Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (48 page)

She shrugged. “Not everyone knows everything,” she said obliquely. “Some surprising people turn out to know an awful damn lot about some surprising things, though.”

He glanced at the walls reflexively, drawing in a sharp breath. “I see.”

Yes, the teyanain would know more about ha’ra’hain psychology than most humans dared guess at. And they’d had quite a while to talk to her alone.
Devious, indeed. Damn you, Evkit.

“Whose idea was this marriage proposal?”

“Mine,” she said. “I didn’t tell them I was going to do this.” He looked at the serenity in her face and believed her. “You haven’t said yes or no yet, by the way.”

Words failed him again. He put out both hands and dragged her into his lap. She offered no resistance, curling up with her head pressed against his shoulder. Stared at him, dark eyes barely a handspan from his own: unafraid, waiting.

“You’re going to be seen as insane on all sides,” he said.

“I’ll be in good company, then, won’t I?”

“I can’t promise I
won’t
kill you,” he said, agonized honesty surfacing, overriding the saner impulse to gloss a lie that would ease him out of this idiotic situation.

“Same here. You’re fairly aggravating yourself, you know.”

He broke into laughter, helpless to stop himself. Her own sober expression split into another cheerful grin.

“All right,” he said when he caught his breath. “All right. You’ve convinced me.”

“Good.” Before he quite knew what was happening, she’d writhed out of his lap and rolled from the bed.

“What—”

“Let’s go get married,” she said. “You did say you wanted to, right?” She crossed to a tapestry, thrusting it aside to reveal a rack of robes, skirts, and dresses. Nothing the least bit teyanain sober in the mix; the clothes looked to be a mixture of Water’s End brazenry and relative northern modesty.

“But—”

“I’m sure there’s a legitimate priest around here
somewhere,”
she said. “And Heads of Family serve as official witnesses, don’t they? So Lord Evkit could do the job, if we asked nicely.” She pulled something slithery and green from a hanger and held it up, head tilting as she examined the cut.

“You want the
teyanain
to marry us?” Already off-balance, he couldn’t find the words to explain why that was an insane idea, even to himself.

“Why not? Nice big bonfire, remember. And I’m not waiting around for you to change your mind, either.” She held the dress against herself and looked down, assessing the fit.

He stared, mouth hanging open.

“This should do,” she said, then pulled the dress over her head, tugged to settle it in the right spots, and turned to face him. “How’s it look?”

The general line drew the eye from narrow shoulders well down towards the navel, showing generous cleavage; wrapped tightly around her slender hips and flared out on its way to the floor, gathering in an emerald puddle behind her heels. The front hem lay indecently high, by northern standards—more than calves, the damn thing showed
knees,
and the back of the dress only covered the range from the lower spine to the floor.

He couldn’t breathe for a moment; then remembered she had nothing else on underneath and almost choked.

“I think,” he said with care, “I’ll be beating away everyone in ten miles who still has a
pulse.
You can’t wear that for a
wedding!”

“If it’s insane for us to get married in the first place,” she said, reasonably, “what’s the difference? And who’s going to know, except the teyanain—and I doubt they’ll mention it.” She paused, watching his face, then grinned. “And wouldn’t it be fun to watch them trying
not
to stare...?”

He shut his eyes and scrubbed his face with both hands. “Alyea. There’s insane, and then there’s fucking
suicidal,”
he said.
“Don’t
tease the teyanain.”

She made a disappointed sound. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll find something else.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her from behind as she turned to search through the rack. His pulse sped up. “You don’t—have to change out of that—just yet,” he said hoarsely.

She looked at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow arching in mock inquiry, a grin tugging at her mouth. “Not much for delayed gratification, are you?”

“There’s nothing godsdamned
delayed
about that outfit.”

“I’ll be sure to ask if I can take it home with me,” she said, still smiling.

“It’s yours to take,” he said, already moving towards her. “Don’t ask. Not with the teyanain. You
tell
them—” His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her face to his.

“And if they argue?” she murmured against his mouth a few moments later.

“Then
you persuade,” he said, and slid his other hand across various sensitive areas on her body, tickling nerve endings with more than touch. Her response was immediate and gratifying; the dress slid and bunched under his hands, like cool water turned slippery-solid.

With no remaining pressure to feed, he let himself give in to the human side of his urges more thoroughly than he had done for hundreds of years; and Alyea, more than any desert lord he’d ever taken before, matched him all along the way.

The formal audience, as expected, ran long on ceremony and short on content. Also as expected, before they cleared the boundaries of the audience hall Fimre had multiple offers, some subtle, others outrageously blatant, for his favor in or out of bed.

“And they think
we’re
barbarians?” Fimre muttered in Sessin dialect as they worked through the equally crowded hallways. His silken garments were dark with sweat, and his immaculately braided hair had developed a distinct aura of frizz.

Eredion found it dreadfully satisfying that even a young desert lord like Fimre struggled when faced with Bright Bay humidity and hours of political smog. It made him feel less at a disadvantage. And Eredion had received his own share of offers, as well, which didn’t hurt his ego at all.

“This way,” he said without commenting on any of that, and steered Fimre down a slightly less crowded hall, then through an ornately worked door into an empty room.

