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

by Leona Wisoker

  Idisio stared. Had the man actually made a joke? Idisio hadn’t known Cafad had it in him.

  As Cafad went on with the opening formalities, Idisio found his gaze drifting to Gria, newly discovered heir to Scratha. She sat rigid and grim, the white and ruby silks she wore only accenting the underlying paleness of her face. Underneath the mass of elaborate beadwork and jewelry they’d draped her in for the Conclave, she looked more like a child than ever. Her voice, when she spoke, came out steady and far more confident than Idisio could tell she actually felt; like Riss, she found this entire situation terrifyingly alien.

  Her fear surfaced openly for a heartbeat when she glanced down the table at Lord Evkit. In response, Evkit’s mouth twitched in the slightest, tiniest smirk.

  Idisio, don’t look at Evkit, Deiq said irritably.

  Why not?

  Just. Don’t.

  The elder ha’ra’ha’s flat delivery reminded Idisio of Cafad just before the man lost his temper; he wisely shut up and kept his gaze away from Evkit after that.

  “The ways have been shut,” Cafad declared. “You may not travel to or from my lands using the hidden ways unless I permit it. And I will not grant that permission to any of you.”

  He glared at Evkit.

  Idisio glanced at Deiq and found the elder ha’ra’ha suspiciously devoid of expression. A moment later, Evkit jerked to his feet and began shouting; Idisio felt an uneasy tremor run through the room. Cafad’s eyes took on the all-too-familiar dark glitter of temper rising fast.

  A burning wave of pain swamped over Idisio’s entire body. Time distorted, voices blurring into incoherent waves; dimly, he heard Scratha began bellowing.

  A hard slap to the side of the head shocked Idisio out of the pain and the haze all at once. As he blinked vision back into the moment, Deiq bounded atop the table, stamping his booted feet hard.

  The table shook. The shouts cut off dead. Everyone stared up at Deiq as though he’d lost his mind.

  “Stop,” Deiq snapped. “That’s enough, my lords! With all due respect, that’s enough. You cannot afford to lose your tempers with a full ha’rethe below you!”

  An image of desiccated trees turning fully leafed, of a long-blocked well returned to full functionality, ran through Idisio’s mind. A strong shiver worked down his back.

  Stop, damn you, Deiq cut in, his voice taut and black. Abrupt panic urged Idisio to run screaming from the room. Blood seemed to haze the very air. Again, Deiq’s voice lashed out: Stop it! Use your aqeyva training, Idisio, this isn’t the time for you to go vapid on me!

  Idisio sucked in a deep breath, heartbeat thudding in his ears, and struggled to turn his attention inwards. Slowly, too slowly, his heartbeat began to ease; without warning, Idisio felt a massive pressure, as though a giant hand had closed around his entire body.

  Slow it down, Deiq ordered. Slow. This beat. Listen: one. One. Two. Two. One. One... good.

  Idisio hung suspended in a strange half-world for a long, stretched moment, as Deiq forced the beat into vein, nerve, and flesh with brutal efficiency.

  Don’t flop around! Deiq snapped, his tone a feral snarl. Pick up your end already!

  Idisio blinked and focused with every ounce of willpower he possessed. Panic and pain smoothed away in a heartbeat, and he clicked over into a glassy calm. Deiq let out a hard breath, settling back into his seat.

  “What would Conclave be without everyone losing their tempers?” Lord Salo said, voice as wobbly as Idisio’s knees felt.

  “Other places, fine,” Deiq said grimly. “But not here. Lord Scratha, if you cannot discuss that particular matter calmly, I suggest you drop it altogether.”

  Scratha glared. Deiq glared back. Tendrils of tension whipped through the room like snakes.

  Snakes, red and black, writhing across the bed—Lord Scratha’s arm swelling as he panted, fighting off the deadly venom—

  Idisio, stop it! Deiq snarled. Will you drop into a full aqeyva trance already? Block everything out. This isn’t over yet. I’ll pull you out when it’s safe.

