Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (5 page)

You’re crap as a thief,
Lifty said, some time later.
You’re a decent scrapper, though. Ought to go talk to them over at the Freewarrior’s Hall.

That, at least, had proven a wise suggestion. Tank drew in a long breath, focusing on the water and the air and the clouds.

Just a mercenary,
he thought
. I can do this. I can be ordinary. I can control my life. No more voices. No more visions. Just a mercenary...

Slick green-gold tendrils laced, briefly, through vein and muscle; he tensed and fought the past comprehensively back into hiding.

“Not a tall tale, for all that you’d be a fun one to pull on. Nah, the voices are real. I hear ‘em myself,” Slick was saying, contemplative. “Especially after someone’s jumped. That’s when they
sing,
like a happy drunk in a vat of mountain lightning.”

Tank backed three long steps away from the rail, not caring if she thought less of him. “Sing?”

She turned, rested her back against the rail, and grinned at him. Wisps of dark hair, freed from the triple-bound tail most of the crew used, flittered around her face. “Scared you, did I?”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “You pulling me or you straight? No games.”

“Straight,” she said. “But backing off the rail won’t help you. I seen folk sleepwalk up from below and jump.”

“You don’t stop them?”

“Gotta see ‘em going for the rail in the first place. Not easy in the dark of the moon, or middle of a busy day, for that matter. And someone hazed heads for the water, they move fast as you did going up the walk. Hard to catch someone moving that fast.”

He hesitated, a vague tremor of disquiet in his muscles, then returned to the rail and looked down at the rippled, frothing water passing by the hull. “Why do you come out this far, if it’s that dangerous? And what about the crew? What if you jump?”

“Profit,” she said succinctly. “Faster travel out away from land, and we charge more for shipping through a dangerous area. You’d’a paid half the coin and taken three times as long for a shorehopper trip. And the crew—Nah. We’re solid.” She held out one arm, turning it to display the fish tattoos more clearly. “Each fish is a voyage over the deep. Captain does ‘em himself. We hear the call an’ walk away, is when we get our first fish and full crew status. I worked as slophand for two years before this one.” She pointed to the one on her face. “I’m the only one as still hears it, no matter who it’s calling.”

Her motions drew his attention to her body overall; slender, muscled, with small breasts and narrow hips. Her face had the light almond cast of a upper southlands heritage and the lighter bone structure of a northern: she probably came from somewhere around Sessin or Stass port, at a guess.

To distract himself from staring, he said, “I saw someone with a tattoo of a chain wrapped around his arm. That mean something too?”

She sobered. “Yeah,” she said. “I know who you mean. Chain means he’s killed. Black for on board a ship, red for land. Three links each body, as he’s southern. Northerns use four. Stay away from him, he don’t mind adding to the total; prob’ly won’t last long as crew, himself.”

He glanced at her arms again: no chain, only fish.

She laughed at him, unbothered by his quick survey, and said, “Not feeling like a swim, are you?”

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

“Good. Then I can leave you be.” She started to turn away, then came back to the rail, her thin face intent as she stared out at the waves. “Something...” she muttered.
“There.”

Something swirled the surface a stone’s throw from the ship. A dark shadow that could have been a huge fish rose briefly and sank from sight as fast. Green and gold flickered along the edges of Tank’s vision, then cleared.

Slick swore, somewhere far away.

No,
someone said, much closer to hand.
No. Leave him alone.

Tank leaned forward against the rail, staring after the shadow. He knew that voice.

“Teilo?” he said aloud. “Is that you?”

Slick’s hand closed around Tank’s arm, hard. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said. “Let’s get you away from the rail.” She tugged him back, shoving him toward the steerage hatch. “Get down below.”

Leave him alone,
the voice said—definitely Teilo this time. He’d heard that voice often enough to have no doubt. Where was she? He started for the rail again.

Slick hissed through her teeth and blocked him, shouldering him back. “Get down the damn hatch,” she snapped. “Do I got to hit you?”

