Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (41 page)

He put the folded bit of parchment in his belt pouch without looking at it, considering that to be a matter for later: writing his letter seemed more important than reading someone else’s. He was only vaguely aware of her standing at his shoulder as he began to write; was only vaguely aware of writing; was only vaguely aware of what was being set down on the page.

“There you go, son,” she said as he folded and sealed the letter. “There, now, I’ve let you do what you wanted. Let’s get back on the road.”

“Needs to be given to a News-Rider,” he said, looking toward the window. “To be delivered.”

“I’ll make sure it gets delivered, son,” she said. “I
promise
it will be delivered.”

He hesitated, uncertainty creeping in, and stood up. What had he just written? He couldn’t remember, and that bothered him. He looked down at the folded parchment in his hand, frowning; the writing on the outside seemed oddly blurred, as though his eyes just couldn’t focus on the words.

“It will get to the right person,” his mother said. “I promise. Leave it be, son, I’ll make sure it gets delivered to the right person.”

“Let’s just drop it off at the tavern,” he said. “They’ll hand it off to the next News-Rider.”

She stared at him, seeming both irritated and surprised.

“Very well,” she said at last.

His stomach grumbled.

“And a meal,” he said, flattening his hand against his stomach. “I’m starving.”

Her eyebrows quirked, her mouth drawing aside.

“Oh, I doubt that, son,” she said. “But very well. A meal, and this letter, and then we go. Agreed?”

He nodded, uneasy again for no good reason, and looked around the sunlit room. Worn, but reasonably clean: and empty in an oddly final manner.

“Where’s Lashnar?” he said. “This is his house, right? Where is he?”

“Not home,” his mother said, and steered Idisio outside.

The tavern was no more pleasant than it had been on Idisio’s last visit. The drooping barmaid gave him a look of unabashed loathing when he stepped through the doorway, which moderated only slightly when she noticed Ellemoa.

The tables stood empty, the air somehow the more rank for the absence of other people.

“Take your pick of seats,” Seshya said, throwing her hand out in a wide gesture. “We’re having a fine night, as you can tell.” She glanced over her shoulder, as though searching for someone, then looked back to Idisio. “We’re short on food, too. Biscuits and greens, potato soup, that’s all we’re offering tonight. Take it or leave it!”

“That’s no way to speak to us,” Ellemoa said sharply.

“Why?” Seshya demanded. She pointed at Idisio. “Last time he was here, the only decent person in this town wound up with a knife stuck through her.”

“It wasn’t me!” Idisio said, anger sparking instantly.

“Well, you have an uncanny knack of turning up around death. Lashnar slashed his arms open. No saying why. And then his witch-apprentice wife shows up and takes everything of value that Lashnar could claim ownership over, from stable and home and town: rather a lot, that was, and left Kybeach with the dregs of what wasn’t much to begin with. So do you want the damned biscuits or not?”

“Take them for your supper,” Ellemoa said unexpectedly. “We’ll leave you in peace. Idisio, give her the letter and we’ll be on our way.”

He took three reluctant steps and held out the letter. “For the next News-Rider traveling to Bright Bay,” he said.

She took it, her mouth twisted into a sardonic grimace. “I’ll be sure to send it along,” she said, then hesitated, glancing between Ellemoa and Idisio. “Let me get you a biscuit for the road, at least.”

“That would be a kindness, thank you,” Idisio said quickly, before his mother could disagree.

“It’s been a rough time of late,” Seshya said, shaking her head, then turned and went into the kitchen.

“Why not sit for a meal?” Idisio demanded in a whisper as soon as the barmaid disappeared.

“There’s only enough in that kitchen for our meal or hers,” Ellemoa said as quietly, her eyes a peculiar, glittering color. “Let her have it, son, we can get more.”

“How can they not have any food? It’s a
tavern!”

His mother just shook her head and motioned him silent. Seshya emerged a moment later with a wrapped bundle. “It’s not much,” she said a bit awkwardly, “but—well. Thank you.”

