“You have,” he said, keeping his voice devoid of emotion, “a lot of damn nerve.”
Her chin tilted further and sideways, faint lines appearing around her eyes. “You already know, then,” she said: not a question. She sat up more stiffly, shoulders going back. “I won’t trouble you further.”
“The hells you’re—” He shut his mouth, held his teeth together a moment: said, more carefully. “Wian. Gods know I never trusted you with much, but what you did is beyond all bounds. I can’t let this go. Lord Sessin has to be told—”
Her eyebrows drew steadily together, her eyes widening. “What does Lord Sessin have to do with this?” she interrupted, sounding truly bewildered.
He opened his mouth, shut it again, blinked. “Start over,” he said. “Did you take my letters?”
“No!” The answer had enough startled indignation to be truth. “I’ve never stolen from you, my lord. That’s—after how kind you’ve been? No!”
He shut his eyes, shuffling his thoughts back into order, settling his heartbeat. Calmer, he regarded her without assumptions: saw lines of strain in her face, shame in how she ducked her head to avoid his gaze, fear in how she clutched the blanket into great fisted wads.
“So what have you done, then, Wian? And why are you afraid to tell me about it?”
“I—delayed the one letter,” she said, not quite looking at him. “I didn’t mean to. I knew it was important. I just—I wanted to tell you, first, and I—haven’t been able to. And so I finally put the letter on your desk, and I thought I would tell you...this morning...and I—I couldn’t. I just couldn’t face you. I went to the—to one of the gardens, a prayer garden, and I....” She made a vague gesture with one hand, towards the sky, as though indicating prayers cast out to the gods.
Wian had been praying? All of a sudden he had a very bad feeling starting up in his stomach.
“Wian. What do you want to tell me?” He tried to keep his tone gentle and patient; she flinched, all the same.
“I’m sorry about the letter. It was wrong. I should have given it to you immediately, but—well.” Her free hand gathered up another fistful of blanket as she looked up at him.
“Just tell me.”
She licked her lips and drew a short, rapid breath; held it for a heartbeat. “I’m pregnant.”
He stood very still, his breathing even, and watched the lines shifting on her face as she glanced at him and away in nervous, darting bursts.
“Not mine.”
“I don’t—think so.”
“Whose, then?”
There was some of her old black dryness in the glance she gave him then. “Want a list?”
“Yes,” he said, cold and flat himself.
Her faint sneer crumbled, and she tucked her chin to her chest as tears started in her eyes.
“Gods,” she whispered. “Gods.”
“You were never a common whore, Wian. You were—” Eredion couldn’t think of a northern term for her role. In the southlands, she’d have been called katheele: spy-through-seduction was the best translation he could come up with for that, which sounded much less honorable, in the northern tongue, than it ought. He gave up trying to find the right description and said instead, “You know who took you to bed, names and rank, and which is the most likely father. So: a list. Yes. Please.”
She shrugged, not in refusal but in resignation, and straightened her spine to look at him, her face very white and her eyes very dark.
“I’m within the first month,” she said, cold and precise. “And Pieas never—actually.”
He couldn’t help a breath of relief at that.
Wian shut her eyes briefly, her mouth thinning. “There was a night, when Tank and Dasin were bringing me home, when—Dasin. But Tank interrupted before—so I doubt it.”
Eredion nodded, not speaking, and waited with growing dread to hear what she so clearly didn’t want to say. Gods, please, don’t let her say Tanavin had taken a turn—any children of his were going to be beyond explosive from a political standpoint.
She read his expression accurately and shook her head. “No, Tank never touched me. He’s not—like that. I wish—” She looked down at her hands and shook her head again, letting the obvious ending to that sentence stay silent.:I wish he had.
Eredion let out another slow breath through slightly pursed lips and waited, his own fingernails digging into his palms now.
“When they brought me back,” she said, not looking up at him, “After they left. I had to be—reminded—who I am. What my—loyalties are. Who I—served.”
