She squinted her eyes shut even harder and tried to listen, focusing on picking out the tiniest details of that rhythm. After a while, something felt as though it shifted in her hindbrain, as though some delicate internal glass bubble had shattered; she hissed in pain, then in triumph as words came clear:
Come...after...I’ll hurt...gods...hear me—and then a soul-wrenching, despairing scream that staggered her back several steps. Even as she put out a hand in blind, useless protest, the entire sentence clarified: Alyea, don’t come after me—I’ll hurt you! Oh, gods, she can’t hear me—
Alyea leaned against a wall, panting as though she’d just run a race. The echoes of Deiq’s desperation racked through her entire body. He’d been in agony himself, unable to escape a well-laid trap; but he’d been trying to reach her, to warn her to stay away so that he wouldn’t—
She thought of the abattoir that had once been her rooms and shuddered.
It does seem very likely that he’s getting his due for some damage he’s caused in the past, Oruen had said. And Eredion hadn’t protested that remark; had, later, when describing the damage at Peysimun Mansion, said, unemotionally: signs of a fight, and left it at that.
Alyea stared down the battered hallway and said aloud, “Why the hells am I rescuing him? He’s—”
She stopped, hearing in her voice an echo of her mother: He’s a monster! You don’t need him—You have the king interested in you; how could you possibly want something like him?
Against that came Eredion’s cold advice: Deiq is the most powerful ally your Family has at the moment. Following that came more sharp memories: Deiq sprawled asleep, limp and vulnerable, on a couch in her palace suite; on his knees in front of her, hands out to push her away, begging her to leave. The astonished expression on his face when he’d woken to find her unhurt.
Don’t call it love, Eredion had warned. Don’t ever call it love. But he cares....
Alyea drew a deep, shaky breath. “I’m being a fucking idiot,” she muttered, then let out a sharp bark of laughter, recognizing Tank’s sour influence in that statement.
The moment cleared her mind: she had a responsibility, as a desert lord, that her mother would never understand. Whatever sort of monster Deiq was at core, still he was ha’ra’hain, and her mentor. He’d rescued her; she would rescue him.
Afterwards...could be thought about when the time came. Right now wasn’t the time for thinking, but for acting: for moving.
She broke into a jog as she headed for the storerooms to pick up supplies.
Chapter Eighteen
After what could have been eternity or five human minutes, the red-laced darkness began to lift, and Deiq startled back to the now, feeling dangerously muddled and hazed, defenseless and limp, just as his first Shared had been.
Monster...murderer...damned creature...Humans had called him so many things over the years...They didn’t deserve his support, didn’t deserve his mercy, didn’t deserve his compassion...They would kill him, given the chance...He had to kill them first...It was self-preservation, self-defense, perfectly justified....
Someone made an odd shushing sound, and water drenched over him, icy cold, bucket after bucket. He screamed, every nerve ending in his entire body writhing in agony, instinct demanding that he attack the source of the freezing bath, but discovered he couldn’t move at all. He stood upright, his body supported on what felt like a metal frame, his arms stretched out behind him and pinned motionless by a force his already-exhausted muscles couldn’t overcome. His legs felt bound at thigh and ankle, his head held still by a metal band across his forehead.
That shushing noise came again, and the water assault ceased.
“Ha’ra’ha,” someone said nearby. “Ha’ra’ha, you listen.”
Deiq blinked water-filled eyes and spat in the direction of the voice. Someone laughed from a distance.
“He’s still himself,” someone remarked.
“Good. I want him sane.”
Deiq knew that voice. He blinked again, harder; felt a soft cloth wipe his face dry, and opened his eyes to find Lord Evkit staring him in the face from considerably less than arm’s reach.
Deiq’s whole body went into a spontaneous convulsion of rage. The frame rocked a little, drawing cries of alarm from several teyanain around the room. Lord Evkit didn’t move.
“You stop, ha’ra’ha,” he said severely. “I save your life. You stop now.”
