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

by Leona Wisoker

  Moving slowly, Oruen turned to his chair and sat down. He was silent for a few moments, rubbing one knuckle against his chin, his gaze distant and thoughtful. At last he said, “Lord Eredion. Have a seat, if you would.”

  Eredion took a chair across from the king without protest. He kept his breathing even, aware that the king—and certainly his Hidden—would pick up on a sigh of relief; kept his face expressionless for the same reason.

  “What is it you have to tell me?” Oruen said, his gaze focusing on Eredion.

  “It regards Lady Peysimun.”

  Oruen blinked twice, his lips pursing, and made a softly inquiring sound. That stopped Eredion from what he’d intended to say: Oruen wasn’t showing nearly the startlement that statement should have provoked.

  “I take it you already know somewhat of the matter,” he said dryly.

  “I do have a few Hidden that report to me first,” Oruen commented, his mouth quirking. “But do tell me what you know, Lord Eredion. I expect it will fill in some gaps for me.”

  Eredion measured his breathing with care to bring his suddenly lurching heartbeat under control. When the hammering had stopped in his ears, he said, “I have not subverted your Hidden, Lord Oruen.”

  Oruen arched an eyebrow. “Lady Peysimun, if you would,” he suggested. “That interests me rather more at the moment.”

  Eredion bit the inside of his cheek, considering which road to follow. “She’s allied with Kippin and Kam,” he said, and shot a questioning glance at the king.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s turned against Lord Alyea.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s holed up in Lady Arnil’s mansion.”

  Oruen’s face went still. He didn’t say anything.

  “Ah, good,” Eredion said, unable to resist. “I have hold of something you don’t know already.” Oruen’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Eredion grinned at him and went on, “Apparently Kippin gifted her the entire estate before he left town.”

  “The estate wasn’t Kippin’s to give away,” Oruen said thinly. “I claimed it as due for crimes committed against the crown.”

  “Lady Peysimun doesn’t believe that,” Eredion said. “She believes Kippin and Kam’s version of events, which is rather different than ours.”

  “I imagine so.” Oruen leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. “So her kidnapping was a fake.”

  “Yes. It was intended to distract and delay Alyea, I think. But as Peysimun is a desert Family, I was able to step in to handle the local search for Lady Peysimun and send Alyea off to warn the southlands and search for Deiq.”

  Oruen’s eyes tightened at the corners; he clearly didn’t want to be reminded that his former lover had gone chasing off after Deiq. “Does that deception fall under desert law or northern?” he said curtly.

  “Desert,” Eredion said promptly. “It involved only members and allies of Peysimun Family. Her appearance at Lady Arnil’s mansion, and her stated alliance with Kippin and Kam, however, falls under northern law entirely.”

  “As a member of a new desert Family—” Oruen paused and shook his head, expression sour. “Hardly desert, when the estate is in the middle of Bright Bay! This is ridiculous. We’ll have to come up with an entirely new term for this, you realize.”

  “Desert Family will do for now,” Eredion said. He didn’t mention that the loremasters would be the ones to come up with that new name, and were already twittering madly, like the flock of starlings he had once compared them to, over that exact matter. It would likely be years before any official term was allowed into use.

  “Desert Family, then,” Oruen conceded. “As such, where on the scale does Lady Peysimun’s immunity fall?”

  Eredion sat back in his chair with a show of considering the question. “Any direct blood relative of Lord Alyea’s shares the same immunity as Lord Alyea herself, unless specifically revoked by Lord Alyea in her role as Head of Peysimun Family,” he said with deliberately flat inflection.

  Oruen grimaced. “So I can’t touch her.”

  Eredion cleared his throat, trying not to look smug. “Actually, Lord Oruen....”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The men still lounged in front of the house, like a set of local drunks that wouldn’t ever quite leave the tavern yard. Tank approached with less aggression than before. He met the eyes of the leader as the man rose and said, “Afternoon, s’e. I’m looking for Dasin. He here?”

  The tall, broad-faced man grinned, revealing missing teeth, and spat to one side. “You’re learning some manners. Bit late. I hear you don’t work this route no more. Which means, in case you don’t understand that nice language, piss off.”

