Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (18 page)

Deiq, a scant handful of days before, could have had Tank returned to the Aerthraim Fortress; that would have netted him a strong chance of alliance with the austere Family, a prize well worth hunting after. But Deiq had made no protest; he’d even encouraged Tank to leave.

Which could have had something to do with Alyea....

Tank sighed and scrunched his eyes shut. Thinking of Alyea reminded him that Eredion and Alyea had themselves let him walk away, just now. They could have used his help; Eredion’s exasperation would have been obvious to a blind man. But Tank
wouldn’t
go south again, not for any money or prize.

Still, he’d been lucky to avoid being forced back into the southlands again. He knew it, and the knowledge made his precious freedom feel vaguely sour. Luck didn’t last forever. At some point, perhaps even the very next time he let himself be dragged into the affairs of the important, he’d have much more trouble getting back out to the simple, mercenary life he craved.

I didn’t ask for any of this.
That was a child’s whine:
Unfair!
he wanted to shriek. On the heels of that impulse followed the familiar simmering rage. He sighed, shaking aside old memories along with the now-tepid water as he rose from the tub. No point being maudlin or—as Teilo had accused—childish. Done was done, and tomorrow was what needed to be looked at, not yesterday.

He tucked the rage away in its well-worn corner as he dried off and dressed. By the time he stepped back out to the street, it had subsided to the usual thin, dark coiling in the back of his mind, like an invisible whip that wouldn’t quite hold still.

The sun had long since set by the time Tank, bathed and with a full meal in his stomach, returned to the Copper Kettle, where he and Dasin shared a room.

But: “He’s gone,” the innkeeper at the Copper Kettle said as Tank entered, squinting, an oddly amused look in his eye. “Left you a note, though.”

He reached under the counter and produced a folded-over sheet of scrap parchment. After handing it to Tank, he rested his elbows on the counter, propped his chin on his hands, and smirked.

Tank looked at the smudges the man’s dirty fingers had left on the outside of the note, flipped it open and saw the same marks inside.
Dasin left it unsealed on purpose,
he thought resignedly after scanning the short message.

“Thanks,” he said aloud, and put a half-silver on the counter. “For tonight.”

The innkeeper hesitated, eyes on the coin, then shook his head. “He paid through the next five days for you,” he said. “Even meals.” The smirk returned, insinuation heavy in the stare.

Tank retrieved the coin without comment and turned away before he put a fist into the innkeeper’s face.
Thanks, Dasin,
he thought bitterly as he headed to what had been their room.

Once safely behind a locked door, candles casting their light in small pools around the room, he sat on the one wobbly chair and tossed the note on the small table with a disgusted grunt. It fell open to lay almost flat, and he couldn’t help reading it again:

Tank—Looks like we’re parting ways. Turns out Raffin can give me more of what I need.—D.

“Damnit, Dasin,” Tank said aloud, and rose to pace the room restlessly.

He could get another contract easily enough through the Hall, even one that paid better than the share of profits Dasin had planned to offer. But Dasin, for all his bluster, wasn’t
ready
to handle Yuer on his own. Yuer liked to play games, to twist people into doing what he wanted without their realizing it. For all that Dasin was a sharp merchant, he displayed remarkably little common sense in some situations, and Yuer would quickly have him crawling to order.

And that wasn’t even a drop in the ocean to what
Raffin
would likely have Dasin doing....

Tank said out loud, “It’s not my problem. He made his choice.”

The sound of his own voice made him grimace ruefully.
Now I’m talking to myself...Alyea would be going after him.
The second thought seemed to come out of nowhere. He turned around, scanning the room to see if someone else had appeared behind him, but the room remained empty but for the sound of his increasingly harsh breathing.

“Alyea’s a raving romantic innocent,” Tank muttered under his breath, feeling defensive.

But she wouldn’t abandon her friends. Dasin needs you, and you know it.

“He’s got the right to do what he wants. We had no hire contract.”

He’s angry and hurt that you walked off on him. Raffin and Yuer between them will be able to talk Dasin into doing anything if you’re not there. He’ll be carrying and selling dasta in no time, and anything else Yuer wants to peddle. Or any
one....

Tank shut his eyes and shook his head hard. “Stop that,” he muttered, dizzy with disorientation, and listened to the silence with vast relief.

He just needed some sleep. He’d feel better after some sleep...and then he’d get up and go find another contract. Maybe take ship to the northern city of Kismo, see how his luck held there. Any route that would keep him from crossing paths with Dasin.

As he blew out the candles and settled into bed, he ignored the tiny, nagging voice in the back of his head that insisted leaving Dasin in Raffin’s company would be a dreadful mistake.

Just after the Palace Bells struck the midnight hour, he got up, fumbling in the darkness; lit the thickest candle on the table, then stood in the middle of the room, staring at the flame with a sense of aggrieved despair.

“Gods
damn
you, Dasin,” he muttered at last, and reached for his clothes and pack.

Of course Dasin had given Raffin Tank’s horse; and of course there weren’t any other horses available for purchase in the middle of the night.

The stable boy was grumpy enough over being roused from his sleep that Tank gave him a half-silver to avoid future problems: not so many stables in Bright Bay, and fewer that catered to odd hours.

