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

by Leona Wisoker

  After a moment’s consideration, Tank left his sword and harness tucked up under the bed, out of sight. A full sword would be useless in a small indoor room or in a fight against men inclined towards scrapping. His long dagger would be enough, if the situation went to that.

  He hoped not. Getting into a fight with his employer’s allies would fairly well end any chances of a career as a mercenary. He’d be lucky to get house-guard posts, or even to serve as a bouncer at a Bright Bay bar.

  And if Dasin says go away, what then? he thought sourly. After blowing myself out of two contracts in a tenday, what chances will I have left?

  He squared his shoulders and left the room, careful to lock the door behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Kippin knelt before Alyea, his grey shock fading. His good eye squinted thoughtfully, and he twisted in place to survey their surroundings. He grunted then, and looked back to her, jerking his head impatiently and cutting his eyes down to indicate his gag.

  Alyea leaned forward, not leaving her chair. He bent his head to expose the gag knot, and she yanked it loose without any attempt at being gentle. He grunted again, rocking back on his heels and twisting his head as though to release stiff muscles. She sat back, dropping the cloth to the floor with distaste, and watched as he worked his mouth and throat for a few moments.

  “Clever,” he said at last, his voice hoarse and raw, and jerked his head again, this time towards the steep drop a few steps away. “Not your idea. You don’t think this way. Must be the teyanain.”

  He eyed the chair to her right, then gave a slight head-shake and looked back at her, his expression completely unapologetic.

  “Go ahead,” he croaked. “You’re so good at killing, get it over with already.”

  She stayed still, surprised at her own calm. “Why are you here, Kippin?” His good eye glittered with dark humor; she added, “Don’t play word games. Answer it straight.”

  “Drink,” he said promptly, and lowered his chin to look up at her through a half-closed eye. “Throat’s dry.”

  “I’ll give you your own damn blood to drink,” Alyea snapped, sitting forward, then sucked in a deep breath, willing her anger to stay bridled. “You can have a drink after you answer.”

  Kippin’s puffy mouth moved in what might have been a smile. “Promises, promises,” he croaked. “Why should I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t,” Alyea said, refusing to allow herself to be put on the defensive. “I’m deciding whether to gut you for the eagles or kick you over the cliff. Which would you prefer?”

  He ducked his head, the half-smile fading. “I thought I was bringing the teyanain a present they’d appreciate enough to let me move dasta and kathain through the Horn,” he said. “Turns out I was wrong, and they took offense.”

  “What present—” She stopped, sat forward with a sharp inhale of breath. “Deiq?”

  He nodded, keeping his gaze on the ground.

  “You took him? You said you thought he was a merchant!”

  “I did,” he said, glancing up at her. His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace, and a fat bead of blood started to the surface of his split lip and slid down his chin. “Right up until he tore through my front doors to rescue you and ripped most of my people to shreds along the way.”

  “Looks like you didn’t ask enough questions, after all,” she said bleakly.

  “Looks like.” His nostrils flared. “You’ll be glad to know Tevin’s dead. He jumped to protect me when the teyanain attacked. They cut him down in half a heartbeat.”

  Alyea swallowed hard, caught between relief and disappointment: part of her howled to have been the one to cut the big man to pieces herself. She realized Kippin was watching her with a canny, perceptive stare.

  “You’re just as ugly on the inside as the rest of us, Lord Alyea,” Kippin croaked, his sardonic smile returning. “You’d have dealt out just as much pain to Tevin, if you’d been given half a chance. That would have been the next step, you know. If your damned ha’ra’ha hadn’t torn through the doors, it was going to be your turn to hold the whip next. And once you got a taste of what that feels like, you’d have done anything I asked of you.”

  “I would have killed him,” Alyea said without thinking. Fragments of nightmare chased through her mind: dreams of taking Tevin apart, tiny bits at a time, while he begged her to stop and she just laughed....

  “Yes.”

  She stared, shocked. “You would have let me?”

  “Men who enjoy causing pain are surprisingly easy to find,” Kippin said, and managed a raspy laugh. “A broken desert lord is worth more than ten Tevins.”

