Deiq shut his eyes and shook his head slowly. “Damnit,” was all he said, in a tone devoid of emotion or inflection.
Nobody said anything for a while.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eredion said at last, suddenly feeling very weary, and let caution fly out the window. “I’m not going back to Sessin. Alyea’s not going back to the south, and neither are you, ha’inn. We’ve all made our choices. Fimre’s a young ass with a rude awakening on the way, and he’d see me thrown to the snakes before offering me help, if helping me caused him the least bit of trouble. Without Sessin backing, I have no standing here in Bright Bay, and a double handful of political enemies who’ll drag me down in a heartbeat. As head of her own Family, Alyea has a hellacious job ahead of her, and needs all the help she can get. That the two of you got—married—”
He stumbled over that word, and saw Deiq’s eyebrows arch in sardonic acknowledgment, but nobody interrupted.
“—makes that one nightmare of a hellacious job. And Deiq—well, you’re seen as a rich merchant by most and a deadly threat by a few, and you’ve limited your own dodging ability by getting married to a new power. It’s all completely insane, so we might as well agree to work together to get through it. What options do any of us damn well have, if we want to survive?”
“Kill us now and get it over with,” Alyea murmured, scarcely audible. To Eredion’s surprise, Deiq laughed.
“Compelling argument,” he said, leaning forward to refill his wineglass. “Let’s take a moment to define working together.”
“Eredion,” Alyea said promptly, “would you consider joining Peysimun Family?”
Mid-sip, Deiq sprayed wine halfway across the room. “Holy fucking gods!” he coughed. “That’s not half jumping in the deep with the first word!”
Eredion leaned back in his chair and let out a bellow of laughter. It felt ridiculously good, as though all the tension in his body and mind simply dissolved with the sound.
“You don’t even know what you just asked of him, Alyea,” Deiq said, shaking his head as Eredion wound down. “Gods, that’s the cart not just in front of the horse but ahead of the fucking purchase of goods!”
“No,” Eredion said, holding up a hand. He had to fight not to laugh over Deiq using coarse northern swear-words; it seemed so incongruous. “No, it’s all right, Deiq.”
“All right, hells! Alyea, you don’t ask a sworn desert lord to just—abandon his Family, not so directly, out of nowhere. It’s not done.”
“I was asked with little more ceremony than that to join Toscin.”
Eredion’s eyebrows went up nearly to his hairline. “When was this?”
“On my way south.” She glanced between them, her eyes narrowing. “He gave his name as Jin of Toscin.”
“Holy gods, that’s brazen,” Eredion said. He set his empty wineglass down on the table, deciding he’d had more than enough already. “Deiq is right. It’s not normally done so bluntly. The normal way is to coax. Suggest. Seduce, if you don’t mind the term.”
She smiled; Deiq grinned. Eredion resisted the impulse to roll his eyes and went on:
“You never say it directly. Asking outright like that—it’s very poor manners, at best, and outright dangerous at worst.”
“A desert lord changing Family alliance isn’t a casual matter,” Deiq said, amusement fading. “Even one desert lord changing their oath over to another Family can significantly shift the overall political balance.”
Eredion nodded. “If I swore over to Peysimun, for instance, your Family would hold two full desert lords; one as head of house, one an experienced statesman with—apparently—something of a reputation. I’m a prize, Alyea, and I say that without ego. Politically, swearing me over probably counts more than five youngsters straight from the trials would.”
“You’re a prize yourself, Alyea,” Deiq remarked, “because you’re female. The last female desert lord I can think of was Azaniari Aerthraim-Darden, and that set off the gods’ own ruckus. I’m not surprised Toscin came after you; I am surprised they were so blatant about it. You turned them down, obviously?”
“We were interrupted,” Alyea said. “By an owl hooting nearby. It was a late-night conversation. Jin said something about the owl being the favored animal of the teyanain, then spooked out and never came back.”
