her, acidic grit seeking every tender spot in eyes and mouth and nose. Her legs began to buckle from the pain and
wrongness
of it. She screamed again, reflex driving her back and away: barely aware of leaping to the safety of the rooftops, of calling more rain and wind to shield her retreat.

Instinct threw her head back, water rinsing the stinging from her eyes and nose; she spat, gulped rainwater, spat again. At last vision and sense cleared, but the area was long since empty, the trail cold and washed out in the storm. Logic said they’d taken her son back within the protection of the Seventeen Gates: taken him
prisoner.

Leaving her alone and helpless, while they tortured her only son to bend to their will. That foulness had weakened her: even now, she could feel the poison working through her body, sapping her strength, slowing her movements.
It’s dragging me down to being human. Being vulnerable.

I need to feed. That will drive this poison from my body.
A combination of cunning and fury brought her to earth again, streaking across the wet ground: Eredion would rue this night’s work, by the time she finished.

Softly, softly, sweet,
Rosin cautioned.
Don’t ruin it by going too quickly. You’ve earned this, don’t you think? Take your time and do it right.
And if she’s Eredion’s ally, she might have some of that foulness to hand, for her own protection against you.

Yes. Yes, of course... You’re very wise, Rosin. Thank you.

She slowed, padding forward with feline grace; raised a hand and knocked, very gently, like a timid, grieving human, on the door of the gravekeeper’s cottage.

“You realize we’re done working with Venepe,” Dasin said. He sipped his hot spiced wine and delivered a severe stare. “Because you can’t mind your manners.”

Tank glared back, sullen, and said,
“You’re
the one whacked Frenn with a damn great branch. Up to that point I had it handled.” He risked a sip of wine; it stayed down, and didn’t hurt as much as the last one had.

“You were about to get your ass handed to you, is what you had handled,” Dasin said. He shook his head. “I’ll admit it was impressive watching you throw someone twice your bulk like he was made of feathers, but you were
losing,
Tank. They never intended to let you win.”

“I
know
that, you godsdamned idiot,” Tank said. “If you hadn’t walked out of the stables to gawp, I could have settled it a lot easier. Breek would have come after me again some other time, I’d have let him lay me out, everything would have been done with. You staring like that turned everything serious. And you godsdamned well shouldn’t have gotten into it yourself. That’s what tore it.” He took a larger mouthful of wine. The crippling agony in his stomach and ribs was easing, little by little.

Dasin shook his head and sipped wine.

“I don’t pretend to understand your world, Tank,” he said finally. “I don’t think I want to. I’d rather handle percentages and politics than what you’re into.”

“Just a different kind of politics,” Tank said. He touched his face gingerly, feeling across the assorted bumps and cuts. “But you’re right on one thing—you’ve never been any good at it.”

“That’s
not
what I said,” Dasin said, aggrieved.

Tank grinned, then winced at what the movement did to the sore spots on his face. “Well, I don’t mind admitting that I’m no good with numbers and lengths of cloth,” he said. “And you know Venepe better than I do. So how do we get this sorted out?”

Dasin didn’t answer right away. He frowned down at his mug, apparently deep in thought. Tank let him be, watching the room while he waited.

A dice game rattled at a corner table. At another, six men crouched round a card game, eyeing each other suspiciously and holding their cards close to their chests to shield them from view. A series of wall-mounted lanterns, each one securely bolted up against a metal plate-covered section of support beams, provided more light than most taverns offered. The air, while noticeably tinged with sweat, dirt, and spilled ale, seemed less foul than Tank had expected; certainly less noisome than Kybeach’s dingy tavern had been.

Then again, the inside of a dungpile would smell better than anything in Kybeach.

The only women here were serving girls. Tank watched them move among the tables: smiling, evading the occasional half- or wholly-drunken grab. When an auburn-haired serving woman old enough to be Tank’s grandmother glanced his way, he raised his mug slightly and nodded at Dasin. She nodded, came over, collected their by-now nearly empty mugs, and returned them brimming with steaming liquid a short time later.

Dasin picked up his mug without seeming to notice it had ever been gone and took a sip; spluttered and set the mug down sharply enough to slosh hot wine onto his hand, glaring at Tank accusingly.

Tank laughed. Dasin wiped his hand on his pants leg, grimacing, and said, “I don’t know that I want to sort out things with Venepe.”

Tank stopped laughing. “What?” he said. “Why the hells not?”

“Venepe’s an ass,” Dasin said. “I know more than he does, and I’m not even half his age. He spends his evening with servant girls instead of with the rich people in town; he puts his attention on currying favor in places like Kybeach; he hires a bunch of thugs to guard his wagons and doesn’t have the sense to ask hard questions about a letter from a foreign political entity who has a reputation for being manipulative. I’d lay good bits that Stai
intended
him to misunderstand that letter. She’s not stupid, herself. Hell, Venepe probably doesn’t even know what he’s dealing with. He knows it’s a name with power, and a name that makes expensive damn trinkets that are going to be in demand now that the Church is out of the way, and he goes jumping the moon without looking for a ladder.”

Dasin took a cautious sip of his wine.

“I could double his business if he’d listen to me,” he added. “All he sees is my age. Damn fool.”

Remembering the attractive young lady-thief in Obein, Tank couldn’t help wondering if Dasin had underestimated Venepe the way he himself had underestimated Rat. Venepe might not be making piles of coin, but he had a solidly established customer base and enough money coming in to hire four mercenaries, however low unsworn status might weight the pay.

He knew better than to say any of that aloud. Dasin would take it into a loud argument, and Tank already had a thundering headache that the wind wine was doing little to ease.

“Dasin, I have a contract with Venepe,” he said instead. “A Freewarrior Hall contract. I can’t walk out on that.”

