Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (64 page)

“Absolutely, my lord,” Rill said, and bowed. “I’ll begin making inquiries.”

Whatever I’m paying her,
Alyea thought as she watched Rill walking away,
I need to double it.

The air of the kitchens was warm and yeasty: several freshly baked loaves of braided wheat bread lay cooling on a rack to one side. Nem stood with his back to the doorway, showing his two apprentices how to braid more loaves, these with a mixture of black and wheat doughs.

Alyea stood in the doorway for a few moments, watching. The kitchen boys obediently braided loaf after loaf. Nem watched them, nodding, occasionally leaning forward and prodding a dough strip, motioning for a tighter or looser weave; showing them repeatedly how to tuck the ends under, then to slide the completed raw loaf onto the proofing-tray in front of them and begin again with fresh handfuls of dough from the massive pile on the table.

All without a word spoken by anyone, only gestures.

Alyea had never known that Nem even knew how to make bread. Her mother had always insisted on buying bread from Shelly’s or the White Gull. No doubt there were political reasons behind that choice, as well as culinary; the loaves being fashioned looked to be solid, heavy fare, nothing like the light pastries her mother—Hama—favored.

Gods, he knows how to cook.
The kitchen smelled fantastic; she wanted to tear into one of the still-warm loaves on the spot. And all she had was Kam’s word on the truth about Nem....

Time to test it.

She cleared her throat. The apprentices half-turned, their expressions puzzled. Nem looked round a moment later, his heavy face brightening into a grin as he saw her in the doorway.

“Welcome,” he said, the word thickly mangled as always. He pointed at the cooling loaves. “For you. Have.”

“Would you excuse us, please?” she said to the apprentices, ignoring the offer.

They glanced at each other, at Nem. He studied Alyea with a faint frown for a moment, then nodded and flicked a hand, dismissing the boys. After a hasty bow, they ran off to an adjoining room, wiping floury hands down their aprons as they went.

“How old are they?” she asked, not making any effort to exaggerate her speech.

He watched her mouth closely, frown deepening, then shook his head as though he hadn’t understood.

“How long have you been reporting to Oruen?” she said, and caught him in a rapid blink.

He pursed his lips and shook his head again, then motioned to his mouth as though to ask her to be more precise.

“Did you tell Ninnic and Mezarak about me too? When did you become a Hidden?”

He stood still, blinking at her in mild-eyed bewilderment, and motioned to his mouth again.

“If you don’t answer me, I’ll compel you,” she said, very quietly, “and if I have to do that, Nem, you’ll wind up with the soup-kettle ladle shoved in an awkward place.”

His eyes narrowed. He took a small, wrapped candy from his apron pocket and made a great show of unwrapping it, popping the candy into his mouth, and crumpling the wrapper back into his apron pocket. Then he looked her in the eye and said, “Kam spilled it?”

“Yes. I found him rooting around in my old rooms yesterday.”

“Tuh.” Nem’s dry noise of disgust conveyed volumes. “He dead?”

She smiled and didn’t say anything.

He sucked thoughtfully on his piece of hard candy for a few moments, then said, abruptly, “I only talk to King Oruen.”

She let out a long sigh. “So you are one of his Hidden.”

“No. My father was a Hidden, under Mezarak. He taught me the ways; and your father hired me to keep an eye on you.”

She hadn’t expected
that
answer. “My
father?”

He just stared at her, his face closing back to his normal deaf-act blankness.

“Then why did you start passing information to Oruen, if you’re supposed to be protecting me?”

One of his eyebrows rose slowly. He regarded her without speaking. His jaw shifted. The candy crunched between his back teeth.

“How long have you been passing information along?” she tried next, with the same silent stare for an answer. “Did my—mother know? Hama?”

He blinked at her, steadily chewing up the candy, and made no answer.

She tensed her throat muscles and said,
“Tell me.”

He tilted his head, seeming amused now, and said, “You can’t order me around that way, Lord Alyea. I do know some tricks, myself. And I have bread to tend to. Dough to proof. Dinner to begin preparing.” He crunched the last of the candy, pointedly, and swallowed.

Her temper flared along another path. “Children to use.”

