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

by Leona Wisoker

  “Tank, huh?” he said. “Good thing I never gave Venepe a right name, apparently. I wondered, when that iron-assed captain at the Hall wouldn’t allow to you being around.”

  Tank jerked his head in something between confirmation and gratitude. Dasin nodded back, his pale eyebrows scrunching into a frown.

  “Are you here to sign, or to shake me off?” he demanded. “If you’re not here to sign, then I’ve nothing to say.”

  “Now who’s lacking manners? What’s wrong with talking a bit?”

  “You’re not a talker, Tank. You want me clear of you, fine. I won’t chew your tail.”

  Tank was saved from answering Dasin’s unexpected hostility by Venepe’s return.

  “I carry cloth,” the fat merchant said without preamble. “Run to Isata and back. Town to town contract; I don’t like you anywhere along the way, I pay you and shake you. Dasin says you’re Hall, so that pays half silver for the coast, three through the Forest and above. Don’t expect to get through the Forest with me; I shake most of my southerner hires in Sandsplit. You lot are too much trouble in the northlands.”

  “I thought my lot was up near Stecatr,” Tank said, unable to resist pushing back this time. No other choice felt nearer with every word.

  Venepe’s nostrils flared. “Don’t get above yourself,” he said. “I don’t need another guard. I’m doing this as a favor to your friend, and you don’t even look old enough to shave, so I’m doubting you’re going to be any use at all. Take it or leave it.”

  That did it. Tank’s back stiffened.

  “Don’t need favors,” he said. “Hire me because I can do the job, regardless of him.” He jerked his chin at Dasin. “You might have those as can swing a blade or scrap, but do you have those as can walk and think at the same time? And I can dance a lot better than Dasin, too,” he added recklessly.

  Dasin’s expression went thin and strained; he cut a sharp sideways glance at Venepe. The portly merchant stood still, squinting at Tank with a newly sharp appraisal.

  “I don’t hire fools,” Venepe said.

  “If you don’t hire fools,” Tank said promptly, “then I’m a good match.”

  Why the hells am I doing this? he thought. I’m jumping right in as though it’s what I want to do. But Dasin had thrown down a challenge, and Venepe had taken it right up, and the words came tumbling out of Tank’s mouth as though of their own accord.

  “And it’s two full silver rounds a day along the Coast Road, five through the Forest,” he said before Venepe could answer.

  “One and four,” Venepe said. “We supply the horse.”

  “Done.” Damnit, he added to himself, abruptly wishing he could wipe clean the last few moments of conversation.

  Venepe nodded. For a moment, he looked amused; then he soured back to business. “We leave tomorrow morning. Before sunrise. Dasin, take him over to the Bowse stables—today. Get his horse sorted out with our lot so we have time to see it’s healthy before we go on the road. I don’t trust that man far as I could heave one of his horses—so don’t let Harpik palm off one of his edge-of-death trockers on us again. I don’t have time to argue a bad pick; your friend will have to walk if the bagabins drops out from under two steps down.”

  Dasin’s gaze wavered. Tank would have laid a gold round that Dasin hadn’t the faintest idea how to judge a horse’s health or quality, but all the blond said was: “Right.”

  Venepe flicked a thoughtful glance from Dasin to Tank, then nodded curtly and stumped away toward the wagon.

  Dasin grabbed the top rail and ducked under it with ostentatious grace. Tank didn’t move to offer him a steadying hand. The blond straightened; Tank took a long look at his smug expression, glanced over to be sure Venepe was out of sight, then hauled off and hit that smirk.

  The blond went sideways and down, rolled, and came up plastered in mud and semi-liquid dung—and an oddly satisfied expression. It shifted to a furious glare so quickly that Tank wondered if he’d imagined that half-second smile.

  “You worked me,” Tank said. “You godsdamned weasel. Told him how to make me jump.”

  “Didn’t,” Dasin said, sullen. He wiped gobs of muck from his face, spitting to one side, then glared at Tank again. “Not my fault you jump at every chance to fight a flea.” He looked down, lifting his ruined shirt away from his body. “Godsdamned loon. I’ll find you a horse that’ll bite your godsdamned ear off first chance.”

