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

by Leona Wisoker

  A doe raised her head, watching him with wary care, as he passed by. Snuggled up against her belly and back, two speckled fawns slept on.

  The rain drifted into mist and back into rain, the soft staccato punctuated by frog chirrks and sleepy birdcalls. A squirrel hissed warning. Kolan looked up in time to see a fluffy brown-grey tail whisk away around the side of a tree, and smiled.

  I won’t hurt you, he thought; waited a moment, then shrugged at the silence.

  Out of the slight wind, his body had begun to warm again, enough to stop the trembling. He examined his hands, intrigued by how quickly his chill had vanished into a perfectly normal temperature. Surely the forest air couldn’t be so very much warmer than the open areas?

  The squirrel reappeared on a higher branch, its tail still fluffed out in agitation. Kolan moved on to avoid causing the small creature unnecessary upset.

  The stand of trees wasn’t very wide, a matter of a half mile at most. No path existed, but somehow every step he took found a spot of clear ground and the only branches to either side were light and easily pushed aside.

  He didn’t think about that very hard, too entranced by the sound of the rain and the birds and his own footsteps. This miniature forest was a world all its own. He wanted to stay and explore every leaf, every branch, every insect and frog and bird, forever; but the squirrel had given clear warning. He didn’t belong here.

  When he stepped out from under the dripping green shelter, he paused and turned to look back, a pang of sadness thickening his chest for a moment. The squirrel—a squirrel, he corrected himself—perched on a low branch a stone’s throw away, watching him intently, its tail fluffed out larger than seemed possible.

  Kolan bowed gravely and said aloud, “Thank you, and may the gods bless your lives.”

  The squirrel didn’t answer. Kolan turned away and plodded along the muddy path once more. Not far ahead lay a low-slung, tidy house. Kolan had expected something akin to a tiny cabin, but this was very nearly a noble estate.

  Trees formed a dense belt all around the property. Within that ring stood another ring: a low stone wall, hardly hip-height, more symbolic than actual barrier. Within that wall lay the house, small stable, a well, and a garden—mostly raised beds, covered over with thick layers of straw and weighted oilcloth.

  A large rosemary bush held up its proud-needled branches to the grey sky, rain dripping from it like liquid diamonds. A scattering of flat white petunias served as a border along the pebbly garden path. Weeds had begun to spring up through the pebbles.

  Kolan stood outside the stone wall and looked at the garden for a while; waiting, patiently, for the thought stirring in the back of his mind to surface. At last, it came through: Whoever lives here is gone, and expects to be gone for a long time. Another connection, belatedly, formed. The weather is wrong. It’s only Suanth. It should be hot right now, not cold and damp. Something is very wrong.

  ... fawns? In Suanth?

  The thought faded away like the forest-lent warmth leaching from his skin. His hands began to tremble again. Reluctantly, he faced the fact that he needed to get under shelter.

  He went around to the gap in the wall, where the road passed through to a large carriage-yard. He paused a stone’s throw before the opening and squinted a little. Ha’ra’hain, present or not, could do extraordinarily nasty things to those who invaded their territory without permission.

  Kolan shut his eyes and listened with every sense he had. The semi-silence writhed a little behind his eyelids, and cold air dug tiny barbs into his wet skin. He sensed nothing. No wards. No traps. No trace of other-ness; no sense of presence.

  He sighed a little, disappointed, and took a step forward, eyes still closed; paused again, and cocked his head to one side. No wards, but he’d been hasty in assuming no traps. He opened his eyes and studied the path where it intersected the wall. A slight darkening of the wall, an irregularity in the dirt; he traced patterns with his eyes and began to work his way slowly sideways, step by step. At last he nodded, took a step forward, and vaulted lightly over the wall, immediately ducking low in case he’d missed something.

  Nothing happened. He rose and moved towards the house, thinking about that trap. Surprisingly complex in its simplicity, it was probably a double line of hooked spikes meant to tangle and snap a set of wagon-wheels after the horses had passed. So the “witch” worried about trespassers stealing wholesale from her home while she was away; that confirmed humanity. Ha’ra’hain wouldn’t even think about thieves.

