“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.
Chapter Three
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.”
“I know. I’ll do that now.”
She nodded and started for the door, then stopped, twisting her hands together. “I’m a little—” She hesitated, jaw working as though chewing on what to say. “A little lost. You’re the only one I know. You and Lord Scratha. It’s a little scary. This whole—” She paused again, biting her lip, and finally shook her head. “I get scared. I get worried if I don’t know where you are. It’s just—strange, here. I’ve been having these d-d-dr—” She stopped, one hand over her eyes, then dropped it back to her side and looked at him.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said lamely, not sure what else to say. “It’s not so bad here.”
She stared a moment, her expression somewhere between bewilderment and annoyance, then shook her head and left without further comment. He let out a long sigh, listening to her settle back into her reading practice, and tried to see her point.
He couldn’t. He’d always relied on himself to survive. Friendly faces dropped in and out of one’s life without warning. She’d grown up in a secure life, with parents, with family, with a community. While that had turned against her in the end, she’d known something he’d never dreamed of and still couldn’t quite understand.
He had more sympathy for Lord Scratha at the moment. The man was dealing with people in his place, his territory; people he didn’t entirely trust, people who would more than likely stab him in the back given sufficient profit from the move. And if one of those people turned Idisio against him, or Deiq, Scratha’s life could get very unpleasant very fast.
He’s anxious to keep you happy, Azni had said. That made more sense to Idisio, by far, than Riss’s uncertainty.
Thank all the gods Riss won’t be in Conclave with me.
He immediately felt guilty for the thought. Riss deserved better than that. But as he began cleaning himself up and picking out clothes from the pile Cafad had sent him, he couldn’t convince himself to feel any other way.
“I declare this Conclave open,” Lord Scratha said. His gaze tracked along the table, touching each face with an almost tangible heat. He regarded Idisio with the same baleful ferocity; with a slight shock, Idisio realized that Scratha considered him dangerous as any of the desert lords around them now.
No, Deiq said, expressionless, his gaze on the tall Scratha lord. He has to look like he thinks of you as dangerous. He hasn’t come round to really seeing you as what you are yet. Trust me—you’ll know when he does.
Idisio said nothing, not trusting himself to reply without being overheard. The etiquette and process of mindspeech still baffled him; safer to stay silent and avoid mistakes. Deiq had years of practice; Idisio had a little over a day.
He looked around the table, trying to be discreet in his survey, and caught a number of other sly glances going around. Most flinched when they saw him looking their way, or grew suddenly still and guarded.
They sure don’t see me as an ex-street thief, he thought ruefully, and hoped that Scratha wouldn’t ever look at him the way the gathered lords were now. It hurt, in a weird way, even more than the times of being spat on as a whore, beggar, and thief in Bright Bay.
Those times had been about what he did. The looks now were all about who he was. What he was. He glanced at Deiq and found the elder ha’ra’ha’s dark face lined with bitterness.
Get used to it, Deiq said; then his expression smoothed out to blank indifference again.
The massive metal doors began clanging shut, one by one. The echoing noise made Idisio think of prisons and cages, and he repressed a strong urge to bolt from his chair and out the last door before it closed.
To distract himself from his growing anxiety, Idisio studied the desert lords around the table. Scratha wore the most elaborate outfit, a loose silk shirt and pants in severe shades of grey and black, laced throu
ghout with complicated embroidery; Azni wore the simplest, a rippling, unadorned dress of blue and crimson. The colors made the one look simpler than it was and the other more elaborate: peacock and gravekeeper, someone thought just then, and Deiq coughed into his hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling briefly.
Idisio blinked hard and looked elsewhere, unwilling to find amusement in that comparison.
Evkit stared directly back at him. His cold, cold eyes held no hint of flinch or guarding. A moment later, Deiq’s elbow dug painfully into Idisio’s side, jolting his attention away from that hypnotic gaze.
“Thanks,” Idisio muttered, rubbing his ribs. Deiq slanted an unforgiving stare at him and went back to watching the proceedings. Idisio tried to follow suit, but his attention kept drifting to the banners around the table. Voices rose and fell around him, unheeded, as he found himself tracking common patterns, colors, and themes; not simply pretty pictures. It was another language, like the whistling.
“Pay attention,” Deiq said in his ear, his voice as close to a growl as a human throat could manage. Idisio blinked hard and sat up straighter.
“This Conclave has already begun on something of an...unusual note,” Lord Scratha said, his gaze settling on Lord Evkit. Tension arced through the air like a silent whipcrack, then faded as quickly. Scratha turned his stare on Lord Alyea; she stiffened and glared back at him.
Prickly as a cactus, someone thought. Can’t wait to see her hit the change.
Deiq raised his head and sent a hard glare down the table. Lord Irrio blanched and dipped his head in awkward apology.
What was the change? Idisio caught Deiq’s eye and lifted an eyebrow in a tiny, inquiring twitch, hoping nobody else would see it. Deiq stared at him for a moment, as though deciding whether to answer, then said, curtly, Later.
“A Conclave begun with a plot revealed and a death chosen isn’t what I expected when I called you all together,” Lord Scratha said. “Normally that sort of thing happens at the end of a Conclave.”
Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) Page 4