  Tank stayed still, feet planted solidly. “Man left without giving me my final pay,” he said. “And I’ve news to tell him that might change his mind about firing me. If he’s here, I’ll ask for a word with him.” He kept his tone flat, leaving it clear that ask wasn’t really the word being used.

  If he needed to, he’d use the other voice—the one Alyea had learned about, the one he’d known about himself, in a vague sort of way sharpened by his recent encounters with her. They would damn well move out of his way, from one reason or another.

  Tank really didn’t want to use that weapon unless he had to. For one thing, being labeled a witch was deadly dangerous around these men; for another, the concept of bending another person to his will made him feel more than slightly ill.

  Nobody else had stood; the man didn’t look round to check on their reactions. He studied Tank with narrowed eyes, then broke into a wide grin.

  “Sure, then,” he said. “His room’s down the right side hallway, second door on the right.”

  Tank nodded and went on into the house without another word. Oddly, as he walked through the front room and along the dark inside hallway, he felt no nerves or tension. Everything seemed sharp-edged and detached, without any emotional weight.

  He wasn’t surprised at the sharp and the soft sounds coming from beyond the second door: the man outside had clearly been hoping for the amusement of seeing Tank charge in and start a vicious fight over Dasin being with Raffin.

  Not your lucky day on that, Tank thought, testing the latch gently. Handling this particular problem wasn’t so much about saving Tank’s relationship with Dasin—that was fairly well wrecked already—as it was about salvaging Dasin’s career with Yuer. Charging in, howling for blood, wouldn’t help either aspect much.

  He pushed the unlocked door open and stepped one pace inside, his jaw tightening.

  Raffin looked up, his face creasing into a harsh smirk. Dasin was curled on the bed, arms up over his head, shivering. Livid stripes across pale skin showed where the riding crop in Raffin’s hand had already come down multiple times; bright, but not lasting, Tank judged unemotionally. Most of the marks would fade within a day, and only a few had drawn blood. Raffin hadn’t really gotten started—hadn’t even undressed yet.

  “Kinda busy,” Raffin said. Dasin began to look up. Raffin tapped his shoulder with the crop. “You—stay where you’re at.”

  Dasin instantly curled into a tighter ball, head tucked against chest, hair falling to obscure face and vision.

  Tank drew a deep breath, then said flatly, “Touch him with that whip again, Raffin, I’ll shove it up your ass and break both your hands.”

  Dasin twitched, almost uncurling at the sound of Tank’s voice; trembled and stayed still.

  Raffin sneered. “You can try it. Don’t think you’ll manage that, boy. And who says this ain’t been asked for? Just because it ain’t your road don’t mean someone else can’t enjoy it.”

  “This what Tynere of Isata asked for, too?” Tank said. “You think Yuer’s going to like hearing about that mess? You think he’ll care whether it’s been asked for or not, here or there? Dasin’s a merchant, Raffin, not your whore. You work for him. Turning that around won’t work, and Yuer knows it.”

  Raffin took a long step around the edge
of the bed, his tanned face darkening further as he snapped, “I’ll see you buried, you try that!”

  “Don’t matter if you bury me on the spot,” Tank said, not moving. “Word’s out, Raffin. You picked up a nobleman’s son for your games, and northern nobles don’t let that sort of insult go just because you leave town. Yuer’s going to hear about your mess soon, and you’ll be wishing you’d opted for the noose. Take the chance and get out of here now, I’ll make your excuses. Maybe down south, working for some desert Family, you’ll find a place for your fun. But not here, and not Dasin.”

  Raffin stood still for a long moment, glaring. Tank moved aside a long step, leaving the doorway clear, and said, “Get out, Raffin. Now. Before Dasin says for sure whether he asked for this or not; because if the answer’s No, I’ll break more than your hands on my way to your throat.”

  “You’ve got an opinion of yourself,” Raffin said, amusement returning to his expression. “You think you can put a scratch on me? Try it.” He started forward.

  Tank caught his eye and said, with all the ferocity at his command, “Stop.”

