Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (44 page)

“I think you should rest, mother,” he said, so low as to be scarcely sound at all. “I need to get something to eat, and I think you should rest while I do that. You look tired. You should rest.”

He felt beside him with one hand until he found the table-lamp; risked looking away from his mother and hastily lit the triple wick of the lamp. Her gaze fastened on that, hungrily; she sank down to sit on one of the beds and said, vaguely, “Light....”

Idisio set the carry-candle down on the stand beside the lamp, pinched it out, and backed toward the door, moving with intense caution, like a deer evading a hunter. As he began searching behind him with one hand for the latch, she turned and looked full at him. He froze, his heart hammering in his ears.

“I’m sorry, son,” she said. “I haven’t been kind to you, have I? I haven’t taken any time to explain at all. You must think me completely mad.”

He stood still, unable to think of anything safe to say to that.

“It’s been so horribly, horribly long, you see,” she said. “Since I walked with the sun in my face and the wind on my skin. I’ve been through so much pain... so much pain.” She paused, her eyes swimming with sudden tears. “I haven’t wanted to tell you about any of that, because you’re so young and you shouldn’t have to know these things about your mother. But a mother shouldn’t know that her son’s been so badly hurt, either, so perhaps we ought to talk about the things that have happened to us, after all. About those bruises the innkeeper saw on your face. About... about other things.”

Idisio opened his mouth, shut it, then let out a slightly strangled squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. His stomach grumbled loudly.

“I need to eat,” he said. “Let me go get something solid in my stomach, and I promise I’ll come back here and we’ll talk about... whatever you want. You’re right. You haven’t explained anything at all. I want to know. I want to understand. I really do. Please, let me eat first.”

I’ll get a meal and get my thoughts sorted out, and then I’ll get the hells out of here, is what I’ll do,
he told himself privately. S
he might be my mother, but she’s the tath-shinn, too, and she’s a bloody raving lunatic. I don’t know how the hells she dragged me this far, but it’s time for me to head back west as fast as a clee-trance could carry me.

Her mouth stretched into an odd smile. “I will trust you, son,” she said. “I will trust that you’re old enough to understand the weight of a promise. I will trust you not to abandon me. I will sit here and wait for you. That’s how one builds trust: keeping small promises. You keep yours to come back. I will keep mine to explain. Yes?”

“Yes,” he said, “definitely.” He found the latch with his hand and backed out of the room with frantically cautious haste.

“Son,” she said before he managed to swing the door shut between them.

“Yes?”

“This girl the innkeeper mentioned. Riss. How did you meet her?”

“She was a stablehand here,” he said. “She asked to travel alongside me on my way south, and I agreed.” It seemed best not to mention Scratha.

“The innkeeper seemed to think you were her... her....” His mother made a vague gesture with one hand. “Are you married to her?”

“No,” he said. “We’re friends.”

“Friends,” she repeated, skepticism inflecting her voice. “But you’re going back to her? The innkeeper thought you were... going back to her. Going south. One day.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you love her?”

His mouth twisted; he straightened it out in a hurry and said, “I don’t know.”

She sat silently for what seemed like a long time. At last she said, her voice distant, “Go get your meal, son, then come back and we will talk of the matters that need to be discussed.”

He nodded, shut the door the rest of the way, and headed toward food as though he hadn’t eaten in a tenday.

Clouds drifted by overhead in bands of near-black and streamers of gold-edged white. After two days of torrential rain, Tank was relieved to see that clear a sky. The cheap inn they’d booked—for a brief overnight, as they’d thought—had been nearly unendurable under that long an enforced wait, and the stable fees had come dangerously close to eating up the remainder of Yuer’s coin. Tank gave silent thanks that Wian had at least been bright enough to hand over the bag of money before their arrival at the Fool’s Rest; she’d clearly seen it as a gesture of goodwill, confident in anticipation of her new and improved position.

He and Dasin hadn’t—carefully hadn’t—talked about Wian during their two days of enforced companionship. In fact, they had spent their time avoiding each other and conversation alike: either drinking wind wine that could have been boiled in a boot in the shabby commons room, or in their own room, mending and sharpening various items until they ran out of that small chore, or sleeping.

