Yuer took another sip, seemingly unimpressed. “What makes you think I’m interested in signing you on as a merchant? You’re barely old enough to shave, the both of you. Why would I trust you with my reputation and my goods?”
Dasin opened his mouth, looking indignant; then shut it and drew a long breath through his nose.
“Never mind my age, s’e,” he said steadily. “I can do the job. I’ve been personally trained by the merchant-master of the Aerthraim, and I’m her top student. I wouldn’t have been sent out on my own otherwise, would I?”
Yuer laughed, a grating chuckle without much humor to it. “The Aerthraim lie like a fish breathes water,” he said. “Even to their own people. I don’t find that connection much by way of recommendation, I’m afraid.”
His gaze moved to Tank’s face and stayed there for a long, thoughtful moment, then returned to Dasin.
“I might be inclined to give you a trial run, if you do me a small service first,” Yuer said. “As it happens, this young lady is from Bright Bay. She needs to return to her home, and I’m short of escort staff at the moment.” His mouth twitched.
The dark-haired girl’s shoulders moved a little, and her chin dipped to her chest. She shut her eyes.
“She doesn’t look like she wants to go home,” Tank said bluntly, ignoring Dasin’s warning hiss. “Do you, s’a?”
She made no answer.
“She has nowhere else to go,” Yuer said in a way Tank really didn’t like. “And it’s really not your concern what she wants, either, Tanavin.”
“Tank,” he said absently, still studying the girl.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s calling himself Tank now,” Dasin said when Tank didn’t answer.
“I see. That’s certainly interesting.” Yuer’s tone indicated he found it anything but. “Regardless of the current moniker, Wian’s wants are still none of your concern. She will be returning to Bright Bay, and staying there; you can either accompany her to ensure she comes to no harm along the road—”
Tank looked again at the fading bruises on the girl’s face and set his teeth together hard.
“—or I’ll have to send one of my friendly doormen along.”
The cup cracked in Tank’s hand. A splash of warm liquid ran down his wrist and onto his trouser leg.
“No, you won’t,” he said though his teeth, and barely stopped himself there: reined in more by the memory of Rat’s earlier warning than any sense of his own. He doesn’t scrap. He kills you.
Dasin sat still, white-faced and stiff, staring somewhere past Yuer’s left ear. The girl hadn’t moved nor opened her eyes.
Tank drew in a shaky breath and jerked his head in mute apology, then focused on setting the remains of the cup down on the table and picking small ceramic splinters from his palm.
The girl rose, wordless; collected the cup and left the room. She returned with a thick hand-towel and a small knife, then knelt beside Tank’s chair and motioned for him to give her his hand. He glanced at Dasin, then at Yuer; both seemed to be staring off into space, ostentatiously ignoring him.
She tucked the towel under Tank’s hand and began delicately scraping the sharp fragments from his skin onto the cloth. He held still with an effort, not at all comfortable with someone holding a knife that close to his wrist.
Nobody spoke while the girl worked to clean Tank’s hand. He glanced at Yuer and Dasin uneasily, feeling more and more like a lumbering fool with every passing breath. It seemed like hours before Wian tugged the cloth free, bundling it up around the knife, and retreated from the room again.
This time she returned with a replacement cup. She set it on the table and glanced at Yuer; he offered the faintest ghost of a nod. She filled it, set the cup on the table in front of Tank, then returned to her seat, sitting as mute and withdrawn as before.
Tank picked up his cup with a trembling hand and took a sip he really didn’t want.
Dasin breathed out in a near-sigh and said, “My apologies, trader Yuer. You were saying?”
“Take Wian to Bright Bay,” Yuer said, his gaze on the girl now. “Her family will give you a reward of sorts: a package for me. Bring me that package, unopened, undisturbed in any way, and we’ll discuss whether you’re able to handle an actual trade route without a caretaker.”
Tank bit his tongue. He dearly wanted to ask: And what if we decide we don’t want to work with you? Rat’s dire prediction that he was stuck rankled almost as much as taking orders from Dasin.
