text
stringlengths 1.73k
3.83k
|
|---|
equal before the Law, it made sense that they would all be equal before God. Only one thing remained a blight on Lossand—the sand masters. The A’Kar had recently hinted that if it weren’t for the Diem, Lossand’s high population of believers would earn the nation a holy status equal with that of the kerla. Only Kenton stood in the way. And Ais was responsible for keeping him alive. Perhaps that was why Ais’s control seemed to be slipping more and more lately. He had found himself crying for no reason after the attack the day before—thankfully, he didn’t think the sand master had seen him. His emotions seemed to be raging uncontrollably, threatening to burst free at any moment. “Ais?” Mellis’s voice rose to him as she climbed up the ladder. She knew that he rose early in the morning to pray when the moon was pointing directly east. He heard her footsteps pad across the roof, and she knelt beside him on the mat, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. There had always been three pillars of stability in Ais’s life—God, Law, and family. Now two were fighting and the third was in danger. No wonder his control was slipping. He sighed, lowering his head. “I don’t know what is happening to me, Mellis,” he whispered. “All my life, I have only wanted control, yet it seems to be the one thing that I will never obtain.” Mellis rested her head on his shoulder. “It will be all right, Ais,” she promised. “Have you ever wondered if, perhaps, this is what the Sand Lord wants for you?” He wants me to be a slobbering idiot, an imbecile with no control? Ais shook his head. “I want you to leave Kezare,” he whispered. “It isn’t safe for you here.” “Ais I… is that really necessary?” Ais nodded. “Sharezan is too powerful, Mellis. I can’t protect you. Our raid on the boat races went wrong—he knew we were coming. He pulled out all of his money, and left a note for me. Tain delivered it.” Mellis’s grip grew tighter. “Take Melly and go,” he urged. “Use our savings and buy passage on a ship to the south. Pick a town—don’t tell me which one—go to the Hall of Judgement and tell them who you are. Request sanctuary, and stay there until you get word from the Hall Judge that Sharezan has been captured.” Mellis inhaled sharply. “Ais, that could take months!” Ais shook his head. “We’re close now, Mellis,” he promised. “This is the first time Sharezan has run from us. We’ve got half of his advisors in prison. His organization is close to falling apart—someone will get to him soon. If not us, then a rival.” Mellis said nothing. He took her silence as assent. He opened his eyes, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead. “I don’t know what the Sand Lord has planned for us,” he admitted. “But I will see Sharezan captured, no matter what other duties I have been given. I think I know who
|
he is. But… if you hear word that I have died, do not come back to Kezare unless the Hall Judge assures you they found my body.” “You’re doing the right thing,” Eric approved. Eric ignored the comment, continuing to pack his things. “You’re not abandoning him,” Eric continued. “He doesn’t even need you, really.” Eric continued to pack, stuffing the rest of his clothing in the bag. He paused, however, shooting a look over his shoulder. A look toward Kenton’s rooms. “Aren’t you listening to me?” Eric demanded. Eric turned, looking at himself in the mirror. He looked very indignant. “You have no purpose here. You’re useless. What do you do? Eat Kenton’s food and make the occasional sarcastic comment? He doesn’t need you.” Eric looked over the rooms that had been his for the last six days. Only six days. It hadn’t been very long. “You spoke with your father,” Eric continued. “You did what you came here to do. Now, it’s time to get moving again. You know what happens when you don’t keep moving.” Eric nodded solemnly. “Good, I’m glad we agree. Now keep packing.” Eric moved to comply, stuffing his remaining possessions into his darkside canvas bag. He paused on the last one, however, a polished carapace scabbard. It was a simple thing, inscribed with the crossed spears that were the symbol of the Tower. Chipped with age, the scabbard was hardly the finest possession he had ever owned. It was, however, one of the most precious. “You think he won’t to it again?” Eric warned with a spiteful whisper. Eric didn’t know why he had kept the scabbard all these years—Kenton probably didn’t even remember giving it to him. Yet, he could still hear the youthful Kenton’s voice in his mind. You’ll be Lord General, and I’ll be Lord Mastrell. Think of what we’ll do! “All these years, he still thinks it was your father who drove you away,” Eric continued. “He doesn’t have any clue. You think he has changed, but he hasn’t. He will still find a way to use you in his plans, in his schemes. He cares nothing for others—he is selfish. All he cares about is his fight, his success, his arguments. He doesn’t even pay attention to what he does to those around him.” This time, however, Eric’s cajoling failed. Eric knew better. If Kenton hadn’t offered himself as a sacrifice, if he hadn’t, for once in his life, done something noble, Eric could have believed him the same person—no matter how solemn he had become. The offer to fight Drile, however, changed things. He’s going to need me, Eric thought, slowly beginning to unpack his bag. “You are an idiot,” Eric warned. Eric continued to unpack. “He’ll use you,” Eric warned. “Before this week is out, all you have striven to become will be lost. You’ll return to the way you were before—an automaton, ordered around by the will of others. Eric continued to unpack. “And that won’t be the end,” Eric warned. “Then it will happen. What you
|
always feared. You’ll not only follow them, you’ll become like them. You will take control of the lives of others. You’ll give the orders, and they will follow you. They will die for you. Can you handle that, Eric? The responsibility. The pain…” This gave Eric pause. His eyes shot over toward the scabbard, sitting on one of the room’s chairs. He had thrown the sword away long ago. He should have done the same with the scabbard. With a sigh, he finished his unpacking. “You’re a fool,” Eric warned. “I know,” Eric agreed. Khriss’s rooms had undergone a massive transformation over the last twelve hours. Her beauty products lay in a jumble on the floor, and the table which had held them now sat next to the far wall. Beside it stood her night stand and the bench-like table from Baon’s room. Upon this extended group of tables sat a jumble of instruments, ledgers, and glass containers of all sizes. Khriss’s scientific equipment, packed carefully before her departure and nearly forgotten in all that had happened, had finally been remembered. On her walls she had pinned charts of the moon’s turnings, as seen from darkside. She intended to make similar charts from dayside, measuring the moon’s distance from the horizon during different times of day, a method that would eventually let her test Dovendel’s postulated circumference of the planet. Beside the mooncharts she had pinned several maps of dayside she had sent N’Teese to purchase for her. On one of these she had marked the route her expedition had taken, as closely as she could estimate. Another chart listed the days she had been on dayside, along with columns for measured windspeed, temperature, and barometer. She couldn’t, of course, make such measurements for the days that had passed, but starting now was better than never. At the far end of the table lay a series of drawings, detailing every sandling she could remember seeing. They were on large sheets of black dayside paper—she had found the oily writing utensils of the continent very easy to draw with. The pictures were waiting for N’Teese to return with a hotplate to bind the ink to the paper. Several glass jars contained smaller sandlings, ranging from as small as Khriss’s thumbnail to one as big as her fist. Some of the city boys had gladly caught them for her earlier in the day, especially when she promised them a half-lak coin for each one they brought her. In the direct center of the conglomeration of beakers, charts, books, and instruments, sat Khriss, her eye pressed to the eyepiece of a microscope. A small oil-burning lamp provided light to be focused and reflected against or above the bottom plate, by which she was able to make her discovery. “Look at this!” she said energetically. There was, of course, no one to hear her. So, she repeated her exclamation louder. A few moments Baon appeared at the doorway. “Baon, look at this!” she urged, pulling her chair away from the microscope. He approached with a raised
|
eyebrow. “Look in the top of the microscope,” Khriss urged. “Like it was a spyglass.” Baon did so, squinting as he bent down to look through the microscope. “All right,” Khriss said. “Now look at this.” She reached over, changing the glass plate at the bottom of the microscope. “See?” she asked. “No,” Baon informed, standing up. “Didn’t they look the same to you?” Khriss asked. Baon shrugged. “Similar.” “Only similar?” Khriss asked. “They were different shapes,” Baon explained. Khriss sighed. “Why am I talking to you? Where’s Cynder?” “Right here, My Lady,” Cynder said, entering the room. “I heard you all the way from downstairs.” Khriss pushed Baon away, urging Cynder to approach. “Here,” she said, pointing at the microscope. “What do you see?” Cynder bent over, squinting into the microscope. “I would say a piece of carapace,” he guessed. “Right,” Khriss said, switching plates again. “Now look at this.” “The same, My Lady.” “No,” Khriss said with a smile. “That is sand.” “Sand?” Cynder asked with interest. “Surely not.” “Here,” Khriss said, “look at this.” She gestured him over to three piles of sand. One was white, one black, and the final one a crystalline brownish color. “What do you see?” “The first is regular dayside sand,” Cynder answered. “The second is dayside sand that has had water poured on it, and the third is darkside sand.” “Right except for one,” Khriss corrected. “The last one is dayside sand too. That is sand that has been eaten by a sandling and excreted.” “Sandling feces?” Cynder asked with a raised eyebrow. “Kind of,” Khriss admitted. “The point is, Cynder, that the sand which has passed through a sandling’s gullet looks just like darkside sand. Don’t you see? There is nothing odd about dayside sand—it has the same silicate structure as what we have on darkside. The difference in color doesn’t come from composition, but from something that covers it.” “Covers it…?” Cynder said, frowning. “A kind of film,” Khriss explained enthusiastically. “Very thin, but very resilient. Apparently it grows or accumulates on the surface of the sand. If you pour water on it, it turns black. If a sandling eats the sand, however…” “The film gets digested,” Cynder said with a nod, stepping aside as Baon peered into the microscope again. “I had wondered how all these sandlings survived by eating sand.” “What you were looking at in the microscope was some of this film that I scraped off of black sand,” Khriss explained. “I’ve got some white scrapings too—they seem identical except for the color. What we have to do now is figure out what it is.” “It looks like carapace,” Baon mumbled. Khriss paused. “What?” she asked. “Carapace,” Baon said, standing up straight. “Those flecks look like little bits of carapace.” Khriss frowned, leaning over to look again. He did have a point—the black scrapings did look a little bit like carapace. “Lichen grows all over the place back on darkside,” Baon theorized. “Maybe its the same sort of thing, only a dayside version.” “That would make it a
|
living creature, dear Baon,” Cynder said with a chuckle. “Besides, lichen needs water to survive. I hardly think that—” “No, Cynder,” Khriss said, still looking through the microscope. Perhaps Baon wasn’t has hopeless scientifically as she had presumed. “He might be right. Sandlings don’t seem to need water to live, so maybe this lichen doesn’t either. We might be looking at the ultimate ancestor of all life on dayside!” “Well, perhaps,” Cynder admitted. “A lichen that adheres to silicate surfaces.… It would grow very slowly, but with enough time, and with so much sand…” “It isn’t exactly the same as carapace,” Khriss said, moving to put out the oil lamp. “For instance, it doesn’t melt when you pour water on it—I already tried. There is, however, something of a reaction. Here, watch this. Baon, would you please cover the grundlefish?” Baon complied, placing the covering cloths over the fish globes. In the darkness, Khriss picked up a vial of water and moved over next to one of her piles of white sand. “Watch closely,” she said, and poured the water on the sand. As she did so, there was a slight flash of light. It was weak, but in the room’s blackness it was easily perceptible. “The lights, Baon,” Khriss requested. He complied, revealing a very interested Cynder. “The sand releases light when water touches it,” he mused. “Yes,” Khriss agreed with an energetic smile. “But, there’s something more. What color was the light you saw?” Cynder frowned. “I don’t really know. It passed quickly.” “Was it white?” Khriss prodded. “No,” Baon said suddenly. Khriss looked up with surprise. The warrior stood with an interested look on his face. “It was… shifting,” Baon continued. “Radiant, like shimmering water or…” “Mother of pearl?” Khriss asked. “I suppose you could call it that,” Baon agreed. “A kind of soft rainbow, scaled toward lighter colors. I’ve seen its color before.” Khriss nodded. “It is the exact color—or combination thereof—given off by sand that a sand master is controlling. What’s more, when a sand master is done using sand, it turns black, just like this.” “But what does it mean?” Cynder asked. “I don’t know,” Khriss said, still enthusiastic. “But it is encouraging. Don’t you see? We can take this sand back to darkside with us! We can grow the lichen on our own sand, and use it like the sand masters do.” Cynder was rubbing a bit of the wet sand between his fingers, regarding it with a critical eye. “So, what makes the sand white again?” Khriss paused. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’ve only been working on it for one day. I intend to find out how this works, Cynder, and when I bring it back to Elis with me, we’ll have a weapon Scythe has never even heard of!” “A worthy goal, duchess,” Cynder approved. “It was Prince Gevalden’s dream, was it not?” “Yes, it was,” Khriss said. “No one believed him… not even me. I intend to make up for that.” Cynder nodded with a smile. “May the Divine watch
|
over you, My Lady,” he said, turning to go. Baon moved to join him. “Baon, please wait a moment,” Khriss requested. Baon paused, turning with a question on his face. Outside she could hear Cynder speaking with Acron, who had apparently been coming up to see what everyone was doing. “Baon, you’re from Iiaria, correct?” Khriss asked. The large warrior nodded. “Have you ever seen Scythe himself?” she asked. “Occasionally,” Baon said. “What does he look like?” Khriss asked. “An Iiarian, like myself,” Baon explained. “Tall, with very dark skin. He is a powerful man, duchess. Very powerful—and not just because of what he controls. He bears himself like a warrior, with a firm stance and commanding presence. And, of course, his Skycolor is violet—the color of nobility.” Khriss sat back in her chair, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. She had always assumed the tales of Scythe’s power were superstitions, but she had assumed the same about the sand masters. “Is it true what they say about him, Baon?” she asked. “About his… abilities?” “His magic?” Baon asked. “Yes.” Khriss felt herself grow cold. She had always known Elis stood against a monster and a despot, but she had taken comfort in the fact that their enemy was a man, just like every other man. A man capable of being defeated. “Are you… certain?” she asked. “Duchess,” Baon explained. “When I was a young boy, Scythe looked like a man in his mid-twenties. He looked exactly the same the day I left Iiaria. The histories say he is hundreds of years old, and I believe them. I have seen him do things impossible of any normal man.” “You always believed we would find the sand mages, didn’t you?” Khriss asked curiously. Baon nodded. “But you didn’t argue with me? Correct me when I assumed they were a myth?” “You wouldn’t have listened to me,” Baon said simply. “No,” Khriss said with a sigh. “I probably wouldn’t have. Thank you, Baon.” The warrior nodded, turning to leave the room. Khriss watched him go with a slight frown. What else aren’t you telling me, Baon? What else do you keep hidden because you assume I wouldn’t believe you? Suddenly, Acron’s concerns from before resurfaced. She couldn’t suspect Baon of wishing her harm—he had proven his loyalty too much for that. But, she couldn’t help wondering how much of the truth he was telling her. She didn’t know what she sensed—somehow she knew he was hiding something. It came from the way he held himself, the way he answered questions. The odd thing was, most of her suspicions came because of his teachings. If he hadn’t trained her to be more observant… What are you hiding, Baon? You’ve realized what you did wrong, now you just have to realize what you did right. Somewhere in the middle is who you really are. Eric’s words, spoken almost absently, continued to pick at Kenton’s mind. Who was Kenton really? Was he the rebel who had been Praxton’s nemesis all those years? He hoped not—he had discovered recently how
|
many problems that person had. But, was he the Lord Mastrell? Was he a man who was bound by tradition and Laws, a mysterious force that watched Lossand with a manipulative eye? He didn’t like that idea either. Laws were important, true, but so was change. So what was he? Was he the martyr, like Eric claimed? A man determined to see himself killed, even if such extreme measures weren’t required? He didn’t think so. Drile would probably kill him, that was true, but he wasn’t going to blindly walk to the sacrifice without a fight. Who am I? He leaned against his balcony—repaired now, even though he couldn’t remember asking anyone to take care of it for him. Across the way he could see Drile lounging on his own balcony, surrounded by a group of attendants. The former mastrell waved toward Kenton with a flippant gesture, poking one of his comrades and inciting a laugh with some unheard comment. Kenton’s plan had worked, at least. Since the challenge a few days ago, Drile had stopped his paranoid ravings and his attempts to undermine Kenton’s power. The former mastrell acted happy whenever he saw Kenton, obeying any commands with overdone bows. Occasionally, Drile spoke of things he would do once he became Lord Mastrell—he even had the gall to ask Kenton his opinion on some of the ideas. Kenton looked away from Drile in disgust. Unfortunately, the turn made his eyes fall on the solitary conference chamber in the middle of the courtyard—the Pit, as the sand masters had resumed calling it. The other sand masters, acolent and elder alike, now walked with a careful step around Kenton—like they would before a condemned man. The conference chamber stared up at him. From his vantage he could see through its open top, catching sight of the circular stone benches that ran coliseum-like around a central patch of sand, perhaps forty-feet across. It looked like a pit, not unlike the sandling fighting arenas that were popular in the Rim Kingdoms. He remembered playing in it as a child, sneaking in with Eric to a place they shouldn’t have been. They had been caught, of course. He hadn’t gotten in trouble—his father had ignored him when possible. Eric hadn’t been so lucky. Reegent didn’t like to be embarrassed. For some reason, the memory from long ago sparked something Kenton. He remembered what it was like to be a child in the Diem. Eight years ago he had stood in the dust-blown kerla, insisting that his father let him become a sand master. Back then, his reasons hadn’t been spiteful. He really had believed he deserved to be a sand master—at first, he had even believed he deserved to be a mastrell. Kenton smiled, leaning against the carapace banister. He remembered the laughter of the other acolents—Drile at their head. But, for some reason, the memory brought him no pain. He hadn’t been humiliated by the other’s scorn, he had only worked harder. Pressing himself to learn more, to become a better sand master. By age
|
thirteen he had been able to do more with one ribbon than any sand master in history. It hadn’t been until after his first advancement ceremony, where he had been offered the lowest of ranks, that he had started to grow bitter. That was who he wanted to be. The boy, the optimistic child who had sincerely believed himself worthy of the Diem’s highest honor. That boy who had stood on the sands, defying his father not because of hatred or desire for attention, but because of his convictions—naïve though they had been. Kenton wanted to be that child, a child who had enjoyed being different instead of cursing his weakness. He had amplified his unique traits—not because he wanted others to notice him, but because he simply liked mastering sand. He was a mastrell, and he did deserve to be one. He might not be like any other mastrell who had ever lived, but he would prove himself a good one nonetheless. Kenton stood, smiling to himself. Where do I start? He wondered. How do I return to what I was? The answer came immediately, though it was a very odd one. It was a memory from his childhood, something he had once sworn to do when he became a mastrell. He had always hated sand master robes. As a child, his mother had dressed him in darksider clothing. He hadn’t liked that either—they had been too constrictive. He wanted something different, something new. Walking over to his desk, Kenton removed a couple hundred-lak coins he had kept from the pile they had discovered the day before. It was time to go shopping. Khriss hurried to get ready. She had spent too much time on her studies, inspecting the different sandlings her young helpers had recovered, and now she was late. Kenton had said he would arrive at ninth hour, which meant she barely had thirty darkside minutes to get ready. She mulled over her choices, considering the different items hanging in her closet. Idan was an absolute marvel—he had managed to press all of her darkside dresses, removing the horrible wrinkles caused by four months of travel. But, dared she wear any of them? They were modest by darkside standards, but she had yet to see a woman on dayside whose robes weren’t bulky and form-hiding. Of course, she had her own robes. Perhaps she should wear one of them instead. The more she considered it, however, the more she leaned toward one of the darkside dresses. So far, her reception on dayside had been less than encouraging—why was she worried about reputation? Besides, for some reason she was feeling daring. Gevin had always been forced to pry her away from her studies to attend balls, but the truth was she had enjoyed them. Or, at least, she had enjoyed being at them with him. Nodding to herself decisively, she pulled out her most flamboyant, bold outfit, a sleek form-fitting, bright red dress. It was completely different from everything she had seen on dayside. Not only was the neckline dangerously
|
low, but it also had a slit up one side. She blushed when she thought of what the dayside men would think, but at the same time she found herself smiling evilly. The outfit wasn’t too risqué by Elisian standards, and she was a duchess of Elis. Why should she pretend to be what she was not? She put the dress on, then moved over the mirror to do something with her hair. The dayside women always kept the hoods of their robes up—they obviously didn’t know what they could accomplish with a little stiff-cream and creative braiding. Khriss went to work, silently cursing the fact that she didn’t have a ladyservant to help her. Eventually, she chose a hairstyle that looked more difficult to produce than it actually was, with half of her hair braided around the top of her head, the other half spilling out like a dark waterfall over her left shoulder. Too bad I can’t use my Skycolor here, she thought absently, choosing a few pieces of jewelry. She didn’t normally wear much, but this was a special occasion. A matching gold necklace and bracelet set with small rubies eventually won. It was part of what she had brought to sell if necessary, but with what gemstones were worth on this side of the world, she probably wouldn’t have to. As she worked, she noticed something hanging forgotten in her closet. The current fashion in darkside was to wear matching shawl-waistribbon combinations with dresses. The waistribbons looked kind of like translucent version of sand master sashes, and she did have a golden one… With a smile, Khriss tied on the golden waistribbon and threw the shawl over her bare shoulders. She wouldn’t need it in this heat, but the gold did make a nice compliment to the red dress. A knock came at the door, followed by Idan’s voice. “He has arrived, My Lady.” Khriss took a deep breath and, after hurriedly giving her makeup a final look-over, left her room She walked down the hallway, oddly excited. It’s only Kenton, she reminded herself. It isn’t like he asked you to go with him. He was told to bring you. Still, despite that knowledge, she felt her heart fluttering nervously as she approached the top of the staircase. All of her life, it had been assumed that if she had somewhere to go, she would go there with Gevin. Now, suddenly, that expectation was gone, and she wasn’t certain what she should think anymore. However, the more time that passed, the more she realized that Baon had been right. She had known all along that she would find Gevin dead. She had made the expedition as much for herself as for him, to free herself from the wondering. In a way, she had spent the last two years grieving, and now that weight had suddenly been lifted. Kenton stood below, along with his Kershtian guard. Khriss smiled with satisfaction as they saw her—the dress had the desired effect. The Kershtian, of course, looked away immediately, muttering something Khriss
|
couldn’t hear. Kenton, however, just stared at her, his eyes opening slightly wider. His gaze followed her all the way down the staircase. “I trust you’re not going to get me killed today,” she asked as she reached the bottom. Kenton started slightly, as if realizing for the first time what he had been doing. “Um, no,” he said, regaining his composure. “They can only attack me every other day—or, at least, that is what Ais claims.” Khriss nodded, regarding the man who would be her escort for the event and noticing for the first time that she wasn’t the only one who had paid special attention to attire this day. “You’re not wearing robes!” Khriss said with surprise. Kenton looked down. “No, I never really like them. I decided that if I’m Lord Mastrell, then I should at least be able to choose what I wear.” The outfit was loose-fitting enough that it could have been robes, which was why Khriss hadn’t noticed it at first. Kenton wore a pair of white trousers, cut after darkside fashion but broader through the legs. The pants ran all the way down to his cloth-wrapped shoes, pulling in at the ankle and then tucking underneath upon itself—probably to keep the sand out. His shirt was a little-bit tighter, but still loose by darkside standards. Its wide sleeves went all the way to his wrists where they too tucked in upon themselves. Over it all was a long white cloak and, of course, he wore the golden sash around his waist. “What do you think?” he asked. She detected a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Khriss confessed. “Where did you get it?” “I went into town and had it made today,” Kenton explained. “I’ll tell you, the poor Kershtian seamstress must have thought I was daft. Of course, I’m a sand master, so she would have thought that no matter what I did.” “It fits,” Khriss decided. He certainly cut a more imposing figure in the outfit—it was more sleek than the average robes, and would stand out. One thing, however, was wrong. His hair. Like always, it simply lay where it would, sticking out at awkward angles. It was the standard style for Lossandin men, who kept their hair short rather than in twin Kershtian braids. As a whole, the men on dayside seemed to take little care for how their hair looked. “Follow me,” Khriss ordered, turning to walk back up the stairs. “Excuse me?” Kenton asked. When she didn’t respond he sighed and followed. She led him to her room, where she pointed at the chair before her vanity. “Sit,” she said, turning to rifle through some of her beauty products. Kenton paused in the doorway, eyeing the grundlefish with interest. “I’m not certain if I should trust you or not,” he informed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Khriss replied, pulling out a jar of stiff-cream. “Sit down.” Kenton complied, watching her with curious eyes as she unscrewed the lid and dipped her fingers
|
in, removing a generous scoop of stiff-cream and rubbing it into his hair. “If you’re going to accompany me,” she informed, “then you’re going to have to look respectable.” “Respectable by whose standards?” Kenton asked shaking his head slightly as he smirked. “Stop that,” Khriss ordered, working with his hair. What kind of look did she want? Not too formal, because he was still young. She needed a style that was… dashing. Like she imagined a sand mage would wear. She fiddled for a few minutes, eventually molding the hair into a style that was more structured than what most Lossand men wore, but at the same time a little bit wild, the hair pulling forward into hundreds of spike-like strands that jutted out from his forehead then eventually curved down like curling waves. “Don’t you think that’s a bit overly-dramatic?” Kenton asked as she finished. “You’re the one who is wearing a cape,” Khriss informed. “It’s not a cape,” Kenton said, blushing slightly. “It’s a sand cloak. Lots of people wear them to keep their clothing from getting too dirty.” “Yes,” Khriss agreed. “And do they wear them open at the front?” “Well, no,” Kenton admitted. “Then it’s a cape,” Khriss said, wiping off her hands. “It’s all right—you’re a sand master. You should stand out from a crowd—you can get away with more extreme styles.” “If you say so,” Kenton mumbled, studying himself in the mirror. “All right,” he finally decided. “Let’s go—the invitation said the ball was in my honor, whatever that means. I should probably try to avoid being too late.” As they left the house, Khriss paused. What now? Kenton wondered. Has she decided that I need a manicure too? “Where’s N’Teese?” Khriss asked. Baon shrugged. “I haven’t seen her today.” “I told her to be here,” Khriss said indignantly. “Don’t worry,” Kenton assured, pushing open the door. “I’ll translate for you.” Khriss paused, eyeing him speculatively. “We’re going to be late,” Kenton reminded. It was only a slight untruth—he had noticed that Khriss and the other darksiders paid a lot more attention to time than most people on dayside. When the Lord Admiral’s invitation said ‘tenth hour’, it really meant sometime around tenth hour. Khriss, however, preferred exactness, and so his comment had the desired effect. She sighed, walking out of the house, leading Baon and Ais behind her. The Kershtian trackt still refused to look directly at Khriss, and Kenton had to chuckle as he noticed the man staring at the ground as he walked out directly behind her. Of course, at the same time he empathized with the Kershtian. It wasn’t that Khriss’s dress showed that much more skin than dayside equivalents—though no dayside woman would have gone about with her arms uncovered all the way up the shoulder. More distracting than what the dress revealed, however, was what it hinted at. It was a great deal… tighter than anything a woman would wear on dayside. That, combined with her exotic dark skin and long, unbound hair, produced a truly captivating sight. “Are you
|
