I’ll manage to find suitable company, I expect, Fimre said, sounding supremely unconcerned. His dark stare flickered among the crowd. Eredion followed his gaze and realized that several women were staring at the new arrival with expressions of outright hunger.
I expect you will. Eredion glanced at Fimre’s profile and had to admit: the man was damned handsome, from head to toes, and still carried the resilient grace of youth. Between nobles looking to curry favor with the new power in town while it lasted, and women of all social strata looking for a hit of the exotic, Fimre would have trouble keeping his bed empty, not filling it.
Properly trained kathain were more than just bedmates, however; and even athletic jugglers couldn’t fill those other functions.
You’ve managed without for some years now, Fimre pointed out, apparently picking up on that last thought.
I didn’t have much choice in the matter.
A muscle twitched in Fimre’s cheek. No...I suppose not. You’re something of a legend, you know, back home.
I’m what?
Fimre slanted a sardonic half-smile his way, briefly; then the impassive mask reappeared. I had to fight for the chance to come here as your replacement. There’s quite the welcoming committee waiting for you, Lord Eredion. Even the kathain have been holding contests to determine who’s most worthy of you.
Eredion said nothing, too shaken for coherent reply. A legend? For what? He’d only done what he had to in order to survive. The information put a new spin on Antouin’s recent brutal manners: Heads of Family were hypersensitive to popular favor leaning towards a potential rival.
But Eredion, besides being far back in line, didn’t want any part of leading Sessin Family. He’d made that very clear to Arit, and later to Antouin. So any popularity, however startling, couldn’t possibly have an effect on Antouin’s temper. Having come to that conclusion, he tilted his head and made a quietly inquiring noise by way of a prompt to continue.
A smirk ghosted across Fimre’s lean face. You’re seen as remarkable for being the only desert lord brave enough to stay in Bright Bay over the last few years. Your rescues—the ones who’ve come through Water’s End, at any rate—have spread the word rather loudly about how you’re simply amazing, generous, kind-hearted, and so on. Whenever a Sessin treats a servant or commoner without the same nobility as you’ve supposedly displayed, we’re liable to hear, in the background, “Well, he’s certainly nothing like Lord Eredion.”
Eredion set his teeth together hard and concentrated on walking in a straight line without tripping over his own feet for a while. Stark horror churned nausea through his stomach. That sort of attention would definitely rile Lord Antouin up in short order.
You didn’t know? Fimre seemed honestly surprised.
Around here, Eredion said, I’m more likely to be lambasted as the arrogant bastard who didn’t save someone in time. For every one I saved, five more went under the knife...and memories always run short on gratitude and long on resentment. No. I had no idea. Gods, what a mess!
No wonder he’d been recalled. Antouin would want that burgeoning myth dispelled by reality as fast and as ruthlessly as possible. He’d set Eredion up as the next thing to a torturer if it would stop that chain of gossip in its tracks.
Bitter nausea rose into Eredion’s throat. He swallowed it back and focused on calming himself before his profound distress showed on his face.
Some distance behind them, the northern musicians belatedly swung back into the interrupted tune. Ahead, pipes warbled, talloi-jugglers clicked through complex and noisy dance steps; drummers thundered out an increasingly complicated rhythm.
Eredion wondered if he could break for the western docks, fling himself into the water, and swim to the Stone Islands.
You’d have to go to the furthest of the Scarpane Mountains to entirely get away, Fimre said, more than a little amusement in his voice.
I doubt even that would work, Eredion said sourly.
Likely not. Ah—is this is the Gold Gate I’ve heard of, up ahead? Impressively ugly.
It’s even worse up close, Eredion warned.
I’ll be sure to look at it admiringly as we go by.
Chapter Forty-three
By the time they started east along the Coast Road, Dasin had apparently forgotten the morning’s fugue-fit completely, although he did rub his right shoulder with a puzzled grimace now and again.
“Must have slept on it wrong,” he muttered once.