“That’s a long trip on no coin to prove ourselves,” Dasin said.
“True.” Yuer smiled. “Wian will have coin for you to spend.”
Dasin shot a quick glance at the girl, then at Tank. Tank jerked his head at a slant, not quite a yes or no: Don’t argue it, that meant, in the code Allonin had drilled into both of them. Dasin exhaled hard once more, then said, “Very well.”
“You may leave in the morning,” Yuer said. His gaze moved to the packs at their feet. “I have no guest rooms available here, unfortunately, but if you give my name at the Traveler’s Rest, they’ll find a room for the two of you. It’s a street over, on the corner of Sand and Copper.”
“Thank you,” Dasin said, his tone muted.
“Wian will be returning to the Fool’s Rest Tavern in Bright Bay. She knows the way. I will provide horses and trail supplies. It should go without saying, but I’ll say it regardless, that I’ll be severely disappointed if the horses return in poor shape, or not at all.”
“We’ll take good care of them, trader Yuer,” Dasin said, not looking at Tank.
“Indeed. Good night, then. Be here at dawn.”
Dasin set his nearly empty tea cup on the table and rose. Tank set his nearly full cup on the table and followed suit.
“Good night, trader Yuer,” Dasin said; then, as if testing, he added: “Teth-kavit.”
Yuer said nothing, gave no visible reaction: his gaze as compassionate as that of a hungry lizard watching the fluttering of a nearby insect.
Chapter Forty-Five
Rain poured down from a thunderously black sky. Wind howled past the edges of buildings and beat bushes sideways. Ellemoa smiled as she eased through the downpour. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, she would have been running and laughing, as she had in childhood whenever the Elders called in storms to ease the seasonal droughts in Arason.
Mustn’t get caught. Mustn’t let them know I’m still alive.
Eredion was an enemy. He’d known Ellemoa would come for him. He’d set up the trap. He’d been calling her: her decision to hunt him hadn’t entirely been her own. It had come from him. He’d allowed her to eavesdrop for that critical few moments. He’d dared manipulate a ha’ra’ha!
Eredion will find his victory over me hollow when he finds his gravekeeper friend, she thought savagely. He walked away without a second thought as to what I’d do after he drove me away from my son. He could have come after me and stopped me. Risked his life to protect his vulnerable human gravekeeper friend, not a hundred feet away. But he didn’t think of her at all. Humans. They keep no faith with one another.
And now he’s using my son as bait. He thinks he’s clever. As though my son hasn’t been through enough! They see me as a dangerous monster, and they’re using him to draw me out. Me! I’m no monster. They’re the ones using an innocent child as bait.
I just want my son back.
She stood against the side of a building, invisible, cloaked by the rain, and sorted through the presences around her. Her son—Idisio—a strange name he’d taken, or more likely been given by the humans. She wondered if it meant anything. Humans tended to assign names with meanings, which seemed, to her, very odd: a name was a person. How could it be more than a single identity? That only confused matters.
She dragged her thoughts back to the moment. Her son stood, huddled and miserable, under the minimal shelter of a tree-shaped statue—another example of human thinking, that: building a statue, duplicating someth
ing that already existed; using rock to craft a tree—the very concept was insane.
Her attention went back to her son. Her baby. He was wet, and cold, and scared—all because of the humans, because of these desert lords—they would suffer for doing this to her son....
Focus, she told herself, and reluctantly tore her gaze away.
There were three... no, four... She paused, eyes closed, listening. Four desert lords: Lord Eredion and three others. Lord Eredion was remarkably good at hiding himself; she had almost missed him. He wasn’t far from where she herself stood, but all four had a line of sight on each other and were on full alert. She wouldn’t be able to get to Eredion without being attacked by the other three.
But they didn’t know she was the one controlling this weather. They had no skill at redirecting the torrential downpour, or they would have done so already; which gave her a distinct advantage.