Tank had done a lot of dozing. Dasin had done a lot of drinking.

“Are we going to get on the road
today?”
Dasin demanded.

“Almost done,” Tank said. He tore his gaze from the clouds and returned it to the paper before him. Smooth rocks the size of his fist held it in place, but the corners flittered in the erratic breeze. He moved one of the weights to give his hand room to scratch out the last few words.

He handed the quill back to the patiently waiting scribe, then took a moment to read over what he’d written:

Captain Ash—

I was dismissed from merchant Venepe’s employ while in Sandsplit. I am currently working with trader Dasin as a primary employer, and he in turn is working with trader Yuer of Sandsplit. I was surprised to find that Yuer keeps an impressive number of bluebirds close to hand. Some are very large and hard to avoid, and Yuer has found homes for more than a few in Bright Bay itself.

I will stop by the Hall on my next return to Bright Bay.

—T

No time, under Dasin’s impatient prodding, to go for a visit in person; and the rain over the last days had made seeking out a scribe worse than useless. This would do. He nodded to the scribe. The tall young woman neatly blotted the page, which had almost completely dried under the breeze—Tank had never been fast at writing—then rolled it up.

“Sealed or tied?” she inquired.

“Seal,” Tank said, and dug his Freewarrior Hall coin from his pocket. She lifted a lit candle from its holder on the ground, dribbled a neatly placed blob of wax onto the roll, then traded candle for letter and held the rolled letter steady while Tank pressed the feather-side of his Hall coin into the warm wax.

“Feathers,” Dasin said, interested. “Is that on all the Hall markers?”

“No,” Tank said. “It’s what I asked for as my signature. Each one’s different.”

“What happens if you lose the coin?”

Tank handed the roll off to the scribe, paid her, and tucked the Hall coin safely back into the bottom of his belt pouch before answering.

“I don’t lose the coin,” he said. Then, to the scribe: “This goes to Captain Ash of the Bright Bay Freewarrior Hall. Today.”

“Runner goes that way in an hour,” she said.
“Tvit, s’e.”

Tank swung a hard glare at her.
“What
did you just—”

Dasin waved a hand to divert Tank’s attention, and said, “It’s a derivation, Tank.
S’a—
you’re from the Stone Islands, I’m guessing?”

“My parents brought me here as a child,” she said. “I grew up with their ways of speaking.” She looked at Tank. “Good winds and gods’-blessing, is what we mean by it. Don’t know about his
derivation.”
She flashed a quick, bright smile, then turned her attention to an elderly woman’s slow approach.
“S’a
Bele—another letter for your son, then?”

As Tank and Dasin untethered their patiently waiting horses, Dasin said,
“Tvit
comes from
teth-kavit: gods hold you and blessing to your strength.
It’s a version peculiar to the Stone Islands.”

“Damn close to
tvith,”
Tank said. He swung up on his horse.

Dasin laughed and followed suit. “I made the same comment,” he said. “Stai said the islanders don’t believe in
tvith.
They don’t even have a word for circumcision.”

Tank shook his head. “Good thing you were there to explain, then.”

Dasin slanted an amused glance at him and said nothing as they turned their horses toward the eastern exit that led to the Coast Road.

Tank wondered, as they went, if he would ever lose the crawling sensation that skittered over his skin every time he passed through Bright Bay, or the pervasive distaste that soured the back of his mouth, or the flash of startlement when seeing half-remembered landmarks. There—that building, hadn’t he run past it when—? No, this was too far north and east. He’d always been farther south and west—hadn’t he?

The worst of it was not being able to remember clearly.

Tendrils of green and gold flickered, acidic, at the edges of his vision;
he couldn’t tell if it came from memory or reality. He jerked round to look behind him. His mount snorted and went sideways. Dasin swore, pulling his own horse out of the way. A fat woman, herself forced to dodge, showered them both with invective.

“Sorry—” Tank said, wrestling his now-skittish gelding back under control. “Sorry. I thought I saw—never mind.” Unease ran like cold fire across the back of his neck and up his arms.

