Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (57 page)

Eredion winced, glad his back was to her and the room dark.

“I don’t know if I’ll keep it,” she went on, voice steady. “But that’s my decision, not yours. I’d appreciate that much trust in me, at least, that I won’t use a child for political gain.”

Eredion squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of what to say to that. Before he could come up with anything, Wian rolled over and slid to her feet.

“I wanted to talk in the morning, to make this part easier, but it’s as well done in the dark, isn’t it?” she said. “Most of what I have, you’ve given me, so I won’t take anything of yours with me. Only the coin for my work and the items I’ve bought with that fair pay.”

“Wian.” He couldn’t help thinking how Fimre had so easily moved her into total compliance. “It’s not safe. Don’t. We don’t know where Kippin is yet.”

“I’m not afraid of Kippin,” she said. He heard the faint sounds of her getting dressed; probably that same peasant dress she’d worn before. He’d left it draped across a chair near her side of the bed before leaving with Fimre. “He’ll find me, or he won’t, and in any case the only thing he can do now is to kill me and my child. I’m not afraid of dying, and I won’t go back to that life.”

She moved to the small chest of drawers he’d set aside for her use and began going through the contents, apparently able to sort out what she wanted by touch alone.

“Where are you going?”
And how much of what you’re telling me is the truth, even now?
He grimaced, realizing that he’d just proven her point; he never would actually trust her twice in one day. Then again, he rarely trusted anyone to tell the truth twice in a row.

“The palace head cook,” she said. A drawer closed. “She doesn’t know me except as a nobleman’s housekeeping servant. She’ll give me a bed with the rest of the kitchen staff while I learn, and she doesn’t allow her workers to be hassled even by spoiled noblemen. It’s enough.”

“And what reason will you give for leaving the service of that nobleman?” he asked, dryly.

Paranoid, maybe, but he couldn’t help thinking of all the ways she could spin the story round, once she was no longer keeping him company, to make his life thoroughly unpleasant while improving her own.

“I already told her that you were very kind, but that I don’t want to be a servant for the rest of my life. I want something I can do for myself, and perhaps one day open up an inn or a bakery of my own.” Another drawer closed, gently. “Do you think that’s a foolish idea?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
I think
you’re
a damn fool for trying it,
he wanted to say. Like Tanavin, she was walking the road of being
ordinary,
ignoring the reality that once one stepped into even the fringes of politics, getting out wasn’t at all simple. No way to stop her from learning her own lessons, though. Assuming she was telling the truth throughout.

I ought to be able to tell, just from her voice. But she knows how to lie, and in the dark...I should have waited for morning, or at least lit a candle and faced her. Too late now.

“Thank you.” She moved around the side of the bed to the doorway of the bedroom.

“Wian,” he said, unable to resist one last peace offering. “When you’re ready to open that bakery—or if you have trouble along the way—come talk to me. I’ll do what I can.”

A long silence. Then, very softly: “Thank you, my lord.”

A few moments later, the outer door of the suite clicked shut behind her.

Eredion let out a long breath and bent to tug off his boots.

The following morning dawned chill and drizzly. Eredion, having walked through a Bright Bay hurricane more than once, thought little of it. Fimre’s reaction was less accepting.

“You
walked
here through that?” the young Sessin lord demanded.

Eredion shrugged and gently deflected a servant trying to take his rain cloak. “It’s more fog than rain right now,” he said. “I see no reason to bother with a carriage. Of course, if you feel the need....” He busied himself with folding his cloak over one arm as he spoke.

Fimre’s lip curled. “Subtle, Eredion,” he said. “No. I think I’ll stay indoors today and amuse myself with more pleasant pursuits, in front of a goodly fire.”

“You’ll want that wood supply come true winter,” Eredion commented. “This is just the rainy season, and wood isn’t cheap along this area; the closest source is well east of the Forest Road.”

“There’s a massive forest just to the north!”