  “You’ll be lucky to pick out a horse instead of a goat,” Tank retorted. “I’d have a better chance of figuring out a good—oh, no you don’t,” he added as Dasin’s smirk returned. “You’re the one was told to take me to the stables and pick a horse out for me.”

  “But if you know so much,” Dasin said, “and you’re the one due to ride it, after all.” He wiped more goop from his face and grinned brightly.

  Tank spat on the ground near Dasin’s feet, too frustrated to produce words. He’d forgotten how good Dasin was at getting what he wanted.

  Dasin pointed with a muddy hand. “Stables are up that way and to the right,” he said. “I’m going to the bathhouse down this way, and you’re paying me back for the fee. And for them cleaning my clothes.” He paused and offered a sly grin. “You could come along,” he added.

  “No,” Tank said, very definitely. “And you pay your own fees and call it lucky I stopped with one, instead of burying you in the mud.”

  “Still got that temper,” Dasin said. “Thought Allonin was supposed to train that out of you.”

  Dasin had no idea what their training had really been about, then; and Tank wasn’t about to tell him. He held words back for a long breath, to be sure he had control of them, then said, pointedly, “I stopped. Want to see if I’ll stop a second time?”

  Violence is not always the answer, Teilo said in precarious memory, her milky-white eyes staring through him, flesh to bone to soul. Are you going to fight everything you come across? Can you battle a nightmare, can you punch the ghosts of your past? You have to learn when to stop, Tanavin. You have to learn to think; you have to learn to lose once in a while, in order to win.

  Dasin’s accusation echoed that: jump at every chance to fight a flea.

  “Loon,” Dasin said, smirking again, and turned away.

  The hells with losing to win. Dasin would take a pebble and turn it into a mountain, given half a chance.

  And Tank did have something to do while Dasin was cleaning up, something that would nag him unless he handled it before leaving Bright Bay again.

  “Dasin,” Tank said. The blond paused, looking back over his shoulder. “I’m not doing your job for you. Get yourself a bath and meet me at the stables.” Tank glanced at the sky. “Second bells just went, so be there by fourth.”

  Dasin turned fully around, protesting, “That’s not enough time—”

  “Time enough for a bath,” Tank said, and stared him down.

  The blond’s narrow face creased into sullen lines. “Don’t know why I wanted you along in the first place,” he muttered.

  “Neither do I,” Tank said, “but you’ve got me. Stables. Fourth bell. Move.”

  Dasin spat on the ground and swaggered away, head high, back stiff.

  Tank let out a long breath, watching him go; shook his head and turned to find Venepe standing by the cart, narrow-eyed and thoughtful. The merchant met Tank’s glance, nodding slowly. Tank nodded back and turned away, picking his way through the mud, headed towards the southeastern part of town.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Idisio woke to find Riss sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at him. Instinct brought him up and scooting back to put room between them. For a moment, her eyes seemed to carry a hazy overlay of greenish-gold; then that faded, and she smiled with something close to amusement.

  “Time to wake up,” she said.

  She’d lit a green-oil lamp. The flickering light subtly darkened the planes of her face. Studying her with a new intensity, spooked by that flash of odd c
olor in her eyes, Idisio noticed that she seemed to have lost weight in spite of her pregnancy. With her pale hair bound loosely back, dressed in ordinary drab, she reminded Idisio of the bedraggled stablehand she’d been when they’d first met.

  A sudden ache wound through his chest, spreading throughout his body.

  “Riss,” he said, “you’re beautiful.” He couldn’t remember if he’d ever said that to her before; certainly not with such sincerity.

  Her gaze shifted aside a bit, her jaw tightening. She seemed about to say something, then glanced toward the door and shook her head a little.

  “I’ll be fine, Idisio,” she said, and stood. “Get dressed. I already took care of your pack.”

  She studied his face for a moment, then turned away and left the room without looking back. Idisio watched her go, more than a little bewildered; had she been expecting him to say something? Was he supposed to call her back, or chase after her? Before he could decide, the door shut behind her. He felt her moving away, deeper into the fortress, away from the front gates.