Deiq threw everything he had into wrenching free. The frame shook; he thought it might be giving way. He swore, loudly, as he fought: “You godsdamned ta-karne, you little rotworm, you sessii ta-karne, I shha, you—”
Evkit climbed down from his stool and retreated a few steps, grimacing. More icy water drenched Deiq from head to foot.
“You stop,” Evkit shouted between each bucketful, repeating it with inflexible determination. “You stop, ha’ra’ha!”
At last, chilled and trembling, Deiq slumped against the restraints. He felt his eyes roll back in his head, and darkness swamped over him as a welcome relief.
Chapter Nineteen
As always when he left the company of important people, Tank had a strong desire for a bath; this time it was more justified than usual. He took a side street to one of the safer public houses, handed over a gold half-round for a private bathing room with as much hot water, soap, and time as he liked, and spent over an hour soaking and scrubbing.
Dasin had a sensitive nose for scent, and Tank really wasn’t in the mood for a fight.
The hot water eased his tension along with his muscles. The privacy of the room—more precious to him than ten gold rounds—gave him room to think about what had just happened, and to sort through likely consequences as his raw emotions settled.
He descended slowly into a clear internal stillness, a sensation of peace and calm that he rarely attained. Bizarre as the entire day so far had been, he’d emerged feeling more whole, as though a small part of him had healed, a small part of his perpetual, carefully hidden rage soothed to silence.
If that’s what taking a desert lord to bed does to me, Allonin would tell me that I ought to run back there and beg to stay...But he didn’t really want that. He wasn’t ready to give up his mountain of anger. And the notion of begging anyone for anything, ever again, made his teeth grind and his stomach swirl.
I’ll be fine. As long as I can stay clear of their damned games, I’ll be fine.
Tank remembered a girl, not so very long ago, telling him: Desert families tend to use their people. Use them all up and spit them out when they’ve got nothing left. He hadn’t understood at the time, hadn’t agreed; but since then the statement had proved true.
He wondered if he’d ever get the chance to thank Balby. That warning had been part of what opened his eyes to the truth behind Aerthraim Family’s `kindness’ in rescuing him. And Balby’s own, much truer kindness had taken away the first chunk of his deep rage, allowing him to see his situation much more clearly, and gave him the strength to walk away.
She was one of many things he couldn’t—wouldn’t—talk to Dasin about. Dasin hadn’t treated Balby well at all, and would definitely be outraged to know that she’d turned her favor on Tank, however briefly. Allonin didn’t even know about Tank’s encounter with Balby, and hopefully never would.
Tank leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, brooding. As always when his thoughts turned to his former mentor, he felt a powerful mixture of irritation and pain. He’d believed. He’d trusted. And been, inevitably, betrayed for the sake of a larger picture.
He’d walked away in one piece at the end: reluctantly, he admitted to himself that Allonin had allowed him to walk away, almost certainly against the mahadrae’s orders. Was Allonin paying the price for disobedience even now? Had he been banished from Aerthraim Fortress to wait out the mahadrae’s displeasure? Tank didn’t think Allonin would mind that much, somehow: which meant that the mahadrae, no fool, probably hadn’t gone that route.
Deiq,
a scant handful of days before, could have had Tank returned to the Aerthraim Fortress; that would have netted him a strong chance of alliance with the austere Family, a prize well worth hunting after. But Deiq had made no protest; he’d even encouraged Tank to leave.
Which could have had something to do with Alyea....
Tank sighed and scrunched his eyes shut. Thinking of Alyea reminded him that Eredion and Alyea had themselves let him walk away, just now. They could have used his help; Eredion’s exasperation would have been obvious to a blind man. But Tank wouldn’t go south again, not for any money or prize.
Still, he’d been lucky to avoid being forced back into the southlands again. He knew it, and the knowledge made his precious freedom feel vaguely sour. Luck didn’t last forever. At some point, perhaps even the very next time he let himself be dragged into the affairs of the important, he’d have much more trouble getting back out to the simple, mercenary life he craved.
