Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (45 page)

I warned Oruen this would happen eventually,
Eredion thought.
We’ll see if he listened as well as this captain has.
Once the other Family liaisons arrived, things would get phenomenally complicated: Water’s End writ larger than life.

The captain finished murmuring in the messenger’s ear. The man nodded and headed off through the crowd like an eel though seaweed.

Four
jii,
clad in shimmering green silk laced with gold thread, pranced merrily down the ramp. On reaching the dock, they began whirling and leaping, white-gloved hands dipping into the golden pots they carried. Small, colorful items spun out over the crowd, prompting cries of surprise and, very quickly, a number of cheers.

Eredion let out a breath of relief: they looked to be throwing
suka
candies and other small sweet treats, not coins.

One of the
jii
tossed a small, colorful silk bag. A child grabbed it from the air. Someone jostled the child, and the bag fell, spilling a handful of bright glass beads onto the cobblestones. The resulting scramble for possession of the treasures quickly hushed at the appearance of Lord Fimre at the head of the gangplank.

The sleeves of his fine green ceremonial shirt, much like Eredion’s, were slit to above the elbow; thin straps kept the sleeve from flapping entirely loose until halfway down the forearm. A formal
shivii
of glossy black silk laced with gold and silver thread reached to his ankles.

“Is that a
skirt?”
the guard captain said, incredulous.

“No. It’s called a
shivii.
Only men wear it.”

“Looks like a skirt to me.”

“Don’t say that around Lord Fimre. Or any southerner. It’s very different.”

“How?”

Eredion pursed his lips against a smile. “Because it’s called a
shivii,”
he said, and chose to pretend he didn’t hear the blasphemous response.

Lord Fimre came down the ramp without haste, letting the gathered crowd look its fill. Wind ruffled the
shivii,
pulling it aside to show the thigh-high slits and the black silk hose—thankfully—beneath. Most southerners disdained the hose, or indeed any undergarments with a
shivii.

The entire entourage had shown off remarkably little skin, now that Eredion thought of it; a significant mark of respect for northern culture. He’d have to be sure to point that out to Oruen later on.

Eredion moved forward as Fimre took the final step onto the dockside. He pitched his voice to carry across the crowd. “Allow me to offer welcome,
louin
Lord Fimre of Sessin Family.”

No calling him liaison yet, until the formal transfer;
louin—
honored representative—was the closest allowable title.

“Lord Sessin,” Fimre answered, allowing Eredion the higher status, and offered a shallow bow. Eredion returned it in kind, his chest loosening with sharp relief.

Fimre’s eyes gleamed as he straightened.
You thought I’d be a complete ass?

It was on my mind,
Eredion admitted, repressing a smile. Aloud, he said, “Your escort stands ready to take you to the palace, Lord Fimre.”

“I will follow,” Fimre said.
“Saishe-pais.”
How long a walk are we looking at?

Considerable,
Eredion said dryly.

Good. I want to walk the wobble out of my legs.

Eredion turned to stand beside Lord Fimre, then nodded to the guards. The two desert lords moved forward in a matched, deceptively easy gait that covered ground quickly while managing to resemble a casual stroll, as though nothing more important existed in the world than themselves.

Who’s coming along behind us?
Eredion asked, his gaze serenely ahead.

Ten baggage handlers and six guards.

No kathain?

I had to choose between kathain and jugglers. I found the jugglers more interesting. And surprisingly...flexible.

Eredion glanced sideways at Fimre’s impassive expression and managed to restrain his own grin.
I’m afraid I don’t have any kathain lined up yet,
he said.
There was a delay receiving your letter, and I haven’t had the time to find suitable candidates.

I’ll manage to find suitable company, I expect,
Fimre said, sounding supremely unconcerned. His dark stare flickered among the crowd. Eredion followed his gaze and realized that several women were staring at the new arrival with expressions of outright hunger.

I expect you will.
Eredion glanced at Fimre’s profile and had to admit: the man was damned handsome, from head to toes, and still carried the resilient grace of youth. Between nobles looking to curry favor with the new power in town while it lasted, and women of all social strata looking for a hit of the exotic, Fimre would have trouble keeping his bed empty, not filling it.

Properly trained kathain were more than just bedmates, however; and even athletic jugglers couldn’t fill those other functions.

You’ve managed without for some years now,
Fimre pointed out, apparently picking up on that last thought.

I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

A muscle twitched in Fimre’s cheek.
No...I suppose not. You’re something of a legend, you know, back home.

I’m
what
?

Fimre slanted a sardonic half-smile his way, briefly; then the impassive mask reappeared.
I had to fight for the chance to come here as your replacement. There’s quite the welcoming committee waiting for you, Lord Eredion. Even the kathain have been holding contests to determine who’s most worthy of you.

Eredion said nothing, too shaken for coherent reply. A legend? For what? He’d only done what he had to in order to survive. The information put a new spin on Antouin’s recent brutal manners: Heads of Family were hypersensitive to popular favor leaning towards a potential rival.

But Eredion, besides being far back in line, didn’t want any part of leading Sessin Family. He’d made that very clear to Arit, and later to Antouin. So any popularity, however startling, couldn’t possibly have an effect on Antouin’s temper. Having come to that conclusion, he tilted his head and made a quietly inquiring noise by way of a prompt to continue.

A smirk ghosted across Fimre’s lean face.
You’re seen as remarkable for being the only desert lord brave enough to stay in Bright Bay over the last few years. Your rescues—the ones who’ve come through Water’s End, at any rate—have spread the word rather loudly about how you’re simply amazing, generous, kind-hearted, and so on. Whenever a Sessin treats a servant or commoner without the same nobility as you’ve supposedly displayed, we’re liable to hear, in the background, “Well,
he’s
certainly nothing like Lord Eredion.”

