You are expected to introduce Lord Fimre and ease his transition into his service as Sessin liaison to the northern court. I do not expect that to take long, as Lord Fimre is a quick study; unless he informs me of a need otherwise, I will expect you to return no later than two months past his notice of arrival.
—Lord Antouin Sessin
“Oh, for the love of the gods,” Eredion said aloud, tossing the pages onto the desk and leaning back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes, understanding now why Wian had been so testy; Antouin only wrote flowery formalities for outsiders. With family he tended towards brutal directness, and the letter was written in Sessin dialect.
Wian knew enough southern dialect, thanks to Rosin, Kippin, and Eredion’s own teaching, to have picked out the basics. And would undoubtedly have assumed the worst possible implications: I’m going to be given to another desert lord as though I’m nothing but a whore. But that was the least of the problems to hand at the moment.
Nissa is at Scratha Fortress? Remembering how Allonin had startled at the notion of his sister being there, Eredion felt an odd sense of dread forming like ice along the base of his skull.
Another worry: in removing Tashaye’s line entirely from rulership consideration, Antouin had done something unprecedented and dangerous. Pieas’s honorable death in Alyea’s blood trial should have wiped his record of transgressions clean, and left Nissa directly behind Dorsil in line for Sessin leadership. Sessin allowed females to lead, if they showed the qualifications to do so; and from what Eredion remembered of his niece, she was young, impulsive, and inexperienced in some ways, but far from stupid.
Yet she’d apparently been given to Scratha Family, like a piece of furniture. What the hells was Lord Antouin thinking? She was his daughter, and of a valid noble bloodline; not some tine child—and that was a damned offensive term to use, as well. Blood trial children and kathain-borne offspring were both considered perfectly honorable. The right word was kain, ‘servant’s child’, not tine, ‘whore’s child’. Antouin apparently couldn’t be bothered with even basic manners at the moment. Not a good sign.
Eredion rubbed his eyes and tried to think it through, then noticed the date at the head of the letter: penned this 15 Rahiir 1161. He swore loudly, shoving papers on his desk aside to get at a calendar: 6 Swehiir 1161. The letter had been sent over twenty days ago. Given shipping schedules and weather conditions, it should have been delivered over ten days ago. Lord Fimre would be arriving within a matter of a few days, rather than the two tendays Lord Antouin had expected Eredion to have for preparation—not that a full month would have been enough time for what was being asked.
Eredion sat back in his chair and bit his knuckle, wondering if Wian had deliberately delayed the letter or if some other messenger had left it at the bottom of a bag and forgotten it for several days. Cleaning for other nobles in the Palace took on a newly ominous significance. Was she trading his secrets as she dusted tables? He’d been careful not to allow her near anything particularly important, but this letter held some damn sensitive information; that was typical Sessin arrogance combined with southern thinking.
He turned the letter over, looking at the broken seal, and his heart sank. Lord Antouin had used the official Sessin mark. This missive would never have been tampered with beyond the line of the Horn. Even palace spies wouldn’t have touched it. Wian, unaware of the political intricacies she was meddling in, hadn’t thought twice.
Apparently she wasn’t the lesser side of the issue, after all.
A memory rose, sharp and worrying: If Kippin took me—would you come after me? As a midnight conversation it had dropped from his mind completely until that moment. Oh, gods, and I told her no—Why the hells did she have to ask me when I was asleep? He knew the answer to that, though. To get the truth, of course. I would have lied, if I’d been awake. She knew that.
If Wian had mentioned the contents of that letter to anyone—If Antouin ever found out a commoner had broken that seal and read the contents—Gods.
Eredion threw open the Aerthraim lock on his most private drawer, dropped the letter in, and slammed the drawer shut. He was on his feet and rounding his desk before the latch even fully caught.
Chapter Thirty-one
Even with the single window flung wide to let in what fresh air could be found this close to the swamp, the room stank of old vomit and fever-sweat. Little light found its way through the thick brush outside, and even less air filtered inside to disperse the rank odors. Tank grimaced as he dropped his saddlebags onto the floor and hoped that whatever Seshya had wasn’t contagious.
Little Rat, as though thinking the same thing, didn’t enter the room with him.
The woman tossed, naked, in restless fever-dreams on the narrow pallet-bed, which barely raised a handspan above the worn floor. Worn, but clean; Tank glanced over his shoulder to see Little Rat watching him from just outside the door, arms crossed and face hard in a way that suggested hidden emotions rather than a lack of them.
“Who keeps this place clean,” Tank said, “you or her?”
“She keeps her space tidy,” Little Rat said, “‘cept when she’s sick, like now, then I keep it up for her. We ain’t stupid. Dirt makes you sick faster and worse. Why d’you think I wanted out of the streets? I seen people die from dirt. Not the way I’m going, thank you.”
He nodded, amused but not allowing that to show in his expression. “Who taught you that?”
“Is this helping her, ghost-rid’?” Little Rat demanded, scowling. “Get on to it already!”
You have a gift... no.
Tank glanced around the dimly lit room again and said, “Get me a lantern. I can’t see to figure anything out.”