The burly man riding to the left of the wagon looked sideways across the gap behind the driver’s bench at Tank, but didn’t offer any open comment. The new mercenary—Pin had introduced him as Delt—had promptly claimed the right to ride one of the stately black geldings as a condition of his hire. Tank hadn’t argued it. For all that the blacks were more regal and obviously trained for endurance, Ginibar had a playful and stubborn spirit that appealed to Tank. He had to pay attention when riding her, and that kept him from brooding.
Anything that kept him from thinking too much right now was a damn good thing.
You have a gift... If Seshya died from whatever ailed her, would it be Tank’s fault? Should he have tried—but his stomach rebelled again at the thought, and he shook his head, shoving that question aside. As distraction, he occupied himself with listing, in his head, the types of herbs Teilo had taught him about, wondering which of them Dasin had finally selected for this load, and trying to guess the likeliest.
Dasin sat on the driver’s bench, steering the drayhorse with a defter hand than he’d initially shown with riding. His black gelding ambled sullenly at the back of the wagon. The merchant cast uneasy glances at Delt from time to time, but settled down by mid-morning; which meant he returned to his usual sour, half-hearted sniping manner.
“Don’t see why I need two guards,” he muttered. “Coast Road’s never any trouble, the way I hear it.”
Delt laughed, not taking offense, and spat to one side. “Not for us, it won’t be. So feel free to lose Red, there,” he said amiably, jerking his head at Tank.
Dasin squinted irritably.
“I’m a bit behind on plans,” Tank cut in to stop Dasin from picking a fight none of them needed to get into at the moment. “How much of the load you bought is still with us?”
“All of it. We’re taking this load to Yuer,” Dasin said with a sharp, understanding glance at Tank. “Then Yuer ships it on up north and gives us something to bring back to Bright Bay to sell off to the contacts there.”
“Not much merchanting in that,” Tank commented dryly. “Sounds like a glorified delivery service to me.”
Dasin shrugged. “It’s a trial run to show faith,” he said. “Next trip we start selling. Yuer wanted to see what I would pick out for market this time through, and whether I could keep it all intact along the road. If I meet with his approval this time through, next time outbound from Bright Bay is the real thing.”
Didn’t make proving ourselves easy, did he? Tank thought, looking at the creaking wagon beside him. Even the drayhorse seemed on the exhausted side. Still, it was a beginning, and Dasin had the wits to turn it into something better given the chance.
Tank devoutly hoped that driving Raffin off had been enough to give Dasin that chance. Glancing at the building storm-clouds on the southern horizon, he modified that to a true prayer—not something he did often—for Ishrai to withhold her water-drenched blessing for just a few more critical days. The thin wood of the wagon roof would let through as much as it shielded away.
Give the water to the desert, to your thirsty people, beautiful goddess, he thought, and was abruptly chilled with fear. Could he move weather around, if he tried? Tank had no idea what the limits of a desert lord were; had no idea how much the encounter with Alyea had altered his already terrifying abilities.
Gods grant healing my legs hit the far edge of what’s possible; even that it was a one-time fluke, he thought: and didn’t believe it one bit.
Ginibar skittered, as though re
ading his unease. Worry left him as he brought her back under control.
“Good girl,” he murmured fervently, rubbing the side of her neck, and kept his attention on their surroundings with fair success after that.
With a sharp chill working through the air, the heat inside Yuer’s room was actually welcome for once. More surprisingly, Yuer wasn’t in the thickly upholstered chair he always occupied. The room stayed empty save for a slender young woman who came in to poke the fire and add more logs. Tank watched her without offering to help, mildly surprised at the ease with which she carried heavy chunks of wood and the skill she showed in keeping the fire regulated.
The guards had let them in without protest, their stares no more wicked than normal. Tank and Dasin had sat in their usual chairs out of an absence of anything else to do. Now they sat staring either at each other or at the fire, drumming their fingers on their legs. Dasin whistled tunelessly for a while, then stopped. Tank sat still and sank into a half-trance to pass the time.