She didn’t understand, and he didn’t have the time to explain. What was Teilo doing in the water, and who was she talking to? It didn’t make sense. He wanted to understand. He needed to understand. To talk to her. But—

Wait—Why would I
want
to talk to her? She’ll only lie to me again. She’ll only use me again.

He slowed, frowning. Slick bulled him back several more steps.

“Idiot, fool, ass!” she shouted at him. “Get below!”

But he’s so perfect...
another voice this time, one with a too-smooth overlay: he knew that accent
far
too well. Fear jolted him backwards three more steps without protest.
So wonderful,
the second voice purred.
He is perfect, he is wonderful.

“Oh, hells no,” he said aloud. Green and gold tendrils laced through memory, turning salt air to rot in his nostrils, bringing a fiery itch to old scars throughout his body.

Impossible. It’s
dead
... I killed it! And Teilo is nowhere
near
here right now... is she?

What’s happening to me?

“Get below!” Slick hollered, right in his face. Her teeth had gaps and her breath was sweet from a peppermint chew.

Shivering and bewildered, he let her bully him down into the passenger hold. The chill of the metal ladder under his fingers came as a reassurance of reality: he wasn’t
back there,
in any sense of the word. The hold, while dank, dark, and small, didn’t match up to the overheated hell of his childhood or the colder, swamp-rot smelling hell of a more recent time: this was a ship, not land, and he was
safe.
Nothing could grab him here, not even a demon returned from the dead.

Overhead, the hatch slammed closed, outside latches ratcheting shut. The sound calmed him further. He couldn’t answer that deadly call if he couldn’t get out.

Wonderful you’re wonderful... Come play... Come play... perfect...

No,
Teilo cut in again.
No. Leave him alone.

The voices faded away. Tank paced, restless, peering into the shadows.

“You’re hearing the song now, huh?” Slick said as she settled atop a sturdy box. She snorted and spat to one side.

“Not a song,” Tank said absently. “Words. They’re talking... She’s talking.”

“Oy, you’re an odd one, then,” Slick said, unconcerned. “Don’t listen, is my advice.”

Don’t listen? Did I listen, last time? I didn’t mean to. No... I
didn’t
listen, back then, and that was the whole problem. It was all my fault. I should have listened to Allonin. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t run away—all my fault, all my—

Memory hazed the distance between past and present, pulling
was
into
now:
Come play with me,
the creature said, presence resonating through the chill, underground dankness.
Rosin sent you to play with me. I like to play. I know what you like. You are human, and humans like pain. I can see what you like. Rosin taught me. Here—you like
this
, and so you will like
this
—

Pain prickled ghost-agony over Tank’s stomach, arms, and groin.

“No,” he said aloud, flinging his arms up in protest. “No!”

He could feel Slick watching him with more curiosity than alarm, could see himself as she saw him: a broad-shouldered redhead with wiry muscles, spinning in place and flailing at the air like a madman.

He couldn’t catch control, couldn’t pull himself from the maelstrom of intersecting moments.

Rosin taught me to give this, because humans like this,
the creature said, and lines of fire burned through old scars.
I see it in your mind, I see it in your flesh, this is what you are, this is what you like—

Heat centered around his groin, pain and pleasure flaring together; Tank arched his back and screamed—in the now, in the then, he couldn’t tell. An answering scream echoed through his mind, threading through memory of striking out with everything he had: with anger, pain, grief, hatred; with years upon years of bottled-up madness. The scream from the past mingled with the ones in the present, and he went to his knees as dank brine filtered into his nostrils and the hold came into focus once more.

“Damn,” Slick said in his ear, laughing. “Never seen someone take it quite like this before. You look to need a distraction.”

Everything paused, hanging in fragile, crystal silence as he looked up at her. A few vague stripes of light ghosted in through the slats of the hatch overhead, just enough to see her smiling as she looked down at him.

“What’s happening to me?” he whispered.

“Don’t know,” she said, indifferent. “And not my never mind. I get paid to sit and wait this out with passengers as get hit. I always know who the song’s aimed at.” The words held no pride, only fact.

A massive
presence
stirred below. Green and gold began to flicker in Tank’s vision again.

