Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (19 page)

Tank sagged, the high color leaving his face. He sank into a chair, looking dispirited. “I didn’t think of that,” he said in a low voice. “I thought it would be empty.”

“Hardly,” Eredion said tartly. “And I don’t think even Kippin would be that damn stupid.”

Tank dropped his face into his hands, then blew out a hard breath and sat up once more. “Don’t suppose you know where I could get hold of a horse this time of night, then?” he said, his mouth twisting sourly. “Dasin left me behind, and I need to catch up.”

Eredion once more kept his first response silent; it was always the least helpful reaction. After sorting rapidly through several options, he said, “Get some sleep, Tank. A merchant caravan doesn’t move fast. I’ll get you a good horse, and you’ll catch up easily in the morning.”

Tank looked away, his eyes narrowing into a squint as he stared at the carpet. “Can you get that horse tonight?”

“What the hells are you so afraid of?” Eredion blurted, unable to stop himself this time.

Tank’s bright blue stare jerked back up to Eredion’s face like a slap.

“Of
you,”
he said in a low voice. “Of getting drawn back into your godsdamned stupid games. Of seeing
...her...
again.”

Because you won’t want to leave her, if you see her again,
Eredion guessed but didn’t say.
And you know you’ll have to go through Deiq if you want to lay any sort of claim, and you’re not that damn stupid.

Amused, he said aloud, “Alyea left town. She headed south, to find Deiq. And I promised to leave you alone, didn’t I? I’ll hold to that. You’re done with the
stupid games,
as you call them.” He paused, watching the anguish twist in the young mercenary’s freckled face, then added, slyly, “But yet you came rushing over in the middle of the night to tell me that you thought you’d located Alyea’s family. Interesting.”

Tank moved his suddenly-hooded stare back to the floor.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know. Stupid of me.”

“Not stupid,” Eredion said as quietly. “Compassionate.” He paused again, letting a few heartbeats go by as he watched the faint twitches working through the boy’s broad shoulders. “Do you
want
to help find Alyea’s family, Tank? I could use the extra hands, truth be told.”

“I have to catch up with Dasin,” Tank said, the words muffled as though his throat had suddenly gone tight. “He needs me.”

“I can arrange for Dasin to be delayed a bit,” Eredion said unemotionally, and Tank straightened with an intent glare.

“In Sandsplit!” the redhead accused. “You’re in contact with Yuer, aren’t you?” He rose to his feet, almost bristling with sudden rage.

Eredion reflexively moved to set his back to the nearest wall. “I’m not talking about Yuer,” he said, frowning at Tank. “I had someone in Obein in mind, actually.”

Tank stood still, glowering and clearly mistrustful.

“Do you want me to send word to delay Dasin until you arrive, or not?” Eredion said, allowing his tone to emerge harsh and peremptory. Either it would startle Tanavin out of his dangerous mood or it would set off a fight; Eredion didn’t much care which at the moment.

Tank stared, blinked hard for a moment, then shrugged and looked away again. “Sorry. Yeah. Delay him.” His throat worked in a hard swallow. “Don’t...let him know...I’m involved. He won’t stay put if he thinks....” His lips tightened against further words.

“That’s easy enough to arrange,” Eredion said, repressing his lively curiosity over just what was going on. “Right now we both need some sleep. I’ll arrange a room—”

“I have a room. At the Copper Kettle.”

“That’s a long walk from here. I can arrange a room at an inn within the Gates—”

“I don’t mind walking.” Tanavin grabbed up his worn leather pack and started for the door.

“In the morning, then,” Eredion said as the young mercenary went by. “I’ll see you in the—”

The door slammed shut behind the redhead, hard enough to shift a small painting hanging nearby. Eredion allowed himself to roll his eyes and snort in exasperation.

“I should have let him run off, after all,” he muttered to himself as he straightened the painting. “Talk about juvenile.”

As he went back to his rooms, the quiet nagged at him. Servants moved past with midnight-soft steps, checking that tapers remained lit, picking up stray bits of debris, restocking, refreshing, cleaning; readying the palace for the morning’s demands. They spared him respectful nods and moved on, more concerned with their tasks than with middle-of-the-night wanderers. Which was as it should be, day or night. Servants had their work to do, and bowing or scraping to any noble walking by only distracted from that work.

Eredion found it a distinct relief to be ignored. He’d spent too many years watching palace servants grovel, shivering in fear, whenever anyone of rank appeared; seen too many of those servants eviscerated because they dropped to their knees too slowly, glanced up too soon, or even sneezed at the wrong moment.

Thinking back to that time made him itch for a good strong drink, and he remembered an unopened jug of teyanain mountain lightning he’d put aside months ago. One jug wouldn’t help him forget; but it might help him get to sleep, which would serve just as well.

The quiet of his rooms, when he shut the outer door behind him, held a different quality than the hallways he’d just walked through; an occupied silence, a breathing, living, soothing non-sound. He stood in the dark, eyes shut, listening to the soft heartbeat of his suite. From the bedroom came the sounds of Wian turning restlessly in her sleep. Now and again she grunted or snored briefly.

At times like this, in the heart of dark stillness, Eredion often thought he could hear the soft sound of his plants growing, pulling nutrients from the rich soil and stretching their leaves in tiny, sleepy increments towards the approaching dawn light. He smiled to himself, eyes still shut, and moved unerringly across the room to sit in his favorite chair. Sliding his soft indoor shoes off, he wiggled his toes contentedly and leaned back into padded comfort.

Breathing evenly, listening to the quiet, he eased into an aqeyva trance. The craving for a drink slid away; worry faded, painful memories wavered and hazed into ghost-images easy to ignore.

