Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (51 page)

Tank set his back teeth together—lightly, to avoid his jaw hardening visibly—and kept his blank expression in place. Yuer, watching him, smiled. Tank sipped tea, not quite looking at anything in particular; in the chair next to his, Dasin did the same, breathing evenly.

“This is lovely,” Dasin said after a moment. “Mint?”

“It’s a combination of Stone Island white and a bit of mint,” Yuer said. “It’s proving to be a very popular blend along the southern coast and lower northern cities. Sells for a silver the ounce.”

Dasin blinked, sleepily appreciative, and finished off his drink. Tank cradled his nearly empty cup in his off-hand and went on staring at the space past Yuer’s left shoulder.

“How was your journey?” Yuer said. “Bit of a storm, as I hear it, in Bright Bay.”

“Yes,” Tank said when Dasin didn’t answer. “Rainy. And cold. Windy. Delayed us a bit.”

Yuer waited a few moments. The silence stretched. At last the wrinkled old man said, “You’re very good at acting stupid, Tanavin.”

“Tank.”

“Precisely my point.” The old man snapped his fingers; the blonde girl came back in, refilled his empty cup, then retreated once more without offering Tank or Dasin any tea. “I can see at a glance that your mentor trained you well past the level of a common mercenary; and you have to know by now that you’re in the middle of a deadly serious game. This posturing of
mercenary
fits you like a consumptive man’s suit on a blacksmith.”

Tank looked at the hearth, watching the crackling, dancing flames, and said nothing. Dasin, slumped back in his chair, began to snore lightly. A moment later, his hand opened, the cup spilling out. Tank lunged and caught the cup before it hit the ground. He set it on the table and eased back into his seat.

“Well past the level of a common mercenary,” Yuer murmured. “You have exceptionally good reflexes.”

Tank sat back into his chair, realizing that he hadn’t let go of his teacup during that hasty grab for Dasin’s—and hadn’t spilled a drop of the liquid remaining in his own cup. He shrugged and took a careful sip, avoiding Yuer’s intent stare.

“Aerthraim is a name to raise significant caution,” Yuer said. “Apparently, so is that of
Tanavin.”

He paused. Tank could feel that black gaze boring into him.

“I have two approaches when dealing with such names,” Yuer said finally. “One is to recruit them to my side. The other is to be sure they can’t damage me. I prefer the former, naturally.”

“I’m just a mercenary, trader Yuer,” Tank said, and met the withered man’s gaze full on for one long, ferocious moment. “Nothing in that to raise any sort of caution. Don’t know what people have been telling you. My name’s Tank, and I’m a mercenary. Nothing else.”

Yuer’s thin lips moved in what might have been a smile.

“Indeed,” he said. “This will surely be an interesting arrangement; amusing, if nothing else. Well, setting your identity issues aside, do you have my delivery?”

Tank drew in a long breath, set his teacup on the table, and said, “Yes.” He made no move to reach for the saddlebags at Dasin’s feet.

“Ah,” Yuer said softly. “You’re not happy about something.”

“I won’t be involved with delivering whorehouse drugs,” Tank said flatly.

Dasin’s light snoring deepened to a raspy snorking. Yuer lifted a hand; a husky man came into the room a moment later and scooped Dasin up from the chair. “Take him to the second guest room,” Yuer directed. The servant nodded silently and retreated.

Tank watched the man’s retreating back and felt a sudden chill. His gaze went to the two small white cups on the table, and his heartbeat staggered in his ears. “He wasn’t
that
tired,” he said, scarcely audible, and met Yuer’s amused stare.

“Neither are you, apparently,” Yuer said. “Here you are, wide awake and arguing with me.”

Tank sat very still, his hands loose in his lap. “You’re going to kill us,” he rasped.

Yuer shook his head. “My delivery, please. Put it on the table.”

Not seeing anything else to do, Tank leaned over, pulled Dasin’s saddlebags up into his lap, and dug out the bundle of oilcloth and padding. Yuer grinned as Tank unwrapped the box, apparently highly amused by the care Dasin had taken in protecting his delivery.

Tank slid the box onto the table and dropped saddlebags and wrapping to the floor at his feet, and waited, watching Yuer steadily.

The old man said, “Break the seals and open the box.
Carefully.”

Tank’s belt knife took care of the seals in a few moments; lifting the lid revealed a tightly packed mass of translucent white crystals. The smell of the sea filled his nose.

