Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (46 page)

The guards had let them in without protest, their stares no more wicked than normal. Tank and Dasin had sat in their usual chairs out of an absence of anything else to do. Now they sat staring either at each other or at the fire, drumming their fingers on their legs. Dasin whistled tunelessly for a while, then stopped. Tank sat still and sank into a half-trance to pass the time.

After the fourth time the servant revived the fire, she turned to look directly at them and said, in a soft, husky voice that sent a shiver along Tank’s nerves: “You are asked to move your wagon and horses to Yuer’s carriage-house. Once those are settled, you are to select one of the finest samples from your wagon and one of the poorest. Bring them back here along with your trail captain.” She dropped a deep curtsey and left the room without another word.

Dasin let out a low, annoyed snort as they both stood and headed for the door. “Could have said that without us waiting half the damn day,” he muttered.

“Told you we should have brought Delt along.”

Dasin’s jaw set. “He’s
not
going to be in charge—”

“Yes,” Tank cut him off, “he is. So smile and make nice about it.”

The door shut behind them; the guards barely glanced their way as Tank and Dasin hurried past. Tank found that little reassurance. His nerves were keyed to a prickly near-paranoia at the moment.

“Delt’s older and more experienced,” he said in a low voice as they headed for the stables. “He’s the better one for the job, Dasin. Let it be.”

“He stood by and let Raffin—” Dasin’s voice wobbled silent.

“You got yourself into that,” Tank said brutally. “Wasn’t
anyone’s
business to haul you out.”

Dasin’s mouth compressed into an ugly expression. “I don’t trust him,” he said stubbornly.

“He’ll do the job he’s hired for and stay out of your bed,” Tank said. “That’s all
I
care about at the moment.”

Dasin’s slit-eyed sideways glare could have burned through rock. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“You
brought it up,” Tank pointed out, not bothering to mention that not nearly enough time had passed for either of them to properly forget the incident. Then again, Dasin might well have done so: he was very good at isolating unpleasant memories into insignificance. “Go move the wagon and pick out your samples. I’ll find Delt and move the riding horses.”

Dasin snorted and stalked away without a backward glance, shoulders stiff.

Yuer was in his usual chair, swathed in heavy brown blankets, when the group reassembled in his living room. His bead-bright eyes fixed on each of them in turn as they settled into chairs.

There was no teapot on the table, nor cups. Tank felt a warning chill prickle up his back; glancing at Dasin, he saw the blond had noticed it too.

“Samples,” Yuer said in a dust-dry voice, staring at Dasin. Heat beat through the room in heavy waves, nearly smothering after the chill outside.

Dasin slid two fist-sized cloth bags across the table. Yuer leaned forward and scooped them into his lap, his black stare never leaving Dasin’s face.

“And these are?” he inquired, lifting each in turn to his nose for a delicate sniff.

“Dried ravann,” Dasin said, “hard to get above the line of the Horn and worth its weight in northern gold.”

“Lavender.” Yuer tossed the bag back onto the table. His lip curled.

“No,” Dasin said. “I know the difference very well,
s’e
Yuer. This is ravann. It has a more bitter scent than northern lavender, and the dried leaves remain bright green where lavender turns grey.”

Yuer blinked slowly. After a few moments of silence he leaned forward, took the bag up again, and loosened the strings to look inside. His withered lips pursed. “Interesting,” he said. “And the other?” He retied the strings but left the bag in his lap this time.

“Powdered red-moss seaweed.”

Yuer’s eyebrows rose.
“Seaweed?”

“Red-moss makes an excellent calming tea for women in childbirth,” Dasin recited. “Moistened into a paste and smeared on open sores, it speeds healing and lowers the risk of infections. It is a favored seasoning, as it has a salty taste, in areas where refined salt is not available.”

Yuer sat back in his chair, staring at Dasin. The array of wrinkles across his face made his expression hard to read, but Tank would have laid money on
intrigued
coming close to the mark at the moment.

