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

by Leona Wisoker

  Lord Sessin said, “Did Evkit tell you we had to kill it?”

  Idisio felt as though every drop of his blood drained to his feet. We had to kill it? We? He was standing in the presence of men who knew how to kill ha’ra’hain?

  That’s why you don’t flinch around them, Deiq snapped. So stop looking like you’re about to piss yourself!

  “He didn’t say who was involved,” Alyea said, glancing at Idisio with a worried expression. “I believe you had good reason, though.”

  “Idisio, you’re in no danger from us,” Lord Sessin said hastily. “This was an extremely exceptional situation.”

  “And you’re not going mad,” Deiq added, more likely to reassure the king and Alyea than for Idisio’s sake. “Believe me, Idisio, I would know. Probably long before you did.”

  So ha’ra’hain go mad often? Idisio demanded, shivering. This is something you’re good at spotting? If he’d been speaking aloud, his voice would have scaled up to a squeak by the last word.

  Deiq shook his head, delivered another severe glare, and pointedly turned his attention back to the audible conversation. Idisio tried to pay attention; noticed that the king seemed unable to take his gaze from Alyea for any length of time, and rapidly assessed the man’s fascination as more politically than emotionally based. Alyea, for her part, seemed intent on proving herself the equal of any man in the room, much to everyone’s poorly hidden amusement.

  Lord Filin kept a calculating eye on Alyea as well, and his words were aimed at making himself look stronger and smarter than the other men in the room: Mating behavior, Idisio thought vaguely, not entirely sure why Alyea’s presence seemed to be polarizing the room.

  She’s a new desert lord, Eredion said mildly. That generally brings on... certain changes. He cleared his throat and went back to the vocal discussion without further explanation; Idisio, taking another look at the way the men were all covertly watching Alyea, discovered he didn’t really need clarification after all.

  As I’m hearing it, Riss said in memory, it’s not going to be a matter of choice.

  Idisio blinked and looked at his toes, ferociously blocking his mind to utter blankness; he did not want Alyea knowing what he was thinking at the moment, let alone Deiq.

  “I found something unexpected when I started cleaning the underground areas,” Eredion said, his voice tightening; Idisio seized on that as a cue to put his full attention on the conversation. Eredion seemed... embarrassed by something, and more than a little frightened. “Someone, actually—”

  “Oh, how tactful,” Lord Filin snorted, crossing his arms.

  “I’ll admit the term might be a bit shaky at the moment,” Eredion said, and his mind went blank with the same abrupt finality that Idisio had used to fend Deiq off, dropping a hollow flatness into his voice as he went on. “But it serves the moment. The child had kept someone alive down there in its lair. I still don’t know how, or why, or who; the moment I opened the door it—she—attacked me. I wasn’t expecting it.” He scratched his cheek and avoided their gazes; even with his mind blocked off, the next words clearly embarrassed him tremendously: “I went down. Blacked out. And when I got up, she was gone.”

  Now Deiq’s mind went opaque, so firmly that if Idisio shut his eyes, he couldn’t tell Deiq even stood there. A chill ran down his back: on a dark night, he’d never sense Deiq coming.

  Could the desert lords around them do the same trick? Was that how they—

  Not as well, Eredion said, his jaw tight. But you’re being a bit loud, I’m afraid.

  Idisio hurriedly hauled himself under control and directed his attention to the voices around him again.

  “She seems drawn to the graveyard at the edge of town,” Eredion was saying aloud, “which is where we set a trap last night—and caught him.” He jerked his chin at Idisio.

  “There was a certain amount of confusion over his identity,” Filin said with a pompous deliberation, as though trying to sound more refined in contrast to Eredion’s plainer speech. “While we were standing around arguing, the creature—”

  “Woman,” Eredion murmured, which set Idisio into another round of internal questioning: if the creature they described was ha’ra’ha, which increasingly seemed likely, then Filin’s insistence on using it rather than she opened up a new pit in front of Idisio.

  What if I’m only male because... I’ve never thought of myself any other way? Suddenly, Deiq’s comment that Idisio would grow out of his heterosexual preference took on a new, and dreadful, implication.

