Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3) (54 page)

He doesn’t love me. He never will. The humans have twisted his mind. Maybe he’s even been in league with Rosin all along. No, no, that’s not possible... is it? No. Rosin’s dead. He’s dead. He’s
dead
... .

Isn’t he?

In answer, cold, cruel laughter echoed through her mind.

As Lifty
—Idisio—
disappeared into the rickety inn, Tank took two steps in a random direction and realized he was in trouble.

Hurry.
Carry an urgent message at speed to a place three day’s ride away: and while he could reasonably claim the saddlebags he’d tucked under the bed at the Traveler’s Rest, he couldn’t claim the
horse—
that was in Yuer’s stables, and there was no chance of walking off with it unless he agreed to work with Yuer.

Why do I care? Why does it matter what happens to a scruffy ex-street thief—or, for that matter, to a—a ha’ra’ha?
Incredible to believe, impossible to believe—if Tank hadn’t seen it for himself. Tendrils of green and gold had flickered in his vision every time he looked at Lifty’s mother. And Lifty’s eyes had begun to turn a disturbing dark shade when Tank suggested killing the madwoman.

It would have been the second time Tank had killed a mad ha’ra’ha—but it would have been the first time he’d known what he faced.

We didn’t tell you because Ninnic’s child would have pulled it from your head,
Allonin had said, apologetic.
You had to go in blind. Surprise was our only chance. We had to cripple or kill it.

You didn’t think I’d ever walk out,
Tank retorted in memory. Y
ou expected me to die.

Allonin had looked away, a hard, pale cast to his almond skin, and given no answer: which had been answer enough.

This wasn’t just about Lifty. Everyone in Sandsplit was in serious danger, if she woke up angry. And after being laid out by a mere human—she’d be
raging.

I could have killed her easily, while she was unconscious,
Tank thought, staring at the inn.
It would have been the safer notion, because figuring out how to bring her back to sanity—I’ve no damn idea what to do with that. But trying to kill her would put me up against Lifty—Idisio—and I don’t think I could handle both of them at once. I don’t want to attack Lifty, in any case. He hasn’t done anything to deserve that. He gave me shelter during a bad time, whatever the ending to that situation; and he stopped her from coming after me. He’s not dangerous. She is.

I hope Idisio’s right that he can handle her when she wakes up. And I really hope that whoever this Deiq is, he knows what to do and can get here in time.

Tank headed back to the Traveler’s Rest to collect his saddlebags.

Not long after that, he pushed past Yuer’s guards, ignoring them completely. They afforded him the same courtesy and made no attempt to stop him from going through the door. Yuer sat in the same spot, with the same blanket; the table was clean of all salt residue. An ornate teapot shaped like a horse’s head sat steaming gently, the topknot-lid slightly askew. The room smelled strongly of oranges and mint.

Yuer regarded Tank with raised eyebrows. “We really do need to have a discussion about your manners at some point,” he said.

“What do you know about ha’ra’hain?” Tank said. “Specifically, ones who’ve gone completely mad?”

Yuer sat forward sharply. Liquid sloshed from the small cup in his hand, darkening a patch of blanket. He stared at Tank, mouth open, then drew a short, harsh breath and said, “Why, exactly, would you ask that question?”

“You know enough, then,” Tank said. “I don’t want Dasin hurt. Keep him safe and give me the horse; I’m off to fetch someone who knows how to handle this.”

Yuer stared another moment, his mouth shaping silent words, then said, “Where is it?”

“The Green Branch Inn,” Tank said. “My advice, leave her alone. And her son.”

“Her
son?”
Yuer’s voice went shrill. “We have
two
of them here?”

“He’s not crazy,” Tank said, hoping he was right. “She is. He’s doing his best to keep her from hurting anyone. Chances are if you stay out of their way and don’t provoke them, he’ll keep her balanced—” Silently, he prayed he’d guessed right on that as well—”and they’ll go on their way without trouble; but keep Dasin safe, give me the horse to carry the word, and I’ll sign with you.”

“Who are you carrying the word
to?”

“He said to look for someone called Deiq.”

Yuer stared, his face bloodless and still, for a long moment; then let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Set a viper to catch a rat,” he said. “Well,
I’m
not getting involved in this one. My people are coming inside and staying out of this mess.” He waved a hand. “But since you seem inclined to get involved—go. I accept your proposal. I’ll keep Dasin here until I’m sure they’ve gone. Meet Dasin at the Copper Kettle in Bright Bay once you’ve completed your... messenger duties. If you survive the delivery.”

Tank turned and left the room without bothering over farewells.

Riding at night was a new experience for Tank. The road was often hidden in drifts of black shadow cast by the scrub edging the road; the pale light of a half moon gave little to no help. The black gelding seemed unconcerned, and found its way along the road without hesitation; all the same, Tank kept to a walk or trot, uneasy with trusting the horse’s vision past that point.

A few miles out of Sandsplit, the horse slowed, then stopped, tossing its head, just before a heavy swatch of shadows from an overhanging stand of trees and brush. It began to back up. Tank squinted into the deeper shadows at the side of the road, one hand on his dagger, and listened to the small sounds around him; paid attention to the shifting of the horse under him, and let it move as it wanted.

“Help me,” someone said in a thin, wavering voice, like a lost child.

The horse sidled away from the sound, snorting. Tank felt its muscles bunching.

