Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4)

by Leona Wisoker

  Tank grinned, letting some extra tooth into the expression. Raffin returned it in kind.

  “Leave Dasin alone,” Tank said abruptly. “That’s all I’m after, Raffin. He’s smart enough to be a damn good merchant, but he rattles easy. Let me handle him. I know how to keep him—balanced. That’s why Yuer hired us as a team.”

  He didn’t bother explaining why Dasin was acting so cow-eyed. He had a feeling Raffin understood just fine, and didn’t particularly object; but Tank damn well objected, for a number of reasons, and Raffin needed to be warned off before the situation got out of hand.

  Raffin stared, his grin fading into a thoughtful expression.

  “You’re lead,” Tank said. “No argument. But leave Dasin alone, that’s all.”

  “Huh,” Raffin said after a moment. He turned on his heel and walked unhurriedly away from Tank; and away from the Copper Kettle.

  Tank let out a long breath, hoping he hadn’t just blown the whole thing to all the hells, and went back into the taproom.

  The merchants’ quarter of Bright Bay sprawled haphazardly across the western side of the city, interspersed with inns, taverns, cookhouses, and brothels. An open-air corridor ran in an erratic line down the center of the quarter; a bizarre assortment of oilcloth and waterproof cloths had been hooked together overhead to protect the stalls from the intermittent rain.

  Even on such a grey, rainy day, the market was crowded. Tank kept an eye out for the inevitable thieves working the crowd; trusted instinct and lightly steered Dasin clear of areas that felt wrong. Glancing back, more than once he found a narrow-eyed stare following them, filled with sharp calculation and reassessment. On seeing Tank’s own stare, the watcher faded immediately back into the crowd.

  After a few such incidents, a bevy of seagulls grackled around them, far too low to the ground to be realistic, even in this damp weather. Tank let out a long breath and relaxed a little.

  Dasin, oblivious, said, “There’s the garden area. We’ll start with the vendors for fresh plants. Best to have a supplier that works from fresh, instead of shipping dry from place to place.”

  Tank made no argument. It wasn’t his area of expertise, and he suspected Dasin was trying to reassure himself as much as explain his reasoning to Tank.

  Broad boards laid over sawhorses supported a bewildering array of plants: tall, short, spiky, fuzzy; cacti and succulents, feathery, ferny, flowering, spiny—every possible variation. Tank slowed to examine a few, curious. While Teilo had taught him a good bit of herb-lore, he was more accustomed to working with the dried or powdered forms. Fresh hadn’t come along often, except for ravann—a southern variant of lavender with some unique properties.

  An odd shiver ran across his shoulders, and he turned fast to find—nothing: but a peculiar nothing. People went about their business, examining a plant for bugs, speaking to a companion, exchanging coin for a purchase. Nothing seemed out of place. And yet...there was a presence that shouldn’t be here, a tickling sense of being watched that chilled Tank like an ice-water bath.

  “Tank,” Dasin said sharply from near at hand.

  Tank turned back to find Dasin staring at him with a deep, almost petulant frown. “Sorry. What?”

  “You haven’t heard a word, have you? I thought you were right behind me.” Dasin didn’t give Tank a chance to answer. “Over here—” He motioned impatiently, leading the way to a paying-table behind which stood a tall, lean man.

  The vendor’s blue-grey eyes watched their approach with keen interest. He was stooped from something other than age, long blond hair tied in a series of thin braids as a southerner might have done. A tattoo of a chain, links a bright mixture of orange and blue shades, wound from his left wrist around his wiry arm, disappearing under the loose sleeve of his grey shirt.

  “Merchant Lohim,” Dasin said, his irritation smoothing into politeness, “may I present one of my mercenary guards, Tank. He’ll be primarily responsible for the safety of my caravan.”

  Tank bit his lower lip, trying to think of how to get out of that misstatement without publicly embarrassing Dasin.

  Lohim rubbed his nose with a knuckle, his sharp gaze taking them both in. “What d’you know about transporting plants, then?” he inquired, doubt strong in his voice. “Mind you, it’s no hair off my neck if’n you lose the whole load, but I’m not inclined to cut prices for someone who won’t be back.”

