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

by Leona Wisoker

  Tank tucked his chin against his chest and frowned at his horse’s ears for a few moments. “Didn’t think it would matter to you that much,” he said at last.

  Dasin snorted. “You didn’t think at all,” he said, sounding remarkably like Allonin.

  Tank checked to be sure Rat and Frenn weren’t listening. They were discussing something to do with their horses. He dropped his voice even lower and said, “Didn’t Allonin tell you?”

  “He barely stopped before he was off again,” Dasin said. His tone took on a petulant edge, and he made no effort to speak quietly. “He didn’t look to talk to me. Once he decided he was done training me, he had no more interest.”

  Dasin hadn’t exactly wanted to train with Allonin, and certainly hadn’t made the process easy on the man; but Tank didn’t bother pointing that out. No point raking up old sores, especially in current company. So far, Rat and Frenn hadn’t paused their own discussion to listen, but if Dasin started to get mad, they’d focus back in a heartbeat.

  Dasin flicked a glance at the mercenaries, as though tracking along the same line of thought, then shrugged and lowered his voice a little. “Gossip says he went up along the coast. You know anything about that?”

  Tank kept his expression mild with an effort. “Not likely,” he said. “Allonin isn’t much for confiding his plans.” His stomach fizzed with sudden excitement. The coast. The katha villages. Was Allonin really going to hold to his parting promise?

  Dasin glared, clearly not believing the demurral, and shrugged angrily. “You and Allonin,” he muttered. “Two of a kind.”

  Tank swallowed twice to set his voice to calm, then asked, “Gossip say anything else?”

  “What am I, the village crier? You weren’t there to hear it yourself, so the hells with you,” Dasin said, then retreated into sullen silence.

  “You finally land that slick?” Rat said.

  “Nah. Her sister.”

  Their voices rose a bit, enough for Tank to be sure they intended him to overhear. He sighed a little and readied himself for another gibe.

  “Ugly ones are always friendlier,” Rat observed. “I wouldn’t mind being stuck in Obein during a storm, myself. Got a few interesting ones I been working on there.” He shot a meaningful glare over his shoulder at Tank and added, “I’ll point ‘em out to you, when we get there—so’s you can avoid ‘em. I won’t have some wet ta-neka cutting in on me.”

  Frenn glanced back, grinning widely, to check Tank’s reaction. Tank kept his eyes on the space ahead of Taggy’s ears and ignored the feminine implication of the insult.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not interested in cutting in on your amusements.”

  “What, you take the other road?” Frenn snorted. “Damn well not sharing a room with me tonight, then.”

  Tank felt hot color flood his face. “No, damnit,” he said before he could catch himself, then set his teeth in his tongue and shook his head mutely. Beside him, Dasin straightened in the saddle a little, his own expression going dangerously blank.

  “Aw, we ought to aim that skinny weaver his way, when we reach Obein,” Rat said.

  “What, the one with that great black mark upside her face?”

  “Yeah. She seems his type.”

  “What, too damn dumb to know what goes where?”

  “Too damn dumb to charge, anyway,” Rat said. He and Frenn laughed, loud and coarse.

  Tank chewed his tongue and prayed Dasin wouldn’t react. He didn’t dare even cast a glance to his right to check or to give a warning; he kept his chin tucked to his chest and his stare on his horse’s ears.

  He could feel all three of them staring at him.

  “Ta-neka,” Rat said, as though testing, and laughed once more.

  “Ehh,” Frenn said, the sound dismissive. The mercenaries drifted into silence interspersed with lazy conversation about the weather, apparently content with the results of their gibes for the moment. Tank hastily signaled Dasin to drop back a little. When the mercenaries were far enough ahead that low-voiced conversation wouldn’t be overheard, he let out a long sigh.

  “I ought to be riding beside the wagon,” Dasin said, staring straight ahead. “With Venepe.”

  “Only words,” Tank said. “Forget it.”

  Dasin shot him a pale-eyed glare. “I don’t need them to accept me as an equal,” he said. “After Venepe, I’m in charge. They need to see me as—”

  “Oh, the hells you’re in charge,” Tank said before thought could stop him.

