Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (35 page)

Oh, especially not that,
Deiq answered, no laughter in his tone now.
That’s the quickest way to get yourself killed that I can think of.

Tank had hoped that a walk in the rapidly cooling evening air would shake Dasin back to some version of sense and sobriety. As Dasin paused, looking at the brick path to the stately brick cottage beyond, Tank bit his lip and silently
prayed.

“Mind your manners,” Dasin said at last, curtly. “Remember,
I’m
in charge.”

Tank abandoned both patience and hope. “Dasin, this is a
bad idea.
Venepe probably has a damn good
reason—”

Dasin lifted his chin and started forward. Tank swore under his breath, viciously, and followed.

The brick path, wide enough for a carriage where it left the main road, curved around to the back of the house in a slow, majestic sweep; a narrower path branched off toward the front door. To either side of the door, flanked in turn by torches in holders as tall as themselves, stood burly men in dark shirts and darker pants. Stone Islanders or southerners, Tank guessed, and felt his nibbling unease strengthen to a gnaw.

Another few steps, and the features of the two guards came clear: definitely southern. Too olive to be northern, too sharp to be islanders. The guards watched Dasin and Tank approach without any visible reaction, and the gnawing grew more like savage bites with every step Tank took toward their black, dead eyes.

He knew that look. He’d seen it, far too often, and far too close at hand.

Dasin whimpered a little in the back of his throat, and his step faltered for a moment. Tank tensed, waiting
—hoping—
for the overriding flinch that would send Dasin bolting for safety and sanity.

Anyone who hired guards like this was a man Tank did
not
want to meet, now or ever. It took a grim effort to keep his hands away from the hilts of sword and knife alike.

Dasin finished his step and kept going as though his legs simply refused to move in any other direction.

They stopped a few steps shy of arm’s reach to the door, far too close for Tank’s liking. The guards stared, ominously silent. Tank suddenly felt several inches shorter and pounds lighter, and had to fight against cringing.

“We’re here to see trader Yuer,” Dasin said, his voice nearly warbling.

The guards focused on him, their mouths widening into identical slow smiles: predator’s grins.

“You got an appointment?” the one on the right asked.

Dasin opened his mouth, shut it again. A fine tremor ran through his thin frame.

A different tremor ran through Tank’s muscles: an old, black rage beginning to simmer. He drew in a sharp breath and bared his teeth at the guards with no attempt to make it look like a smile. Their attention moved to him immediately, their smiles fading as quickly.

Nobody spoke for a long, razor-edged moment. Then Tank said, flat and fierce, “We don’t
need
an appointment. He’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

The guards exchanged a dark, thoughtful glance that sent renewed chills up Tank’s back; then the one on the left shrugged and the one on the right jerked his thumb at the door and said, “Go on, then.”

Tank set a hand on Dasin’s shoulder blade, digging his fingers into the soft spot by the spine. The blond jerked away, and the motion flowed into a stride forward, two, three—Tank glared at the door, refusing to acknowledge the guards, who were well within reach to either side now—Dasin fumbled at the handle with trembling fingers. A bitter, oily musk hung in the air, steel and leather and dirt mingling in Tank’s nose.

Dasin’s hand closed around the doorknob, twisted, shoved; they lurched forward and through. Tank knocked Dasin’s hand away from the edge of the door in time to stop him from slamming it behind them, then shut it, gently, himself.

The first thing Tank noticed was how hot the room was; an enormous fireplace at one end of the room sent out smothering waves of heat. Then he focused on the occupants of the room: an exhausted-looking young woman with long dark hair and a bizarre little old man with more wrinkles on his face than Tank had ever seen on a human being. In spite of the thick heat in the air, the man had a blanket pulled over his legs as though chilled.

Four comfortable chairs sat arranged evenly around a low, round table. On the table sat a white, unadorned teapot and two tiny white cups shaped nearly like half of an egg. Both cups were empty.

“Greetings,” the old man said in a strong baritone voice fifty years younger than his body. “Please sit.”

He waved a hand at the empty chairs on either side of him. The young woman, sitting in the chair directly opposite the old man, dropped her gaze to her hands. Her face was heavily shadowed with fading bruises; Tank felt his temper begin to rise again. To distract himself, he glanced around the room.