  What—

  Deiq cut him off with a ferocious glare that might as well have been a Scratha-vicious slap. Swallowing hard, Idisio focused on his breath, as he’d done so often on the long journey south with Scratha and Riss; followed breath inwards and around into the tight inner coil where everything else disappeared. All sound vanished. Nothing moved in his mind but awareness of his breath and pulse. He hung suspended in a dark grey haze with darker grey walls, and let the world go on without him for a time.

  The grey shifted, thinned, and broke apart.

  It’s over, Deiq said, tone considerably calmer, although still taut. Come on—

  An ungentle tug unwound him, like a child’s spinning toy, from his refuge. Idisio blinked several times, vaguely nauseated by the abrupt shift of perception. As his vision cleared, he saw that the expressions around the table had reverted to bland vagueness.

  Ha’reye react badly to extreme human emotions, Deiq said curtly. Scratha’s never had to learn how to posture without getting genuinely emotional. I had to keep Scratha ha’rethe from reacting to his anger. You were pissing into the middle of it, without meaning to. You don’t have the training to stay out of it, you’re trained to think human, and you actually like Scratha, for some damn reason.

  Lord Scratha is a good man, Idisio said, more than a little defensively.

  He’s a human, Deiq answered. Now shut up and pay attention. You might learn something.

  Idisio drew in another long, quiet breath, eased himself into a cool detachment, and went back to listening to the external arguments bouncing around the table; reflecting, very, very quietly, that at the least, he’d learned to be damn careful around Deiq.

  Chapter Four

  Tank stood at the rail of the Deep Sea Lover, his mood as bleak as the dappled grey clouds hanging low overhead. The frothed silver-green sea had lost its appeal for him. He wanted solid land under his feet and a normal life under his hands again.

  For the first time, he considered joining Ossin in his daily ritual of throwing up over the side. Only pride stopped him: he wouldn’t let any of them see him that weak. Especially—now—Slick.

  Up in the rigging, one of the sailors called out, “Oy, hey, five hunner year!”

  From the deck crew, another voice bellowed, “Oy, hey, hey, come the wind!”

  The rest of the crew picked up the rough work chant, in a typical call/response form, each sailor providing a different rhyming line:

  Oy, hey, five hundred year

  Oy, hey, hey, come the wind

  Oy, hey, hey, numb the sinned

  Oy, hey, hey, dumb the dear

  Oy, hey, hey, plumb it near—

  None of it made any sense to Tank, but work chants weren’t actually supposed to make sense. They were about keeping the mind busy while the hands did a job.

  Someone yelled, “Oy, hey, hey, got nothing here!” Laughter ran round the deck; everyone chimed in on the chorus:

  Oy, hey, five hundred year

  Then they began passing the chant around again with a new rhyme:

  Oy, hey, hey, some they say

  Oy, hey, hey, come the day

  Oy, hey, hey, drink the drop

  Oy, hey, hey, sink the top—

  “Awww, pass!” someone hollered. That was met with catcalls and whistles of derision, and the chant started over.

  This round, Slick’s clear alto stood out against the rougher male shouts.

  Turning, he saw her sitting on a large crate, banging her bare feet cheerfully against the wood. As she belted out the chorus, she tilted her head back as though offering the words to the grey sky above. The fish tattoo on her face squinched and shifted with her mouth; Tank felt a flush of heat race through his body at the memory of what that mouth had done earlier.

  Slick glanced his way. Catching his eye, she grinned and made a fluttering motion near her face with one hand. He put a hand up to his cheek and found it hot. W
ith a small gasp, he whipped round to put his back to her and anyone else who might be looking his way.

  “Damn,” Ossin observed from beside Tank. He wiped a hand over his damp mouth. “Must have been good, if looking at her gets you fussed.” He smiled knowingly, but his ghastly color and trembling hands turned it into a sickly leer.

  Tank turned his head to stare Ossin down. Ossin’s grin steadied slightly. He glanced out at the water, swallowed hard, then grinned at Tank again.

  “Hell of a trip,” he said. “Never come this way before. Always went overland. Nothing that nice in the waystops along the Horn, for sure.”

  Tank looked out over the churning water, his jaw tight, and didn’t answer. His hands tightened around the rail.

