Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (43 page)

It seemed like an endless stretch of time before the curtain drew aside and Wian beckoned to them, her face dead white and her hands trembling more than a little. Walking past her without comment took a tremendous effort of will.

The long, narrow room behind the curtain was obviously intended as a storeroom. Barrels and jugs, racks of spare goblets and bottles, cleaning supplies, and all the miscellanea of a busy tavern lined the walls, leaving little room for the small rectangular table tucked into the back corner. Behind the table sat a short, dark-haired man wearing finely tailored clothes and a smug smirk. He managed to lounge in his simple chair, and made no attempt to rise as Dasin and Tank came to a halt in front of the table.

“You’ve offered her freedom,” he said without preamble, nodding past them.

Dasin made a faintly strangled sound. Tank reflexively glanced over his shoulder and found Wian standing, her back to them, near the curtained entrance to the main room.

“Oh, she didn’t tell me. I can tell by the way you looked at her as you came in. I’m a fair judge of character.” His eyes narrowed, his gaze switching between them. “Obviously she refused, and that’s wise; she knew what she was dealing with. You don’t. I don’t want you to have any more contact with her after today. Is that clear? Not a word, not a touch, not a glance. And if she disappears on me of a sudden, I’ll be calling for the two of you to answer for it.”

Dasin stared straight ahead, jaw rigid, and said nothing. Tank studied the ceiling and said without inflection, “Yuer said you have a package of rare spices for us to bring back to him. Is it ready?”

“Spices,” the man repeated, and laughed a little. “Rare spices? Yes. I have the package ready.” He chuckled again.

Tank lowered his stare to the man’s face. The man’s amusement faded, his expression chilling to a harsher cast.

“Don’t tangle with me, boy,” the man said softly. “Name’s Seavorn. Remember it. Ask around what happens to those as cross me. I’m Yuer’s ally, for the moment; that doesn’t mean I won’t kill you soon as see you if you annoy me. Giving me Wian was a goodwill gesture on his part; sending the
spices
is a goodwill gesture on mine. They don’t need to be carried by
you,
and believe me when I say Yuer won’t miss either of you a bit.”

Tank blinked and dropped his gaze to the floor. Dasin cleared his throat, then said, “I’m not inclined to get into a tangle of politics at the moment,
s’e
Seavorn. I’m aiming to handle a trade route for trader Yuer, nothing more, with Tank here as my guard. Your arrangements with Yuer are your own business; but if you have any complaint against Tank, now or future, that needs to go through
me.
I’m the one holds his contract, and he’s sworn out through the Freewarrior’s Guild here in town as well, so there’s Captain Askhis to deal with.”

Tank shut his eyes briefly, grateful that Dasin had at least been careful to pronounce the name with the proper inflection. He’d always found it safer to say
Captain Ash,
himself; a decision the dour captain encouraged among his hires.

“He doesn’t worry me,” Seavorn said. “And neither do you.” He stood and offered them a bright, unpleasant smile. “I’ll give you the box only because it’s Yuer you answer to if anything goes wrong; I’m clear of responsibility for the mistakes of his own messengers. If I sent my own man, I’d be liable if he went off course. You two aren’t my problem.”

He reached to the back of a shelf near his right hand and pulled out an ornate box slightly larger than Tank’s fist. Setting it on the table, he looked at Dasin and Tank, the mean smirk reappearing.

“This box is sealed,” he said, pointing to a band of braided leather strips wrapped around the center of the box and a thick coating of wax along the rim and hinges. “Don’t open it. Don’t let it get wet. Don’t crush it. And don’t turn it over to any guards or allow it to be stolen. Yuer probably mentioned all of that, but no harm repeating his instructions. The value of this box is rather higher than I think either of you would like to repay.”

“What’s inside?” Dasin said, still staring straight ahead. “Need to know what I’m transporting,
s’e.
For the gate tax.”

“Spices,” Seavorn said, “what else? And you’re an ass and a fool for even thinking of declaring that.” He cocked his head to the side, studying their faces, then shrugged and added, “If you’re that intent on putting your neck in a noose, declare it as salt.”

“Salt,” Dasin said flatly. “How is that a dangerous thing to declare?”

“You’ve a lot to learn,” Seavorn said. “That there is a damn fine batch of Horn salt—with no southern gate tax mark. That might cause the eastern gate some concern, but that’ll be on your neck, not mine.”

