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

by Leona Wisoker

  The patrol slowed as they neared, the leader studying Tank with a sharply dubious expression. Tank held out his arm and shook it, displaying the bracelet. It glittered and clicked in the thin moonlight and wavering torchlight. The guard leader nodded, motioned his men to pick up the pace again, and swept on by without another glance.

  Didn’t even ask if I’d stolen it, Tank mused, watching the white-robed guards march past, their torches quickly diminishing to twinkling flares of bobbing light. Trusting, aren’t they?

  Brooding, he went on towards the East Gate, thinking about the reflexive courtesy given to desert lords and their servants. He knew enough about the southern bead languages to know that the bracelet Eredion had given him marked him as a Sessin servant. He doubted the guards knew that, or could even properly see what the bracelet looked like in the uncertain torchlight.

  They’d reacted to his assurance, to the gesture, not to the actual bracelet. A good con artist could have slipped by without question. Tank had expected more awareness from the guards inside the Seventeen Gates, but apparently they were just as stupid as the ones walking the lower streets of Bright Bay.

  Thinking of con artists put him in mind of Idisio, and he wondered if anyone had ever gone to help the former thief with his insane mother. Eredion had assured him that it was being handled, but after his recent encounters with the Sessin lord, Tank wasn’t at all sure the man ever told the truth for two sentences in a row.

  Maybe I should have stayed and helped Idisio myself, he thought, then yawned. The walk to the Copper Kettle suddenly seemed like an infinite distance, and his legs really hurt. Reluctantly, he decided to take a room at the next inn he passed, although the doubtless high price would eat sharply into his precious savings.

  Even when I do catch up with Dasin, there’s no guarantee of a job, he thought, increasingly depressed. Dasin was as temperamental as the recent weather; it seemed entirely possible that Tank would arrive only to be told to go away. And if that happened, Tank would be stuck without ten bits to put together, damn near in the middle of the Coast Road, hoping for another contract to magically appear.

  Lost in brooding, he barely noticed when he limped through the East Gate; another sharp spike of pain from his right leg shook him back to the moment. He stopped walking and looked around. To his left stood Emris Chandler’s, where he and Dasin picked up most of their candle and lantern supplies. To his right was Styn’s Bookbinding, where Dasin bought his accounting ledgers. Three buildings ahead, a lantern on a hook lit a sign beneath: Basil’s Inn House. On the ground under sign and lantern sat a large pot, green and purple basil battling it out for space within.

  Tank stared, bemused. He remembered that building as Fern’s Inn, and the pot had held a huge jungle fern last time he’d passed by. After a moment, he headed for the renamed inn, hoping that the prices hadn’t gone up even further with the change of name.

  Before he made four steps, the door opened and a tall man stepped out, cloaked and hooded against the night chill. Something in the man’s stance and movement stopped Tank on the spot. He dodged back into shadow reflexively, his throat tight with sudden panic even as he told himself he was being an idiot.

  The tall man stood still, head tilted as though listening intently. Tank held his breath and flattened himself against the side of the bookbinder’s shop, knowing only that he did not want this man to discover his presence.

  After a long moment, the stranger shook his head and let out a heavy sigh, as though disappointed about something. The sound was tantalizingly familiar, but how different could a sigh sound from person to person? There was still no rational reason for Tank to think he knew this man.

  The man took a step away from the door, two more, then paused again, looking up at the stars as though for guidance. The hood shifted back a bit, enough for the hanging lantern to highlight an aquiline profile and desert-bronze skin. Tank froze, his heart tripping into a hearty staccato beat.

  Allonin. No mistake, no more denying recognition; a moment later the man whipped round and stared directly into the shadows where Tank stood.

  “Tanavin?” he said, barely audible.

  Tank remained locked in place for another heartbeat, terror filling his mind: he’d been thinking about Allonin not long before. Had that drawn his former mentor here? Had his encounter with Alyea given him that much power?

  No. I won’t be that. I won’t!

  Fear swamped through him, blocking out everything except needing to get away. With a hard, sobbing gasp, he spun and fled west.