  No, Deiq said. You’re male. I’ll explain all that another time. Pay attention!

  Idisio chewed his bottom lip and made himself concentrate on the conversation, listening to the spats and the maneuverings and the half-truths being traded. His guess that the creature—the woman—who’d attacked last night had been a ha’ra’ha proved out, which did nothing to set his mind at ease. Neither did Eredion’s awkwardness as he said, “It’s not hurting anyone, it’s not feeding—anymore....”

  Deiq’s glower could have melted iron. Eredion faltered into silence; a moment later, just as Alyea began asking questions about that term, Idisio felt a thundering pressure whomp through his hindbrain, leaving him dizzy and breathless for a moment.

  Not now, Deiq said from somewhere infinitely far away. The pressure dissipated as fast as it had built, and Idisio shook his head, blinking hard and disoriented.

  “Well, never mind,” Eredion said, looking oddly green about the ears. “Right now, the woman is searching for something.”

  Idisio lost the next words under another, softer haze of dizziness; muddled in and out of coherency, and finally pulled his vision and hearing straight in time to hear Deiq say, “Idisio, why were you out in the middle of the night? In the middle of a rainstorm, no less?”

  “I just... I had to get some air,” Idisio said, wishing he could get out of this room and do that now. “I felt so hot, and restless, and I wanted to walk the streets alone, the way I used to.” The way I’d like to do right now. “I don’t know. I felt... called. Drawn. Like something wanted me to come out of the house.”

  “You shouldn’t have felt our bait-call,” Eredion said. “Not that far away. What did it feel like?”

  Bait-call? They’d been trying to trap him? No, wait—they’d been after something else. They’d been after... that woman in white, and there was something Idisio wanted to think about regarding her, but a sudden pressure sent him back into the moment’s reality and away from thinking anything through.

  “Like someone was riffling through my mind,” he said. “My memories. I couldn’t seem to stop it.”

  “That definitely wasn’t us,” Eredion said, looking alarmed.

  “No,” Deiq said. “That was the ha’ra’ha woman you’re after. She seems to have taken an interest in you, Idisio. I wonder why.”

  Idisio shut his eyes and wondered, for his part, why that statement rang completely false in his ears. Deiq knew something, and wasn’t telling—which didn’t surprise Idisio in the least; but all the evasions were getting aggravating.

  In a back corner of his mind, he heard Deiq’s sour laughter.

  Get used to it, the elder ha’ra’ha said. It’s all in the way of things, Idisio: telling the truth will only get you killed, nine times out of ten, around the humans... and you generally don’t want them to tell you any real truth, either. You’ll learn.

  And don’t ha’ra’hain ever tell the truth to one another? Idisio shot back.

  Oh, especially not that, Deiq answered, no laughter in his tone now. That’s the quickest way to get yourself killed that I can think of.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Tank had hoped that a walk in the rapidly cooling evening air would shake Dasin back to some version of sense and sobriety. As Dasin paused, looking at the brick path to the stately brick cottage beyond, Tank bit his lip and silently prayed.

  “Mind your manners,” Dasin said at last, curtly. “Remember, I’m in charge.”
>
  Tank abandoned both patience and hope. “Dasin, this is a bad idea. Venepe probably has a damn good reason—”

  Dasin lifted his chin and started forward. Tank swore under his breath, viciously, and followed.

  The brick path, wide enough for a carriage where it left the main road, curved around to the back of the house in a slow, majestic sweep; a narrower path branched off toward the front door. To either side of the door, flanked in turn by torches in holders as tall as themselves, stood burly men in dark shirts and darker pants. Stone Islanders or southerners, Tank guessed, and felt his nibbling unease strengthen to a gnaw.

  Another few steps, and the features of the two guards came clear: definitely southern. Too olive to be northern, too sharp to be islanders. The guards watched Dasin and Tank approach without any visible reaction, and the gnawing grew more like savage bites with every step Tank took toward their black, dead eyes.

  He knew that look. He’d seen it, far too often, and far too close at hand.

