of Orstaf and across Daul and into the Wilds, was with your help.”
“You thought we would kill the man wearing that ring for you?”
“I didn’t know he was wearing it. I thought I would take it back from him, and then tell the two of you the truth…” John sighed. “Then I suppose I thought Block and I would have it out in the end, on equal terms.”
Tilda stared, which she had been doing for so long now that her eyes felt dry. That was better than having them well up, which she felt they could just about do.
“And once the Captain was dead?” she asked. “Why didn’t you leave then? Or better yet, kill me and take the money to get you through Daul? You did not need a Miilarkian on this side of the mountains.”
“No, I didn’t,” John said.
Tilda clenched her jaw. “You thought about it.”
John looked away and gave a small shrug. “It took you a long time to climb in and out of that chasm, Tilda.”
“So why not?”
He still did not meet her eyes.
“Because I felt sorry for you, after Block was dead. I know what it is like to lose everything.”
Tilda let out a hard bark of laughter, surprising herself as much as she did John who snapped his dull eyes back to hers.
“You felt sorry for me? Really? That’s right hospitable of you, Mr. Deskata, but you’ve still got plenty to feel sorry for yourself.”
“Tilda, why are you here? What does my father want from me?”
“Not a thing,” Tilda said, holding her arms out wide, then starting to gesture with the tip of her club, pointing it at John for emphasis.
“Your father, Umiwao Deskata, is dead. Your brother, Benami. Dead. Both by shipwreck. Your sister Sazan married into House Paganai seven, eight years ago now. There is no one of the Deskata blood left to head the House, and so our enemies, chief among them the Lokendah, want to see it disbanded. And they will.”
Now John was staring with wide eyes. “Rhianne…?” he asked.
“Your Law Sister is not of the blood. She acts as head of the House right now, but that will not survive a challenge at the next Assembly of House Lords. Not if the Lokendahs can muster enough support, which they will. All have much to gain if Deskata is disbanded, and the assets divided.”
John snarled and nearly sputtered, his voice for the first time taking on the grandiosity Tilda had sometimes heard from Islanders of the nobility.
“Our people will never stand for that! The might of a House is not the blood of its rulers, but the hearts of its people.”
“And to whom will those hearts rally? To Rhianne? Many blamed her for your exile, Jonathan, and for sullying the Deskata name. She was tolerated while Umiwao lived, but without him she can not count on the loyalty of the merchants and the Guild. Not by herself.”
“Rhianne sent Block here to get me,” John said, as the last piece fell into place in his head.
Tilda took a long breath, and switched to the language of the Islands to speak formally.
“Jonathan, your Exile is rescinded by the acting Head of your House. You are Deskata again, and you are needed at home.”
Tilda’s knuckles went white on her club, and her left tightened into a fist so hard she could feel the four crescents of her nails in her palm. She switched back to Codian, and her voice was bitter.
“Or, at least, you were needed. It is too late now.”
“What?” John said in a whisper. Tilda shook her head and her mouth worked before her voice came out. She had a need to spit.
“The Lokendah must have realized Captain Block left the Islands, and guessed where he may have gone. The Deskata question was to be settled at the New Year’s Assembly, but the Lokendah have used their sway to force matters. A special session has been called for Midwinter, in a bit more than forty days.”
“Wait,” John held up a hand. “How can you…”
“Lolanhi told me, the merchant woman in Chengdea. She saw my colors and felt sorry for me too, as she had heard the news from home and knew my House was ending.”
John stared at Tilda and took a jerky step forward.
“I have to go…” he said, and Tilda let out another laugh that sounded ugly even to her.
“Go home? For what? We are a month or more from any ocean, John. Two or three more to sail home. The House of Deskata is going to be chopped into pieces by scholarly little men with ledgers and quills, and there is not a thing you can do to stop it.”
John nearly swayed on his feet and Tilda strode up to him to jab a finger in his face.
“But just so you know, if you had told Block who you were on the day we met, we could have crossed Orstaf and Tull to reach the ocean long before now. We would have been home in good time, well before Midwinter. The Captain would be alive, and you would be preparing to argue your case to the Assembly. Or else to lead your House in war. But you, you wanted a ring back.”
Tilda snatched the ring out of John’s open hand by the cord and held it up in front of his face.
“Enjoy it,” she said, and dropped it back into his hand.
John was silent, and immobile. Tilda turned away from him and took several shuddering steps. On the bar the man called Zebulon was looking at her with his brows lowered and blue eyes soft, an expression that would have been sympathetic if the fellow was not such a scruffy, wincing mess.
Voices had been coming through the doorway all along, and now a woman strode in from outside. Tilda blinked at her for she was plainly a Far Westerner even farther from home than was Tilda herself, wearing a shabby coat and patched trousers. Her shaggy mass of black hair looked singed and her face was streaked with ash. She looked around at Tilda and the others, and when he saw her Zebulon hopped off the bar, spread his arms, and made a croaking noise that sounded happy.
“Good morning,” the woman said in Codian, and Tilda automatically nodded back. The Westerner crossed to Zebulon, who moved his arms as if he was not sure whether he should hug her or not.
It was the Far Western woman who put her hands on Zebulon, bringing both to his throat as though to choke him. Tilda raised her eyebrows but Zebulon just gave as much of a smile as he could manage through his wince, and closed his eyes. The woman closed hers as well and lifted her face toward the ceiling. Tilda noted the outline of some sort of weapon on the woman’s forearm under the frayed right sleeve of her coat.
A soft glow shimmered the air from the woman’s hands on the man’s neck, and when she withdrew them the ugly purple bruises faded from sight. Tilda knew she must have been shukenja, the equivalent of clerics in the Far Western lands.
Zebulon took a deep breath and felt his own neck, then gave the woman a crooked smile.
“That is so much better, thank the gods. Or, the spirits, or whoever. Thank you, Amatesu.”
The woman nodded shortly. “Nesha-tari needs her translator. Now.”
Zebulon’s smile faltered.
“She’s alive?”
“She is. This way.”
Amatesu turned for the door, but before following her Zebulon looked from Tilda to John Deskata, who had sat down heavily on a stool and was leaning against the table, eyes distant and looking at nothing. Zebulon settled on Tilda.
“I did not follow all of that, but I reckon a ‘good luck’ is in order. Good luck.”
Tilda nodded at him, and he smiled without the pained look, though with his patchy beard and bush of hair his face still had a wolfish aspect that was not wholly soothing.
Amatesu had stopped before the door, and now she looked from Tilda to Deskata.
“You two were with the noblewoman from Daul, yes?”
Tilda looked over so fast her hair snapped over a shoulder, the sad braid barely hanging together and looking a bit mangy.
“With Claudja?”
“I did not get a name, but if that is the Duchess, then yes. You may have an interest in what is said as well.”