Eredion put a hand out to deter the servant trying to tug the rain-cloak from his grip. “That’s enough,” he told her. “I don’t need your service, thank you. Nobody harvests from the Hackerwood, Fimre. It’s not safe.”

“I wasn’t told anything about that,” Fimre said, then glanced around as though realizing they were still in the main entry hall. “Let’s go sit in front of that wasteful fire. You can tell me all about the local superstitions and customs; and if the weather brightens at all, we’ll go out walking then.”

“Fair enough,” Eredion agreed, privately reflecting that although superstition wasn’t the right word to use at all, it was only to be expected. While northerners saw anyone from below the Horn as barbarians, southerners saw anyone north of the Horn as superstitious, credulous fools.

“Then give Imbit your cloak before she panics,” Fimre said, grinning.

Eredion loosened his grip. The cloak was promptly whisked away, and the girl pattered away as though afraid he would come after her to reclaim it given a chance.

Not long afterwards, a good southern white wine in hand and a roaring fire at his back, Eredion had to admit that being warm
did
feel good. In the palace, heat was largely supplied by the massive bank of kitchen ovens, which were kept burning at all hours and vented throughout by means of clever Aerthraim piping. Eredion had almost never used his own fireplace, preferring to wear a northern-style sweater or move to a warmer set of rooms rather than spend the money on wood.

Aerthraim.
Eredion remembered Allonin’s strained expression as he bolted off after his sister—not the first time he’d gone off to rescue his twin, gods knew, and likely not the last.

From there, Eredion’s thoughts turned to the venting system in the palace, and an idle wonder as to what negotiations Oruen had managed with that stiff-necked Family regarding long-overdue repairs in a number of areas. Sessin might provide excellent glass windows, but most of Bright Bay relied, wittingly or not, on Aerthraim engineering. From the drainage throughout the city to the heating ducts in the palace, the work done during the reign of Initin the Red had endured long enough to become taken for granted.

It’s really not my concern any longer. All I have to do is make sure Fimre can handle himself without fatal incident and I’m free to leave this rainy, damp, chill place.
Eredion couldn’t help grinning at himself; a few days ago he’d been dripping with sweat all over one of Oruen’s good chairs and cursing the heat.

Which brought him round to thinking about the weather, and how erratic it had been, and the reasons for that. He looked up at Fimre and found the other Sessin lord leaning against a wall, studying him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

“Brooding over something, Lord Eredion?” Fimre said softly.

Eredion raised an eyebrow and delivered a rebuking stare. “Prying at me, Lord Fimre?”

Fimre shrugged and eased away from the wall, moving to lounge in a chair. “You’re very tightly shielded.”

“I’ve had to be.” Eredion gathered his temper under control and took a seat as well, rather less casually. “I was thinking about the weather, actually. It’s been remarkably erratic of late.”

“The perennial complaint,” Fimre said, flicking his fingers and looking bored. “Seems like the older a person is, the more they whine over the weather.” He cocked his head and offered a sly grin.

Eredion breathed through his nose. Yes, this was the southern way; test and test and run right up to the challenge line repeatedly before backing down—but be ready to jump in at the first sign of weakness. The young always challenged the old. Desert survival, southern custom.

“Fimre,” he said, deciding that this time, explaining was more important than putting the younger lord in his place, “this isn’t just ordinary fluctuation. When Ninnic’s child died, its hold on the weather in this area went with it. Without a ha’rethe or ha’ra’ha bound to this area, there’s all the hells breaking loose. I have reliable reports of an icestorm not fifty miles to the east of Bright Bay less than a tenday ago. That’s not at all common, and I’ve never seen that happen this early in the season.”

Fimre’s insouciance dimmed. “They can control the
weather,
too?” He looked shaken at the thought.