“You’re asking me to carry smuggled goods?”

“It slipped someone’s mind to declare it,” Seavorn said, grinning unpleasantly. “Understandable mistake, really. But if that makes you wet yourself—as I said—you don’t have to be the ones carrying it.”

That hung in the air for a few moments. Then Dasin said, still not looking directly at Seavorn, “Thank you for explaining,
s’e
Seavorn. We’d best be going. It’s a long trip back to Sandsplit, and we’ll be wanting an early start in the morning.”

Seavorn snorted. “Take it,” he said, pushing the box forward, “and you cease to be my problem for a good few days, and hopefully longer.”

Dasin stood rock-still for a long, taut breath, staring at the wall past Seavorn’s head; then, in a graceful movement, scooped up the box and tucked it into his belt pouch.

“Gods hold you gently,
s’e,”
he said.

Seavorn rolled his eyes. “Save the blessing for those as believe,” he said. “My view, either they don’t exist or they’re nothing I’d be willing to pay service to, given the job they’ve done handling matters so far.”

“What parting words do you use, then?” Dasin said distantly.

“I generally find that a kick upside the arse suffices for anyone horsey enough to expect
parting words,”
Seavorn said.

Dasin turned sharply and strode from the room without further comment. Tank followed on his heels, and kept his gaze straight ahead as he passed Wian’s rigidly still form.

Wide, low-silled windows, shutters closed against the evening chill, stood above raised beds filled with herbs and flowers, many withering down as the growing season drew to an end. A large rosemary bush stood as proud welcome near the front door of the inn; beside the rosemary, a brightly painted sign read “Cida’s Haven.”

Idisio stared at the sign, trying to figure out why it looked so familiar.

“I’ve been here before. I think. Why can’t I remember anything?”

“That’s the knock on the head again, love,” his mother said, looking a little anxious for some reason. “You’re all muddled, you poor thing.”

The front door opened and a plump woman came out, a lit longmatch in hand. Idisio’s mother startled back a step, hissing a little; the woman cast her an odd glance, then set the match to the lantern hanging ready by the door. As it flared into warm light, the plump woman shook out the longmatch and secured the cover. Then she turned her attention to them, a frown creasing her face.

“Now, you look familiar,” she said, nodding at Idisio. “Didn’t you come through this way with that great looming noble lord of yours? And took Riss with you when you went. I’m not liable to forget that kindness! She’s a good girl. Is she well?”

Idisio’s grey bewilderment cleared instantly.
Riss.
Sweaty stablehand in the moonlight, a stubborn jaw and a black sense of humor—

“Yes,” he said. “She’s doing very well. She’s going to be an ambassador to a noble southern Family.”

“Ah, well, that’ll keep her occupied until you get back to her, then,” the woman nodded. She beamed at Idisio’s mother. “And who’s this, now? Another noble you’re escorting along the way to somewhere?”

Idisio’s mother went very still, eyes widening. “A noble?” she whispered, scarcely audible. One hand crept to the base of her throat. “Me?”

“Ah, well, you have that look, you know,” the innkeeper said. “You’ll want a room for the night? You look exhausted. Been walking all day, I imagine? I’ve one single-bed room to the west and one two-bed to the east, if you want private; two four-beds on the west with a spot open in each. More for the private rooms, of course, but I’ll cut the price from this one’s kindness to Riss. She deserved more care than her own family gave her, to be sure—”

“Private room,” Idisio’s mother said, firmly cutting off the woman’s friendly babbling.

The innkeeper nodded, apparently not in the least offended. “Well, then—dawn in your face, or do you sleep in?”

“Sunlight,” Idisio’s mother said. “Sunlight.” She hesitated; with care, as though the word were unfamiliar to her, added,
“Please.”

“Well, of course,” the innkeeper said. “Right this way.” She ushered them inside, humming to herself contentedly. “Dinner’s about ready next door, I should think. We’ve hired on a new cook; I ought to have gone with someone less skilled....” She patted her stomach, chuckling, then stepped behind a narrow desk standing inside the front door. A heavy lantern on a hook beside the desk cast a wide arc of light across the wooden surface. “Just a moment there, let me sort out the right—here we go.” She set a key on the desk. “Four silver bits, if you would.”