  She sat back in her chair and shut her eyes, unable to comprehend what he’d just said. “You’re more a monster,” she said aloud after a moment, “than Deiq ever tried to be.”

  “Take a look at your family home before you say that,” he rasped. “Drink, damnit!”

  Alyea stood up without looking at him and went to the single door; it opened easily. Four teyanain guards lifted identical inquiring glances.

  “More tea,” she said, “and another cup.”

  She shut the door without waiting to see if they’d obey, and sat back down, staring at Kippin with a growing sense of cold detachment.

  “Killing isn’t what makes a monster,” she said. “It’s the reason for the killing.”

  He shook his head, a twisted smile on his lips, and didn’t answer that.

  A teyanain came through the door. He set a small grey teapot and another cup on the table, then withdrew without a word. Alyea filled both cups, then looked at Kippin again, considering. Residual rage advised her to fling the entire pot of hot liquid in his face; cold calculation stopped her.

  “You won’t win this time,” she said flatly, “if you attack me.”

  “I’m not stupid,” he croaked. He licked his bleeding lips and stared at the teacup she’d left sitting on the table.

  She drew her belt knife slowly, her hand tight around the hilt; stood and moved towards him warily, fighting the urge to plunge the sharp blade into every vulnerable spot she could find on his battered body.

  It only defines what kind of person you are....

  He stayed still, his good eye almost shut, and breathed evenly as she approached. She rested the point of the blade against his spine. Her eyes felt hot and dry, her hands cold and steady.

  Nothing in the way of grace....

  “Damn you,” she whispered, and brought the blade down to the bindings around his wrists.

  Kippin swung his released arms slowly around to the front, rotating his hands gingerly and hissing a little. He set his hands on his knees and waited as she backed away to stand against the stone wall by the door. Then, making no attempt to undo the ties around his ankles, he hitched himself forward and took the cup from the low table. After draining it with a series of delicate sips, he hoisted himself up into the one northern-style chair and refilled the cup three more times before letting out a long sigh of satisfaction.

  Alyea stood motionless, watching him, the knife still clenched in her hand.

  The seat he had chosen put his back to her. He didn’t turn around as he said, “What are you going to do with me now, Lord Alyea?”

  She drew a deep breath, then sheathed the knife and said, “You’re going to tell me everything about your activities in Bright Bay. Every name. Every contact. No lies. From the beginning. No evasions.”

  He laughed, the sound bitter and black. “And why would I do that, Lord Alyea? That’s a gutload of dangerous information you’re asking for, and the worst you can do is kill me for refusing.”

  “No,” she said. “That’s not the worst I could do.” She circled slowly to face him, alert for attack. “I can have the teyanain put you in ugren cuffs for the rest of your life, and turn you into my slave.”

  He blinked at her, his lip curling in faint contempt; that notion didn’t worry him unduly.

  “Or I could gift you to Deiq as a sl
ave.”

  At that, his hands began to shake: just a tremor, and he did a good job hiding the motion, but she caught the shift all the same.

  “I’d kill myself first,” he said thinly.

  “Would you?” Alyea settled into her chair and picked up her cup, hiding her surprise at his strong reaction. Something about the notion of being in Deiq’s hands terrified him.

  She thought of the carnage in her Family mansion, but that wasn’t enough to evoke the terror in Kippin’s eyes. That was only physical damage, and somehow Kippin didn’t seem the type to fear even torture.

  What else could Deiq do—could a ha’ra’ha do—to provoke such fear?

  Control, she thought, remembering how she’d taken out the first sets of guards when she’d been captured in Bright Bay. Yes, being “witched” would frighten a man like Kippin.

  She sipped the now lukewarm liquid, watching him closely. To test her theory, she reached out with the new, silent voice Eredion had given her access to and said, I doubt that you’d actually kill yourself, Kippin.

  His eyes went wide. He threw up a hand in a warding gesture and hissed at her. I’ll go over the fucking cliff right now if you do that again! It came out as a painful, almost teeth-rattling shout, more an overwhelming emotion than a clear sentence.