Eredion couldn’t stop a pained wince. “How...many?” he asked without intending to speak; the words emerged much more choked than he’d meant them to. A heavy weight settled in his chest and throat, making it difficult to speak.
Wian shut her eyes. “Only one,” she said. Hectic color flared and faded from her face, leaving her starkly pale. “Kippin.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Tank left the private room to Dasin, that night, and pitched his bedroll in the common area, which served as the dining hall during the day. The aroma of beef and potato hash, weak wine, weaker beer, and unwashed humans took a while to filter out of his perceptions, as did the sounds.
He lay in the dark listening to the snores, farts, and—in one corner—the soft grunts of a couple completely unashamed of themselves. That was soon over, thankfully, and with his nose finally deadened, the relative quiet afterwards allowed him to manage an uneasy doze.
Tank had rarely slept near other people since leaving the katha villages. Kathain tended to cluster together in their sleep, huddled together in the safe darkness; hands were usually wrapped protectively around each other’s vulnerable areas, stroking to soothe spots left sore by the day’s customers.
Tank hadn’t entirely gotten through that habit, and neither had Dasin. It wasn’t an issue with a willing partner; but in a crowded inn commons room, rolling into the nearest warmth led to trouble fast and nasty. Better for Tank to risk it, especially after the last few days of Raffin deliberately raking up old patterns in Dasin’s head.
There was no amount of money, in the entire of the kingdom, that would have made Tank willing to share a night’s sleep with Dasin just now; the result would have been considerably more bruises than what Raffin had left, and longer-lasting ones. His ears popped erratically, and he unclenched his jaw with an effort.
Evening out his breathing into the calm of a trance, as Teilo had taught him, eased the reddened fury into a more detached howling: but the anger wasn’t going away easily. Not this time.
It made for a less-than-restful night. His aching legs and recently stirred up memories of Allonin only added another layer of guilt and shame to the stew boiling in his mind.
If he’d just told me I was grabbing for any kind of physical contact in my sleep—If he hadn’t been drugging me asleep all along the road to avoid that conversation—If he hadn’t run out of the drug just when we arrived at Bright Bay and been too exhausted to notice—
If this, if that. If won’t save an ant: another of Allonin’s sayings, one he’d always liked.
He grunted and rolled over onto his side, trying to find a way to flex his legs to ease the sharp ripples of strain working through his shins. As a distraction, he focused on listening to the snores of his nearest neighbor, a skinny auburn-haired man who pushed an astounding volume through his narrow nose. The regular rhythm of the sound served to lull Tank, while remaining just annoying enough to keep him from falling fully asleep.
Perfect.
In the morning, as everyone began rolling up their bedmats and pushing the dining tables back into order, he considered thanking the man; but it would only come across as sarcasm, and he didn’t feel up to a fight. Traveling with Dasin all day on a thin night’s sleep was going to be difficult enough to handle, and facing Yuer after that worse yet.
Bowls of coarse oatmeal were handed out to all without charge; fruit, cream, bread, or eggs
were all extras one had to pay for. Tank took the oatmeal plain and retreated to a corner of the commons to eat it. Near where the couple had been enjoying themselves, he thought, and smiled to himself without being quite sure why.
Dasin padded into the dining hall a few moments later, tibi in hand. The oval curve to the bowl drew a curious stare from a few people, but no obvious comments. He filled it with plain oatmeal as well, then picked his way through the room to squat beside Tank without a word; fished his wooden eating spoon from his belt pouch and began eating.
Tank didn’t say anything.
When his bowl emptied, he stood. Hearing Dasin’s spoon scrabbling up remnants, he put a hand out, took the second bowl and spoon, and went to the common bin of wash-water in the corner. He’d have to remember to scrub the bowls out more properly later, but this would do to get them on the road.
When he returned to hand the still-damp utensils over to Dasin, the blond took them and stood, not quite looking at Tank. The dark smudges and pale skin of a nearly sleepless night only showed because Tank had been watching for them.
Dasin left the room without word nor glance to Tank.
Tank shook his head, packed away his eating tools, then shouldered his kit and went out to the inn’s front courtyard to wait.
