Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) (18 page)

Her mother raised the cup to her lips and sipped delicately. “Dinner should be ready soon. You ought to go clean up and change into some
proper
clothing. That disgraceful outfit you’re wearing is—”

“No,” Alyea interrupted, deciding to tackle the issue the only way she could think of: directly. “Listen. All those items I brought home—they’re gifts. From the teyanain.”

“The
teyanain
?” Her mother sat up straight, looking distinctly alarmed. “That’s a child’s story, Alyea, what under the Four are you—”

“They’re not a myth. They’re real. And they rule the Horn. They gave me the gifts,” Alyea plowed on, over her mother’s noises of incomprehension, “because Peysimun Family now has their very own full desert lord.”

Now her mother was the one staring, openmouthed and incredulous. “What are you talking about? We’re not some southern barbarian family, we don’t have—”

“Me.
I’ve
been invested as a full desert lord. By a Conclave. I’m now Lord Alyea Peysimun.”

Tea splashed down the front of her mother’s dress as the fragile cup bounced from ample belly to wide knee to the small table and shattered.

Alyea hid a smirk and tried to sound apologetic as she said, “Maybe I should have phrased that more gently?”

Deiq tossed his pack onto the lower, plainer servant’s bed and pointed Idisio to the larger guest bed. “I don’t sleep much,” he said when Idisio began to protest. “Let’s go hunt down some food.”

Idisio set his pack slowly on the guest bed and looked around the room. “I never thought I’d be in such nice surroundings,” he said, almost under his breath. “It feels very strange.”

Deiq glanced around the room, unimpressed. Creamy white walls and curtains the color of bleached sand; plain, dark rugs; fluffy, wide pillows and fine green bed-sheets; a few small decorations and wall-hangings: nothing exciting, to his way of thinking. The small table, while sturdy, was built of the cheapest woods and with the simplest construction. There was no writing-desk, and only one wide-bottomed chair. The empty central space had just enough room for a tub, which the servants would no doubt be bringing in soon.

This was the sort of lodging offered to guests who were encouraged not to stay. Even Scratha, with his limited resources, had done better.

“Let’s go get some food,” he said again, and urged Idisio from the room.

He stopped a passing servant as they emerged and asked for directions to the kitchen; he could have figured it out on his own, but saw no point in highlighting his differences. It was one of many small subterfuges he’d grown accustomed to over time. Even a “mysterious quasi-noble” needed to act humanly confused at times.

Remembering Alyea’s phrase made him smile; the young man he’d stopped to ask for directions stammered, ducked and beamed in response. Deiq hastily turned the smile into something more indifferent, and the servant blinked as though coming out of a haze. Face setting into sharp lines of distrust, he hurried away without looking back.

Deiq sighed. “I hate the north,” he said under his breath.

“Because he didn’t drop them for you?” Idisio said tartly.

Deiq shot the younger ha’ra’ha a disgusted glare. “No. I didn’t want that. But I hate that he felt ashamed for wanting to.”

“You have an opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

Deiq shook his head, forcing himself into a dry amusement instead of anger. “Not really,” he said. “Right now I’m of the opinion that I’m hungry, nothing more.”

Hungry on more than one level; the servant’s initial, startled submissiveness had reawakened a dull ache he’d been ignoring for some time. He set his teeth together hard and pushed the haunting need back into hiding the usual way: by remembering Meer, and yellow eyes in the darkness under Bright Bay, and a shattering scream from one moment that blended into the other.

Idisio snorted, blissfully unaware of Deiq’s thoughts, and headed for the kitchens with the arrogant assurance of youth. Deiq followed, more slowly, again pushing anger into bleak amusement.

He reflected, not for the first time, that if he hadn’t taught himself that trick hundreds of years ago, he would likely have torn through the entire human race, and most ha’ra’hain, for insults they didn’t even know they delivered. But the human world had steadily evolved over the years, and he’d changed with it; something the slower-moving ha’reye would never understand, any more than Idisio would grasp the implications of his heritage until forced into a crisis.

Remembering how sanguine Idisio had been in the face of the clee-trance, Deiq hoped he wouldn’t be the one to provoke that confrontation. The thought was selfish; he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was feeling far too tired and old lately to be sure of the outcome of any serious fights.

“I need to visit the Tower,” he muttered, and lengthened his stride to catch up with Idisio.

As soon as the door to her mother’s sitting room closed behind her, Alyea headed for the kitchens at a trot.

She noticed, as she went, that the servants all appeared to be new, and wondered what had prompted that change. Probably Lady Peysimun had replaced her “ordinary” servants with ones boasting a history of serving the important, as a way of accenting her higher status. It was the sort of little game she loved.

The kitchens, at least, hadn’t changed, and neither had the cooks. Apparently good cooks were too important to risk changing out for mere status points. Alyea gave devout thanks for that decision as she stepped up behind Nem, who stood stirring a gigantic soup pot, and prodded his broad right shoulder.