  Dasin’s face tightened with scalding rage. “I’m in charge of you,” he snapped.

  “Try it,” Tank invited, grinning. “You just try that.” He pointed at the mercenaries ahead. “While you’re at it, you try telling them you’re the one giving orders, when Venepe’s not around. See how far that goes.”

  “I say a word and Venepe lets you go,” Dasin said. “You’re only on this job because I spoke for you.”

  “So say the word,” Tank said, unimpressed. “I sure as shit didn’t ask for you to get me hired on, Dasin. You came to me, remember? You cornered me into this situation. I’ll hop off and walk back in a heartbeat, so you go right ahead and say the word.”

  Dasin’s glare could have curdled goat milk. Without another word, he kneed his horse into a trot, veering sharply around Rat and Frenn; seemed about to keep going to the horizon, but yanked his gelding into line beside the wagon at the last moment.

  Rat and Frenn glanced back at Tank, their faces creasing in newly malicious smiles. He sighed, knowing another round of hazing was about to begin. He could see it forming behind their eyes: Had a spat with the boyfriend, did you? would be the start of it.

  “Damnit, Dasin,” he muttered, urging his mare forward to catch up with the other mercenaries; and suspected that in the coming weeks on the road, he’d be saying that quite a lot.

  Chapter Thirty

  Idisio walked through an unknown city. His days as a street thief had been spent on the east side of Bright Bay, between the Coastal Plains Road gate and the docks. He’d always avoided the southwestern side: the thieves here were a tightly knit group, and territorial beyond all reason.

  Walking these streets, even in noble company, even with his new status, pushed him back into old patterns with irresistable force. He found himself startling at small noises, and sharp chills kept working up his back. Deiq didn’t seem to notice. He was easing his temper by teasing Alyea over small matters: her family estate backing up against the infamously poor and derelict Red Gate district, her request that he mind his manners, and anything else that might get a reaction out of her.

  The buildings close to the southern gate were squat and sturdy, with wood-shuttered windows painted in cheerful blues and greens. Wide-trunked, towering southern pines, limbs draped with various vining plants, nestled amid stands of sawtoothed palm and pepperwood shrubs. The air was thick with clouds of evening midges and mosquitoes. A faint breeze brought the smell of hot metal and soured milk to Idisio’s nose, along with the sound of clanging metal on metal and a baby crying.

  As they walked farther north and west, the cheer disappeared. Many buildings had been dismantled down to the foundations, and those that survived looked grim and defensive, with shutters hanging askew and paint nearly obscured beneath coatings of ash and dirt.

  Deiq stopped trying to provoke Alyea into arguing with him and fell silent, looking around with a brooding expression. Alyea, apparently intent on getting to the Seventeen Gates as quickly as possible, and probably more irritated with Deiq than she’d been letting on, stared straight ahead and kept a rapid pace.

  An owl hooted behind them. Idisio turned around fast, searching the gathering dusk for the source of that not-avian sound. A nightsinger warbled ahead; he spun to face front again, his heart pounding, and realized Alyea and Deiq hadn’t stopped walking. He bounded to catch up, earning a dark stare from Deiq and a vaguely questioning flicker of a glance from Alyea.

  “Birds,” Idisio
muttered.

  The owl call had been a question, and the nightbird was cautioning wait. He ached to respond with the traditional warning, but there was no way to screech like a gull without making Alyea, at least, think he’d lost his mind—or worse, suspect that the guards had been right about his true origins.

  Deiq’s eyes narrowed. He cut a sharp glance around, then shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, the words scarcely audible. “They won’t bother us.”

  Not reassured in the least, Idisio kept a wary eye to the shadows and rooftops. After they had walked another block, he heard a shrill cackling sound from behind them: a horribly bad imitation of a squirrel, as best he could tell.

  Open targets, that meant. Go for it, take them for everything they have.

  “Damnit,” he muttered. Deiq shot him an inquiring glance.

  “I’ll catch up,” he said without explaining. “Slow her down a bit, if you could.”