When Dasin emerged, some time later, pack on one shoulder and a sour look on his face, he shot a hard glare at Tank and said, “So are we just marching over and taking the wagon and horses on the road? Is that your notion? That there won’t be any trouble?”
“Yep,” Tank said. “Let’s go.”
Dasin snorted, nostrils flaring, and muttered, “Loon.”
Tank turned his back and started walking without comment.
“Tank.”
He stopped, looked back over his shoulder, and delivered a flat stare that shut Dasin’s mouth before anything else—apology or curse, didn’t much matter—could emerge. He waited until a wave of color flushed into Dasin’s face, then said, “Dasin. Let’s move it, huh? Unless you like this place all of a sudden, in which case I’ll go find another contract.”
The color deepened a shade, as did Dasin’s glare.
Satisfied, Tank turned and headed for the blue-roofed house again. This time, Dasin followed without a word, and for a wonder managed to stay mute the whole way.
“About time,” Pin said as Tank and Dasin came into the small carriage-house. “Told you t’be here sooner. We were about to chuck your shit out to make room.” He folded his arms and glared at Dasin.
Tank, without haste, moved to stand in front of Dasin and returned Pin’s glare with a set expression.
“Have the carriage hitched up and readied, then,” he said. “We’ll be out the sooner for experienced hands buckling everything up.”
Pin’s eyes narrowed. “Huh,” he said, and began to turn away.
“Another thing,” Tank said, not moving. Pin swung back around, squinting. “We’re short a guard.”
A long moment of silence dragged. Dasin made a vague, shivering sort of sound through his teeth. Tank didn’t move. Neither did Pin, their gazes locked in a fierce moment of mutual understanding and antagonism.
“Right,” Pin said at last. “I’ll get that sorted too. Check your damn wagon and make sure nobody’s shorted you overnight. I don’t care for Yuer to come chasing my ass over some damn petty theft.”
Tank nodded. Pin turned on his heel and strode away, already shouting orders to the men outside. Dasin’s hand closed around Tank’s wrist, thin fingers hot and bony.
“You’re insane,” Dasin said, voice shaky.
Tank shook his head and pulled away from Dasin’s grip, turning to look at the wagon Pin had pointed out before leaving. He walked towards the glorified cart: it offered wheels, a sturdy base, thin walls and arched roof. With the thick curtain that divided the front and back compartments pulled open, he could see the interior was mostly shelves and storage cubbies.
Not big enough to sleep in, barely large enough for one to stand in. Tank suspected that the woodwork would prove, under a heavy rain, to leak like a sieve. It was the cheapest possible excuse for a merchanting wagon he’d ever seen, and told him everything he needed to know about their actual status in Yuer’s eyes at the moment.
Two guesses who’ll be repairing any leaks if it starts raining, he thought sourly. As if I would know what the hells to do.
“I thought you were going to get us killed!” Dasin said, as though desperate to prompt any reaction at all.
Irritation with the situation in general loosened the restraint on Tank’s tongue.
“Get a spine, Dasin,” he said over his shoulder. Knowing it was a bad idea even as he said it, he added, “Or did Raffin jerk that off too?”
A low growl served as the only warning; Tank’s reflexes threw him sideways as a booted foot slammed through the air where his knee had just been. He spun, dropped into a fighting crouch, then hissed at the shocking, fierce flare of pain that arced from ankle to knee.
“You fucking shit,” Dasin snarled. His pale eyes held a wildness Tank had seen once before; this time Tank, not Allonin, had been the one to push Dasin’s unpredictable temper too far.
Tank didn’t bother answering, knowing Dasin wouldn’t hear it at the moment. Instead, he watched Dasin’s hands, not his mouth: a peculiarity it had taken him some time to learn. Dasin was able to keep his face utterly flat, but his hands always moved just before he charged.