coming, Lord Mastrell?” Khriss said, standing in the street with a slight smile on her lips. Kenton started, realizing he was still holding the open door. Silly fool, he thought, shutting the door and walking toward her. It’s just Khriss—why are you acting so simple-minded? “I’ll get you for this,” he muttered as he joined her. “Oh, you like the dress?” she asked with a sly look on her face. Kenton snorted. “Let’s just say its… different. Interesting choice of sashes, by the way.” Khriss’s eyes flashed toward her waist, and the wide lace ribbon tied around it. “I thought we should match,” she replied. “Well, one thing is for certain,” Kenton said with a chuckle. “Between the two of us, we’ll probably cause quite a stir at Delious’s party.” Khriss frowned slightly. “What kind of man is this Lord Admiral? He is a military figure, I assume?” Kenton shook his head. “The term ‘admiral’ is probably a poor translation in your language. The Helm, Profession of sailors, is more mercantile than anything else. Of course, a lot of Lossand is like that. Assuming Lord Delious invites the customary people to his party, you’ll meet quite a few ‘generals’ who have never seen a day of battle. High ranks in most of the professions—especially the Helm, Tower, and the Field—comes from doing well financially.” “But, if they are all merchants, who is the Lord Merchant?” “Lord Moneychanger would probably be a better title,” Kenton explained as they arrived at one of the exits from darkside town. “The Guild is a Profession for moneychangers and lenders. They fund most of the other Profession’s undertakings, but they rarely do any trading themselves—except maybe dealing in real estate.” Khriss nodded, slipping on her dark spectacles as she stepped into the light. She stood there, as if expecting something, as Kenton began to walk in the direction of the kelzi district. “We’re walking there?” Khriss asked incredulously. Kenton paused. “Of course. Why not?” “I just thought…” she trailed off, sighing as she regarded the street. She began to move forward, the back of her foot sinking into the first patch of sand she crossed, nearly making her trip. “You’re wearing those shoes again, aren’t you,” Kenton said, putting his hands on his hips. “They go with the dress,” Khriss snapped, trying to walk again, only to nearly twist her ankle as she hit a crack in the stone. “Why would anyone wear something that silly?” Kenton wondered aloud, walking over to help her free her heel from the crack. Already people were stopping around them, men openly gawking at Khriss, others noticing Kenton and growing white-faced as they recognized the Lord Mastrell. Maybe she has a point, Kenton decided. “Wait here,” he said, ordering his sand to life and jumping into the air. He soared up, landing himself on the top of a nearby building and scanning the streets below. Many kelzin preferred to use carriages rather than walking—Kenton, like most Lossanders, considered them a waste of time. Kezare was busy enough that walking was usually
|
faster. Now, however, he was beginning to realize why such things might be necessary. He spotted a carriage a few streets away, and its open-topped back was empty, so Kenton decided to give it a try. He dropped himself three stories to land inside the back of the moving carriage—startling the poor driver. “My Lord!” exclaimed the driver, a Lossandin man with what appeared to be a lame leg. “You wouldn’t happen to be free for hire, would you?” Kenton asked hopefully. The man lowered his eyes nervously. “Yes, My Lord. Um, where should I take you?” “Excellent,” Kenton said with a nod. “First we need to pick up my friends. How much do you charge for a day?” “Charge, My Lord?” the man asked. “But, you’re…” “I’d still rather pay,” Kenton said amiably. “If that’s all right with you.” “Um, certainly, My Lord. Three lak then.” The man frowned as Kenton counted out the coins and handed them to him. He acted as if it were one of the strangest things he had seen. At first, Khriss thought the approaching object was one massive sandling. As it approached, however, she realized it was just one of the carriages. She had seen them occasionally in town; they were fashioned completely from carapace plates, uniformly black except for the rims of the wheels, which were made of steel. Two very large tonks pulled the contraption—more like a cart than a carriage—and Kenton lounged in the back. “Your carriage, My Lady.” Khriss raised an eyebrow as it pulled to a stop in front of her. She waited expectantly, but Kenton just sat in the back and waited. “Well?” he asked. “It is customary to help a lady into a carriage,” Khriss informed. “All right,” Kenton said with a shrug. About that time she realized her mistake. Kenton’s sand grabbed her under the arms and lifted her into the air. She yelped in surprise before he smoothly placed her on the seat next to him. Baon and Ais climbed into the front pair of seats, and the carriage began to move. Khriss ignored Kenton’s self-satisfied smirk as the vehicle made its way through the city. They headed west, and the street crowds thinned drastically as they approached the richer section of town. By the time they had passed over the wide bridge that separated the larger island from the small one, there was almost no one to be seen. Their carriage approached an enormous mansion with a columned stone front. Several carriages like the one they rode in sat out front of the building, and Khriss could see forms climbing out of them. “What should I expect?” Khriss asked as the carriage pulled to a stop. “Honestly, I don’t know,” Kenton confessed. “I’ve never been to one of these before. I would expect there to be a lot of kelzin, most of them trying to work some sort of deal with the others.” “Business?” Khriss asked. “At a party?” “Parties are only excuses,” Kenton explained. “Lossandin people, like Kershtians, like to make business contracts in
|
an informal setting.” “Will there be dancing?” Kenton frowned. “Dancing? Why? Most of the people will already be married.” “Because…” Khriss trailed off with a sigh. “Never mind.” Why am I even here? I don’t need to search for Gevin any more. She could, however, work on her second goal. The man beside her held a power that could be the key to defeating the Dynasty. She needed to find out how that power worked. Kenton climbed from the carriage, then offered his hand to Khriss, helping her down. “You know,” she said, her voice suddenly loosing its edge, “since we’re here together, we might as well act like we get along.” She reached over and took his arm, composing herself and smiling sweetly as one of Delious’s servant’s approached. Sands, she’s fickle, Kenton thought with a shake of his head. One moment she’s shooting him angry looks for ‘helping’ her into the carriage, the next moment she’s hanging off his arm. “My Lord,” the servant said, bowing. “The Lord Admiral awaits you in the sand gardens behind the house.” Kenton nodded, gesturing for the servant to lead onward. Secretly, however, he was growing a bit nervous. He hadn’t been lying when he told Khriss he didn’t know what to expect—he had never been to this sort of event before. His tension mounted as they rounded Delious’s mansion and walked toward a large series of tents to the building’s rear. Other couples were being led along as well, most of them richly dressed in colorful robes and jewelry. Of course, none of the colors could match the deep redness of Khriss’s dress—whatever dyes they had on darkside, they were much more vibrant than those of dayside. What will they expect of me? Confrontation he could handle, but mingling? For some reason he found the concept daunting. “Stop it,” Khriss said from beside him. “Stop what?” “Stop being so tense.” “I’m not tense,” Kenton lied. Khriss snorted quietly. “They’ll sense if you’re intimidated,” Khriss warned. “These people might not be called noblemen after the darkside sense, but they’re basically the same thing. To them, a person’s sense of superiority determines how much respect they deserve. Be confident.” Kenton took a deep breath. “If you say so,” he said. “I do,” Khriss replied. “If everything else fails, just start throwing around some of that sand of yours. It’s bound to intimidate the others.” Kenton smiled. “That, and probably get me excluded from every other guest list in town.” “Then you won’t have to worry about parties any more, will you?” Khriss asked with a smirk. “I suppose not.” “My Lord?” the servant asked in Lossandin as they arrived at the tent. “Your men may wait in the servant’s tent.” “My men?” Kenton asked with surprise. “Oh, Baon and Ais.” He turned, looking back at the two men. Baon was already walking toward the servants tent—he might not understand the language, but he obviously had experience with similar events. Ais, however, was obviously not about to go join the servants. Kenton wasn’t certain what to
|
do. His invitation had only mentioned himself and Khriss. Would it be inappropriate to bring Ais in as well? Fortunately, the trackt solved the problem for him by whipping out his own invitation. “I will be attending instead of the Lady Judge,” he informed. “She regrets that she is unable to make it today.” The servant accepted the invitation with a raised eyebrow, then nodded. “I apologize, My Lord,” he said, pulling aside the cloth entrance to the tents. The inside of the large pavilion was well-lit by openings in the ceiling. It was filled with people, most of whom wore the wheel-shaped symbol of the Helm sewn into their robes over the left shoulder. It made sense that the Helm would be well-represented, but there were kelzin from the Field, the Tower, and the Guild as well. The entire room fell silent as Kenton and Khriss stepped in. There was a long pause, conversations dying, while everyone looked over the couple. Kenton’s eyes flickered toward Khriss, who stood regarding the expressions with confident, even defiant eyes. She met gazes square on, smiling prettily all the way, as the two began to walk into the room. Kenton looked forward again, trying to mimic her stance. In a way, he felt like he was at some sort of trial, a defendant being judged not on his testimony, but on his appearance. As soon as the thought occurred to him, Kenton felt his own confidence begin to grow. He probably wouldn’t do much arguing this night, but it would be a struggle nonetheless. A struggle to prove himself. That he could do. “Lord Mastrell!” a slurred voice called excitedly. “I’d feared you wouldn’t come! What an interesting choice of clothing—much more fashionable than those robes.” The Lord Admiral stood near the back of the tent, speaking with a group of kelzin with suffering looks on their faces—looks that said they wished to the sands that they could be somewhere else, but feared leave lest one of their competitors gain an unnoticed upper hand. Delious was his usual wine-sodden self, dressed in bright plumb robes that nearly hid the wine stains. He made an exaggerated gesture toward Kenton, his motions breaking the tent’s silence and prompting the kelzin back into their conversations. Delious didn’t give them much time to speculate, however. He stepped forward, calling for silence again. Kenton waited apprehensively as the Lord Admiral arranged his robes for a moment, then accepted a cup of wine from his steward—the same man that had attended him before. This he raised high in Kenton’s direction, sloshing wine over the lip of the cup and onto the sand floor. “I have an announcement to make!” Delious informed in a loud voice. “I have called this gathering for a specific purpose—or, rather, a specific person. I wish to pronounce my formal support to the Lord Mastrell in the upcoming vote. Let the Helm be the first to extend our hand to our sand master brethren in their time of need.” And with that, the Lord Admiral promptly passed
|
out, dropping his cup to the floor as he collapsed to the ground. “That is the Lord Admiral?” Khriss asked with amazement as the man collapsed to the floor. Kenton just shook his head, looking both amused and embarrassed. “Delious. The only man in Lossand who could collapse drunk before the party even begins.” “He’s… I mean, that is…” Khriss trailed off—she wasn’t even sure what it was. Disgraceful? Irresponsible? No wonder N’Teese had called the Lord Admiral the least important of the Taisha. “I know,” Kenton said with a nod. “Still, he did just give me a vote, so I suppose I should be grateful.” “He wasn’t going to support you before.” “He was… uncertain,” Kenton explained. “Delious always votes in opposition to the rest of the Council, especially the Lord Merchant. Just a few days ago he told me he would follow that exact pattern, voting for me only if Lord Vey voted against me.” Kenton’s eyes were speculative as he watched several servants tow Lord Delious over to the side of the tent and prop him up on some cushions. A few moments later, they succeeded in waking the man back up. “I wonder what made him change his mind,” Kenton said thoughtfully. “Whatever it was, your kelzin don’t like it,” Khriss noticed, looking over the crowd. Many of them looked embarrassed, but a more prevalent emotion seemed to be loathing. The kelzin of the Helm were not pleased with this announcement. Kenton and Khriss still stood near where they had entered the tent. Kenton continued to wait, still looking a little unsure of himself. “Well?” Khriss prompted. “Well what?” Kenton asked. “Well, aren’t you going to mingle?” Kenton sighed quietly. “I suppose I should.” “Yes,” Khriss agreed. “That is what these events are for—even I know that, and I’m a socially reclusive scholar. Come on, you can begin by introducing me to people.” And so, Kenton did as she instructed, moving through the crowd, using the opportunity to introduce Khriss as a method of introducing himself as well. The kelzin acted friendly toward him, smiling fake smiles and speaking fake words. In all, it was surprisingly like a court ball back in Elis. Replace the sunlight with Skycolors, the sand with marble floors, and the robes with suits and dresses, and the two would be indistinguishable. However, the most surprising thing about the evening was how easily Khriss found herself playing the part of the room’s central figure. Kenton had been right—between the two of them, they pretty much monopolized the entire party. As soon as they began talking to one set of kelzin, the others immediately assumed they were missing out on some opportunity, and sought to gain an audience as well. Khriss took their stares, goslings, and maneuverings in stride. She spoke easily, despite the language barrier. She laughed at jokes she didn’t understand, flirted slightly with the men, and maintained an air of importance she had never managed back in Elis. As the party progressed, she came to realize just how much the court’s expectations
|
had determined how she acted. In Elis, everyone had known her as Gevin’s hermitile fiancée—a woman of some power, but little importance. Everyone thought of her as ‘safe,’ a woman who had been chosen because of her title, not her political savvy. She hadn’t dared make too much of a scene, lest she steal the light from Gevin’s sister-in-law, the future queen. Here, however, she was an enigma. The kelzin were fascinated by the concept of innate nobility—status in society that could not be lost or made with fortunes. Apparently, most of Kezare ignored the darksiders and their little enclave—they hadn’t even considered the possibility of foreign dignitaries living in their midst. By the time the party was half over, Khriss had received no fewer than six separate offers for international trading contracts to and from Elis. She had received them each with mysterious smiles, promising to give the offer consideration and leaving the merchant kelzin to wonder if they had offered too much or too little. There was, of course, another big difference between this party and those back in Elis. In her homeland, she had always been accompanied by Gevin—a man so charismatic that it was impossible to compete with him. So, she hadn’t tried. She had always simply been ‘Gevalden’s betrothed,’ an almost forgotten adjunct to his royal highness. It wasn’t that Kenton wasn’t charismatic when he wanted to be; he just wasn’t as skilled. She had to take a guiding role with him, rather than a reclusive one. She gave suggestions on how to hold himself, what to say, and who to distrust. And he listened to her, doing what she said without question. He handled himself impressively for one so new to political life. She actually found that she was enjoying herself. Suddenly, she was more than just the prince’s decoration. She was important, though no one could tell quite why. Still, she could see respect, and even envy, glowing in the eyes of the kelzin. Back home she might have only been only a passable politician, but here, where the equivalent of the noble class also had to spend a great deal of their time managing businesses, her life in the court gave her a strong advantage. So it was that as the party began to near its end, Khriss found that she would regret having to go home—something that had never happened to her before. The arrival of the food signaled that the party was almost at its end. Now new business partners would gather a plate and a qido full of wine and make their way to a more secluded place, where they could celebrate their alliance and plot the downfall of their enemies. “I had assumed there wouldn’t be food,” Khriss said with confusion as the servants began to slide in long tables full of breads, dips, and ZaiDon. “Why would you assume that?” Kenton asked with confusion. “Well, I thought the party was almost over,” Khriss explained. “It is,” Kenton replied. “That’s why they are bringing in the food.” Khriss frowned, but
|
didn’t comment further. Kenton could only assume that they did things differently on darkside. The party had gone better than Kenton had expected. The kelzin didn’t like him—that much he had predicted. However, despite their distaste, they had been civil and willing to talk to him. Some had even seemed eager for some reason. Little of what they discussed had been important, but Kenton had suffered it, mostly because of Khriss’s constant encouragings. And, occasionally, he had been able to work something of substance into the conversation—implying that if the Diem were to continue, the sand masters would bring prosperity to all of Lossand. He wasn’t certain if his talking would do any good—the kelzin were not Taisha. They had no vote on the Council, or any direct influence on the vote. However, they did hold a great deal of power in Lossand. If, perhaps, his words had swayed any of them, then there was a chance their support would help influence the Taisha. Regardless, one thing was certain—they looked at the Lord Mastrell in a completely new way. They were used to old, mysterious men holed up in the Diem, rarely making appearances in town. Instead they had gotten Kenton. A boy not even two decades old with a vigorous temperament, a flair for originality, and a half-naked darkside woman on his arm. Kenton smiled to himself—this would not be a party they soon forgot. “ZaiDon,” Khriss said distastefully. “Is that all you people eat?” “There’s bread too,” Kenton said with a chuckle, leading Khriss to one of the serving tables. Many of the kelzin had already filled their plates and were moving off toward the other pavilions, where cushions and tables would be set up for private dining. “One of these days I’m going to have to introduce you to true cuisine,” Khriss informed, looking over the table with a critical eye. “You tried that already,” Kenton reminded, selecting a carapace plate and grabbing a few klam patties, thin rectangular pieces of flat bread. “I thought it was ‘squishy.’ Remember?” “You’re hopeless,” Khriss said with a sigh. “I try my best. Here, taste this,” he said, handing her a piece of ZaiDon. She rolled her eyes, but let him put the piece of dried ZaiDon into her mouth. As soon as he did so, her eyes opened wide with surprise. “This is actually good!” she exclaimed. “Of course,” Kenton said, continuing to fill the plate with pieces of ZaiDon. “You didn’t think it all tasted like travel rations, did you?” Khriss didn’t answer as Kenton handed her the plate, then moved to fill them a dipping bowl—a carapace dish with five different sections for different sauces. “So, now what?” Khriss asked. “Now we find a place to eat,” Kenton informed. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to sneak away before anyone decides to join—” “Kenton, my boy!” the Lord Admiral interrupted, approaching with a leisurely gait. “Surely you’re not going to run off and eat by yourself?” “Actually, we were planning to do just that,” Kenton admitted, ignoring Khriss’s ‘what is he
|
saying’ look. “Well then, good,” Delious said. “I’ll join you, and we can sneak off together. Don’t look so downfallen—you’re doing a public service. If you eat with me, then you’re saving the rest of the people at the party from a similar fate. Someone has to suffer, you know.” “It would be an honor to dine with you, Lord Admiral. I still owe you my thanks for your pronouncement of support.” “Oh, how delightful. One party and they’ve already corrupted you. Come, I know the perfect place for us to dine.” Delious stumbled drunkenly toward the exit to the tent; his steward followed with a plate of food. Kenton nodded with resignation to Khriss, and they did likewise. Delious led them out into the sun and across his grounds, which appeared to be covered sand at least a few feet deep. The Lord Admiral had probably shipped sand in to cover his land—it was unfashionable to have too much rock showing on one’s estate. Delious eventually chose a spot beneath an open-sided pavilion that overlooked several pens of exotic sandlings. He nodded for Kenton and Khriss to seat themselves on the cushions, then took a place himself, his steward sitting a short distance away. Kenton noticed that Ais, vigilant as always, had found himself a place not too far away—the trackt would probably be able to hear what they were saying. “I fear I must apologize,” Delious said, taking a long gulp from his cup. Despite his collapse near the beginning of the party, he now seemed no more intoxicated than when he had begun. Of course, ‘no more intoxicated’ still meant fairly drunk when it came to Delious. His speech was slurred, his movements exaggerated and clumsy, and his face burned with alcohol. “Why apologize, My Lord?” Kenton asked after translating Delious’s words for Khriss. “I specifically asked you to bring this beauty of a darksider to meet me, then find myself with no opportunity to introduce myself. It seems our Lady Khrissalla was so busy tonight that even her host was unable to get her attention.” Khriss blushed as Kenton translated. “The apology should be mine, Lord Delious,” she said. “I should have made myself known to my host.” “No matter,” Delious said with a wave of his hand. “I hope you enjoyed the party.” “It was a fine gathering, Your Lordship,” Khriss replied. “By dayside standards or darkside ones?” Delious asked, handing his cup to his steward. “I have often heard that darksiders are more refined than those of us over here.” “It was fine by my standards, Your Lordship,” Khriss answered. “Which is all that matters to me.” “A good answer,” Delious approved. “And you, Lord Mastrell? How did you find the accommodations?” Kenton translated, shooting Khriss a look. She shrugged almost imperceptibly—she didn’t know what to make of the Lord Admiral. “It was agreeable,” Kenton said slowly. “Though, I must admit that I wish the kelzin were more receptive to my message. There is only a week left before the vote—I don’t have time for idle
|
conversations.” Delious chuckled. “I doubt you will find the lords of my Profession very willing to hear what you have to say, I’m afraid.” “I know,” Kenton said with a sigh. “I just wish I knew what they had against me. I suppose it is simply centuries of sand master arrogance working against me.” “True,” Delious agreed, leaning back foppishly against his cushions. “Of course, it could be the A’Kar.” Kenton looked up. Delious was staring to the side, watching a large sandling with an ornate system of horns running from its head all the way down its back. His eyes were slightly unfocused from the alcohol. Surely there couldn’t be much coherence left in his mind. Yet, while looking at the man’s aged face, Kenton thought he saw something. A glimmer of wit that couldn’t be completely dulled by wine. “The A’Kar?” Kenton asked slowly, shooting Khriss another look. She was watching the Lord Admiral intently—she had noticed it too. Delious shrugged with an exaggerated motion. “It is said that the A’Kar plans to slow trade between the Kershtian nation and Lossand—assuming he wins the Choosing in a few weeks, of course.” “That only makes sense,” Kenton said. The statement was obvious—of course the High Priest of Kersha would slow trade. That was one of the fundamental issues that made him different from his opponent, the High Merchant. “Of course,” Delious said, toying with his crystalline cup, “it is also said that the A’Kar is willing to forego his embargo if certain conditions are met.” “Such as?” Kenton asked hesitantly. “I don’t know,” Delious said. “I think the rumors are that he will only consider trade with Lossand if it renounces its unholy past.” “You mean if it renounces the sand masters,” Kenton said, his eyes thinning in thought. “You could say that,” Delious agreed. “In fact, I believe the rumors are that the A’Kar would even be willing to reward Lossand for getting rid of the sand masters.” “Reward?” Kenton prompted. “Oh, like the Kershtian taboo against using goods that have traveled over water.” So that’s it! Kenton thought with surprise. For centuries, the Kershtians of the kerla had refused to accept goods from Lossand that had traveled by boat, forcing merchants to use more lengthy land routs. The taboo had completely locked the Helm’s kelzin out of a great deal of profit, since they depended on shipping for their livelihood. If the A’Kar declared the taboo changed, however… “Sands!” Kenton swore softly. “It’s a wonder they haven’t had me assassinated themselves.” “I’m surprised they haven’t tried,” Delious agreed. “No wonder the kelzin hate me,” Kenton thought with wonder. “With so much riding on my defeat, I’m tempted to hate myself.” “Don’t do that,” Delious chided. “It would be far too trendy.” Kenton looked up again, studying the man’s face. He was a middle-aged drunken fool, but there appeared to be more to the Lord Admiral than he had once assumed. Some remnant of what he had once been, probably. Kenton could see hints of great wisdom in Delious—wisdom that
|
had, unfortunately, been nearly destroyed by the constant drinking. “The kelzin must not have thought much of your declaration of support,” Kenton said slowly. “No, I don’t imagine they did.” Delious said, smiling broadly. “Why did you do it, then?” Kenton asked hesitantly. Delious shrugged. “Because,” was his uninformative answer. “Tell me, Lord Mastrell. How much do you know about the Helm and its method of choosing its leader?” “Not much,” Kenton admitted. When one studied the Taisha, it was customary to leave out the Lord Admiral. “It’s probably best that way,” Delious said with a smile, rising. “Well, I fear I must be going. I have many other people to bother before I’ll be satisfied that this party was worth the time. Please, eat as much as you want. Oh, and do try to waste some wine for me.” Waste. He had emphasized the word. What did it mean? “Kenton,” Khriss said, watching the Lord Admiral stumble away, his steward following, “that man is more than just a drunken slob. Or, at least, he has the potential to be more.” The statement was based more on observation than on what the man had said. Kenton had grown very involved in the conversation, and his translations had grown abbreviated during the exchange. However, even with the limited information, Khriss had been able to tell that this drunkard held an interesting wit beneath his besotted exterior. “I know,” Kenton said musingly. “What do you suppose he is hiding?” Khriss shook her head. “I have no idea. He really was drunk, though.” Kenton nodded. “He holds it well, however.” “Agreed.” Kenton shrugged, turning back to their meal. Khriss hadn’t been lying when she admitted the food was good—it appeared to be the same ZaiDon that they had eaten while travelling to Lossand, but its flavor was completely different—it had an almost buttery taste. The dips were good too—though one of them smelled strongly of the horrid Ashawen spice. She ignored that one, instead focusing on a sweet garlicky sauce. Kenton ate in silence, his eyes thoughtful. Finally, Khriss decided to try broaching the topic she had been thinking about all night. “So,” she said conversationally, “how does this sand mastery of yours work, anyway.” The comment pulled him out of his contemplations, and he looked up with startlement. He recovered quickly, however, dipping his ZaiDon and shaking his head. “I can’t tell you that,” he said distractedly. “Why not?” Khriss pried. “It’s forbidden,” Kenton explained. “The secrets of sand mastery are for the Diem only.” “I thought you wanted to share sand mastery with all of Lossand,” Khriss challenged. “I do,” Kenton replied. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell everyone how to make their own sand masters. A master craftsman shares his art with all who see it, but he doesn’t necessarily reveal the secrets of its creation.” “But surely you can tell me,” Khriss continued, giving him her sweetest smile. “You don’t have to worry about me misusing them,” at least, not on this side of the world… Kenton shook his
|
head. “Sorry, Khrissalla. Even in my rebellious days I wouldn’t have done that. Some things are just too sacred.” This is going to be more difficult than I assumed, Khriss thought with annoyance. “Can’t you tell me anything?” Kenton’s eyes thinned slightly. “Is this why you’ve been so nice to me today?” he asked. “Because you wanted to get this out of me?” Oops. Went too far. “Of course not,” Khriss huffed. “I’m just curious, like always.” “Well, I’m sorry, Khriss,” he said, dipping his ZaiDon, “but this is one curiosity that will have to go unsated. You won’t find a sand master willing to talk about such things with an outsider—the taboo runs as deep as our injunction against overmastery.” “Overmastery?” Khriss asked. “What’s that?” Kenton chuckled. “Sorry, Khriss, but I’m not going to tell you.” “Well, what if you made me a sand master?” Khriss asked. “If I joined, then could you teach me?” “You couldn’t be a sand master,” Kenton explained. “Darksiders can’t join the Diem.” “Why not?” demanded. “Because.” “For the same reason there aren’t any women sand masters?” Khriss asked. “Simply because ‘that is the way it has always been.’” Kenton paused at this one, then he finally shook his head and continued to eat. “Kenton, change is what brings progress. You yourself said that the Diem is having troubles because its lack of members. Well, maybe it is time to open your doors to women and darksiders.” “Maybe sometime in the future,” Kenton agreed. “But I can’t afford to make a disturbance now. Tradition is what will see us through these times. That is one of the things I have learned recently. At a future date, when things are more stable, then maybe I will be able to look at entrance procedures and loosen them.” “What are you so afraid of?” Khriss asked. Kenton raised an eyebrow, then reached over to the sand beside their mat and picked up a handful of sand. Khriss watched closely as he took control of it. It didn’t make sense—it seemed that all he had to do was touch it and it started to glow. Where did the power come from? What kept the sand in a perpetual state of energy release? The sand extended from his hand in what looked like a thin ribbon, perhaps a couple of inches across. In his other hand, he picked up their now-empty carapace plate. “Do you have any idea how powerful sand mastery is, Khriss?” he asked. Suddenly his sand whipped forward and, with barely a sound, sliced through he plate along its diameter. Half of the plate fell to the mat, cut precisely in half as if by a powerful razor. “Sand mastery is the most dangerous tool on the continent,” Kenton explained, moving his sand out over the ground, then letting it fall black. “Can you imagine the horrors it could produce? Armies with sand masters attacking one another, slaughtering thousands upon thousands of people? This is why we keep the secrets of sand mastery to ourselves. If the method