“One on the side-table,” she said without moving. “Flint, steel, an’ tinder-bowl, too.”
“Hells with that,” he muttered, kneeling to rummage through his saddlebags. Pulling out his metal box of Aerthraim matches, he picked out one of the shortest, then carefully restored the box to its place at the bottom of the bag before standing again.
“Witch-tools?” Little Rat said. He glanced over at her, frowning, and discovered she was laughing at him.
“Huh,” he said in answer, and found his way over to the lantern, which turned out to be a hurricane-lamp with a greasy reddish oil in the bowl. He had it lit in short order, and put the match to the carrying-candle for good measure. Both smoked heavily and stank. He grimaced again, shaking his head, but said nothing. Neither Seshya nor Little Rat had options for anything better; and it wasn’t quite as bad as the reek he’d grown up in himself, although memory might be distorted on that point.
Finally, reluctantly, he turned his attention to examining Seshya. Her whole body was sheened with a fine sweat, her flesh hot as though she’d been standing by a roaring fire; her breathing rasped heavily in her throat, and her eyes were watery and unfocused.
It could be so many things...Tank knew just enough to know how ignorant he was, whatever Little Rat thought. He knelt and examined the woman’s hands and feet, careful not to touch her directly. They showed no lesions or markings, and neither did her mouth and nose. He hesitated, then threw a fold of sheet over one of Seshya’s legs, tugging her heavy thigh wide; brought the carrying-candle closer—carefully—to expose a more intimate area. No marks there either, so this—probably—wasn’t one of the whoring sicknesses.
He put the candle back on the table and sat back on his heels, studying the woman’s naked body thoughtfully.
“She’s been throwing up?” he said over his shoulder. “How long?”
“Started yesterday,” Little Rat said. “Three times so far.”
“She has the shits?”
“Yeah, that was all yesterday. One end or the other, all damn day. Don’t think there’s anything left to go through, now.”
“She eat or drink anything lately?”
“Not much. Piece of bread a few hours ago. Few sips of water. She don’t want nothing, throws it all up again.”<
br />
“She needs liquid,” Tank said. “Go boil some water.”
“It’s that simple?” The girl’s tone was dubious.
“No.” Tank leaned forward and prodded Seshya’s lower stomach gently. The woman responded by curling up on herself like a disturbed grub and panting a series of harsh moans. “She’s got a stomach flux of some sort. Might be worms. Do you have parsley and garlic? Black pepper?”
“You want a tea or a paste?”
“Tea. Strong tea.”
“Ain’t nothing to heat water with here, nor none of that stuff,” she said. “I’ll go to the inn kitchen. You stay here, ghost-rid’. I’ll be back.”
He stood, turning in protest. She was already gone, the light patter of her feet retreating along the corridor outside. From what he’d seen on the way in, there were four other rooms in this small building at the edge of town; not a one of them had a stove or fireplace to use? Tank shook his head, not surprised in the least. This building was little more than walls and a roof against the weather, and the windows all opened on to the swamp side of town.
Remembering Seshya’s drooping manner when he’d come through with Venepe, he suspected she’d been sick for some time and refused to admit it to anyone. And as the girl had said, being the town whore didn’t exactly incline one’s neighbors to be helpful during an illness.
Tank sighed and turned back to the fevered woman. To his surprise, she had propped herself up on one elbow and was staring at him with unexpected clarity.
“He killed her,” she husked. “And he’s going to kill me too.”
“Who?” He stayed warily out of arm’s reach, seeing the fever-glitter surfacing in her eyes now: she was nowhere near sense at the moment.
“He was a lunatic. He said he wasn’t going to let her become a whore like me. He killed her. He said he’d kill me if I ever told. But now he can’t, because he’s dead. And they don’t know I know anything, so I’m safe. I’m safe.”
She blinked, her eyes watering heavily, then curled up again, moaning.
“Your—friend—is getting you some tea,” Tank said, abruptly realizing he’d never gotten Little Rat’s actual name. “You need to drink it, s’a. You need to drink as much hot water as you can force down.”
“He said they wouldn’t hurt her. I knew he was lying. I should have warned her.” Seshya began to shiver, and moaned again, her hands going to her stomach protectively. “She’s dead, and it’s my fault because I never warned
her....”
Tank moved forward and drew the rough, dirty blanket gently over Seshya.
“My fault,” Seshya whispered again, then seemed to fall into a doze, her raspy breathing evening out somewhat. By the time Little Rat returned, laden down with a heavy metal kettle and a linen bag stained green around the edges, the woman had fallen into a more restful sleep.
Tank went to the doorway and relieved the girl of the kettle, surprised at its weight and the heat coming off the thick sides. She shook her hands and arms, clearly hurting from the strain of carrying it all the way from the inn.
“Bag’s got the other stuff you wanted, an’ a cup inside too,” she said. “All chopped up, like. You c’n crumple the whole bag up an’ put it in the pot, cook said. Neater that way, see.”
“Thank you,” Tank said, smiling at her grave delivery, and put out his free hand for the linen bag. As he turned back into the room, he added, over his shoulder, “I just realized—I never got your name.”
