Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) (34 page)

At last she swallowed hard and said, in an eerily cool voice, “Lini. Get the blanket. Bring it to me.”

Deiq’s grin widened as Lini instantly trotted across the room, retrieved the blanket, folded it into a neat bundle, and brought it to Alyea.

Alyea opened her mouth; hearing the pre-echo of the intended words, Deiq hastily reached over her shoulder and put his hand over her mouth.

“Thank you, Lini,” he said. “You’ve done very well. Beautifully well.” He caught the servant’s gaze and let seductive warmth flood his voice. “The blanket needs to be washed. Thank you for coming to take it away to be washed.”

Lini’s memories of the last few moments dissolved under a gentle nudge; she flushed bright red, bowed, and scurried out the door.

Alyea shoved Deiq’s hand away from her mouth and turned around; close as he stood, her body brushed against his. Still mildly hazed himself, he put his hands on Alyea’s hips, a thoroughly human reaction coursing through him.

“That was
disgusting
,” she snapped, and jerked back a step.

Deiq shut his eyes and winced, crashing back to the moment. “That’s going to save your life one day,” he said without looking at her. “You need to know that it’s possible, and how to do it.”

As he spoke, it became easier to resume the practical detachment. He opened his eyes and realized that she hadn’t even noticed his moment of sharp interest. Her gaze rested on the door, her eyes narrow and tight with loathing.

“It’s
wrong
,” she said. “She didn’t deserve that!”

“We did no harm,” Deiq said, forcing his mild annoyance into patience. “She won’t even remember it happened.”

That earned him another black glare.

“Remember what I said about trusting me? About listening? This is like the question of kathain. You may not like it, but it’s part of what you are now. It’s part of your life. If you don’t know how to influence people, you can’t defend against being influenced yourself. And the ability to do this is just a tool, like a knife or hammer. It’s not evil or good in itself; it’s what you do with it what defines the meaning.”

“Have you ever done that with me?” she demanded.

“Of course,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I put you to sleep at the Qisani, for one thing. And I tried to talk you out of going down the Horn with Chac.”

“Anything
else
?”

Frustration tightened his stomach muscles. He let it turn his voice crisp. “I don’t make a practice of persuading people to act against their wills, and desert lords are more difficult to influence than humans. That’s all the answer I’ll give you, because damned if you deserve anything more.”

He turned his back then, deliberately, and walked away, scooping up his shirt as he went and trying to ignore the aches; this time, they weren’t caused by any physical injury. He’d almost had her trusting him, and she’d backed off again. What the hells did he have to do to convince her to stop doubting him?

“I’m sorry,” she said from behind him. “You’re right. I just . . . got scared.”

Deiq paused, thinking over her tone and checking for the emotions behind it; sensing honesty, he swung round with deliberate ease and said, “Understandable. And I got frustrated. Consider that your bloody thrashing. Next time I’ll leave you to sort it all out on your own. Agreed?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying,” she said, her tone working high in surprise.

He took two quick steps forward. She held her ground without flinching, her stare intent and intense now. He could feel her settle internally into a newly solid confidence; it felt like an echoing
click
in his mind. A grin forced its way across his face.

“Yes,” he said, delighted beyond reason, almost crowing.

“You won’t leave. And you won’t hurt me,” she said, eyes widening. Her tone grew stronger as she went on, “You really hate the idea.
Really
hate it. I think . . . I think you’d hurt
yourself
before you let me come to harm.”

“Yes,” he said, and moved close, watching, with awakening hunger, for her reactions to flare; but she stared at him without any sign of desire.

“All right,” she said. “I still don’t agree with how casually you take all this, but I’ll listen. I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult.”

Icy chill doused his eager attention. She wasn’t ready after all. “Don’t apologize more than once,” he said, rather wearily, and went to sit on a couch.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m tired. I still don’t feel well. I’m not as recovered as I thought, apparently. Why don’t you go see your mother; we’ll pick up on lessons again when you get back.”

He manufactured a smile, then realized she’d have to walk alone. Something about the notion bothered him tremendously, but he suspected that walking with her, constantly seeing hints of how damn
close
he’d been, would only increase his frustration past bearing.

“Bring a servant,” he added. “Better yet, ask a palace guard to walk you there.”

“I don’t need—”

With the last of his patience, he said, “Just do it, Alyea. Humor me.”