Tank sat back, staring, knife loosely held in one hand.

“Horn salt,” Yuer said. He inhaled loudly through his nose, his eyes drooping half-shut. “Very valuable, and very tasty. I’m excessively fond of it, but it’s difficult to lay hands on without certain connections. I lost many of my former connections over the course of the Purge; I’m not ashamed to say this single item is much of the reason for my alliance with Seavorn.” He blinked, lizardlike, at Tank. “No doubt you don’t believe me. But then, you’re very young, and inclined to be suspicious. And you don’t understand the value of good food to an old man. Perhaps I can show you the difference. Are you hungry?”

Tank looked up at that, his hand tightening on the knife. Yuer laughed.

“Ah, you don’t trust me,” he said. “Well, then—go your way, if you wish. You’ve done this one thing for me, and I’ll give your friend a chance at that caravan he wants to lead.” He paused. “I do know my reputation,” he added, his face stretching into a leering grin again, “but I’m not nearly so fierce as people think. I’ve simply found it useful to have a ferocious reputation. Go your way. I won’t cause you a word of trouble, and I’ll tender your farewell to your friend when he wakes.”

Yuer pulled a small cloth bag from one of the folds of the heavy blanket and tossed it onto the table. It landed with a chittering thud and slid across the table to rest in front of Tank, neatly missing the box. A few small salt crystals jolted out to scatter across the table.

“Your pay,” Yuer said. “Good day.” His grin widened, stretching drooping folds of skin into a savage leer.

Tank slowly slid his belt knife back into the sheath. He stared at that grin for a few moments, then lunged forward.

“What are you
doing?”
Yuer’s voice scaled to an unprecedented shrill peak.

Tank dug his fingers into the salt; his fingers brushed cloth. Salt crystals cascaded from the box as he hooked and pulled, lifted out a velvet pouch smaller around than his palm, and tossed it on the table.

“Is that salt?” he asked, staring straight into the old man’s eyes.

Yuer was no longer smiling. He sat still as a statue, his black gaze emotionless and icy-cold. “No,” he said after a moment. “And you’ve ruined a good salt shipment as well by digging your dirty fingers into it.”

He raised a hand. Tank didn’t move or take his gaze from Yuer’s face; the blonde girl came into the room, silently handed the bags of velvet and cloth to Yuer, picked up the box, then left without even glancing at Tank.

“You’d have done better to walk out and let me think you fooled,” Yuer said.

“What was in the bag?” Tank demanded, his throat tight. “Dasta?”

“It’s not your concern,” Yuer said. “It could be dried oregano and you’d still have ruined a prime batch of my favorite salt.” He paused. “I
wasn’t
lying on that,” he added. “I generally avoid outright lying. It leads to endless complications.” He sighed.
“You
are a complication, Tanavin Aerthraim. More of one than I wanted.” He glanced at the teacups and shook his head. “Much more.”

“You lied to Wian,” Tank said.

“Did I?” Yuer’s gaze went hooded again. He looked amused.

“She thought you were
saving
her from Seavorn. If she’d known—”

“You weren’t here, Tanavin. You don’t know what I said or didn’t say. And Wian herself is a phenomenally accomplished liar. She’ll admit as much to your face and deliver a masterful lie in the next heartbeat.”

“I believe
her,”
Tank said stubbornly.

“Then you’re an astonishing fool,” Yuer retorted. “No doubt she told you about her dreadful childhood, and being forced into a life of whoredom, and you fell right into thinking of her as victim. Don’t make that mistake, Tanavin. She’s an extremely dangerous young woman. I know for fact she’s killed at least once for one of her previous masters. It would be safer for you to feel pity for a nest of blood ants.”

Tank looked down at his hands, remembering Wian’s own words:
I’ve earned these bruises and whippings ten times over. Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t try to help me. It’ll just get you killed, and that’s the first truth I’ve handed out for free in years.

“You know I’m telling you the truth,” Yuer said. “As I said, I don’t lie often. It’s largely unnecessary when one holds the correct cards.”

Tank shut his eyes for a long moment, then opened them to find Yuer watching him with a peculiar expression.

“What now?” he said. “Are you going to kill me, or is that part of your reputation exaggerated?”

“Rumor always expands on fact,” Yuer said. “One true fact to consider, in this case, is that I believe you’d be a very useful addition to my staff, for a number of reasons; one of which is currently snoring in my guest room.”