He frowned, honestly perplexed. “Children to—?” His face cleared, then slid into lines of amusement. “Oh. That.”

“I won’t have children raped in my household.”

He snorted. “Call them in and ask if I’ve harmed them in any way.”

“They’re
children.”

“Ask them,” he repeated obdurately, then whistled. The two boys popped back into the room so quickly she suspected they’d been just around the corner, listening.

She glared at Nem, furious; he waved a hand at the boys, his usual heavy-lidded blankness back.

The taller of the two boys, a solid-bodied blond with a tan scattering of freckles across his pale face, watched her with alert, knowing grey eyes. The other, waif-like face and large brown eyes framed by a tumble of silvery-blond curls, stared at her with a distinctly lost air.

“He ain’t,” the taller said, confirming her guess that they’d been lurking. “He ain’t, Lord. He been teaching us a ways and all, of not being on the street no more. He been good to us. No harm anywhere in it.”

“Except that he also takes you to bed.”

The boys blinked at her, clearly not understanding the problem; glanced at each other, at Nem, back to her.

“How old are you?” she demanded. Their expressions remained blank. Nem made a faint, amused sound in the back of his throat and waved the boys from the room again.

“Old enough,” he said when they were alone again. “No way to know. Best guess, somewhere near fifteen.” He tilted his head and gave her a flatly challenging stare. “Old enough for you, if I recall.”

She felt color flooding her face. “Those boys are nowhere near fifteen years old!”

He shrugged. “Malnutrition,” he said. “They’re old enough to have been working the streets for more than a year before coming here.”

“I won’t have it,” she said.

He studied her for a long, unsmiling moment, then said, “Lord Alyea, I turn down offers at least once a tenday that would make me wealthy for life in return for slipping various poisons in your food.”

“I don’t need to worry about that so much,” she said tightly.

“Arrogance,” he said. “Of course you do. Just different poisons than before.”

She stared at him, her throat dry, then said, “So why do you say no?”

“Because I don’t need money,” he said. “Hidden get paid well, and my father lived simple, left it all to me. I like working here. I like keeping an eye on you.”

“Why are you reporting to Oruen, if not for money?”

This time, he answered. “So that he won’t send someone who doesn’t care what happens to you; to see what he’ll do with the information; and I give him what won’t hurt you.”

She shut her eyes and shook her head, feeling nauseated. When she looked at him again, he was smiling without any humor.

“You let me go,” he said, “won’t change a damn thing except to increase your own danger and ruin your digestion. Let me go over two boys who aren’t being forced into anything—that’s stupid, Lord Alyea, and you’re not. With a bit of training, they’d make decent kathain for you, is what I had in mind, to tell the truth of it.”

“And you’re just testing them,” she said, outrage crowding the words into a hoarse whisper.

“Tuh.” He shook his head at her. “They come to me, Lord Alyea, for a place safer than the streets, and never outside the kitchen work get told what to do. They climb into a bed if they want—mine or another’s—not at my call, and what they do in the kitchen is what keeps them employed, nothing else. Think of that what you want, it’s better treatment than they’ve had the rest of their lives. Now—excuse me. I do have work.” He turned his back on her and began braiding loaves.

She stared at his broad back for a time, then slowly left the kitchens. Rill, waiting in the hallway just past the kitchen entrance, raised an inquiring eyebrow; Alyea shook her head and said, “I need to see my—my mother.”

Rill hesitated, bit her lip, then said, “I think, Lord Peysimun, you should see the king first.” She cleared her throat, her gaze darting to one side. “I took the liberty—”

“Of making an appointment for me?” Alyea repressed a sigh. “Of course you did. When?”

“This is Waterday,” Rill said. “I was advised that the king will wait on you until noon; if you come to him after that, you’ll have to wait on his convenience.”

Alyea nodded, rubbing her forehead. They walked a few steps down the hallway together; then Rill cleared her throat again.

“Lord Peysimun? On the matter of the cook, if I may ask...?”

“He stays,” Alyea said heavily. “For now. But one word, Rill, one
whisper
of harm—”

“Absolutely, Lord Peysimun,” Rill promised. “If it eases your mind, I have seen quite an improvement in the boys in the few days they’ve been here. They were...wild, at first. Nem has done well by them, and I don’t be-
lieve....” She hesitated, shooting a quick sideways glance at Alyea, then said, “I don’t believe he’s actually taking them to bed, my lord. Not in a sexual sense. I believe one of them has cried himself to sleep in Nem’s arms once or twice.”

