“And how much of that came from words the teyanain gave you to twist me around?”
“Holy gods, you are a horse’s ass at times.” She rolled clear of him and stood, grabbing a grey robe hanging nearby.
“It’s a reasonable question—”
“No,” she said, “it’s not.” She turned to glare at him as she yanked the belt of the robe tight around her slender waist. “The teyanain had no knowledge I was going to ask you to marry me. Gods, you saw Lord Evkit’s reaction! Do you think that was fake?”
It might well have been, on consideration, but her outrage was real enough.
“All right,” he said. “I’m sorry. This is—a big step for me.”
Bound. Oh, yes, he had questions for her, once they left the Horn. Until then—play it calm, quiet, reasonable. Sane.
“And not for me?” she retorted. “I’m well aware we just upset half the world with this arrangement. I just put a great big hunting target on my back, Deiq, for your sake. I’m now one of the most desirable targets in the world for kidnap. Assassination. Blackmail. So is my Family. Want to talk about big steps? You just married into an extensive family that is not going to like you at all. A family that is going to rake me over the coals for this decision. Including Oruen.”
“Oruen?” he said, startled out of his previous thoughts.
“Bright Bay nobles are all related to the royal line. That’s what makes us noble, Deiq. Oruen’s my cousin. Third removed, I think.”
He just stared, witless over that—I’m related through marriage to Oruen now? Then he dismissed the information as largely irrelevant. “You’re one of the most dangerous targets in the world right now,” he pointed out. “Nobody’s going to be stupid enough to touch you.”
“Unless they want to get at you,” she said.
“There’s very few with the balls to try for that,” he said, amused, “and we’re sitting in the middle of the main nest at the moment. I’d say it’s something of a moot point, Alyea. Whoever might be willing to try for one of us—won’t be brave enough to get the teyanain involved as well. And I just sealed an alliance with the teyanain that makes them honor-bound to guard my back.”
Allies, but not friends. He’d made a near-fatal mistake by forgetting that distinction.
“And you guard theirs.”
“In a sense. Yes.” He’d find a way to serve the teyanain interests the way Evkit had just served him: count on Evkit watching for that, count on it taking years to get a chance to deliver his own revenge. He’d wait. He had time.
“So I’m also allied with the teyanain, by marrying you.”
“Yes.”
She let out a long, troubled breath. Her gaze flickered around the room.
“Good to know,” she said, plainly not any more inclined to discuss sensitive matters here than he was.
He held out a hand. She came back to him, let him pull her in close. He ran a hand over her face, over the tiny nubs of the scars, the betrayal she didn’t even understand she’d delivered him into. She held still, watching his face with a wary alertness. He moved his hand to her throat, feeling for the nearly invisible bump at the base, in the notch of the sternum: the scar every desert lord carried from the blood trial of Ishrai, when they were themselves bound into service.
It was there—of course it was there. As was the shimmering energy line, when he looked for it: the binding every desert lord carried. Had he expected otherwise? But he wondered why the teyanain hadn’t put the symbolic line around her throat for the ceremony, as marker that she already carried a commitment to serve the ha’reye and ha’ra’hain.
Skin moved under his hand as she swallowed. He took his hand away and sighed. Who knew why the teyanain did anything. Perhaps they’d seen it as redundant symbolism, given what they were about to do.
Bound. He’d explain it to her one day—maybe. If she hadn’t known, it would tear her apart with guilt; and if she had known what she was doing—he didn’t actually want that answer confirmed. Because there was a good chance, if she had done this intentionally, that he would tear her apart himself. He couldn’t afford to look for the truth. Couldn’t afford to ask. Couldn’t afford to know.
He smiled at her, bleak hatred—at himself? at her?—swirling through his veins for just a moment.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” he said, “and then I’d really like to get out of here.”
Her wariness lightened into a simple human happiness he envied. “That sounds wonderful,” she said, and went after clothes without the least hesitation or doubt.
