A knife sliding flat against her skin, in an obscene caress, before turning edge-to and beginning a series of delicate, slanted cuts, as though intending to skin her alive....
Alyea sat very still, blinking very slowly, and waited for the new arrival to regain his wits. While she waited, she thought about something Eredion had once said: If it makes you feel better to order her whipped to death, he’d said, referring to Wian, go ahead. It doesn’t matter to anyone. All it does is define what kind of a person you are. I’m not going to stop you; I don’t give a shit.
And ironically, Wian had later wound up sharing his bed. Alyea wondered if her former servant knew that Eredion thought in such cold, practical terms. What would Eredion do now, if Alyea demanded that Wian be punished for some transgression? Would he defend her, or step aside with the same indifference as he’d shown during that conversation?
All it does is define what kind of a person you are....
She sat still, thinking it over, and wished the teyanain had brought more tea along with the captive.
At last he coughed and thrashed to a kneeling position. One eye had swollen almost shut, and he seemed to have trouble focusing with the other eye, which ran with moisture. Alyea wasn’t inclined to use the word tears; more likely something had been thrown in his face when he’d been captured, and he hadn’t recovered yet.
She watched him peering around, fighting to make sense of his surroundings, and said nothing. At last he managed to focus on her. His good eye widened and his face went a peculiar grey color.
The gag muffled his voice, but his one-word reaction came through clearly enough: “You!”
“Hello, Kippin,” Alyea said without any emotion at all. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The passages inside the Horn seemed to have been designed by a madman. They sloped up, then abruptly down, turned back on themselves or wound through a series of spiraling turns. Long, straight passages were rare, and more than once they scrambled up or down a series of ladders. By the time they reached the patio, Deiq was panting and beaded with sweat; he was forced to admit to himself that he was weaker than he’d expected. But even at full strength he tended to have trouble keeping up with the teyanain, and here in their home environment they seemed to draw strength from the very stone around them.
The guides—guards? Likely a bit of both—led him out onto a vast patio, a large flat space on the edge of the world. The sun was setting in a melting flare of crimson-gold, lighting up the seemingly endless Goldensea below and drawing stark, hard shadows from the sparse array of furniture. A long, wide couch sat under an overhang; on the other side of the patio stood a small stone table, one large northern-style outdoor lounging chair, and three desert-style kneeling chairs. A thick-walled stone tea-pot rested on the table, a heavy-handled mug beside it.
Deiq turned to glance at the guard-guides and found them gone, the door to the inner Fortress shut—and, he guessed, barred. He wouldn’t be going back in until Evkit was ready for him.
They knew he didn’t need most human comforts. Bad weather, cold temperatures, hot days; it took massive extremes to affect him, even weakened as he was from the attack. And while he probably could have battered his way through the door, and through the crowd of teyanain who would inevitably attack him right afterwards, he wouldn’t stand up to another dose of stibik powder. And Evkit would have made sure that every guard within range of this patio was well-supplied.
Do you have ha’ra’hain bones in that pouch, seer?
Gods....
Deiq walked to the edge of the patio and looked out and down, thoughtfully. It looked like a steep enough drop to hurt him badly, and a difficult enough climbing surface to be risky. He took a few steps back and rested a hand against the nearest rock wall; it felt chill and slick under his palm, and unpleasant to touch. Pulling his hand back, he wiped it on his trouser leg with a grimace of distaste: no stepping through that. He couldn’t tell if the wall had been coated with something or lined with special inserts, and he doubted any teyanain would answer questions on the subject.
Rude, to send him out to such a secured patio, after the hospitality Evkit had shown already. Deiq had a feeling that something was going on internally which they didn’t want him meddling in. Something important enough that they were willing to risk his taking offense over being put into, essentially, a prison.
If he’d been sent out here even a month ago, he’d have leapt, and hoped for the worst result. But now...now he had a reason to keep trying. A hope that he didn’t have to cause pain to stay alive himself. And a question to answer: How had he managed to avoid hurting Alyea?