After the fourth time the servant revived the fire, she turned to look directly at them and said, in a soft, husky voice that sent a shiver along Tank’s nerves: “You are asked to move your wagon and horses to Yuer’s carriage-house. Once those are settled, you are to select one of the finest samples from your wagon and one of the poorest. Bring them back here along with your trail captain.” She dropped a deep curtsey and left the room without another word.
Dasin let out a low, annoyed snort as they both stood and headed for the door. “Could have said that without us waiting half the damn day,” he muttered.
“Told you we should have brought Delt along.”
Dasin’s jaw set. “He’s not going to be in charge—”
“Yes,” Tank cut him off, “he is. So smile and make nice about it.”
The door shut behind them; the guards barely glanced their way as Tank and Dasin hurried past. Tank found that little reassurance. His nerves were keyed to a prickly near-paranoia at the moment.
“Delt’s older and more experienced,” he said in a low voice as they headed for the stables. “He’s the better one for the job, Dasin. Let it be.”
“He stood by and let Raffin—” Dasin’s voice wobbled silent.
“You got yourself into that,” Tank said brutally. “Wasn’t anyone’s business to haul you out.”
Dasin’s mouth compressed into an ugly expression. “I don’t trust him,” he said stubbornly.
“He’ll do the job he’s hired for and stay out of your bed,” Tank said. “That’s all I care about at the moment.”
Dasin’s slit-eyed sideways glare could have burned through rock. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“You brought it up,” Tank pointed out, not bothering to mention that not nearly enough time had passed for either of them to properly forget the incident. Then again, Dasin might well have done so: he was very good at isolating unpleasant memories into insignificance. “Go move the wagon and pick out your samples. I’ll find Delt and move the riding horses.”
Dasin snorted and stalked away without a backward glance, shoulders stiff.
Yuer was in his usual chair, swathed in heavy brown blankets, when the group reassembled in his living room. His bead-bright eyes fixed on each of them in turn as they settled into chairs.
There was no teapot on the table, nor cups. Tank felt a warning chill prickle up his back; glancing at Dasin, he saw the blond had noticed it too.
“Samples,” Yuer said in a dust-dry voice, staring at Dasin. Heat beat through the room in heavy waves, nearly smothering after the chill outside.
Dasin slid two fist-sized cloth bags across the table. Yuer leaned forward and scooped them into his lap, his black stare never leaving Dasin’s face.
“And these are?” he inquired, lifting each in turn to his nose for a delicate sniff.
“Dried ravann,” Dasin said, “hard to get above the line of the Horn and worth its weight in northern gold.”
“Lavender.” Yuer tossed the bag back onto the table. His lip curled.
“No,” Dasin said. “I know the difference very well, s’e Yuer. This is ravann. It has a more bitter scent than northern lavender, and the dried leaves remain bright green where lavender turns grey.”
Yuer blinked slowly. After a few moments of silence he leaned forward, took the bag up again, and loosened the strings to look inside. His withered lips pursed. “Interesting,” he said. “And the other?” He retied the strings but left the bag in his lap this time.
“Powdered red-moss seaweed.”
Yuer’s eyebrows rose. “Seaweed?”
“Red-moss makes an excellent calming tea for women in childbirth,” Dasin recited. “Moistened into a paste and smeared on open sores, it speeds healing and lowers the risk of infections. It is a favored seasoning, as it has a salty taste, in areas where refined salt is not available.”
Yuer sat back in his chair, staring at Dasin. The array of wrinkles across his face made his expression hard to read, but Tank would have laid money on intrigued coming close to the mark at the moment.
“Seaweed,” Yuer said, musing now. “Do you know, s’e Dasin, I have never had a single one of my carriers bring me this item. Why do you think that is?”
“Because it’s an item used mainly by the poor,” Dasin answered without hesitation, “and made by the poor, as well, so there’s little market for it along the coastal southlands.”
“So then: why would you waste valuable space carrying such an item, as your trade will be all along the southern coastland?”