Chapter Fifty
The Black Horse Tavern proved to be a popular gathering spot when rain was thundering down outside. Tank stood just inside the doorway, a puddle rapidly forming around his feet, and looked in vain for Deea. Just as he was about to back out into the rain and try somewhere else—perhaps even the desperate last resort of asking Yuer for a pipe and a bag of aesa—she appeared at his elbow, clucking.
“You’ll have someone slip in that mess,” she snapped at him, “and then we’ll have a fight. Tempers always get cranky in this weather.” She shoved a thick, coarse towel at him, and threw another, mud-colored one at his feet. “Step on that. Don’t you own a rain cloak? Good gods, you’re not half a loon.”
He grinned at that, and she paused in her scolding to study his face.
“I remember you now,” she said. “You’re the one travels with Dasin. He on his way in?” She cast a harried glance over the crowded taproom and shook her head. “Don’t have time for him tonight.”
“No, s’a,” Tank said, mopping his face dry. “He sent me today.”
She aimed a fierce stare at him. “Don’t have time for you, neither.”
He felt color flush into his face. “Not that. I don’t mean that.”
Deea squinted at him, obviously puzzled; then her expression cleared.
“Oh,” she said. “He’s out again? All right.” She surveyed the room again. “Safe enough,” she muttered. “Go back of the curtain there, and up the stairs. First door on the left. Shut it behind you and don’t sit on my good chair in those wet clothes. Floor’s good enough, sit on the towel. Stay quiet, don’t poke about, and wait for me, long as it takes. May be a while before I can break free.”
He nodded. She headed for a table whose already-inebriated occupants were holding their mugs up for refills, dodged a swat on the rump as she collected the mugs, then wove through the crowd toward the bar faster than Tank had thought anyone could move through such a packed room.
Most of the male gazes followed her, appreciative. Tank took the opportunity to slide round the edge of the room towards the curtain she’d pointed out.
Halfway there, the occupants of one table turned to look at him as he passed within arm’s reach: Raffin and Delt.
Of course, he thought in the moment before Raffin rose to his feet, scowling.
“Don’t be an idiot, Raff,” Delt hissed. “It’s done; let it be already.”
Raffin loomed over Tank, his glare hot and unfortunately all too sober.
“You,” he said, in a low rumble, “witched me.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tank said. He stood his ground; no benefit to dodging or backing up with someone like Raffin.
“Damn well do,” Raffin said. “You take the witching off me, boy, or I’ll take the important bits off’n you.”
Tank grinned, suddenly understanding the problem. That proved to be a mistake; Raffin growled and swung, instantly enraged. Tank ducked out of the way just in time. In the background, Delt muttered, “Hells with this,” and headed for the door with as much speed as Deea had shown earlier.
“All right, sorry,” Tank panted, dodging another heavy swing. “Hey, I’ll do it, all right!”
“Think I’d rather take you apart,” Raffin snarled. “Don’t trust you far as I could throw a horse. You’d make it worse, I bet, and walk off laughing at me.”
“No—” Tank ducked again,
not fast enough this time. He went sprawling into a nearby table whose occupants had been watching with lively interest. Meaty hands caught him and heaved him to his feet, propelling him back toward Raffin. Laughter and jeers erupted around the room.
“No fighting!” someone hollered from the back of the room.
Raffin’s hands locked into the damp fabric of Tank’s shirt, bunching it tight; he pulled Tank right up against him, his breath hot and sour.
“You take the witching off right now,” he whispered into Tank’s face, “or I’ll have you face down over a table and begging before you know what hit you. I’ve got enough weight in this crowd that nobody will stop me in time, and a hand does as well for the job I’d give.”
Anger smoldered, then caught like lightning-struck deadwood. Tank breathed in sharply, then set his hands just to the inside of Raffin’s hips and shoved—with body, with will, with anything he could summon. The wet fabric of his shirt tore; Raffin stumbled back, crashed across the table he’d been sitting at, then rolled sideways and to his feet with remarkable grace, a knife in his right hand.
Before he could do more than that, Tank was on him. A blow to the stomach doubled Raffin over, another to the side of the head dropped him unconscious at Tank’s feet.