Dasin snapped, “If you’re done
dancing
with your horse, let’s get out of this pox-infested place already!”

That comment drew a number of unfriendly glares from passing residents. Dasin glared back, his thin nostrils flared as though daring them to start a fight.

“Now what about manners?” Tank said, not quietly enough.

Dasin shot him a hard stare.

“I don’t like this city much,” he said. “I can tell you don’t, either. Why?”

Tank didn’t answer.

They started their horses moving again, side by side, at a slow walk, then drew to a halt again as the crowd around them thickened. Ahead, an open wagon filled with what looked like bins of still-green tomatoes and peppers trundled through the narrow gate opening toward them. Outbound, a News-Rider mounted on a leggy bay gelding fretted behind a sturdy ore-cart waiting its turn. The cart was loaded with something heavy—not raw ore: that would be the return trip. A waterproof cover hid the contents, and three alert guards flanked the cart to sides and back.

“What d’you think he’s carrying?” Tank asked, nodding to the cart.

Dasin squinted a little, studying it, then said, “Tools. There’s a master-smith in Bright Bay who turns out the best mining and farming tools in the kingdom; he’s got a trick with turning the wood, I think, that makes it easier to grip, or sets the balance just right—I don’t know. But he won’t go north for any amount of money, nor train anyone in his methods. I think there’s a cousin involved, along the way, who’s convinced the local lords to send this job south. In any case, the ore and wood gets shipped all the way down here, and he makes the tools, and they trundle back on up through the Hackerwood.”

He paused, as if thinking, then dropped his voice and leaned over a little to put his next words into Tank’s ear.

“I’d lay a few rounds of any color you name that there’s a bit more than mining tools in that cart. Weapons carry a heavy export tax—that’s another law that hasn’t been repealed yet. A dozen good swords can bring in a nice profit if they get past the gates without a tax stamp.”

Tank shook his head and repressed the urge to ask if Dasin intended to declare the box. They were far too close to the gate to risk that question being overheard. He already knew the answer, anyway. Dasin had wrapped the box in multiple layers of oilcloth, swaddled it with more care than an infant, then tucked it securely into the very bottom of a saddlebag.

Tank let the conversation drop and studied the gate instead. Calling it a gate was generous. It was little more than a section of low stone wall blocking off either side of the road, allowing only one wagon through at a time. Walking travelers filed past the checkpoint without challenge, but riders had to pass through the gate; and wagons, apparently, had precedence over riders.

Most riders, anyway. As soon as the produce wagon cleared the gate, the impatient News-Rider spurred his horse, clattered around the ore-cart, through the gap, and was gone in a flurry of curses from those on both sides who had been patiently waiting their turn.

The guards made no protest to the precipitous departure. The line backed up further with more arguments over who’d been first before the Rider had sent everyone diving out of the way. The guards went through their checkpoint routines stolidly, not in the least impressed by the rising volume of protests.

“Oy,
s’e,”
someone said to Tank’s right. He glanced down into pale eyes and a familiar, dirt-smudged face. She’d collected a few bruises since he’d seen her last, and her lower lip was puffed and split, but she stared up at him with grim determination.

“Finally come out of hiding, then?” he said, keeping a close watch on her hands. “What do you want?”

“You’re looking for Lifty,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’m curious,” he said. “Won’t say
looking.”

“Take me out of here and I’ll tell you where he is. I seen him.” Her head tilted back, almost perpendicular to her skinny shoulders, and both her thin hands wrapped around Tank’s booted foot. “Promise you get me out of here,” she said. “Now, right now, today. Drop me the next village over, I don’t care.”

“She’ll cut our throats and run away with the money,” Dasin observed.

“Will you?” Tank said, watching the lines of her face shift through animal cunning for a moment; grinned at her, not allowing it to be a friendly expression. “You will.”

Her fingers tightened around his boot.
“Please,”
she said, and there was true desperation in it this time. “Get me
out
of this place! I’ll make my own luck from there, but give me a
ride
at the least! I want well away from here
now.”

“Why?”

“Because—” She hesitated and cast a furtive glance around, then looked back up at him. “You saw,” she said. “Just out of the market. By the hopam building.”