She hesitated, frowning, then shrugged and went into her bedroom to dress. The lack of protest, even though she obviously saw the lie in his excuse of illness, only confirmed his suspicion that she was still fighting a basic distrust. Going to see her mother wouldn’t do much to ease her fears. He’d be working from the ground up all over again when she returned.

As the door closed behind her, he dropped his head into his hands and let out a gut-deep groan of frustration.

Alyea walked easily—and alone—down the cobbled streets towards Peysimun Mansion, having decided that Deiq was being overprotective, as always. The mad king was dead; the mad creature controlling him had died; the madwoman imprisoned by the creature had fled the city. Pieas was dead. As far as Alyea knew, nobody else in this city held any ill intent towards her, and on top of it all, she wouldn’t be leaving the Seventeen Gates. No point at all in a servant or bodyguard, even for the sake of status.

The blow to the back of her head came as a complete surprise.

She woke with a ringing headache and a thoroughly foul temper, neither of which improved when she discovered she was tied hand and foot to a sturdy chair. Her arms were bound at an awkward angle that gave her no leverage; the knots held when she strained against them, and the chair wouldn’t budge, either bolted to the floor or secured to something she couldn’t see. After wasting another moment cursing, she looked around the room, tossing her head to shake loose hair out of her eyes.

At first glance, it looked small, cluttered, and dingy; not anywhere in the noble quarters, by the mess and smell. She wrinkled her nose at the sour odor of old wine and ale, mold, dirt, sweat, and garbage. A narrow window up high in the north wall let in a dim version of sunlight.

A tavern
was her first guess, and one near the docks; the air held the faintest tinge of brine. She ran down the list of the taverns she’d seen while walking around in the past, considering possibilities, and finally narrowed it down to three of the most disreputable: the Brass Ring, the Grey Wind, or the Red Storm.

She set her mind to figuring out why anyone associated with those taverns would want to harm her.
Eredion
was her first thought, along with his street-contacts: had he been playing some obscure game all along? Was she tangled into some aspect of his personal and Family business
conflicting
?

It didn’t seem likely, but it brought a more probable name to mind:
Pieas
. It felt
right
, felt true: the drug-smugglers Wian had spoken of must have found out about his death, and be planning to punish her for it. It had been stupid to discount them as potential enemies; stupid and prideful. Apparently her new status wasn’t as much protection as she’d thought.

Another attempt to break free failed to do anything but work the rough rope painfully into her skin; she gave up, annoyed. So much for her new strength; it wasn’t enough, apparently, to break through several loops of heavy rope.

But since they hadn’t killed her yet, they would come to taunt her or abuse her sooner or later. And the longer they waited to do that, the less chance they had of surviving.

Remembering her sudden understanding of just how fiercely Deiq wanted to protect her from harm, Alyea spared a moment’s pity for the fools who had kidnapped her. Deiq would go berserk when she didn’t return. He’d tear the city apart looking for her, and tear
them
apart when he found her.

She relaxed into a half-trance that would help pass the time.

All she had to do was wait.

With the exception of the four main guard towers, the palace boasted only a few balconies and patios set high above ground level, each with its own distinct character and history. Deiq’s favorite, which had been designed as a display of Aerthraim outdoor toys and wonders, had been utterly destroyed during the Purge and turned into a shrine to the Four. Another, an aerie-garden, showcased an array of air-plants and light, jointed metal sculptures that twisted hypnotically in the wind; Deiq generally avoided that one. The peculiar sickly odor air-plants emitted always gave him a headache, and it was too easy to be drawn into watching the dancing sculptures and lose track of human time.

Deiq wandered from one balcony to another, Eredion at his side, looking over the changes since the last time he’d had this freedom; talking quietly over trivialities, and trying not to think about his growing unease. At last the Sessin lord said, diplomatically, that he actually did have rather a lot of business to attend to, and left Deiq to stand on the Blue Balcony alone.

Deiq paced the balcony, mood souring; returned to the railing to stare out over the city. He couldn’t see Peysimun Mansion from here; that was on the other side of the palace. And human lives weren’t all that interesting to watch from a height. They went about their days like ants crawling after food; wagons bringing this in and that out, whores tumbling clients and clients paying for the service, merchants and politicians and commoners negotiating a million tiny, unimportant details with every moment. And somehow, miraculously, it all added up to a working society; a civilization that had produced both astonishing beauty and appalling ugliness.