The warmth of the biscuits seeped through the cloth, heating Idisio’s palms. “Thank you,
s’a
Seshya,” he said, then, in a rush: “Are you—will you be—why don’t you have any food?”

She shrugged and folded her arms before her, slumping into a sullen posture again. “More travelers than stock,” she said. “Less money than need. Lashnar was half-owner; he handled the orders and the finances. The other owner’s in some town down the way, never seen him in my life; but Lashnar killed hisself without leaving provision as to who’s in charge—and then his wife came and scooped up whatever she could carry—which included a large part of the kitchen stores. The cook’s more drunk than sober these days, and
I
avoid him when I can.”

“I’m sorry,” Idisio said helplessly.

“It’ll sort itself out,” she said, then looked pointedly at the door.

“Good day,” Ellemoa said, then tugged Idisio outside again.

“You shouldn’t have asked,” she scolded in a low voice. “That was rude, son, to make her tell her shame like that.”

“How is it
her
shame?” he demanded. “None of it’s her doing!”

She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll explain to you one day. For now, we have a long way to travel, son—let’s get started on it.”

He took a step, another; balked, looking back to the west. A heavy dark cloud hung over Bright Bay, which seemed wildly improbable against the crisply clear morning they were walking through: Bright Bay wasn’t
that
far away.

“Let’s
go,
son,” his mother said, more sharply.

He wavered, doubtful, another moment: but the letter had been written, and would be delivered, and there was really nothing more to be done. He was going to Arason with his mother, and—

“What happened to Deiq and Alyea?” he said. “Deiq was—he was watching, when you—found me in the rain, he was supposed to—to stop you from—” He paused, frowning, and looked at his mother. Her dark grey stare caught and held his, ferociously intent.

“You’re going to Arason,
with me,”
she said. A thick layer of cotton began to wrap around his mind, blurring his thoughts into incoherence. “You’re coming home to Arason,” she said from an increasing distance. “You’re coming home to Arason, with me, with your mother....”

Sound and sight faded into a grey, muffled haze.

Dasin shook Tank awake as night turned to a deep grey.

“Get up, loverboy,” he snarled, and stomped across the room. “Time to go. I want to get to Bright Bay today.”

Tank sat up, bemused and still sleep-hazed. For an unfocused moment, Dasin’s hostility puzzled him; then he looked down at the girl curled against him.

Wian stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled up at him. It was such an unguarded, peaceful expression that his breath caught in his throat for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” he said, reflexively twisting upright and away.

His bare feet hit the cold floor, shocking him more towards wakefulness, as she said, “You don’t remember? It was
wonderful.”

Dasin turned and glared. Tank aimed a severe stare over his shoulder at Wian, mainly to avoid seeing Dasin’s outraged expression.

With a sour grin, she said, “Don’t worry, Dasin, you didn’t miss anything
you’d
consider exciting. I fell asleep and didn’t have to wake up to service anyone along the way, that’s all.”

“Whore,”
Dasin spat.

Tank jerked back around. Before he could take the first step towards breaking every bone in Dasin’s skinny body, Wian stood and came swiftly around the end of the bed.

“No more than I’ve had to be,” she snapped back. Dasin’s eyes widened; then he averted his eyes, a wave of color flushing into his pale face. Wian gave a hissing, contemptuous sound. “So, you won’t look at me the next morning to see what you enjoyed in the dark?
Coward.”

Dasin’s head jerked up. He glared at her; then his gaze drifted across her body again, as though helplessly compelled. He dropped his gaze to the floor, the color fading from his face.

“I didn’t realize,” he muttered.

Wian spat on the floor near his feet, then turned to Tank, her eyes fever-bright. “What about you?” she demanded.

Tank blinked slowly, his gaze on the web of scars that criss-crossed her entire body; the purple-black bruises, the yellowing ones, the cuts... the old brands. He looked back at her face and said, “What about me? I’ve got my own set of scars. So what?”