  “Nothing at all,” Dasin admitted. “I was hoping to carry seeds and dry, not live plants.”

  “Tuh.” Lohim pursed his lips. “I’ve already got a carrier for that. What makes you think you’re a better deal for me?”

  The odd sense of presence returned, itching along Tank’s back. He found himself turning to scan the crowd around them, and missed Dasin’s reply. Still nothing. But the peculiar feeling was stronger this time, as though he’d almost seen something important—

  “Tank,” Dasin hissed a moment later, yanking at his sleeve sharply. Tank shook his head and returned to the negotiations. Lohim seemed more inclined to listen now, so Dasin had more than likely thrown Yuer’s name on the pile.

  “Through Sandsplit?” Lohim said, frowning and rattling his fingers on the board in front of him. “Mmnnhh. I’ve got a bit extra, something my other carrier didn’t have room for. I can let you have that for a discount—”

  “Tanavin,” someone said in Tank’s ear.

  Tank whipped around, one hand reaching for the sword he’d left behind at the Copper Kettle; even peace-bound, he’d been told, weaponry was frowned on in the market. He wished he’d risked the frowns, on seeing who stood behind him.

  Lord Eredion Sessin stood well out of arm’s reach, his arms folded together. He didn’t flinch at Tank’s quick startle.

  “No harm,” he said; and while his lips barely moved, the words seemed to emerge just by Tank’s ear.

  Tank planted his feet steady and glared, unwilling to back up.

  “Need to talk to you,” the Sessin lord said, again pitching his voice to land on Tank’s shoulder. “Have a moment?”

  Tank glanced at Dasin. The blond was deep in conversation with Lohim, and hadn’t even noticed Tank’s sudden movement.

  “One,” he said grudgingly, coming forward a few steps.

  “Something of a crisis going on,” Eredion said, his dark stare steady.

  Tank stood still, watching the lines shift on Eredion’s face. “Alyea?”

  “Not this time. But it’s just as serious.”

  “So?”

  “Need your help.”

  Tank started to shake his head. Eredion’s face tightened.

  “It’s only going to take an hour of your time, and then you can go back to your ordinary life. I’ll explain on the way—”

  “Can’t help you,” Tank said stubbornly, crossing his arms and lowering his head. The prospect of enduring someone else’s hell-memories, bringing them back from an abyss of pain, did not appeal in the least; and what else could Eredion be asking for? He’d done it once, through pure accident. Not likely he could repeat that, even if he wanted to. “I’m just a mercenary—”

  Eredion’s tight expression turned ferocious. “Damnit, Tank—please! I need your help.”

  A hard chill ran down Tank’s back, that peculiar feeling returning. Something very bad was going on.

  “Damnit yourself,” he returned harshly. “I don’t want any part of your problems, Lord Eredion. I’m just a mercenary. I don’t see how I can help—”

  “Damnit, don’t be dense,” Eredion snapped.

  Dasin, alerted by the rising volume, finally looked up from his haggling. An alarmed expression flitted over his face. “Tank?” he called.

  Tank shrugged, still avoiding Eredion’s eyes, and firmly turned his back on the angry desert lord, moving to rejoin Dasin.

  “It’s nothing,” he muttered to Dasin, and jerked his chin at Lohim in vague apology.

  The merchant’s gaze tracked over Tank’s shoulder. A moment later, Eredion
breathed nearby.

  “S’e Dasin, I believe?” Eredion murmured, bowing to the startled blond. “I understand you’re a merchant for herbs and simples. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, s’e, that’s correct; how may I....” Dasin’s eager smile and easy speech wilted into worried silence when he caught Tank’s ferocious scowl.

  Eredion’s smile widened. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lord Eredion Sessin, the Sessin Family representative to the northern court.”

  Oh, hells...Tank saw greed awaken swiftly in Dasin’s eyes, and sharp interest in Lohim’s.

  “I try to make the acquaintance of local merchants whenever I can,” Eredion went on. “I find it pays off very well down the road, so to speak. Sessin can always use more business allies.”

  “We already have a sponsor, Lord Eredion,” Tank said curtly.