Deiq said nothing, his eyes half-lidded and lips pursed, for a few moments. Then: “He’s probably dead. The teyanain wouldn’t have appreciated him trying to poach you over while in their territory; and if they heard him being that blunt over it, they would have been seriously offended. Damn shame. He sounds like an interesting one. I’d have liked to meet him.”
Alyea looked down at her hands. “I thought—probably something like that,” she admitted quietly. “I hoped I was wrong.”
“No. There’s not much happens in the Horn the teyanain don’t know about.” Deiq sighed and arched his back in a yawning stretch. “He was a fool to try it.”
“Toscin doesn’t usually let fools out in public,” Eredion observed.
“No. They don’t. But nobody’s perfect, and even smart people make dumb mistakes at times.” Deiq flicked a hand as he settled back into his chair, dismissing the matter.
Eredion caught the faint warning glint in Deiq’s glance and let the subject drop. Deiq likely knew something he wasn’t saying; and trust meant not pushing him to explain.
Alyea seemed to be thinking the same way. She stared at Deiq with a distinct frown, then shrugged and relaxed.
“All that aside,” she said, returning her attention to Eredion, “lack of ceremony and rudeness and political shifts all by the way: what can I offer you to make joining Peysimun an attractive option, Lord Eredion?”
“Better, if still far too blunt,” Deiq said, not smiling. “At least that’s a question he can answer with dignity intact.”
Eredion leaned further back into his chair, thoroughly shielding his thoughts as a matter of habit. “I think,” he said at last, “that I need to respectfully request an extension on answering that question, Lord Peysimun, if I may.”
“Take your time, Lord Eredion,” Alyea said gravely. “I’m not going anywhere. Come back to me with your answer when you’re ready.”
Eredion nodded, then moved matters back out of the formal area. “I should let you two get some sleep,” he said, standing. “It’s been a long day for all of us.” And Eredion still had a discussion to hold with the king, before he turned in, on the matter of Kam’s voluntary surrender and its implications. “I’ll come by with Lord Fimre tomorrow, for formal introductions, if that’s acceptable.”
“Of course,” Alyea said, rising. “Thank you, Eredion. For everything.”
He bowed to her, then to Deiq, and retreated with a profound sense of relief.
Chapter Fifty-seven
In the wake of Eredion’s departure, the room seemed very quiet, even with servants clearing trays and glasses from the tables. Alyea moved around the room restlessly, not wanting to face Deiq; not sure if she was still angry at him over walking off so abruptly that afternoon or just generally irritated with an increasingly complicated situation.
“Alyea,” Deiq said, “that was a good job with your cousin. Damn good job.”
She nodded, not even annoyed that he’d evidently lifted the memory from her mind without a twitch of respect for privacy. Desert lords never really do have any privacy, Eredion had said; and married to a First Born ha’ra’ha, she doubted she ever would again. No point getting upset over it any longer.
A faint ripple of amused agreement came from Deiq; she ignored that, too. After her talk with Kam, she had much more important issues to be angry over. One of which involved Nem, but she’d handle that in the morning.
“So what’s my title going to be now?” Deiq asked. “I’m curious what you’ve come up with.”
She turned and found him smiling; amiable and relaxed, but watching her with a narrow intentness all the same. “What do you think it ought to be?” she threw ba
ck at him. “What’s your preference? Deiq of Stass? Deiq of Bright Bay? Lord Peysimun?”
He grimaced at the last name. “That would cause too much confusion, for northerns,” he said. “You’re Lord Peysimun.”
“Yes....” She turned away again, pacing along the length of the room; pausing to pick up and examine small statuettes, carvings, empty vases as she went. Their heft and smooth curves reassured her. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t much care for titles,” he said after a few moments of quiet. “I’m more than content to stay Deiq of Stass, and be your rich merchanter husband.”
She turned to look at him, caught by something in the way he’d said that, and found him sober now, unsmiling. “Why would a northern noblewoman marry a merchant, however rich? After the king himself had made advances?”
He sat still, watching her with an odd expression. “Maybe because the merchant threw himself at her feet and begged.”