|
of our creation were known, then dayside would be thrown into chaos.” Khriss could imagine armies with sand masters, armies killing one another. However, in her mind it was the army of Elis, defending itself against invaders. Even a tiny country could survive against the Dynasty if it had such an awesome weapon. “And you get to decide?” Khriss asked. “You are the gods who determine who benefits from sand mastery and who does not?” “Better us than no one,” Kenton replied. “The Diem is flawed, but even a flawed system is preferable to complete anarchy.” “I disagree,” Khriss returned. “People should be able to determine for themselves how to use sand mastery. “Disagree all you want,” Kenton said with a smile. “I’m still not going to tell you how it works.” Khriss sat and fumed, mostly because of her helplessness. No matter what she said or did, he still held all of the information. She didn’t have anything with which to bargain. Kenton rose, the meal apparently over, and helped her to her feet. Ais saw them leaving and moved to join them, following behind with an unreadable expression. After collecting Baon from the servant’s tent, they simply made their way back to the front of the building. Apparently the arrival of the meal was an understood dismissal by the Lord Admiral, and they weren’t required to bid him farewell. As they were leaving, however, Khriss saw a familiar form. “Is that Nilto?” she asked, nodding toward a hunched figure speaking animatedly with a few seated kelzin. “Yes.” Surprisingly, it was Ais who answered her. “You know him?” Kenton asked with surprise. “We have met,” Khriss said simply. “Why wasn’t he at the party?” “Maybe he arrived late,” Kenton said with a shrug. “No,” Ais said from behind. “I saw him at the beginning. He slipped out just after we arrived.” Khriss frowned. “Why would he do that?” “He probably hates sand masters,” Kenton said. “The sentiment is fairly prevalent amongst the people he represents.” “Maybe,” Khriss agreed. “Shall we go greet him?” Kenton asked. “No,” Khriss said with a flat voice. “Let’s go.” The carriage waited where Kenton had left it, and the four climbed in for their return trip. Kenton rode quietly, feeling guilty for some reason. You don’t have to answer her questions, he told himself. You’re in the right—sand mastery must retain its secrets for the good of dayside. Such was what he had always been taught. However, his problem wasn’t as much with the arguments against him as it was with his desire to tell Khriss what she wanted to know. For some reason, he had stopped being annoyed by her curiosity—it was just part of who she was. He wanted to answer her questions. This time, however, he could not. It was frustrating. So bothered by the subject that he didn’t notice the voices until Khriss pointed them out to him. “What is happening over there?” she asked with concern. Kenton looked up immediately, hearing the yelling. Baon was already half-crouched, his hand on the
|
butt of one of his pistols. However, the sounds didn’t sound like a battle—more screams for help. Frowning, Kenton stood, reaching into his sand pouch. “Wait here,” he ordered, leaping out of the carriage. He raced down the street, following the sound. They had left the kelzi district of Kezare and were nearing the more busy section of the city. People stood looking toward the sounds with confusion on their faces. Kenton pushed by them, making his way down a side street until he approached the source of the disturbance. A wreck of a building stood before him. Workers stood anxiously around the collapsed structure, many of their faces bruised and cut. From what Kenton could tell, the building had fallen as they tried to add the second story. One of the walls, a massive construction of blocks and mortar, had fallen inward. “What is going on here?” he demanded. One of the workers, a foreman of some sort, noticed him for the first time. The man cried out in surprise, pulling off his brimmed worker’s hat and holding it before him nervously. “I… I’m sorry, My Lord!” he apologized. “We didn’t mean to disturb you!” “Nonsense. What happened?” “Nothing to concern yourself with, My Lord,” the man promised, his eyes horrified. Kenton ignored him, studying the other workers. Most of them stood facing him, their eyes cast down at the ground. A couple of them weren’t looking at him, however. They continued to work, their faces desperate as they pushed against a steel rod, using it to vainly try and lift part of the collapsed wall. As Kenton looked closely, he could hear a couple of pitiful voices calling from below the wreck, in what must have been a basement chamber. The stone wall was barely holding together, its mortar cracking even as the workers continued their futile effort to lift it. The enormous blocks were beginning to break free from one another. “There are men down there?” Kenton asked with alarm. “Please, My Lord,” the foreman wailed. “Don’t punish them. It wasn’t their fault, it was mine. We didn’t mean to bother you.” Kenton frowned. He shouldn’t do anything—it would break horribly with tradition. Sand masters didn’t use their powers in public. Sand masters were fools. Kenton pushed the foreman aside and reached for his sand. The foreman collapsed to his knees in fear. “Oh Sands, oh sands…” The three workers at the bar—which was now bent horribly—cried out in surprise as Kenton gathered his sand. Three ribbons whipped toward them, and they cringed in fright, then looked up with surprise as the sand didn’t attack them, but instead moved in-between the fallen wall and the lip of rocky ground. Kenton held his hands before him, his fist clinched, his eyes closed, and then began to push. A sand master’s ability to lift depended on the height he wanted to obtain. Ribbons could only handle so much stress, and they buckled if one didn’t have enough sand to create a proper foundation. Even the weaker sand masters, the ones who
|
could only control a single ribbon, could usually lift themselves a few inches into the air. It was height that required strength. This day, Kenton didn’t need height. He strained his power, pushing against the stone wall, the muscles in his body growing tense, as if he were working with his entire body and not just his sand. And, with a groan that mimicked the one that escaped Kenton’s lips, the wall began to rise. He could only lift it a few feet, but it was enough. He cracked his eyes, holding the massive weight with difficulty, as three grungy workers scrambled from the dark basement room. Helping hands pulled them to freedom. A second later, Kenton’s strength ran out, and he dropped the wall with a sigh. It crashed back to the ground, its mortar shattering immediately, dropping a half dozen massive blocks into the basement. Kenton felt drained—he nearly collapsed from fatigue as he reached out to a nearby wall for support. He waited a few moments, trying to rally his strength. His body immediately began to sweat now that the drain on its water had been removed. Kenton slumped back against the wall with a sigh, pulling out his qido and taking a huge gulp—one he nearly choked on, he was breathing so deeply. Finally he opened his eyes, looking at the amazed foreman who was still kneeling on the ground before him. “What is your name, man?” Kenton whispered. “Trell, sir.” “All right, Trell,” Kenton said. “Next time you have a problem like this, send for a sand master immediately. Understand?” “Yes, My Lord,” the man said, confusion in his eyes. “Good,” Kenton said, turning back toward the street. Khriss stood in front of him, her strange shoes held in her hands, the massive Baon behind her. “I thought I told you to stay put,” Kenton said with a slight smile. “And why would I listen to you?” Khriss shot back. “Because it might have been a trap of some sort, meant to kill me.” “They can’t attack you today,” Khriss reminded. “Assumedly,” Kenton agreed, shooting Ais a look. The trackt was regarding the devastation with a quiet expression. “That was very noble of you,” Khriss said as they began to walk back toward the carriage. Kenton shrugged. “Its what we should have been doing all along.” “It’s too bad the rest of the world can’t benefit from such abilities,” she noted. Kenton shot her a suffering look. Then, slowly, he shook his head and began to laugh to himself. She was just as good at arguing as he was, she just had a more subtle way of doing it. Behind him, Kenton heard the foreman call to his men. “All right, boys,” he said. “Let’s start picking up this rubble.” Kenton turned. “Trell, don’t you think your men deserve the rest of the day off?” he asked. The foreman turned with surprise. “But, Kelzi Kar—” “Send your men home,” Kenton ordered. “If the good kelzi has a problem, tell him he can bring it up with the
|
Lord Mastrell.” “Um, yes, My Lord,” the man said. Kenton nodded and made his way back to the carriage. “So, it’s impossible?” Baon asked with dissatisfaction. “I’m afraid so,” Khriss replied, shaking her head. They sat in her room, and on the table before her sat the results of Baon’s searchings—a small pile of yellow powder and a slightly larger black one. Baon sat on her bed, frowning slightly, his pistols on his lap. He was methodically cleaning the barrels and oiling the mechanisms. “It’s a fact, Baon,” Khriss explained. “You need saltpeter to make gunpowder.” Baon and N’Teese had spent most of the day scouring the city for the materials to make gunpowder. Khriss was surprised they had even found sulfur—apparently there was a small deposit of it in the eastern mountains. Unfortunately, sandling manure wasn’t the same as that from darkside creatures, and so saltpeter was much more rare. “I could probably make some saltpeter it if we had the time,” Khriss decided. “But I intend to head back to darkside as soon as I know the secret to sand mastery. How many charges do you have left?” “Six,” Baon said. Khriss nodded. It wasn’t much. But, six charges should be enough to get them home—assuming she could get Kenton to open up. She had been working on that single problem for most of the day. Ever since her failure at the party a day before, she had been trying to devise a way to get past Kenton’s taboos. She had thought of trying to ask one of the other sand masters, but the language barrier was a problem. Besides, if Kenton, who was one of the more open-minded sand masters, wouldn’t answer her, then why would another sand master do so, especially through a translator? The only option left to her was observation. She was used to that—she had spent years training in the Elisian university, doing experiments, making observations, and applying modern scientific techniques. However, watching Kenton also meant going to the Diem—which could be dangerous, considering the assassinations. Baon had discouraged her from going immediately, suggesting they try to find another source of gunpowder first. That, however, didn’t look possible. They hadn’t been able to find a proper source of manurial soil, and the dayside apothecaries were fairly primitive. The Kershtian medicinal shops had been more useful—containing numerous powders and a surprising number of acids and other chemical items. Unfortunately, saltpeter didn’t appear to be something widely used on this side of the world. Khriss turned away from the piles of powder, instead looking at a small jar of clear liquid. She had purchased some of it more out of curiosity than for practical use. “You’re just going to have to get very good with a zinkall, Baon,” she suggested, reaching over to drop a piece of carapace into the jar. The carapace bubbled for a moment, like hydrogen peroxide poured on a wound, then fell still. She reached her forceps in, pulling out the carapace piece, then dropped it into a jar of water. It sank
|
to the bottom, but did not dissolve. “It creates some sort of patina,” Khriss said curiously. “The outer layer of carapace reacts with the liquid, transforming it into something that is insoluble in water.” “A useful process,” Baon said, beginning to reassemble his pistol. Khriss turned to watch him work, his fingers moving with familiarity as he worked. The pistols were beautiful constructions, their barrels clean and polished, their handles inlayed with silver plates that were intricately carved. Carved in the shape of the Elisian royal seal. And, of course, the two-barrel design was usually reserved for officers and the rich, a sort of prestige symbol… Khriss paused, frowning slightly. “Baon, where did you get those pistols?” she asked. Baon snapped the final piece into place. He didn’t look up. “I… acquired them,” he said. Immediately, an alarm went off in Khriss’s mind. Baon never avoided questions. “Baon,” she said, suddenly feeling a little afraid, “those are Elisian officer’s pistols. Where did you get them?” Baon looked up calmly. “I don’t think you want to know.” “Officer’s pistols…” Khriss continued slowly. “Pistols like Captain Deral and his lieutenant would have carried… The two men who were killed that night, when you were off scouting…” Baon closed his eyes, lowering his head slightly. “Baon,” Khriss said, somehow managing to keep her voice steady, “did you kill Captain Deral?” “Yes.” Khriss felt cold, horribly cold. “Were you sent to Elis by the Dynasty?” “Yes.” Khriss sat stunned. She didn’t know what to do. It was impossible—Baon was too good, too loyal, to be a spy. However, a part of her warned that a spy would be no good unless he were convincing… Capable of gaining the trust of those he was to infiltrate… those he was to kill. “Oh, Shella,” she whispered. “They sent you to kill Gevin, if we found him.” Baon didn’t respond. Instead Khriss heard the sound of something snapping against the floor. She looked up to see Acron and Cynder standing in the doorway, their eyes wide with shock. Cynder’s hand lay open, a jar of white powder having dropped free from its grasp. They had found some saltpeter after all. Baon stood. “That’s it, then,” he said, nodding once in her direction. “Good day, duchess.” With that, he pushed his way through the pair of stunned professors and out the door. Khriss watched in amazement, not certain how to react. She could hear his feet clump against the floor as he strode through the hallway and down the stairs. The front door opened and closed a moment later. Khriss remained quiet for a moment, then she groaned and laid her head against her table. Kenton spent the day fretfully, wondering when the attack would come. Ais had brought additional guards this day, commandeering some of those who were members of his own band. These men sat stationed all around the Diem, watching for assassins—Ais’s second in command stood on Kenton’s balcony, watching what happened in the courtyard with a keen eye. Kenton wanted to be free of their watchings,
|
but knew that such would be foolish. Ais might be a spy, but he had also done a decent job of defending Kenton—no matter what the man’s own personal biases were, he was an extraordinary trackt. Ais himself sat at the table in the main room of Kenton’s quarters, reading over a stack of papers. Kenton had spent most of the day in his father’s study, just within view of Ais’s careful eye, reading books from the former Lord Mastrell’s shelf. It was frustrating, and he felt trapped, but he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t have any business outside the Diem—he had visited all of the Taishin that he could. Visiting the Lord Farmer would be pointless, and the Lord Mason still hadn’t chosen his emissary. So, Kenton just waited. Fortunately, his father did have some interesting books on the shelf—including a full eight volume set of the Law. Intrigued by his meeting with the Lord Admiral, Kenton had begun reading the Helm’s Charter, especially the part that dealt with the choosing of a new Lord Admiral. He had been stunned by what he found. Like the Lord Mastrell, the Lord Admiral was elected by a small percentage of the Profession’s members. A group known as the Shipowner’s Circle were the ones who voted—they were a formal collection of kelzin who owned the largest fleets in the Helm, some of them controlling as many as ten ships. Unlike the Lord Mastrell—or most of the other Taishin—the Lord Admiral was not chosen for life. The Shipowner’s Circle could choose a new Lord Admiral whenever it wanted—though they rarely did so. The differences only grew more stark. While other Taisha were the heads of their Professions, the title of Lord Admiral conveyed almost no power. He was given a vote on the Taishin Council, but no authority over anyone in the Helm. The true governing power was reserved for the Shipowner’s Circle. In addition, a man could not refuse to be Lord Admiral. Whomever the Circle declared was Lord Admiral—assuming he was a member of the Helm—had to fulfill the position until they chose someone else. The Lord Admiral was required by Law to forfeit all of his possessions to the Helm—his ships, his land, and any wealth he might have accumulated. The language of the Charter said that he was ‘to serve only his Profession,’ and was thereby denied material possessions. However, to any rational eye the appointment looked like more of a punishment than an honor. Kenton read over the paragraphs with a stunned expression. Suddenly Lord Delious’s gaudy display of wealth made sense. It wasn’t arrogance or greed, it was an attempt to get back at the Circle. By law, could only demand two things from them—a home and food. By law, the Lord Admiral was cared for by the Shipowner’s Circle. It was supposedly a simple task, since all the Lord Admiral was allowed to demand was ‘enough food and drink to sate his wants, and a roof over his head, as per his desires.’ Delious’s house
|
must have cost thousands of lak. And, of course, Delious’s constant drunkenness made a little more sense as well—if Kenton had been forced into a position where he had no power, no possessions, and was considered a joke by the rest of his Profession, he would probably become an alcoholic as well. Poor man, Kenton thought with a shake of his head. Forever trapped in a meaningless life. To someone of few desires, it would be paradise. But to a man who had been motivated, who enjoyed what he did, it would as bad as imprisonment. Kenton heard a door open, and he jumped, reaching for a handful of sand. Ais dropped to the floor, his zinkall raised to fire. “Sands!” Eric’s voice snapped. “A bit jumpy today, aren’t you people?” Ais ignored him, sighing as he sat back on his chair. “When assassins want you dead, Eric, you tend to be ‘a little jumpy,” Kenton pointed out as Eric appeared in the doorway to his study. Eric shrugged, smiling slightly. “You’re just going to kill yourself in six days, remember?” Kenton paused. “Yes, well, I have to last those six days. Besides, as I constantly have to remind you, there’s a chance I’ll survive the fight with Drile.” “Keep telling yourself that,” Eric said, looking for a place to sit. There was still a broad smile on his face. “Thank you for the outpouring of optimism,” Kenton replied, closing the book. “Find anything?” Eric asked, eventually deciding to just lean against the wall. “I learned a lot of things,” Kenton replied, rubbing his eyes. “Unfortunately, none of it has any relevance to my problems whatsoever. And why on the sands are you smiling like that?” “Because I’m brilliant,” Eric explained. Kenton raised an eyebrow. “I’ve solved one of your problems for you.” “Which one? My desperate need to be annoyed?” Eric huffed. “You will regret that remark, oh sarcastic one. Come on.” Eric nodded toward the main room, walking out and not waiting to see if Kenton followed. With a sigh, Kenton did so, following Eric to the balcony. Ais’s second stepped aside as Kenton moved out onto the carapace structure. “What?” he asked. Eric pointed down at a group of sand masters. “What do you see?” “Sand masters?” Kenton asked. “Which sand masters?” Kenton frowned slightly, identifying the subjects. Dirin’s bright red hair made him stand out as he stood at the front of the group, reading something off of a ledger. Kenton shrugged. “Dirin, Treeden, Doril—” “Right,” Eric interrupted. “Dirin. What do you notice about him?” “Look, Eric,” Kenton said sufferingly. “I appreciate your brilliance, I really do. But could we get on with this?” “His hair, Kenton,” Eric whispered. “What color is it?” “Red,” Kenton said. “And who has red hair?” Kenton paused. “Talloners,” he replied. “Exactly,” Eric said with a smile. “The Lord Mason hates to deal with regular Lossandin politics, so he always sends an emissary to cast his vote on the Council. The only requirement is that the emissary be of Talloner blood.” Kenton looked
|
down at Dirin again, frowning contemplatively. “It wouldn’t work, Eric,” he said. “The Lord Mason would never choose Dirin as his emissary.” “Why not?” Eric defended. “From what I’ve heard, most Talloners are like their lord—they dislike leaving their city in the shadows. If someone arrived that actually desired the position, I’ll bet that the Lord Mason would give it to him.” “It’s too far away,” Kenton protested. “Two days by boat and two days back. Look, why are we arguing about this? Do you want to win this vote or not?” Kenton ground his teeth. “I don’t like it—there’s too little chance that it will work.” Eric snorted. “And the rest of your schemes are so likely to succeed?” “Good point,” Kenton agreed. “All right, we’ll try it.” He summoned a ribbon, sending it down into the courtyard to tap Dirin on the shoulder. The boy looked up and nodded, bidding farewell to the other sand masters and hurrying toward one of the now-finished staircases. Ais divided his attention between the Lord Mastrell and his reports. When he had learned that Kenton intended to spend most of the day in fortified seclusion, Ais had sent one of his men back to the Hall for his stacks of papers. If he was going to spend the day sitting around, he might as well get something done. It was difficult for Ais to continue focus all of his time on the Lord Mastrell. His senses as a trackt, developed over nearly two decades of investigation, told him he was close to proving Sharezan and Nilto were the same person. He had been chasing Sharezan for five years, and now he was finally in a position where he could topple the man. Word on the street was that there was dissention in Sharezan’s ranks. On of his main allies—the rumors left out his name—wanted to split with the organization. If Ais could capture the malcontent, or even contact him, then he might be willing to betray Nilto in exchange for immunity. And so Ais had set his men—those who weren’t guarding the Diem—to the task. They were on the streets of Kezare, speaking with their contacts, letting it be known that Ais was willing to make a deal. Ais continued to read as the red-haired sand master boy entered the room, and Kenton explained his plans. The boy, of course, was completely terrified by the responsibility. “I… I couldn’t do that, sir,” Dirin protested. “Sure you could, Dirin,” Kenton cajoled. “All you have to do is ask. If you fail, then it’s all right. You’ll have tried your best.” “But, what if I fail?” the boy whispered. “The Diem would fall because of me!” “No, it won’t,” Kenton assured. “This is my plan, remember. If the Diem falls, it will only be one man’s responsibility.” “Sir, I… it’s too important a job for me,” Dirin insisted weakly. Kenton frowned to himself. He wouldn’t have thought that it would be this difficult—Dirin had far too low of an opinion of himself. “Dirin, I won’t order
|
you,” Kenton began, “but I will ask. Will you travel to Nor’Tallon and ask the Lord Mason to appoint you as his emissary?” Dirin looked sick. “Yes, I will, sir.” “Good boy,” Kenton said, slapping him on the shoulder. “How will I pay for it?” Dirin wondered. “You can’t commandeer ships, can you sir?” “No,” Kenton said with a frown. “How much money is left from our little ransack?” Eric asked. “Not much,” Kenton said. “How much would it cost to charter a ship?” “I have no idea,” Eric confessed. Kenton turned toward Ais, who was obviously trying to ignore the conversation and focus on his reading. However, Kenton knew from experience that Ais would be listening—the tract had to pay attention to make a good spy. “Ais, do you know?” Ais looked up with a silent sigh. “An entire ship? It would be expensive, Ry’Kensha. Probably a couple of thousand lak.” “All right, Dirin,” Kenton said. “See what you can find, and take what you need from our stores.” “Sir, we only have a couple of thousand left…” “Use what you need,” Kenton reiterated. “Yes, sir,” Dirin said, walking toward the door. However, before he could leave, the boy had one last question. “Um, sir?” he asked. Kenton turned around. “Yes?” “Did you really do it, sir?” Dirin asked eagerly. “Do what, Dirin?” “Save those men yesterday?” Dirin explained. “They say you dug through twenty feet of rock, lifting nearly an entire building, to save some trapped workers.” Kenton smiled. “It’s an exaggeration, but it’s essentially true. Where did you hear about it?” “It’s all over the city, sir,” Dirin said. “Everyone is talking about you. They heard about what you’re going to do—with Drile, I mean. How you’re going to… Anyway, there are lots of rumors. No one can believe that a sand master would rescue people like that, let alone sacrifice himself…” “You’re a celebrity,” Eric noted. Kenton snorted. “For now. If I actually manage to save the Diem they’ll all go back to hating us.” Then he nodded toward the boy. “Thank you, Dirin. The news is heartening. Now hurry up—you have less than six days to get to Nor Tallon and back.” “Yes, sir,” Dirin said energetically, rushing from the room. Kenton and Eric went back to their talking in the other room, and Ais was finally given a chance to return to his reading. Unfortunately, something else started to distract him. His own mind. He had been pondering a subject lately. If a man died nobly for an evil cause, what was that man? A misguided hero? A sinner of the worst kind because he tried to make that which was evil seem good? Ais was lost for an answer. Kenton’s actions the day proved that he himself was not an evil man. Of course, Ais had never believed that all sand masters were evil by nature—they simply made evil choices, and it was by ones choices that one would be judged. Good or not, Kenton and his sand mastery still needed to be exterminated from
|
the sands, lest their evil continue to corrupt others. Still, Ais was impressed with this Lord Mastrell. Kenton was an earnest man, trying his best to accomplish an impossible task. Such was basis for nobility, if only his efforts had been applied to a noble cause. But, Ais believed—contrary to many Kershtian teachings—that the Sand Lord had mercy in his heart even for sand masters. It was a basis of Ker’reen philosophy that the world was made up of opposites, and God was He in whom opposites could coexist without destroying one another. He was darkness and light, for He had created both. He was good and evil, cold and heat, love and hatred. He could condemn the sand masters, yet have mercy for them at the same time. The doctrine of Coexistent Contradiction was a major part of the Kershtian belief system. Perhaps Kenton would find forgiveness once he died. Until that time, however, Ais was required to hate him. It was a pity, really, but he didn’t have a choice. Khriss took the betrayal quietly. She had to remain strong—she had let herself go when she found out about Gevin, and that was wrong. Of course, Baon had been the one to teach her that… “We need to find him,” Khriss said softly, sitting on her bed, hands in her lap. “He deserves a chance to explain himself. Perhaps there is more to this that we don’t know.” Of course, she had no idea where to find him. She had sent N’Teese to find Nilto, so that she could ask the beggar to look for Baon, but she didn’t have much hope. Baon was too skillful to be captured. “My Lady…” Cynder said sitting awkwardly on the chair beside her scientific table. He rested his hand on her shoulder, obviously uncertain what to do. “My Lady,” he repeated, “Baon was very good at what he did. Too good. I had often wondered how a simple mercenary became such a learned, even crafty, man.” “I never trusted him,” Acron announced. He sat on her table, munching on a bag of some candied confections he had purchased in the Kezare marketplace. The legs to the table were bowing, as if seriously considering a collapse. “You know, he was the one who drove Flennid and the other soldiers away. He probably planned that, so we would be left only to his mercies. Everyone knows how well-trained Scythe’s assassins are.” “Acron is right,” Cynder agreed. “Dynastic spies are a very elite group. There is no shame in having fallen for Baon’s lies, My Lady. Scythe employs only the most crafty, careful men. Prince Gevalden himself was killed by one.” Khriss nodded slowly, still staring down at her hands. She felt helpless and stupid. How had she not seen it earlier? Cynder was right—a simple mercenary would never have known the things Baon did. He was too shrewd, too skilled… too perfect. He had only made one mistake—the guns. He must not have been able to resist taking them, once he killed the two senior
|
officers. The guns were masterfully made, and he would have realized their usefulness. “I’m just wondering how Captain Deral found out what he was,” Acron said conversationally. “I mean, how did the Captain see it when I didn’t?” Cynder rolled his eyes. Khriss took a deep breath. “All right, it is time to move on. Baon left, but the expedition still has a purpose it needs to fulfill.” “My Lady?” Cynder asked. “I’m going to the Diem,” she informed, standing. “If Kenton isn’t going to tell me how sand mastery works, then I’ll just have to watch and learn for myself.” “But, duchess, it is too dangerous,” Cynder warned. “The assassins…” “They care nothing for me,” Khriss said. “They want Kenton.” “Still, My Lady,” Cynder said speculatively. “Perhaps you could wait…” “Until when?” Khriss demanded. “Until Kenton is dead?” Khriss shook her head. “No, Cynder. I have to do this now. We know the prince is dead, now we need to gather what information we can and return to Elis. Every day I waste is another day Elis goes without sand mastery to protect it.” “My Lady,” Acron said, standing as she walked toward the door. “At least let one of us accompany you. Now that you don’t have a bodyguard, you may need our protection.” Khriss turned back to the two professors, one overweight, the other elderly. Neither would be of much use for protection. Both, however, stood with determined, honorable looks on their face. Their skill might be questionable, but their loyalty was not. They would do what they could to defend their duchess. “All right,” she said. “You may become my bodyguards. Cynder, look over there in my trunk.” The linguist did as ordered, moving to open the trunk. He reached inside, and pulled out a shiny silver pistol. “What?” he asked with surprise. “Prince Gevalden’s,” she explained. “I think he would approve of its use in this case.” “Certainly, My Lady,” Cynder agreed. “But, the scoundrel took all the charges!” Acron complained. Khriss smiled, tapping the almost-forgotten jar of saltpeter on the floor. “That’s all right.” A harsh lisping voice sounded from just beside Khriss. She jumped with surprise. “You wanted to speak with me?” N’Teese translated. Khriss stopped in the middle of the crowded street. She hadn’t even seen Nilto approach. Of course, the man, with his dayside cloak and nondescript manner, blended well with the people flowing around them. She turned to regard him, and was once again struck by his horrible ugliness. His face was disfigured, like it had been smashed when he was a child, and his flesh ribbed and twisted. She stared at him for a moment, Nilto meeting her eyes, then she blushed. He must be used to people staring. Nilto began to move toward the side of the street where they could speak more privately, and Khriss followed, moving through he crowd with difficulty now that Baon wasn’t there to clear a path for her. She and Acron had been on their way to purchase more gunpowder ingredients—her investigation of the