Tank’s jaw tightened. He endured Yuer’s amused survey without flinching.

“You’re very attached to Dasin,” Yuer murmured. “And he to you. Are you lovers?”

“No!”

“Ah.” Yuer’s eyes drooped nearly shut. “So sensitive over such a small matter. Well, I doubt the two of you can be parted, whatever your relationship. If you walk out that door on poor terms, or... disappear... I risk Dasin losing his focus, his edge, his
usefulness
as a potentially brilliant young merchant. He really is a genius, and Stai Aerthraim is no fool herself; to call him her star student means he is, truly, something exceptional. I want him on
my
side, handling
my
business, Tanavin. The Purge left me with a severely thin margin of resources. I need to build that back up, and quickly. I believe Dasin’s good enough to do so in short order, whatever his age; but I’m also beginning to see that he may not function properly without you by his side.”

“I’m not that important to him,” Tank said thinly.

Yuer sat back in his chair more deeply, his head tilting to one side.

“I disagree,” he said at last. “And thus I offer you a compromise, rather than sending you to my guards for a brief discussion about proper manners. I do have a legitimate business to maintain. I do need honest merchants to carry my wares. So: I won’t ask you or Dasin to carry anything but spices. Everything in your wagon will be completely legal. You’ll handle the Bright Bay through Sandsplit run; if that goes well and I see I can trust you two, I’ll give you the Isata route in a few months. If you do well with that, I’ll let you develop the Assiasan route. Quite a lot of potential for good money there.”

“What do you want in return for all this kindness?” Tank made no effort to hide the bitterness in his voice; he already knew what Yuer would ask.

As expected, Yuer said, “You’ll keep your mouths shut about... this.” He lifted the small velvet pouch. “Not much to ask, is it?”

“What’s inside that bag?”

“Oregano,” Yuer said dryly. He tossed the cloth bag of coin back onto the table. “Not a bribe,” he added as Tank stiffened. “Advance wages.”

Tank opened his mouth, not sure what to say, and found himself blurting: “Do you supply dasta to the katha villages?”

The silence set in and stayed like hardening mud. Tank couldn’t believe he’d asked that aloud. By the expression on Yuer’s face, neither could he.

“No,” Yuer said at last, his eyes like black flint. “Those places are obscene corruptions of an honorable tradition. Now get out. Go take a room at the Traveler’s Rest, and tell them to bill me. If you wish a meal, go across to the Black Horse Tavern—it’s near that inn your former employer booked rooms at— and tell them the same thing. I’ll send Dasin along when he wakes. You may return to me in the morning with your
considered
answer; until then, I don’t wish to see sight nor hear word of you. Get out.”

Tank scooped up a double handful of saddlebags and packs, aimed one last long, emotionless stare at Yuer, and said, “Thank you for having that much decency—for not supporting the katha villages.”

Yuer’s return stare could have set green wood on fire.
“Out.”

Tank nodded and left without another word.

The closest tavern turned out to be called the Black Horse; Idisio, remembering the glossy, noble beasts he and Scratha had ridden from Bright Bay to Sandsplit, found that name comforting. Remembering that, however, put him in mind of leaving those horses with Yuer; and he wondered whether, if he were to apply to the wrinkled old man very politely, he might gain those two horses back.

Yuer always goes with his highest profit,
Scratha had said. Glancing sideways at his mother, Idisio shuddered at the price the devious old man might ask of two ha’ra’hain. No: better to leave that nest unstirred, and go on foot.

They settled at a corner table. The other patrons in the crowded room spared them only the mildest of curious glances before turning back to their own conversations and games.

“Good hope-days to you,” the serving girl said as she reached Idisio’s table. She smiled with genuine cheer. A garland of pale flowers had been wound into her long dark hair, and bright blue paint streaked her cheeks in a swirling, intricate design. “First drink is on the house tonight, and the blessing-soup is free to all.”

“Pardon,
s’a,”
Idisio said awkwardly, “I’m not familiar with your local customs.”

At almost the same time, his mother said, “It’s that late in the year? I thought the Life Moon was overhead.”

“No,
s’a,”
the girl said. “We’re under the Hope Moon.”

“The weather’s going to be turning soon,” Ellemoa muttered. “We have to move faster, or we’ll be wading through snow. I don’t like snow.”