  So she had no intentions of saying a formal goodbye. He took in a deep draft of air and felt his chest loosen with relief as he let his breath out. No soppiness or last-minute tears; just I’ll be fine, get dressed.

  He reached for his clothes, his smile turning into a wide grin, and firmly dismissed that one unsettling flash of green-gold in her eyes as an illusion caused by waking too abruptly.

  Alyea and Lord Evkit quietly sipped tea as the teyanain camp finished packing up. Deiq stood some distance away with his eyes closed, breathing evenly, apparently deep in some thought or memory. Idisio stood beside him, smiling like a newborn fool. He couldn’t remember ever having been happier. For all that the travel arrangements clearly weren’t to Deiq’s liking, and Lord Evkit himself scared the breath out of Idisio with every glance, there was something irresistible about the notion of traveling again. He wanted to learn more, see more of a world that was turning out to be far more complex than he’d ever suspected possible; and he’d be doing it as someone with status, not a scrabbling, desperate street-thief.

  He couldn’t help wondering what teyanain kathain would be like. He cast a guilty glance back at the walls of Scratha Fortress, as though Riss could hear the thought; but he had a feeling that her curt farewell had been tacit admission that their relationship was, in essence, over. Deiq had been right: Riss had known all along it wouldn’t last. She simply hadn’t wanted to admit it.

  Alyea and Lord Evkit stood and bowed to one another gravely. Servants took the tea cups, wiped them clean, and packed them away in a few swift movements. The teyanain began to assemble into a traveling formation around their guests; everyone stood still, although Idisio could hear the servants shifting about restlessly. Instinct told him dropping into an aqeyva trance was the right thing to do.

  A faint pressure swirled around his body, and the three athain—Deiq had said the term meant teyanin spirit-walker—began to glow, as though lit from within. The glow dispersed into a cloud of green and silver speckles that flowed over their bodies and sparkled in their odd, triple-split braids for a few moments before dissolving. Idisio shut his eyes, submerging his unease; Deiq wasn’t protesting, so this must all be normal.

  A broad pressure settled all along his limbs, like vast hands closing gently around each of his arms and legs, but he could tell nobody had actually touched him. The pressure increased, tugging, as though urging him into motion; he allowed the direction, again, only because Deiq wasn’t protesting. After a few shambling strides, he opened his eyes.

  The land whipped by as though he were engaged in a full sprint, rather than an apparently casual amble. He blinked, moving only his eyes at first, and wondered why this didn’t scare him. A few scant weeks ago it would have had him howling in terror and quite probably losing control of his bladder; but now it was just one more strange thing on the stack.

  More fascinating than strange, actually. He let his consciousness sink into the experience, weighing his physical stride against how quickly the world went by; discovering he could still see clearly, straight ahead, but the side views were slightly blurred. The pressure against his limbs never changed, and he could feel the scrape of sand and an occasional rock beneath his feet.

  After what seemed a short time, the compulsion eased. They slowed, the land to either side coming into steadily clearer focus, then, finally stopped altogether. The land rearranged itself into solid stillness around him.

  Deiq and Alyea dropped to their knees, panting as though they’d run the entire way without help. Idisio stared, bemused and a little worried; he felt fine. He glanced around at the teyanain, but they were already going about the tasks of setting up camp and didn’t even look his way.

  “I take care of them,” Lord Evkit said with grave courtesy, and handed Idisio a waterskin. “Sit, rest, drink. I handle this.”

  Idisio sat down, finally feeling a dull ache lacing through his legs and back. He sipped surprisingly cool water while Evkit tended to Deiq and Alyea.

  At last, Deiq climbed unsteadily to his feet, and Alyea allowed Lord Evkit to help her up. The difference in their heights made the moment strangely amusing. It was rather like watching a child trying help an adult to her feet.

  Evkit turned his head and met Idisio’s eyes, his expression flat and dangerous. Idisio bit his tongue and hastily looked away, making a tiny gesture of apology with one hand.

  Deiq snorted softly and steered Alyea towards the center of the forming camp.

  “He is tired,” Evkit said, watching them go. “He is dangerous, tired.” He slanted a sharp glance at Idisio. “Ha’ra’hain always dangerous when exhausted. You too, ha’inn. You rest. You sleep. Give him wide circle. Room. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Idisio said.

