Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (54 page)

“Damn well do,” Raffin said. “You take the witching off me, boy, or I’ll take the important bits off’n
you.”

Tank grinned, suddenly understanding the problem. That proved to be a mistake; Raffin growled and swung, instantly enraged. Tank ducked out of the way just in time. In the background, Delt muttered, “Hells with
this,”
and headed for the door with as much speed as Deea had shown earlier.

“All right, sorry,” Tank panted, dodging another heavy swing. “Hey, I’ll do it, all right!”

“Think I’d rather take you apart,” Raffin snarled. “Don’t trust you far as I could throw a horse. You’d make it
worse,
I bet, and walk off laughing at me.”

“No—” Tank ducked again, not fast enough this time. He went sprawling into a nearby table whose occupants had been watching with lively interest. Meaty hands caught him and heaved him to his feet, propelling him back toward Raffin. Laughter and jeers erupted around the room.

“No fighting!” someone hollered from the back of the room.

Raffin’s hands locked into the damp fabric of Tank’s shirt, bunching it tight; he pulled Tank right up against him, his breath hot and sour.

“You take the witching off right now,” he whispered into Tank’s face, “or I’ll have you face down over a table and begging before you know what hit you. I’ve got enough weight in this crowd that nobody will stop me in time, and a hand does as well for the job I’d give.”

Anger smoldered, then caught like lightning-struck deadwood. Tank breathed in sharply, then set his hands just to the inside of Raffin’s hips and
shoved—
with body, with will, with anything he could summon. The wet fabric of his shirt tore; Raffin stumbled back, crashed across the table he’d been sitting at, then rolled sideways and to his feet with remarkable grace, a knife in his right hand.

Before he could do more than that, Tank was on him. A blow to the stomach doubled Raffin over, another to the side of the head dropped him unconscious at Tank’s feet.

Tank kicked the dagger clear of Raffin’s grip, then deliberately stomped on Raffin’s right hand with everything he had. Bone splintered under his boot; what remained, when he stepped back, was pulped and red. Raffin, half-waking, screeched a thin, shrill cry.

Tank squatted beside the older mercenary, leaned in and said in a low voice aimed at Raffin’s ears alone, “You’re right. I would have made it worse, and laughed at you after. And you ever try for me or Dasin again—I ever so much as see your ugly face in my path again, or trace any trouble in our lives back to you—I’ll witch
you
into needing to be the one bent over the table, Raffin. You’ll be lucky to fuck so much as a goat ever again.”

He leaned back and rose to his feet, stepping clear; turned to find a room gone silent and staring at him in open horror.

“That’s
cold,”
someone said, rubbing one hand over the other. “You just destroyed his livelihood, boy.”

“He’s a left-handed fighter,” Tank said, staring the pudgy man down. “Best you stay out of my business,
s’e.”

He turned for the door. Nobody tried to stop him. Outside, the rain drenched him sodden and chill within heartbeats, and lightning flickered in the sky overhead, followed by the rumbling boom of thunder.

Aggression faded somewhat, aches beginning to multiply. His jaw hurt, his hip, shoulder, and stomach throbbed as though hit by hammers, and a sharp burning laced along one leg where he’d scraped up against something during his fall. By the time he reached the inn, he was limping and cursing under his breath; by the time he shoved back into the room, he was shivering and staggering.

Dasin jolted to his feet, his face turning a stark white as he stared at Tank. “What the hells happened to you?” he demanded, then shook his head and pushed the door shut behind Tank, dropping the latch. “Anyone following you?”

Tank shook his head, stripped his ruined shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor in a sodden heap. “Ran into Raffin,” he said on a cold-shivery outbreath. “Took care of it.”

Dasin froze, staring wide-eyed. “Dead?”

“Gods get to decide.”

Dasin stared another moment, then shook himself back into action. “You’re bleeding—” He scooped up the wet shirt and wiped at Tank’s torso. The shirt came away heavily streaked with red. “Godsdamnit. He pulled a knife on you?”

“I didn’t think he got me.” Tank looked down, frowning. The line of red was unmistakable: too clean and straight to be anything but a knife-tip swipe. It seemed shallow; he took the shirt from Dasin and pressed it against the cut. “It’ll heal. Don’t
fuss.”

“Don’t fuss,” Dasin said blackly. “Don’t
fuss?
Shitass loon.” He wrapped his hand around the waistband of Tank’s trousers. “Get these off. You’re soaked through.”