She shaped wind and drove rain sideways into alcove after overhang until, cursing audibly, each one emerged from his secure spot and sloshed noisily into a new hiding place. Eredion emerged last; she aimed the wind to drive him steadily in her direction. True to human weakness, he followed the easiest path and put the wind at his back.
She smiled and began to raise her hands, ready to pull him in, pull him apart—
For a handful of heartbeats, as she focused on him, Eredion’s grumbling thoughts pierced the rain as though he’d spoken aloud: Wish I could raise my body temperature the way Deiq does—he’s probably sitting in cozy comfort over there—dry, even, damn him—
Ellemoa paused, her eyes narrowing. The over there in Eredion’s thoughts had been to her right, in an area she hadn’t sensed anyone occupying. She withdrew into complete stillness and let Eredion pass by as she searched the rain-shrouded darkness to find the presence she’d missed—it had to be there—
It was. A deeper, darker, very solid presence; she’d taken it for another pointless statue, in fact, until Eredion’s grumbling had made her look at it more closely. She focused on the motionless form, listening closely, avoiding any pressure that might alert him to her inspection. A scattering of thoughts floated by: there’s a chance, just a chance... hate this rain and cold... have to try. Have to try. Damned rain. Wish I dared try redirecting it, but the storm’s settled in too solidly... It’s kin. Whatever it’s done, it’s kin. I have to try... have to reach it, have to take the chance.
Ellemoa began to relax a little. Another ha’ra’ha. She was safe. Like the Elders, he was here to protect her, to serve as intermediary with the humans, to keep them from misunderstanding—
And if this thing does attack Idisio, I can let loose and kill it before anyone gets hurt trying to stop it themselves....
Her blood went as cold as the rain thundering down around her. This thing. Kill it. Kill me? He sees me as a thing. As an it. He’s willing to kill me to avoid harm to the humans. He thinks I’d attack my own son!
Ice turned to fire as rage narrowed her vision.
He’s willing to break the oldest Law and kill his own kind. He was no child, himself; the solid mass of his presence told her that. He was old, and as strong as teyhataerth. He could kill her; and unlike teyhataerth, who, even under Rosin’s twisted direction, had never dared cross that line—this one, this Deiq, would.
For the sake of the humans.
She put a hand to the wall behind her and funneled rage through her fingers. Her hand sank into the granite with a soft crackling sound. She wouldn’t break the Law. She wouldn’t kill him. But he was a threat—more of one than Eredion, who had walked past her with no notion of her presence. Deiq needed dealing with, and then she would take her son and get out of this horrible place. Vengeance wasn’t as important as her son’s safety.
She’d go home. She would take her beloved son home, and they’d live in peace at the edge of the Lake, where nobody would dare hurt either of them ever, ever, again.
Withdrawing her hand, she balanced a fist-sized chunk of rock on her palm for a moment, then smiled and started forward.
Chapter Forty-Six
A rainy night, and a windy one, would have been bad enough without having to stand in the vicinity of a graveyard. Idisio leaned against a statue that offered minimal shelter and watched bits of debris fly by, feeling thoroughly sour.
“Couldn’t we have put this off for a night with better damn weather?” he muttered to himself. “Only something insane would even come out in this rain, and what does that say about me?”
Nobody stood close enough to hear him, even with the sharp hearing of a desert lord. The screaming wind and incessant rain drowned any sound beyond a shout. And what would it be doing to the stibik-laced catch-ropes? Nothing good.
“We should try this again in better weather,” he muttered. The rain had put him into a foul mood filled with recollection of slogging through flooded back streets in search of shelter. Even in this deluge, he could see at least three better spots to wait out the storm: but Eredion had been firm, if apologetic about it. Idisio needed to be visible. He tugged his hood down to shield his face and turned a bit more sideways to the gusts. His feet were already soaked and his skin clammy all over. Deiq had tried to teach him how to keep his body warm by willpower alone, but for some reason it hadn’t stuck, or maybe the weather was simply too extreme for that discipline to hold.