“Because what I selected to carry,” Dasin said, “has been very carefully washed clean of all sand and grit, and dried in clean conditions. Red-moss seaweed batches made along the coast are normally loaded with seagull shit. That’s why nobles won’t touch it; but this, they’ll buy.”
A long moment of silence dragged. Tank kept his breathing even and his hands relaxed.
“Acceptable,” Yuer said at last, his voice no warmer than before. “I dislike vulgarity, however, so kindly refrain in the future. Why is Raffin not with you?”
“Delt charged less,” Dasin said, not blinking.
Yuer’s thin lips pursed as though to avoid a smile. “Indeed. And when I set the price of his employment, why should that matter?”
“Because the money for the mercenary hires isn’t coming out of your pocket, s’e, but from my profit. All respect, but the price you set for Raffin was too high. He’s not worth it.”
“Ah.” Yuer’s eyes lidded halfway. “You question my judgment, s’e Dasin?”
“Did you ever actually meet Raffin,” Dasin said, “or take someone else’s word? I’ve seen him. Rode from Bright Bay to Obein with him. He’s not worth the coin, s’e Yuer, trust me on that. He’d alienate the customers and the local innkeepers all along the way, and make trading more difficult with every trip. Delt’s more reliable.”
Tank kept his face still against a disbelieving grin, wishing he dared let it creak out just a little. Dasin, when fully focused and in his element, was a different creature altogether; and for the first time, Tank understood why Dasin had been set loose without an Aerthraim Family watcher at his side.
“I see,” Yuer said, his stare switching to Delt, who sat stolidly in his chair. “Delt? Do you have an impression of Raffin to share?”
Delt’s eyes focused on Yuer with impassive slowness. “Someone,” he said without emphasis, “is going to split that man toes to hairline one day.”
Tank let out his breath slowly, closing his eyes. He opened them to find Yuer staring directly at him. “And your impression of Raffin, s’e Tank?” Yuer inquired in a very soft, silky voice.
“I wanted to put him through a wall the moment I saw him,” Tank said bluntly. “Dealt with him for Dasin’s sake, but I was relieved when we parted ways.”
Yuer’s mouth moved into a faint smile. “I see,” he said, sweeping his three guests with a sharp, perceptive stare. “Unanimous agreement. I can’t a
rgue with that. Very well. But—I would very much prefer, in the future, to be consulted before you let one of my suggested staff go, if you would be so kind, s’e Dasin. I’m sure you can understand that, yes? It’s distracting to worry over whether the people I give a job to will be left unemployed at the side of the road a mile past the next town. I don’t like distraction. It does nasty things to my digestion.” He put a hand over his stomach theatrically and sighed.
“As best I can, s’e Yuer,” Dasin said. “I won’t hold to that promise in the face of outrageous behavior.”
“I shall endeavor to avoid sending those prone to disturbing behaviors your way,” Yuer said, and if his voice had been dry before, now it was utterly devoid of life.
Dasin, wisely, bowed his head and shut up. Outside, rain began to patter down in rapidly increasing bursts.
Chapter Forty-four
Kippin lay spread-eagled, hands and feet chained out to full length, on a sturdy, swiveling platform. Currently it was tilted and locked down to allow his head to be higher than his feet, and slightly to his left side; his head lolled to that direction, eyes shut, lips just parted. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. The teyanain had stripped him of all clothes.
Dark tattoos ran along his upper arms, chest, thighs: thick lines, snaking in patterns Deiq didn’t recognize. No doubt they meant something to Kippin.
Above stood empty sky, dark infinity speckled with the million eyes of the gods. All around him lay empty space. A stairway from below gave access to the area; the flat floor under the platform reached a matter of ten paces to each side.
Deiq stood still at the top of the stairs, watching for a time, not moving, not really even thinking. Just standing still, and watching a dying man breathe.
The teyanain hadn’t left much of Kippin, in getting their answers. He’d lost, in the end. He must have known he would, once they’d brought out the athain; yet he’d fought, as though unable to help himself. Just as Alyea had. Just as Deiq himself had done.
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