|
Diem would have to wait for tomorrow. It was an acceptable delay considering what they would gain by her spending a few more hours in her impromptu laboratory. Acron followed her through the crowd, shooting suspicious looks at the Lord Beggar. Nilto returned the looks with rolls of his eyes. “What do you wish of me, woman?” Nilto rasped through N’Teese as Khriss arrived. “A… friend of mine has disappeared,” Khriss explained. “I would like you to find him, if you could.” The Lord Beggar snorted. “You waste my time,” he informed, a drip of spittle running down the side of his cheek. “I could pay,” Khriss explained. “Woman, do you have any idea what my time is worth?” he asked sharply. “Do you have any idea how many people I have to care for? How busy my days are? You think I have time to search for a runaway servant?” He began to stumble away. “Please, Lord Nilto,” she said after him. “At least watch for him. If any of your people mention a large, shaven-headed darksider, tell me. You need not expend effort, just…” Nilto turned slowly. “He’s important to you,” he mumbled. “A lover?” Khriss blushed, shaking her head. “Like I said. A friend.” The Lord Beggar turned back toward the moving crowd. “Keep your offered money handy, miss darksider. If I hear anything, I’ll expect a reward.” The attack never came. Kenton waited and waited, growing more tense with each passing minute. Ais changed his trackts in shifts, keeping them alert and watchful. The assassins, however, decided not to make a showing that day. “Maybe they finally ran out of people,” Elorin offered. He had joined the vigil, keeping Kenton company after Eric wandered off to get some sleep. As the hours progressed, Kenton was having increasing difficulty staying awake. The drain of the last few weeks was horrible—if the assassins or Drile didn’t kill him, the fatigue probably would. “Maybe,” he said in response to the kindly old sand master’s encouragement. “You should get some sleep, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin suggested. Kenton nodded absently, his mind drifting. His major problem was still Vey. The Lord Merchant effectively held two votes on the Council, and he was Kenton’s strongest opposition. Somehow, as impossible as it seemed, Kenton had to get the Lord Merchant to join with him. Unfortunately, the only thing he could think of was bribery. The Lord Merchant’s vote was probably for sale, no matter what he said—it’s just that Kenton doubted he could afford his price. The most confusing thing about it all was the tribute. Tributes weren’t even written into the law—they had been donated by the other Professions in gratitude for the sand masters’s protection. The system was antiquated, however, and it made sense that the other Professions would have stopped it—especially since the sand masters could just demand what they needed from local merchants. But why had the Guild continued to pay all these years? It didn’t make sense. Vey hated the sand masters, yet his Profession continued to donate money to the
|
Diem every quarter. Kenton rose from his seat, stretching. Elorin sat dozing on one of the room’s chairs. “I think I’ll take your advice, Elorin,” he said. It was probably well past twelfth-hour. He would be safe for another day. According to Ais, if the assassins missed the day of their attack, they had to wait another one before they could try again. Elorin sand master nodded his bald head, rising and walking toward the door. As he opened it, however, he frowned. “Lord Mastrell?” he asked. Kenton turned. “Yes?” Elorin pointed to a note attached to the wooden door. Kenton frowned, approaching to pull the note off. It was folded in the same way the one a few days had been, the one that Ais had claimed was to him. Kenton flipped it open, reading the short message. I warned you was all that it said. Kenton frowned, reading the message. Then he shrugged, handing the note to Ais’s second, who was still standing watch on the balcony. “See that Ais gets this,” he requested. The senior trackt had gone out to check on the watches. “I assume it will make more sense to him than it does to me.” The second looked at the note with confused eyes, then nodded to Kenton, walking out the balcony and calling softly for another trackt to approach and receive the note. Kenton wandered into his room and collapsed onto his sand mattress. Kenton was standing in the place where he would die. Might die, he reminded himself. He stood in the Pit’s direct center, where a forty-foot circle of sand formed the field in which he would fight Drile. The broad opening in the ceiling let in a column of sunlight which fell directly on the circle of sand, both to provide light and recharge any sand turned black by sand mastery. Or by blood. The stadium-like benches rose around him, sand-colored, like the rest of the Diem. They were empty now, though Kenton could almost imagine the dead mastrells sitting around, staring down at him, their eyes judgmental. You were made Lord Mastrell little over a week ago, and already you have brought back our most abhorrent process. Sand masters hadn’t killed one another in over a century. What was he saying to the sand masters, letting the reign of their next Lord Mastrell—whomever it might be—start with the slaughter of his opponent? Khriss had called dayside primitive; perhaps she was right. Of course, whoever won might not even become Lord Mastrell. Kenton’s chances of saving the Diem were looking increasingly dim. You will be the Lord Mastrell remembered for destroying his own Profession, the unseen sand masters seemed to accuse. You claimed to want this all your life, but when you get it you immediately lose it. Kenton looked up at the benches, though it was hard to see them the way the room was lighted, with sunlight falling directly on the center pit. He stepped forward, leaving the warm sunlight, stepping out onto one of the stone benches. Soon these
|
benches would be full, packed with people come to watch an execution. Now that the news had spread through the city, Kenton had already begun to receive requests from the kelzin. Everyone wanted to be in attendance—it was becoming the social event of the century. Never mind that just a few days ago they had all shunned the Diem as unhallowed ground. Now they each expected favoritism, especially those Kenton had spoken with at the Lord Admiral’s party. Kenton shook his head in disdain. None of them would come to a Lord Mastrell’s confirmation, but everyone wanted to see one’s execution. And that was what it would be, an execution. For all his positive thinking, Drile was going to massacre him. “Contemplating your immanent meeting with the Sand Lord, Lord Mastrell?” an amused voice asked. Kenton looked up toward the sound to find Drile standing in the Pit’s doorway. Kenton turned away, not bothering to respond to the baiting. Surprisingly, perhaps for the first time in his life, Kenton didn’t feel like arguing. “You know,” Drile said, walking down the stone benches like steps, “the ironic thing is, your sacrifice probably won’t mean anything. Five more days will pass, and you still won’t have the support you need. You realize I’m not going to let you back out of your challenge, even if the Taisha are going to vote against you?” Kenton looked up, meeting Drile’s eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” Drile just smiled. “And, even if you do find enough support, do you think the Taisha will hold to their promises once I’ve killed you? They’ll change their minds and dissolve us anyway. Then I’ll take the sand masters to the Rim Kingdoms. Be happy, however—you’ll get your revenge eventually. We’ll probably return at the head of Rim armies to destroy Lossand.” He was so arrogant, so uncaring of life. Suddenly, Kenton found himself wanting to do anything he could to tear that smile away from Drile. Kenton’s optimism returned, fueled by determination. You should know better, Drile. The surest way to encourage me is to taunt me. Kenton raised his lips in a very slight smile. “I suppose you’re right, Drile.” Drile frowned. That wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting. “You’re a fool if you aren’t afraid,” he warned. Kenton shrugged. “I definitely should be. It looks hopeless, doesn’t it?.” He smiled to himself knowingly. Drile snorted. “You are a fool.” “Sure am.” Drile started to look nervous. Kenton could almost see the question in his eyes. What do you know that I don’t, Kenton? Finally, Drile backed from the room, a little less certain than when he had entered. I know one important fact, Drile. I am a fool. Fortunately, so are you. Kenton strode down the steps outside the Pit, heading toward his rooms. He was tired of sitting around—the day before had been excruciating. He needed to do something; if he simply waited for his five days to run out, then he deserved to fail. “Lord Mastrell?” a voice interrupted. Kenton turned to see an
|
older sand master, perhaps forty, wearing the tan sash of a Fen. Kenton struggled to remember the man’s name, and realized he didn’t know it. “Yes?” he said a little awkwardly. “You wouldn’t know which room my acolents and I are supposed to meet in, would you?” Kenton frowned. “No, I’m afraid not. Why don’t you just pick one?” “Well, Lord Mastrell, Dirin had all of the rooms organized by year. He was going to find us a new one, because the one we were using was too small. Do you know where he is?” “I sent him on an errand,” Kenton explained. “You’ll have to do without him for a few days. Just find yourself a room—it shouldn’t matter too much.” “Yes, Lord Mastrell,” the still unnamed sand master said, bowing and walking back to the small group of students he was apparently in charge of. Kenton continued walking across the courtyard, trying to reorganize his thoughts. The night before he had wondered about the Lord Merchant. Perhaps there was a way to break Vey’s carapace-like exterior. He just had to— “Lord Mastrell?” another voice asked. The servant wore a cooking apron, and had wide lips and a pudgy face. “Yes?” Kenton asked with a sigh. “Do you know where Lord Dirin is?” “He won’t be here for a few days,” Kenton said again. “What do you need?” “Well, he was arranging for us to get a shipment of travel ZaiDon in, just in case the Diem did get dissolved and the sand masters needed something to survive on for the next few weeks. I gave him a slightly false estimate—it appears that there’s a shortage of ZaiDon lately. Several herds of sandlings to the north caught a disease, and we have to pay extra until new shipments arrive from the south.” “I’m certain it will be all right,” Kenton assured. “I’ll tell Dirin to see you when he gets back.” “Thank you, My Lord,” the man said with a bow. Kenton rolled his eyes in frustration, then continued his walk. He needed to go see Vey again—an activity he didn’t look forward to. Their last meeting hadn’t gone very well. He would probably have to bribe his way in this time— “Lord Mastrell?” “I don’t know where Dirin is,” Kenton said, turning with exasperation. The younger man, an acolent with long hair, jumped at the comment. “Um, yes, Lord Mastrell,” he said slowly. Kenton nodded, turning again. “But, Lord Mastrell?” the boy asked. “Yes?” Kenton asked. “Do you know when he’ll be back?” Kenton groaned. “A few days.” “A few days?” the boy asked with alarm. “Take your problem to Elorin,” Kenton suggested. “Um, yes, Lord Mastrell,” the acolent said. Perhaps I shouldn’t have sent Dirin away, Kenton thought, continuing his trek across the courtyard. He hadn’t realized how much the boy was doing—of course, thinking back on it, he should have guessed. Someone had to see that the Diem was kept running; Kenton was so busy trying to save the Profession that he didn’t have time for the small
|
things. This time he noticed the person walking toward him before they spoke. Kenton paused, preparing himself to explain once again that he had sent Dirin on a mission. This sand master, however, spoke first. “Lord Mastrell, you might want to see this.” “What?” Kenton asked with a frown, his comments about Dirin slipping away. “Well,” said the sand master—an underfen perhaps twenty years old. “She just kind of walked in, and we didn’t know whether to do what she said or not. We couldn’t find you, and we know she’s a… friend of yours, so we just let her do what she wanted.” Kenton rolled his eyes. “Where is she?” Khriss sat at the back of the room, watching with interest. An older sand master in a brown sash stood at the front of the room, controlling a line of mastered sand. About six students sat in the room, watching him with somewhat bored eyes. Khriss smiled, remembering some of her own lecture in the university. These students weren’t much younger than she had been during her learning days, though most of her classmates had been much older. She watched closely as the teacher lifted a rock with his sand. The students followed, lifting similar stones on their own desks. Some of them did it easily, others had a lot more trouble. One boy was able to lift the stone from above, grabbing the rock with an arrogant wave of his hand and pulling it into the air. The rest, however, did as their teacher, pushing their sand underneath the stone and levitating the object into the air by forming a kind of sand pole that extended from the rock to the ground. It must be easier for them to push than pull, Khriss decided, scribbling a note on her ledger. It made sense—the weaker ones were really using the floor’s strength to push the stone into the air. The one boy could pull from above, but he appeared much stronger than the rest. The stones rose to different heights, several wobbling uncertainly. Apparently, ability to lift varied greatly amongst sand masters. Khriss looked closely. The higher the stones went, the thinner the students’ strings of sand became. However, some of the strings started wider than others, so they could lift higher. More importantly, however, some students’ sand glowed more brightly than others. The brighter the sand, the more power. She hurriedly wrote the observation on her ledger. There were laws to sand mastery, obviously. A given string of sand could only hold so much weight, dependant on its diameter and its brightness—which, from what she gathered, was an indication of its density. Some people could control more sand in one string, and so they had more power than others. “Enjoying yourself?” a voice asked. Khriss jumped, scribbling an awkward line of white across her dayside ledger. Kenton stood in the room’s open doorway a short distance away. Khriss gave him a sheepish look. “They couldn’t find you,” she explained awkwardly. “So I asked if there was a place I could
|
wait… they led me here.” Kenton eyed her disbelievingly. The students lowered their rocks nervously, shooting looks at Kenton. He waved them back to their studies as Khriss rose and walked over toward him. He looked so authoritative in his distinctive white outfit that she almost forgot for a moment that he was just Kenton, the man she had grown to know quite well over the last few weeks. He was changing, however. His personality was still the same, but he carried himself differently. He acted more like a leader; his orders were more assured, and he was more accustomed to being followed. It was hard to believe sometimes that he was the same age as she was—he seemed as old as the man teaching the class. “Did you learn a lot?” Kenton asked, leading her from the room. She could tell her subversion of his authority wasn’t appreciated. Suddenly, she felt very guilty. It had seemed like a good idea at the time… Wait a minute, she thought, forcing the guilt out of her heart. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re trying to save your homeland—If that’s not a noble goal, then nothing is. We need sand mastery. “I didn’t learn much,” she admitted. “You came and got me too quickly.” Kenton nodded to himself. He didn’t reprobate her, but the dissatisfaction in his eyes was bad enough to make her guilt resurface. “You said sand masters couldn’t tell me their secrets,” Khriss explained, for to try and convince herself than Kenton. “You didn’t say I couldn’t try to learn on my own.” He didn’t answer. “All right,” she said with a sigh. “I won’t do that again.” Insufferable man. Doesn’t he know what is at stake? “Good,” Kenton said with a nod. “I know it is frustrating, Khriss,” he said. “But the Diem isn’t ready to be exposed yet. Once we’re certain we will still be here in a few weeks, then we can decide how much we should reveal about ourselves. You have some good points, but now is not the time to implement them.” I don’t have time to wait, Khriss thought with a sigh. Ais entered walked into the Diem both excited and worried. The note Tain had delivered to him the night before had left him anxious and frustrated. But, when he had arrived at the Hall after leaving the Diem, he had found another note waiting—this one from someone completely different. Shaerezan’s unnamed powerful ally, the one who had split from his boss. The note left no way to contact the dissident, but it did say that he was willing to meet. Ais was close—very close. But, for now, he had to continue the job he had been given by the Lady Judge. Fortunately, he hadn’t been forced to kill any more Kershtians the day before. Maybe the Ry’Kensha was right, maybe the family had already run out of assassins. However, he didn’t really believe that to be the case. Kershtian families were large. Shaking his head, Ais walked toward the Lord Mastrell, who stood
|
with the darkside woman at the far end of the courtyard. “I don’t know why he continues to pay it,” Kenton explained. “That is the biggest question I have right now. And that is why I’m going to see him today. You may come if you like.” Khriss shrugged. “I don’t have anything else to do now that I know Prince Gevalden is dead.” Kenton frowned. Something was wrong—he hadn’t noticed it until just then. “Where is Baon?” he asked with surprise. The hefty bodyguard was nowhere to be seen. Khriss paused. “He’s… not travelling with me any more,” she explained. “What?” Kenton asked incredulously. “What happened to him?” “It turns out Baon was a spy for the Dynasty,” Khriss said with an even voice. However, Kenton could sense the struggle within her as she tried to keep emotion from coming through. “That can’t be,” Kenton said with a frown. “He had us all fooled,” Khriss said with a shrug. “But…” Kenton trailed off. “He can’t be a spy, he was so… so…” “So Baon?” “Exactly,” Kenton answered. Khriss just shook her head. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not certain of much anymore.” “So you just came here alone?” Kenton asked. “No, Acron dropped me off,” she explained. “He and N’Teese went to buy some things. They should be back any time now.” “We’ll probably meet them on the way,” Kenton said. “Come on—I’m tired of sitting around doing nothing.” “Are we going somewhere?” a sleepy voice asked from above. Kenton looked upward, where a recently awakened Eric stood on his balcony, looking down with tired eyes. “That depends,” Kenton announced. “Are you going with us?” “I’ll have to miss breakfast,” Eric complained. “All right, you can wait behind.” “I’m coming,” Eric grumbled—an amazing feat, considering he managed to project the grumble all the way down to the courtyard. He disappeared into his rooms and joined them in the courtyard a few moments later. “So, how exactly are you going to pursued the Lord Merchant to see you?” Eric asked. Khriss walked beside the two men, the Kezare crowds splitting quickly before Kenton’s sash. His presence was causing quite a stir—even more than usual. The people didn’t see quite as scared—more excited. “I don’t know,” Kenton confessed. They were speaking in Dynastic, apparently for Khriss’s benefit, though the conversation didn’t really involve her. “As I remember, your last meeting didn’t end on particularly affable terms,” Eric reminded. Khriss still wasn’t sure what to make of Eric. When she had found out that he was the son of the Lord General, she had been completely dumbfounded. He didn’t look like a warrior, nor did he act like one. He was too casual—too uncaring. He didn’t hold himself like Baon did, always alert for danger, but instead walked with an almost flippant attitude. As soon as she made the comparison, however, her mind was drawn to another subject. Baon. It felt odd, walking these streets without his comforting presence at her side. Not only did he offer protection, but she had begun to
|
rely on his simple wisdom. Cynder is right, she thought with a nod. He was far too… competent to be a simple mercenary. I should have realized… However, now he was gone. It was likely she would never see him again—he would return to Scythe and report that Gevin was dead. The Dynasty’s purpose had been accomplished. The prince’s death was a harsh blow for Elis. In recent years, the Dynastic ambassadors had begun to hint that unless Elis subjugated itself to the Dynasty, the kingdom would be taken by force. Some of the noblemen—an alarming number of them—were beginning to suggest that surrender was a preferable option. Gevin had denounced them vigorously. He was—had been—the Dynasty’s biggest enemy in the Elisian court; even the King the crown prince were less certain. During the two years of Gevin’s absence, the King had opened talks with Scythe’s emissaries, discussing just what a surrender of the crown would entail. If Gevin had been there, perhaps he could have stopped his father. But now… She could still hear his voice, passionate and driven, in her mind. Father hasn’t seen the Dynasty, Khriss; he doesn’t understand what it does. I’ve traveled through its provinces—you have no idea the poverty and despair of its people. Scythe keeps provinces, regions, and even cities isolated from one another. No one knows what is happening in the rest of the world, and they have no idea how poorly they’re being treated. If we give into the Dynasty, it wouldn’t only mean renouncing the monarchy and our titles. We would also have to dissolve the People’s Senate and abandon the Code of Rights. All of the progress we’ve made during the last century would be lost. Khriss smiled to herself at the memory. The recollection wasn’t an exact picture of a place or time, more a general sense of what Gevin had been. His father didn’t really care about such things as the People’s Senate and the Code of Rights—in fact, the Senate had been a pebble in the Monarchy’s shoe for some time. The King would probably be glad for an excuse to get rid of it. Gevin, however, had always been more liberal. At times he had almost seemed more like a commoner than a nobleman, which was partially why the people had loved him so much. He had truly believed in the rights of all men, even the lowliest, and that was one of the things Khriss had respected about him the most. Khriss shot a look at Kenton, walking beside her on the crowded Kezare street. There was a slight frown on his face, and his brow was furled in concentration as he wrestled with the overwhelming burden he was forced to carry. Gevin would have had little difficulty performing where Kenton was only barely succeeding. The Prince had been able to turn rabid enemies into teatime friends after just one meeting. Gevin’s charismatic force of will and mastery of politics had made him into a power that few could resist. In fact, Gevin had been good
|
at everything. His jokes had been witty. He had been equally good at games of the mind and those of skill. He had passed his courses in the university with high marks. Gevin had been perfect in every way. Why, then, hadn’t she felt for him the emotion she was beginning to feel for this intolerable sand master? Kenton was rude, he was hardly a skilled politician, and he infuriated her. He wasn’t particularly handsome, and he definitely had something to learn about the proper way to treat a woman of noble birth. There absolutely nothing about him that she should find attractive. Yet, she did. Perhaps it was his earnestness. Even now, as he walked toward another impossible confrontation, she could see the resolve in his eyes. He didn’t have the training or the upbringing, but he still tried. Where Gevin had been blessed with stunning looks and dazzling charisma, Kenton only had his sense of determination. And for some reason Kenton just felt more human to her than Gevin. The prince had been perfect, but that made him unapproachable. How did one deal with a person so ideal? Khriss had loved him, to be certain, but it had been a more logical love. She had known she would marry him some day, she had respected his accomplishments and abilities, and had genuinely liked his personality. It had all seemed so simple—neat and orderly, just like one of her equations. They had met together often, discussing various topics of interest over meals, and then she had gone back to her books and Gevin had returned to his politics. The prince had been perfect, and she had been lucky to be his betrothed. Kenton, however, infuriated her every time they met. But, at the same time, he invigorated her. There was no idle chatting with the sand master. Every conversation had a retort or an unexpected comment waiting at its end. However, some of the time she was able to get the better of him. He was more a person and less a god. Khriss could never have approached Gevin with problems or mistakes—they would have seemed too enormous in the face of his flawlessness. It was strange. She had enjoyed being with Gevin, but she had never really felt a loss when they parted at the end of one of their meetings. She kept finding excuses to visit the Diem, however. It’s just the sand mastery, she tried to convince herself. Nothing more. You’re being a foolish girl—you’re associating the ability with the man. You don’t want him, you just want his power. “Well?” Kenton’s comment startled her, and she immediately blushed, irrationally thinking that he had somehow known about her internal debate. “Well what?” she asked, trying to cover he blush with a nonchalant air. “Well, how are you going to get me in to see the Lord Merchant?” Kenton asked. “You expect me to get you in?” Khriss demanded. “You’re the tactful one,” Kenton explained. “We’re almost there, and honestly, I have no idea how to get in to
|
see him. In fact, I don’t even know what I’m going to say to him if I do get in.” “Then why are we here?” Khriss asked as they approached the Lord Merchant’s office. “I have to find a way to get Vey on my side,” Kenton reiterated, shooting an uncertain look at the structure. “Personally,” Eric noted, “I think you’d have a better chance trying to get the A’Kar on your side.” Kenton sighed. “Well, I’ll think of something,” he mumbled, turning to walk up the steps. “I’m sorry, but the Lord Merchant regrets to inform you that he is occupied with other matters.” Kenton frowned. They stood in the Lord Merchant’s waiting room, the austere quarters filled, as usual, with hopeful supplicants. The doors leading into Vey’s conference hall were open, though the turning hallway beyond didn’t provide a view of the Lord Merchant himself. Still, Kenton couldn’t hear the sounds of a discussion beyond, and he doubted that the Lord Merchant was ‘occupied.’ Of course, he hadn’t really expected a warm reception. “I thought you said you’d think of something,” Eric noted in Dynastic. He stood behind with Khriss and Ais—the tract actually had a look of amusement on his face, a rarity considering his usual stern expression. Apparently Ais was enjoying Kenton’s discomfort. Still, it was good to see him paying attention again—recently the trackt had been distracted by something, probably having to do with the reports he had been reading. “Tell the Lord Merchant that I appreciate his busy schedule. I just wish a few moments to make amends between us. Our last meeting ended… abruptly, with tempers raging. Such is not a proper way for members of the Council to treat one another.” “I will see that he gets the message, My Lord,” the attendant by the door said, not looking up from his ledgers. Kenton frowned. Last time he had visited the Lord Merchant, the door attendant had been a young man, easily cowed by the sight of a sand master. This time, unfortunately, the boy had been replaced by an older, more experienced scribe. The man looked neither impressed nor frightened to be speaking with the Lord Mastrell. Kenton scanned the small room. Its richly-dressed occupants waited unhappily—they were not the type who were usually forced to wait for anything. Only the Lord Merchant could treat them so. The room’s four Tower guards eyes Kenton appreciatively. Kenton could probably force his way past them, but it would be difficult to do so without hurting anyone. Besides, he recognized two of the men from his sparring practices at the Tower—he had no desire to put them in a situation where they were required to face his sand. There had to be another way. What is it I want from Vey? The tribute—I want to know why the Guild has paid the tribute all these years. There has to be some reason. Vey would never do such a thing unless there were something in it for him. Or… unless he was afraid for some reason. Afraid
|
not to pay it. “Well then,” Kenton said, projecting his voice loudly into Vey’s conference chamber, “I suppose I shall be going. Just tell the Lord Merchant that when he has time, I would like to discuss the tribute. I expect that it will be paid as always… for the same reason as always.” He turned slowly, hoping to the sands that his ploy would work. He began to walk from the room, Khriss shooting him a confused look as Eric translated the statement. “Wait!” a nervous, high-pitched voice called from deep inside the conference room. “Grelin, tell my colleague that I have found time for a brief conference. But, only he may enter.” Kenton smiled broadly. He nodded to the older attendant, who wore a confused frown on his face, then strode into the conference hall. He rounded the curve in the hallway to approach Vey’s throne-like seat. Vey whispered to a scribe beside him—the only other man in the room—who scuttled away. A few moments later Kenton heard the council chamber doors shut. “All right, Lord Mastrell,” Vey said, the side of his lips turning down in a sneer, “what do you want of me?” “Nothing more than your vote, Lord Vey,” Kenton replied with a knowing smile. Vey cursed softly in Kershtian. “How did you find out?” he demanded. “My father left behind records,” Kenton lied. Vey frowned to himself, leaning back in his chair. He looked—embarrassed, and not a little annoyed. “Will this curse never leave me?” he hissed quietly in Kershtian. “No one need know, Lord Merchant,” Kenton consoled. What could his father possibly have known about Lord Vey? “Give me your vote, and I will remain silent. I vow to tell no one, and take your secret to my funeral pyre.” Vey paused, looking up with confusion. “You… won’t pass it on to the next Lord Mastrell?” “Why would I do that?” Kenton said with a shrug. “We’ll have both passed from this world by then.” Vey smiled. I’ve won! Kenton thought with excitement. Then he realized something—Vey’s smile wasn’t one of relief, but one of understanding. He looked into Kenton’s eyes suspiciously, no longer nervous. Somehow, Kenton had given himself away. “And if I refuse, Lord Mastrell?” “I will proclaim your secret to all of Lossand,” Kenton threatened. “And what secret would that be?” Vey pressed. Kenton paused. Sands! I was so close. “The secret we both know,” Kenton said lamely. Vey chuckled to himself, relieved, as he wiped his brow with a perfumed cloth. “I see, Lord Mastrell. Well, I have nothing to hide from Lossand. Feel free to tell the people whatever you want—be warned, however, that the Hall will require proof of whatever assertions you make.” Kenton cursed to himself. Where had he made his mistake? What clue had he given away? “I’ll find your secret, Vey,” he warned. “Give me your vote, and I promise not to even search. I will forget about this entire exchange. Be warned, however, that when I find out what it is, you will not receive
|