“I believe so,” Eredion said, and decided against sidetracking onto a discussion of just how he’d found out about that. Talking about the tath-shinn would turn the conversation far afield of where it needed to go. “And yes, I’ve heard comments that the weather’s changing throughout the southlands as well. That’s not a good sign. It means the remaining ha’reye and ha’ra’hain are losing their strength.”

Fimre’s throat worked. He sipped at his wine as though to ease a sudden dryness. “I see.”

Doubtful, to Eredion’s mind, but it was a start. “Northerns don’t know anything about it. The king knows more than most—that’s unavoidable. But mention ha’reye or ha’ra’hain to the average person or noble around here and you’ll at best be accused of witchery. If you’re going to control people here, you
have
to be very, very careful and damn subtle about it, Fimre; because even with the main Northern Church run out of town, their influence is far from gone. As far as any other tricks you may have learned, a word of caution: don’t. Just that: don’t. It’s not safe.”

Fimre’s lip curled again, his confidence returning. “You’ve been here too long. You’re more worried about what the northerns think than your due as a desert lord, and a Sessin lord at that. I understand you had to survive through bad times, but that’s
over.
Now, you’re just sounding paranoid, Eredion.”

“I’m not so old yet,” Eredion said, warning; saw only laughter in Fimre’s eyes. “You’re a fool, Fimre, if you think everything’s perfectly fine these days. Six months is not long enough to mend more than a decade of abuse.”

“I don’t expect it is,” Fimre said. “But how is that my problem, Lord Eredion? I’m here to keep the king interested in what Sessin Family has to offer, and to report back to Sessin Family with suggestions on how to get the most for the least. What frightens the commoners isn’t my concern.”

“If you frighten the commoners,” Eredion said, “Oruen will be markedly unhappy, and you’ll be sent packing very quickly indeed.”

“A northern king caring about the commoners?” Fimre snorted. “Not likely. Family leaders and kings alike care about their nobles. They care about the taxes the nobles pay. The commoners only matter if they refuse to work, and
that
only happens if you pay too much attention to them and spoil them into wanting more than their station allows.”

Eredion sat still, blinking slowly, breathing slowly. At last he said, “It was a common-born who won Bright Bay for us, Fimre. We wouldn’t have managed without Tanavin of the Aerthraim.”

“Aberration,” Fimre said. “And didn’t I hear rumor that the Aerthraim trained him in ways they supposedly forswore hundreds of years ago? Even overlooking that breach of the Agreement as something for a Conclave to handle, if the boy was able to learn those skills, he wasn’t common-born at all. His bloodline involved a desert lord at
some
point, or a ha’ra’ha. No way around that. Where is he, by the way? Quite a few people interested in having him back south, you know.”

That question had been inevitable at some point, and Eredion had long since decided on his response. He said without hesitation, “He died in the attack.”

Fimre’s eyebrows went up. “Really? I’d heard rumor that he was seen round here recently.”

“No,” Eredion said. “There’s a redheaded boy who looks similar; but I’ve spoken to him, and it’s only a slight physical resemblance, nothing more. For pity’s sake, the Aerthraim boy struck a full-grown ha’ra’ha, all by himself, with no allies or protection to hand! Nobody walks away from that unscathed, let alone a half-trained human. He was a sacrifice.”

Fimre’s mouth pulled over in a sour grimace. “Pity. A few lucrative arrangements were riding on finding that boy and taking him back south in any shape that involved breathing.”

Eredion kept his expression carefully placid. “Lucrative for yourself, or for Sessin Family?”

“Both, of course,” Fimre said, grinning. “Eh, well, there’s sure to be other opportunities.”

“Who was the high bidder? Just out of curiosity.”

Fimre shook his head. “That would be telling,” he said. His eyes gleamed. “But speaking of curiosity—that servant of yours. Wian. Did you convey my apology?”

“Yes. She found it kind.”

“Kind.” Fimre seemed to turn the word over as though unsure how to take that response. “I see. Do you think she’d be willing to—to walk round the city with me, perhaps?”