Tank kicked the dagger clear of Raffin’s grip, then deliberately stomped on Raffin’s right hand with everything he had. Bone splintered under his boot; what remained, when he stepped back, was pulped and red. Raffin, half-waking, screeched a thin, shrill cry.
Tank squatted beside the older mercenary, leaned in and said in a low voice aimed at Raffin’s ears alone, “You’re right. I would have made it worse, and laughed at you after. And you ever try for me or Dasin again—I ever so much as see your ugly face in my path again, or trace any trouble in our lives back to you—I’ll witch you into needing to be the one bent over the table, Raffin. You’ll be lucky to fuck so much as a goat ever again.”
He leaned back and rose to his feet, stepping clear; turned to find a room gone silent and staring at him in open horror.
“That’s cold,” someone said, rubbing one hand over the other. “You just destroyed his livelihood, boy.”
“He’s a left-handed fighter,” Tank said, staring the pudgy man down. “Best you stay out of my business, s’e.”
He turned for the door. Nobody tried to stop him. Outside, the rain drenched him sodden and chill within heartbeats, and lightning flickered in the sky overhead, followed by the rumbling boom of thunder.
Aggression faded somewhat, aches beginning to multiply. His jaw hurt, his hip, shoulder, and stomach throbbed as though hit by hammers, and a sharp burning laced along one leg where he’d scraped up against something during his fall. By the time he reached the inn, he was limping and cursing under his breath; by the time he shoved back into the room, he was shivering and staggering.
Dasin jolted to his feet, his face turning a stark white as he stared at Tank. “What the hells happened to you?” he demanded, then shook his head and pushed the door shut behind Tank, dropping the latch. “Anyone following you?”
Tank shook his head, stripped his ruined shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor in a sodden heap. “Ran into Raffin,” he said on a cold-shivery outbreath. “Took care of it.”
Dasin froze, staring wide-eyed. “Dead?”
“Gods get to decide.”
Dasin stared another moment, then shook himself back into action. “You’re bleeding—” He scooped up the wet shirt and wiped at Tank’s torso. The shirt came away heavily streaked with red. “Godsdamnit. He pulled a knife on you?”
“I didn’t think he got me.” Tank looked down, frowning. The line of red was unmistakable: too clean and straight to be anything but a knife-tip swipe. It seemed shallow; he took the shirt from Dasin and pressed it against the cut. “It’ll heal. Don’t fuss.”
“Don’t fuss,” Dasin said blackly. “Don’t fuss? Shitass loon.” He wrapped his hand around the waistband of Tank’s trousers. “Get these off. You’re soaked through.”
“Didn’t get any aesa,” Tank said, allowing Dasin to tug his remaining clothes off. A faint grey haze passed across his vision.
“Shut up.” A damp towel scrubbed over his skin, wiping away the worst of the moisture and warming his clammy skin somewhat. The damp shirt was tugged from his hand; an oily salve smeared and burned across the cut. A length of dry cloth wound around his waist, was tied and tucked with professional swiftness. “Get in bed, loon.”
Thick blankets weighed him down. Dry-skinned warmth pressed up against his back what seemed like moments later. Tank grunted and rolled over, shoving; the warmth grunted back, then rolled to warm stomach and chest instead. It felt good, even as it ached, to press the cut against that solid heat.
“Loon,” the warmth said in a fading voice. Tank tightened his grip and it shut up, or maybe the haze took away its voice. He didn’t much care which.
Some time later, the haze eased to show a lantern-lit room and Dasin, pipe in hand, smoke curling around his face as he exhaled. The air hung thick with the earthy-bitter musk of aesa.
“Found some,” Tank said, easing himself up onto an elbow.
“Delt came by,” Dasin said, then drew on the pipe again; held it, exhaled softly. “Said he’d found some and thought I might like it.” He held up the pipe. “This is mine. The one Raffin took. ‘M guessing so’s the weed.”
Tank held out a hand. Dasin passed him the pipe, took it back in due turn, relit the contents.
