Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (45 page)

A thick chill ran across Tank’s skin.

“Drug house?” Dasin said, frowning. “Tank, when were you at a—”

“You saw the rose-carrier,” the girl pressed, ignoring the interruption. “That’s not the only one like that out there. And it’s getting worse. Whatever the night-demon is after, it’s getting angrier about not finding it. And I’ve got the
sight.
I’m
already
a target for demons. I been hiding for
days.
Get me out!”

The line began to trundle forward at a steady pace. The girl dragged at Tank’s boot.

“Come on,
s’e!”
she shouted up at him, her face less pleading and more a snarl now. “Damn you high-born
ta-nekas!”

“Huh,” Tank said, his grin honestly amused now, and held out a hand. She locked skinny fingers around his wrist; he curled his hand around both her wrists and lifted. Barely the weight of a sack of feathers, she swung dirty feet up and twisted to stand on the horse’s rump for a moment, forcing Tank to release his grip as his arm twisted behind him painfully.

The horse snorted and sidestepped, not at all pleased with her acrobatics; once more, Dasin swore and circled his mount out of the way, glaring. Skinny hands pressed on Tank’s shoulders, and she slid to sit close up behind him, taking up far less room on the wide saddle than Wian had done.

But
gods,
she stank. Tank breathed through his mouth and said, “Lifty?”

“Yah,” she said, comfortable and assured now. “He went south with his desert lord, way I hear it.”

“Hear
it?” Tank said, aiming a severe stare over his shoulder at her. “You said you
saw
him.”

“Told you,” Dasin muttered as they drew to a halt once more. A fully loaded ore-cart, incoming this time, blocked much of the road, and the guards were holding all outbound traffic, even walkers, until the ore and its bevy of guards cleared the gate.

The girl stared back at Tank, unafraid. “I did,” she said. “Just not in person.” Her sharp chin tilted. “He’ll be back in Bright Bay. Might already be here. Latest, he’ll be here in another day or two at most.”

Tank had no interest in staying “another day or two” to find out if she was right. He didn’t have the time, as Yuer was waiting, and didn’t trust that it wasn’t part of some elaborate trap.

Night-demons. Getting worse.

He found himself suddenly very glad they were leaving Bright Bay.

The ore cart cleared. The gate guards waved them forward.

“Anything to declare?” one asked. “Carrying anything to sell along the way, any items that require an outgoing tax or pass?”

“Nothing,” Dasin said. Just then, his horse decided to turn irritable: threw its head up, then hunched and twisted, scattering guards and onlookers from its path.

Dasin, white-faced and cursing, hung on with everything he had. Three hops later, the horse as abruptly settled and turned itself round to stand, perfectly placid, beside Tank’s horse once more.

Tank couldn’t help a bellow of laughter as Dasin scrambled to regain stirrups and reins without falling off altogether; the blond shot him a vicious glare that promised retribution at the first opportunity.

The guards regathered, eying Dasin’s mount more cautiously than before; as tempers settled, the leader’s attention went from Dasin to the girl riding behind Tank, and his eyebrows rose. Before he could say anything, the girl called out, “Seen Anani lately, Nafa? She’s
missing
you.”

The guard’s face went a dull crimson color. “Don’t know what you mean,” he snapped. “You watch your mouth, or I’ll have you off and arrested for whoring and these two for child pandering.”

“It ain’ whoring afore they pay me,” she shot back, and this time Tank felt his face heat rapidly at the assessing look the guard raked across him and Dasin alike.

“Godsdamnit,” he said over his shoulder,
“shut it.”

She yipped irreverent laughter and stuck out her tongue at the guard.

“S’e,
we’ve no intent to—” Tank began, intending an apology to smooth the moment over; the guard shook his head and waved them through.

“At least she won’t be troubling my city if you get her out of here,” he said. “We’re better off without her. But mind you don’t both sleep around her, she’ll have your throats cut and your purses bare before the first snore.”

“If that were true,” the girl shot back, “you’d be rolled into the swamp a dozen times over, wouldn’t you?”

“Shut. It,”
Tank growled, and kneed his horse forward before either the girl or the guard could say anything more. Dasin clattered along behind him.