Idisio’s mother made a vague, helpless motion with one hand, then looked at Idisio. “Son?” she said.

“Oh, this is your mother?” the innkeeper said delightedly. “Well, that’s not half sweet! I can see the resemblance, now you say so. Was that your father, then, before, not your lord?”

“His father lives in
Arason,”
Idisio’s mother said with sudden acidity. “And my son bows to no lord.”

“Ah, well,” the woman said, but her eyes narrowed and stayed that way. “The silver bits, if you would.”

Idisio dug into his belt pouch, not at all sure what he’d find. His fingers sorted through oddly shaped small objects—was one a metal deer? and was that a rose? What in the world was he doing with
that
in his belt pouch?

Clarity sparked once more:
I stole from Alyea. Oh dear gods, what am I doing?
He looked sideways at his mother
—my mother! Oh dear gods, my
mother
?

Her flat stare, as much as the narrow-eyed gaze of the innkeep, warned him not to reveal his distress. Whatever he’d stepped into, he had to play it out before he could grasp control of the moment again.

He nudged the strange objects aside and scooped up a handful of metal bits with no idea what he was bringing out.

In the smoky light, color glinted: silver—and gold. He closed his hand up swiftly, drawing it closer to his chest, and hoped his shock didn’t show on his face. Had he stolen
gold
from Alyea?
They’re going to hang me for sure.

He drew a long breath, straightening his back, then opened his hand and picked out four silver bits. He avoided the innkeeper’s stare as he placed the coins on the desk.

“That’ll do,” she said, whisking the coins up in a swift movement. He could hear the new chill in her voice, could read the abrupt distrust:
And just what did happen to that master of his, I’m wondering,
came a thought.
Best I watch the both of these, looks to be.

Idisio fumbled the handful of coins back into his belt pouch and picked up the key, wishing he could think clearly enough to say something that might ease the moment.

“Room’s down that way,” she said, pointing. “May the gods send you kind dreams.”

Idisio noticed that she hadn’t specified
which
gods; then wondered what he was thinking about. What other gods were there, besides the Four?

His head hurt. He felt distinctly sullen and didn’t know why. He didn’t know where he was or what he was doing here
—Food,
he thought.
I was supposed to be getting food. Why are we checking into a room instead of getting a meal?

“You need to rest, Idisio,” his mother said in a low voice. “That’s more important right now. You’re very tired and need to rest.”

“Yes,” he said, abruptly yawning. “I am really tired.” The innkeeper stared at him as though he’d lost his mind; he avoided her gaze and followed the hallway to the room that fit the key in his hand.

“Your face was bruised,” his mother said as he opened the door.

“What?”

“I’d forgotten—sorry,
s’ieas.
A light for your room,” the innkeep said from behind them. He turned in some surprise; between one breath and the next vision flickered and dimmed to darkness, lit only by the wavering yellow of a candle in the carry-saucer she held in one hand.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You have a good memory,” the innkeeper said, not moving as he took the candle from her. “To remember the layout of this place, in the dark no less. I’ve people who come by once a tenday for three years now and still need told where their room is in broad daylight.”

“Thank you,” Idisio said, more sharply this time.

“Your face,” his mother said, as though the innkeeper didn’t even exist. “Bruised. She saw you with a bruised face. I don’t like that, son.”

The innkeeper backed up a step, becoming a shape among shadow. A blink clarified vision: the innkeeper was staring at Idisio’s mother with hard suspicion.

“You let me know,” the innkeeper said, backing up another step. “You let me know if you need anything.”

She turned and left without waiting for a reply.

“She’s worried that you hurt that man,” his mother said, eerily soft. “She worries that you’ll hurt her. Or that I will. Or that I’d put more bruises on you. What a stupid woman. But you were bruised. Who did that to you? Who was that man you traveled with before, son, who dared lay a hand on you?”

Idisio lifted the candle saucer a little, noticing that her attention instantly went to tracking the tiny flame. He backed through the open door into their room. She followed, watching the candle with an almost hypnotized interest.

My mother.
He needed to get away from her. He needed... He needed a meal. He was so
hungry.
His hand wavered, and he nearly dropped the candle.
Focus. Focus. Get a meal first. Get a meal. Then... then think about what to do next.