Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (36 page)

The king startled, his dark eyes narrowing sharply. “Disposable?”

“If you prove to hold the same taint as Mezarak and Ninnic,” Eredion said, “and decide to kill any desert lords within reach—Sessin Family expected me to die a long time ago, Lord Oruen. I think they’re even faintly disappointed I survived through it all.”

Oruen’s face lost color. He stared at Eredion with something close to horror.

“I haven’t been considering only Sessin Family interests,” Eredion said with care, well aware of the listening Hidden—and how many of them still had dual allegiances. Not all were to Sessin, either. “I see the Northern Kingdom as a critical part of the world, Lord Oruen, and I think you’re a sane and intelligent enough king to make a good start on repairing the damage Mezarak and Ninnic did to our respective peoples. But if you fall by your own ignorance or recklessness, we’ll be faced with an entirely new king, and by the genealogy tables I’ve studied, not nearly as good a one. Very few southern Family nobles would see that quite so clearly, or have a care past their own borders. I can’t do anything about that, but I
can
keep you from stepping in over your head before you’re ready to handle the consequences, at least. That’s all this was.”

He motioned to the letters on the table again.

“So if you want to ban me from the city, Lord Oruen—I’ll go, and gladly; I’m damn tired lately, and a rest would be nice. But you don’t really want that. You’re posturing to get something, and I understand what and why: so instead of puffing up at each other like a couple of prime toads, let’s talk about Peysimun Family.”

He drew a deep breath, relaxing his throat from the strain of pacing and pitching that long speech; from the strain of constant, minute adjustments to match each tiny twitch of reaction. He wasn’t at all surprised by the king’s stillness throughout, or the betraying jerk of surprise at the end.

“I’m that easy to read, am I?” Oruen muttered, scowling.

“For a desert lord, yes,” Eredion answered, not bothering to mention that very few desert lords could have pulled off what he’d just done: played a king like a northern fiddle. Wian hadn’t been the only one to learn a few things from Rosin and Kippin.

Moving slowly, Oruen turned to his chair and sat down. He was silent for a few moments, rubbing one knuckle against his chin, his gaze distant and thoughtful. At last he said, “Lord Eredion. Have a seat, if you would.”

Eredion took a chair across from the king without protest. He kept his breathing even, aware that the king—and certainly his Hidden—would pick up on a sigh of relief; kept his face expressionless for the same reason.

“What is it you have to tell me?” Oruen said, his gaze focusing on Eredion.

“It regards Lady Peysimun.”

Oruen blinked twice, his lips pursing, and made a softly inquiring sound. That stopped Eredion from what he’d intended to say: Oruen wasn’t showing nearly the startlement that statement should have provoked.

“I take it you already know somewhat of the matter,” he said dryly.

“I do have a
few
Hidden that report to
me
first,” Oruen commented, his mouth quirking. “But do tell me what you know, Lord Eredion. I expect it will fill in some gaps for me.”

Eredion measured his breathing with care to bring his suddenly lurching heartbeat under control. When the hammering had stopped in his ears, he said, “I have not subverted your Hidden, Lord Oruen.”

Oruen arched an eyebrow. “Lady Peysimun, if you would,” he suggested. “That interests me rather more at the moment.”

Eredion bit the inside of his cheek, considering which road to follow. “She’s allied with Kippin and Kam,” he said, and shot a questioning glance at the king.

“Yes.”

“She’s turned against Lord Alyea.”

“Yes.”

“She’s holed up in Lady Arnil’s mansion.”

Oruen’s face went still. He didn’t say anything.

“Ah, good,” Eredion said, unable to resist. “I have hold of something you don’t know already.” Oruen’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Eredion grinned at him and went on, “Apparently Kippin gifted her the entire estate before he left town.”

“The estate wasn’t Kippin’s to give away,” Oruen said thinly. “I claimed it as due for crimes committed against the crown.”

“Lady Peysimun doesn’t believe that,” Eredion said. “She believes Kippin and Kam’s version of events, which is rather different than ours.”

“I imagine so.” Oruen leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. “So her kidnapping was a fake.”

“Yes. It was intended to distract and delay Alyea, I think. But as Peysimun is a desert Family, I was able to step in to handle the local search for Lady Peysimun and send Alyea off to warn the southlands and search for Deiq.”