  The path turned to muddy red brick not far inside the wall, widening into an impressively patterned carriage-yard. The stable and the house sat against each other in a wide “V”, no doubt allowing passage directly from the house to the horses in bad weather.

  Everywhere he looked, hungry weeds had begun to devour the tidy landscaping.

  Kolan crossed the courtyard slowly, studying the house, avoiding two more traps along the way. It was built on a typical southern model, with wide, low windows taking up much of the front of the house. The windows were heavily shuttered. The neatly laid tiles of the roof had a steep slope; rain gurgled through wide guttering and down into chunky wooden rain barrels. Water rimmed their top edges, ready to spill over within the hour.

  I should be more nervous, Kolan thought distantly. I should be thinking of... ghosts, and demons, and all the creatures that lurk around abandoned places.

  But this place didn’t feel haunted, or abandoned, or witched. It merely felt... quiet. Like a guest room neatly tidied and only waiting for a few touches to bring it back to life for the next visitor. Like a bell waiting for a hand on the rope.

  Kolan put a hand to the front door, blinking rain out of his eyes. He ran his fingers over the damp wood, enjoying the delicate tickle of sensation. Sensing no traps on the door, he dropped his hand to the doorknob. It hitched, then turned freely.

  He pulled his hand back, studying the knob thoughtfully. Had it been locked? It seemed unlikely that someone so careful about intruders would leave their front door open. He pushed the door open with care and stood just outside, staring in and waiting.

  When nothing happened, he shrugged and went in—and realized, three steps later, that he’d made a very bad mistake.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Learn to lose.

  Tank rubbed the dice between his palms, looking around at the dark stares of the others around the table, then tossed the bone cubes.

  “Two and three,” Rat said with satisfaction. Wisps of dark brown hair straggled along his broad face. He scooped the small pile of coin in the center of the table towards him. “Three silver bits for the next round.” He glanced at Tank. “Had enough yet, boy?”

  Tank sorted out three silver bits and pushed them to the center of the table without answering. Rat laughed and added three more. The other two men around the table put in their stake without comment.

  Rat wiped the back of one hand along his stubbled chin, tilting his head.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “you go broke, I’ll give you ways to earn some of it back. If you’re good.” He grinned, flicking a deliberately insolent glance down Tank’s torso and back up.

  “Aw, nah,” a muscular, scraggle-toothed man named Breek said. “Venepe’s a northern four-by, Rat, he’ll go spare over that.”

  Beside him, Frenn, the final member of Venepe’s crew, laughed. “Who says he has to know?” he said.

  “He don’t,” Rat said. “Unless redling here wants to go licking his arse about it.”

  “Are you going to throw the dice anytime soon?” Tank said, never taking his gaze from Rat’s. “Or are you more interested in your own wind? It’s getting thick in here.”

  Rat’s grin turned to a leering snarl. He tossed the dice; when they clattered to a stop, he said, “Five and six! Heh.” Breek and Frenn groaned and muttered, and came up with nothing better themselves.

  Tank picked up the dice and held them for a moment, debating; then rolled.


  Six and six.

  Silence. Rat’s eyes narrowed. Tank met his glare without flinching.

  “Lucky bastard,” one of the other men muttered, and made a shoving motion with both hands. “Get on with it already.”

  Rat’s head dipped minutely. Tank ducked his own head in answer and scooped all but four silver bits towards him. The others tossed their coins down.

  Tank glanced around the tavern, mainly to avoid Rat’s still-hot gaze. The buxom, dark-haired barmaid drooped as she shambled from table to table. Kybeach locals sat in groups, staring into their murky ales and shooting hostile glares at the mercenaries. The room, ill-lit and musty, had sent a crawling unease up Tank’s back from the moment he’d stepped inside; but in the company of Venepe’s other three mercenaries there was no backing out.

  He’d known as soon as he’d met Rat, Breek, and Frenn in the grey mist of a Bright Bay morning that face would be critical, and that his relative youth would make him a target for every trick and game they knew. The invitation to drink meant he’d held his own throughout the day; he couldn’t afford to lose that edge now.