Dasin’s hands twitched. The blond spun, one foot coming up off the floor in preparation for a kick. Tank ducked low and came in faster; Dasin went upside-down hard enough to make him yell. Tank bent the skinny body to lie nearly flat and face down on the floor, legs hoisted high and turned sideways to torso. He put a foot between Dasin’s shoulders and leaned onto it just enough to hold Dasin still. Not elegant, but Dasin’s upper body strength had always been poor. He was most dangerous when he could kick from a braced position.
Tank hoped he wasn’t leaning in too hard. The white-sparkly agony in his legs wasn’t allowing him to gauge pressure very well at the moment. Dasin panted hoarsely, whining a little as he shoved ineffectively with his arms to push up against the pressure and get free.
“Dasin,” Tank said. “Knock it off, I don’t want to snap your damn spine. Hold still.”
Dasin writhed harder, snorting now with the effort. Afraid he really would injure himself, Tank lowered his legs to the ground and hopped back out of easy range as Dasin rolled to his feet. Eyes showing entirely too much white, he came at Tank again, spittle flying from his mouth; Tank put him sprawling on the ground with one quick shove, then stepped back once more, fetching up against a wall this time.
Nowhere left to retreat, and Tank could feel his knees about to give way. Ignoring pain didn’t help when muscles began to fail.
“Dasin,” he said as the blond climbed to his feet again. “Dasin, stop.”
Dasin stood still, trembling with fury, his face dead white and his eyes almost colorless.
“Dasin,” Tank said. “Damnit, look at me, Dasin. It’s me. It’s Tanavin.” When Dasin went this far into a fit, it wasn’t smart to assume he knew who he was looking at.
Dasin took a step forward, drawing his belt knife. He seemed not to hear Tank at all.
He’s going to force me to fight him if I can’t shake him out of this damn fugue—and I don’t think I can swat a fly, right now.
“Come on, damnit, stop!” Tank snapped, desperation infusing the words with more strength than he’d intended to use. To his horror, he heard the tremor of other-voice threading through his tone, turning it into an irresistible—and contradictory—command; but there was no recalling what had been spoken. Adding anything else would just make it worse; all he could do was to hope that Dasin’s brain sorted out stop, not come on, as the relevant order.
Dasin stopped in his tracks, blinking hard. His eyes focused and went vague again; focused on something just past Tank’s right shoulder, so intently that if it hadn’
t been wall behind his shoulders, Tank would have turned to look. Blinked once more, wiped a forearm absently across his mouth, then looked directly at Tank.
“Tanavin?”
Using that name told Tank that Dasin was still at least partially in a haze.
“Yes,” he said, very quiet, very neutral. “I’m Tanavin—” Gods, he hated that name at the moment “—of Aerthraim Family. And you’re Dasin of Aerthraim Family.”
A long moment went by, in which Dasin stared at Tank as though he’d never seen his face before. Then he looked slowly down at the knife in his hand and back up to Tank.
“You’re an ass and a loon, is what you are,” he said at last, sheathed the knife, and added a few more choice descriptions in a flat, dead voice.
Tank stayed still and silent, his expression blank; deprived of a reaction, Dasin scowled, turned on his heel, and stalked towards the wagon.
Tank let out a long, shaky breath, and leaned hard against the wall for support. A moment later he gave up on that effort and slid to sit on the ground, teeth clenched, tears leaking down his face.
Dasin stopped and turned back, his irritable expression shifting to one of sharp alarm.
Tank waved a hand, forcing his breathing even, and said hoarsely, “Fine. Go. I’ll be—just gimme’bit.”
Dasin advanced a step, his frown deepening. “You’re hurt—what happened?”
The thought of Dasin fussing over him brought a surge of acidic near-vomit into his throat. “Just—fine. Muscle cramp. Be fine. Go, damnit, go on. Be righ’ with you. Go.”
Dasin hesitated another moment, then turned stiffly and went to the wagon.
Tank leaned his head back against the wall, wondering how in the hells he was going to get himself up and moving. Without distraction at hand, the white-hot sear had moved into a pulsing, ripping sensation. Walking was out of the question.
You have a gift....
He tilted his head forward slightly, let it fall back against the wall, as though that might shake some other option open to consideration. Nothing presented itself.
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 30