  Dasin whimpered a little in the back of his throat, and his step faltered for a moment. Tank tensed, waiting—hoping—for the overriding flinch that would send Dasin bolting for safety and sanity.

  Anyone who hired guards like this was a man Tank did not want to meet, now or ever. It took a grim effort to keep his hands away from the hilts of sword and knife alike.

  Dasin finished his step and kept going as though his legs simply refused to move in any other direction.

  They stopped a few steps shy of arm’s reach to the door, far too close for Tank’s liking. The guards stared, ominously silent. Tank suddenly felt several inches shorter and pounds lighter, and had to fight against cringing.

  “We’re here to see trader Yuer,” Dasin said, his voice nearly warbling.

  The guards focused on him, their mouths widening into identical slow smiles: predator’s grins.

  “You got an appointment?” the one on the right asked.

  Dasin opened his mouth, shut it again. A fine tremor ran through his thin frame.

  A different tremor ran through Tank’s muscles: an old, black rage beginning to simmer. He drew in a sharp breath and bared his teeth at the guards with no attempt to make it look like a smile. Their attention moved to him immediately, their smiles fading as quickly.

  Nobody spoke for a long, razor-edged moment. Then Tank said, flat and fierce, “We don’t need an appointment. He’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

  The guards exchanged a dark, thoughtful glance that sent renewed chills up Tank’s back; then the one on the left shrugged and the one on the right jerked his thumb at the door and said, “Go on, then.”

  Tank set a hand on Dasin’s shoulder blade, digging his fingers into the soft spot by the spine. The blond jerked away, and the motion flowed into a stride forward, two, three—Tank glared at the door, refusing to acknowledge the guards, who were well within reach to either side now—Dasin fumbled at the handle with trembling fingers. A bitter, oily musk hung in the air, steel and leather and dirt mingling in Tank’s nose.

  Dasin’s hand closed around the doorknob, twisted, shoved; they lurched forward and through. Tank knocked Dasin’s hand away from the edge of the door in time to stop him from slamming it behind them, then shut it, gently, himself.

  The first thing Tank noticed was how hot the room was; an enormous fireplace at one end of the room sent out smothering waves of heat. Then he focused on the occupants of the room: an exhausted-looking young woman with long dark hair and a bizarre little old man with more wrinkles on his face than Tank had ever seen on a human being. In spite of the thick heat in the air, the man had a blanket pulled over his legs as though chilled.

  Four comfortable chairs sat arranged evenly around a low, round table. On the table sat a white, unadorned teapot and two tiny white cups shaped nearly like half of an egg. Both cups were empty.

  “Greetings,” the old man said in a strong baritone voice fifty years younger than his body. “Please sit.”

  He waved a hand at the empty chairs on either side of him. The young woman, sitting in the chair directly opposite the old man, dropped her gaze to her hands. Her face was heavily shadowed with fading bruises; Tank felt his temper begin to rise again. To distract himself, he glanced around the room.

  A red and gold carpet covered most of the stone-flag floor. A sideboard with thick glass decanters and silver-ribbed glass goblets took up a large portion of one wall. A series of framed architectural sketches hung over the sideboard. There were three exits: the front door, a door on the left wall, a door on the right wall. No—five exits, counting the two windows. The glass was fine enough to smash out easily. He glanced up at the ceiling, in which support beams had been left exposed like sturdy dark bones. Remembering the outside of the house, he guessed at least three good-sized rooms above and five down.

  Given the size of the fireplace, there was an enormous pile of wood out back. Given the way the driveway had curved around behind the house, there was likely a stable around back as well.

  Whatever this merchant might be, he had significant wealth. Dasin had that much right, at least; but after seeing the guards outside, Tank found that more reason than ever to run away while they still could.

  Dasin put his shoulders back and his chin up. He said, voice quite steady now, “Trader Yuer? I’m Dasin of Aerthraim Family—”

  “I know who you are,” the old man said, and pointed once more to the chairs. “Sit.”

  The word contained more command than offer. Tank waited, watching Dasin’s faint twitch; after a taut moment, the blond dropped into a chair and motioned for Tank to take the last empty seat. Tank sighed and began unbuckling his sword harness, wondering if switching to a northern waist-belt style would be better suited to northern chairs.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to show up,” Yuer said, a smile barely visible under the drooping folds of skin around his mouth. “Dasin and Tanavin of Aerthraim Family.”

