Read Online Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) by Leona Wisoker - Free Book Online
Authors: Leona Wisoker
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you,” Tank said, forcing himself not to kick Dasin under the table. “Raffin. A word?” He stood and headed for the door without waiting to see if the older mercenary followed.
Outside, the air was crisp and chill; the full moon hung low and bright in the sky. Tank moved to stand near a wide bench by a planter filled with spiky-looking clusters of some ornamental plant before turning around to face Raffin.
“If you’re looking for a scrap, I’m not playing tonight,” Raffin said before Tank could speak. He stood well out of arm’s reach, his thumbs hooked in his belt and an amused smile on his broad face. “And you ain’t my type.” His eyes traveled, insolently slow, from Tank’s face to his feet and back up.
“Not looking for a scrap,” Tank said, deciding to ignore the latter comment and following survey. “You’d win. No argument there. Breek was stupid.”
“Smarter than Breek ain’t hard to do,” Raffin said.
Tank grinned, letting some extra tooth into the expression. Raffin returned it in kind.
“Leave Dasin alone,” Tank said abruptly. “That’s all I’m after, Raffin. He’s smart enough to be a damn good merchant, but he rattles easy. Let me handle him. I know how to keep him—balanced. That’s why Yuer hired us as a team.”
He didn’t bother explaining why Dasin was acting so cow-eyed. He had a feeling Raffin understood just fine, and didn’t particularly object; but Tank damn well objected, for a number of reasons, and Raffin needed to be warned off before the situation got out of hand.
Raffin stared, his grin fading into a thoughtful expression.
“You’re lead,” Tank said. “No argument. But leave Dasin alone, that’s all.”
“Huh,” Raffin said after a moment. He turned on his heel and walked unhurriedly away from Tank; and away from the Copper Kettle.
Tank let out a long breath, hoping he hadn’t just blown the whole thing to all the hells, and went back into the taproom.
The merchants’ quarter of Bright Bay sprawled haphazardly across the western side of the city, interspersed with inns, taverns, cookhouses, and brothels. An open-air corridor ran in an erratic line down the center of the quarter; a bizarre assortment of oilcloth and waterproof cloths had been hooked together overhead to protect the stalls from the intermittent rain.
Even on such a grey, rainy day, the market was crowded. Tank kept an eye out for the inevitable thieves working the crowd; trusted instinct and lightly steered Dasin clear of areas that felt wrong. Glancing back, more than once he found a narrow-eyed stare following them, filled with sharp calculation and reassessment. On seeing Tank’s own stare, the watcher faded immediately back into the crowd.
After a few such incidents, a bevy of seagulls grackled around them, far too low to the ground to be realistic, even in this damp weather. Tank let out a long breath and relaxed a little.
Dasin, oblivious, said, “There’s the garden area. We’ll start with the vendors for fresh plants. Best to have a supplier that works from fresh, instead of shipping dry from place to place.”
Tank made no argument. It wasn’t his area of expertise, and he suspected Dasin was trying to reassure himself as much as explain his reasoning to Tank.
Broad boards laid over sawhorses supported a bewildering array of plants: tall, short, spiky, fuzzy; cacti and succulents, feathery, ferny, flowering, spiny—every possible variation. Tank slowed to examine a few, curious. While Teilo had taught him a good bit of herb-lore, he was more accustomed to working with the dried or powdered forms. Fresh hadn’t come along often, except for ravann—a southern variant of lavender with some unique properties.
An odd shiver ran across his shoulders, and he turned fast to find—nothing: but a peculiar nothing. People went about their business, examining a plant for bugs, speaking to a companion, exchanging coin for a purchase. Nothing seemed out of
Outside, the air was crisp and chill; the full moon hung low and bright in the sky. Tank moved to stand near a wide bench by a planter filled with spiky-looking clusters of some ornamental plant before turning around to face Raffin.
“If you’re looking for a scrap, I’m not playing tonight,” Raffin said before Tank could speak. He stood well out of arm’s reach, his thumbs hooked in his belt and an amused smile on his broad face. “And you ain’t my type.” His eyes traveled, insolently slow, from Tank’s face to his feet and back up.
“Not looking for a scrap,” Tank said, deciding to ignore the latter comment and following survey. “You’d win. No argument there. Breek was stupid.”
“Smarter than Breek ain’t hard to do,” Raffin said.
Tank grinned, letting some extra tooth into the expression. Raffin returned it in kind.
“Leave Dasin alone,” Tank said abruptly. “That’s all I’m after, Raffin. He’s smart enough to be a damn good merchant, but he rattles easy. Let me handle him. I know how to keep him—balanced. That’s why Yuer hired us as a team.”
He didn’t bother explaining why Dasin was acting so cow-eyed. He had a feeling Raffin understood just fine, and didn’t particularly object; but Tank damn well objected, for a number of reasons, and Raffin needed to be warned off before the situation got out of hand.
Raffin stared, his grin fading into a thoughtful expression.
“You’re lead,” Tank said. “No argument. But leave Dasin alone, that’s all.”
“Huh,” Raffin said after a moment. He turned on his heel and walked unhurriedly away from Tank; and away from the Copper Kettle.
Tank let out a long breath, hoping he hadn’t just blown the whole thing to all the hells, and went back into the taproom.
The merchants’ quarter of Bright Bay sprawled haphazardly across the western side of the city, interspersed with inns, taverns, cookhouses, and brothels. An open-air corridor ran in an erratic line down the center of the quarter; a bizarre assortment of oilcloth and waterproof cloths had been hooked together overhead to protect the stalls from the intermittent rain.
Even on such a grey, rainy day, the market was crowded. Tank kept an eye out for the inevitable thieves working the crowd; trusted instinct and lightly steered Dasin clear of areas that felt wrong. Glancing back, more than once he found a narrow-eyed stare following them, filled with sharp calculation and reassessment. On seeing Tank’s own stare, the watcher faded immediately back into the crowd.
After a few such incidents, a bevy of seagulls grackled around them, far too low to the ground to be realistic, even in this damp weather. Tank let out a long breath and relaxed a little.
Dasin, oblivious, said, “There’s the garden area. We’ll start with the vendors for fresh plants. Best to have a supplier that works from fresh, instead of shipping dry from place to place.”
Tank made no argument. It wasn’t his area of expertise, and he suspected Dasin was trying to reassure himself as much as explain his reasoning to Tank.
Broad boards laid over sawhorses supported a bewildering array of plants: tall, short, spiky, fuzzy; cacti and succulents, feathery, ferny, flowering, spiny—every possible variation. Tank slowed to examine a few, curious. While Teilo had taught him a good bit of herb-lore, he was more accustomed to working with the dried or powdered forms. Fresh hadn’t come along often, except for ravann—a southern variant of lavender with some unique properties.
An odd shiver ran across his shoulders, and he turned fast to find—nothing: but a peculiar nothing. People went about their business, examining a plant for bugs, speaking to a companion, exchanging coin for a purchase. Nothing seemed out of
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