Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (32 page)

“Better’n getting hit with holy water,” she observed. “But she gets better, she’s
owing
me. Parsley an’ garlic, yeah, but that pepper weren’t cheap.”

Tank turned and looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “That where the gold you stole from me is going?” he inquired.

“Tuh.” She grinned at him. “Still on about that? Told you I lost it all in the dirt.”

He shook his head, amused.

She sobered. “That beater your boy’s traveling with,” she said, her gaze turning dark. “He’s working the south to get clear of a scandal north of the Hackerwood, way I heard it. Some nobleman’s son took up company with him for a lark and got more’n he counted on. Beater left town in a hurry, with a noose headed for his neck—The son was found in rough shape by the wrong person.”

She paused, watching Tank’s expression, then nodded as though satisfied and went on.

“Don’t think the man as hired you knows about that mess yet, an’ don’t think he’ll appreciate it, way I hear about the man. Not inclined for putting his name next to a noisy problem like that, not with his business being on the delicate side.”

Tank nodded slowly. “Got a name?” He wasn’t about to go to Yuer with
some nobleman’s son, according to a street-thief I picked up.

“Teer, Tyheer, sommat like that,” she said, cocking her head to one side.

He just looked at her.

“Hey,” she said, blinking owlishly, “my memory ain’t always so good.”

“Little Rat,” he said without heat. “How much?”

“Go pay the inn cook for a bag of that pepper so’s I don’t haveta go down on my knees again to that fat bastard the next coupla days,” she said, unflinching. “Man don’t never
bathe.”

His jaw tightened. He swallowed hard against a surge of violent anger, then nodded once.

“Tynere,” she said promptly. “Tynere of Isata. An’ hey, ghost-rid’—”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t hit the cook or nothin’.” Her stare remained even. “We gotta
eat,
ghost-rid’.”

After a long moment, he nodded again. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “Yeah, I know.”

There wasn’t much chance Dasin would have chosen, under Raffin’s influence, to stay anywhere other than the blue-roofed house of Yuer’s allies. Tank left Ginibar at the stable near Cida’s Haven, tossing out an extra silver bit for the stable boy to handle settling the paint mare down; booked a room at Cida’s, then stood in his room staring out the window at the afternoon light for a while, letting the day’s travel fade from his mind.

What if Dasin really does want what he’s walked into this time?
he thought, then shook his head, impatient with himself. Only one way to find out, and he was wasting time. Hopefully Eredion’s promise to hold Dasin against Tank’s coming had been genuine, but nothing would hold a merchant’s trade caravan forever. Dasin was sharp enough, and Yuer impatient enough, to make any delays a chancy business.

After a moment’s consideration, Tank left his sword and harness tucked up under the bed, out of sight. A full sword would be useless in a small indoor room or in a fight against men inclined towards
scrapping.
His long dagger would be enough, if the situation went to that.

He hoped not. Getting into a fight with his employer’s allies would fairly well end any chances of a career as a mercenary. He’d be lucky to get house-guard posts, or even to serve as a bouncer at a Bright Bay bar.

And if Dasin says go away, what then?
he thought sourly.
After blowing myself out of two contracts in a tenday, what chances will I have left?

He squared his shoulders and left the room, careful to lock the door behind him.

Kippin knelt before Alyea, his grey shock fading. His good eye squinted thoughtfully, and he twisted in place to survey their surroundings. He grunted then, and looked back to her, jerking his head impatiently and cutting his eyes down to indicate his gag.

Alyea leaned forward, not leaving her chair. He bent his head to expose the gag knot, and she yanked it loose without any attempt at being gentle. He grunted again, rocking back on his heels and twisting his head as though to release stiff muscles. She sat back, dropping the cloth to the floor with distaste, and watched as he worked his mouth and throat for a few moments.

“Clever,” he said at last, his voice hoarse and raw, and jerked his head again, this time towards the steep drop a few steps away. “Not your idea. You don’t think this way. Must be the teyanain.”

He eyed the chair to her right, then gave a slight head-shake and looked back at her, his expression completely unapologetic.

“Go ahead,” he croaked. “You’re so good at killing, get it over with already.”

She stayed still, surprised at her own calm. “Why are you here, Kippin?” His good eye glittered with dark humor; she added, “Don’t play word games. Answer it straight.”

“Drink,” he said promptly, and lowered his chin to look up at her through a half-closed eye. “Throat’s dry.”

“I’ll give you your own damn blood to drink,” Alyea snapped, sitting forward, then sucked in a deep breath, willing her anger to stay bridled. “You can have a drink after you answer.”

Kippin’s puffy mouth moved in what might have been a smile. “Promises, promises,” he croaked. “Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” Alyea said, refusing to allow herself to be put on the defensive. “I’m deciding whether to gut you for the eagles or kick you over the cliff. Which would you prefer?”

He ducked his head, the half-smile fading. “I thought I was bringing the teyanain a present they’d appreciate enough to let me move dasta and kathain through the Horn,” he said. “Turns out I was wrong, and they took offense.”

“What present—” She stopped, sat forward with a sharp inhale of breath.
“Deiq?”

He nodded, keeping his gaze on the ground.

“You
took him? You said you thought he was a merchant!”

“I
did,”
he said, glancing up at her. His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace, and a fat bead of blood started to the surface of his split lip and slid down his chin. “Right up until he tore through my front doors to rescue you and ripped most of my people to shreds along the way.”

“Looks like you didn’t ask enough questions, after all,” she said bleakly.

“Looks like.” His nostrils flared. “You’ll be glad to know Tevin’s dead. He jumped to protect me when the teyanain attacked. They cut him down in half a heartbeat.”