“Thank the gods,” Fimre said, promptly plopping down in a wide-bottomed chair and fanning himself with one hand. “Thank
you.”

Eredion allowed himself to grin for the first time in hours. “Not done yet,” he said. He flipped the lock on the door over. Moments later, the handle turned, caught, then rattled violently. A woman’s voice uttered a string of vile curses.

“Gods,” Fimre said, staring. “Do these northerns have
no
respect?”

“You’re exotic,” Eredion said. “And I believe that’s Lady Ena out there. She’s
exceptionally
persistent when she’s intrigued. I suggest avoiding her when possible. She likes to brag and sells personal gossip like it’s
suka
taffy.” He turned to face the far wall and whistled; a panel promptly slid aside. “Come on.”

The Hidden in the passage had already withdrawn from sight as they stepped through the opening. Eredion left the panel alone, knowing the Hidden would replace it as soon as they were around the corner.

“This is amusing,” Fimre commented.

“Shhh,” Eredion warned.
This is supposed to be a secret passage; doesn’t do much for that if they hear you talking in the walls.

Fimre snorted, but quietly.
Where are we going, anyway?

To the real audience with Oruen, of course.

Oruen had shown the foresight to have a laden tray and several bottles of fine wine ready in his casual room. Eredion and Fimre, not surprisingly, arrived first and set to work on the offerings. By the time Oruen slipped through another concealed door, the contents of the tray had considerably diminished.

The king waved Fimre back into his seat when the younger desert lord began to rise. He stripped off ornate robes and headdress, draped them over a chair, then sat down on another chair, sighing heavily.

“I hate Special Court days,” he said. “I’ve been in that damned chair since dawn, listening to nobles complain and whine about each other. The most interesting case involved an invasive bamboo planting that went wild over several estates, so you can imagine the rest of the day. I actually prefer normal Open Court days; the commoners usually have quite entertaining problems to solve.” He poured himself a brimming goblet of white wine and tossed it back like a shot of desert lightning, then slouched back in his chair with another heavy sigh. “Welcome to Bright Bay, Lord Fimre.”

Fimre grinned. “I’ve heard Lord Sessin complain along those same lines, Lord Oruen,” he said. “Although I don’t believe he finds the commoners any more interesting than the nobles.”

“I imagine any ruler competent to serve would whine a bit sooner or later,” Oruen said. He shut his eyes for a moment, then leaned forward and grabbed a peasant roll. “You didn’t help my day any, with that damn carnival you brought to town.”

Eredion sipped his wine and made no comment. Fimre’s smile remained amiable. “I’m surprised to hear that Lord Eredion didn’t warn you of that aspect of southern custom.”

Eredion pursed his lips at that sideways attack. Oruen blinked, deceptively slow and lazy, then said, “Lord Eredion has been exceptionally helpful in my understanding of southern custom. Unfortunately, the rest of Bright Bay hasn’t had such direct benefit of his wisdom. My people, from the fishmongers to the nobles within the Gates, are a touch rattled by your flashy arrival. A warning as to the extent would have been nice.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Fimre returned, no less relaxed than before. “The show was intended as an honor, Lord Oruen. I would hope your
...people
understood that. Or perhaps Eredion hasn’t been quite as helpful as you think?”

Oruen looked down at the coarse roll in his hand and sighed again.

“Eredion,” he said quietly, not looking up.

“Fimre,” Eredion said, in Sessin dialect, “stop being an ass.”

Fimre shot him a dark, narrow-eyed stare. After a moment he shrugged and sat back in his chair. “As you like. Lord Oruen. I have somewhere over forty men and woman waiting for me in front of the palace. Do you have lodging for them?”

“Of course I do,” Oruen said with mild irritation. “And for yourself, Lord Fimre. They’re being directed there as we speak.” He slanted a glance at Eredion, then added, “It’s at the western edge of town, I’m afraid, not within the Gates; but it’s the only estate suitable for your unexpectedly large entourage. We’ll try to sort out quarters closer to the palace over the coming months.”

Eredion nodded, amused and intrigued all at once, but left questions for another time.

Oruen returned the nod, then looked back at Fimre, his tone turning desert-dry. “When you say
somewhere over forty,
by the way, I’m assuming you know the exact number—because we do know how to count. I’d take it poorly if your entourage lost any members on the way to your new quarters. Or at any point afterwards.”

Fimre shot Eredion a sour glare and didn’t say anything.

“First thing you need to learn,” Eredion said mildly, “is that the king isn’t a complete idiot.”

“He’ll forget anyway,” Oruen said, smiling, and bit into the roll. “They always do,” he added around a mouthful of crumbs.

Fimre tapped his wine goblet against his chin, his gaze speculative now, and settled back more comfortably in his chair.

Settling Fimre’s large and complicated retinue would take time and inevitably prompt a few fights; Eredion steered Fimre to his own quarters within the palace to wait for word that matters had been sorted out. No point dropping Fimre into more chaos than necessary, and Eredion wanted a word or two with him in quiet and relative privacy.

They had to go through the open hallways this time: the Hidden’s path from the king’s casual room to Eredion’s suite ran past far too many watch posts. Oruen wouldn’t want Fimre knowing the extent of the spy-holes throughout the Palace, and the Hidden would be offended by having their territory invaded by outsiders for mere convenience.