  Deiq gave him a steady, thoughtful stare for a few steps, then nodded and moved to walk on the other side of the mule. He put a hand on the beast’s headstall, apparently a casual gesture; but the mule and Alyea both slowed to half their former pace.

  Idisio let out a long breath and stopped walking. He stood still in the gloom, his chin tucked to his chest, arms crossed and hands tucked up into his armpits. A breath later, a seagull grackled loudly, then another. Idisio remained still. Alyea and Deiq would be left alone now, but that was only half of the matter.

  He could sense the circle forming around him. They made no sound as they ghosted out of the shadows, until the leader said, from a step beyond arm’s reach straight ahead, “So who are you to call protection on those two, then?”

  Idisio lifted his head and straightened his spine, but kept his arms crossed, hoping the signals were the same here as on the east side of town; a misunderstanding here would get him killed.

  No. It won’t. They can’t hurt me. Remember that: they can’t hurt me.

  He said, “They’re dangerous targets. The one will rip your hand off for trying and the other will turn your brain inside out. Maybe the other way around, come to it; can’t say for sure. Thought you’d prefer a warning.”

  “And who are you to know anything at all?” The leader was an angular line of gathering shadows within which pale hair and ragged clothes were barely visible.

  “You don’t want to believe me, fine,” Idisio said. “Go ahead and take your chances.”

  Silence gathered around him like a line of smoldering embers waiting for a breath to flare into catastrophic life.

  “Give us a name,” the leader said, “or none of you make another ten steps.”

  “I’m Scratha,” he said.

  That provoked a hiss from in front of him, and a more thoughtful quality to the silence around him.

  “You’re claiming Scratha?” the leader said at last.

  “Affiliation, not birth,” Idisio said. The silence still hung too thick and dangerous, so he added, “And if that doesn’t matter to you, consider another name I’m claiming affiliation with: Deiq of Stass.”

  Another hiss; he could feel the circle melting away around him, taking to the shadows. More seagulls cried out, sounding agitated this time.

  “Marked,” the leader said curtly, then faded with the rest.

  Idisio swallowed hard to settle the nervous bile in the back of his throat, then uncrossed his arms and sprinted to catch up with Deiq and Alyea. He couldn’t help feeling a little bit resentful that Cafad’s name held so little power, while a scant mention of Deiq sent everyone scattering.

  As Idisio eased into position behind Alyea, Deiq said, This area is heavily influenced by F’Heing and Darden Families. Scratha means almost nothing here. I’ve gone out of my way to have my name known in a variety of places and aspects. This side of town connects my name with some—unpleasant episodes. He glanced at Idisio, and his teeth showed, pale in the murky dusk. It might have been a smile, or something less friendly; Idisio had a feeling the latter was more accurate.

  It would have been entertaining, Deiq said thoughtfully, to rip off a hand at the wrist. I haven’t done that in a long time. It is a bit more difficult than it sounds, by the way. It’s easier to pull an arm off at the shoulder than a hand at the wrist. Has to do with relative leverage and bone strength. The hand tends to become pulp long before it’s actually torn off.

  Idisio set his gaze straight ahead and tried not to think about anything at all. Most of all, he tried to stifle how nauseated Deiq’s matter-of-fact delivery of such gruesome facts made him feel.

  Thank you, Deiq said, more seriously. You handled it well. You’re better at keeping your temper, in such instances, than I am.

  Idisio felt his spine straighten a bit more with the praise. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Some things don’t require violence.”

  He could feel Deiq’s attention sharpen. To a lesser form of life, he said. Yes. The ha’reye are quite fond of saying that. It’s a pity they don’t follow their own advice more closely, and more often.

  Abruptly, he closed up into a bitter silence, as though he’d said too much; and Idisio was more than happy to let the quiet settle in for a long stay.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Kolan pushed the door shut behind him and took three steps into the silence; and ducked. A thick wooden pole whistled past. He promptly dropped full-length on the floor, face down, arms splayed out to either side.