  “Hate this damn town,” Breek muttered, cutting a sideways glare to the equally sullen stares of the locals. “Feels like they’re planning a knife in my back or a grab at my purse.”

  “You ain’t got enough in your purse for even the slick to care about,” Rat gibed.

  Breek turned his attention to Rat. “You watch it,” he said without emphasis. “You watch it, Rat. I’m not in a mood for your shit.”

  Rat blew a derisive raspberry. “Throw the damn dice,” he said. “Play reverses, you’re on.”

  The thick bone cubes rattled across the table. “Three and four.”

  Frenn scooped them up. “Two and three. Damnit.”

  Rat picked the dice up, threw, his stare never leaving Tank’s face.

  As the cubes rattled to a halt, Breek said, “Five and four.”

  The silence tautened as Tank weighed the dice in one hand, not exactly meeting Rat’s glare but not avoiding it either. He threw without looking, as Rat had done. A moment later, Breek breathed out hard and said, “One and two.”

  Tension released; Rat scooped in his take.

  Tank lost the next two rounds, then stood, lightly tossing the three remaining bits toward each of the other players. “I’m out,” he said.

  They nodded, barely glancing up at him as they sorted out their stakes.

  He went outside and inhaled clean air, sharp with chill and his own vivid relief. Overhead, a vast spread of stars gleamed like shards of polished glass. A thin moon offered pale illumination. The ground was dense and soggy underfoot; the air hung thick with the reek of a swamp at low tide.

  Tank made a face and wandered further from the tavern. Not far away, a stone-walled enclosure overlapped the marsh. Grunts and hisses came from behind the chest-high, slanted wall; curious, he went over to investigate.

  Lizards. Huge ones, as large as asp-jacaus, and fat. They glared up at him, their tiny dark eyes studded with reflected starlight. Tank had never seen lizards this large; a single haunch would feed two people to bursting.

  Something sharp, like a knife held by an uncertain hand, wobbled against his side. “What d’you think you’re doing?” someone screeched in his ear.

  Tank held still, more annoyed that he hadn’t heard the man approaching than truly worried. He could smell the liquor on the other man’s breath; hells, it was practically seeping from his skin.

  “Looking at the lizards,” he said. “That a problem, s’e?” Slowly, he turned his head.

  For a disorienting moment, he thought Dasin stood beside him; but even under the dim light of a half-moon and stars, the man was too old, face too sallow, hair too lank. He stared at Tank with wild, hazed eyes. Tank had a feeling that the man had been drinking hard for days.

  “Get away from my gerhoi!” the man snapped.

  “Get your knife out of my ribs.”

  The man looked down as though startled, then stepped back, holding up a short stick. He cackled. “Tricked you,” he said triumphantly.

  Tank edged three cautious steps back.

  “D’you like my gerhoi?” the man demanded. He dropped the stick.

  “They’re very large,” Tank said. “How long have you been breeding them up?”

  “Hah!” the merchant said, then repeated it: “Hah!” He stared at Tank for a moment. “You have no idea. No idea. They were bred up special, for a king. A king, mind you. I sold direct to the king’s own kitchen.” His shoulders drooped. “But Oruen doesn’t like gerho. He... doesn’t... like... gerho.” His hands clenched into fists, and he spat to one side with a bitter passion. “Bloody kings,” he muttered. “Bloody bastardy kings.”

  Tank edged back another two steps.

  “I put a lot of work into these lizards,” the man said, staring at the beasts. “I sold my soul, you might as well say. And now—it’s gone. All gone. Even my daughter’s gone.”

  Tank knew he ought to quietly ease away, but the raw pain in the man’s voice held him still. “Where did she go?” he asked.

  “She’s dead,” the man said, turning a ghastly grin towards Tank. “My fault. All my fault. I didn’t listen to her, you see, and so some bastard dragged her out into the swamp and killed her. I should have listened.” He sucked in a trembling breath. “Can’t even bury her proper. No priests left to do the service. After all I’ve done. After all I’ve paid. They promised. And now there’s a new king, and I’m left with nothing. A bumbling hymn from a man who can’t read, a grave with all the other commons. A life’s work, worth nothing.” He looked at the lizards again. “She was supposed to be burying me, grandchildren by her side.”