“Just what we need,” Dasin groused as they rode through the eastern gate. “A mouthy whore-witch child.”

“Tuh,” the girl said, contemptuous. “I’m not a whore nor a witch, no more than you’re a noble-born or a hawk, merchant. I have the
sight,
and I live on the street. Now an’ again there’s a price for those things. Don’t make me a witch nor whore.”

“Tell that to the Church,” Dasin said, and that silenced her for a while. He shot a glance at Tank in the ensuing quiet, one eyebrow lifted, and mouthed:
Hopam?
Tank jerked his head at a slant and motioned with one hand:
Later.
Dasin shook his head, frowning, but let it rest.

“Drop me off in Kybeach,” the street rat said at last, more subdued. “I’ll find a place there.”

“They’re in need of a hand at the local inn, I think,” Tank said. “And if you put back the money you took out of my belt pouch, I’ll leave you with enough to get by on for a bit. Otherwise I’ll take that thieving little hand off at the wrist.”

“Tuh,” she said, sounding surprised this time. “Loon.”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He twisted, grabbed her hair, and had her hauled out of the saddle and laid over in front of him before she could do more than screech. If she’d been any heavier he couldn’t have managed; as it was, his horse snorted and turned in a complete circle by way of protest.

“Bastard!”
she screamed, twisting to glare at him. Fresh blood seeped from her puffed lip.
“Ta-karne!”

“Stay still,” he advised, mildly surprised that he’d been able to bring the horse back under control so quickly. That probably had more to do with how well the horse was trained than any special skill on Tank’s part. Not for the first time, he hoped he wasn’t riding a horse stolen from some noble’s stable. He wouldn’t put anything past Yuer at the moment. “You wriggle around, you’re liable to go ass over, and the horse will trample your skull like a melon.”

“The fucking saddle ridge is in my stomach!”

“Stop swearing.”

She lay still, panting, and went limp in apparent defeat.

“Sight or not,” Tank said, “you’re stupid.” He hooked both hands into her skinny armpits and heaved her upright. “All you had to do was play straight.” He lowered her roughly over the side of his horse, dropping her the last few handspans: her feet went out from under her, and she sprawled in the hot, sandy dirt, glaring up at him. “Your having the sight don’t impress me into wanting to help you. Get to Kybeach on your own.”

“Fine,”
she spat, scrambling to her feet, and dug ferociously into hidden pockets, producing four silver rounds and one gold. She held them up, her hand shaking.

He leaned down, reaching for the coins. She yanked her hand away before his fingers closed. “Take me the rest of the way,” she said. “I ain’t walkin’ that far.”

He bared his teeth at her and said, “Coins first.”

They stared at each other. Dasin muttered something under his breath.

At last, she held out the coins again. This time he captured them; sorted out one of the silver rounds, and tossed it to her. She caught it reflexively, then scowled at him, understanding the gesture perfectly. “You
lied!”

“Yes.” He straightened in the saddle and kneed the horse into motion.
“Tvit,”
he added over his shoulder, but doubted she heard him through her cursing.

“She took more than the one gold,” Dasin said once her shrill voice had faded behind them. He wore a curiously satisfied expression.

“I know,” Tank said.

“Don’t want to get it back?’

“No.”

Dasin shot him a sideways grin. “Soft hearted, aren’t you?”

“What would you have done?”

“Besides not picking her up in the first place?” Dasin laughed, then sobered. “Same thing.”

They rode on in easy silence.

Last time through, the tavern had been filled with quiet, genteel patrons and the air had been laden with exotic scents. Tonight, ginger and clove had been replaced with the well-oiled aroma of roast chicken, underlaid with a sharper smell, one Idisio wasn’t entirely certain of; but it made his mouth water just the same.

The patrons were no less well-dressed, but considerably fewer this time, and no dice or card games were in evidence. Instead, the two occupied tables each seemed intent on separate, low-voiced but intense discussion. They glanced up with clear suspicion as Idisio entered from the inn-side door.

Idisio averted his gaze, unwilling to invite trouble, and moved to a table across the room. After a few moments, they relaxed and went back to their talk.

The serving girl came over, smiling, and lit the triple-wick lamp on his table. The strong scent of fish oil warmed the air.