  Raffin staggered and almost fell over; Tank had caught him mid-step.

  The silence hung for a moment, as the color washed out of then back into Raffin’s face like an accelerated tide. Then Tank said, very quietly, very flatly, “I won’t scratch you if you come at me, Raffin. I’ll kill you. Now get out.”

  “You’re a witch! That’s not right—witching a man! You come at me fair if at all!”

  “I’ll come at you with whatever I want,” Tank said. “You’ll still be dead at the end of it.”

  “I’ll see you hung for a witch,” Raffin said, his face twisting into a near-snarl.

  “Out, or you won’t get the chance.”

  The silence after that stretched; finally broke, with Raffin’s booted feet harsh on the wooden planks and the slam of the door behind him.

  Tank shut his eyes and inhaled a long count of five. On the outbreath, he said, “Dasin. Get dressed.”

  A faint whimper answered. Tank didn’t say anything, his jaw locked against the words that wanted to emerge, his eyes resolutely shut.

  “I didn’t,” Dasin whispered. “Tank, I—”

  “Shut up. Get dressed.”

  Slowly, movement: the sound of clothes being searched out, a few faint hisses and whimpers as they were pulled on. When the clok of hard bootheels on board sounded, Tank let out another long breath and opened his eyes.

  Dasin stood, hunch-shouldered and still shivering as though chilled through and through, his pale eyes huge and lost in a pasty-skinned face. His lower lip was puffed and split, and a bruise had begun to form along his left temple.

  “I didn’t think—” he began.

  “Get your pack,” Tank said, not moving. “Go out the window. Move fast, you hear me? Go to Cida’s Haven. Room three.” He reached into his belt pouch and tossed the key at Dasin. “Lock yourself in. Stay there. I’ll be there soon.”

  Dasin caught the key and stood staring at it for a moment, as though bewildered. He looked up at Tank as though about to speak again. Tank returned a flat, emotionless stare that visibly choked off Dasin’s attempt to organize words. The blond swallowed hard, then grabbed up his pack from the corner. Crossing to the window, he yanked open the shutters and scrambled outside with surprising speed.

  Tank let out another breath, hearing footsteps rattling into the house from the front courtyard. He moved to set his back more securely against a wall and waited.

  The heavyset leader shoved the door open and came into the room fast, his gaze going to the open window. Tank moved fast himself: stepped sideways to slam the door shut, then dropped the latch and set his back against the wall beside the door before the tall man could do more than whirl round.

  “Never did get your name,” Tank said conversationally. “As we’ll be working together a bit, I think that might be a good idea. I’m Tank. You?”

  The man stared, eyes narrowing. “You’re a fucking loon, is what you are, boy. You lost us a damn good man there.”

  “He’s not worth the price you’d pay for his help.”

  “He’s got the hells’ own experience compared to you, and Yuer’s the one paying him, not me nor you.”

  That confirmed a number of Tank’s suspicions. “Yuer doesn’t know the games Raffin likes to play, nor the enemies he’s already made,” Tank retorted. “Yuer wouldn’t like the nobles of Isata coming to demand blood-right at his doorstep, I’m thinking. Bad for business, having a merc on the payroll with his head half in a noose already. He’ll be thrown out of the Hall within the next few months, is my guess.”

  The man’s hostile expression eased into a more calculating squint. “Yuer don’t care about any of that, and you ought to know it already,” he said. “And Raffin’s out to spread the word that you’re a witch, is my guess. You just landed yourself deep in the shit, boy. I won’t be seeing you this side of the Aftertime.”

  “My business to handle,” Tank said, not answering the implied question. “We’ll pick up the cart and horses in the morning, and be on our way to face tomorrow.”

  The man shook his head slowly, a grudging respect surfacing. “You’re a loon,” he said, “Tank. And I’m Pin. Don’t be here much past dawn; we got more business inbound and need the room.”

  Still shaking his head, Pin unlatched the door with a low snort of derision and went out without looking back.

  “There goes the easy part,” Tank said under his breath, and left the house by the front door, ignoring the array of stares from the men in the yard.

  Tank focused on cleaning hard-to-reach cuts and let Dasin stammer out explanations without interruption.