Would the desert lords even notice if Idisio simply snuck off to sit in a warm, dry place for a while? Peering through the curtains of rain flooding the streets, Idisio thought, glumly, that they probably would. And then they’d be ferociously annoyed with him for ruining their grand plan. Just like a street-thief, they’d say, and would shake their heads. They wouldn’t take him back into their company, and he’d be out on the street scrabbling for copper bits again—
He shivered under a wave of disorientation. What the hells was he doing out here? I’m a ha’ra’ha, not a street thief. I can do whatever I want. But Deiq seemed to see this as a necessary exercise, and wasn’t calling it humiliating: so Idisio took the cue that he had no right to complain over it. This was—this was—a duty. A responsibility. A worthy reason to be standing out in the cold and wet like a damn idiot, wishing himself anywhere else, tucked up into a nice dry spot and waiting for the rain to break and the marks to come back out on the street, careless in the steamy damp, purses heavy—
“My poor baby,” someone said in his ear.
Idisio yelped, spinning to face the speaker: a person cloaked and hooded against the rain, hunched like an old woman.
“You’re all over cold and wet, baby,” the woman went on, reaching toward him with a bone-thin hand. “Let’s get you in out of the rain.”
Idisio backed away a step, fear shivering along his skin, turning him even colder than the icy weather had managed.
“Uhm, I’m fine,” he said, unable to think of anything else. He shot a quick glance around: where were the desert lords? They weren’t paying much attention, if the tath-shinn could walk up to him like this—and he had no doubt that was what stood before him.
Old women didn’t randomly wander around in tearing thunderstorms and act all motherly to anyone they encountered.
The woman stayed still, swaying in place a little.
“They’ve poisoned you,” she said. Her soft voice, implausibly, cut through the howling wind to reach Idisio’s ears without any distortion. “They’ve made you fear me. I won’t harm you. Come with me, love—Come on, come on, I’ll explain as we go. We have to get out of here. Those men who hurt you are coming back. They’ll find you. They’ll hurt you again. I’ll protect you, but you have to come with me. Come on... Come with me, come, come, with me, this way....”
Her hands moved, beckoning, pulling, drawing at him. The rain around them faded into a vague haze of disorientation. I should yell for help, Idisio thought, a shiver racking up his back, and opened his mouth even as his feet began to move.
“Shhh, love, shhh, the bad men will hear you,” the woman said. She tucked her han
d into the crook of his arm; at the contact, he forgot why he’d had his mouth open in the first place. “You’re safe now, love, you’re safe. I won’t let them hurt you. This way, this way....”
A blissful, warm sense of complete security descended upon him, as though he were a baby being rocked in his mother’s arms. He sighed in relief, nodded, and let her steer him away through the rain.
“My pack,” he said after a while. “I don’t have my pack.” He put a hand to his belt, relieved to find the long Scratha dagger and his belt pouch, at least. But why didn’t he have his pack? And when had it stopped raining—or had it? It seemed as though a misty haze surrounded them; he couldn’t properly focus more than arm’s-reach in any direction.
“That doesn’t matter,” she said, tugging him on without pause. “I’ll provide anything you need, love. There’s nothing in that pack of yours that’s as important as getting away right now. Getting out of this place. Going home.”
“Oh,” Idisio said. “That’s to the south of us. South and east. This way.” He started to turn down a side street; she gripped his arm fiercely and shoved him back on a northeasterly path.
“That’s not your home,” she said. “Your home is Arason.”
Arason. The word sparked a slow-forming connection in his mind. Arason. What did he know about—
There is a lake, a ghosty lake....
“Red,” he said aloud. “He sang about Arason.”
“What?” Her step faltered. She peered at him from under her hood. “Who?”
“A sailor. On the trip to Scratha Fortress. He sang....” Idisio tried to remember enough of the tune and words to sing it himself. It wouldn’t come clear. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a nice song. The one about Dusty Rose was funnier.”
“Who?” Her tone held only bewildered impatience.
“You know, that king who dressed up like a woman and renamed himself after his favorite prostitute—”
“And that’s funny to you? The diseased maunderings of humans are funny to you?”
Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) Page 28