  Threading as much persuasive force as she could into her voice, willing him to see images rise into nightmare vision as she spoke, she said, “But you’re not warded with drugs this time, Kippin. I won’t let you go over that cliff. And Deiq wouldn’t, either. He would own you, Kippin. He’d use you, and he’d worm his way into your head and order your every breath, until you were a shambling, mindless, broken wreck—”

  His face had gone bone-white, the bruises and cuts standing out in vivid contrast. “Stop.”

  She smiled, sipped her tea, and said nothing. A deep satisfaction swelled her chest. In memory, she heard one of his men—one of the first she’d killed in her attempts to escape, a man named Seavorn—saying: Oh, I like the sound of that begging; I’ll have more of that....

  He dropped his chin to his chest and drew a rattling, hard breath. More quietly, he said, “I should have just killed you.”

  She pursed her lips but made no reply to that, either. Some of her fierce joy in seeing him tremble before her faded away, replaced by a low hum of nausea.

  He blinked several times, then said, “You’re going to kill me.”

  “What would you do, in my place?” She surprised herself by being honestly curious about the answer.

  “I would....” His pale skin flushed into instant rage, his eyes taking on a manic glitter; he hissed wordlessly, his hands clenching. You’d be begging. Give me a moment of chance and I’ll still have you begging. You dared touch my mind!

  He probably hadn’t intended to broadcast that thought; still, Alyea’s doubts about whether she was doing right faded away with her nausea.

  After a moment, Kippin’s face slid from fury back to grey, then set in bitter lines. He looked at Alyea for a long time, then said, “Don’t give me to Deiq. Promise me that.”

  “Don’t try to lie or withhold anything.”

  He shuddered all over, nostrils flaring and lip curling in a silent snarl, then nodded. “I’ll answer your questions,” he said. Seeing her expression, he added, “I can’t damn well give you twenty-odd years of information in a matter of hours, which is all the teyanain will give us. Pick what you want to know, and hurry up about it! You think they threw me out here for us to talk?”

  “You have a point,” Alyea said, and glanced reflexively at the door. “All right, then. Tell me about—” About to say: Pieas Sessin, she paused. He wasn’t important any longer. “Rosin Weatherweaver,” she blurted, impulse overtaking her.

  “Hah,” Kippin said, his whole face crinkling in cynical amusement. “You would ask about that little F’Heing ta-karne first.”

  She sat up straight, startled. He grinned, visibly pleased by her reaction.

  “Rosin Weatherweaver,” he said, “was born Roise F’Heing, illegitimate son of Lord F’Heing and a nameless northern slave woman. His mother died from being abused, near as I could tell; the F’Heing don’t have much respect for women and less for northerns. That happened not long after Roise could walk. Might even have happened in front of him, I never did get all the details. When Roise was in his early twenties, he was thrown out of F’Heing lands; couldn’t get the full details on that either. I’m guessing he did something even Lord F’Heing, a man who probably had Roise’s mother raped to death in front of her own son, wouldn’t tolerate, so let your own imagination pick out ideas.”

  Alyea grimaced. “Rather not,” she muttered.

  Kippin made an odd, humming noise through his nose. She couldn’t tell if he agreed with her squeamishness or was mocking her. Probably the latter. He went on before she could prompt him:

  “I do know that he came straight to Bright Bay after that, with two companions.” He paused, his gaze glittering with amused malice, then added: “Regav Darden and Azaniari Aerthraim.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Alyea said reflexively. Kippin laughed and took another sip of tea.

  “Of course not,” he mocked. “But it’s true all the same. Ask her yourself. Scratha’s pet Aerthraim went hand in hand with Roise F’Heing for a while.”

  And she’s at Scratha Fortress, Alyea thought, her heart sinking. Does Lord Scratha know about this? She didn’t know which would be worse; if Cafad were ignorant of Azni’s past, or if he’d known. She remembered, suddenly, a conversation with Deiq:

  She’ll have Scratha back as a major power in the southlands in a matter of years, if she stays, he’d said, referring to Azni. And she’d said: I hope so. I like him; he’s a good man. Or words to that effect. Vividly, in memory, she saw again Deiq’s sardonic, slanted glance; heard the faint, neutral grunt he’d given in response to that statement.