Eredion set his teeth together hard and concentrated on walking in a straight line without tripping over his own feet for a while. Stark horror churned nausea through his stomach.
That
sort of attention would definitely rile Lord Antouin up in short order.

You didn’t know?
Fimre seemed honestly surprised.

Around here,
Eredion said,
I’m more likely to be lambasted as the arrogant bastard who didn’t save someone in time. For every one I saved, five more went under the knife...and memories always run short on gratitude and long on resentment. No. I had no idea. Gods, what a mess!

No wonder he’d been recalled. Antouin would want that burgeoning myth dispelled by reality as fast and as ruthlessly as possible. He’d set Eredion up as the next thing to a torturer if it would stop that chain of gossip in its tracks.

Bitter nausea rose into Eredion’s throat. He swallowed it back and focused on calming himself before his profound distress showed on his face.

Some distance behind them, the northern musicians belatedly swung back into the interrupted tune. Ahead, pipes warbled, talloi-jugglers clicked through complex and noisy dance steps; drummers thundered out an increasingly complicated rhythm.

Eredion wondered if he could break for the western docks, fling himself into the water, and swim to the Stone Islands.

You’d have to go to the furthest of the Scarpane Mountains to entirely get away,
Fimre said, more than a little amusement in his voice.

I doubt even that would work,
Eredion said sourly.

Likely not. Ah—is this is the Gold Gate I’ve heard of, up ahead? Impressively ugly.

It’s even worse up close,
Eredion warned.

I’ll be sure to look at it admiringly as we go by.

By the time they started east along the Coast Road, Dasin had apparently forgotten the morning’s fugue-fit completely, although he did rub his right shoulder with a puzzled grimace now and again.

“Must have slept on it wrong,” he muttered once.

The burly man riding to the left of the wagon looked sideways across the gap behind the driver’s bench at Tank, but didn’t offer any open comment. The new mercenary—Pin had introduced him as Delt—had promptly claimed the right to ride one of the stately black geldings as a condition of his hire. Tank hadn’t argued it. For all that the blacks were more regal and obviously trained for endurance, Ginibar had a playful and stubborn spirit that appealed to Tank. He had to pay attention when riding her, and that kept him from brooding.

Anything that kept him from thinking too much right now was a damn good thing.

You have a gift...
If Seshya died from whatever ailed her, would it be Tank’s fault? Should he have tried—but his stomach rebelled again at the thought, and he shook his head, shoving that question aside. As distraction, he occupied himself with listing, in his head, the types of herbs Teilo had taught him about, wondering which of them Dasin had finally selected for this load, and trying to guess the likeliest.

Dasin sat on the driver’s bench, steering the drayhorse with a defter hand than he’d initially shown with riding. His black gelding ambled sullenly at the back of the wagon. The merchant cast uneasy glances at Delt from time to time, but settled down by mid-morning; which meant he returned to his usual sour, half-hearted sniping manner.

“Don’t see why I need
two
guards,” he muttered. “Coast Road’s never any trouble, the way I hear it.”

Delt laughed, not taking offense, and spat to one side. “Not for us, it won’t be. So feel free to lose Red, there,” he said amiably, jerking his head at Tank.

Dasin squinted irritably.

“I’m a bit behind on plans,” Tank cut in to stop Dasin from picking a fight none of them needed to get into at the moment. “How much of the load you bought is still with us?”

“All of it. We’re taking this load to Yuer,” Dasin said with a sharp, understanding glance at Tank. “Then Yuer ships it on up north and gives us something to bring back to Bright Bay to sell off to the contacts there.”

“Not much merchanting in that,” Tank commented dryly. “Sounds like a glorified delivery service to me.”

Dasin shrugged. “It’s a trial run to show faith,” he said. “Next trip we start selling. Yuer wanted to see what I would pick out for market this time through, and whether I could keep it all intact along the road. If I meet with his approval this time through, next time outbound from Bright Bay is the real thing.”

Didn’t make proving ourselves easy, did he?
Tank thought, looking at the creaking wagon beside him. Even the drayhorse seemed on the exhausted side. Still, it was a beginning, and Dasin had the wits to turn it into something better given the chance.

Tank devoutly hoped that driving Raffin off had been enough to give Dasin that chance. Glancing at the building storm-clouds on the southern horizon, he modified that to a true prayer—not something he did often—for Ishrai to withhold her water-drenched blessing for just a few more critical days. The thin wood of the wagon roof would let through as much as it shielded away.

Give the water to the desert, to your thirsty people, beautiful goddess,
he thought, and was abruptly chilled with fear. Could
he
move weather around, if he tried? Tank had no idea what the limits of a desert lord were; had no idea how much the encounter with Alyea had altered his already terrifying abilities.

Gods grant healing my legs hit the far edge of what’s possible; even that it was a one-time fluke,
he thought: and didn’t believe it one bit.

Ginibar skittered, as though reading his unease. Worry left him as he brought her back under control.

“Good girl,” he murmured fervently, rubbing the side of her neck, and kept his attention on their surroundings with fair success after that.

With a sharp chill working through the air, the heat inside Yuer’s room was actually welcome for once. More surprisingly, Yuer wasn’t in the thickly upholstered chair he always occupied. The room stayed empty save for a slender young woman who came in to poke the fire and add more logs. Tank watched her without offering to help, mildly surprised at the ease with which she carried heavy chunks of wood and the skill she showed in keeping the fire regulated.