such a lenient offer.” “Blackmail, Lord Mastrell?” Vey asked with amusement. His eyes, however, betrayed a hint of anxiety. Blackmail. That was what Kenton was proposing. The thought churned in his stomach—he had always been a man to confront people openly, and often with a great deal of yelling. The thought of pressuring Vey into giving his vote because of some dark secret suddenly seemed incredibly vile to Kenton. Can I take advantage someone like that, even if it is to save the Diem? It was a decision he didn’t want to even think about. Of course, if he didn’t find out what Vey was hiding, then it wouldn’t matter anyway. “We’ll see, Lord Merchant,” Kenton replied, turning to stride out of the man’s chambers. The doors to the Lord Merchant’s chambers opened, letting out a frowning Kenton. Khriss felt a stab of disappointment—when he had been invited in, she had assumed that he had somehow found the Lord Merchant’s weakness. However, if Kenton’s expression was any clue, the conversation hadn’t gone very well. Kenton shot her a look, then shook his head once. “At least you got in,” she offered. “He’s hiding something,” Kenton explained, leading them out of the mansion-like office building. “My father knew what it was, and was using it to blackmail Vey into paying the Diem a tribute every few months.” “And you don’t know what the secret is?” Khriss assumed. Kenton shook his head. “It must be something extremely embarrassing, otherwise Vey wouldn’t risk tarnishing his Kershtian image by helping the Diem.” “Well, I know one thing,” Eric interrupted. “I’m hungry.” “You’re always hungry,” Kenton noted. “When you spend three years living on the road, you learn to pay attention to where your next meal is going to come from. Today, I suspect it’s going to come from you. How about a restaurant?” Kenton shot Khriss a look and she shrugged. She’d never eaten at a dayside restaurant—it could be interesting. He followed with a questioning look at Ais, but the trackt only gave him a flat stare in return. “I suppose we might as well,” Kenton said. “Good,” Eric said, heading for a building just a short distance from the Lord Merchant’s offices. It was a single story building, which were more common in this area of Kezare. It was squat and rectangular with stone walls and numerous windows. Inside they found a large room, the center filled with low tables surrounded by cushions, the walls set with booths and bench-like seats and taller tables. It was dark enough that Khriss removed her spectacles. A Lossandin serving man noticed them and grew pale in the face, nearly dropping his tray of food. The room was about half-filled, and every table fell silent as its occupants turned to stare at Kenton. “I’d almost forgotten about that,” Kenton mumbled. A serving man approached quickly, bowing several times and speaking in Lossandin. Kenton responded, gesturing toward one of the more private booths, and the man obsequiously led them over to sit down. Khriss seated herself beside Kenton, Eric
|
sliding onto the other bench. Ais stood beside the table, eyeing it with a critical stare. Kenton said something to him, and finally the man shook his head, taking a seat at one of the central tables a short distance away. Kenton sighed, turning away from the trackt. “Eating with a sand master would be a major violation of his beliefs,” Eric explained to her. “You would think that after all this time travelling with me, he would have realized that I’m not the demon his people say I am.” “Why is that, anyway?” Khriss asked. “Why do they hate you?” “It has to do with sand mastery,” Kenton explained. “They believe the Sand Lord manifests himself in sandstorms, that the sand is his body and the sun is his eye. Sand mastery corrupts the sand somehow. I’ve never really understood it—of course, I’ve never had much reason to study Ker’Reen.” The serving man approached, speaking in Lossandin. “Do you care what I order?” Kenton asked. Khriss shrugged, running her fingers across the smooth, black carapace table. “Something that doesn’t have too much Ashawen,” she requested. Kenton spoke quietly with the serving man for a moment, the sand master’s face took on a look of displeasure. “What’s going on?” Khriss asked Eric. “It’s more expensive than he expected,” Eric explained. “Restaurants are rare on dayside—only the very wealthy can afford to eat at them.” “It’s more than that,” Kenton added. “It must be the carapace shortage—prices are rising all over town.” He sighed, then spoke again to the serving man. The server nodded and backed away with a respectful bow. Then the sand master turned back to the table, oddly silent, his face thoughtful. “Trying to figure out what Vey’s hiding?” Eric assumed. Kenton shook his head. “Trying to decide what I would do if I knew what it was.” Eric snorted. “That should be easy.” “I don’t know if I could do it,” Kenton admitted. “I threatened Vey, but he seemed to sense the uncertainty behind the words. I honestly don’t know that I could blackmail him into giving me his vote.” “Vey is a piece of carapace sludge,” Eric argued. “You wouldn’t have to feel guilty about him.” “That’s not the point,” Kenton said with a shake of his head. “The Lady Judge said that Diem needs the approval of all the Professions—that’s why the vote has to be unanimous. Without unified agreement that the sand masters should continue, there would be resentment. If I blackmailed Vey it would seem like… cheating somehow. If it were only my future I had to worry about, I would never blackmail him. However, I’m responsible for the entire Diem, now.” Suddenly, he looked up at Khriss. “Khrissalla, you’ve been doing this longer than I. What would you do?” Khriss blinked in surprise. “Doing this?” she asked. “Leading people. Being responsible for them. Isn’t that what you told me your nobles do back on darkside?” “Well, after a fashion,” Khriss admitted, feeling guilty. She had known few members of the nobility who took as
|
much concern for their people as Kenton did. Even Khriss herself hadn’t ever really thought about her responsibility—not until this trip, where she was forced to deal directly with those she led. All your talk about being a duchess, but if the truth be known, you’re a worse leader than Kenton, who has only been Lord Mastrell for a week. Kenton continued to look at her, a question in his eyes. “You ask a difficult question,” Khriss said, thinking back to her university courses in philosophy. Several had touched on topics similar to his dilemma. “Is a man justified in committing a slight evil if it is in the name of protecting a greater good? There have been great debates over this in the Elisian university.” “And what have your scholars determined?” “I don’t think they’ve determined anything,” Khriss admitted. Who am I to be talking about leadership? she wondered wryly. He should ask Baon. “I still don’t think it’s much of an issue,” Eric said as their food arrived. “Vey’s slime. The only way he’ll do what is right is if you force him into it somehow.” Kenton didn’t seem to like the answer, but he let the matter drop, turning instead to the meal. The serving man had brought them three large bowls filled with a kind of soup. However, the broth wasn’t hot, but cold instead—almost chilled. Khriss raised the spoon to her lips, tasting the liquid. She’d never had cold soup before, but in dayside’s heat, it was actually kind of refreshing. The broth tasted of carapace, and it was filled with large chunks of pickled vegetables. It wasn’t the most delicious thing Khriss had ever eaten, but it was tasteful enough—a little salty, but free from the pungent Ashawen. “You know,” Kenton said as he ate, “I almost wish I hadn’t spent all those years fighting. If I had taken the first sash I was offered, then I wouldn’t be in this position now.” “True,” Eric agreed. “Of course, the Diem would have been dissolved a week and a half ago.” Kenton nodded. “I suppose. Though that might not have been so bad—Lady Heelis said she was planning to try and get the sand masters a place in the Draft. We would have been a sub-Profession under the Lord Artisan’s leadership.” “That is, if Heelis succeeded,” Eric reminded. “I’ve done a little bit of snooping on my own. Most people think that if you hadn’t shown up, the Lord General and the Lord Merchant would have destroyed the sand masters completely.” “How could you do that?” Khriss asked with a frown. “Even if they dissolved the Diem, there would still be sand masters.” “They could have forbidden us to practice,” Kenton explained, chewing on a chunk of radish. “Eventually, we all would have died off, and with us would have gone sand mastery.” “And new sand masters wouldn’t be born?” Khriss asked. “Sand mastery has to be trained,” Kenton explained. “There aren’t any spontaneous sand masters.” “Trained?” Khriss asked, suddenly interested. She tried to be nonchalant as
|
she continued. “Trained how?” Kenton smiled. “I’m not going to tell you that. I doubt even the Lady Judge knows that secret.” Khriss sighed. “All right,” she continued, “then if sand mastery has to be trained, where did the first sand master come from?” Kenton paused. “I hadn’t thought about that,” he admitted. “I don’t know.” “I have another question,” Khriss began. “That’s a surprise,” Kenton mumbled, spooning up another sip of soup. “What did you say?” she demanded. “Nothing,” he said. “Go on.” “Well,” Khriss said, “you claim the Lady Judge would have tried to subjugate the sand masters underneath another Profession. Aren’t they afraid that they couldn’t control you? I mean, from what I’ve seen, a single sand master could easily be worth a dozen soldiers.” “Easily,” Kenton agreed. “Before he died, I saw my father let loose a wave of sand that killed at least two hundred Kershtians.” “If I were in control, I wouldn’t even think of subjugating you, or even letting sand mastery die off. I would either let you continue on, or I would have to destroy you completely. Anything else would be too dangerous.” Kenton shook his head. “You’re probably right. Fortunately, I don’t think they know how powerful we are. The sand masters haven’t been called to war for centuries—the only battles Lossand has had to fight recently came from an occasional Border Kingdom, and the Tower easily defeated them on their own. People have forgotten what the sand masters really are. They see us as secretive and mystical, but think our abilities are good for little more than the occasional hop through the air.” “This time, your reputation served you instead of hurting you,” Eric agreed, already finishing the last of his soup. “The girl’s right—you should be dead right now. If not by the Kershtians, then by your own countrymen. By the way, you should probably duck.” Kenton shot his friend a confused look, then followed Eric’s nod across the room where a man—apparently one of the serving men—was lowering his arm toward Kenton’s head. “Aisha!” Kenton swore, pushing Khriss’s head down and ducking beneath the table. A second later an arrow snapped against their booth. Kenton moved, leaping out into the middle of the room, leaving Khriss beneath the table. She saw sand flash, and then the restaurant exploded with movement, patrons screaming and running for cover while assassins appeared from all directions, climbing in windows and dashing through the door, all focused on Kenton. “You would think they’d have the decency not to interrupt lunch,” Eric noted, still sitting in his seat. Khriss raised her head, peeking nervously over the top of the table. Eric continued to pick at the last few vegetables in his bow, as if oblivious to the chaos happening a short distance away. Kenton had picked up a round carapace table with his sand and was swinging it wildly at his attackers. Ais was covering the sand master’s back, picking off assassins with his zinkall. “Eric!” Khriss said, not certain what to make of the ruckus.
|
“Don’t you think we should…” “Help?” he filled in. “Kenton can take care of himself. Weren’t you here for the conversations a few minutes ago? Killing hundreds of men with sand and all that.” “But, these ones are…” she struggled to remember the Kershtian word. “Sand-proof,” she finally said. “He can still take care of himself. Kenton’s a—” Eric stopped suddenly, his hand snapping forward to catch a misfired arrow as it passed in front of him. The tip stopped just a few inches from Khriss’s face. Khriss regarded the arrow with stupefaction, her mind barely realizing how close she had come to death, or at least a serious wound. Then, however, she turned her attention to Eric. He had moved so quickly, with reflexes she had assumed he lacked. Eric ignored the extraordinary feat he had just performed, using the arrow to stab a vegetable from Kenton’s bowl and raising it to his lips. “He’ll be all right,” he reiterated. Khriss watched the battle with concern. Eric appeared to be right—Kenton was doing rather well. Three of the assassins already lay immobile on the floor, and a fourth was clutching one of Ais’s arrows in his side. Only three remained, and they appeared to be out of arrows. They were trying to circle around and flank Kenton, but the wild sweeps of his table kept them at bay. “I’m glad you’re here, friend,” Eric suddenly said. “This soup is delicious—I’d like another bowl.” Khriss looked at Eric with surprise, and only then did she notice the serving man who had been crawling their direction, as if frightened by the fight. The man’s face was Kershtian and, Khriss noticed uncomfortably, he had a large bulge underneath the sleeve of his left arm. A zinkall shaped bulge. The serving man stood quickly, pointing his arm at Khriss and yelling something toward Kenton. The sand master turned with surprise, lowering his table when he saw Khriss. His three opponents quickly advanced on him. “No!” Khriss yelled in alarm. The assassin threatening Khriss turned with a smile. As he did so he got a face full of soup. Eric leapt from his seat, slapping his hand at the Kershtian. However, the attack wasn’t aimed at the man’s face or chest, but his arm. Moving with the lithe precision of a warrior, Eric knocked the zinkall away from Khriss’s face and then, with a second blow almost to quick to see, struck at the weapon itself. The Kershtian’s arm hissed for a moment, then fell silent. The assassin backed away, wiping his face and cursing as he pulled out his black carapace sword. Eric sat down on the edge of the table and smiled at the man. As soon as the Kershtian attacked, however, Eric dodged out of the way, moving almost like an acrobat as he kept just beyond the man’s thrusts. So he is the Lord General’s son, Khriss thought, pulling back against the side of her booth, watching Eric with amazement. She had never seen a man fight with such skill. Even Baon
|
didn’t fight like Eric—though, to be fair, swordplay was becoming increasingly rare on darkside. Eric’s balance was incomparable, he leapt from table to table, sometimes using his weight to tip them over and block blows from his opponent. Yet, for all his skill, Eric didn’t attack. He continued to dodge, easily keeping away from the frustrated Kershtian, sometimes using flagons or bowls to bat the man’s weapon away. As he fought, Eric abandoned the smile that always seemed to be on his lips. His eyes were focused and intense. As he dodged, his body suddenly didn’t look quite as husky as it had before, his small paunch almost disappearing, his legs moving with a speed that denoted strength rather than fat. Kenton had raised his table in time to ward off his foes, and was now using his sand to grab random objects, such as plates and bowls, and hurl them at his opponents. The missiles flew powerfully, and his three opponents were quickly reduced to a single man, whom Ais suddenly tackled from behind. Then Khriss noticed something. One of the men who had fallen earlier had managed to get onto his knees. He rose, stumbling in her direction, raising his sword. His eyes were disoriented, but they were also hateful. “Kenton!” Khriss yelped, searching for some sort of weapon. She was backed into a corner. She considered sliding beneath the table again, but that would do little good. So, instead, she moved out of the booth and tried to dash toward a nearby window. The Kershtian lunged forward, grabbing her arm as she passed. The man swore at her in Kershtian, raising his weapon and screaming at Kenton. There was a sudden crash in the air, and the Kershtian’s chest exploded, spraying Khriss with gore. He tumbled to the ground, releasing her hand. Khriss stumbled backwards, sickened, stunned, and horrified. Then she looked up. “Baon?” she asked. Acron stood in the doorway, his shaking arm holding Gevin’s pistol. Khriss felt herself slip backward, tumbling toward the floor in a daze. A strong arm caught her. A strong, glowing arm. She blacked out for a moment, and when she awoke she found herself gripped in an embrace of sand. Kenton was there a moment later, sitting her down against the wall and wiping the blood from her face with a rag. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have let you come with me.” She shook her head, gathering her wits, trying to remove the image of the assassin’s sudden death from her mind. “Kenton?” she asked, still slightly disoriented. “Yes?” he replied with concern. “What is that rag made out of? You don’t have sheep over here. I’ve always wondered how you make cloth.” Kenton chuckled. “You’re hopeless,” he said. “It comes from a shalrim, a plant that grows underneath sand of moderate depth. It’s one of the main things we trade with the Kershtians for.” Khriss nodded—she had assumed it was something like that. “I’m all right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “How is everyone else?” “Eric is complaining
|
of a bruised finger,” Kenton said. “Other than that we’re all right.” “My Lady,” Acron said, kneeling on the ground beside her. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know what else to do. He looked like he was going to strike you, and I didn’t know what he was saying, so I just…” “It’s all right, Acron,” Khriss assured. “You did the right thing.” And I thank the Divine you actually hit the person you were aiming for. Kenton gave her one final glance, as if he didn’t believe her assertion that she was all right, then stood. “Ais,” he said loudly. “I thought you said they wouldn’t attack today.” Eric, sitting in a nearby booth, translated his words for her. The trackt knelt a short distance away, studying the body of the man Acron had killed. There was a deep frown on his face. “They shouldn’t have,” he said, rising. “At least, not by regular interpretation of the KerKor.” “The KerKor?” Khriss asked. “Kershtian holy document,” Eric explained. “Though, I suppose ‘document’ is a bit misleading. The thing is huge—it forms the basis for most Kershtian customs and laws. The Lossanders copied it when they made their Law.” “According to the KerKor,” Ais continued, “the assassins can attack on odd numbered days by the Kershtian calendar. If they skip a day, they’ve missed their chance, and should wait another day.” “Well, they obviously didn’t,” Kenton challenged. Ais just shook his head. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “Whoever is doing this must not understand the KerKor very well.” “The A’Kar?” Kenton asked with surprise. Ais snorted. “No, not the A’Kar, sand master. The one he assigned to perform the assassination. He must not have read the KerKor closely. I can’t believe that anyone would ignore the stipulations intentionally.” Kenton sighed, turning concerned eyes back toward Khriss. “I’m fine, really,” she promised, standing up to prove her point. “I was just a little stunned.” “All right,” Kenton said. “Ais, I assume you want to stay here?” The trackt nodded. “Perhaps I can discover some clue as to who is organizing the attacks, Ry’Kensha,” he said. Ais watched the Lord Mastrell go, then turned back to his investigation. However, he wasn’t as interested in the possibility of finding the man behind the attacks as he was in what had killed the assassin on the floor in front of him. He had seen—and heard—the strange weapons once before, when Kenton had been attacked in darksider town. Ais hadn’t received an opportunity to investigate them that time. Ais knelt beside the body and rolled it over, revealing the enormous hole in the man’s back. Ais had never seen damage so extensive. With his eyes he traced a line from the dead man to the place the fat darksider had been standing. Then he moved the other direction, searching for the weapon that had killed in such a powerful, gruesome manner. He found the small bit of metal embedded in the far wall. It was spattered and mangled. What was it? Some sort of strange power, like
|
sand mastery? He had heard stories of the marvels of darkside, but had never believed them. Somehow, the tube the darksider had been holding was powerful enough to slay a man faster than Ais could blink. “Sir!” Tain said, hurrying into the room, bringing a dozen of Ais’s trackts with him. Ais stood. “Clean this up,” he requested. “See if you can determine anything about the one who send them.” “Yes, sir,” Tain said, saluting. Then he proffered a black piece of paper. “Here, this came for you today.” Ais frowned. It looked suspiciously like one of Nilto’s letters. However, when he ripped it open, undoing the seal made by wiping a tiny bit of water on the edges of the paper and folding it together, he found that he was wrong. It wasn’t from Nilto. It was actually from a completely different source. Meet me at eighth hour in the building where you caught Lokmlen, it read. “What is it?” Tain asked. Ais’s face was emotionless, but he was smiling inside. “A gift from the Sand Lord himself.” Kenton was only just beginning to understand what a horrible thing responsibility could be. As a boy, he had seen the Lord Mastrell as an arrogant tyrant, a man who played with the emotions of others for his own pleasure. The boy Kenton had seen no logic behind Praxton’s decisions; he had seen only the hurt, not the further pain that hurt could prevent. Life had been easier then—Kenton had been so certain of what was right and what was wrong. Kenton stood in his rooms, trying to confront the decisions before him. What would he do if he were given the opportunity to blackmail the Lord Merchant? He wasn’t certain yet, though he did resent the need to make such a decision. However, as Lord Mastrell, he somehow knew that this would not be the first difficult choice he would be forced to make—assuming, of course, the Diem and he both survived the next few days. It was almost as if he were a sacrifice for the rest of the sand masters. As leader, he would tarnish his sense of right and wrong so that the rest of them could maintain their innocence. No wonder Eric fled all those years ago, he thought suddenly. He could see the young Eric in his mind, a tall, powerful boy with close-cropped dark hair and intense eyes. Eric had always been the same, so quick to please, so formal and righteous. He had been the same up until the day before he left when, inexplicably, he had suddenly cracked. It had happened during NaishaLa, one of the traditional Kershtian feasting days. Kenton had been with Eric at an enormous feast thrown by the Lord General. Kenton still didn’t know what had set Eric off, what final grain of sand had proven too much for him to bear. They had been eating, Kenton monopolizing the conversation as he usually did. Then, Eric had suddenly exploded into a mess of tears, accusations, and pain. He had run
|
from the party, cursing his father, Kenton, and the formless sense of ‘responsibility’ he felt. The next day, Eric had left for darkside. His only explanation for his outburst had been to say he just couldn’t handle the idea of some day becoming Lord General. He had disappeared for three years. I almost wish I could do the same, Kenton thought ruefully. It wasn’t just the decision about Vey—that was a minor thing, really. He didn’t even know what the Lord Merchant was hiding. His stress was greater than one complaint—it was everything combined. It was the knowledge that so many people depended on him, the feeling of helplessness in the face of the Diem’s awesome problems. Most recently, it was the knowledge that being near him could prove deadly to his friends. The attack earlier in the day had shaken him more than any so far. For the first time, the assassins had specifically targeted those around him as a means of forcing him to stop fighting. Poor Khriss had nearly been killed in the attack, not to mention Eric. He even worried about Ais—the obstinate trackt wasn’t really a friend, but Kenton would feel terrible if the man died in his defense. So, he finally understood what had made Eric flee. This new Eric, the carefree vagabond, wasn’t really so new. He had always been there, hiding behind Eric’s statuesque persona. Kenton had seen hints of the boy’s true personality, though such glimpses had been rare. It was responsibility—the knowledge of what he would have to become—that had forced Eric to be so stiff. The other thing that bothered him was his upcoming fight with Drile. The duel was like an ominous sandstorm, blowing in the distance. Kenton couldn’t avoid it, no matter how he tried. He had to face Drile. If only there were a way to increase my power, he thought with frustration, pounding the balcony banister lightly with his fist. He’d thought he had it figured out. Overmastery made so much sense. It was the only thing that could have increased Kenton’s powers, and it was a good explanation as to why mastrells were so powerful. Why, then, had Overmastering taken away Elorin’s powers. Maybe you have to be very careful, Kenton thought. If you go too far, you burn away your powers. But, if you Overmaster just enough, you tax your abilities and cause them to stretch. It made sense, but there were still too many questions. Dare he try Overmastering? What if he lost his powers? What if he didn’t get them back in time for the fight? What if the Kershtians attacked while he was helpless? “Ry’Kensha,” Ais’s voice said. Kenton looked up, turning around on the balcony to look back at the trackt, who sat looking over papers in his usual place. “Yes, Ais?” Kenton replied. “I trust you will not object if I leave you now?” Ais replied, stacking his papers together and rising from his seat. Kenton frowned, checking the time. The moon was barely visible peaking over the Diem roof
|
to the southwest. It was only eighth hour; Ais usually stayed at least until tenth hour. “You’re leaving early,” Kenton noted. “What is happening, Ais? Do you have a pretty woman waiting for your company somewhere?” Ais didn’t respond, maintaining his normal expressionless face. “I have Hall duties to deal with,” he said simply. “Hall duties?” Kenton prodded. Ais shot him a look, obviously not appreciating the intrusion. Kenton didn’t care—the trackt had been intruding on Kenton’s affairs for the last ten days. “I am close to catching a criminal,” Ais finally explained. “A very important one. Today I have a meeting with one of his former associates.” “Sounds interesting,” Kenton said, he said impassively. He needed something—anything—to take his mind off of his moral dilemmas. “Perhaps I can help.” “I doubt it,” Ais said with a stern voice. “Your presence won’t be necessary.” Kenton shrugged. “If you wish, Ais. While you’re gone, though, I think I’ll go and speak with one of the Taisha. I haven’t been to meet with the Lord Farmer yet.” Ais paused, and Kenton caught a glimmer of conflict in the Kershtian’s eyes. He had been ordered to spy on Kenton for the Lady Judge. She obviously wanted to know what kind of deals Kenton was making to get the Taishin on his side. Ais knew Kenton’s threat was a hollow one, but if Kenton did go to see a Taisha while Ais wasn’t there, the trackt would be in obvious violation of his orders. “All right,” Ais finally said. “You may come with me.” They stopped first at Ais’s house, where the Ais left a note for his family. What he was doing could be dangerous—if something were to happen, Ais wanted them to know what he had been doing. After that, they made their way to the meeting place, the very room where Ais’s band had been attacked a week before, the place where Jedan had been killed. Ais stood by the window, keeping a careful look on the building’s entrance three stories below. “So, who is it we are meeting?” Kenton asked quietly, peeking out the window beside Ais. “I don’t know,” Ais confessed. “You don’t know?” Kenton asked incredulously. “He didn’t give his name,” Ais said with annoyance. “Those who work with Sharezan don’t often publicize the fact.” “Sharezan?” Kenton asked. “That’s who you’re trying to catch?” Ais nodded, wondering for the hundredth time why he had agreed to bring the fool of a mastrell along. “Sands, Ais, that man is supposed to be insane!” Kenton said. “Don’t you think we should have brought some more men?” “We’re not meeting Sharezan,” Ais said. “Just one of his associates.” “One you think will betray him,” Kenton pointed out. “Yes.” “That sounds dangerous enough to require a few more tracts,” Kenton noted. Ais snorted quietly. “I have you, don’t I, Lord Mastrell?” “Yes, but you weren’t going to bring me. Besides, you hate it when I try to help you.” Ais sighed to himself, turning to the white-clothed Lord Mastrell. Kenton was right—it was dangerous—but
|
Ais couldn’t admit that. He couldn’t tell Kenton that the reason he hadn’t brought any more men was because he didn’t want them to know what he was doing. Technically, he shouldn’t be here. The Lady Judge had taken him off the Sharezan case. Though she hadn’t expressly forbidden him to continue investigating, Ais doubted she would be pleased to hear of this meeting. He hadn’t even told Tain or the other members of his personal band. “What reason would I have for bringing other trackts?” Ais asked. “To protect me? If the man we are going to meet wanted me dead, he could have accomplished that goal with much simpler methods.” “And if he tries to escape?” Kenton asked. “If he runs, then that means I have failed,” Ais explained. “Catching an uncooperative man won’t lead me to Sharezan.” “If you say so,” Kenton said, unconvinced. Ais offered no further explanation, continuing to keep watch below. I have to find the answer, he thought to himself. I have to find the proof I seek. He had been trying for years to prove his suspicions, that Nilto and Sharezan were the same man. If he could just find one witness.… Ais paused. He had thought he’d heard a noise coming up the stairs. But that was impossible—he’d been watching the entrance the entire time. Kenton had raised his head—he had heard it as well. Aiesha! Ais cursed himself. The building had been a criminal safehouse—of course it would have secret entrances. He composed himself, preparing to deal with the person approaching. He would offer immunity in exchange for information. The man would talk—the news on the street was that he was scared, whoever he was. Kenton was right, Sharezan was insane, and he was displeased with his subordinates. In a way, Ais could thank Sharezan himself for arranging this meeting. If his people hadn’t felt so threatened, they wouldn’t be looking to deal with the trackts. Ais paused. Something was wrong. Suddenly, his senses came alert, his body tense. “What?” Kenton asked nervously. Ais held out a hand for silence. He listened carefully to the approaching footsteps. One pair was odd, uneven. As if… it were walking with a limp. Nilto. Sharezan. I’ve been betrayed. “Aisha!” Ais cursed, turning to duck through the broken wall toward the back room. Kenton followed whipping out a handful of sand. “What?” he repeated. “You were right, Ry’Kensha,” Ais explained. “It is a trap.” Kenton looked at him with confusion, a question on his face. Ais ignored him, swinging out of the window and sliding down the same ladder that Lokmlen had used to make his own escape. A second later the Lord Mastrell dropped to the ground beside him on a line of blasphemous sand. Nilto must have caught him before he met with us, Ais thought with anger, moving out of the alley and into the ever-present Kezare crowd. Another opportunity lost. Khriss sipped her tea. The drink helped calm her. After the day’s events, and her near death, the soothing warmth was welcome.