  “Tanavin!” Allonin bellowed, his voice echoing off the buildings. “Wait!”

  The rest of the man’s words muddied into echoes, distorted by fear and an overlay of memories of the last time he’d run from Allonin.

  The sky was clear and filled with bright stars. He ran through the streets of Bright Bay, nothing in his mind but fear and despair, not caring where he wound up. Somehow he bypassed the guards at the southern gate and made it into the city proper, alone—and unprotected.

  Whispers slowly permeated his mind as he ran, a susurrus of tugging, leading him, calling him; in a fit of renewed rage he made himself turn left instead of right and right instead of left, refusing to follow any direction the whispers advised.

  At some point, his legs simply gave out from under him; he felt himself falling, sprawling, crawling—and then darkness dragged him away from awareness.

  Footsteps behind him; Tank yipped under his breath and dodged abruptly around a corner, hoping to shake Allonin—not sure why, but certain that bad things were about to happen—bad things had happened last time—

  Something whispered. Tanavin woke, screaming, and thrashed against the hand that landed across his mouth to muffle the sound.

  “Will you shut up,” someone hissed in his ear. “You’ll get us all killed!”

  “Ought to just kill him ourselves,” another voice muttered.

  He jerked out of memory back to the now: legs hot with pain, tears running down his face, his breath gasping and staggering in his chest.

  “Tanavin! Stop!” The voice bounced from the buildings; Allonin didn’t care who heard their passing. Tank ducked down a short alley and scrambled over a low wall into the next street over. Memory hazed vision into a confusion of colors—

  “What’s your name? Or do we just call you Red?”

  “No,” he said, unsticking dry mouth and tongue to force out the word. Little Red: that’s what he’d been called back at that place. “Not Red. No.”

  “Gods,” someone said, “you look like you’re coming off a four day tank. What the hells happened to you?”

  “Tank?” he said, confused.

  “Hey, I like that name. Tank. Yeah, that’s what we’ll call you.”

  Tank’s legs gave out from under him, spilling him ass over elbows across the cobblestones. The fall shook him firmly out of memory-haze into the moment; he rolled to fetch up against the nearest wall and lay still, gasping like a landed fish. His legs ached as though a thousand knives were busily slicing every muscle and tendon apart. He wasn’t at all sure he could stand, let alone crawl.

  “Tanavin,” Allonin said, tone despairing, from close at hand. His steps were slow, as though he’d lost heart for the chase. Dropping his voice further, he muttered, “Damnit, he’s still faster than—” A sharp pause, then a quickened step. “Tanavin?”

  The tall man loomed over Tank, then knelt.

  “You’re hurt. Where?”

  “Legs.” It felt like a crushing defeat to speak, let alone admit pain.

  “Fool,” Allonin said after a moment’s swift examination. “And you’ve gotten too big for me to lift any more. Get up. I’ll help you back to my room. Why did you run in the first place?”

  Gritting his teeth against crying out, Tank let his former mentor help him to his feet. “I don’t—”

  Something moved in the shadowy dark nearby; no farther away, and from other directions, came a slight scuff, a polite
cough.

  “Good evening,” a quiet voice said.

  Tank blinked, balancing his weight on the leg that hurt the least, and shut his eyes. Beside him, Allonin’s breathing was steady.

  “I have no purse worth the taking,” Allonin said. His low voice carried in the silent darkness. “I have no jewelry or valuables worth the taking. Neither does my companion.”

  “We’ll judge that,” the voice said. “Strip.”

  Tank heard the faintest sigh from Allonin; then a series of strange scruffling sounds erupted in the darkness around them. Moments later came a volley of panicked yelps, then the sound of running feet, rapidly fading away.

  “I find myself possessed of less and less patience,” Allonin muttered, “as I grow older.”

  Tank’s chest felt frozen with horrified dread. Allonin hadn’t moved so much as a pace; his hands, steadying Tank, hadn’t so much as twitched. “What the hells did you just do?”

  “I redirected his own command to himself and his followers,” Allonin said, unruffled. “Their clothes are scattered all over the pavement, if you’d care to search through them. I’m guessing all they have to offer is lice, though.”