  His speech had the odd clarity of the beyond-drunk. Tank couldn’t think of anything to say; the silence began to drag out into tension.

  One of the lizards hissed loudly. Another let out a distinct fart.

  Tank bit his lip against a hoot of laughter.

  The other man didn’t seem to notice the sounds. “You came in with that merchant, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Merchant Venepe.”

  “I’ve got to get rid of these damn beasts. They won’t sell here. What the king won’t eat, his nobles won’t touch. D’you think—”

  “He deals in cloth, s’e,” Tank said. “Not livestock.” He hesitated, then added, with care, “South of the Horn, though, lizard’s a very popular dish.”

  The gerho merchant rubbed a hand over his eyes, swaying slightly. “I don’t know,” he said. “Dealing with the barbarians....” He peered at Tank, squinting. “What do you know about it?”

  “I’m from the south, s’e,” Tank said, and waited for the sneer of disbelief.

  “Oh,” the merchant said. “How would I approach the barbarians on this matter, then?”

  Tank opened his mouth, ready to say We’re not barbarians, you ignorant cretin; took another look at the man’s pale, miserable expression and let it go. “I can only speak to how to approach one Family,” he said, deciding to risk a bit. “If you send a message to Aerthraim Family, you’d address it to—”

  The man’s stifled yelp cut him off. “Aerthraim? You’re one of them?”

  “No—” Tank said, his gut lurching. “No, no, I just know something about—”

  The man’s hands came up and crossed at the wrists, fingers splayed out, thumbs curved forward.

  “I’m not a witch,” Tank protested, indignant.

  “Stay away from me,” the man said. “Stay away from my gerhoi. I won’t have it. I won’t have it! I already lost Kera. I won’t have it!”

  Tank backed up a few more steps. “I’m not doing anything to you,” he said, putting his own hands out, palms angled up. “I’m not a witch, s’e. I was trying to help. I’m only a simple mercenary, s’e, out for a walk before bedtime.”

  The gerho merchant stood still, shivering now. “Go away,” he said. “It’s too late. I can’t do any more. I can’t help you
. Go away. Leave me alone.”

  Tank shook his head. The man had been drinking for a long time.

  “Good night, s’e,” he said. “Gods hold you gently and—”

  “Damn the gods! The gods got me into this,” the man cried, then spat toward Tank’s feet. “Go away!”

  Caught between pity and disgust, Tank retreated, turning his steps to the inn. Walking through the village didn’t seem so interesting any longer.

  But it took him a long time to fall asleep, and his sleep was filled with the shifting gleam of gerho eyes and the despair of a man whose own dreams had failed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The darkness pressed around Idisio, chill and thick; he kept his left hand on the wall and fiercely pretended that only open space lay to his right. His fingers slid across dozens of changes in texture: from dry roughness to slick damp to an oily, moldy sensation that almost made him pull his hand away. Only fear of a recoil accidentally sending him sideways into the other wall kept his arm steady.

  Lord Evkit was a silent, stalking presence at his back, which made Idisio even less happy about the situation; but if the teyanain had intended harm, he and Deiq wouldn’t be free now. Or relatively free. These tunnels were going on much longer than he’d expected, and their path had turned round on itself multiple times, by Idisio’s uncertain reckoning.

  He wondered if this was another of Evkit’s odd games; if the offer of freedom in exchange for a promise not to return to the Horn had been a lie.

  “No lie,” Evkit said.

  Nerves already too tight, Idisio startled forward and crashed into Deiq’s back. The elder ha’ra’ha stopped, turning. Idisio could feel his glare, even in the inky darkness. Behind him, Evkit yipped his dry, teyanain chuckle.

  Idisio swallowed hard and backed up a careful step: feeling for the wall, blinking hard. Flashes of grey came and went across his vision, bringing almost-clarity. Fear kept sliding sideways into a simmering, scalding anger: he pushed anger aside and went with fear, with projecting weakness and non-threat, as a much safer survival strategy at the moment.