The silver brightened the boy’s sour mood enough for him to offer, “Nothing for sale here,
s’e,
but I hear as there’s a place over the edge of town keeps odd hours like this, has people in and out on horses all times of day and night. Might be your gold’ll be welcome there.”

He tossed the silver half-coin into the air and caught it, as though to emphasize the color. Tank shook his head, not sure whether he should feel amused or annoyed, and said as lightly as he could, “I’m out of that color. Hope they take lesser, or labor in trade.”

“Huh,” the stable boy said, shrugging, and turned away with a dismissive flick of one hand.

“Where is this place?” Tank asked.
Edge of town
meant nothing in a city this vast.

The boy stopped, looked over his shoulder, and said archly, “I’m out of that information.”

Tank grunted resignedly and dug into his belt pouch.

“Amazing. You can turn silver into gold. Ought to send you off to study with the Aerthraim. Western edge of town, big white shell-brick wall around it. Used to be old Lady Arnil’s place—”

—blue and white curtains fluttering, blood streaking her arms, and that
smile,
that detached, dead expression that said: you’re
mine—

Oh, gods, that’s where they took Alyea, that’s where—
nausea surged into his throat, barely swallowed back in time. The memories were all too clear.

“I know where that is,” Tank said hoarsely. “I think it’s empty these days.” Had to be. They’d rescued Alyea from there; Deiq wouldn’t have left anyone alive in the process, if he could go by Alyea’s understanding of the situation. “Your information’s out of date.”

“Since yesterday?” the stable boy said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I can’t be faulted for being a day late—Hey! Where are you going?”

Night brought with it agonizing memories and a flood of self-recriminations. Eredion hadn’t slept a solid sunset to sunrise in over ten years. It made him feel
old,
and worn-out at a bone-deep level; and since the death of Ninnic’s child, his reserves of energy had been steadily failing.

If he returned to Sessin Fortress now, he could probably regain his vigor and strength in short order. But he’d worked so
hard
to bring sanity back to this city, and so much still needed to be done.

He sat in one of the small palace gardens, looking up at the stars and a half-moon, and watched the scudding clouds signal more rain by morning. A chill wind shivered through the plants and bushes around him, many damaged by the recent erratic weather changes. The rattling, slithery sound of yellowing and brittle leaves slapping together reminded him of another matter he needed to take up with Oruen at some point soon.

The weather was likely to get
much
worse before long, and he had no idea how to explain that without going into far too much detail about issues not meant for northern ears, even those of a king.

Maybe he should have let Scratha’s letters get through after all...let the blame fall there, and
telabat-nia-tabalet,
as the southern saying went;
play the game already on the table.
But having diverted the messages once meant he’d had to divert them all; and there was no way to explain that deception to Oruen without landing in more trouble than Scratha already had hanging over his head.

“Lord Sessin?” a servant called from the arched entry to the palace proper. “Are you there, Lord Sessin?” His voice had the hopeless resignation of having called this question out multiple times already without any response.

Eredion hauled himself to his feet with a grunt.

“Yes,” he called back. “What is it?”

“A visitor for you, Lord Sessin,” the servant said, clearly relieved. “Waiting in the blue meeting room. I didn’t think it right to allow him through to your rooms in the middle of the night, even though he
said
that’s what you would want—”

“Who is it?” Eredion said sharply.

“He gave his name as Tank.”

Eredion stood still for a moment, blinking at the vague, starlit silhouette of the servant waiting for an answer. He thought about Wian, fast asleep in their once-more thoroughly rumpled bed, then said, “You did right. Take me to him.”

The blue meeting room was the smallest of the public meeting rooms, and the plainest. Putting Tank there was a snub by a status-conscious servant annoyed over the midnight visit. The redhead seemed completely unconscious of the slight; he was pacing the room, deep in his own thoughts, when Eredion stepped through the door.

“Tank,” Eredion said cooly, determined not to make the same mistake twice. “You’re up late. Can’t sleep?”

Tank, at the far end of the room, shrugged and came forward three cautious paces, eyeing Eredion as though uncertain whether they were friends or foes.

“Have you found Alyea’s family yet?”

“Not yet, no. It’s only been—”

“I think I know where they are.”

Eredion kept his mouth shut on the first, sarcastic answer that came to mind and studied Tank thoughtfully. The boy looked like he could use about a week’s worth of sleep himself, and the tight wildness in his eyes warned Eredion to use caution. His encounter with Alyea had obviously rocked the boy’s senses into complete chaos; he was probably hearing voices bouncing around his skull, telling him gods only knew what.

He
ought
to knock the boy out and hold him in a secure location until his wits sorted themselves out; but the only places that came to mind as strong enough were the cells below the palace, and the emotional residue there would drive the boy completely mad.

“Where?” Eredion said at last.

“Lady Arnil’s.”

Eredion set his teeth in his tongue, drew a deep breath, and let it out before answering.

“Why do you think that?” he said with as much patience as he could summon.

“I heard there’s a lot of people and horses moving around at all hours there, and it ought to be empty—”

“Tank,” Eredion interrupted, “it’s being
cleaned.
Those are a dozen servants moving around there, just as there are at Peysimun Mansion now. It’s a big job. And putting Alyea’s family there would be absurd; it’s hardly useful as a hiding place with all that activity going on.”