|
She sat beside the fire, wrapped in a soft house robe, trying her best to believe she was back on darkside. It wasn’t working. The fire blazed, but the thick glass kept out much of its heat. The room looked like one from Elis, but there were subtle differences. Some of the finishings appeared to be wood at first, but were really carapace painted brown. Despite Idan’s cleanings, there were still specks of white sand in corners and crevices around the room. And, of course, there was the ever-present sun’s heat, tangible here even where she was hidden away beneath the rock. I don’t belong here, Khriss thought, drinking her tea. I never belonged here. I shouldn’t have come. Everyone already assumed that Gevin was dead—what have I proven? Sand mastery might be worth the effort, but Kenton will never open up to me. He doesn’t trust me—as he shouldn’t. Yet, she had seen something in his eyes earlier, when he had seen her in danger. Something that whispered that there might be another reason for her to stay on dayside. She had to stay for another few days at least. She couldn’t leave until she knew whether Kenton had succeeded or not, whether he lived or not. She had spent years wondering about Gevin; she wouldn’t go through that again. She heard the front door open and close, then a set of light footsteps padded down the short set of stairs to the den. Only one person with so slight a step would be coming to her house. “Hello, N’Teese,” Khriss said, not looking up. “Nilto sent you a message,” N’Teese said, not bothering to return Khriss’s greeting. “Yes?” “He says he hasn’t been able to find out anything about Baon,” N’Teese explained. “And says he’s not going to be able to look any longer. He’s leaving Kezare for a little while.” “Leaving?” Khriss said with a frown. “Where is he going?” “Why would he tell me that?” N’Teese replied. “Never mind,” Khriss said with a sigh, finishing the last of her tea. In a way, she was glad to be rid of the offensive man—she hadn’t really expected him to find Baon, she had only gone to him because she didn’t know what else to do. Baon is probably on a ship back to darkside right now, she thought. Besides, she suspected that Nilto wouldn’t have told her even if he had found the warrior. The Lord Beggar obviously hated her, or, at least, he hated her richness. He hadn’t wanted to deal with her in the first place. She wouldn’t care if she never saw the repulsive creature again. You’re being unfair, she chastised herself. At least he had sent a message through N’Teese—he could have just left. In addition, he had returned Gevin’s pistol and signet to her, even if he had made light of her pain. A man such as he had a right to be angry with the rich. Khriss’s time on dayside had taught her many things, and one of them was exactly how frustrating
|
it was to be treated like an inferior. Her waiting at the offices of the various Taisha had been unsatisfying for more than one reason—she was becoming increasingly aware of how unimportant her title was. Her realization the day before, in the restaurant with Kenton, had only strengthened that awareness. Judge people, not faces, duchess. Baon’s words returned to her, counseling her even after his disappearance. She owed the man so much, even if he was a traitor. She wished she could have told him that much, at least, before he returned to the Dynasty. People, not faces. Something was nagging at her mind, a connection waiting to be made. An observation she had passed over a dozen times. It was something simple, but for some reason she couldn’t figure out what it was. It finally came to her in the form of a single word, spoken carelessly. Khriss strode through the streets of Kezare, for once heedless of the jostling crowds. Acron hustled beside her, working hard to keep up. The overweight linguist had heard her leaving, and had insisted on accompanying her to provide protection in the event of danger. After his surprising performance earlier in the day, Khriss was willing to admit he might actually be useful. N’Teese led her through the crowd, barely visible in the distance. However, at that moment she wasn’t thinking about Acron or N’Teese. She was focused on how much sense everything suddenly made. She should have seen it earlier. “He was right here,” N’Teese explained, pointing toward a less-populated street. Khriss turned the corner, looking down the street. There was no sign of Nilto. “The docks,” Khriss guessed, turning back to the street. This time she led the way, pushing in the now-familiar direction, leaving N’Teese and Acron behind. The docks were only a short distance away. However, when she arrived, she looked with despair across the shifting mass of people, loading and unloading, buying and selling, tallying and organizing. How would she ever… A stooped-over form suddenly stood out in the crowd. There was a small bubble of open space around his limping body, and the crowd gave him a wide berth. Nilto. He was heading for the plank of a ship ready to set sail. Khriss rushed forward, ramming through the crowd. She vaguely caught sight of Acron joining the fray behind her, though she had completely lost sight of N’Teese. It didn’t matter. She just had to catch Nilto before he left. Unfortunately, she was still a good distance away when the Lord Beggar reached the plank and started walking up toward the deck. She gathered he strength, and put it into one piercing yell, projecting her voice over the crowd’s hustle. “Gevin!” Nilto paused. He turned, his single eye scanning the crowd behind him until it fell on her. His scarred face frowned—a face that betrayed shambles and remnants of a face that had once been so familiar to her. She should have noticed, should have seen through the destruction. The Elisian guard had told her about Gevin’s injury,
|
said that he had taken a pistol shot in the head. He should have told her that the shot to the head had really been one to the face—of course, she should have figured that out on her own. The only way he could have been shot in the head and survived, even long enough to be taken to Kezare, would have been if the ball grazed his face. Tearing away the eye and nose, shattering the jaw so his speech became slurred… Gevin stood on the plank for a long moment, then he limped back down and waited as she pushed through the final distance to stand in front of him. A brief second later Acron managed to disengage himself from the crowd behind them. “So, you figured it out,” Gevin noted. Khriss nodded. “What gave me away?” “Our last meeting,” she explained. “You called me Khriss.” “Ah,” Gevin said with a nod. “You’ve changed so much, my dear. You would never have noticed such an error before.” “Gevin,” Khriss said, pained. He had spent all this time knowing she was on Dayside, had spoken with her on three separate occasions, and never revealed himself. “Why?” she asked quietly. Gevin moved a little to the side and gestured for her to follow. He led to a large pile of boxes a short distance away, moving behind the obstruction to give them a little bit of privacy from the crowds. They weren’t completely secluded—dockworkers continued move the boxes, loading them on a nearby ship—but it did feel a little more personal. “Why?” he repeated. “Do you really think I could return, looking like this?” “Yes,” Khriss said flatly. “Your looks don’t matter, Gevin. Your duty is what is important.” “Duty?” Gevin asked with a harsh laugh. “Duty to a country that didn’t want to be saved? They were just waiting to get rid of me so they could crawl to Scythe and offer to kiss his feet. No, Khriss, I’ve found a new duty. Here, on dayside, amongst those who are now my brothers.” “You should have sent word,” Khriss challenged. “Told us something, so we wouldn’t come looking for you.” “Sending word to Elis would have been as good as sending word to the Dynasty,” Gevin said with a shake of his head. “Scythe has so many agents and lackeys amongst Elis’s elite, he needn’t have bothered trying to kill me. But, Scythe always has been thorough. No, Khriss, I couldn’t send you word—I had to hope that Scythe assumed me dead, and would leave me alone. Besides, the Khrissalla I knew would never have done something as reckless as coming to look for me.” “You left me alone, Gevin,” Khriss whispered. “What else was I to do? I loved you.” Gevin shook his scarred head, turning from her to Acron, who was standing at her side. “So, you’re the one,” Gevin noted. Khriss frowned, her stunned mind barely registering the comment. She turned to see that Acron had pulled out the pistol she had given him. Gevin’s pistol. “Are you
|
finished?” Acron asked conversationally, sounding very much unlike himself. “I assume I am,” Gevin said. “In more ways than one. I should have left town the moment I learned that Khrissalla was on dayside.” “Probably,” Acron agreed. “The girl has enough curiosity for ten men.” Gevin tried to back away, but Acron cocked the pistol as he did so. “You heard my story,” Gevin explained through his mangled face. “I am of no threat to the Dynasty.” “You said it yourself,” Acron said. “Scythe is very thorough.” Khriss stared at the gun with disbelief. Acron’s entire bearing had changed. His face was hard, rather than jovial, his eyes keen as opposed to foolish. “Acron?” she asked with amazement. “Don’t curse yourself, duchess,” Acron said, a slight smile on his lips. “Like I said, Scythe’s assassins are extremely well-trained.” Khriss backed away, stunned. The dockworkers continued to load boxes, completely oblivious to the danger. Acron raised the weapon toward Gevin, who was trying to scoot away. There was a thunderous explosion, powder detonating. Acron fell to the ground. Khriss gasped in surprise, then looked up as one of the dockworkers threw back his hood and stood up straight, suddenly standing a full foot taller than those around him. His bald head was a dark black. “Baon!” Khriss exclaimed as the tall warrior climbed over one of the boxes and walked toward her. Behind him the other dockworkers scattered in alarm, frightened by the sudden explosion. Khriss ignored them, grabbing Baon in a very unduchessly hug. Baon bore it with an uncomfortable face. Finally she released him and he nodded toward Acron’s body. “Funny,” he noted, “I’d almost convinced myself it was the other one.” “Cynder?” she asked with amazement. Baon nodded. “I was sure no one could possibly be as obtusely sarcastic as he is.” “Then you…” Khriss trailed off. Baon nodded. “I knew it was one of the two. Scythe never trusts soldiers to do as they’re told. He always sends a back up.” The click of a hammer being drawn was the only warning they had. Baon pushed her to the side, diving in the other direction as the pistol went off. One of the carapace boxes behind them shattered. Acron, surprisingly nimble for a man of his bulk, tossed aside the pistol and leapt to his feet, ignoring the wound in his side. Baon cursed, trying to raise one of his own weapons, but Acron moved more quickly, tackling the warrior and slamming him against the dock’s stone. A second later both men were on their feet again, swinging and kicking at each other with precision. Acron, despite his fat, moved as dexterously as Baon, blocking the mercenary’s attacks with fluid movements. The two fought with a form of combat Khriss had never seen before, striking with their fists in the same way the other men would use weapons. They spun and blocked, moving almost superhumanly quick. The two seemed evenly matched. Acron even seemed to be getting a bit of an upper hand—right up to the moment when Khriss
|
shot him. The smoke cleared from the third shot, and Acron toppled to the ground. This time, Baon quickly grabbed the fat man’s neck and twisted it with a snap, just to make certain. Baon rose, breathing heavily. Never, in all the times the had been attacked during the expedition, had Khriss seen the large warrior so winded from a battle. “He was good,” Baon said appreciatively, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Of course, the fact that he managed to hide from me all these months was enough to indicate that.” He nodded toward the pistol in Khriss’s hand. “Thank you.” “Baon.…” Khriss said. “So you’re not a spy after all?” “Actually,” Baon noted, “I am. I didn’t lie to you, I was sent by the Dynasty. I am not here to kill the prince, however.” “But.…” Khriss began. However, before she could continue, she noticed something. Gevin was getting away. The Lord Beggar was limping clandestinely away from the boxes. “Wait,” Khriss ordered to Baon, then rushed forward. “Gevin?” she asked, laying a hand on his shoulder. Gevin spun, shaking off her touch with a curse. “Why are you still following me, woman?” he demanded. “You’ve already led one assassin to me. Are you determined to see me dead?” Despite the calm front he had displayed for Acron, he was obviously shaken. “But, Gevin,” Khriss began. “The assassin is dead. You can come back with me, you can.…” “Go back?” Gevin demanded. “Why would I want to go back? Scythe will just send more assassins for me.” “You’ll be safe in Elis,” Khriss said. Gevin snorted, his eyes flickering toward Acron’s body. “No, Khrissalla, I don’t think so. This is why I couldn’t tell you—or anyone—where I was. I’ve been living in terror these last few years. The Dynasty tried to kill me once. Somehow I knew, knew that Scythe would seek me out. Here, at least, I could hide. I’m another person. Here people know me for what I really am, not for a title. Tell me, why would I want to go back?” Khriss paused. “To be with me?” she whispered quietly. Gevin snorted. “Ah, Khrissalla. Changed in some ways, but still so innocent.” Khriss paused. “What do you mean?” Gevin looked into her eyes—there was anger there, anger at being discovered. There was something else, something much more deep. Something she had never seen before, but must have been there all along. Annoyance. “So innocent,” Gevin said, his voice almost a hiss. “You never knew. You never even suspected. I had dozens of them over the years. Some of them common girls, others more noble.” “No!” Khriss whispered. “The entire court knew about it, of course,” Gevin explained. “It was quite the scandal. But you never even grew suspicious. You were always so consumed by your books and your ledgers—you took little notice of what was happening around you.” “No…” Khriss repeated, growing sick. “They laughed at you,” Gevin said with a shrug, “and I laughed with them. I knew I would be forced to marry you
|
some day, but I couldn’t imagine life with you as my bride. You were such a dull creature. You hid from excitement and the world, and it was so tedious to deal with the drivel you thought of as conversation. You know, half the reason I left for dayside was to get away from you.” Khriss felt her knees grow weak, and she felt like sliding ground. However, something kept her upright, kept the sobs of agony from bursting forth right there. It was as if she didn’t even have the strength left to break down. “Leave me alone, woman,” Gevin hissed. “Go back to darkside and leave me be.” The old Khriss would have run. She would have fled before Gevin’s vengeful tongue. However, Khriss was half surprised to realize she had more strength than she realized. Khriss felt herself raise her pistol, cocking the second hammer. “No,” she said. “You go. After all I did, after all my searching.… Get out of my sight, Gevin. Leave before I decide to shoot you.” Gevin chuckled to himself, standing. “I almost believe you would. It’s a pity, dear Khriss. You’ve grown so much—if you had been more like this two years ago, perhaps I wouldn’t have been forced to run away.” Khriss felt her face grow hot, then she cursed quietly to herself, lowering the weapon. Gevin smiled, then nodded toward the body. “By the way, thank you. I guess I won’t have to be leaving town after all. It’s odd—I’d heard that the large fellow behind you was the one who wanted me dead. I guess sometimes one’s sources can be wrong, can’t they, Khriss?” Khriss frowned, regarding the creature that had once been her betrothed. He sickened her. Not his appearance, but his attitude. Maybe being on dayside had convinced him of what he really was, and maybe he really was doing some good for the outcasts of Kezare. He had still, however, abandoned his first duty—that of his people back in Elis. “I only want to know one thing, Gevin,” she said as he turned to walk away. “What made you give up? I’ve never known you to abandon an objective. You came here to get the sand masters. I can understand you deciding to stay if you’d found the sand mages were a delusion, but that isn’t the case. They’re real, Gevin! They can save Elis! You were right. Why give up?” Gevin shook his head, not looking back at her. “Foolish, innocent Khriss,” he said. “Haven’t you realized yet? The sand mages exist, true, but they are of no use to us.” “What do you mean?” Khriss demanded. Gevin turned slightly. “Sand mastery turns sand black, Khriss,” he explained. “Yes,” she prompted. “There is only one way to turn mastered sand white again,” he said, continuing to walk away. “It needs the sun. Sand masters would be useless on darkside—they wouldn’t have a way to recharge their weapon.” Khriss stood, receiving her third incomprehensible shock of the day. Useless. This entire expedition was a waste. Oh, Shella…
|
Gevin tried to sneak away, but black-uniformed trackts began to surround them, looking over the scene with confusion. The Lord Beggar sighed, and began to speak with them in Lossandin. Khriss, however, didn’t want to bother with tracts—she had something else to worry about. She turned to Baon with annoyance. “Why did you make me think you were being employed by the Dynasty?” She demanded. “I am,” Baon said simply. This brought Khriss up short, and she frowned. “What?” “It is as I said when you asked me. I was sent do dayside by Lord Scythe.” “But…” Khriss said in confusion. “My mission was different from Acron’s,” Baon explained, watching trackts poke at the assassin’s body. “I was sent to determine if the sand masters were a threat to the Dynasty. Now, thanks to your former betrothed, I know they are not.” “But you shot Acron!” Khriss said with surprise. “He was one of your own!” “I was also hired to protect you,” Baon said. “I take all of my duties seriously, even if I entered them under false pretenses.” “I don’t understand,” Khriss confessed. Baon leaned forward, his dark eyes unreadable. “I am loyal to the Dynasty, duchess. That does not mean, however, that I agree with everything Scythe does. Gevalden is of no danger to us now. As for Acron, I have little respect for a man who would so betray his own country. Besides, he would have killed you.” “You’re sure?” Khriss asked with surprise. Baon nodded simply. “His cover was too useful to let it be spoiled by a single girl. He would have shot Gevalden, then you would have been next.” Khriss shook her head. Things were too confusing at the moment—she needed time to think. Gevin’s barbs, spoken in anger, had hurt her more than she wanted to admit. She had always thought he was so perfect. It was like now that his face was scarred, he felt he could let out the vile emotions he had always kept hidden from her. “I need to think,” she sighed. “Go back to darksider town and get Cynder, then meet me at the Diem.” Baon paused. “Please?” Khriss said. “I need the time in the boat alone.” “All right,” Baon agreed. Nilto watched her go, looking through the crowd of trackts as Khriss made her way to a small boat. Nilto. That was how he thought of himself now. Not as Gevin, the court fool, but as Nilto, the Lord Beggar. He felt so much more like a lord now than he ever had in Elis. Farewell, my duchess, he thought. His words had been true, he had taken many lovers during his years in Elis. It was odd that he had never felt guilt about that fact until he had lay on the sands of dayside, the sun beating down on him, his face a mass of pain and agony. Then, he had felt guilty for so many things. He had remembered his double-dealings, his betrayals of Elis, and his cheating of his friends—all done while pretending
|
to be so self-righteous. Khriss stooped slightly as she walked. She deserves to know what I was, Nilto decided, turning away from Khrissalla. This way, perhaps, she can forget me. He had never deserved her in the first place. Kenton woke to the sound of pounding on the door. He blinked drowsily, sitting up on his sand mattress, confused. What time was it? He yawned, stumbling to his feet. The day had gone fairly uneventfully following Ais’s attempted meeting the day before. They had returned to the Diem, where Kenton had been forced to spend the day’s remaining hours making decisions about supplies, room assignments, and settling minor disputes between other sand masters. He hadn’t realized how much he had been depending on Dirin to take care of such things. He had retired exhausted, and a little frustrated—though not so much as Ais, who had left at the end of the day in an even worse mood than he was usually in. Apparently, he had been depending heavily on the chance to turn one of Shaerezan’s subordinates. The knocking continued—there was an annoyed edge to the sound. Kenton yawned again, throwing on a white robe and tying his sash around his waist. He stumbled out of the bed chamber and into the main room, pulling open the door just as the knocking began again. Khrissalla stood outside. She wore a simple blue dayside robe, cut for a man, like usual. Her eyes were a little puffy, but her face was unreadable. Something had happened, but she was hiding it well. “Khriss?” he asked, shaking the last bits of sleepiness from his mind. Khriss walked through the door, moving to stand in the center of the room, her arms folded. Kenton watched the strange behavior with a frown. What was going on? “I found Prince Gevalden,” she finally said. “He’s alive.” The announcement hit Kenton like a wave of frigid riverwater. Suddenly alert, he let the door slide closed. “That’s wonderful,” he said, noting the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. I was right—she has been crying. However, they were tears of joy. “He’s the Lord Beggar,” Khriss explained. “He took a pistol shot to the face two years ago, completely destroying his features.” “I see,” Kenton said, feeling stunned and strangely sick. She actually found him. Fool, you knew the only reason she was here was to find her betrothed. Why are you so surprised? Did you expect something else? “Congratulations,” he said, nodding in her direction, trying to mask his pain. This is what she had wanted—what she had dreamed of. Who was he to spoil her victory? “After all you have been through, Khriss, you deserved to find him. I hope he realizes what a fortunate man he is.” The words sparked a reaction in Khriss, but not the one he expected. She pulled her folded arms in tightly, shaking slightly, as if she were very cold. “He said he didn’t want me,” she whispered, looking down at the floor. “He said… he said he left darkside to get away
|
from me. That I sickened him, and that I always had, because I was dull and unexciting.” Kenton paused for just a moment, feeling helpless. Then she looked up, her wide, despairing eyes meeting his own, and he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He walked forward, gathering her in his arms. She responded, resting her head against his chest, still quivering. “My entire life has been a lie,” Khriss whispered. “I have been Gevin’s betrothed since I can remember. I ordered my life around that single idea, doing things I assumed would make him happy. He was so perfect, and I wanted to be perfect for him. He was seeing other women the entire time, flaunting them around the court. Everyone knew but me.” “Oh, Khriss… I’m sorry,” Kenton replied, not certain what else to say. Instead, he simply held her tightly, wishing somehow that he could lend her some of his strength, wishing he could do something to take some of her pain upon himself. She didn’t cry. She just let him hold her, her eyes staring almost blankly to the side. Eventually, her shaking slackened, and she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pile all of this on top of you. I thought I was over it before I got here. I just want to ask you a question.” Kenton smiled. “Why am I not surprised?” he said. She looked up, smiling as she met his eyes, though she did not pull away. Then her smile faded, however. “Is it true?” she asked. “Does sand have to recharge in the sun after you use it.” Kenton paused, then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It takes about three or four hours.” Khriss sighed, resting her head back against his chest. “I have a confession,” she mumbled. “There was more than curiosity behind my trying to find out how sand mastery worked.” “What do you mean?” Kenton asked. “I wanted to take sand mastery back to Elis,” she explained. “I wanted to use it against the Dynasty to protect my people.” “But…” Kenton said with a frown, “sand mastery won’t work on darkside.” “Well, I know that now,” Khriss said. “But I didn’t before. Someone refused to tell me anything.” “I’m sorry,” Kenton explained. “But I have to be secretive. Otherwise people might take sand mastery and use it as a weapon of war.” Khriss stiffed slightly. “It’s all right,” he soothed, rubbing his hand across her back. “Your goals were noble, Khrissalla. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the laws of sand mastery have contrived to make them unattainable. You can’t have sand masters on darkside, so it doesn’t matter anyway.” Khriss nodded, looking up at him again. Her dusky, darksider eyes were wide, so deep and so open. Her body was pressed close to his own, her arms around his waist. “My Lady!” Cynder’s voice suddenly exclaimed. “Are you all right?” Kenton turned, seeing the lanky darkside linguist standing in the doorway, the massive Baon behind him. Khriss blushed, releasing him as she submitted to the
|
elderly professor’s inspection. He looked her over, frowning. “What happened?” he demanded, satisfied that she wasn’t injured. “Baon said you sent him to get me, but that Divine-cursed lunk has told me almost nothing. Acron is…” “Dead,” Khriss finished. “What?” Kenton said with surprise. “He was an assassin,” Baon explained. “One of Scythe’s personal elite. He was sent to find and eliminate Prince Gevalden.” Kenton blinked in surprise. “Acron?” he asked. “The fat one?” Baon nodded, completely serious. “This is going to take some explaining,” Kenton guessed. “Let’s sit.” The four made their way over to the room’s plush chairs, seating themselves. Even Baon did so, though the warrior usually insisted on standing. “Nice to see you’re back, by the way,” Kenton noted to the large man. “I was never gone,” Baon replied. “Despite what others might have assumed.” Khriss blushed slightly. “You did mislead us,” she challenged. Kenton looked between them, confused. “Baon was sent by the Dynasty to investigate sand mastery,” Khriss explained. Kenton could tell by the look on her face that she wasn’t quite certain what she thought of that news. “But I was also sent by Elis to protect her,” Baon said. “I can do both.” “You are striding atop a very thin wall, my friend,” Kenton noted. “Loyalty is a difficult thing to divide.” “I know,” Baon said simply. The statement was met by an incredulous sound. Cynder, chuckling softly to himself. “What?” Khriss asked. “I was just thinking,” the linguist said ruefully. “All this time, I assumed I had the superior intellect between Acron and I. Now it seems that my self-assurance was misplaced. Gravely misplaced.” He shook his head, laughing again, but there was a haunted look in his eyes. “What about Captain Deral?” Khriss asked, turning back to Baon. “You really did kill him?” Baon nodded. “Deral was a fool. He was planning to sell you to a Dynastic border patrol. He would have ruined the expedition—both yours and mine.” “Sell me?” Khriss asked with amazement. “Shella! Was there anyone on this cursed expedition that didn’t have an ulterior motive?” Cynder chuckled. “It appears that we were the only ones, My Lady. I’m beginning to feel left out.” Baon shrugged. “I shouldn’t have taken the pistols. I never thought you would notice.” “I wouldn’t have,” Khriss said. “If you hadn’t taught me to do so.” Baon smiled slightly. “All right then, duchess. What now? You’ve found your Prince; you know that sand mastery won’t help Elis. Do we return?” Khriss paused, shooting a look at Kenton—a look that seemed to remember their embrace a few moments before. A fluke? Kenton wondered. She was distraught, after all. Maybe she was just projecting her emotions on me. “No,” she finally said. “We’ll stay a few more days. I’m very… interested to see what will happen with the Diem.” Kenton smiled. “Me too,” he admitted. You fool, he told himself ruefully. You know how it is going to end. Even if you do save the Diem, you won’t live to see your victory. You have no