They call
me
a monster. . . refuse to trust me . . . No ha’ra’hain has ever perpetuated such conscious, ongoing cruelty as Rosin Weatherweaver did for years.

At last he sighed and went back to Alyea’s suite, hoping to find her there; the sun stood well past noon, and she should have returned. But the room stood empty, with no trace of recent occupancy; she was still at Peysimun Mansion. He closed his eyes and tried to search for her, but met only a fuzzy greyness. With her mind still closed, she was as untraceable as a
tharr
.

He sat down on the couch and stared at nothing for a long time. A strange restlessness rose in him, and he began to pace, watching sunlight fade towards night. At last he focused his attention with care and said,
Eredion?

A slight delay; then,
Yes?

Are you still busy?

I’m always going to be busy
, Eredion replied, sounding tired and a little annoyed.
Never mind. It can wait. Where are you?

A short time later, Eredion let himself into Alyea’s suite. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

Deiq shrugged without answering and sat down on the couch. Eredion picked an Aerthraim match from the box on the side table, then went around the apartment, lighting the table lamps and wall-sconces in the main room. A sulfurous smell lingered in the air for a moment, then faded under the reek of fish oil.

“Where’s Alyea?” He returned the matches to their spot on the side table and moved to stand before Deiq.

“Went to see her mother,” Deiq said, staring at his hands. “Hasn’t come back.”

Eredion drew a sharp breath. “And you’re not worried about her safety?”

“I told her to have a guard escort her there and back. We would have heard if something had happened. So it has to be a choice. I almost had her trust.
Almost
. Godsdamnit!” He put his head in his hands.

Eredion said nothing for a moment, then gave a strange gagging noise. Deiq looked up, alarmed; realized that Eredion was
laughing
. Deiq surged to his feet. A breath later, Eredion lost his attempt to smother the noise and let it out in a long, hooting howl of mirth.

Deiq stood bewildered and stunned, staring at Eredion; not at all sure what to do with that reaction. He didn’t even understand what the man was laughing
at
. Perhaps he’d finally gone insane under the strain of recent events.

Eredion wiped his eyes and sat down on the other couch, still chuckling.

“Deiq,” he said, “for a thousand-year-old ha’ra’ha, you occasionally do a remarkable imitation of a fifteen-year-old human.”

Deiq glared, feeling strangely sullen and embarrassed. “I don’t understand.”

“I know.” Eredion gave one last coughing chuckle and looked up at him. “Her mother is a very persistent woman. I can imagine her dragging Alyea’s visit out past all reason with any number of strategies. Why don’t you simply go fetch her, for the love of the gods? Much later than this, and staying overnight will be the next strategy employed.”

“But what if she doesn’t
want
—”

A knock on the door cut him off, as did Eredion’s exasperated glare. He shook his head and went to answer it, dread coiling in his stomach. As he’d half-expected, another common messenger stood in the hall; this time, a scruffy adolescent with mismatched eyes. He held out a folded message without comment; when Deiq took it, the boy gave a short bow and walked away.

Deiq stood watching the boy go for a moment, then shut the door and returned to sit on the couch, staring at the paper in his hand. On the front, it said:
For Merchanter Deiq of Stass only.

Probably not from Alyea, then, despite the similarity of messengers; and nothing exceptional or even informative resonated from the paper itself. He broke the seal and unfolded the note.

Four the safe return of yur woman, be at the Green Bridge by midnigte tonigte.

He grunted, not sure whether to laugh himself, and held the paper out to Eredion.

The desert lord read it. “So much for the guard who went with her,” he commented dryly.

“I’m guessing her mother never sent the message after all,” Deiq said, leaning back on the couch. He felt strangely relieved. This was an easy situation to handle, a simple answer to give. “It was a lure to get Alyea out of the palace.”

“What are you going to do?”

Deiq stared at a nearby oil lamp, amusement loosening his muscles. “About common bandits looking for a ransom? What would you do, Eredion, if you were kidnapped and held by ordinary idiots?”

“They wouldn’t make it far,” Eredion said dryly. “But Alyea doesn’t seem to have grown into her own strength yet.”

“She can do what needs doing,” Deiq said. “I tested her on that just before she left. She may not want to, but she can turn her captors on their ears and make them dance. And she’s strong enough, if they let her get loose, and fast enough that it would only take a moment’s laxity. She’ll be fine.”

“Now,
that
,” Eredion said, “sounds much more like a ha’ra’ha’s attitude.”