The teyanain were probably the best ones to ask, come to that; so it seemed best to simply wait out whatever set of plots he’d gotten tangled into this time. Stay on Evkit’s good side, build up goodwill, and the teyanain lord might give him a reasonably straight answer in the end.
Deiq pulled the northern chair around to face the sunset, poured himself a mug of tea, and sat down with a heavy sigh. The quiet emptiness eased his shredded nerves, and tiny sparkles emerging in the darkening sky reassured him of his own insignificance. He leaned back in the chair, cradling the large mug in his hands, and stared up at the sky, picking out modern constellations as they came clear and searching for ancient ones.
Most had shifted significantly over the past thousand years; the Red Hat now rose several degrees northeast of its initial location, and the Blue Star of Grief wasn’t even visible any longer.
Deiq sipped his tea, thinking back over what Evkit had told him. A split among the teyanain was a dangerous thing, but not unprecedented, if one went back far enough in history. And Deiq had been there. He knew the story humans didn’t tell each other about the causes and effects...which brought another thought to mind:
I need to feed soon. He turned the mug idly in his hands, considering. He disliked the notion of putting some teyanain servant through the agony, but felt no real remorse at the thought; a side effect of being so recently restored to full strength. He always leaned closer to the ha’rethe detached indifference towards human life after experiencing the joys of a proper feeding. It took years of battling the urges to wear himself down to hating the sensations again.
Deiq sipped tea and weighed hunger against caution. Evkit would certainly know of the need, and was either waiting to force him into asking or was already preparing something as a guest-offering. And that something could well involve a trap to bend him to Evkit’s purposes.
I need your help was a gambit, not an honest plea. The day Lord Evkit asked for anyone’s help with true intention, he’d already be in the grave with a pile of rock on top. Games within games within games...Deiq breathed evenly, looked at the stars, and waited.
Chapter Thirty
By the time Eredion went to Fern’s—now Basil’s, just as Allonin had said—Tanavin was long gone. He lingered after his initial questions had been answered, studying the innkeeper. The man shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable under the stare and unable to think of a polite way to excuse himself. At last the man said, “Is that all you’ll be wanting, then, s’e?”
The accent placed him from well above the Hackerwood.
“Where are you from?” Eredion said abruptly. “Isata? Jion?”
“Eh, no—Stecatr,” the man said. He tried an uncertain smile. “You’re, ah, local to Bright Bay, I take it?”
“No,” Eredion said. “I was born south of the Horn.”
The man’s flinch wasn’t unexpected, nor was the hasty sign against evil, poorly hidden by the counter between them. “Er, is that so,” the innkeeper said, edging sideways a step, like a restive horse trying to find room to bolt.
Eredion smiled, not in the least amused by the situation, and said, “What brought you all the way south to buy this place? Must have been sight unseen. You don’t strike me as the type of man to venture out quite so blindly as that.”
“My reasons are my
own,” the man said stiffly. “And I have business to tend to, if you wouldn’t mind excusing me.”
“I do mind,” Eredion said. “And I want the answer to my question.”
The man’s nervous fidgeting faded into a stern scowl. “I don’t take to your tone. I also don’t take to southern barbarians cluttering up my inn room. I’ll thank you to find your way out now.”
Eredion tilted his head and said, “I’ll thank you to answer my question, s’e, and in return I’ll ignore what you just said to me. I think you’ll find that a more than even trade.”
The man’s hand began to reach under the counter, likely for a weapon of some sort.
“Not a good idea, s’e,” Eredion said. “You don’t know nearly as much about how to tell who’s important here as you think. Tell you what, how about we take a walk up to the palace and I’ll ask you my questions in front of the king? Would that make it easier for you to talk to a southern barbarian?”
The man’s hand fell to his side, his face paling. “No offense intended, my lord.”
Eredion tilted an eyebrow and waited, arms crossed, in pointed silence.