Oruen’s eyes tightened at the corners; he clearly didn’t want to be reminded that his former lover had gone chasing off after Deiq. “Does that deception fall under desert law or northern?” he said curtly.

“Desert,” Eredion said promptly. “It involved only members and allies of Peysimun Family. Her appearance at Lady Arnil’s mansion, and her stated alliance with Kippin and Kam, however, falls under northern law entirely.”

“As a member of a new desert Family—” Oruen paused and shook his head, expression sour. “Hardly desert, when the estate is in the middle of Bright Bay! This is ridiculous. We’ll have to come up with an entirely new term for this, you realize.”

“Desert Family will do for now,” Eredion said. He didn’t mention that the loremasters would be the ones to come up with that new name, and were already twittering madly, like the flock of starlings he had once compared them to, over that exact matter. It would likely be years before any official term was allowed into use.

“Desert Family, then,” Oruen conceded. “As such, where on the scale does Lady Peysimun’s immunity fall?”

Eredion sat back in his chair with a show of considering the question. “Any direct blood relative of Lord Alyea’s shares the same immunity as Lord Alyea herself, unless specifically revoked by Lord Alyea in her role as Head of Peysimun Family,” he said with deliberately flat inflection.

Oruen grimaced. “So I can’t touch her.”

Eredion cleared his throat, trying not to look smug. “Actually, Lord Oruen....”

The men still lounged in front of the house, like a set of local drunks that wouldn’t ever quite leave the tavern yard. Tank approached with less aggression than before. He met the eyes of the leader as the man rose and said, “Afternoon,
s’e.
I’m looking for Dasin. He here?”

The tall, broad-faced man grinned, revealing missing teeth, and spat to one side. “You’re learning some manners. Bit late. I hear you don’t work this route no more. Which means, in case you don’t understand that nice language,
piss off.”

Tank stayed still, feet planted solidly. “Man left without giving me my final pay,” he said. “And I’ve news to tell him that might change his mind about firing me. If he’s here, I’ll ask for a word with him.” He kept his tone flat, leaving it clear that
ask
wasn’t really the word being used.

If he needed to, he’d use the
other
voice—the one Alyea had learned about, the one he’d known about himself, in a vague sort of way sharpened by his recent encounters with her. They would damn well move out of his way, from one reason or another.

Tank really didn’t want to use that weapon unless he had to. For one thing, being labeled a witch was deadly dangerous around these men; for another, the concept of bending another person to his will made him feel more than slightly ill.

Nobody else had stood; the man didn’t look round to check on their reactions. He studied Tank with narrowed eyes, then broke into a wide grin.

“Sure, then,” he said. “His room’s down the right side hallway, second door on the right.”

Tank nodded and went on into the house without another word. Oddly, as he walked through the front room and along the dark inside hallway, he felt no nerves or tension. Everything seemed sharp-edged and detached, without any emotional weight.

He wasn’t surprised at the sharp and the soft sounds coming from beyond the second door: the man outside had clearly been hoping for the amusement of seeing Tank charge in and start a vicious fight over Dasin being with Raffin.

Not your lucky day on that,
Tank thought, testing the latch gently. Handling this particular problem wasn’t so much about saving Tank’s relationship with Dasin
—that
was fairly well wrecked already—as it was about salvaging Dasin’s career with Yuer. Charging in, howling for blood, wouldn’t help either aspect much.

He pushed the unlocked door open and stepped one pace inside, his jaw tightening.

Raffin looked up, his face creasing into a harsh smirk. Dasin was curled on the bed, arms up over his head, shivering. Livid stripes across pale skin showed where the riding crop in Raffin’s hand had already come down multiple times; bright, but not lasting, Tank judged unemotionally. Most of the marks would fade within a day, and only a few had drawn blood. Raffin hadn’t really gotten started—hadn’t even undressed yet.

“Kinda busy,” Raffin said. Dasin began to look up. Raffin tapped his shoulder with the crop.
“You—
stay where you’re at.”

Dasin instantly curled into a tighter ball, head tucked against chest, hair falling to obscure face and vision.

Tank drew a deep breath, then said flatly, “Touch him with that whip again, Raffin, I’ll shove it up your ass and break both your hands.”