A red and gold carpet covered most of the stone-flag floor. A sideboard with thick glass decanters and silver-ribbed glass goblets took up a large portion of one wall. A series of framed architectural sketches hung over the sideboard. There were three exits: the front door, a door on the left wall, a door on the right wall. No—five exits, counting the two windows. The glass was fine enough to smash out easily. He glanced up at the ceiling, in which support beams had been left exposed like sturdy dark bones. Remembering the outside of the house, he guessed at least three good-sized rooms above and five down.

Given the size of the fireplace, there was an enormous pile of wood out back. Given the way the driveway had curved around behind the house, there was likely a stable around back as well.

Whatever this merchant might be, he had
significant
wealth. Dasin had that much right, at least; but after seeing the guards outside, Tank found that more reason than ever to run away while they still could.

Dasin put his shoulders back and his chin up. He said, voice quite steady now, “Trader Yuer? I’m Dasin of Aerthraim Family—”

“I know who you are,” the old man said, and pointed once more to the chairs. “Sit.”

The word contained more command than offer. Tank waited, watching Dasin’s faint twitch; after a taut moment, the blond dropped into a chair and motioned for Tank to take the last empty seat. Tank sighed and began unbuckling his sword harness, wondering if switching to a northern waist-belt style would be better suited to northern chairs.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up,” Yuer said, a smile barely visible under the drooping folds of skin around his mouth. “Dasin and Tanavin of Aerthraim Family.”

Dasin made a slightly strangled sound, staring as though he’d forgotten how to speak altogether. Tank eased sword harness, pack, and saddlebags to the floor at his feet, where he could grab them up easily, and kept his own mouth shut.

Yuer’s smile widened a little.

“Would you like some tea?” he inquired, gesturing to the small ceramic teapot and two empty cups.

“How did you know—” Dasin started, then cut himself off almost mid-word. “Yes, please. Tea sounds perfect.”

“Excellent,” Yuer said. “Wian. If you would be so kind.”

The young woman slipped from her chair to kneel beside the table. She poured a double mouthful of rich amber-brown liquid into each cup, replaced the teapot on the table, then slid each cup to just shy of the edges of the table nearest Tank and Dasin. A rich, earthy aroma tinged with jasmine filled the room.

“Thank you,” Yuer said.

Wian returned to her chair and sat staring at her hands again, her expression utterly blank.

“This is true Stone Island red tea,” Yuer said.

Dasin leaned forward and took up the teacup. “I’m impressed, trader Yuer. And honored.” He took a small sip. “This is excellent.”

“I keep an extra case or two on hand,” Yuer said. He looked at Tank, at the untouched cup on the table, back to Dasin. “I hear the bards of the Red Tower in Arason are developing a taste for it, thanks in part to the head of the Arason Church.”

Dasin sipped his tea without saying anything aloud, but his expression would have suited a hunting asp-jacau. Tank watched the dark-haired young lady, who seemed intent on studying her folded hands to the exclusion of all else.

“This young lady’s name is Wian,” Yuer said. “She’s from Bright Bay. And will be returning there soon.”

Wian shivered and hunched into herself as if expecting an attack.

Tank bit his tongue against an impulse to say,
Leave her alone!
The old man hadn’t actually said or done anything threatening.

“Do try the tea,” Yuer said, his dark stare fixed on Tank. “It’s quite exceptional.”

Tank picked up the small cup and held it loosely in one hand, openly frowning at the trader. “I’m not much for tea.”

“Tank,”
Dasin said in a nearly inaudible whisper. Tank ignored him.

“I’m afraid it’s all I have to hand at the moment,” Yuer said as if Tank’s tone had been polite. “If coffee is more to your taste, I believe I’m due a shipment of Ridge Mountain coffee beans sometime in the next tenday. I’ll hold some aside against your next visit.”

Dasin sat up a little straighter.
“F’Heing
Ridge Mountain coffee?”

“Several ranking members of the Isata News-Riders Guild are quite fond of it,” Yuer said calmly. “I deal in profitable wares,
s’e
Dasin. Small, relatively lightweight, quickly portable, not particularly fragile as long as you keep them very dry, extremely
profitable
wares.”