“Don’t overdo it,” Tank said. “You run out, I’m not going back to Deea for more.”
Dasin chuckled out smoke and handed over the pipe. “Here, then, you finish it. You earned it, anyway.”
“Did what had to be done,” Tank said. He took one more pull, then leaned over, dragged the empty chamberpot out from under the bed, and dropped the pipe inside. He shot a hand out and caught Dasin’s wrist as the blond reached for it. “Leave it.”
A light twist and a pull brought Dasin sprawling across him. Tank rolled, tugging, to put Dasin on his side, skinny back tucked up against Tank’s chest.
“Delt say anything else?” he said into Dasin’s ear.
“Said you were a fucking loon,” Dasin said. “His words. What did you do?”
“What needed done,” Tank said. “Don’t make me do it again, Dasin. Please.”
Dasin went quiet. Outside, rain pattered in a fierce gust of wind, then subsided. “You’re never going to tell me the half of what you’re into,” he said at last. “You know more about my business than I do on yours.”
“Not much you need to know,” Tank said. “Lot that would hurt you to know, one way or another. Just the way it is, Dasin.”
“Tell me one thing at least,” Dasin said. He twisted to look back at Tank, pale eyes narrowing. “Allo. You were his favorite, and then—you went off north, and next thing I know you’ve decided to never travel south again, and he’s gone walkabout along the coast, and the mahadrae’s icy-cold pissed about it all. What was that about? Did he go after you? Was all that training really just about finding some amusement to warm his tent, and now he’s looking for a replacement...?”
“No.” Tank paused, debating with himself, then said, “Along the road I was—grabbing in my sleep. He couldn’t face talking to me about it, so he started drugging me asleep to make me stop.”
Dasin huffed out a rough snort. “Coward. What the hells did he expect from a child-whore?”
Tank tried not to flinch at Dasin’s coarse wording. “Yeah, well. He ran out of the drug, and fell asleep himself, and I woke up—real close to him, if you see.”
Dasin exhaled. “Yeah. Did he like that?”
“He woke up first,” Tank said. “He yelled and pushed me away, and I woke up and—panicked. Ran. Things went a little...crazed after that.” He paused. “I saw him in Bright Bay, just a couple of days ago. He apologized for—well, a lot of things. He went along the coast because...he destroyed the villages, Dasi
n. Mine and yours, and others. Burned them to the ground. I get the feeling a lot of people died along the way, but nobody we’d ever miss. There’s a
...he called it a kathain collective, something like that, in the Jagged Mountains. They’re being healed and taught how to live free. The mahadrae’s not happy about Allo sticking his neck out that far, I think, is what that’s about. And...Allonin asked me to go help. I said no.”
Long silence. Then, barely audible: “Why?”
“Wanted to come find you and stop you from getting hurt, you stupid ass.”
Dasin lay very still for a moment, his pale blue eyes dry and hard; then he sucked in a sharp breath and rolled away from Tank. His bare feet thudded on the boards as he stood up.
“Give me,” he said without turning, “the fucking pipe. Now.”
Tank retrieved, refilled, and relit without protest. Dasin sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, his back still to Tank. They passed the pipe back and forth, neither one saying anything at all.
At last, the pipe back in the chamber-pot, Dasin turned to look at Tank. His eyes seemed brighter than usual; after a moment, Tank realized he was on the verge of tears. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Don’t tell me anything else, if that’s the sort of thing you think is safe to tell. Just—don’t.”
Tank nodded, blinking slowly. “Won’t,” he said. “Don’t go being an ass again, yourself.”
“Bad joke,” Dasin said, and snorted laughter.
Tank covered his eyes with one hand. “Dasin—gods.” But even under an aesa haze, Dasin rarely laughed so freely; so he gave up and gathered the blond into a tight embrace, thinking: For all that I don’t tell you much, you know me better than you think, Dasin.
There seemed a grey sort of comfort in that; but it would have to be enough for now.
Chapter Fifty-one
The sunny morning had faded to a drizzly early-evening by the time word arrived that Lord Fimre’s retinue was comfortably settled.
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 40