Alyea swallowed hard, caught between relief and disappointment: part of her howled to have been the one to cut the big man to pieces herself. She realized Kippin was watching her with a canny, perceptive stare.

“You’re just as ugly on the inside as the rest of us,
Lord
Alyea,” Kippin croaked, his sardonic smile returning. “You’d have dealt out just as much pain to Tevin, if you’d been given half a chance. That would have been the next step, you know. If your damned ha’ra’ha hadn’t torn through the doors, it was going to be your turn to hold the whip next. And once you got a taste of what
that
feels like, you’d have done anything I asked of you.”

“I would have killed him,” Alyea said without thinking. Fragments of nightmare chased through her mind: dreams of taking Tevin apart, tiny bits at a time, while he begged her to stop and she just laughed....

“Yes.”

She stared, shocked. “You would have
let
me?”

“Men who enjoy causing pain are surprisingly easy to find,” Kippin said, and managed a raspy laugh. “A broken desert lord is worth more than ten Tevins.”

She sat back in her chair and shut her eyes, unable to comprehend what he’d just said. “You’re more a monster,” she said aloud after a moment, “than Deiq ever tried to be.”

“Take a look at your family home before you say that,” he rasped.
“Drink,
damnit!”

Alyea stood up without looking at him and went to the single door; it opened easily. Four teyanain guards lifted identical inquiring glances.

“More tea,” she said, “and another cup.”

She shut the door without waiting to see if they’d obey, and sat back down, staring at Kippin with a growing sense of cold detachment.

“Killing isn’t what makes a monster,” she said. “It’s the
reason
for the killing.”

He shook his head, a twisted smile on his lips, and didn’t answer that.

A teyanain came through the door. He set a small grey teapot and another cup on the table, then withdrew without a word. Alyea filled both cups, then looked at Kippin again, considering. Residual rage advised her to fling the entire pot of hot liquid in his face; cold calculation stopped her.

“You won’t win this time,” she said flatly, “if you attack me.”

“I’m not
stupid,”
he croaked. He licked his bleeding lips and stared at the teacup she’d left sitting on the table.

She drew her belt knife slowly, her hand tight around the hilt; stood and moved towards him warily, fighting the urge to plunge the sharp blade into every vulnerable spot she could find on his battered body.

It only defines what kind of person you are....

He stayed still, his good eye almost shut, and breathed evenly as she approached. She rested the point of the blade against his spine. Her eyes felt hot and dry, her hands cold and steady.

Nothing in the way of grace....

“Damn
you,” she whispered, and brought the blade down to the bindings around his wrists.

Kippin swung his released arms slowly around to the front, rotating his hands gingerly and hissing a little. He set his hands on his knees and waited as she backed away to stand against the stone wall by the door. Then, making no attempt to undo the ties around his ankles, he hitched himself forward and took the cup from the low table. After draining it with a series of delicate sips, he hoisted himself up into the one northern-style chair and refilled the cup three more times before letting out a long sigh of satisfaction.

Alyea stood motionless, watching him, the knife still clenched in her hand.

The seat he had chosen put his back to her. He didn’t turn around as he said, “What are you going to do with me now, Lord Alyea?”

She drew a deep breath, then sheathed the knife and said, “You’re going to tell me everything about your activities in Bright Bay. Every name. Every contact. No lies. From the beginning. No evasions.”

He laughed, the sound bitter and black. “And why would I do that, Lord Alyea? That’s a gutload of dangerous information you’re asking for, and the worst you can do is kill me for refusing.”

“No,” she said. “That’s not the worst I could do.” She circled slowly to face him, alert for attack. “I can have the teyanain put you in
ugren
cuffs for the rest of your life, and turn you into my slave.”

He blinked at her, his lip curling in faint contempt; that notion didn’t worry him unduly.

“Or I could gift you to Deiq as a slave.”

At that, his hands began to shake: just a tremor, and he did a good job hiding the motion, but she caught the shift all the same.

“I’d kill myself first,” he said thinly.

“Would you?” Alyea settled into her chair and picked up her cup, hiding her surprise at his strong reaction. Something about the notion of being in Deiq’s hands
terrified
him.

She thought of the carnage in her Family mansion, but that wasn’t enough to evoke the terror in Kippin’s eyes. That was only physical damage, and somehow Kippin didn’t seem the type to fear even torture.

What else could Deiq do—could a ha’ra’ha do—to provoke such fear?

Control,
she thought, remembering how she’d taken out the first sets of guards when she’d been captured in Bright Bay. Yes, being “witched” would frighten a man like Kippin.

She sipped the now lukewarm liquid, watching him closely. To test her theory, she reached out with the new, silent voice Eredion had given her access to and said,
I doubt that you’d actually kill yourself, Kippin.

His eyes went wide. He threw up a hand in a warding gesture and hissed at her.
I’ll go over the fucking cliff right now if you do that again!
It came out as a painful, almost teeth-rattling shout, more an overwhelming emotion than a clear sentence.

Threading as much persuasive force as she could into her voice,
willing
him to see images rise into nightmare vision as she spoke, she said, “But you’re not warded with drugs this time, Kippin. I won’t let you go over that cliff. And Deiq wouldn’t, either. He would own you, Kippin. He’d
use
you, and he’d worm his way into your head and order your every breath, until you were a shambling, mindless, broken
wreck—”

His face had gone bone-white, the bruises and cuts standing out in vivid contrast.
“Stop.”

She smiled, sipped her tea, and said nothing. A deep satisfaction swelled her chest. In memory, she heard one of his men—one of the first she’d killed in her attempts to escape, a man named Seavorn—saying:
Oh, I like the sound of that begging; I’ll have more of that....

He dropped his chin to his chest and drew a rattling, hard breath. More quietly, he said, “I should have just killed you.”