He shifted his gaze to Wian. She sat still as stone, apparently indifferent to everything around her; Yuer’s mouth moved into a slow smile too similar to the guard’s predatory leers for Tank’s liking.

The old man looked at Dasin, still smiling. “Spices, coffees, and teas are
reliable,”
Yuer said. “They never lose their appeal, north to south to west to east. Housewives need them for cooking. Priests need them for ceremonies. Healers need them for salves and poultices. It’s an endless market.”

Something smoldered in Dasin’s stare now:
ambition.
Dangerously close to
greed.
Tank cleared his throat, hoping to draw Dasin’s attention, to shake him loose of the dangerous fascination this wrinkled old man seemed to hold for him.

“I’m able to pay my assistants very well,” Yuer said softly. “On the order of forty percent of profits, as a starting number.” He closed his eyes briefly, then splayed a thin-fingered hand over his stomach and looked at Dasin once more. “Unfortunately, I’m not able to travel. I’ve been afflicted with a... delicate ... digestion in my old age.”

His gaze moved to Wian again, and this time she shivered a little. Tank clenched the hand not holding the cup, his short nails digging painfully into his palm.

Yuer went on, “Business is quite good, but I’m in need of an extra hand, as it happens. Someone to take a route from Bright Bay to Sandlaen and back. Would you happen to know of any responsible young merchants looking to take over a very profitable trade route?”

The silence hung for a moment. Dasin opened his mouth.

Too easy,
Tank thought.
He knew what Dasin wanted. He knew our names. This isn’t just a bad idea; it’s a flat-out trap.

“We’re signed with Venepe through Isata,” Tank said loudly, and ignored Dasin’s furious hiss.

“Ah,” Yuer said, squinting at him thoughtfully. “I didn’t realize you were a trader,
s’e
Tanavin. I’d been told you trained as a mercenary.” He pronounced
mercenary
in tones another might have used for
diseased rat.

“Yeah,” Tank said, deliberately lapsing into a coarser accent. “But Dasin’s signed with Venepe too.”

Dasin glared at him.

“But all I asked,” Yuer said, smiling, “was whether you knew of anyone interested,
s’e
Tanavin. I’ll take that as a
no.”
He nodded to Wian; she rose, collected the teapot, and left the room without once looking at Tank or Dasin directly. “So nice to meet you both.”

Tank set down his untasted cup, a foul taste in his mouth. “How did you know our names?” he asked bluntly.

Yuer’s smile became even more predatory. “Good day,
s’es.”

Before Tank quite realized he was moving, he found himself standing outside with Dasin, hands filled with a clumsy tangle of pack, saddlebags, and sword harness. The blond shot him a hard, hostile glare and stalked away. Behind him, the guards coughed sniggers of laughter; Tank hunched his shoulders and followed Dasin without looking back.

As he walked, the wind rummaged through his hair, as though trying to get his attention. A voice without a throat whispered:
Forest. No go. Elder woman say, no go Forest. Stay on Road.
It didn’t—quite—have the slick, greasy feel of one of
those
voices; instead, it carried a fragmented, fractured feeling to it. Where the voice in the darkness under Bright Bay hadn’t
cared
about knowing human speech, this voice once had understood it very well indeed—but couldn’t quite recall how to produce it any longer.

Gods,
Tank thought, panic turning his skin icy for a moment. N
ow I have
ghosts
following me around... Either that, or I finally am losing my mind completely.

He tried to shift everything to one hand, to allow himself to bat at the air by his head, stupid as he knew that would look. Straps slid and weight shifted; he went down on one knee, grappling at the cascading weight of his belongings.

The low, mean laughter of the guards came to his ears clearly, and the breeze stilled for a moment. Then, abruptly, it whiffled through his hair with renewed force, whispering:
Elder woman. Tee. Low. Say no go, no go, no go inside Forest... .
The voice faded away along with the wind and stayed silent.

Tee Low?
“Oh, hells,” he said aloud.
“Teilo?”

Dasin had very nearly disappeared in the murky darkness ahead. Cursing under his breath, Tank stood, hoisted everything into an awkward armful, and hurried after him; wishing he could outrun the shivers that were settling into his very bones.