“Seaweed,” Yuer said, musing now. “Do you know,
s’e
Dasin, I have never had a single one of my carriers bring me this item. Why do you think that is?”

“Because it’s an item used mainly by the poor,” Dasin answered without hesitation, “and made by the poor, as well, so there’s little market for it along the coastal southlands.”

“So then: why would you waste valuable space carrying such an item, as your trade will
be
all along the southern coastland?”

“Because what I selected to carry,” Dasin said, “has been very carefully washed clean of all sand and grit, and dried in clean conditions. Red-moss seaweed batches made along the coast are normally loaded with seagull shit. That’s why nobles won’t touch it; but this, they’ll buy.”

A long moment of silence dragged. Tank kept his breathing even and his hands relaxed.

“Acceptable,” Yuer said at last, his voice no warmer than before. “I dislike vulgarity, however, so kindly refrain in the future. Why is Raffin not with you?”

“Delt charged less,” Dasin said, not blinking.

Yuer’s thin lips pursed as though to avoid a smile. “Indeed. And when I set the price of his employment, why should that matter?”

“Because the money for the mercenary hires isn’t coming out of your pocket,
s’e,
but from my profit. All respect, but the price you set for Raffin was too high. He’s not worth it.”

“Ah.” Yuer’s eyes lidded halfway. “You question my judgment,
s’e
Dasin?”

“Did you ever actually meet Raffin,” Dasin said, “or take someone else’s word? I’ve seen him. Rode from Bright Bay to Obein with him. He’s not worth the coin,
s’e
Yuer, trust me on that. He’d alienate the customers and the local innkeepers all along the way, and make trading more difficult with every trip. Delt’s more reliable.”

Tank kept his face still against a disbelieving grin, wishing he dared let it creak out just a little. Dasin, when fully focused and in his element, was a different creature altogether; and for the first time, Tank understood why Dasin had been set loose without an Aerthraim Family watcher at his side.

“I see,” Yuer said, his stare switching to Delt, who sat stolidly in his chair. “Delt? Do you have an impression of Raffin to share?”

Delt’s eyes focused on Yuer with impassive slowness. “Someone,” he said without emphasis, “is going to split that man toes to hairline one day.”

Tank let out his breath slowly, closing his eyes. He opened them to find Yuer staring directly at him. “And
your
impression of Raffin,
s’e
Tank?” Yuer inquired in a very soft, silky voice.

“I wanted to put him through a wall the moment I saw him,” Tank said bluntly. “Dealt with him for Dasin’s sake, but I was relieved when we parted ways.”

Yuer’s mouth moved into a faint smile. “I see,” he said, sweeping his three guests with a sharp, perceptive stare. “Unanimous agreement. I can’t argue with that. Very well. But—I would very much prefer, in the future, to be consulted
before
you let one of my suggested staff go, if you would be so kind,
s’e
Dasin. I’m sure you can understand that, yes? It’s distracting to worry over whether the people I give a job to will be left unemployed at the side of the road a mile past the next town. I don’t like distraction. It does nasty things to my digestion.” He put a hand over his stomach theatrically and sighed.

“As best I can,
s’e
Yuer,” Dasin said. “I won’t hold to that promise in the face of outrageous behavior.”

“I shall endeavor to avoid sending those prone to disturbing behaviors your way,” Yuer said, and if his voice had been dry before, now it was utterly devoid of life.

Dasin, wisely, bowed his head and shut up. Outside, rain began to patter down in rapidly increasing bursts.

Kippin lay spread-eagled, hands and feet chained out to full length, on a sturdy, swiveling platform. Currently it was tilted and locked down to allow his head to be higher than his feet, and slightly to his left side; his head lolled to that direction, eyes shut, lips just parted. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. The teyanain had stripped him of all clothes.

Dark tattoos ran along his upper arms, chest, thighs: thick lines, snaking in patterns Deiq didn’t recognize. No doubt they meant something to Kippin.