  “No,” Tank said. “I didn’t know you could...do that. Are you a—?” He couldn’t say it aloud.

  “No,” Allonin said. “I’m not a desert lord. It’s complicated.” He snorted, a self-deprecating sound. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it another day.”

  They limped back to Basil’s Inn. Tank was dimly surprised at how far he’d run in his mad panic. Allonin had to stop several times to give Tank a rest.

  “You’ve probably torn your shin muscles all to the hells,” he said once, squatting to feel Tank’s lower legs with a deft, light touch. “You’ll be off your feet for two tendays, if you’re lucky.”

  “Can’t,” Tank said. Allonin slanted a hard, questioning stare up at him; Tank shook his head and looked away, stubbornly resisting conversation.

  “You’ll cripple yourself,” Allonin said, then stood and tucked his shoulder under Tank’s arm again. “Come on, then. I’ll do what I can.”

  By the time they reached Basil’s Inn, Tank had begun trembling all over; he felt light-headed and lead-footed. The entryway and hallways went by in an increasing haze. At last he heard a door close behind him and felt a padded horizontal surface come up under him. It would have been nice to simply fade away into semi-consciousness, but even this pain wasn’t high enough to drive him beyond that grey line into the world of waking dream.

  He blinked at the wavering ceiling, discovering that his eyes were watering, and couldn’t summon the energy to wipe his vision clear. Somewhere nearby, Allonin shuffled through a backpack. Metal and glass clinked, fabric shissed, and paper crinkled.

  “Tanavin,” Allonin said after a while. “You’re going to have to take your pants off so that I can put this salve on your legs. Otherwise we’ll just have a mess in short order.” He paused. “Tanavin?”

  Tank fought to lift his head, to raise a hand, and managed only a feeble twitch of both.

  “Damnit,” Allonin muttered. “Will you let me do that for you, then? I’m not looking to set you into another panic. Answer me!”

  That sharp command provoked a reflexive attempt at obedience. Tank managed to almost roll to one side before his muscles gave out and pitched him flat again. He grunted, then managed a taut jerk of his head.

  “I’ll take that for a yes.” Allonin didn’t approach right away; he stood still, his breathing evening out. At last he said, “All right. Stay still, and for the love of the gods remember when and where you are.”

  Tanavin shut his eyes, then opened them, afraid the darkness behind closed lids would make memory more insistent. Even with the lantern-light fraying the edges of his fear, he still heard the ghost-whisper as Allonin approached; vulnerability provoked an echo of childhood helplessness, along with a more recent, and geographically close, moment:

  The whisper hovered just at the edge of hearing, beckoning, pulling at him. Come to me. Come to me. Come this way...The more he tried to avoid it, the stronger it became, as if he drew closer instead of farther away. At last he sank to the ground and cried in frustration, his legs refusing to take him another step.

  If anything had been left in his stomach he would have vomited again. He settled for some racking dry heaves and curled into himself, more miserable than he could remember being in years.

  Allo’s never going to speak to me again. He’s going to hate me now...I touched him! I—

  Memory of memory: warmth pressing close in darkness, a startled grunt: “Tanavin, no—”

  —shocking him out of half-sleep into full awareness of the moment, his hands wrapped around parts of Allonin he’d never so much as thought of touching—

  —a hazed misunderstanding, an overwhelming panic that flung him out of the bed, grabbing up clothes, and into a headlong sprint out the door, Allonin bellowing behind him—

  And the whisper, tugging, pulling, enticing; promising forgiveness for any sin, any wrong, if only he followed it.

  Finally slowing down enough to realize Allo hadn’t been the instigator—and throwing up, right there, so horrified, so appalled—He’s going to hate me—

  “Hush,” Allonin said as he smeared a thick layer of salve down Tank’s right shin. “I don’t hate you, Tanavin. I never did. It wasn’t your fault. I already told you that. It’s my fault for being startled into yelling. I handled it poorly, and I put you in danger through my own carelessness. I don’t hate you.”

