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

by Leona Wisoker

  I need to feed. That will drive this poison from my body. A combination of cunning and fury brought her to earth again, streaking across the wet ground: Eredion would rue this night’s work, by the time she finished.

  Softly, softly, sweet, Rosin cautioned. Don’t ruin it by going too quickly. You’ve earned this, don’t you think? Take your time and do it right. And if she’s Eredion’s ally, she might have some of that foulness to hand, for her own protection against you.

  Yes. Yes, of course... You’re very wise, Rosin. Thank you.

  She slowed, padding forward with feline grace; raised a hand and knocked, very gently, like a timid, grieving human, on the door of the gravekeeper’s cottage.

  Chapter Forty

  “You realize we’re done working with Venepe,” Dasin said. He sipped his hot spiced wine and delivered a severe stare. “Because you can’t mind your manners.”

  Tank glared back, sullen, and said, “You’re the one whacked Frenn with a damn great branch. Up to that point I had it handled.” He risked a sip of wine; it stayed down, and didn’t hurt as much as the last one had.

  “You were about to get your ass handed to you, is what you had handled,” Dasin said. He shook his head. “I’ll admit it was impressive watching you throw someone twice your bulk like he was made of feathers, but you were losing, Tank. They never intended to let you win.”

  “I know that, you godsdamned idiot,” Tank said. “If you hadn’t walked out of the stables to gawp, I could have settled it a lot easier. Breek would have come after me again some other time, I’d have let him lay me out, everything would have been done with. You staring like that turned everything serious. And you godsdamned well shouldn’t have gotten into it yourself. That’s what tore it.” He took a larger mouthful of wine. The crippling agony in his stomach and ribs was easing, little by little.

  Dasin shook his head and sipped wine.

  “I don’t pretend to understand your world, Tank,” he said finally. “I don’t think I want to. I’d rather handle percentages and politics than what you’re into.”

  “Just a different kind of politics,” Tank said. He touched his face gingerly, feeling across the assorted bumps and cuts. “But you’re right on one thing—you’ve never been any good at it.”

  “That’s not what I said,” Dasin said, aggrieved.

  Tank grinned, then winced at what the movement did to the sore spots on his face. “Well, I don’t mind admitting that I’m no good with numbers and lengths of cloth,” he said. “And you know Venepe better than I do. So how do we get this sorted out?”

  Dasin didn’t answer right away. He frowned down at his mug, apparently deep in thought. Tank let him be, watching the room while he waited.

  A dice game rattled at a corner table. At another, six men crouched round a card game, eyeing each other suspiciously and holding their cards close to their chests to shield them from view. A series of wall-mounted lanterns, each one securely bolted up against a metal plate-covered section of support beams, provided more light than most taverns offered. The air, while noticeably tinged with sweat, dirt, and spilled ale, seemed less foul than Tank had expected; certainly less noisome than Kybeach’s dingy tavern had been.

  Then again, the inside of a dungpile would smell better than anything in Kybeach.

  The only women here were serving girls. Tank watched them move among the tables: smiling, evading the occasional half- or wholly-drunken grab. When an auburn-haired serving woman old enough to be Tank’s grandmother glanced his way, he raised his mug slightly and nodded at Dasin. She nodded, came over, collected their by-now nearly empty mugs, and returned them brimming with steaming liquid a short time later.

  Dasin picked up his mug without seeming to notice it had ever been gone and took a sip; spluttered and set the mug down sharply enough to slosh hot wine onto his hand, glaring at Tank accusingly.

  Tank laughed. Dasin wiped his hand on his pants leg, grimacing, and said, “I don’t know that I want to sort out things with Venepe.”

  Tank stopped laughing. “What?” he said. “Why the hells not?”

  “Venepe’s an ass,” Dasin said. “I know more than he does, and I’m not even half his age. He spends his evening with servant girls instead of with the rich people in town; he puts his attention on currying favor in places like Kybeach; he hires a bunch of thugs to guard his wagons and doesn’t have the sense to ask hard questions about a letter from a foreign political entity who has a reputation for being manipulative. I’d lay good bits that Stai intended him to misunderstand that letter. She’s not stupid, herself. Hell, Venepe probably doesn’t even know what he’s dealing with. He knows it’s a name with power, and a name that makes expensive damn trinkets that are going to be in demand now that the Church is out of the way, and he goes jumping the moon without looking for a ladder.”