“I never gave it you,” she retorted. “Names got power, ghost-rid’, you ought to know that.”
Tank shook his head and let it go. “She was moaning about a girl getting killed,” he said. “You know anything about that?”
“Tuh. She’s deep in fever, if she’s talkin’ over that,” Little Rat said. “Girl got killed here a while back; daughter of some merchant who killed himself a shorter while back.”
He set the kettle down on the side table. “Yeah, I know about the merchant. So what happened with his daughter?” He pulled open the linen bag and took out the rough-glazed ceramic mug inside. An impressive volume of parsley and garlic remained, enough to make a fist-sized lump even when compressed. Peering closely, he saw a healthy scattering of thick black chunks and sniffed to make sure they were pepper rather than rat droppings tossed in by a malicious hand. The sharp, clean tang reassured him.
“I don’t think she even knows,” Little Rat said. “She thinks the merchant killed his own daughter, but that don’t sound right to me. There’s things going on in this village ain’t so simple, and that merchant was neck deep and his daughter deeper, way I hear it. I think there was something to do with southerners involved; there’s a southern witch living not far from the village, and the girl useta be the one to bring her supplies. I figure it’s none of my business and safer not to know, scared as Seshya is over it.”
As she spoke, Tank retied the bag, looking around for a clean cloth to shield his hand with; finding none, he used a doubled-over corner of his own shirt to quickly lift the lid free. Steam spilled into the air, thickening the ambient humidity of the room and bringing out the underlying aroma of mildew.
“You’re probably right,” he said, coughed as he dropped the bag of herbs into the hot water, then replaced the lid. The room immediately began to fill with pungent aroma, overlaying and largely banishing the fever-sweat smell.
“Better,” Little Rat said, approving. “I like that smell. What now?”
“Let that steep for about—” He hesitated, then pulled out his belt-knife and made a light incision on the side of the carrying-candle. “About there,” he said. “Then start making her drink it. Much as she’ll take at a time. She ought to go through a kettle-full a day, at the least; more if you can make her. If she goes through the shits again, look at it—”
“Aww, what?”
“Yeah,” Tank said, “I know. But you gotta look and see if there’s worms. If there are, good, the tea’s working; keep pouring it down her throat and everything ought to clear up in a couple days. If it isn’t worms, and she doesn’t get better—” He shrugged, spreading his hands. “You need a real healer. I told you I don’t know what I’m doing. This is all a guess.”
“Better’n getting hit with holy water,” she observed. “But she gets better, she’s owing me. Parsley an’ garlic, yeah, but that pepper weren’t cheap.”
Tank turned and looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “That where the gold you stole from me is going?” he inquired.
“Tuh.” She grinned at him. “Still on about that? Told you I lost it all in the dirt.”
He shook his head, amused.
She sobered. “That beater your boy’s traveling with,” she said, her gaze turning dark. “He’s working the south to get clear of a scandal north of the Hackerwood, way I heard it. Some nobleman’s son took up company with him for a lark and got more’n he counted on. Beater left town in a hurry, with a noose headed for his neck—The son was found in rough shape by the wrong person.”
She paused, watching Tank’s expression, then nodded as though satisfied and went on.
“Don’t think the man as hired you knows about that mess yet, an’ don’t think he’ll appreciate it, way I hear about the man. Not inclined for putting his name next to a noisy problem like that, not with his business being on the delicate side.”
Tank nodded slowly. “Got a name?” He wasn’t about to go to Yuer with some nobleman’s son, according to a street-thief I picked up.
“Teer, Tyheer, sommat like that,” she said, cocking her head to one side.
He just looked at her.
“Hey,” she said, blinking owlishly, “my memory ain’t always so good.”
“Little Rat,” he said without heat. “How much?”
“Go pay the inn cook for a bag of that pepper so’s I don’t haveta go down on my knees again to that fat bastard the next coupla days,” she said, unflinching. “Man don’t never bathe.”
His jaw tightened. He s
wallowed hard against a surge of violent anger, then nodded once.
“Tynere,” she said promptly. “Tynere of Isata. An’ hey, ghost-rid’—”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t hit the cook or nothin’.” Her stare remained even. “We gotta eat, ghost-rid’.”
After a long moment, he nodded again. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “Yeah, I know.”
There wasn’t much chance Dasin would have chosen, under Raffin’s influence, to stay anywhere other than the blue-roofed house of Yuer’s allies. Tank left Ginibar at the stable near Cida’s Haven, tossing out an extra silver bit for the stable boy to handle settling the paint mare down; booked a room at Cida’s, then stood in his room staring out the window at the afternoon light for a while, letting the day’s travel fade from his mind.
What if Dasin really does want what he’s walked into this time? he thought, then shook his head, impatient with himself. Only one way to find out, and he was wasting time. Hopefully Eredion’s promise to hold Dasin against Tank’s coming had been genuine, but nothing would hold a merchant’s trade caravan forever. Dasin was sharp enough, and Yuer impatient enough, to make any delays a chancy business.
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 23