  “Oh, don’t look so sour,” Ossin said, slapping Tank on the shoulder. It was clearly intended as a hearty buffet, but Tank moved sideways a step as the man swung. Ossin’s fingers barely brushed his sleeve. “What are you so sulky for?”

  “Just shut up,” Tank said through his teeth. “Leave me alone.”

  Ossin laughed, a braying sound undimmed by his days of seasickness. “Oh, tell me she wasn’t your first, boy, that would be a real shame—”

  Tank’s fist cracked into the man’s jaw. Ossin sprawled sideways across the deck, loose-limbed, and lay still. A passing sailor glanced at Tank, knelt to check on Ossin as briefly, then stood, commenting, “He’ll have a headache.” He grinned companionably at Tank, then walked on without looking back.

  Tank stared down at the unconscious man, then looked up to find Slick watching him. Her expression sardonic, almost contemptuous, she lifted a hand in a mocking salute, then hopped off the crate and began to walk away.

  The third passenger, a burly northerner whose name Tank couldn’t remember, was stepping out from the galley round when Slick went by. He said something indistinct. Slick popped him a foul hand gesture and kept going without breaking stride or even glancing his way.

  Oh, no, Tank thought, seeing the man’s eyes narrow. He started forward. Before he made two steps the northern had grabbed Slick’s wrist and tugged her round to face him.

  Tank lengthened his stride and opened his mouth to yell Leave her alone—

  Slick’s fists and knees ran in rapid sequence across the large man’s face, chest, stomach, and groin, each blow precisely placed at the weakest possible spot. The northern coughed out a spray of red spittle and went down with a sloppy thud. Slick stepped back, looked down at him with a remote, considering glance, then turned and went on her way without even a flick of the gaze towards Tank. Two bored-looking sailors moved in, hoisted the unconscious man, and carried him down the ladder to steerage.

  Tank stood still, mouth open, unable to believe the speed and ferocity of her attack.

  Behind him, Ossin groaned. Tank turned and found the man beginning to stir. Deciding to avoid a repeat confrontation, he walked away, crossing to the other rail, and stood there undisturbed for the rest of the day.

  It was as good a place as any to work on the mindfulness exercises Allonin had insisted he practice daily; but by the time he gave up and went down into the dank stench of the hold to try for sleep, he’d gained precious little in the way of peace or clarity.

  By the time they arrived in Bright Bay, great black clouds hung over the Deep Sea Lover like an omen of doom, and more water than Tank had ever seen coming down from the sky hammered against the deck. The sailors worked through it, wearing as little as possible, seeming indifferent to the blinding sheets of water. Tank stood in the recessed doorway of the galley round, water stippling his face and clothes, too fascinated not to watch.

  Slick tossed and caught and tied ropes with everyone else. What already- minimal and now soaking wet clothes did to her figure made Tank forget the chill in the air every time he looked her way.

  Now and again her gaze went past him, as she worked; as blank and indifferent as though looking at another coil of rope. She saw him, he could tell that much. She just didn’t care.

  Bright Bay looked like little more than a variegated haze of shapes as the ship tied up to the longest dock. Tank took advantage of a brief lull in the work around him and went to get his pack from steerage. Ossin and the other passenger, whose name Tank still couldn’t remember, sat on crates in mutual sullen silence. They glared at him.

  Ossin said, “Are we there?”

  “Yes,” Tank said. “They’re tying off now.”

  “Thank the gods. I’m not setting foot on a ship again this side of the Aftertime. I haven’t kept a meal down this whole trip.” He seemed more upset over his seasickness than by the great bruise along his cheek where Tank had struck him.

  “I won’t be on this one again, that’s for sure,” the other man said savagely. “Captain wouldn’t even scold that effing ship whore for what she did, nor refund any brass bit of my passage money.” His face held several deep discolorations, visible even in the dim light, and he winced every time he moved.

  Tank shrugged into his pack and put his rain cloak on over it.

  “Raining hard out there,” he said neutrally. “Put your high boots on if you have any.” From above came the thudding rattle of the gangplank settling out.

  “Effing sewers will be flooding again,” the burly man said. He and Ossin began a discussion of the various architectural flaws of Bright Bay; Tank went up the ladder without bothering to bid them farewell.