She stared at him, breathing hard, then abruptly turned away and grabbed up her clothes.

Dasin sat on the edge of his bed, back to them, and said nothing.

As Wian yanked her clothes on, she said, “I grew up in Bright Bay under Ninnic, serving the rich and powerful. I don’t have family, nor friends; only these damned scars to keep me company, and whoever I’m told to entertain each day. At least
you
two have each other.”

“Some of those cuts are less than six months old,” Tank said, keeping his voice flat.

“Changing the king doesn’t change the world overnight,” she said. “The ways for a female servant to survive inside the Seventeen Gates don’t change all that much when a different rump is on the throne.”

He watched her wriggling into her loose shirt, careful to keep his face still and expressionless.

“If you don’t have any family left there,” he said, “why go back?”

She didn’t answer right away, her attention apparently on arranging the folds of her shirt properly.

“And go where?” she said at last. “I can’t stay anywhere along the Coast Road if I betray my promise to Yuer; and south of the Horn or north of the Hackerwood, he’d find me sooner or later.” She paused, studying Tank. “And he’ll kill the two of you if I don’t arrive at the Fool’s Rest in reasonable time. You may not be family, but I don’t want your blood on my conscience. So let’s get moving.”

“You don’t have to go back,” Tank said quietly. “We can handle ourselves.”

She laughed a little, without humor. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Yes, we do,” Dasin said unexpectedly. He stood, turning to look at her. “We know.” He glanced at Tank, ducking his head a little, then back to Wian. “He’s right. You can—we’ll be all right. If you go.”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve done what I’ve done,” she said. “I’ve earned these bruises and whippings ten times over. Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t try to help me. It’ll get you killed, and that’s the first truth I’ve handed out for free in years. I’ll meet you at the stables.”

She walked out without looking back.

“Damn,” Dasin said after the door had closed behind her. “Tank....”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, rubbing at his mouth, wishing he could wipe away the bitter taste in the back of his throat; then bent to pull on stockings and boots, glad that he hadn’t actually gotten around to undressing the night before. He’d never allowed Dasin to see his own childhood memorabilia, and didn’t intend to start now; especially considering the inevitable comparison Dasin would make, with
that
sight fresh in his mind. Tank needed every ounce of respect he could wring out of Dasin’s cynical mindset.

“We
can’t....”
Dasin made a helpless gesture.

“We have to.”

Dasin shook his head, looking as miserable as a kicked asp-jacau. “It isn’t
right.”

“Right
is for priests and children,” Tank said. He grabbed up his gear and left the room without waiting for Dasin’s reply.

In spite of Dasin’s best intentions of reaching Bright Bay before dusk, the sky was already black by the time they reached Kybeach, and Wian was sagging sideways against Tank’s back.

“We’ll have to stop,” Tank said. Dasin growled a string of southern obscenities but reluctantly agreed.

“Stick to trail food,” Dasin said.

“Intended to.” Tank nudged Wian awake; she offered the same overall opinion of the choice as Dasin, if more wearily.

They booked a single room, with one bed for all; whether that was honestly the only room left, or the only option the sour-faced innkeep was willing to offer, Tank saw no point in arguing. A quick, shared glance agreed: none of them wanted the service to get any worse, if that was even possible.

Tank slept in the middle of the worn and lumpy mattress without a word needing to be said. Dasin kept his back stiffly turned and as far to the edge as he could. Tank pushed Wian away twice during the night; although to be fair, he could tell that she was asleep and seeking nothing more complicated than contact each time.

Dasin and Tank both rolled out of bed equally surly; Wian, quiet and moody. None of them spoke much on the way to Bright Bay.

Tank had never ridden into Bright Bay before. It was a nice discovery that the nods from the gate guards turned respectful as he went by. People moved out of the way, hardly looking up at him, and children stared with open envy and admiration—just because he was on a big horse. It was all surprisingly exciting, and he grinned like a newborn fool as he and Dasin went through the eastern streets.