  Dasin took a cautious sip of his wine.

  “I could double his business if he’d listen to me,” he added. “All he sees is my age. Damn fool.”

  Remembering the attractive young lady-thief in Obein, Tank couldn’t help wondering if Dasin had underestimated Venepe the way he himself had underestimated Rat. Venepe might not be making piles of coin, but he had a solidly established customer base and enough money coming in to hire four mercenaries, however low unsworn status might weight the pay.

  He knew better than to say any of that aloud. Dasin would take it into a loud argument, and Tank already had a thundering headache that the wind wine was doing little to ease.

  “Dasin, I have a contract with Venepe,” he said instead. “A Freewarrior Hall contract. I can’t walk out on that.”

  “You have a contract with me,” Dasin corrected. “Venepe’s only involved because my pay’s based on his profits.”

  “He’s the one paying me, he’s the one I’m contracted to.”

  Dasin shook his head, looking disgusted. “This is my kind of politics, Tank. Trust me. Your contract’s with me, whatever your Hall log might say.”

  “Fine,” Tank said. “I quit.”

  Dasin laughed, loud and sharp. Heads turned around the room. Tank put a hand over his face, cringing; he hated that laugh. It always signaled trouble.

  “Not so fast. There’s a merchant in town,” Dasin said, “name of Yoo-eyr.” He pronounced the name with exaggerated care. “Venepe’s shit-scared of him for some reason. He’s not even staying a full day in the morning; he’s planning to be on the road again by noon. He’s told me flat out he hates this town. He’s skipping through here as fast as decency and pride allows.”

  The hair rose on the back of Tank’s neck.

  “Oh, gods, no,” he said, not at all sure why. “No, Dasin. Don’t—”

  “The way I figure,” Dasin interrupted, ignoring Tank’s inarticulate protest, “this Yuer’s someone who’s got a double handful more smarts and power than Venepe. Which means he’ll pay better, for one.” He sipped at his wind wine, looking smug. “And merchants with that sort of influence always need reliable help that won’t steal the silverware out from under. Me having status of my own—all right, both of us having status—”

  “Not me,” Tank said adamantly.

  “You’ve got the same as me,” Dasin said. “You’re as much entitled to throw around the name Aerthraim as I am.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Tank said, casting a quick, anxious glance around the room. “That’s not a name I’d wave around north of the Horn, whatever Venepe might think.” He paused. “You didn’t tell Venepe I’m—?”

  “No,” Dasin said. “I know you like to keep yourself to yourself. And when I saw that hall captain’s reaction, I figured I’d better leave it at this red-headed scrapper I met along the way who’s signed with the Freewarrior Hall here in town.” He paused, and seemed about to ask a question, then shook his head and took another sip of wind wine instead. His expression settled into its familiar sullen lines. “I’m going to have a talk with this Yuer, see if he needs a hand on one of his wagons. Come on wi
th me, I’ll get you a spot alongside.”

  Tank shook his head, unable to put a name to his sense of dread. “This is a bad idea, Dasin,” he said. “A really bad idea.”

  He put a hand to his stomach, wincing a little, as a cramp stitched briefly up the left side.

  “You’re scared,” Dasin said flatly. He gulped down the rest of his wine and laughed. “If I hadn’t just seen you thrash two men each twice your weight and age, I wouldn’t’ve believed it. You’re running scared over a social visit to a merchant. You know, Tank, you’re the hells’ own mouse sometimes.”

  The flush in Dasin’s face came from more than the heat in the room. Tank glanced down at his own, nearly full mug and grimaced.

  “Dasin,” he said. “You’re halfway to drunk. This isn’t a good time for you to—”

  “Mouse,” Dasin said, standing. He steadied himself with a hand against the table and grinned. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Sit down, you damned fool,” Tank hissed as heads turned once more. “You’re in no damn state to negotiate a piss, let alone a contract.”