The man drew a long breath, hissed it out between his teeth. Finally, he said, with creditable calm, “A man came to Stecatr and offered me a goodly exchange: this inn for mine. He offered me far more than my inn was worth, and painted a warm picture of Bright Bay; and there’s less ice and snow on the ground, to be sure. And less—” He hesitated, shooting a wary glance at Eredion.
“No priests,” Eredion supplied. The innkeeper nodded.
“No s’iopes, as I’m hearing it,” he agreed. “I’ve a daughter coming of age, my lord, and Stecatr’s always been...a little rough on women. It’s easier here. Safer. Ah—” He cleared his throat, glancing away. “No offense, my lord, but there is a fair amount of business I need to tend to. If you’re done with your questions?”
“Were there any other terms to the agreement,” Eredion said, “or was it simply a sale?”
“Just a sale, my lord. A peculiar sale, to be sure, with such a high price for my inn and a low price for his. I’ll soon make back what I spent, even with the journey here, and I doubt he’ll say the same within five years. But that’s not illegal, is it?” He watched Eredion’s face anxiously.
“No, not in the least,” Eredion reassured the man. “If stupidity was illegal, the jails would be overflowing.”
The innkeeper grinned with sincere relief, then bobbed a hasty bow. “If you’ll excuse me, then, my lord?”
Eredion nodded and watched the man almost trot away. He wondered if the speed of departure had to do with actual work to hand or a strong desire to get out of his odd guest’s company. Either way, the innkeeper was facing a hellacious learning slope over the next few months; Eredion found himself hoping the man would adapt and master his new culture.
This is happening too often. Scratha’s letter about the Sandsplit inn being bought in a similar exchange had only been one alarm note sounded. Eredion’s own watchers had brought him similar stories from along the Coast Road with disturbing frequency.
Someone was making a power grab. Someone backed by a huge amount of resources. Not likely to be Sessin, as this didn’t match Lord Antouin’s forthright style. Certainly not Scratha, nor the Aerthraim. Which left Darden or F’Heing: one ugly, the other worse.
Eredion sighed and headed back to the palace. As he walked, he thought over ways to find out which Family was behind this latest incursion into the northern kingdom. It was no good going to the king without more evidence. As the innkeeper had said, nothing illegal was happening—yet.
His proper duty was to report it to Lord Sessin, anyway. It bothered him that he’d even thought about Oruen first.
Maybe it was time to go home, after all. Go home, father a few children for the sake of the Family, and fade back into the pleasant obscurity of being a minor son in a large Family. If another problem was cranking up to prominence in the northlands, he wanted no part of it. He wanted to pass the burden of caring about it all to someone younger and less scarred by the past.
And now I’m being juvenile again, he thought ruefully. Until Alyea returns and takes back control of Peysimun Family, I can’t go anywhere. And once Lord Antouin finds out about that situation, I’ll likely find myself just about set on fire from his wrath. Talk about taking sides without proper approval....
Retiring to any sort of well-earned peace, other than the most final version, wasn’t likely to happen anytime in the next few years.
“In the meanwhile,” he said under his breath, “at least I have a well-stocked liquor cabinet. And Wian—for however much longer she stays around.”
The latter thought was enough to make him want the former option with a sudden, fierce thirst; he rubbed at his eyes, shook his head, and decided on a side trip that might lift his spirits more effectively. At worst, it would take one more responsibility from his list of duties for the day, and that alone would help.
Probably.
Walking from the eastern to the western side of the city allowed Eredion time to ponder, not for the first time, the differences that could be packed into a relatively small area. The eastern half of Bright Bay, with its constant flow of traffic to and from the rest of the Northern Kingdom, had a distinctly fluid air about it these days: businesses changed hands rapidly, houses their color almost as often, and the styles of dress ranged from Water’s End brazen to Northern Church conservative. There was money floating through the streets, as the saying went, and even the poor had honor.
The west side, by sharp contrast, with its array of docks all but controlled by F’Heing and Darden, had remained heavily influenced by the southlands—and thus, during the Purge, had suffered extensively under the combined malice of Northern Church and Rosin Weatherweaver.