Dasin twitched, almost uncurling at the sound of Tank’s voice; trembled and stayed still.

Raffin sneered. “You can try it. Don’t think you’ll manage that, boy. And who says this ain’t been asked for? Just because it ain’t your road don’t mean someone else can’t enjoy it.”

“This what Tynere of Isata asked for, too?” Tank said. “You think Yuer’s going to like hearing about that mess? You think
he’ll
care whether it’s been asked for or not, here or there? Dasin’s a
merchant,
Raffin, not your whore.
You
work for
him.
Turning that around won’t work, and Yuer knows it.”

Raffin took a long step around the edge of the bed, his tanned face darkening further as he snapped, “I’ll see you
buried,
you try that!”

“Don’t matter if you bury me on the spot,” Tank said, not moving. “Word’s
out,
Raffin. You picked up a nobleman’s son for your games, and northern nobles don’t let that sort of insult go just because you leave town. Yuer’s going to hear about your mess soon, and you’ll be wishing you’d opted for the noose. Take the chance and get out of here now, I’ll make your excuses. Maybe down south, working for some desert Family, you’ll find a place for your fun. But not here, and
not
Dasin.”

Raffin stood still for a long moment, glaring. Tank moved aside a long step, leaving the doorway clear, and said, “Get out, Raffin. Now. Before Dasin says for sure whether he asked for this or not; because if the answer’s
No,
I’ll break more than your hands on my way to your throat.”

“You’ve got an opinion of yourself,” Raffin said, amusement returning to his expression. “You think you can put a scratch on me? Try it.” He started forward.

Tank caught his eye and said, with all the ferocity at his command,
“Stop.”

Raffin staggered and almost fell over; Tank had caught him mid-step.

The silence hung for a moment, as the color washed out of then back into Raffin’s face like an accelerated tide. Then Tank said, very quietly, very flatly, “I won’t scratch you if you come at me, Raffin. I’ll kill you. Now get out.”

“You’re a
witch!
That’s not right—witching a man! You come at me fair if at all!”

“I’ll come at you with whatever I want,” Tank said. “You’ll still be dead at the end of it.”

“I’ll see you hung for a witch,” Raffin said, his face twisting into a near-snarl.

“Out,
or you won’t get the chance.”

The silence after that stretched; finally broke, with Raffin’s booted feet harsh on the wooden planks and the slam of the door behind him.

Tank shut his eyes and inhaled a long count of five. On the outbreath, he said, “Dasin. Get dressed.”

A faint whimper answered. Tank didn’t say anything, his jaw locked against the words that wanted to emerge, his eyes resolutely shut.

“I didn’t,” Dasin whispered. “Tank, I—”

“Shut up. Get dressed.”

Slowly, movement: the sound of clothes being searched out, a few faint hisses and whimpers as they were pulled on. When the
clok
of hard bootheels on board sounded, Tank let out another long breath and opened his eyes.

Dasin stood, hunch-shouldered and still shivering as though chilled through and through, his pale eyes huge and lost in a pasty-skinned face. His lower lip was puffed and split, and a bruise had begun to form along his left temple.

“I didn’t think—” he began.

“Get your pack,” Tank said, not moving. “Go out the window. Move
fast,
you hear me? Go to Cida’s Haven. Room three.” He reached into his belt pouch and tossed the key at Dasin. “Lock yourself in.
Stay
there. I’ll be there soon.”

Dasin caught the key and stood staring at it for a moment, as though bewildered. He looked up at Tank as though about to speak again. Tank returned a flat, emotionless stare that visibly choked off Dasin’s attempt to organize words. The blond swallowed hard, then grabbed up his pack from the corner. Crossing to the window, he yanked open the shutters and scrambled outside with surprising speed.

Tank let out another breath, hearing footsteps rattling into the house from the front courtyard. He moved to set his back more securely against a wall and waited.

The heavyset leader shoved the door open and came into the room fast, his gaze going to the open window. Tank moved fast himself: stepped sideways to slam the door shut, then dropped the latch and set his back against the wall beside the door before the tall man could do more than whirl round.

“Never did get your name,” Tank said conversationally. “As we’ll be working together a bit, I think that might be a good idea. I’m Tank. You?”