  Alyea shut her eyes for just a moment, feeling bewildered and out of her depth. A faint sound brought her alert again: four teyanain were coming through the door, followed by Lord Evkit.

  “Time’s up,” Kippin said with bizarre cheer, raising his cup in salute. He drained the last drops, then leaned forward and set the empty cup on the table.

  Alyea opened her mouth to protest. The four teyanain, moving with unstoppable precision, lifted Kippin from his chair, rebound his hands behind his back, and hustled him from the patio back into the main fortress. Evkit sat down in the chair Kippin had just vacated, picked up the small teacup, and threw it well out over the edge of the patio. Alyea listened for the smash and heard only a faint wind-hum in her ears.

  “You gave him to me,” Alyea said, finding the words she wanted to use at last, and directed a fierce glare at the teyanain lord.

  Evkit stared back, his black eyes unreadable. “Did I?”

  “I accepted his surrender! I want him back here. He’s mine.”

  Evkit raised one eyebrow, his expression otherwise unchanging. “He was never yours to accept, Lord Peysimun.”

  “Then why throw him out here with me and lock the door?” Alyea demanded. “So that I could kill him for you?”

  She saw something shift in Lord Evkit’s face for a moment: a scalding moment of depthless rage that dried her throat and tightened her hand around her cup.

  Evkit drew a long breath, calming himself, then said, without emotion, “The hecht—” It emerged as more of a coughing snarl than a word. “—has told you that he brought ha’inn Deiq here.”

  Alyea guessed at the meaning of hecht as something close to hask: traitor, criminal. “Yes.”

  Evkit’s head dipped in a tiny nod. “This is a true thing. And ha’inn Deiq is now awake, and safe for company. Do you wish to see him, Lord Alyea?”

  Alyea wavered, understanding the choice put before her: release her claim on Kippin or lose any chance of seeing Deiq. She was here to rescue Deiq, although apparently the teyanain had handled that part already; but gods, she wanted to wring so
me more answers out of Kippin while she had the upper hand. She’d never have this chance again.

  Vengeance or loyalty?

  An image of the blood-splashed rooms in Peysimun Mansion rose in her mind. She shut her eyes, her stomach roiling with the strength of her mixed emotions. Was Deiq any better than Kippin, if he could inflict that sort of horrible damage, even in service of a good cause?

  A memory of Eredion’s voice whispered through the back of her mind, accompanied by images of sun-drenched murals that called out to the best aspects of a human soul: I wouldn’t call it love, but he cares ....

  Finally, bleakly, she said: “Yes. Please, take me to see Deiq.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Deiq sat quietly watching the stars, disinclined to sleep. He rested instead in a half-trance, listening to the wind climbing and sighing through the rocks around him as he waited for something to happen. He’d learned a long time ago that he had far more patience than even desert lords. Whatever Evkit had planned would come soon enough.

  The day dawned grey and chill, and without event. He sat still, blinking through the fey haze of mountain mist as it soaked damp into his clothes and set his skin clammy. A vague wind shifted the mists but did little to dissipate them. Eventually, he stirred himself, stood up, and stripped off his wet clothes. After draping the garments over one of the chairs, he stood at the edge of the cliff, looking out into the grey sky.

  It took a long time for the haze to thin under the slowly ascending sun, and even then little warmth came through. He sighed and patiently raised his own body temperature until the clammy feeling dissipated into a comfortable glow. The air around him seemed to dry out along with his skin, and the mists cleared from the patio as though swept away by an invisible hand.

  Deiq grimaced and eased the warmth of his body closer to human-normal.

  The grey hung in the air past the patio edge, but now air currents stirred and pulled at the mist, fraying it into a loose web through which he could see the unruly Sea of Gold and even, if he strained his eyes, the faint outline of the Stone Islands far to the north.