“Distraction,” Tank said on an exhalation, shuddering, nearly gasping the word.

“Right here,” she said, and knelt beside him, her hand reaching unerringly down.

He soon discovered that Slick had other tattoos... quite a few, in fact, and some in spots that must have hurt like all the hells combined; but that thought came later, with recollection, not in the moment’s heat.

Perfect—oh! Perfect, how do you know such—
The alien voice swirled away in a tempest of distraction. Somewhere, Teilo moaned. Slick cried out. Tank howled and let go of restraint, of awareness, of fear: his vision went black and empty for an endless moment of relief.

Whispers and moans alike slowly faded away. He lay in the near-dark, gasping for breath, plastered with sweat; reason returned, bringing along awareness and glowing shame.

“Oh gods,” he said aloud. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

Slick rolled over and stood, staggering slightly.

“I’m not sorry at all,” she said. “That was pretty good for once.” She bent and scooped up her clothes.

“But—What?” He blinked up at her, bewildered and still dazed.

She pulled on leggings and shirt, then leaned to offer him a hand up. He let her help him to his feet, unsurprised—now—by her wiry strength.

“Never had a man apologize for enjoying himself before,” she said. “Get dressed. You’re safe; they never come back twice for the same person. You’ve maybe even earned a fish. I’ll talk to the captain about it if you like.”

“I thought you were
crew,”
he said, unable to explain more clearly.

“I am,” she said. “My job is to keep the passengers alive. That takes different forms.” Her teeth flashed in the gloom. “I’d say this was a good day’s work, myself.”

He stood still, staring at her.

Her grin soured with her tone. “What are you,” she said, “some kind of northern soapy?”

“Soapy?”

“Priest. S’iope,” she said, drawing the word out into an exaggerated drawl. “Soapy. Obviously not, or you’d know that one.”

“No,” he said, “but I don’t take—that—lightly. It—it should
mean
more.”

“It means you’re alive. Means you didn’t try knocking me out and busting through the hatch to get back out to the water.” She laid only the slightest emphasis on
try.

“That’s not what I—”

“It is what it is, and
I’m
not complaining. Get dressed and shut up about it already. And go see Tanfer about that damn salve. No point saving your life only to lose it to rot.”

She climbed the ladder and banged a hand against the hatch. Bolts shot back, and she climbed out without a backwards glance.

Tank sat in the near-dark for some time, staring at the juncture between past and present—and trying to figure out what in the
hells
had just happened.

Feelings like love are a vulnerability first generation ha’ra’hain do not have. Ever. For anyone.

Lord Scratha’s words cycled through Idisio’s mind as he walked back to his room, trying to decide why he was so disturbed by the conversation with Azni.

I have feelings. I have lots of feelings. Even feelings for other people. I cared about Red. I’m glad he’s found his son. I’m sad that he seems happy that his son’s been adopted by a southern desert Family, and doesn’t want to go meet the boy in person.

But... maybe
sad
was too strong a word.
Disappointed
came closer. And had he really
cared
about the redheaded sailor—or had he seen in the man’s quest for his son an inverse echo of his own long-standing fantasy of having his father come rescue him from a life on the streets?

I hate this. I never used to think like this. It’s being around Deiq that’s doing this to me. He’s making me question everything, just by tilting an eyebrow when he looks at me. But I have feelings. I’m human enough for that. I love Riss. I love her because... because...she’s nice. She’s...she’s sweet.

“Damnit,” he muttered under his breath. “Damnit, damnit, damnit.”

As he neared his room, he could feel Riss’s anxiety, hear her tumbling, bouncing thoughts:
Should I look for him? Why did he leave without telling me? He could be anywhere; this place is enormous—Why did he leave?

He hesitated on the verge of retreat, then made himself keep moving forward. She was in his room, pacing restlessly. As he came through the light door, she spun and took a wide, bounding step toward him; at his instinctive flinch, she stopped and backed up, biting her lip.

“Where did you
go?”
she said, her voice squeaky, then blushed a deep crimson and turned her back on him.

“Sorry,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Conclave’s soon. You ought to get ready.”