I didn’t ask for any of this. That was a child’s whine: Unfair! he wanted to shriek. On the heels of that impulse followed the familiar simmering rage. He sighed, shaking aside old memories along with the now-tepid water as he rose from the tub. No point being maudlin or—as Teilo had accused—childish. Done was done, and tomorrow was what needed to be looked at, not yesterday.
He tucked the rage away in its well-worn corner as he dried off and dressed. By the time he stepped back out to the street, it had subsided to the usual thin, dark coiling in the back of his mind, like an invisible whip that wouldn’t quite hold still.
The sun had long since set by the time Tank, bathed and with a full meal in his stomach, returned to the Copper Kettle, where he and Dasin shared a room.
But: “He’s gone,” the innkeeper at the Copper Kettle said as Tank entered, squinting, an oddly amused look in his eye. “Left you a note, though.”
He reached under the counter and produced a folded-over sheet of scrap parchment. After handing it to Tank, he rested his elbows on the counter, propped his chin on his hands, and smirked.
Tank looked at the smudges the man’s dirty fingers had left on the outside of the note, flipped it open and saw the same marks inside. Dasin left it unsealed on purpose, he thought resignedly after scanning the short message.
“Thanks,” he said aloud, and put a half-silver on the counter. “For tonight.”
The innkeeper hesitated, eyes on the coin, then shook his head. “He paid through the next five days for you,” he said. “Even meals.” The smirk returned, insinuation heavy in the stare.
Tank retrieved the coin without comment and turned away before he put a fist into the innkeeper’s face. Thanks, Dasin, he thought bitterly as he headed to what had been their room.
Once safely behind a locked door, candles casting their light in small pools around the room, he sat on the one wobbly chair and tossed the note on the small table with a disgusted grunt. It fell open to lay almost flat, and he couldn’t help reading it again:
Tank—Looks like we’re parting ways. Turns out Raffin can give me more of what I need.—D.
“Damnit, Dasin,” Tank said aloud, and rose to pace the room restlessly.
He could get another contract easily enough through the Hall, even one that paid better than the share of profits Dasin had planned to offer. But Dasin, for all his bluster, wasn’t ready to handle Yuer on his own. Yuer liked to play games, to twist people into doing what he wanted without their realizing it. For all that Dasin was a sharp merchant, he displayed remarkably little common sense in some situations, and Yuer would quickly have him crawling to order.
And that wasn’t even a drop in the ocean to what Raffin would likely have Dasin doing....
Tank said out loud, “It’s not my problem. He made his choice.”
The sound of his own voice made him grimace ruefully. Now I’m talking to myself...Alyea would be going after him. The second thought seemed to come out of nowhere. He turned around, scanning the room to see if someone else had appeared behind him, but the room remained empty but for the sound of his increasingly harsh breathing.
“Alyea’s a raving romantic innocent,” Tank muttered under his breath, feeling defensive.
But she wouldn’t abandon her friends. Dasin needs you, and you know it.
“He’s got the right to do what he wants. We had no hire contract.”
He’s angry and hurt that you walked off on him. Raffin and Yuer between them will be able to talk Dasin into doing anything if you’re not there. He’ll be carrying and selling dasta in no time, and anything else Yuer wants to peddle. Or anyone....
Tank shut his eyes and shook his head hard. “Stop that,” he muttered, dizzy with disorientation, and listened to the silence with vast relief.
He just needed some sleep. He’d feel better after some sleep...and then he’d get up and go find another contract. Maybe take ship to the northern city of Kismo, see how his luck held there. Any route that would keep him from crossing paths with Dasin.
As he blew out the candles and settled into bed, he ignored the tiny, nagging voice in the back of his head that insisted leaving Dasin in Raffin’s company would be a dreadful mistake.
Just after the Palace Bells struck the midnight hour, he got up, fumbling in the darkness; lit the thickest candle on the table, then stood in the middle of the room, staring at the flame with a sense of aggrieved despair.