  He determinedly didn’t look for Slick as he went towards the gangplank.

  As he stepped onto the dock beyond, his nerves hummed with raw tension and unresolved, undefined guilt. Reporting in to the Bright Bay Freewarrior Hall could wait. He wanted a drink badly.

  He slogged through the downpour and ducked into the first tavern he saw: its shabbiness was almost hidden under the downpour, and a large brass ring hung from the sign for those who couldn’t read the name.

  Brass Ring. That name tied into an southern fireside tale that Allonin had told him, not long ago; at the end of it, everyone was drunk out of their wits and a northern king had been roundly tricked.

  That suited Tank. With or without the involvement of northern royalty, the idea of losing his wits appealed mightily at the moment.

  The ill-lit, smoky interior smelled of rank seawater, old pipe-smoke, and foulness that might have been an ale spill or something worse. Tank breathed shallowly until his nose stopped registering the worst odors, and headed past a scattering of small tables toward the bar.

  A thick trail of water dribbled along the floor behind him; a rough layer of grit and sawdust absorbed it without any trouble. By each stool, large, blunt hooks protruded from the bar. Tank stripped off his rain cloak and draped it over a hook, then dropped his pack on the floor in front of the stool and sat down.

  He ran his hands through his hair, pushing damp tendrils from his face, and looked for the bartender. The man stood in the gloom at the other end of the bar, his stare fixed on Tank with disconcerting intensity.

  The murmuring of background conversations had gone completely silent.

  Tension crawled through Tank’s muscles. He turned slowly to look at the room behind him.

  All men. All staring directly at him. All in the coarse, ill-assorted garb of the roughest type of sailor, including a thick belt from which hung either a hooked knife, a claw-spike, or a sailor’s hook. A variety of scars on every visible stretch of skin hinted that they used their weapons readily and well.

  This only happens in fireside stories, Tank thought distantly. This isn’t happening.

  Allonin’s training didn’t allow for more than a moment of disbelief: Face what is, not what you want to be, his mentor had said repeatedly. Like it or not, Tank was twenty steps from the door, with as many men in the way if a fight broke out.

  He reduced it to cold numbers. Based on their expressions, he’d be faced with seven, maybe eight against one if this exploded into violence. Not good odds, but not bad, either, with over twenty in the room. Hopefully the rest would stay
clear, but even if they all piled on, there came a point where too many attackers tangled each other up and actually made the fight easier. Besides, they’d expect an outsider to be easy prey, and Allonin had taught him tricks they might not know.

  One such trick was a good bluff. The next was knowing when to run, and how to run fast; that latter trick had come more from Lifty than Allonin. Lifty had been good at running. He’d even managed to outrun Tank a few times.

  I ought to look for him. See if he’s still on the streets. See if he survived... what happened.

  But that was a question for tomorrow and a distraction for today. Tank straightened his back and directed a flat stare out at the sailors.

  “There a problem?” he said, keeping his tone easy, not challenging.

  A few gazes flickered as they looked at one another in clear astonishment.

  “Damn,” one man said. A tattoo of a thick chain wound, in faded red and black lines, around one of his thick forearms from wrist to elbow. “He even sounds like Red. What’s yer name, boy?”

  Tank reevaluated the stares: not angry. Not hostile. Stunned, as though a ghost had walked through the door in broad daylight.

  “I’m Tank,” he said after a moment. “Who’s Red?”

  “You’re near to his spittin’ image,” another man said, shaking his head. “Less ‘bout forty year. I’d almost put money on him bein’ your father. Redlings aren’t so common ‘round here, they’re all northern-bred.”

  “Largely Stecatr pups, at that,” another man said, and spat into the sawdust near his feet.

  Tank fought for breath, blinking hard.

  “What—Where?” he managed.

  “Huh,” the first man said, apparently understanding the question. “You ain’t seein’ him anytime soon. He works the Black Starfish, an’ they headed out southbound to Agyaer a while back, some pushy noble drivin’ them hard, way I hear it. They won’t be back another two tendays, best guess, with this pissy weather.”

  A murmur worked through the room, sailors nodding in sour discussion of the unusual weather and what it would do to the shipping routes.