Above stood empty sky, dark infinity speckled with the million eyes of the gods. All around him lay empty space. A stairway from below gave access to the area; the flat floor under the platform reached a matter of ten paces to each side.

Deiq stood still at the top of the stairs, watching for a time, not moving, not really even thinking. Just standing still, and watching a dying man breathe.

The teyanain hadn’t left much of Kippin, in getting their answers. He’d lost, in the end. He must have known he would, once they’d brought out the athain; yet he’d fought, as though unable to help himself. Just as Alyea had. Just as Deiq himself had done.

Ha’ra’hain vision gave Deiq a clear picture of the scene; plenty clear enough to see when Kippin’s eyes opened. The human rolled his head, wincing; licked torn lips, winced again. Let out a rattling cough. Blinked swollen eyes and looked around.

His gaze fastened on what could only seem, to him, a tall outline against a darker swatch of night. He croaked something, but his voice was too ruined; Deiq didn’t understand the words.

It might have been a plea.

Deiq moved forward the ten steps to stand beside Kippin’s platform-prison. The human blinked, squinted: then his whole body abruptly went rigid.

“Nhhhhhh....” A long, despairing moan, and two rasping but understandable words: “She
promised.”

“Never promise what you can’t deliver,” Deiq said, very softly. “Open your mouth, Kippin.”

“Nhhh.”

Open your mouth, Kippin,
Deiq said into the man’s mind, delicately tickling the right connections.

A heavy shiver worked through the human’s body. Even as his mouth opened, he made a faint gagging sound. Deiq lifted a long teyanain dagger into Kippin’s field of view, watching the already white-rimmed eyes widen further.

Deiq drew in a shallow breath and made a subtle adjustment to his own biology. His blood heated instantly, swelling veins into sharp relief all over his body. Blinking against the nagging pain of that, he brought the blade and his opposite hand together over Kippin’s open mouth, slit a neat line along the pad of his forefinger, and let a drop of blood fall.

“Keep your eyes open. I’ll force it again, if I have to.”

Kippin twitched and whimpered; he had no urine left to spill. He kept his eyes open wide.

He screamed, as the first drop landed in his right eye. The sound warbled into an entirely new pitch of agony with the left eye. Both clouded over with a thick white glaze almost immediately.

“Quiet,” Deiq said without emotion. “Turn your head.”

Kippin’s whole body writhed and strained against the chains; his head jerked over after a moment. The held scream gurgled in his throat.

A drop in that ear. “Turn the other way.” A drop in the other.

A drop over his heart. A drop over his genitals. One to the top of his head. One to each palm. One to the great toe of each foot.

The wound on Deiq’s finger closed over completely as the last drop fell, and he reversed the tiny change he’d made with intense relief. He could feel internal fluids cooling, veins shrinking; a few minor branches burst under the strain, sending his heart into erratic, hammering bursts of activity. It healed as rapidly as it had failed, creating a wave of dizziness that staggered him a half-step sideways.

He blinked hard, rubbing his hands together, and breathed evenly until his body had returned to balance. Then he took the two steps needed to stand looking down into Kippin’s face.

“These are the last living words you’ll ever hear,” Deiq said dispassionately. “From now until eternity, Kippin. You won’t die from hunger or thirst. The birds picking you apart, little by little—you’ll heal such nibbly little damages as that. The acid burn you’re feeling right now, everywhere I dropped my blood: that won’t fade. And you’re going to live a very long time, Kippin. Bound. Blind. Deaf, very soon now. Mute. Neutered. Helpless. In agony.
Alone.”

Kippin breathed in great rasping gasps. “Nhrrrrr.” Not a word: a tongue-frozen moan.

Deiq didn’t answer. He slid a tendril of thought into the maze of an already fracturing human consciousness, found the lens of awareness, and turned it back in on itself with a deft flick.

Kippin’s own mind would do the rest of the work.

“You may scream now,” he said. “If you like.”