“Gods damn you, Dasin,” he muttered at last, and reached for his clothes and pack.
Of course Dasin had given Raffin Tank’s horse; and of course there weren’t any other horses available for purchase in the middle of the night.
The stable boy was grumpy enough over being roused from his sleep that Tank gave him a half-silver to avoid future problems: not so many stables in Bright Bay, and fewer that catered to odd hours.
The silver brightened the boy’s sour mood enough for him to offer, “Nothing for sale here, s’e, but I hear as there’s a place over the edge of town keeps odd hours like this, has people in and out on horses all times of day and night. Might be your gold’ll be welcome there.”
He tossed the silver half-coin into the air and caught it, as though to emphasize the color. Tank shook his head, not sure whether he should feel amused or annoyed, and said as lightly as he could, “I’m out of that color. Hope they take lesser, or labor in trade.”
“Huh,” the stable boy said, shrugging, and turned away with a dismissive flick of one hand.
“Where is this place?” Tank asked. Edge of town meant nothing in a city this vast.
The boy stopped, looked over his shoulder, and said archly, “I’m out of that information.”
Tank grunted resignedly and dug into his belt pouch.
“Amazing. You can turn silver into gold. Ought to send you off to study with the Aerthraim. Western edge of town, big white shell-brick wall around it. Used to be old Lady Arnil’s place—”
—blue and white curtains fluttering, blood streaking her arms, and that smile, that detached, dead expression that said: you’re mine—
Oh, gods, that’s where they took Alyea, that’s where—nausea surged into his throat, barely swallowed back in time. The memories were all too clear.
“I know where that is,” Tank said hoarsely. “I think it’s empty these days.” Had to be. They’d rescued Alyea from there; Deiq wouldn’t have left anyone alive in the process, if he could go by Alyea’s understanding of the situation. “Your information’s out of date.”
“Since yesterday?” the stable boy said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I can’t be faulted for being a day late—Hey! Where are you going?”
Chapter Twenty
Night brought with it agonizing memories and a flood of self-recriminations. Eredion hadn’t slept a solid sunset to sunrise in over ten years. It made him feel old, and worn-out at a bone-deep level; and since the death of Ninnic’s child, his reserves of energy had been steadily failing.
If he returned to Sessin Fortress now, he could probably regain his vigor and
strength in short order. But he’d worked so hard to bring sanity back to this city, and so much still needed to be done.
He sat in one of the small palace gardens, looking up at the stars and a half-moon, and watched the scudding clouds signal more rain by morning. A chill wind shivered through the plants and bushes around him, many damaged by the recent erratic weather changes. The rattling, slithery sound of yellowing and brittle leaves slapping together reminded him of another matter he needed to take up with Oruen at some point soon.
The weather was likely to get much worse before long, and he had no idea how to explain that without going into far too much detail about issues not meant for northern ears, even those of a king.
Maybe he should have let Scratha’s letters get through after all...let the blame fall there, and telabat-nia-tabalet, as the southern saying went; play the game already on the table. But having diverted the messages once meant he’d had to divert them all; and there was no way to explain that deception to Oruen without landing in more trouble than Scratha already had hanging over his head.
“Lord Sessin?” a servant called from the arched entry to the palace proper. “Are you there, Lord Sessin?” His voice had the hopeless resignation of having called this question out multiple times already without any response.
Eredion hauled himself to his feet with a grunt.
“Yes,” he called back. “What is it?”
“A visitor for you, Lord Sessin,” the servant said, clearly relieved. “Waiting in the blue meeting room. I didn’t think it right to allow him through to your rooms in the middle of the night, even though he said that’s what you would want—”
“Who is it?” Eredion said sharply.
“He gave his name as Tank.”
Eredion stood still for a moment, blinking at the vague, starlit silhouette of the servant waiting for an answer. He thought about Wian, fast asleep in their once-more thoroughly rumpled bed, then said, “You did right. Take me to him.”
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 13