Rebuilding here would be slow and painful.
Eredion walked past shattered and burned-out hulks of once-beautiful buildings, their architecture barely a trace element in the rubble: a low window reduced to a shelf, a graceful archway broken into chunks of stone for the dispossessed to gather up as seats. Much of the damage had been done by the former residents; once their own homes were destroyed by Church or soldiers, they had revenged themselves on the supposed spies among them.
They’d often been wrong, but not always.
Saved our servants and let our daughter die....
Lennimorn’s daughter hadn’t been all that admirable. Eredion suspected the man’s anger came, in part, from not wanting to admit that.
“Oy,” someone said from his left.
Eredion stopped and turned. A gangly man, leaning against a relatively untouched building, watched him without a smile.
“You lookin’ serious today,” the man commented. “Lose the pretty?”
Eredion blinked; then, remembering that he’d last walked through here with Alyea, shook his head. “She wasn’t mine.”
“Huh.” The man flicked a hand, eyebrows arching sardonically. “You missed out, then, she’s a choice one.”
Eredion regarded the man with amusement and didn’t bother warning him off. Alyea could easily handle a street-rat.
“You have something, Ferrow, or are you just being friendly today?”
“Tuh.” The man spat to one side. “Wailer’s gone, no sign nor sight of Lifty.”
“Yes, I know. Those are both settled out.”
“You said t’watch,” Ferrow said, aggrieved.
Eredion sighed. “What do you want?”
Ferrow’s pale eyes narrowed. “You been after askin’ me for watchin’s,” he said, “f’while now. I reckon as I hauled your ass outa trouble a time or two.”
“You’re in trouble?”
“This whole gods-forsaken area in trouble, high-born,” Ferrow said, his lip curling. “When’s the king gonna do some work over this way, huh? When am I gon’ get my house back? Everything on to repairing, it’s on the east side. On’y thing bein’ worked on here is the docks. What good’s a d
ock do us as out in the street? What good a new road for the ship to bring boxes to eastside market, when there’s no building past that bein’ done here?”
“You’re right,” Eredion said, “and I’ve mentioned that to King Oruen already. I’ll mention it again; that’s all I can do.”
“The king’s too busy with makin’ his new high-born friends,” Ferrow said, and spat to one side again. “You talk to that rich merchant you have as a friend these days. The one out of Stass. You tell him he can make some more money here, rebuilding. He can near own the western half, he puts out a few coins for to help us set back up.”
He already does own half the city, Eredion thought ruefully, and Oruen wouldn’t stand for Deiq putting his mark on more of it. But that was beyond Ferrow’s understanding. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said instead.
“You do that,” Ferrow said, “or maybe some of us start taking what we need, huh? Maybe things get real ugly, if the high-borns can’t be bothered to put a foot in the mud for to help those as clean their homes and muck their streets.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Eredion said soberly, “but don’t bring threats into this, Ferrow. That’s not the way.”
Ferrow just sneered and ambled off into the maze of ruins around them. Eredion watched his shadow slide over broken masonry for a few moments; then it blended into the shadows of a stand of large, ivy-draped feather-pines and was lost.
“So much for improving my mood,” he muttered, and went on.
Pointless to even promise he’d try. He was liaison for Sessin, not for the western half of Bright Bay. Nor for Deiq, nor for Peysimun Family, and certainly not for the last of the Northern Church priests in the area; but he’d somehow picked up all of those robes along the way, so what was one more?
For once, the sight of the ivy-vined lattice, profuse with lilac and honeysuckle, did nothing to bring a smile to his face. He walked along the perimeter until an ancient, gnarled pine stood to his right and the fence on his left, then stopped and looked up at the tree while he checked the area for hostile onlookers. Sensing nobody, he turned to the fence and reached through the ivy; slipped the hidden latch and let himself in, quickly securing the gate behind him.
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 21