Alyea shook her head. “Why didn’t he say that, then?”

“You wouldn’t have believed him, Lord Peysimun, and it’s not really your business to begin with,” Rill said with perfect calm. “With all respect, when the head of house starts meddling in the personal lives of the servants, the house suffers. It’s my job to handle situations like this, my lord, not yours; and it’s your job to trust my judgment.”

After a few more steps, when the heat had left her cheeks, Alyea said, “Put me in my place there, didn’t you, Rill?”

“The beginning of a new head of house is always an adjustment,” Rill said without apparent offense. “For all parties involved. If you’re going to see the king now, Lord Peysimun, I’d suggest changing your hair style and removing the hat. It’s not really appropriate for a royal audience, even a casual one. If you’d allow me? This will only take a few moments, and then you can be on your way.”

Alyea sighed and obediently sat down on a hallway bench. “Are you going to fuss over Deiq like this, too?” she muttered, half to herself.

Rill’s deft ministrations didn’t pause as she said, “No, my lord. I’ve been advised that Deiq knows the proprieties perfectly well, so if he chooses to flout them, it’s entirely his affair. And once you understand the proper behaviors for your new station, I won’t fuss over your choices, either.” She tucked a loose strand of hair back behind Alyea’s right ear and stepped back. “There you go, my lord.”

“I imagine that will come as a relief,” Alyea said sourly, standing.

“Not really,” Rill said, expressionless. “It’s my job, my lord, and one part of it is as good as another.” She studied Alyea from head to toe briefly, then nodded. “That will do. Would you like an escort, my lord?”

About to say
no,
Alyea caught the slight arch of Rill’s eyebrows and sighed. “Yes, please.”

“One of the house guards will be waiting for you at the front gate,” Rill said, her mouth curving slightly. “I believe his name is Geoll. One final note—I suggest not lingering in conversation with the king overlong. As head of household, spending overmuch time in a private audience with the king will cause gossip and speculation. I also believe Lord Sessin will be here to present Lord Fimre some time before noon, and courtesy dictates your presence before they arrive. All the same, should your conversation with the king take longer than expected, I will have diversions ready to occupy your guests until you return.”

“Of course you will,” Alyea muttered, prompting a very nearly open smile from her housekeeper, then sighed and headed for the gates.

Finding a Hidden wasn’t difficult. Deiq knew they’d start watching him as soon as he entered the palace proper, and he knew the call-signs that brought them out of hiding for a conversation.

He sat down in his desert garden and called for the head of the Hidden with a simple motion of one hand; repeated that gesture at intervals, until he was sure it had been seen, then sat quietly, waiting.

Eventually a thin man with tightly cropped grey hair and muddy grey-green eyes approached and sat down on a bench across from Deiq, regarding him without fear.

“Ha’inn,” he said.

“Shay’nin,”
Deiq answered, as courteously, and the man smiled but said nothing in reply. “I need to register intent of
sa’ad-hii:
blood hunt. Multiple targets, some of which I may have to kill. Some I will remove to another place. Some may fall within your
shennth—
your domain.” The northern terms, as usual, weren’t nearly exact enough: kaenic simply didn’t have some concepts.

The shay’nin—honorable master spy was the closest northern translation there—stayed quiet, one eyebrow arching slightly.

“This is given you as a courtesy,” Deiq said, watching the man’s eyes and mouth for cues, and was reassured by the blandness. “Would you like the names?”

The shay’nin considered for a moment, then said, “Do any of them come even close to matching you for true status?”

“No.”

“Are any of the names among my Hidden?”

“No.”

“Is the king one such name?”

“No.”

The shay’nin nodded. “Then, no. Your business is your own. I thank you for the courtesy.” He rose, bowed, and left as quietly as he had come.

Deiq let out a long breath and sat still for a while longer, allowing the movement of the bees and insects to soothe him into certainty; then stood, took a step, another—

—to
elsewhere,
a test he needed to know the answer to before taking any other action.