After a time of resting in the calm center of his soul, he realized a phrase had begun running through the back of his mind, a nagging susurrus of something demanding his attention. Carefully, delicately, he turned his attention to it, allowing a detached curiosity to arise.

... a lot of people and horses moving around there at all hours....

Why was that important? Eredion stayed still, breathing in, breathing out, and waited. At last another phrase overrode the first:

... get a horse this time of night....

Implications connected slowly: Tank had been looking for a horse when he heard the news that people were moving around at Lady Arnil’s mansion. What did the two items have to do with one another? Eredion considered, feeling the soft edge of the trance slipping away as he worked it out.

... a lot of people and horses....

Eredion sat up in the darkness, feeling his heartbeat begin to speed up. “What the hells would cleaning servants be doing with horses?” he said aloud. “And how many is
a lot?”

From the bedroom came the sound of Wian rolling over, and a sleepy cough. A few moments later she said, “My lord? Do you need me?”

“Go back to sleep, Wian,” Eredion said, raising his voice a little. “I was only talking to myself again.”

“Did the servants find you?”

“Yes. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.” He laced the words with as much persuasion as he could muster, feeling the strain in the back of his throat as he spoke. The ability to compel was steadily slipping from him; soon he’d be left with only ordinary persuasion as a weapon.

Rosin, fully human, had wielded that weapon remarkably well. But Rosin’s strength had come from a keen understanding of human nature and a willingness to twist that nature like a strand of rope until it turned into something that suited him—or until the target died. His unholy alliance with Ninnic’s child had merely added sledgehammer weight to an already formidable natural talent.

Eredion blinked hard, reflexively repressing the surge of bitter hatred; then, remembering he didn’t have to be afraid of being overheard any longer, let it surface for a moment.

Gods, I’m only sorry he’s dead because I didn’t get to take him apart with my own hands,
he thought.
I wish I could have healed him and torn him apart over and over again.

He indulged in a brief image of what that would have been like, then let it go.
Enough,
he told himself, recognizing the distraction as a ploy by his fears to keep from thinking about the question at hand.

Is Tank right? Could Kippin have been that stupid?

Wian grunted and sighed. Eredion heard her burrowing back under the covers.

He sat still, staring into the dark, until he was certain she’d fallen completely asleep, then stood and moved on servant-quiet feet to collect a few items. A short time later, boots and rain-cloak in hand, knives belted on, he eased through the outer door for the second time that night.

The night air shifted chill and damp against Eredion’s face. He stood in the shadow of a large tree just outside Lady Arnil’s mansion and watched, bemused, as horses and carriages rattled up the front drive. One to three people at a time climbed out and were escorted inside, while their carriages turned for the stables; all as normal and unremarkable as a daytime visit.

How did my people miss this?
he thought, then admitted they’d probably made the same mistake he had: assuming that Kippin wouldn’t be this stupid, and that any activity here had to do with Lady Arnil’s estate being settled.

But the people coming and going didn’t look like Kippin’s thuggish associates. The carriages were drawn by fine horses, the coachmen well-dressed. Voices, even muffled by the sounds of moving wheels and hooves, sounded cultured, not coarse. The visitors were unmistakably noble, and more often than not female. If not for the bizarre time of night this could have been any gathering of city notables.

Eredion’s mouth opened and snapped shut as an idea occurred to him.

“Oh, no,” he said aloud. “Tell me
she
wasn’t this fucking stupid.”

He stared for another moment, watching as a carriage rolled from the stable yard to the front door, collected a finely-dressed young lady, and departed with stately unhurriedness.

“Only one way to find out,” Eredion muttered, then walked brazenly towards the front doors.

Nobody challenged him. The coachmen loitering in the stable yard barely glanced up from their dice and card games. A servant emerged from shadow to bow welcome at the top of the steps as Eredion approached.

“Good eve, my lord. May I have a name to announce you by?”

“No,” Eredion said, a thick feeling building in his stomach, and went by without pausing.

The servant retreated back into shadow without a word, and Eredion yanked the front doors open, anxious to put something solid between his back and the servant’s dark stare.

His sensitive nose picked up hints of the carnage that had drenched the mansion on his last visit, but the cleaning staff had been thorough; he saw no visible trace of Deiq’s rampage. Several walls had been repainted, and new rugs covered the floors. Damaged paintings and tapestries had been replaced, albeit with considerably less expensive versions. Dozens of vases, stuffed with brightly colored, fragrant flowers, stood on occasional tables and small stone pedestals.

Lamps of green oil burned with a steady white flame that lit the area around them almost as strongly as daylight. Aerthraim lanterns. Eredion paused in the front hall and gave those lamps a long, thoughtful stare, thinking about the alliances that hinted at, before moving on.

The sound of chattering and the clink of fine teacups against saucers drew him to the left, around a corner and into a large sitting room. Ten women and two men sat on chairs and couches, sipping tea and talking trivialities. When Eredion appeared in the doorway, the room fell silent, every eye turning to the new arrival.

The thick feeling moved into his throat, preventing speech for a long moment as he stared at the one face that held a distinct shading of alarm at his presence. At last he swallowed hard and said, “Lady Peysimun. We need to talk.
Now.”

The night air breathed chill against his face as Tank strode away from the palace. Night-blooming roses and star-glories spilled sweet aroma through the thin air, and he inhaled, both pleased and perplexed. Those were summer plants; they shouldn’t be blooming in this cold, rainy weather.

He slowed his pace, thinking about the seasons. His sense of time passing had never been good, and the seasons between north and south were so drastically different that he’d completely lost all track of what time of year it was.

There had been
hail
not long ago...and it was raining almost every day
...so it must be winter here. But the flowers seemed to expect summer warmth, so either they were confused or the weather had gone drastically off-track.