“Roast chicken just came out,” she said. “Potatoes, greens, ear of spring corn, half a silver round. Lemon-nut pie, another two silver bits.”

She still smelled of sweetened ginger. Idisio smiled at her with considerably more confidence than he’d possessed last time they’d met.

“You look familiar,” she said, swaying to put one hand on an outthrust hip. “Didn’t you come through here a while back with that great handsome nobleman? Both of you ate near your weight, if I recall right.”

Idisio shrugged, half-embarrassed, and dug out a silver half-round’s worth of bits. She took it, winked in a way that brought a burst of heat to his ears, and went off to the kitchen. Idisio sat back in the chair, looking around, thinking about Scratha; thinking about how much had changed since he’d come through here before.

Riss.
His mother’s question about how he felt brought it all back: the way her face had looked in moonlight, the way she’d laughed and tucked into a meal with a man’s appetite on the road; the way she’d writhed when—

He bit his lip and thought about how good the food would taste instead. How hungry he was. How pretty the serving girl was, and whether
she
might
—Oh, hells,
he thought, exasperated with himself. He’d never been the sort to chase after every girl in sight. What was the matter with him?
You’re still developing,
someone said in memory. Who had that been? He squinted at the table as he tried to force memory to clear. Instead, he found his fingers sliding over the rough wood, every slight rill and worn spot crisply evident. A brief shock of heat raced through him; he shook clear of that and tried to sort out his swirling, muddled thoughts.

The serving girl returned with a well-loaded platter: half a chicken, a fist-sized pile of greens, as much crisp-roasted potatoes, and a roll.

“Roll’s normally extra,” she said as she set the platter down, “but I like you.” She winked again.

This time Idisio winked back, and she was the one to blush and look away.

“Thank you,
s’a,”
he said. “You’re very kind.”

She ducked her head, seeming embarrassed, and retreated to the kitchen.

He grinned and dug into his meal with enthusiasm. When he’d slowed down to picking over the nearly-stripped bones and burping contentedly, she returned.

“Room for pie?” she asked. Her fingers played over the edge of the platter, and she didn’t quite meet his eye.

A wild, brazen mood overtook him. “It’s a slow night in here,” he said, “and a nice one outside. Care to take a walk with me?”

She glanced swiftly at the two other occupied tables, over to the barkeep, then back to Idisio. Scooping up the platter, she murmured, “A walk sounds lovely. I’ll meet you around back.”

He smiled with a wholly unprecedented satisfaction: they
definitely
weren’t laughing at him any longer. He dismissed a pang of unease: he needed to get out of here... head back to Bright Bay as fast as he could run... soon. Soon. He had time. Thinking of Riss had made him recall how... lonely he was. Lonely. Companionship. Just a short walk, and then he’d start out for Bright Bay.

He spared a moment to hope that Riss was flirting with someone even now. She deserved someone more faithful than he’d turned out to be.

Some time later, his hands and mouth busy, her breath coming in stifled gasps, his mind on nothing but the moment, a voice said,
“Idisio”
in tones of blackest disapproval.

His hands tightened. The girl yelped right next to his ear. Idisio jerked his head back reflexively, wincing; then, finally, registered the other voice that had spoken. All the blood seemed to drain instantly to his feet.

“Oh,
shit,”
he said aloud, turning his head to look, and found only empty, chill darkness and the hum of night-bugs surrounding them.

“You said you’d come back to talk,” his mother said from somewhere to his left. The crickets never paused in their chirring.

“I was—”

The serving girl wriggled free and yanked her dress back into place. “I’ll have bruises come morning,” she said accusingly. “You try explaining that to my father! Gods, don’t you know your own strength?”

He stared at her, bewildered. “What are you talking—”

“You said all you wanted was a meal,” his mother said from somewhere behind him.

“This isn’t—” Idisio began, twisting his head to search the shadows.

“A bit of fun is one thing,” the serving girl said, “but I don’t like being roughed up, thank you! Go find your fun somewhere else.” She raked her hands through her hair and began to turn away.

At the same time: “You don’t want anything to do with that girl,” his mother said, her voice an eerie underlay to the girl’s outrage. “She’s a slut. You’ll find plenty of nice girls in Arason.”