Nem turned, a lumbering movement, and grinned down at her. “I heard you coming,” he said, his voice so thick and slurred that the words were hardly understandable.

“Sure you did,” Alyea laughed, and prodded him in the stomach. “I’m hungry!”

Nem watched her mouth closely as she spoke, his mild, pale eyes narrowed. His chestnut-colored hair had begun growing out of its short summer cut, and almost covered his lumpy ears; she could see streaks of silver beginning to appear among the brown.

“All right,” he nodded, the words as mangled as before, and pointed to an archway across the room. “Go sit with your friends. I will bring you soup.” He reached out and poked a long, thick finger into her right shoulder. “Welcome home,” he added.

She grinned at him and went into the servants’ dining hall. Deiq and Idisio looked up from bowls of soup as she entered. A platter of black bread scraps and ends sat on the table between them, and a platter of cut-up hard cheese and peasant sausage; she groaned, seeing that last item, and almost lunged to grab a piece.

Thumping down onto the bench beside Deiq, she bit into the greasy, spicy treat with enthusiasm. Her mother never let food like this appear on the main dining table, but to Alyea, it was more satisfying than six courses of gourmet foodstuffs.

Deiq watched her with his usual sardonic amusement. Idisio kept his attention on his soup, sullen again.

“Your cook is very good,” Deiq said, picking up a piece of black bread. “And your baker.”

“Peysimun doesn’t have a house baker,” Alyea said. “My mother insists on buying all her bread from the White Gull Bakery, near the palace. But she doesn’t buy peasant breads; that comes from a bakery well outside the Gates; I think it’s called Shelly’s. The outside is covered with hundreds of shells, and—”

She stopped, suddenly realizing that she’d been about to launch into a discussion of Shelly’s versus the White Gull, and how utterly useless such a conversation would be. She didn’t even
want
to talk. It had been old habit prompting her into a light social discussion of no consequence.

Deiq finished his soup, mopping up the last liquids with another piece of bread, and said nothing. Idisio prodded listlessly at his soup, as though utterly exhausted. He looked a bit grey around the edges; she resisted an urge to tell him to go to bed. He was ha’ra’hain, and old enough to take care of himself. No sense in her mothering him.

Outside, the wind picked up to a fierce howl, and the rain thundered down in audible sheets.

“Glad we made it in before nightfall,” Alyea tried next, and felt that fall flat too.

Nem came in with a large bowl of soup and set it down before her, then produced a large-bowled wooden spoon from an apron pocket and held it out to her. She took the spoon, turning it over, and grinned broadly, tracing her finger across his latest carving: a rose in full bloom. A daisy, a sunflower, and a gods’-glory flower decorated handle and bowl. With the rose on the back, the spoon was complete.

“What will the next one be?” she asked, careful to look up at him as she spoke.

Nem shrugged, his gaze going to Deiq for a long, thoughtful moment. “Maybe fish,” he said. “Not sure.”

“Shellfish,” Deiq suggested.

“Maybe.” Nem studied Idisio for a moment, then looked over the table. “Need anything?”

“No. Thank you.”

Nem nodded, poked Alyea in the shoulder, and withdrew.

“He’s not entirely deaf, but very close to it,” Alyea said. “He was born that—”

“Yes,” Deiq drawled. “Is there a reason you’re suddenly feeling the urge to chatter?”

She felt her face heat, but before she could speak, Idisio cut in, waspishly: “Is there a reason
you’re
suddenly feeling the urge to be an ass?”

The air went dangerously still. The hair on the back of Alyea’s neck rose. Without knowing quite why, she slammed her hand down hard on the table, producing a startlingly loud
crack!

“Knock it off,” she said severely as they both jerked to stare at her. In that moment, she reminded herself of Azni, and had to repress a smile. “Go get some sleep, both of you. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Idisio stood without further prompting and stalked from the room. Deiq watched him go, a faint frown on his face, but made no move to follow.

“Something’s eating him hard,” he said. “I don’t know what. That wasn’t the first shot he took tonight, and I’m getting damn tired of it.”

Alyea sighed and began eating soup. “Gods, I’ve missed good food,” she said between mouthfuls. “Not that southern food is bad,” she added hastily.

“What you grew up with always tastes best,” Deiq said, and reached for a piece of hard cheese. “When I was young, I liked bread and cheese. I’ve never quite left that basic staple.”

Alyea hesitated on the verge of confronting Deiq about just how old he was, and about his lie regarding Lord Eredion; then remembered that she had a more pressing question to ask at the moment.

“Lord Evkit told me something about the Qisani, and I need to know if it’s true,” she said, and watched his face settle into harder lines. “He said that Acana wasn’t supposed to help me. That the healer wasn’t supposed to save my life. Is
that
true?”

Deiq set the cheese down with delicate care, as though it were made of glass, and spread his hands wide and flat on the table. “You can’t believe a tenth of what a teyanin tells you, and Evkit far less than that,” he said. “But in this case—yes. It’s true.”

Her mind flinched away from thinking about what that meant. “He also said that Acana and the Qisani are in danger because they helped me. Is that true?”