Breath stopped in her chest for a moment at the humiliation that story would serve up to Deiq’s pride.
“No,” she said, barely able to voice the word aloud. “I won’t do that to you, Deiq.”
“There’s always the option of leaving it as a great mystery,” he said, smiling a little now. “Let them wonder.”
“I like that idea,” she said, relieved. He held out his hand, palm up, inviting. She came a few steps towards him, then stopped. His face took on a wary cast, and he dropped his hand.
“Should I plan to sleep in the Tower tonight?” he said, harsh lines settling across his face.
“No,” she said. “No, that’s not it.” She looked around the room. “This is all—so strange. I remember playing in this room as a child. There was a rug—with green and blue squares on a black background, a very strange rug. My mother—Hama—let me play on it because she said it wasn’t worth anything so I wouldn’t do any harm if I damaged it. I don’t know whatever happened to it. When I grew up, it disappeared. She probably threw it out.”
Deiq didn’t say anything.
She looked back to him. “What games did you play, as a child? Where did you grow up? What—You had parents, didn’t you? What were they like?” She heard her voice going higher and tighter with each question, and couldn’t stop herself.
He shut his eyes, his mouth tight. “You don’t—want—Don’t, Alyea. Don’t. Please. You don’t want the answers.”
“Why not?” she said, all her nerves suddenly raw as though seared by a momentary flame.
“Because if you stop thinking of me as human,” he said, not opening his eyes, “I’m afraid I will too.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
Eredion sat quietly, waiting for the king and reflecting that he was getting awfully tired of seeing the king’s casual room. Or any other part of the palace, for that matter. He wondered, not for the first time, if the Stone Islands were as wild and beautiful as he had heard; and while the odd ice storm had come through Bright Bay over the years, he’d never actually seen snow. That seemed, suddenly, a terrible lack.
Eredion breathed through his nose and counseled himself to patience. Thinking about trivial matters, like adventuring beyond the bounds he’d tamely lived within for his entire life, would only distract him from the moment’s necessities.
It didn’t do to be distracted around any king, much less Oruen. The man was getting sharper by the day.
The hidden door—one of them; Eredion had long ago picked out two entrances on each wall, only one of which was a “proper” door—opened, and Oruen came in. The king looked tired, as always. His dark hair, even tied back and brushed neatly, hung limp, and there were bruised areas under his eyes. Most telling of all, he moved as though every step, even every blink, took tremendous effort. Eredion felt a pang of sympathy for the man.
“I’m sorry to keep you from your much-needed rest, Lord Oruen,” Eredion said, standing and offering a deeply respectful bow.
Oruen snorted. “Nothing to do with you. I haven’t slept more than two hours at a time for three months now. Always something wakes me up, and then I stare at the ceiling, thinking of what I should have done better, what I can do tomorrow...Sit down, Lord Eredion. What is it this time?” He lowered himself into his chair, wincing a little.
Eredion sat as slowly, frowning. “I wasn’t aware you were having that much trouble sleeping.”
“Oh, I exaggerate. Never mind me. What are you here for, Eredion?”
Eredion looked at the too-rigid posture and too-dark eyes and seriously doubted the king had exaggerated. “Lord Oruen, your health is more important. If you’ll allow me, I can—”
“Witch me asleep? No. Thank you, Eredion, but that would set up a howl in the court that I don’t want to deal with. I’m fine. Get on with your business.”
“I was actually only going to suggest some herbal teas,” Eredion said. “Very safe, and more effective than your northern ones would be. There’s an herb similar to your northern lavender, called ravann. If you’ll permit, I think a cup before bedtime would ease your dreams considerably.”
“If agreeing will shut you up, fine,” Oruen said testily; but Eredion saw relief flicker in the king’s eyes for a moment. “Will you tell me your business now, or would you like to talk about the different grades of salt that pass through my kingdom?”
Eredion repressed a smile. “I thought you might have some questions for me, actually, Lord Oruen,” he said. “About Kam.”