|
right to play with the girl’s emotions. She’s just lost one love, she doesn’t need to start forming a bond with you, only to have it severed in four day’s time. But, still, he could hope. For some reason, it seemed like the incentive for surviving the fight with Drile had just grown much stronger. How did he find out? Ais wondered with frustration, staring down at his reports. Nilto was slipping away from him. All over Kezare the man was pulling out of businesses, shutting down operations, and quietly silencing those who could have spoken of him. Ais only had fractured reports and unrelated comments, but to him they formed a distinct pattern—one he had seen before. Sharezan was preparing to go into hiding. Ais had gotten too close this time, and now the man was preparing to run. Ais felt all of his work, his efforts, his years of hunting, drying away like water in the sun. If he didn’t catch Sharezan in the next few days, then he would have to start all over. The man would remain in hiding for a year or so, then return under a different persona to rule Kezare again. The man who had wanted to speak with Ais, whoever he was, would be gone by now. He was either dead or in hiding. And, now that Sharezan was preparing to disappear, he would make certain that there was no one around to connect him to Nilto. It was all lost. “He certainly is having a good time, isn’t he?” The Lord Mastrell’s voice was subdued. He stood in one of his favored spots, leaning thoughtfully against his balcony’s banister. Seeing Kenton brightened Ais’s mood slightly. If there were a person who was in a worse mood than Ais, it was the Lord Mastrell. He only had four days left, and he still lacked several important votes. In addition, the fight with the other sand master—Drile—would probably prove to be his execution. Kenton’s position was worse than Ais’s—at least Ais’s failure would probably mean that his family was safe again. Kenton was staring across the courtyard to where Drile made his rooms. The other sand master was throwing some sort of party. Ais could see forms moving and mingling in the room—it wasn’t a formal party, like a kelzi would have. Wine was flowing freely, even though sand masters weren’t supposed to drink. Women had been brought to the room, and Drile’s supporters were enjoying a period of loose debauchery. This is what sand masters are supposed to be, Ais thought to himself. Arrogant, wasteful, and sickening. Kenton is a fluke. Just because he appears to be an honest man does not mean that the Diem itself should continue. He would be better off outside of the Diem, actually. Perhaps he would give up this sand master foolishness. We could use his sense of dedication in the Hall. “I wonder where he got the money,” Kenton mused. “He probably found the stash in his room—we didn’t search his.” “Maybe I’m on the wrong side,”
|
Eric said, opening Kenton’s door and walking into the room. “That party looks like a lot of fun.” Kenton snorted, turning. “Did you sleep well?” “Of course,” Eric informed, munching on some ZaiDon snaps in a small bag. “Unlike some other people, I didn’t stay up late yesterday.” Ais shook his head. Apparently, the darksider Khriss had come to visit Kenton the day before. Ais had heard the news with trepidation, hoping he hadn’t missed anything he should report to the Lady Judge. Eric, however, had seemed personally offended that they hadn’t woken him to take part. “You know,” Eric said, still chewing on some snaps, “I’m not even certain I want to tell you what I discovered today.” Kenton perked up. “What?” “It’s all over town,” Eric continued with a leisurely voice. “Of course, no one would probably tell a sand master—everyone’s too in awe of your magnificent powers. They think you—” “Eric,” Kenton interrupted. “News?” “You know,” Eric said with a quiet snort, “you’re a lot less fun now that you’re in charge.” He held up a hand to forestall further objections. “All right. The Lord Merchant and the Lord General are missing. People say fled the city together to avoid casting votes at the Council in four days.” “Aisha!” Kenton swore. “Gone? They can’t do that!” He shot a look at Ais. Ais frowned, considering the Law. His own studies had focused on the day-to-day mechanics of lawbreaking, not the intricacies of the Council and Taishin. However, everyone trained in the Hall—whether they be judge, scribe, or trackt—was required to have at least a basic understanding legal intent. “I think they can, Ry’Kensha,” Ais said. “The Lady Judge called for a vote of unimity. An abstained vote because of truancy wouldn’t be an against vote, but it also wouldn’t be a vote in favor. Therefore, it would flaw a unanimous vote. All of the Taisha have to be in attendance if you want to win this vote.” Kenton cursed again, beginning to pace on his sand-covered floor. “I can understand Vey,” he finally said. “He was incredibly nervous when he thought that I had discovered his secret. Running from the problem seems like something he would do. But Reegent? I thought his vote was secure.” “Maybe he changed his mind,” Eric offered. “Of course, that doesn’t sound much like father, does it?” Kenton shook his head. “If he had changed his mind, he would have confronted me. Running away to avoid voting isn’t his way. Of course, I didn’t even know he was back from the hunt.” “He got back a few days ago,” Eric said. “He’s just been staying in the Tower recovering from his wounds. I went to see him two days ago. He still seemed in favor of you then—as much as he seemed displeased with me, in fact.” Kenton shook his head, continuing to pace, his bright white sandcloak billowing behind him. “I trust Reegent,” he decided. “Wherever he went, he’ll be back for the vote. Unless.… the rumors say he went with Vey, right?”
|
“That’s what they say,” Eric agreed. “Maybe they didn’t go together,” Kenton guessed. “Maybe he went after Vey, to bring him back.” “Makes sense,” Eric agreed. “But,” Kenton said, still pacing, “Where did Vey go?” “I don’t know,” Eric said with a shrug, popping the last snap into his mouth. He sucked on it instead of chewing, letting the carapace ZaiDon melt away as he spoke. “No one knows where he went. The Lord Merchant chartered a ship late yesterday, and it set sail within an hour, heading south.” “It appears that your vote has just been sabotaged,” Ais noted. It was a fortunate turn of events—he had almost begun to fear that Kenton would actually get all seven votes. However, the Sand Lord had a way of making things turn out as they should. Kenton looked up, determination in his eyes. “Not if I find them and drag them back,” he informed. “But we don’t know where they are!” Eric objected. “We’ll find out.” Khriss sat down in the small boat beside Baon and Cynder. N’Teese stood on the dock for a moment, regarding the small vessel with a frown. She shared the typical daysider hydrophobia. It was almost like the people tried to ignore the fact that they were living on an island. Khriss had often wondered how such a people had come to settle Kezare in the first place. A couple of them probably got shipwrecked here, she decided with a smile, and were frightened to cross over to the shore, so they just stayed. Eventually, N’Teese climbed into the boat, gripping the side with white-knuckled fingers. The boatman pushed off a second later and began to row them toward the shore. The trip was becoming increasingly familiar to Khriss. In fact, the boatmen were coming to recognize her—she didn’t even have to tell them where she wanted to go anymore. They just immediately began rowing her in the direction of the Diem. As they moved, Khriss remembered with embarrassment her meeting with Kenton the night before. Such had hardly been appropriate behavior for a noblewoman, let alone a duchess. Not only had she visited the home of a single man, but she had done it during normal sleeping hours, and she had gone alone. Then she had thrown herself at him shamelessly, getting improperly close. What he must think of her… Of course, she had been distraught. Despite the strong front she had shown to Gevin, his words had devastated her. Even now, she could feel the open wounds in her heart. Nothing—not even Baon’s betrayal—had hit her as hard as Gevin’s loathing confessions. She felt worthless. She hated Gevin, but she hated herself even more. Why hadn’t she seen it? Why had she assumed that someone as perfect as Gevin would ever be satisfied with someone like her? Kenton wouldn’t want her either—or, at least, he shouldn’t. He had been nice the day before, but she hadn’t given him much choice, launching herself into his arms like an infatuated child. What had she been thinking? After Gevin’s
|
retreat, her first impulse had been to go find Kenton. Baon had suggested they return to darksider town, but she had ignored him, insisting that she got to the Diem instead. She had barely had the presence of mind to send him after Cynder. And here she was again, travelling across the lake toward the Diem. Off to bother Kenton again. When would she learn? He was learning to be more political—he no longer gave her sour looks whenever she appeared, but she knew she still annoyed him. After all, she had annoyed Gevin. All of her endless questions and dissatisfaction—why couldn’t she remain silent? Unheard, as a proper lady was supposed to be? She just about told N’Teese to order the boatman to turn back. At that moment she noticed something—another boat on the lake. It was only one of many, but it was heading in the opposite direction of Khriss’s. There were several forms on board—one in white, another in black, and one in bright darkside colors. Khriss yelped, ducking down. Baon raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” “He’ll see me,” she said lamely. “Yes, I thought that was the point. We are going to see him, aren’t we?” “I changed my mind,” Khriss said, embarrassed. “He doesn’t want me around.” Baon frowned. “Well, too late,” he noted. “What do you—” Khriss began. A moment later the boat rocked violently as an occupant landed directly in its center, falling from the sky on a line of shimmering sand. N’Teese squealed in fear at the rocking, and the boatman began to mumble in dissatisfied Lossandin. Kenton looked down at her, a confused look on his face. “Khriss?” he asked. “Yes?” she replied, feeling silly. “What…” he said, then just shook his head. “Never mind. We have a problem.” “What?” Khriss asked, sitting back up with as much decency as she could manage. “Two of the Taisha have disappeared,” he explained. “Apparently, my threats frightened Vey to the point that he ran away. And, for some reason, he convinced the Lord General to go with him. We’ve got to find out where they went.” “How do we do that?” “I think I know someone who can tell us.” It didn’t look like a farmer’s home. Located on the kelzin island, the Lord Farmer’s house was lavish and tasteful. True, it did bear the symbol of the Field on its gates—a stalk of grain—but the grounds were covered with imported sand and blooming sandflowers. “This is where the Lord Farmer lives?” Khriss asked with a frown. “He’s not a farmer himself,” Kenton explained. “He’s a kelzi, very similar to the Lord Merchant. The Field is starkly divided between those who own the land and those who simply work it.” “A common system,” Cynder noted. “Those who work the land rarely own what they produce.” “Oh, they own it,” Kenton corrected. “They have to give a percentage to the kelzin, but they are the ones who actually own the crops. Quite a few industrious farmers have been able to rise to kelzi status
|
through their work. In fact, it’s supposed to be the best Profession if one wants to try to become a kelzi.” Khriss frowns. “But, who determines who is a kelzi and who isn’t.” “It all depends on who the other kelzin acknowledge,” Kenton said with a shrug. “That seems ambiguous,” Khriss objected. Cynder chuckled beside her. “Not if you think about it, My Lady. After all, isn’t that really how our system works? What would a title be without the rest of court to acknowledge it? It’s all a matter of connotation.” “All right,” Khriss asked. “So why are we here?” Kenton pushed open the gate. Like the Lord Admiral, the Lord Farmer held meetings at his home, rather than an office. Most of his Profession members lived a great distance away, and so he wasn’t as busy as people like the Lord Merchant or Lady Judge. “Gennel is Vey’s underling,” Kenton explained. “Even though they’re both Taishin, they’re also both Kershtian, and Gennel is younger. He tries desperately to earn Vey’s favor, and the two meet together often. If anyone in town knows where the Lord Merchant is hiding, it will be the Lord Farmer.” Kenton led the group up to the house, taking a slight detour to avoid a large bulbous sandling that was standing on the walkway grazing. The front door was open—in fact, there wasn’t a front door. The entire house was built with an open-aired sort of feel, almost more like a stone pavilion than a building. There were wide columns and built-up chambers, but all of the rooms had broad openings in the walls. It was rather unique, though Kenton wondered if the man ever felt like he lacked privacy. Of course, here on the kelzi island, his nearest neighbor was far enough away that they probably wouldn’t be able to see details anyway. An attendant beside the building’s front columns looked up as Kenton approached. As soon as he saw who was coming he started, jaw dropping slightly. Then he jumped to his feet, dashing into the building, disappearing before Kenton even got to his bench. “We can’t take you with us anywhere, can we?” Eric noted. “Maybe we should put a bag over your head so you stop frightening everyone away.” Kenton snorted. “It’s the sash, not my face,” he said, folding his arms as he waited. Should they go in after the man? His internal question was answered as the attendant reappeared a few moments later. “Um, the Lord Farmer isn’t here right now,” the attendant explained weakly. Kenton sighed. “I don’t have time for this,” he mumbled, reaching to his sand pouch. A moment later three ribbons of sand flashed to life, streaking across the room to grab the attendant. The man whimpered slightly as Kenton lifted him into the air and floated him over until he was hanging right in front of Kenton. “Where is he?” Kenton asked simply. The man pointed a quivering finger at a side room. “Thank you,” Kenton said, lowering the man to the ground a few
|
feet away. “Good job,” Eric approved in Dynastic. “That is definitely going to encourage people not to be scared of you.” Kenton ignored him, walking forward and striding through the chamber’s open front. Inside he found a room decorated after Kershtian fashion, with sand-filled cushions and rugs woven from ShalRim fibers. There were sheets hanging from the open windows, flapping like the sides of a tent. The Lord Farmer sat nervously on a cushion at the back of the room. Gennel was tall for a Kershtian, almost as tall as Kenton himself. However, he was thin to the point of gangliness, a fact that his robes tried unsuccessfully to hide. He regarded Kenton with a tense face. “My Lord Mastrell!” he exclaimed. “Why, what a surprise!” “Hello, Lord Farmer,” Kenton said with a nod of his head. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Where did Vey go?” Kenton asked simply. “I don’t know. He didn’t—” Gennel yelped as Kenton’s sand moved forward threateningly. He began to speak very quickly, his Kershtian accent making the words almost indistinguishable. “He made me promise not to tell. Please don’t make me tell. I don’t want to be part of this. Oh Sand Lord, protect me. Vey will be very angry if I tell. Can’t you ask someone else? Oh, please don’t kill me!” Kenton blinked in surprise, looking down at his ribbons. Gennel whimpered, cowering on the floor, pulling a cushion over his head. This isn’t right, Kenton thought, lowering his hand, feeling sick. He regarded his sand, hovering in the air before him. To him it was beautiful. He couldn’t imagine the fear that others felt. They should see it as he did, see it for its use and its wonderful versatility, not regard it as mysterious and frightening. I can’t use sand mastery like this. This is exactly the sort of thing that got us into trouble in the first place. He let his sand die. “I won’t force you,” he said simply. Gennel looked up with surprised eyes. “What?” he asked. “You won’t?” Kenton shook his head. “I will ask, however. For the good of Lossand, Lord Farmer, please tell me where Vey is. I just want to talk to him.” Gennel shot a look at the blackened sand scattered across his rug. “Um, I can’t tell you,” he said weakly, then immediately began cringing again. “Fine,” Kenton said with a sigh. He would find another way. Khriss watched the exchange with dissatisfaction, listening to N’Teese’s translation. He’s not going to do it, she realized. In a way, it was noble—he wanted to do what was right. However, he obviously didn’t understand politics. It was vital that he find out where the Lord Merchant had gone. He couldn’t afford to be merciful right now—he needed every advantage he could get. N’Teese sighed as they turned to leave. “Why did we even come?” she complained. “He knew that Gennel wouldn’t tell him unless he forced him to talk.” “Hush,” Khriss ordered. Even if the girl was repeating Khriss’s own thoughts, it
|
wasn’t proper to say such things. He needs my help, she decided. “Kenton, where are you going now?” “Back to the Diem, I suppose,” he said with a sigh. “I need to think.” “Then, I have some things I need to take care of,” she said. “I’ll come by later.” “All right,” he said distractedly. Khriss nodded to Baon and Cynder moving off to the side. “N’Teese, we need to find the Lord Beggar again.” The girl raised her eyes in exasperation, but she did lead then toward the poor section of the city. Khriss didn’t know what to think, looking on Gevin again. He squatted beside a group of beggars, his twisted face pointed away from her. This was the man she had loved—or thought she loved—for most of her life. This was the man that had rejected her so completely just a day before. At first sight of him, a sickness rose within her. Never had anyone rejected her so soundly. The man she had called her betrothed for most of her life had been cheating on her all the while. Cheating on her because he found her annoying. Khriss took a deep breath, stilling her churning stomach. She had to see him once more. Kenton needed her help. Well, at least he finally told me the truth, she admitted as she approached. For that much, I can be grateful. I could have gone on thinking that he had always loved me, never knowing the truth of my own repulsiveness. A small part of her, however, wondered if that wouldn’t have been the better way. “Gevin?” she said. Gevin jumped, turning with a scowl on his face. “Don’t call me that,” he spat in Dynastic. “Do you want the entire Dynasty to come searching me out?” Khriss smiled slightly, getting an idea. “Why should I care?” she asked. “You should prepare yourself, Gevin. As soon as I return to Elis, my first objective is to tell your parents precisely where you are and what you are doing.” Gevin hissed. “You are fool, woman. You really do want me dead, don’t you?” “Why should I care what happens to you?” Khriss snapped. “You should care what happens to yourself, dear duchess,” Gevin whispered. “There is one sure way to make certain you remain quiet.” Khriss paused. “You wouldn’t dare,” she guessed. Gevin just raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead, Gevin,” she continued, a little less certain of herself. “Threaten me. You haven’t given me any other incentive to stay quiet.” Gevin paused, then turned back to shoo away his beggar comrades. “What are you implying?” he asked as he scuffled toward Khriss. “I have a question I want answered,” Khriss said, her confidence returning. “Bring me the information I want, and I’ll promise you my silence.” Gevin ground his teeth for a moment. “What’s the question?” he asked. “I need to know where the Lord Merchant is hiding.” Gevin snorted. “I don’t know that,” he said. “I’ve been trying all day to figure it out.” “The Lord Farmer knows,” Khriss said. “And
|
how am I supposed to get him to tell me?” Gevin asked with a frown. “I don’t care,” Khriss said coldly. “That is your problem—I just want the information. You have one dayside hour to find it for me.” “One hour!” Gevin snapped. “That’s impossible.” “Then you’d better get moving,” Khriss suggested. “I don’t have much time, Gevin. A friend of mine is under a very strict deadline.” Gevin continued to frown, ignoring the spittle on the side of his lip. Khriss stood with concern. Had she pushed too hard? Would he actually decide that killing her was easier? This was Gevin—he couldn’t be that heartless, could he? Finally, Gevin snorted and shook his head. “I’ll do it, Khrissalla, if only to get you out of my face for good. It’s funny. You’re so much more involved with politics now that you’ve left your homeland behind.” “I guess I just don’t have anyone holding me back any more,” Khriss shot back. “Now get moving.” For a man with so much to do, I certainly do spend a lot of time in my room, Kenton thought with disdain, continuing to pace. He was in trouble, and he knew it. He couldn’t think of anyone else who would know where the Lord Merchant was going. He’d hoped the man would be foolish enough to leave record of his trip, but Kenton had stopped by to see the Kezare Dockmaster before returning to the Diem. The man had explained that Vey had chartered an entire ship rather than simply buying passage aboard one with a set destination. He hadn’t told anyone where he intended to go, he had simply set off south. Vey could be anywhere. South of Kezare, Lossand was nearly one solid city running along the river. There were dozens of towns of moderate size, all depending on the river for sustenance. Kenton could search for weeks and never find the missing Taishin. All Vey had to do was hide four for short days, and Kenton’s cause would be lost. Kenton continued to pace, kicking up sand in frustration. The party across the courtyard had slowed, and several of Drile’s guests were stumbling down the staircase. Several more had collapsed near the balcony, unconscious on the floor. Well, at least one good thing will come from this. That man won’t be Lord Mastrell. However, Kenton knew the thought was a fallacy—true, Drile wouldn’t be Lord Mastrell. He would be something worse: a mercenary lord who used sand mastery to subjugate the people of dayside. “Sands!” Kenton hissed out loud, continuing his pacing with a vengeful step. He could have handled loosing to contrary votes, but to loose because of abstained votes? He was impotent—he couldn’t do a single thing to forestall his doom. The door slammed open suddenly. “I’ve got it!” Khriss announced to the surprised room. “He’s hiding in Lraezare, wherever that is.” “What?” Kenton blinked, staring at her eager face with surprise. “I mean, how?” Khriss smiled cryptically. “I have my sources,” she explained. “I am, after all, a master politician.”
|
“Lraezare,” Kenton said. Vey had run as far as he possibly could and still be in Lossand. “A three day round trip,” Eric mused. “I suppose we could make it. It’d be close, though.” “Let’s get moving, then!” Kenton said enthusiastically, rushing from the room. The Kezare Dockmaster was a strong Kershtian man of thick build with an expression that said ‘whatever you want, it isn’t worth my time.’ He was a busy man, always running across the docks, yelling orders and organizing his unloaders. However, he was easy to find, because his bellowing voice carried even over the riotous sounds of the crowd. He wore simple robes with the Helm’s symbol, a steering wheel, on its breast. Kenton approached the man for the second time in one day. This time, however, he was more confident—he wasn’t looking for information, only a ride. The dockman saw him coming and growled in annoyance. He screamed one last order at a line of men who were carrying carapace boxes up onto a broad-bottomed ship. “You again?” the man said with dissatisfaction. “I told you, I don’t know where he is.” “That’s all right,” Kenton said with a smile. “Fortunately, I do. I need passage on a ship to Lraezare.” “Sorry,” the Dockmaster said immediately. “There aren’t any places available.” “What?” Kenton snorted. “Dozens of ships leave this dock every day. You’re telling me none of them are travelling to Lraezare? It’s one of the largest ports south of Kezare!” “No,” the man snapped. “I didn’t say there weren’t any ships going to Lraezare. I said there aren’t any that have room for you.” “But, don’t you need to check your ledgers to know that?” Kenton challenged. “No,” the man said again. “I already did. Earlier, when Vey spoke with me.” Kenton paused. The Dockmaster had called a Lord Taisha by his given name, with no title affixed. Surely no one would dare such an affront, especially not a Kershtian. Unless… “You wouldn’t be related to the Lord Merchant, would you?” Kenton asked. The Dockmaster smiled. “He’s my uncle,” he said with an evil glint in his eye. Kenton cursed to himself. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll contact the separate captains and see if any of them can make room for me.” “You can’t do that,” the Dockmaster warned. “It’s against the Law—all passengers must be taxed as proper. You have to go through me if you want to ride on anything bigger than a ferry to the shore.” “All right,” Kenton shot back, “then I’ll charter a ship.” “You’re welcome to do so,” the man said with a shrug, snapping an order at a slacking dockworker. “Assuming you can afford one, of course. As I recall, mastrells can’t commandeer ships.” Kenton froze, then cursed again. The Diem barely had a few hundred lak left in its stores—he had spend most of their remaining coin buying food. There was some sort of carapace shortage to the east—apparently, a disease had struck the sandling herds. ZaiDon prices had been going up steadily over the last few weeks.