“That’s too simple a question and far too complicated an answer,” Deiq said, his gaze flat and emotionless. “Living with a ha’rethe protector cuts two ways, Alyea. It always has, and it’s a delicate dance at times. Remember Scratha Conclave? I stepped in because Cafad Scratha doesn’t understand yet how to posture without getting real emotions involved, and Scratha ha’rethe would have followed the emotion without looking at the flawed logic behind it. Cafad Scratha almost got Evkit
killed
with his little tantrum. I had a
shit
of a time convincing Scratha ha’rethe to let me handle it.”

She stared at him, appalled. “Did they know? The other lords?”

Deiq snorted. “Let’s just say Cafad didn’t win any friends at that Conclave.” He blinked and looked up at the arched entrance to the room, frowning as though listening to something.

Just as she was drawing in breath to ask what he’d heard, her cousin Kameniar sauntered into the room.

“
Dear
cousin,” the tall, broadly built young man said, leaning against the archway wall and sneering at her. “How
cozy
you look. Welcome home.”

Alyea let out the breath in a long sigh, realizing that by northern custom, Deiq was sitting intimately close beside her, instead of properly across the table from her.

She decided to go with what was left of courtesy, and said, “Deiq, may I present my cousin, Kameniar. Kam, this is Deiq of Stass; he’s been helping me learn southern customs—”

“Oh, of
course
,” Kam said, smirking. “I’ve heard about how Deiq of Stass
helps
women.”

Alyea bit the inside of her cheek and very carefully did not look at Deiq, knowing that her aggressive cousin was trying, for whatever bizarre reason, to start a fight.

“How is . . . um . . . Harra?” She had to struggle to remember the name of the girl he’d been seeing when she left.

His expression darkened. “Gone,” he said. “Run off with some southern bastard. ‘Scuse me,” he added, nodding to Deiq. “Nothing personal.”

“Of course,” Deiq said mildly.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Alyea reached for another expected courtesy. It felt like a tremendous effort, and rather useless, but she tried anyway. “Er . . . your mother? How’s she doing?”

“Complaining all the time,” Kam said. He shook his head and crossed to sit at the table across from them. “She’s become very difficult. I think it’s age. She’s getting up there, you know? Over sixty now. Her mind’ll be going soon.” He didn’t seem particularly sad at the thought. “You do know
I’m
in line now to take over the family estates when she goes,” he added, preening a bit. “Ashin ran off to be a wandering tinker or something. Such a disgrace, she disowned him, can’t blame her. But I think the shame affected her mind, really. She’s been
hard
-hearted lately.”

Deiq’s mouth twitched. He said nothing aloud, but Alyea could sense his deep amusement. And she saw his point now: Kam’s chatter felt inane and pompous, a waste of time and voice, and a poor mask for a deeper issue. He was angling for something, and Alyea was fairly sure she knew what.

“I take it,” Alyea said dryly, “you mean she won’t pay your gambling debts any longer. Or your brothel tabs.”

Kam reared back in his seat with an offended expression. “Now, cousin, that’s hardly polite talk in front of
company
. What
have
you learned for manners while you were gone?”

“Which means I’m right,” Alyea said. “And I haven’t any money either, Kam, so you’ll find no help here.”

“No money? What do you call that great load of trade goods you walked in with?” he demanded, dropping his pious act. “D’you know what you’ve
got
there? I saw a bundle marked with—”

“They’re mine,” she said, “not yours, and I’m not giving you any of it to sell.”

“Just what did you do to pick up all those pretty trinkets among the barbarians?” he sneered. “And walking back in with
him
! D’you think nobody sees what—”

Her temper rose sharply. After all she’d been though,
damned
if she’d let this overfed fool call her a whore! Before she quite knew what she was doing, she’d half-risen, leaned forward, and slapped him hard. Just before her hand hit his cheek, Deiq’s hand clamped around her wrist, almost but not quite arresting the blow.

Kam went over sideways, tumbled over the bench, and crashed to the floor, flipping the bench over onto himself in the process.

Deiq pulled her hand back roughly. “Damn it,” he said, “I
warned
you about that!”

She stared at her motionless cousin, appalled. A moment later the cook came in and gave Deiq a hard stare, obviously assuming he’d been the one who hit Kam.

Deiq shook his head, stood, and moved to help Nem lift the overturned bench. The two men knelt next to Kam. After a few moments of examination, Deiq said, “He’s still alive. It doesn’t look like you broke his jaw, and he didn’t break anything during the tumble.” He looked directly at the cook and added, with careful enunciation, “He needs to be carried to bed. He will hurt in the morning, but he is all right.”

Nem nodded, squinting at Deiq thoughtfully, and turned a sharp stare to Alyea. She suspected that, close as his ear had been to Deiq’s mouth, he’d made out most of what the ha’ra’ha had said, and now knew that Alyea had delivered the blow. She shrugged, resisting the urge to apologize, and went to summon servants to carry her unconscious cousin away.