“Stay where you are,” Tank said sharply. “You’re about to get kicked in the head, you damn fool. Stay still.” He tightened his grip on the reins. The horse snorted again but accepted the cue and backed up some more.

“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” the voice said. “I can’t stand knowing what he showed me. Please. I’ve been trying so hard to be good, but the voices won’t let me rest. Please, help me.”

“The
voices?”
Tank said sharply. Then, as the horse jittered again:
“Stay where you are!”

The voice rose in a desperate, broken appeal: “Please! I saw a place—in what he showed me—in Bright Bay, there’s a place where I can get help. But I’ll never make it alone. It’s taking all I have to talk this clearly.”

“I’m not inclined to take a raving moon-case on a two day ride,” Tank said curtly. “Not when my horse would rather kick you senseless than take you on. You’ll have to find another way. Now move or get stepped on.”

As he spoke the last words, hands grabbed his calf, fingers digging in tight and hard through the leather of his riding boot. “You should have helped me,” the voice said, tone shifting to a guttural menace. “Now I’ll have to try pushing this off on you instead—”

Time seemed to twist: even as Tank kicked out—drew his dagger—felt the horse go sharply sideways—tendrils of green and gold sliced through the interstices of each moment, wrapping around him, digging for purchase like thorny vines.

In the distance that lay between
now
and
then,
a black screaming began to build. The scars on his back—and other places—itched ferociously, as though newly scabbed over instead of years healed.

A familiar voice said:
You like this... You want this....

The scars began to stretch and burn, as though about to split open into the original wounds once more.

“No,” Tank said aloud, in a fractional, fragmented moment-within-a-moment; instinctively, reflexively, gathered up all the shining filaments into a giant, tangled mass and shoved them—not back at the man clutching his leg, but
elsewhere—

Near at hand, the man screamed and collapsed, convulsing. The horse completed its sideways shuffle and sprang forward into a headlong gallop. Tank clutched frantically at mane and reins, hanging on with what coherency remained, his only thought
Don’t fall off, don’t fall off.

Eventually, the horse slowed to a walk. Tank sat up, pushing loose hair from his face, and pulled the beast to a halt; dismounted, went to his knees, and vomited. The horse tossed its head and moved sideways a step in apparent distaste. Tank hauled himself upright, still trembling all over, and after a moment of fumbling recaptured the loose reins. He felt his way along them, patted his horse’s jaw reassuringly, then stood leaning against the beast’s solidly comforting,
real
bulk until his knees steadied.

The scraped-raw feeling faded, little by little, into a general, weary ache. Moving his shoulders produced an odd sticky feeling across the back of his shirt and along one shoulder, where the aches were the worst.

He didn’t need light to know what that meant: he was, or had been, bleeding. From wounds closed over more than six years ago.

As he swung back into the saddle, wincing, he said to the silence around him:
“Mercenary,
godsdamnit.
Mercenary!
Normal!
Ordinary!
Why is that so hard?”

A light breeze riffled through his hair briefly, then dissipated.

Tank swore again and set the horse to a reckless canter, impatient to reach shelter—or sunlight—as quickly as possible.

The sun was cresting the horizon when Tank arrived, bone-weary and irritable, in Obein. His mood wasn’t helped by the discovery of a hastily-erected barricade across the road into town. Six sturdy men, three with longbows, three with polearms, and none with smiles, stood arrayed behind and to either side of the barricade. A seventh, the only one with armor—although that consisted of a battered helmet and an ill-fitting hard leather plate across his chest—stood in front of the barricade, squinting at Tank’s approach.

“Hold!” the guard demanded, holding up his hand, palm out. “Identify yourself and your purpose here!”

Tank reined in a stone’s throw away, studying the scene with weary bewilderment.

“Tank,” he said with the last of his patience. “I’m traveling to Bright Bay. What’s with the fence? This wasn’t here day before yesterday.”

That caused an excited murmur among the guards behind the barricade. “You admit to passing through this town recently, then?” the leader demanded.

“And
he has a southern accent,” another guard said, loud enough for Tank to hear.

“Of course I was here!” Tank said. “I came through with merchant Dasin, under trader Yuer’s seal. Now I’m going back to Bright Bay with an urgent message. And what does my accent have to do with anything?”

At mention of Yuer’s name, the muttering stopped. The guards all stared at him, white-faced and cold, then began shooting each other surreptitious glances.

Someone said, low-voiced, “We
did
say he might be behind it, with all his odd—” Someone else shushed him sharply.

“Behind
what?”
Tank said.
“S’es,
all I want is a fresh mount to get through to Bright Bay. Merchant Dasin will be coming along and will pick up this one—” He stopped, seeing their expressions go hard again.
“What?”
he snapped with real anger this time.

“We’ve no horses to spare,” the lead guard said. “Someone drove them all off. After killing a tavernkeeper and his daughter.”

“Ripped them apart like a wild animal,” another guard said. “The way a
barbarian
might. Hid the bodies, too.”

“Don’t tell him everything, you idiot!”

Tank rubbed a hand over his mouth to hide a smile; sobered completely as they glared at him, closed-off and hostile.

Tank held his increasingly restless horse still with an effort and took a deep breath. “Wasn’t me,” he said. “I’m a mercenary, not a murderer.”

“Don’t seem like much of a difference from the ground here,” one of the guards behind the barricade called out. There was a nervous murmur of agreement from his companions.