Oruen rubbed both hands over his face. “That’s the young man who so conveniently turned himself over and begged to be put into prison this afternoon, and has been spilling everything he knows about a number of illegal, border-crossing activities ever since? What in the world would I want to ask you about on that subject, Lord Eredion? It was a marvelous attack of conscience on his part. No doubt the gods intervened.”
Eredion grinned, just long enough for the king to see it, then carefully schooled his face to sobriety again. “Absolutely, Lord Oruen.”
Oruen sat with his eyes shut for a moment, then sighed and gave Eredion a weary stare. “I understand Alyea is back in town. Excuse me. Lord Alyea. Lord Peysimun, even.” He rubbed a hand over his face again. “And ha’inn Deiq, of course.”
“They came in this afternoon,” Eredion said blandly. “I believe Alyea plans to present herself to you tomorrow, when they’ve rested.”
“I could have wished for Deiq to stay gone until we had Lord Fimre sorted out,” Oruen muttered, just audible. “Did you take him on a tour today?”
“No. He’s not willing to venture out into damp, cold weather, and by the time today’s drizzle cleared I’d already given up and left him to amuse himself. I advised him against exploring on his own, but he’s got his own mind, that one.”
Oruen squinted. “Aggressive, young, and ignorant. I know how to handle that with northern nobles, but with Fimre—What the hells do I do with him? No—never mind. We’re both too tired for that discussion.”
“It’s not actually difficult,” Eredion said. “Fimre’s entourage won’t stay here for long. It was a show, not a household he brought along. Some of them will slip off into the city—There’s no stopping that,” he added as the king glared. “Most of the others will quietly take ship back south. By the time I hand official liaison duties over to Fimre, he’ll be able to take over my palace apartments without any fuss at all. And you treat him as you’d handle any arrogant young northern noble; when he pushes, push back harder. Finding him kathain will be the most challenging situation, but again, I imagine we can easily find a few properly trained—”
“Child-whores?” Oruen interrupted, his expression thunderous.
“No,” Eredion said patiently. “I’ve gone over this with you, Lord Oruen. True kathain are nothing like the children in those wretched katha villages. Please, reserve judgment until you’ve met a few. That’s all I ask. It’s not in any way a form of slavery or whoring.”
Oruen shook his head, still frowning, but let the subject drop. “Is th
at all, then?”
“I had thought,” Eredion said cautiously, “to inquire on the matter of Lady Peysimun.”
“No,” Oruen said. “Now that Lord Alyea has returned, your responsibilities to Peysimun Family are ended, as is your right to hear anything on their internal matters.”
Eredion nodded, not at all surprised; even pleased. It had been exactly the right response. Oruen was going to be just fine on his own. “Then—good night, Lord Oruen. Gods hold you lightly.”
“May they ease your path, in turn,” Oruen returned, already yawning.
Eredion slipped from the room and started back to his suite. On impulse, he changed direction halfway there and went to the kitchens instead.
“The head cook?” he asked of servants as he neared the area. Following their directions led him to a large room off the ovens room, the doorway of which was covered with a thick drape to shut out light. Inside were a dozen beds, all collapsible cots. Eredion made out the bulk of tables folded away neatly against the walls.
He grinned, impressed at the organization. On high feast days, when every bit of prep room was needed, this sleeping area would quickly turn into an additional work area.
He pushed the curtain aside just enough to see his way into the room, then eased over to the cot closest to the doorway. Before he even came within arm’s-reach, the occupant sat up.
“What’s that, then?” she demanded in a low, harsh voice. “Another problem with the damned left-side oven?”
“No,” Eredion said, squatting by the side of the cot. “Just a question, s’a, if you would.”
Just enough light filtered in through the opening he’d left for him to see her head tilt with recognition of a noble speech pattern. “My lord,” she began.
“Shh, no,” he said hastily. “Nothing to be formal over, s’a, please. Let’s not wake your people. I only have a question, and I’ll leave you be. There’s a young woman been training here, a servant girl of promise with pastries and seasonings. She came last night to stay with your staff. Which cot is she on? Her name—”
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 46