  “Yes, of course. I do know that. I’m not trying to entice you over to my service; I have my hands full already with the duties I’ve taken on. I don’t need to add merchanting to that list. I am, however, very interested in good food, and good food generally involves good herbs. I believe I could offer you a list of Sessin-based farmers who would be more than happy to work with you.”

  He glanced over the plants on Lohim’s tables and managed to look dismissive, then turned a smile on Dasin. It was a powerfully charming expression; Dasin’s face took on a hopeful, almost childish glow. Lohim’s eyes narrowed into a scowl.

  “We could certainly discuss that, Lord Eredion,” Dasin said, clearly trying to contain his excitement. He completely ignored Tank’s glower, but did cut a nervous glance at Lohim. “Is there a, err, better place you might have in mind for negotiations?”

  “The palace,” Eredion said as if the answer should have been obvious, and Dasin almost hopped in place, his eyes glittering. “I’ll make sure the guards have your names—”

  “No,” Tank interrupted, unable to take it a moment longer.

  “Tank!” Dasin snapped, “don’t interf—”

  “Shut up, Dasin,” Tank said brutally. “Fine, Lord Sessin, I’ll come with you. If you drop this godsdamned farce of an offer.”

  “It’s not a farce,” Eredion protested mildly, but his eyes gleamed with laughter. “Why would you think that?”

  “I’ll meet you at the Kettle later,” Tank told Dasin, and then, to Eredion, “Let’s go, Lord Sessin, if you please.”

  “Tank!” Dasin almost wailed as the two men began to walk away. “What in the hells are you—”

  Tank ignored him. Eredion ignored him.

  Distantly, more a sensed whisper than real hearing, Dasin muttered, “You fucking shit.”

  Tank ignored that, too.

  Chapter Eight

  Tanavin’s irritation was a tangible, sullen heat against Eredion’s right side as they hurried through the damp streets. Eredion ignored it and kept the pace rapid enough to discourage questions, but when they neared the Seventeen Gates, Tanavin caught at his sleeve and said, “Wait. I want answers. Where, exactly, are we going?”

  “Peysimun Mansion,” Eredion said, allowing the boy to pull him to a stop.

  Tanavin’s face whitened. “Oh, hells no,” he said, and began backing away. “You can shove that to the—”

  “Alyea’s not there,” Eredion said hastily. “And won’t be there. And doesn’t even remember you.”

  Tanavin wavered and halted his retreat, the sullen expression returning. “What do you need my help with there?” he demanded.

  Aware that the gate guards were watching them with narrowed eyes, Eredion grabbed Tanavin’s arm and propelled him into motion again.

  “I’ll tell you as we go,” he said. “There isn’t time—”

  Tanavin dug in his heels and dragged them both to a jarring halt. “Nuh-uh. I’m not going for that. You tell me now or I don’t move another step.”

  The guards shifted uneasily, less than a stone’s throw away, their expressions filling with alert suspicion. Eredion released Tanavin’s arm abruptly and said, “Deiq’s in trouble.”

  “And you need me?” Tanavin pinched the bridge of his nose hard, his eyes squeezed shut. “Same as Lord Alyea?”

  “Possibly worse,” Eredion said without offering details, and waited to see if the boy would sense the deception in that answer. There was no possibly about the matter, and no real guarantee Tanavin would survive the encounter, his previous history aside.

  Luck only went so far.

  Tanavin stood very still for a moment, then dropped his hand and gave Eredion a bleak stare.

  “Once,” he said. “This once. And you leave me the hells alone after this. No matter what. All of you bastards. No dangling hot contracts in front of Dasin, no playing games to hook either of us into your schemes. I’m a mercenary. He’s a merchant. And that’s all we are. Deal?”

  “Would you trust my word if I agreed?” Eredion asked, keeping his tone cool and his face expressionless.

  “Yes, Lord Eredion,” Tanavin said after a moment, “because if you break it, I’ll find a way to break you.”

  They locked stares for a long, taut moment, then the desert lord said, “I can only speak for myself. But I agree to your terms.”

  “Do you believe me?” Tanavin demanded.

  “Yes.”

  The redhead squinted, as though trying to examine the inside of Eredion’s skull, for a few more moments; then, apparently satisfied, bobbed his head in a sharp nod and headed for the gate.