“Didn’t get any aesa,” Tank said, allowing Dasin to tug his remaining clothes off. A faint grey haze passed across his vision.

“Shut up.” A damp towel scrubbed over his skin, wiping away the worst of the moisture and warming his clammy skin somewhat. The damp shirt was tugged from his hand; an oily salve smeared and burned across the cut. A length of dry cloth wound around his waist, was tied and tucked with professional swiftness. “Get in bed, loon.”

Thick blankets weighed him down. Dry-skinned warmth pressed up against his back what seemed like moments later. Tank grunted and rolled over, shoving; the warmth grunted back, then rolled to warm stomach and chest instead. It felt good, even as it ached, to press the cut against that solid heat.

“Loon,” the warmth said in a fading voice. Tank tightened his grip and it shut up, or maybe the haze took away its voice. He didn’t much care which.

Some time later, the haze eased to show a lantern-lit room and Dasin, pipe in hand, smoke curling around his face as he exhaled. The air hung thick with the earthy-bitter musk of aesa.

“Found some,” Tank said, easing himself up onto an elbow.

“Delt came by,” Dasin said, then drew on the pipe again; held it, exhaled softly. “Said he’d found some and thought I might like it.” He held up the pipe. “This is mine. The one Raffin took. ‘M guessing so’s the weed.”

Tank held out a hand. Dasin passed him the pipe, took it back in due turn, relit the contents.

“Don’t overdo it,” Tank said. “You run out, I’m not going back to Deea for more.”

Dasin chuckled out smoke and handed over the pipe. “Here, then, you finish it. You earned it, anyway.”

“Did what had to be done,” Tank said. He took one more pull, then leaned over, dragged the empty chamberpot out from under the bed, and dropped the pipe inside. He shot a hand out and caught Dasin’s wrist as the blond reached for it. “Leave it.”

A light twist and a pull brought Dasin sprawling across him. Tank rolled, tugging, to put Dasin on his side, skinny back tucked up against Tank’s chest.

“Delt say anything else?” he said into Dasin’s ear.

“Said you were a fucking loon,” Dasin said. “His words. What did you
do?”

“What needed done,” Tank said. “Don’t make me do it again, Dasin. Please.”

Dasin went quiet. Outside, rain pattered in a fierce gust of wind, then subsided. “You’re never going to tell me the half of what you’re into,” he said at last. “You know more about my business than I do on yours.”

“Not much you need to know,” Tank said. “Lot that would hurt you to know, one way or another. Just the way it is, Dasin.”

“Tell me one thing at least,” Dasin said. He twisted to look back at Tank, pale eyes narrowing. “Allo. You were his favorite, and then—you went off north, and next thing I know you’ve decided to never travel south again, and he’s gone walkabout along the coast, and the mahadrae’s icy-cold
pissed
about it all. What was that about? Did he go after you? Was all that training really just about finding some amusement to warm his tent, and now he’s looking for a replacement...?”

“No.” Tank paused, debating with himself, then said, “Along the road I was—grabbing in my sleep. He couldn’t face talking to me about it, so he started drugging me asleep to make me stop.”

Dasin huffed out a rough snort. “Coward. What the hells did he
expect
from a child-whore?”

Tank tried not to flinch at Dasin’s coarse wording. “Yeah, well. He ran out of the drug, and fell asleep himself, and I woke up—real close to him, if you see.”

Dasin exhaled. “Yeah. Did he like that?”

“He woke up first,” Tank said. “He yelled and pushed me away, and I woke up and—panicked. Ran. Things went a little...crazed after that.” He paused. “I saw him in Bright Bay, just a couple of days ago. He apologized for—well, a lot of things. He went along the coast because...he destroyed the villages, Dasin. Mine and yours, and others. Burned them to the ground. I get the feeling a lot of people died along the way, but nobody we’d ever miss. There’s a
...he called it a
kathain collective,
something like that, in the Jagged Mountains. They’re being healed and taught how to live free. The mahadrae’s not happy about Allo sticking his neck out that far, I think, is what that’s about. And...Allonin asked me to go help. I said no.”

Long silence. Then, barely audible: “Why?”

“Wanted to come find you and stop you from getting hurt, you stupid ass.”

Dasin lay very still for a moment, his pale blue eyes dry and hard; then he sucked in a sharp breath and rolled away from Tank. His bare feet thudded on the boards as he stood up.