  Dasin made a few soft squeaking sounds. “Come on,” he said. “Walk with me or go crawling back to kiss—”

  “All right,” Tank said before Dasin could finish that sentence in his now far too loud voice. He scooped up his pack and saddlebags, then added, in a low voice, “Damn you, Dasin.”

  Dasin grinned and strutted out the door.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Dawn was turning black to pink when Idisio faced the king for the third time in his life. The meeting wasn’t in a small casual room this time, but in the vast magnificence of a ballroom converted to a temporary audience hall. Floor-to-ceiling murals covered the walls, and the gilded sconces hanging from the ceiling had so many candles that each one had large catch-basins hanging below to collect the meltings. They weren’t lit at the moment; instead, the shutters of the wide windows were thrown open. A thin pre-morning breeze sifted through the room, dispersing the smoky haze of a dozen squat table-lamps.

  Idisio tugged uncomfortably at his borrowed shirt. It smelled of harsh soap, and the mended patches on the shoulders, sides, and back were of a coarse material that scratched against his skin. The pants were marginally better; they hung loose enough on Idisio’s skinny legs to avoid rubbing him raw.

  Everything seemed to be bothering him at the moment. The smoke from the oil lamps irritated his nose, the light hurt his eyes, the servant-loose cut of the clothes made him feel clumsy and ugly. The distrustful wariness of the desert lords aggravated his pride, and King Oruen’s severe stare prickled that further.

  Or was that Lord Oruen, given Idisio’s new status? He decided that sticking with king was probably safer for the moment.

  “I thought you went east with Scratha,” the king said. “Did he turn back for some reason?” His expression boded ill for any answer besides no.

  “He claims to be in town with Alyea and Deiq, of all people,” the stocky man beside Idisio said.

  The king’s eyebrows lowered further. “If that’s true,” he said, “one of them went far off the course they’d been set!”

  Idisio endured the king’s fierce glare as blankly as he could.

  “I see,” the king said ominously.

  The desert lord cleared his throat. “I’ve sent messengers to inquire, and they are in town—arrived last night. They should be here soon. Ah—” He turned as the main doors at the far end of the hall opened just enough to admit two people. “Here they are.”

  There was a moment of silence as Alyea and Deiq entered the room. Everyone stared at Deiq with various degrees of horrified fascination. He didn’t walk in: he strode in, as though he owned the room and everyone in it. The vivid green of his silk shirt, the gold chain around his neck, the rings on his hands, even the finger-thin braid pulled apart from the rest and draped down his chest all combined to mark Deiq out as the single most powerful person present.

  Beside him, Alyea was practically invisible.

  Oruen’s startled stare quickly hardened into a glare. Deiq met it without apparent concern, smiling a little.

  Idisio, he said. Has anyone hurt you or been rude?

  I’m fine.

  That isn’t what I asked.

  Alyea, as though she were the only person of worth in the room, strode to stand in front of the throne. “Lord Sessin,” she said, chin high. “Lord Oruen. Idisio.”

  Gazes shifted from Deiq to Alyea, gaining more than a slight tinge of amusement.

  She doesn’t quite understand yet, does she? someone said.

  No, Deiq answered. I’m working on it.

  Might want to hurry on that a bit.

  Alyea was staring directly at Idisio now, as though waiting for an answer, and Deiq’s black stare was fixed on him as well.

  “Lord Alyea,” Idisio muttered. “Deiq. Glad you’re here.”

  You didn’t answer my question, Deiq said, his stare hardening.

  Pahenna, Idisio retorted, not entirely sure where he drew the word from, or even what it meant, but somehow knowing it to be the appropriate language. I can handle myself, thank you!

  Which is why you’re standing in front of a king and multiple desert lords, all of whom are looking at you like you’ve stolen the king’s drawers? Deiq inquired tartly.

  “May I present my escort, Deiq of Stass,” Alyea said. Idisio heard a stifled snort from one of the other desert lords. Alyea appeared oblivious to the amusement her attitude was causing. “You’ve already met Idisio, I see. He’s ... under the protection of Peysimun Family.”