  Tank blinked dazedly, aware only that the pain in his legs was fading as Allonin worked. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “You’re welcome.” Allonin rose, tapping the lid back onto the salve jar with the heel of one hand. He moved away; the sounds suggested he was rearranging his pack, neatly replacing the items he’d removed. He’d always been adamant about being tidy, except for his huge, map-covered desk.

  Tank shut his eyes and grimaced, refusing to be drawn back into memory. “What do you want?” he said aloud, his voice peremptory and harsh.

  “Why did you run?” Allonin countered, coming back to sit on a chair by the bed.

  Tank tightened his jaw and obdurately said nothing.

  “Huh,” Allonin snorted. “I wanted to talk to you, actually. Figured on tracking you down through whatever contract you’d taken through the Freewarrior’s Hall—didn’t expect you to walk right into me and then run.”

  Tank squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, a dull, achy feeling spreading through his entire body. He had called Allonin here, just by thinking of him. Gods, I don’t want this!

  Allonin drew in breath as though to speak, then let it out in a hard whuoff. “Don’t be an idiot, boy,” he said. “I’m not here because you thought about me. Even a Fortress-bound desert lord isn’t able to pull that off.”

  Tank’s whole body tensed, suddenly realizing that wasn’t the first unspoken thought Allonin had responded to. He glared at the man with a mixture of horror and resentment.

  His former mentor made an impatient gesture with one hand. “You’re thinking loud.”

  “You are a desert lord!”

  “No.” Allonin’s lips compressed; then, reluctantly, he added, “I never went through the trials. And it’s forbidden for me—for any Aerthraim—to know as much as I do. Don’t talk it around. Please.” He paused, as though waiting for an answer, or perhaps another question.

  “Why didn’t you train me, instead of Teilo?” Tank demanded.

  Allonin looked away, a betraying flinch of movement.

  “I wanted to,” he said. “But when Teilo showed up—She asked to be the one to train you, and the mahadrae granted the request. I was allowed to teach you fighting, nothing more. And...the mahadrae didn’t know...everything about what I can do. She still doesn’t, which is why I need you to stay quiet about what you’ve seen tonight.”

  Tank just stared at him, bewildered and angry and not at all sure what to sa
y.

  Allonin shook his head and said, “Never mind. Back to the point—I’m not here just because you were thinking of me—That’s ridiculous. I came because I never said—and I should have. I’m sorry, Tanavin. For everything.”

  “You did what you had to do,” Tank said roughly, and swallowed back his anger, along with an old anguish. A bitter and moldy taste stirred on the back of his tongue.

  “I did what I thought I had to do,” Allonin said. “I’m wondering now if there were other ways we didn’t want to see at the time.”

  “Done is done.”

  “Stop throwing cant in my face!” Allonin said with surprising passion.

  Tank opened his eyes at that, and focused on his former mentor. Allonin’s face held a grey, taut strain, and his eyes glittered with held tears. Tank had never seen the man so openly emotional before.

  “I hated you,” Tank said finally. “I still do. You lied. You used me—and Dasin—for your political games. You could have gotten me killed. You expected to get me killed!”

  Allonin’s chin tucked closer to his chest, and his expression turned smoky and haunted. “Yes,” he said, barely audible.

  Tank drew a breath, forced his voice to emerge harsh and sharp. “So what? It’s over. Forget about it and move on. I don’t want to think about it anymore, Allo. I want to forget it ever happened. All of it. From my godsdamned birth until about now.”

  Allonin regarded him in silence for a time, his brow furrowing into a worried expression, then smoothing out into emotionless lines again. “You’re still trying to be ordinary, aren’t you?” he asked softly. “You’re still playing at being just a mercenary.”

  “It’s not playing,” Tank retorted, pushing up onto his elbows as anger surged through him. “It’s my chosen life. Piss off and leave me to it already! It’s bad enough I have Eredion dragging me into his shitass messes, I don’t need you yanking me into your damn games again too!”

  Allonin’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve certainly picked up a mercenary’s mouth,” he noted. “And Eredion’s got trouble now? What’s going on there?”

  “Never you mind,” Tank snapped, feeling surly and childish. “It’s not your concern.”