  Evkit nodded, seeming satisfied, and followed Deiq and Alyea into the camp.

  Give him room. Dangerous when exhausted. But Idisio had been worn out and exhausted any number of times over the years, and nothing had—

  Red hair tangled with black—the smoky fug of a dangerous tavern—redling, someone said with a wagonload of contempt in their tone, and swampy mud splattered nearby—

  Idisio staggered sideways, dizzy; caught his balance and straightened, breathing hard.

  “Just tired,” he muttered to himself, and forced the panic quiet. “Just tired.”

  The rounded tents the teyanain called shalls were already popping up around the fire pit. He walked into the camp, a little stiff-legged to keep his knees from buckling. Evkit caught his eye and pointed him towards one of the shalls.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, barely aware of the frowning glance Deiq aimed his way. A shiver worked through his body; he dropped his pack to the ground beside the shall and crawled inside with only a vague wave of one hand to the elder ha’ra’ha.

  A faint pressure passed across the back of his skull: Deiq checking on him. It eased a moment later, and the elder ha’ra’ha said, indulgent, Get some sleep. It was a long day. He sounded smug about something. Almost inaudible under his words ran others: I may be getting old, but I have better endurance than you yet.

  Idisio rolled his eyes, bewildered and indifferent all at once, then dropped into the darkening spiral of trance-sleep without even thinking about it.

  Some time later, he emerged into awareness, feeling oddly restless. He lay still in the chill darkness, listening. Deiq and Alyea’s voices murmured near at hand. Teyanain shuffled about, sorting themselves out for bed. The fire popped and hissed.

  He could taste the lingering aroma of dinner: something sour and fermented and oily. He thought about digging through his pack for a piece of trail jerky, but he didn’t want to move, and didn’t feel particularly hungry, either.

  “—still scare you,” Deiq said, his voice clear as though he sat next to Idisio. Alyea said something blurred in response. Idisio’s breath roared in his ears.

  “I’m not what you ought to be scared of right now,” Deiq said.


  A long silence. Then Alyea said, “Of all the things that—”

  His own pulse thundered through Idisio’s ears, drowning out any other sounds. Heat flushed through him, banishing the chill. Now it felt like a comfortable summer night, not the freezing cold of the high desert.

  A lizard ran over the sand half a mile away: skitterskitterskitter.

  “Damnit,” Idisio muttered, curling into a ball, and stuck his fingers in his ears. He tried to ease into an aqeyva trance, but for some reason couldn’t focus properly.

  Somewhere in the camp, two men grunted in rough and all-too-familiar rhythm. Idisio curled tighter, his eyes squeezed painfully shut.

  “They couldn’t wait until they got home?” he said aloud, uncurling, and flipped over to his other side. A desert owl’s passage overhead came to his ears as a hissing, feathery mumble.

  Deiq eased into Idisio’s growing disorientation. Think about your breathing, he said. Idisio felt as though a large hand closed over one of his shoulders, steadying, reassuring, and all without any of Deiq’s usual cynical amusement involved. Breathe. One breath in, one out. One breath in, one out. Breathe.

  Noises faded into irrelevance. Deiq withdrew, and Idisio followed the thread of calm into a surprisingly peaceful sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  So many people, so many lives, so much light—Ellemoa couldn’t endure it. She was forced to skulk in shadow, to flee from the daylight she’d craved so badly, until her eyes grew strong enough to handle more than weak moonlight. The noise, the smells — after an eternity of silence and unchanging rankness, they overwhelmed ears and nose alike, and sent her whimpering into hiding, over and over. Carriages and wagons rattled through the streets at all hours of day and night. Drunks and fools sang their unsteady way along the sidewalks, pissing in the gutters, fucking like dogs in the pale night.

  A pretty young flower girl, basket filled with white roses, stood at a street corner. Ellemoa stood in shadow and watched men come by, exchange coin for a bloom, and leave again. After a time she realized every man who bought a bloom went into a nearby building; emerging, some time later, with a distinct stink drifting from their clothes.