“Give me,” he said without turning, “the fucking pipe. Now.”

Tank retrieved, refilled, and relit without protest. Dasin sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, his back still to Tank. They passed the pipe back and forth, neither one saying anything at all.

At last, the pipe back in the chamber-pot, Dasin turned to look at Tank. His eyes seemed brighter than usual; after a moment, Tank realized he was on the verge of tears. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Don’t tell me anything else, if that’s the sort of thing you think is safe to tell. Just—don’t.”

Tank nodded, blinking slowly. “Won’t,” he said. “Don’t go being an ass again, yourself.”

“Bad joke,” Dasin said, and snorted laughter.

Tank covered his eyes with one hand. “Dasin—gods.” But even under an aesa haze, Dasin rarely laughed so freely; so he gave up and gathered the blond into a tight embrace, thinking:
For all that I don’t tell you much, you know me better than you think, Dasin.

There seemed a grey sort of comfort in that; but it would have to be enough for now.

The sunny morning had faded to a drizzly early-evening by the time word arrived that Lord Fimre’s retinue was comfortably settled.

“Prepare a coach, please,” Eredion told the servant. “We’ll be down to the carriage-yard directly.”

“I
can
walk,” Fimre said.

Eredion waved the servant off, then shut the door and turned around. “Lord Fimre, you’re exhausted, close to drunk—” Eredion had done his best to make sure of that. “—and new to the city. The roads between the Seventeen Gates and your quarters are less than friendly to outsiders, especially rich ones. I’m not walking out there in the cold and damp after the day I’ve had, and Oruen would have my head if I let you wander off unescorted tonight. Rightfully so.”

Fimre sighed and hoisted himself out of his chair. “After listening to you explain northern matters for the past few hours,” he said, “I understand what you’re saying. I also find myself wondering who you’re loyal to these days, Lord Eredion.”

Eredion stood very still. The comment didn’t surprise him. He’d been watching it grow behind Fimre’s eyes for some time. At last he said, evenly, “I sent word back to Sessin Fortress, once only, asking for help. Arit’s exact reply was:
Keep the king and his allies placated to avoid drawing trouble into the southlands. We have not yet come to a consensus on how to handle the situation you are concerned over.
I burned the letter, but I never forgot that response.”

Fimre shook his head. “You’ve been here too long,” he said without any arrogance. “You’ve been through too much. It’s good they sent me.”

“Yes,” Eredion said. He shut his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face. “Let’s get you to that coach. I need to find some rest myself; we’ll speak more in the morning. I’ll come out to the estate and give you a proper daylight tour of the city, if it’s not raining too hard.”

“A tour without all the escorts?” Fimre asked slyly.

Eredion snorted. “Certainly without
yours,”
he said. “I can’t tell the king not to send watchers after us, and I won’t try to lose them. But they’ll stay discreet.”

“Gods,” Fimre said, shaking his head. “How can one live like this?”

If Fimre didn’t know that life was no better for anyone of real status at a desert Fortress, he was a fool; but then again, he was young yet. Eredion shook his head and said only, “It’s better than it was under Rosin. I didn’t leave the palace grounds for months at a time, then; and when I did, I had watchers practically on my elbows.”

As they left the suite and went through the hallways towards the carriage-yard, the palace bells marked the dinner-hour. Eredion almost never bothered with public dinners. All the bells ever meant to him was that the hallways would be largely empty, a relief at any time and doubly so now, when Eredion wanted to get Fimre out of the palace without further delay.

Eredion had warned Oruen not to expect Fimre as a formal dinner guest for a few days. While Fimre was proving to be a damn quick study, there was still too much he needed to learn yet about northern custom and politics.

“Speaking of watchers,” Fimre said as they turned into the hallway to the carriage-yard, “I’ve heard rumors that Deiq of Stass has been seen in Bright Bay frequently of late.”

“Mmph. Yes.” Eredion slanted a sideways glance at Fimre; saw the answer to his own unasked question in the other man’s too-bland expression. Fimre had already been fully informed about Deiq of Stass. The question had more than one layer to it, and that Fimre had spoken aloud indicated a preference for mental privacy.

Eredion didn’t mind that one bit. He had mixed enough feelings and thoughts about the elder ha’ra’ha that he didn’t much care to risk a mind-to-mind conversation on the subject. Something damaging would inevitably slip out.