  “I thought—it wasn’t—In the beginning, it seemed—he was so—Ouch!”

  Tank pressed the damp cloth against a freshly bleeding nick and didn’t say anything; thinking about Wian’s insistence that he had a gift, and whether—if he tried—he could ease the cuts and stop the bleeding altogether, just by wanting it to happen.

  He didn’t try.

  “He said you didn’t respect me enough,” Dasin said sullenly. “Said I’d be better off with someone who understood me. And at first, he was nice.”

  Tank lifted the cloth free with care; looked at the spotting of red and bit his tongue to keep from saying anything. The cut seemed to have clotted. He dipped the cloth back into the bowl of water, wrung it out, and began patting down another spot.

  “He convinced Lohim to give me a good arrangement. He’s—persuasive.” Dasin’s voice dropped on the last word. “You couldn’t have done it.”

  No: wouldn’t. Because it’s your damn job to handle, Tank thought, but stayed quiet.

  Dasin shifted uneasily, then went still again. After a few moments, he said, “I don’t know—how it turned around. He went from charming to a little rough, and I didn’t—mind that; but then we wound up stalled here. Pin said we had to wait for some addition to the delivery—wouldn’t say what. And Raffin got—a little strange. Restless. And over the last day—”

  So Eredion’s “contact” is Pin? That doesn’t sound right. More likely, it’s someone Pin listens to. Tank set that minor matter aside to puzzle over later.

  “Don’t want details,” Tank said aloud as he dropped the cloth in the bowl of water and sat back. He made himself spread his hands out flat on his thighs, instead of fisting. “Really, really don’t want the damn details, Dasin.”

  Dasin turned his head, long blond hair threading over to hide his face. He looked sideways at Tank through that fine pale screen, then said, “All right. I was stupid.”

  “No. Stupid was going off with Raffin without me around to back him off. What happened after that, stupid doesn’t even touch. Damnit, Dasin, you knew what you were getting into, whatever lies you told yourself. I knew he wasn’t safe soon as I saw him; you sure as the hells are hot knew you’d get hurt.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Sorry doesn’t com
e close to covering it for me,” Tank said. “Sorry won’t stand up for Yuer, either. Use your damn brains, Dasin. You still have those, don’t you? Or did Raffin shake them completely loose?” He heard his voice getting louder; set his teeth together and grabbed for control of his temper before he started shouting.

  Dasin ducked his head and said nothing for a few breaths. Then: “Thank you. For not—leaving me on my own. For coming after me.” He paused. “I’ll handle Yuer.”

  “You’ll have to,” Tank said, keeping his voice completely flat. “I’m just the merc. Got some ideas on what you can say, though, that might help sort it all out.”

  “Good to know,” Dasin said dryly, then sat up straight, pushing the hair from his face, and looked directly at Tank. “Tell me the rest of it,” he invited. “Might as well get you yelling at me all the way over with.”

  “Dasin,” Tank said as evenly as he could, “I’ve been riding all day. I just put my Hall status on the line to save your standing with Yuer, not to mention risking my life for you. And I just patched you up from someone else’s love-taps.” He paused and took a long breath to relax his throat. “If I open my mouth on the whole of what I’m thinking, it’s going to end with you going through a fucking wall, Dasin. Best I don’t start.”

  Dasin flinched, then nodded slowly. “Won’t happen again,” he said, barely audible.

  Don’t promise what you don’t have to give, Tank thought. Aloud, he said, “Good to know.”

  Dasin ducked his head, expression souring, as though he sensed the cynicism behind Tank’s answer. He reached for his shirt.

  “Let’s go get something to eat,” he muttered, avoiding Tank’s gaze.

  “Good notion,” Tank said easily, and stood, turning his back to allow Dasin some privacy.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Deiq withdrew from other-perception and lay still, cradling Alyea against him, content just to listen to her breathing. If anyone had intruded on them at that moment, he would have simply flipped them over the cliff without moving. To protect against that, he flung out a hand towards the door into the fortress and set a ward of his own against it, binding it shut until he damn well pleased it to open.