  “And mine,” Deiq said promptly, which drained the half-smiles from the faces around them. Answer the question, Idisio, he added. It’s important. Did they hurt you? Were they rude?

  Nobody hurt me, Idisio said. I handled the rudeness. Leave it alone.

  No. Not this time. You need their respect.

  Let me earn it myself, then!

  You don’t know how. And don’t try telling me to teach you right now!

  “Welcome to my court once again, s’e,” King Oruen said, blatantly insincere. Idisio felt Deiq’s volatile temper darken even further.

  Lord Sessin cleared his throat. Deiq, he said, his mental tone considerably calmer than the elder ha’ra’ha’s, let me handle this. Please. Aloud, he said, “I think, as we’re reasonably alone here, it’s time to drop the nonsense, Lord Oruen. You know who—and what—Deiq is.”

  You’re being too damn nice, Eredion, Deiq said.

  I’m doing my job.

  Then make sure Idisio gets the respect he deserves.

  Lord Sessin flicked a fast, startled glance at Idisio, then looked back to Deiq. He really is a ha’ra’ha?

  Yes. He really is.

  Ah, damnit. Eredion met Idisio’s gaze squarely, and his next words were aimed at Idisio alone. My apologies for earlier, ha’inn. It’s been a confused time of late. I’ll make it up to you—

  “Yes. You’re right,” the king said grudgingly. “My apologies, ha’inn.” He flicked a glance at Alyea, as though checking to see if she knew the word; she stared back, blank-faced, giving nothing away.

  “‘Honored One’,” Deiq said. “I do like the sound of that.”

  Idisio couldn’t tell if he had translated the word for Alyea’s benefit or to irritate the king by emphasizing his superior status. Whatever the intent, neither the king nor Alyea looked particularly happy.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” Lord Sessin said dryly. Stop poking the hornet’s nest, Deiq, he added silently. “And I believe you owe Idisio the same courtesy, actually.”

  “Are you telling me a ha’ra’ha tried to pick Lord Scratha’s pocket?” Oruen exclaimed.

  Alyea turned to stare at Idisio, her expression a mix of outrage and astonishment, then shot a deeply suspicious glare at Deiq, as though sharply reassessing her trust in him. Deiq returned the glare in kind; she blanched, then flushed and dropped her gaze as though in mute apology.

  Don’t
let her push you around, either, Deiq told Idisio. Especially not in front of this crowd. You stand your ground, you hear me? I’ll make Scratha look like a playmate if you embarrass yourself here.

  How come you never took him to task over the way he treated me in the beginning? Idisio demanded, glowering.

  Just because you don’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, Deiq retorted. I had a talk with him, believe me. Now pay attention. There are too many desert lords in the room for us to indulge in an extended private conversation.

  Aloud, Deiq said, “So what is important enough to bring four full lords and two trainees all the way into Bright Bay?”

  Idisio withdrew into himself, feeling more than a little sullen. Deiq seemed to expect Idisio to stand up for himself while at the same time treating him as barely above incompetent. It was getting irritating.

  Stand up straight, Deiq said, the words very nearly a mental slap. You’re acting like a scolded child. Stand up!

  “How much does she know about what really happened with Ninnic?” Lord Sessin asked, glancing uneasily at Alyea. Idisio had the feeling that he’d really have preferred to ask the question privately.

  He should have, Deiq snapped. But I was busy talking to you, and keeping everyone else from hearing you, so he couldn’t. Aloud, he said, “I have no idea. Ask her.”

  “You mean the mad ha’ra’ha who was controlling Ninnic,” Alyea said. “Yes, Lord Evkit told me about that.”

  Oh, gods, Idisio thought, horrified. That’s where the voices came from. That’s what was driving people crazy all over town. He’d really thought it came from something dumped in the wells by Rosin’s sadistic followers. But then why didn’t I ever hear the voices?

  That’s one of the questions I’d very much like answered once we get to Arason, Deiq said. At a guess, someone put a protection round you: ha’rethe or ha’ra’ha, more than likely—and it must have been one of your parents, for it to take so well and last so long.