  Oh, hells yes, Eredion thought as he followed, waving the guards to let the boy through ahead of him, I’m far more aware of what you can do than you are, Tanavin Aerthraim. And let’s both hope it stays that way.

  The guards were gone, the gates to Peysimun Mansion open. Four steps across the courtyard, Eredion knew what lay beyond would be ugly. From the amount of white showing around Tanavin’s eyes, he felt the thick stain in the air, although he likely didn’t understand it for what it was: the residual rage of a completely berserk ha’ra’ha.

  Eredion looked to the left, towards the servant’s entrance. Blood smeared the damp stones, but no bodies or even any arrows from the initial attack had been left behind: another bad sign. Only professionals cleaned up behind themselves so thoroughly. Deiq certainly wouldn’t have done so, whatever his state of sanity at the time.

  His failure to return took on an increasingly ominous cast in Eredion’s mind.

  As they approached the stairs to the front entrance, Tanavin made a faint, protesting noise in the back of his throat. Eredion glanced at him and saw the boy’s freckles standing out in sharp relief.

  “I don’t think—I can help with this,” Tanavin almost whispered. “Whatever—this—is.” He blinked rapidly.

  Eredion just shook his head and motioned the boy to follow. Words stuck in his throat, and he found himself wondering if Tanavin would, after all, turn and bolt out the gates. The scrape of booted feet on the stairs behind him came as a mixed relief.

  The front doors had been left ajar. He pushed them the rest of the way open, wincing as an all-too-familiar smell hit him. Tanavin gagged briefly.

  “Damnit,” Eredion said, not needing to take another step to know the answer to his primary question. “He’s gone.”

  Tanavin pushed past and went forward with long, hard strides, shoulders lowered bullishly. Eredion thought about calling him back, then shook his head and followed more slowly, taking in the chaos spread throughout the mansion with a cold eye.

  He found Tanavin standing at the entrance to a hallway as though unable to move another step. The boy’s head was flung back, eyes shut, hands fisted and shaking from strain. Eredion glanced at what lay beyond and swore aloud: a familiar white powder coated seemingly everything, and the wreckage was comprehensive, to say nothing of the blood splashed around like water at a blessing-ceremony.

  Eredion grabbed hold of Tanavin’s taut arm and yanked him bodily away from the scene. The boy offered no resistance, breath wheezing in his chest.

&n
bsp; As they emerged into the cleansing, chill drizzle outside, he seemed to recover some sense. “Where—where—” he stuttered.

  “To get warm. And dry. And a stiff damn drink,” Eredion said brusquely.

  Tanavin bobbed his head and followed without any argument at all.

  Chapter Nine

  Sitting still had never been easy for Alyea. At the moment, it proved impossible. She prowled through Eredion’s suite restlessly, at first nervous of encountering Wian; but after repeated calls for her former servant yielded only silence, she moved more confidently through the rooms.

  Eredion seemed inclined to little in the way of decoration. The furniture was basic: chairs and a waist-high table for northern visitors; low tables, kneeling chairs and floor cushions for southerners. Heavy white drapes on the eastern and southern windows blocked the day’s chill and turned the grey light from outside diffuse. Thick carpets in shades of grey and green padded the floor throughout the suite.

  Where Alyea had chosen multiple long couches for her sun room, Eredion had three overstuffed chairs, but only one showed signs of regular use. In his small study, the blackwood desk was heavily worn and scratched, and the sturdy desk chair fabric had begun to fray through, showing tufts of a yellowish stuffing: possibly horsehair or a similar material.

  She sat down after a momentary hesitation and began going through the desk drawers.

  One drawer was securely locked but offered no visible keyhole. She peered at it a while, trying to sort out how to unlatch it, and eventually gave up. The first open drawer proved uninteresting: a collection of pen nibs and shafts, ink jars, parchment, wax, and other writing supplies. The second held an odd collection of pebbles, shells, minor gemstones and bits of damaged jewelry, including one half of a broken amber and silver brooch that looked vaguely familiar for some reason.

  A deeper drawer held two heavy books. Alyea lifted them out and whistled under her breath at the titles: Sessin Book of Blood/Yi Ta Sessin/y. Res i Ninnic and Northern Book of Blood/Yi Ta N’hen/y. Res i Ninnic.