  “No harm,” he said, voice muffled by the floorboards, into the resounding lack of sound that followed. “No harm, s’a. No harm.”

  One end of the pole thumped lightly against the floor; he guessed she was leaning on it, studying him, thinking the situation over.

  “I’m only seeking shelter,” he said, turning his head to allow the words to come out clear, but kept his eyes shut. “Nothing more, s’a.”

  “You’d seek shelter in a witch’s house?” she demanded. Her voice was a light alto, and wobbled slightly.

  “You’re not a witch, s’a,” he said. “And neither is the owner of this home.”

  The end of the pole landed firmly in the middle of his back, right on the spine. He winced but made no protest.

  “How do you know I’m not the owner?” she demanded. “How do you know I’m not a witch?”

  “There are no such things as witches,” he said. “There are mechanical traps laid out at the gate, not spells; the place is shut down as though the owner went away. Are you here by invitation, s’a?”

  The pole pressed a little harder, then lifted away. “Yes,” she said. “I am. But you aren’t. Back out into the rain with you, thief. Find your shelter elsewhere.”

  He stayed still, splayed out on the floor. “I’m not a thief,” he said.

  “You avoided the gate traps and came through a locked door,” she said. “That speaks of thievery to me. On your knees and crawl back out the door. I’m not taking any chances on you.”

  “I’m wet through, tired, and hungry,” he said. “Have some grace, s’a. I’ll sleep here by the door if you’ll allow me; it’s better shelter than I’ll find elsewhere tonight. I give you my word, under the grace of the Four, I won’t move a step without your permission.”

  “The Four,” she said bitterly. The pole prodded him in the side. “A thief taking an oath on the Four. How appropriate.”

  The depth of her anger told him not to admit he was a priest; that would make matters much worse. “I’m sorry for your pain, s’a,” he said. “I can’t change the world. But I’m not a thief, and I mean no harm.”

  “What are you then, if not a thief?” she demanded.

  “A simple traveler,” he said. “I hail from Arason, originally. I’m trying to get home. I went through Kybeach, but the watchman there rousted me out before I could ask for a room. This road seemed as good as any other.”

  “He would,” she muttered. “Nasty old bastard.”

  “You’re from Kybeach, then, s’a?”

  “I didn�
�t say so!” Her voice sounded panicked now. The pole caught him on the hip this time. “No, you’re nothing but trouble. You won’t find shelter here. Out you go!”

  He sighed and labored to his knees, taking his first look at her. Tall and slender, with long blond hair bound tightly back into a severe tail, she was dressed in shabby servant-clothing of grey and dun. Her feet were bare, and her hands showed no rings; he put her age at somewhere above thirty and under fifty.

  Her grey eyes held a familiar shadow, the mark of old and poorly healed pain. She watched him without fear, holding the heavy wooden pole ready. He set his hands on his thighs and tilted his head to look up at her.

  “Out,” she said, but made no move to open the door.

  “Throwing me out won’t change what I know,” he said. “You’re hiding from someone in Kybeach. A husband, I’m guessing, who beat you until you ran. Yes?”

  She stared at him, the color draining from her face.

  “Did he send you?” she said in a near-whisper.

  “No. I told you, I was rousted out before I could so much as get a room. And I won’t go shouting back to Kybeach about you. I’m not holding that as a threat over you, s’a. Don’t think that.” He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to think. His mind felt vague and clouded with exhaustion all of a sudden. The room lurched around him. His palms scraped against the floor, his forehead touching the boards; he stayed still, breathing hard, and tried to catch his balance.

  Dizziness threw him back into vivid memories of pain and darkness: Ellemoa’s voice hissing and whispering as he hung upside down, flame tracing delicate patterns over his skin as her hands moved, and the abrupt flip upright as he was about to lose consciousness....

  He moaned and shuddered, curling tightly into himself, knowing that wouldn’t save him. They wouldn’t let him go into the dark, not yet, he hadn’t screamed nearly enough for that—but there were no voices, no flames; his hands rested on wood, not stone. And the darkness, to Kolan’s intense relief, flowed across him without impediment.