  Dasin made a slightly strangled sound, staring as though he’d forgotten how to speak altogether. Tank eased sword harness, pack, and saddlebags to the floor at his feet, where he could grab them up easily, and kept his own mouth shut.

  Yuer’s smile widened a little.

  “Would you like some tea?” he inquired, gesturing to the small ceramic teapot and two empty cups.

  “How did you know—” Dasin started, then cut himself off almost mid-word. “Yes, please. Tea sounds perfect.”

  “Excellent,” Yuer said. “Wian. If you would be so kind.”

  The young woman slipped from her chair to kneel beside the table. She poured a double mouthful of rich amber-brown liquid into each cup, replaced the teapot on the table, then slid each cup to just shy of the edges of the table nearest Tank and Dasin. A rich, earthy aroma tinged with jasmine filled the room.

  “Thank you,” Yuer said.

  Wian returned to her chair and sat staring at her hands again, her expression utterly blank.

  “This is true Stone Island red tea,” Yuer said.

  Dasin leaned forward and took up the teacup. “I’m impressed, trader Yuer. And honored.” He took a small sip. “This is excellent.”

  “I keep an extra case or two on hand,” Yuer said. He looked at Tank, at the untouched cup on the table, back to Dasin. “I hear the bards of the Red Tower in Arason are developing a taste for it, thanks in part to the head of the Arason Church.”

  Dasin sipped his tea without saying anything aloud, but his expression would have suited a hunting asp-jacau. Tank watched the dark-haired young lady, who seemed intent on studying her folded hands to the exclusion of all else.

  “This young lady’s name is Wian,” Yuer said. “She’s from Bright Bay. And will be returning there soon.”

  Wian shivered and hunched into herself as if expecting an attack.

  Tank bit his tongue against an impulse to say, Leave her alone! The old man hadn’t actually said or done anything threatening.

  “Do try the tea,” Yuer said, h
is dark stare fixed on Tank. “It’s quite exceptional.”

  Tank picked up the small cup and held it loosely in one hand, openly frowning at the trader. “I’m not much for tea.”

  “Tank,” Dasin said in a nearly inaudible whisper. Tank ignored him.

  “I’m afraid it’s all I have to hand at the moment,” Yuer said as if Tank’s tone had been polite. “If coffee is more to your taste, I believe I’m due a shipment of Ridge Mountain coffee beans sometime in the next tenday. I’ll hold some aside against your next visit.”

  Dasin sat up a little straighter. “F’Heing Ridge Mountain coffee?”

  “Several ranking members of the Isata News-Riders Guild are quite fond of it,” Yuer said calmly. “I deal in profitable wares, s’e Dasin. Small, relatively lightweight, quickly portable, not particularly fragile as long as you keep them very dry, extremely profitable wares.”

  He shifted his gaze to Wian. She sat still as stone, apparently indifferent to everything around her; Yuer’s mouth moved into a slow smile too similar to the guard’s predatory leers for Tank’s liking.

  The old man looked at Dasin, still smiling. “Spices, coffees, and teas are reliable,” Yuer said. “They never lose their appeal, north to south to west to east. Housewives need them for cooking. Priests need them for ceremonies. Healers need them for salves and poultices. It’s an endless market.”

  Something smoldered in Dasin’s stare now: ambition. Dangerously close to greed. Tank cleared his throat, hoping to draw Dasin’s attention, to shake him loose of the dangerous fascination this wrinkled old man seemed to hold for him.

  “I’m able to pay my assistants very well,” Yuer said softly. “On the order of forty percent of profits, as a starting number.” He closed his eyes briefly, then splayed a thin-fingered hand over his stomach and looked at Dasin once more. “Unfortunately, I’m not able to travel. I’ve been afflicted with a... delicate ... digestion in my old age.”

  His gaze moved to Wian again, and this time she shivered a little. Tank clenched the hand not holding the cup, his short nails digging painfully into his palm.