“You have a contract with
me,”
Dasin corrected. “Venepe’s only involved because my pay’s based on
his
profits.”

“He’s the one paying me, he’s the one I’m contracted to.”

Dasin shook his head, looking disgusted. “This is
my
kind of politics, Tank. Trust me. Your contract’s with me, whatever your Hall log might say.”

“Fine,” Tank said. “I quit.”

Dasin laughed, loud and sharp. Heads turned around the room. Tank put a hand over his face, cringing; he
hated
that laugh. It always signaled trouble.

“Not so fast. There’s a merchant in town,” Dasin said, “name of Yoo-eyr.” He pronounced the name with exaggerated care. “Venepe’s shit-scared of him for some reason. He’s not even staying a full day in the morning; he’s planning to be on the road again by noon. He’s told me flat out he hates this town. He’s skipping through here as fast as decency and pride allows.”

The hair rose on the back of Tank’s neck.

“Oh, gods, no,” he said, not at all sure why. “No, Dasin. Don’t—”

“The way
I
figure,” Dasin interrupted, ignoring Tank’s inarticulate protest, “this Yuer’s someone who’s got a double handful more smarts and power than Venepe. Which means he’ll pay better, for one.” He sipped at his wind wine, looking smug. “And merchants with that sort of influence always need reliable help that won’t steal the silverware out from under. Me having status of my own—all right,
both
of us having status—”

“Not me,” Tank said adamantly.

“You’ve got the same as me,” Dasin said. “You’re as much entitled to throw around the name
Aerthraim
as I am.”

“Keep your voice down,” Tank said, casting a quick, anxious glance around the room. “That’s not a name I’d wave around north of the Horn, whatever Venepe might think.” He paused. “You didn’t tell Venepe I’m—?”

“No,” Dasin said. “I know you like to keep yourself to yourself. And when I saw that hall captain’s reaction, I figured I’d better leave it at
this red-headed scrapper I met along the way who’s signed with the Freewarrior Hall here in town.”
He paused, and seemed about to ask a question, then shook his head and took another sip of wind wine instead. His expression settled into its familiar sullen lines. “I’m going to have a talk with this Yuer, see if he needs a hand on one of his wagons. Come on with me, I’ll get you a spot alongside.”

Tank shook his head, unable to put a name to his sense of dread. “This is a bad idea, Dasin,” he said. “A really
bad
idea.”

He put a hand to his stomach, wincing a little, as a cramp stitched briefly up the left side.

“You’re scared,” Dasin said flatly. He gulped down the rest of his wine and laughed. “If I hadn’t just seen you thrash two men each twice your weight and age, I wouldn’t’ve believed it. You’re running scared over a social visit to a merchant. You know, Tank, you’re the hells’ own mouse sometimes.”

The flush in Dasin’s face came from more than the heat in the room. Tank glanced down at his own, nearly full mug and grimaced.

“Dasin,” he said. “You’re halfway to drunk. This isn’t a good time for you to—”

“Mouse,”
Dasin said, standing. He steadied himself with a hand against the table and grinned. “Are you coming or not?”

“Sit down, you damned fool,” Tank hissed as heads turned once more. “You’re in no damn state to negotiate a piss, let alone a contract.”

Dasin made a few soft squeaking sounds. “Come on,” he said. “Walk with me or go crawling back to kiss—”

“All
right,”
Tank said before Dasin could finish that sentence in his now
far
too loud voice. He scooped up his pack and saddlebags, then added, in a low voice,
“Damn
you, Dasin.”

Dasin grinned and strutted out the door.

Dawn was turning black to pink when Idisio faced the king for the third time in his life. The meeting wasn’t in a small casual room this time, but in the vast magnificence of a ballroom converted to a temporary audience hall. Floor-to-ceiling murals covered the walls, and the gilded sconces hanging from the ceiling had so many candles that each one had large catch-basins hanging below to collect the meltings. They weren’t lit at the moment; instead, the shutters of the wide windows were thrown open. A thin pre-morning breeze sifted through the room, dispersing the smoky haze of a dozen squat table-lamps.

Idisio tugged uncomfortably at his borrowed shirt. It smelled of harsh soap, and the mended patches on the shoulders, sides, and back were of a coarse material that scratched against his skin. The pants were marginally better; they hung loose enough on Idisio’s skinny legs to avoid rubbing him raw.

Everything seemed to be bothering him at the moment. The smoke from the oil lamps irritated his nose, the light hurt his eyes, the servant-loose cut of the clothes made him feel clumsy and ugly. The distrustful wariness of the desert lords aggravated his pride, and King Oruen’s severe stare prickled that further.

Or was that
Lord
Oruen, given Idisio’s new status? He decided that sticking with
king
was probably safer for the moment.

“I thought you went east with Scratha,” the king said. “Did he turn back for some reason?” His expression boded ill for any answer besides
no.

“He claims to be in town with Alyea and Deiq, of all people,” the stocky man beside Idisio said.

The king’s eyebrows lowered further. “If that’s true,” he said,
“one
of them went
far
off the course they’d been set!”

Idisio endured the king’s fierce glare as blankly as he could.

“I
see,”
the king said ominously.

The desert lord cleared his throat. “I’ve sent messengers to inquire, and they are in town—arrived last night. They should be here soon. Ah—” He turned as the main doors at the far end of the hall opened just enough to admit two people. “Here they are.”

There was a moment of silence as Alyea and Deiq entered the room. Everyone stared at Deiq with various degrees of horrified fascination. He didn’t walk in: he
strode
in, as though he owned the room and everyone in it. The vivid green of his silk shirt, the gold chain around his neck, the rings on his hands, even the finger-thin braid pulled apart from the rest and draped down his chest all combined to mark Deiq out as the single most powerful person present.