|
The Dockmaster smiled again, then turned away from Kenton, rushing over to yell at a group of dockmen who had accidentally dropped a large box, cracking it and spilling grain onto the ground. “Vey covers his tracks well,” Eric noted. “He probably didn’t trust the Lord Farmer to keep quiet. I suppose we could swim there.” Kenton ignored him, thinking quickly. They could commandeer some rezalin—the sandlings moved as quickly as a boat. Unfortunately, a lot of their speed was hampered in Lossand, where they didn’t have dunes to jump on. In addition, their feet were curved for pushing against sand—running across rock could cause them permanent damage. He could use a smaller boat, a ferry or the like. However, without sails and oars, he doubted they would make the trip in time—especially when they had to come back up stream. “Why, hello, Lord Mastrell,” a slurred voice said. “What an odd place to find you.” Kenton turned with surprise to find Delious in a bright pink robe moving through the crowd behind him. The same young man that always followed Delious—his wine steward—stood beside him like usual, holding a jug of wine. Behind the steward were packmen holding large trunks. “Lord Admiral…” Kenton said, smiling as he got an idea. “What brings you here?” “Why, I’m going on a trip,” Delious announced. “To the south. I feel a sudden urge to visit the Shipowner’s Circle. They’re headquartered in Lraezare you know.” Delious smiled, catching Kenton’s eye. “Would you like to join me?” he asked. “It seems like it will be a delightful trip.” Kenton looked at Delious, cocking his head slightly to the side. There was no way this was a coincidence. But, how had he known…? Suddenly, he knew that he had seriously underestimated Lord Delious. “Yes, it does sound delightful,” Kenton said. “I would love to join you.” “Wonderful!” Delious exclaimed. He turned lazily, catching the Dockmaster’s eye. “Oh, NaiMeer!” he said. “Come over here, please!” The Dockmaster gritted his teeth, but he did obey. “Yes, Lord Admiral,” he said with a poorly disguised sneer. “I shall need a ship for a few days,” Delious said, looking over those in dock. “Say, that one.” He pointed at a ship that had just finished its unloading procedures. “Warn the captain that we shall be leaving for Lraezare within the hour. The Circle will compensate him for any losses, of course.” “But—” the Dockmaster began. “I know, I know,” Delious said. “It isn’t grand enough for me by far, but I’m in a hurry. Please warn the captain so he doesn’t let his crew get scattered through the city.” The Dockmaster shot a hating look at Kenton, then bowed slightly. “Yes, My Lord,” he said. “Delightful man,” Delious said, patting him on the head. “Steward, pour him a drink. He looks like he’s been working far too hard.” “Lord Mastrell?” Kenton looked up to find Elorin regarding him with a confused look. The old sand master looked wearied for some reason, his white robes hanging limply on his body, his eyes
|
reddened from lack of sleep. Of course, Kenton thought with a smile, I probably look just as bad. This has been a hard week for all of us. “I have to go, Elorin,” he explained. “Go?” Elorin asked with surprise. “But, you can’t. The Diem needs you, My Lord.” “It needs me to go to the south,” Kenton said, throwing a few of his newly tailored outfits into a carapace trunk. “The Lords Merchant and General have fled to Lraezare. If I don’t get there and persuade them to come up for the next Council, then we’ll lose their votes by default.” Kenton closed the trunk, then stood, turning to place his hand on Elorin’s shoulder. The old sand master had returned to help, but during the last week and a half he had shown little of the efficiency that had made him such an excellent Lord Mastrell’s assistant. The specter of his lost abilities haunted the old man. He barely did anything anymore, floating through the Diem’s halls like windblown sand. He occasionally visited Kenton, but his personality was even more subdued than it had been before. The poor man wasn’t dealing well with his losses. “I have a request for you, old friend,” Kenton said. Elorin looked up, his tired eyes meeting Kenton’s. “Yes, Lord Mastrell?” “Watch the Diem for me while I’m gone. You’re the only one here I trust with such a duty, now that Dirin is gone.” “I shall… try, My Lord,” the man said quietly. Kenton patted him on the shoulder, then reached out and threw a ribbon of sand at his trunk. The container floated into the air, following Kenton out of the room as he headed toward the docks. Elorin watched him go, his eyes looking even more burdened than before. When Kenton arrived back at the ship, a disheveled Khriss was supervising the dockmen who were carrying three enormous trunks onto the boat. She had reacted to the trip with anxiety, claiming she would never have enough time to get ready. Such had obviously been an exaggeration—after all, she had beat Kenton back to the ship. “Those can’t all be yours,” Kenton chided. “You only had a tonk’s worth two weeks ago.” Khriss blushed. “I’ve made some purchases since then,” she defended. “A lady has to be properly outfitted.” “Well, I suppose you’re making the local merchants happy,” Kenton said with a shrug, whipping his own sand-born trunk toward the deck. “Come on.” He offered her his arm, then the two of them followed the dockmen up the plank and onto deck. There they found Delious lounging in a deck chair waiting for them, his steward standing attentively behind him. The elderly Cynder, wearing one of his customary darkside suits, relaxed in a chair beside the Lord Admiral, a cup of wine in his hands. “Are we finally ready?” Delious asked. “I suppose. Is everyone here?” “The bodyguard and the Lord General’s boy are talking back there,” Delious said, nodding toward the ship’s aft. “In the back part of the ship—I can never
|
remember what it’s called. That impossibly bad tempered trackt is down below, stowing his things. The good professor here has been teaching me to speak darksider. Listen,” Delious proffered his cup, speaking in a loud voice, “have some swine!” he said enthusiastically in Dynastic. Cynder shrugged, chuckling. “Close enough, I suppose.” Kenton, however, was regarding the glint in the drunken Taisha’s eyes. Delious was smiling slightly as he raised his cup to his lips—he knew exactly what he had said. At that moment Delious shot him a look that was so startlingly lucid that Kenton almost jumped in surprise. Sands… he’s drunk, but he’s not. I was wrong about this man. At the Lord Admiral’s party, Kenton had assumed the slight edge of wit he had sensed in the man was only a broken remnant from what he had once been. Now Kenton was beginning to rescind that supposition. Is the drunkenness an act? But, no, his cheeks are red, his voice slurred, and he’s definitely drinking that wine. It’s no act. Delious ordered for the departure procedures to go forth, and Kenton moved over, taking a seat in one of the chairs that were attached to the deck. Delious gestured a foppish arm, offering Kenton a drink, but Kenton shook his head. He couldn’t make sense of this man. Regardless, he had something he had been planning to try. Now that he was on the ship, he was probably relatively safe from assassins. He finally had a chance to do something he had considering for some time. If he didn’t do it now, he would lose the opportunity. He reached into his sand pouch, pulling out a handful of sand. “What are you doing?” Khriss asked. Kenton regarded the sand for a moment, its bright whiteness glowing in the sunlight. It hid a power that had to be unlocked. Was Kenton the same way? Did he have further power inside him, power that he could harness somehow? “I’m going to overmaster,” he finally decided. “What?” Khriss asked with concern. “What’s that?” “It means I’m going to intentionally hold sand longer than I should, draining the water from my body.” “Draining the…” Khriss said with a frown. She didn’t push the issue, however. Instead she simply said, “won’t that be dangerous?” “Probably,” Kenton admitted. “But it’s the only thing I can think of,” he explained. “When you first found me nearly dead in the kerla, I was sick primarily because I had overmastered. But, before that happened, I could only control one ribbon. After I recovered, I could master three.” “But, what if that’s just a parallel syllogism?” Khriss demanded. Kenton raised his eyebrows, chuckling slightly. “A what? I thought we were speaking Dynastic.” Khriss blushed. “What if the overmastery and your gaining powers happened at the same time, but are completely unrelated?” “I have to take that chance,” Kenton decided. “Khriss, I can’t defeat Drile with only three ribbons. He can control twenty-five—he’ll kill me in a matter of seconds. If I don’t find some way to boost my ability, then
|
my bones will be drying in the sun before this week is over.” He looked up, meeting her eyes. “I keep finding more reasons to survive.” Khriss looked at him with worried eyes. “But, last time…” Khriss said, obviously remembering the state he had been in when she found him. “It could be deadly,” she assumed. “The mastrells always taught that it was,” Kenton agreed. “According to them, even if you did survive, you were supposed to lose your powers.” Suddenly, he remembered chilling image of Elorin, the old undermastrell’s eyes pained, bearing an incredible torment that Kenton vaguely remembered. Apparently, some of what the mastrells had said was true. It was possible to lose one’s powers through overmastery. Kenton had almost lost his powers once—could he voluntarily do the same thing to himself again? Then, however, another image appeared in his mind. Drile, rising into the air, two dozen ribbons of sand whipping around him like writhing souls of the damned. Three ribbons couldn’t possibly stand against such power. He had to do something. He held out his fist, and called the sand to life. It flashed with inner power, the individual grains of sand dancing into the air, as if joyous to finally release their stored energy. Two other ribbons followed, and he loaded all three with as much sand as he could manage. Khriss, Delious, and Cynder watched him with transfixed eyes. Mastered sand was a captivating sight, its colors shifting and swirling, sometimes forming patterns, sometimes sparkling like a thousand different individual shows. Even with three ribbons it took a while before Kenton began to feel the effects. A mastrell mastering at full power could go as long as ten minutes without overmastering, and Kenton could only control three. Before, with one, he had been able to last over a half hour—assuming he wasn’t doing anything else strenuous to drain his water. This time it took about twenty minutes. First his skin began to dry. Without sweat to cool his body, he began to overheat. It was as if the sun itself had crawled in his chest, burning away at his blood. His eyes and mouth were next, his eyes beginning to burn, his mouth growing dry, his tongue feeling like a lifeless lump. He began to shake, his body craving water. Yet, he forced himself on, mastering beyond what he had ever dared. The desire to let go became unbearable, and he felt himself compulsively reaching for his qido. Once, his claw like fingers almost got the lid off, but he managed to force himself to put it back down. He could barely see now. He had to struggle too direct his water usage, keeping the sand mastery from draining his eyes or his brain. The pain was incredible. They needn’t have warned us about this, he thought, feeling himself begin to slump in his chair. Who would sanely attempt something so painful? All of the mastrells’ reinforcement, all of their care to make certain we don’t overmaster, it must have been to hide the truth of
|
overmastery. It must have been… Khriss cried out as she saw Kenton slump out of his chair and fall to the deck. Ignoring decorum, she rushed to his side, grabbing him and yelling for him to stop. His eyes were closed, he was barely breathing, and his lips were parched as if he had spent days laying in the sun. Yet, his sand continued to hover over his head. She held his limp body close. A second later, his sand dropped to the deck. At that moment, holding him against her chest, Khriss felt Kenton’s heart stop. Khriss grew cold. “His heart isn’t beating!” she cried frantically. She turned around, seeing the confusion in Delious’s eyes, the helplessness in Cynder’s. Khriss sat, confused. What was going on? What could they do. “Wake up!” she yelled at Kenton. “Don’t die! You can’t die. Not now. Not after.…” She felt hysteria rising, barely felt herself shaking Kenton’s body, demanding that he rise. “My Lady!” Cynder said, leaping to his feet. “What is wrong with you?” She ignored him, continuing shake Kenton. She slapped his face, pounded on his chest, and felt the tears on her cheeks. Voices were calling all around her. Suddenly, a weak hand grabbed her own. “I’m sorry for frightening you,” Kenton mumbled. “But would you kindly stop hitting me?” Khriss blinked, whipping her eyes in surprise. Kenton was coughing quietly, his eyes open slightly. He groaned. Khriss reached down, grabbing his water bottle and lifting it to his lips. He drank gratefully. “Kenton, that was the most idiotic thing I have ever seen anyone do,” she informed. He coughed again, rubbing his chest where she had been pounding. “I believe you,” he mumbled, trying to sit up—a difficult endeavor with Khriss in his lap. He shook his head, pouring some of the water into his hand and splashing it into his face. “Well, it looks like this time I won’t have to spend a week unconscious. That’s something at least.” Yes, but you nearly didn’t wake up at all, Khriss thought, staring at his weakened face. Shella, Divine, thank you. Kenton reached into one of his pouches, pulling out some sand. He stared at it for a moment, then finally shook his head. “Nothing,” he announced. “But, I suppose that was the point. Let’s just hope I get it back before the fight with Drile.” Khriss looked up, hearing a pair of voices coming their direction. A moment later, Eric and Baon approached. “Yes,” Eric was saying, “but I still think conventional formation tactics are outdated with the advent of muskets. It’s like your armies haven’t realized what they have—they tend to employ their rifleman like archers. The thing is, they aren’t the same at all. A rifle isn’t just a more damaging bow that doesn’t shoot as fast, it’s an entirely new concept. Now, everyone in the entire army can be a ranged warrior. Do you understand—” Eric trailed off, seeing Khriss and Kenton. He raised an eyebrow. “You know, there’s a cabin below decks if you two want
|
to be alone,” he noted. Khriss blushed, realizing that she was still sitting in Kenton’s lap. She hurried to her feet, straightening her robe. Kenton coughed again, climbing into his chair with more difficulty. Baon looked at Kenton with keen eyes. “An attack?” he guessed uncertainly. Kenton shook his head. “It’s complicated,” he said, resting back with a sigh. He felt naked. Without his sand to protect him, he was like a child away from his parent… a child wandering across deep sand. As long as he had sand mastery, he felt he could defeat anyone. Now, however, he realized just how powerless a person could feel. How does the rest of the world do it? He wondered. How do they survive without sand? It was like having both of his arms severed. He kept reaching for his sand to do things—to grab something for him, or to lift him to the foredeck. With a sigh, he relaxed in the chair, forcing himself to deal with the situation. He had caused it, after all. The riverside cities of Lossand scrolled past on either side. There was barely a break in the line of towns—here, without the water vines to give water, only the Ali could provide sustenance. They had been sailing for several hours now. Khriss was down below, arranging her things—though Kenton didn’t know why it mattered; they would be arriving within a day, then turning around and coming right back. However, he hadn’t said anything. Something had happened while he had been unconscious. He didn’t know what it was, but he had an illusive memory of something—something he couldn’t describe. A power, or a force. Something that had overcome his entire body. Then he had woken up, the image of Khriss’s face, haloed by the sun, hovering in front of his face. He’d never seen anything so extraordinary. Of course, then she’d ruined it by hitting him on the chest. He still didn’t understand that part—she said she’d been frightened, that his heart had stopped. The words, however, sounded foolish to Kenton. If his heart stopped, then he was dead. That was, at least in Kenton’s mind, an irreversible event. “You look too thoughtful, Lord Mastrell,” Delious noted. He was the only one still sitting on the deck with Kenton. “Have a drink.” Kenton smiled. “No thank you, My Lord.” Delious shrugged. “It must be difficult,” the foppish man noted. “What is that, Lord Delious? Living without wine?” Delious shook his head. “No, I was referring to your responsibilities. You are in charge of an entire profession. Is that not difficult?” Kenton nodded silently. “Indeed it is, Lord Admiral.” Delious raised his crystalline cup, staring at its blood-red confines. The sun shone through the wine, spraying red droplets of light across the deck. “Responsibility,” Delious mumbled. “Fortunately, that is not something I have to deal with.” Kenton nodded. “I… realize that, Lord Admiral. I have done a little studying about your profession.” “And found it ridiculous?” Delious assumed. Kenton nodded. “Somewhat, yes. Honestly, I have trouble understanding the Helm’s Charter.
|
What is the point behind taking away a Taisha’s possessions?” Delious shrugged, still staring at his wine. “It is a political tool, Lord Mastrell, and nothing else. In the eyes of the Law, everything the Helm owns belongs to me, which is why I can commandeer any ship I want. However, in reality, the Taisha is the means by which the Shipowner’s Circle keeps power over its members. Everyone knows that if they go against the will of the Circle, they could very well end up losing everything. A clever idea, really. Theft by bestowal of a grand honor.” “And what did you do, if I may ask,” Kenton ventured. “What did you do to deserve such a… grand honor?” “I was too successful,” Delious said, draining the wine in his cup with a single gulp. “However, in the eyes of one’s peers, success is one of the worst of sins. I wasn’t always a member of the Helm, you know,” he said. “You weren’t?” Kenton asked. Delious shook his head. “Many years ago, almost two decades ago, I was a member of the Guild. That was before you were born, I believe?” Kenton blushed, suddenly reminded of his age. “Probably,” he admitted. “I was very successful, you know,” Delious said, holding out his cup to be filled again. His eyes were slightly unfocused, as if he were seeing something Kenton could not. Memories from a past long dead. “I was rich enough to challenge the Lord Merchant himself. All I needed was one last deal—twenty-thousand more lak—and I would have taken the position. I probably could have earned it, had I waited. But, with the impatience of relative youth, I set out to become the youngest man to ever hold that Taisha. I found my opportunity. A friend suggested we finance a new mine found in some hills to the southeast. There were claims that there was lakstone there. I put up nearly my entire fortune on the endeavor…” “And you lost it?” Kenton asked quietly. Delious shook his head. “It was taken from me. I spent my fortune outfitting the mines, digging for the stone to make coins. Five years passed, slowly draining my funds. In the end, I fell broke, and was forced to sell the mines. One week later, my friend—the one who had told me about the mine—suddenly found lakstone. Coincidentally, he had been the one who purchased my half of the mines from me. So, he became Lord Merchant instead of myself.” “Vey?” Kenton asked with surprise. Delious nodded slowly. “I quit the Guild in disgust. From there I went to the Helm and tried to rebuild my career. I proved a competent shipping captain, and within a decade built up a fleet of mercantile ships to rival any on dayside. Unfortunately, in doing so I had paid little attention to the Circle. I wanted no part of them—it had been my partnership in the mines that betrayed me. I wanted nothing to do with others—I wanted to do it on my own. And I did.”
|
“Then they took it all away,” Kenton said. Delious nodded again, downing another entire cup of wine. “This world has given me little to believe in, Lord Mastrell. Those I thought were my friends betrayed me. The Profession I assumed would protect me instead ripped away my life and gave me this foolish mockery in exchange. Justice, honor, the Law… all are equally worthless ideals. Life has stripped down and shown me the bones of her soul, and they are not pretty.” “I’m… sorry,” was all Kenton could say. “No wonder you…” “Became a sot?” Delious asked. He shrugged drunkenly. “There is little left for me. I wonder—do you know how much a bottle of wine costs?” Kenton shook his head. “I’ve never even thought about it before,” he admitted. “Grapes are said to have come from darkside originally,” Delious explained. “They don’t grow well in dayside’s heat—they have to be watered a ridiculous amount and kept in the shade. When they do grow, the grapes themselves are small and rather withered. Add upon that the difficulty of bottling and fermenting… much of what I drink costs upwards of a thousand lak per bottle.” Kenton gaped in surprise. A thousand lak a bottle? And, with the amount Delious drank… Delious smiled. “The Charter only gives me three things: a ship when I need it, a house to live in, and whatever I want to eat and drink. They took everything from me, Kenton. Well, I’m going to make them regret that decision. I had hundreds of thousands of lak worth of ships—I intend to make them pay for every last coin.” The drunkenness, Kenton thought with surprise. It isn’t to wipe away sorrows. It’s for revenge. It was another few hours before Kenton had the strength to move from the deck chair, and then he only stumbled down to his cabin. However, even that little bit of improvement was encouraging. Before, when Khriss had rescued him, he had spend a week delirious after his overmastery. Of course, that time he had been left in the middle of the kerla without even enough water to summon a vine. Still, he felt stronger this time—perhaps he would get his power back in time to fight Drile. He didn’t want to think of what would happen if he didn’t get it back—somehow he doubted Drile would let him back out, even if he had lost his powers. As long as he lived, he was a threat to Drile’s leadership of the sand masters. He stumbled into the cabin, finding Ais reading from a dark-paged book—a Ker’reen text, if Kenton read the symbols on the front correctly. The two of them would be sharing a cabin, as per Ais’s request. Perhaps the trackt thought Kenton would sneak away in the middle of the night. Ais closed the book. “You’ve lost your powers,” he said simply. “For a while, at least,” Kenton replied, laying down on his bunk with a sigh. “That was a foolish move,” Ais said simply, turning back to his book. Kenton smiled. “I
|
would have thought that you would find it encouraging. For a little while, at least, I’m no longer your Ry’Kensha. I’m just a normal man.” Ais paused. “It doesn’t matter. Your loss of power isn’t a revocation—it was done in the name of gaining even more strength.” “Very true,” Kenton admitted. “Say, Ais, I’ve been thinking about something.” “What?” Ais said, not looking up from his book. “Well, you said that leader of the assassins—the one the A’Kar had appointed to kill me—had misinterpreted the Kershtian Writ, right?” “He must have,” Ais said. “It wouldn’t be a difficult mistake to make—the words say ‘assassins may attack on every odd day’ but a cursory read might lead one to think they meant ‘assassins have to wait at least one day.’ The misread would be possible.” “But, not likely for someone who has been studying the Writ all his life,” Kenton assumed. “Correct,” Ais replied. “So, what if the leader of the assassins hasn’t been studying the Writ all of his life?” “He wouldn’t be a very good Kershtian then,” Ais said, continuing to read. “What if they’re not Kershtian?” Ais paused, looking up slowly. “That isn’t possible,” he finally said. “Why not?” Kenton asked. “Didn’t I hear that the A’Kar is letting Lossandin people into the Priest’s DaiKeen?” “Yes, he has made that decision.” “So, couldn’t he potentially have chosen a Lossander to head the assassination? That would explain how he misinterpreted the Writ—the language barrier could lead to all kinds of mistakes.” “What are you implying?” Ais asked slowly. “What if the leader of the assassins is Drile?” Kenton asked. “We know he worked with the A’Kar to kill the mastrells. Maybe he’s been given the duty of finishing what he began.” Ais snorted. “A sand master? I doubt that, Ry’Kensha. Even if the A’Kar did choose a Lossandin person, they would have to be a Ker’reen believer. The call to destroy an enemy of the Sand Lord is a holy calling.” “Times are different now,” Kenton challenged. “The A’Kar is doing odd things, never before seen in Kershtian tradition. He’s made a new DaiKeen, populating it with men loyal to him that are neither priest nor warrior, but both together. Maybe, to destroy the Diem, he decided to make a deal with what he saw as a lesser evil.” “Maybe,” Ais said, not convinced. “It makes sense,” Kenton continued, more to himself than to Ais. “I wondered why Drile stopped bothering me so quickly after I challenged him. Before, he would have had to be worried that his assassins would fail—I would expect that the A’Kar wasn’t too pleased that a sand master survived. This way, however, Drile can kill me himself. He doesn’t have to worry about the A’Kar’s retribution.” “If you say so, Ry’Kensha,” Ais said, reading again. “It makes sense,” Kenton repeated, closing his weakened eyes. Drile, this is just one more reason we need to face one another. I’ll get back my strength; your fight won’t be quite as easy as you think it will be. Khriss
|
watched him stumble down toward his cabin. Kenton had the right idea—she was beginning to feel a little bit tired herself. They still had about ten darkside hours left, if her measures were complete. She might as well spend it sleeping. She was, however, enjoying the transformation she saw in the landscape around her. The further south they went, the less sand and rocks there were, and the more fields she saw. The lands they were passing to the west were the most lively Khriss had seen on dayside. She could see a complex system of canals splitting off the river, providing irrigation to the fields. They looked nearly as productive as darkside plants—though, for some reason, they were all green. It was an odd color for plants. The further south they went, the lower the sun sank in the sky. The air was becoming cooler—Kenton said he couldn’t feel it, but Khriss could. Her body whispered that she was going in the right direction—that she should keep going until they reached darkside. Three more days, she told herself. This will all be over by then, whatever the result. And, she feared that the result would not be favorable. Kenton’s weakness frightened her—she had nearly lost him. She didn’t have a good record keeping men she cared about lately. The fear she had felt, holding Kenton’s body as his heart stopped, only hinted at what was to come. Kenton was so afraid of Drile’s power that he had nearly killed himself just for the possibility of a slight increase in power. Both he and Eric tried to keep an optimistic front, but Khriss could sense what they weren’t saying. They didn’t think Kenton could defeat this other sand master. No! Khriss thought with despair, leaning against the side of the ship, watching the cool water pass below. I can’t lose him, not another one. But, what can I do? She was helpless, once again. “He should never have gotten himself into this,” Eric said approaching from the side. Khriss looked up. The Lossander was staring at the stairs down to the cabins, his eyes concerned. “The overmastery?” Khriss asked. “The Taisha, the leadership,” Eric said in a quiet, haunted voice. “Responsibility kills. It sucks the soul out of a man and leaves him a poor imitation of what he could have been.” Khriss frowned, staring at Eric. She had never heard such intensity from him before. He was always so laid-back, so unconcerned with everything. This, however, seemed to be a point even he felt strongly about. “Responsibility?” Khriss asked. “Someone has to take it.” “I just thank the sands that it isn’t me,” Eric returned, walking over to lean against the wale next to her. He stared out over the river. “Kenton should have been so smart. He could have just left it all behind. Then he wouldn’t be in this position.” Khriss shook her head. No, Eric. I disagree. She didn’t say so out loud, however. She didn’t feel like arguing. However, if there was one thing she had learned
|
on this trip, it was that leadership was more than titles and giving orders. It was an act of becoming something greater than what one had been before; it was doing things for others, things that they could not do themselves. It was a burden, true, but it refined as much as it hurt. She could look back on what she had been before. She had been more innocent, true—she hadn’t been betrayed by friends, lovers, and expectations alike—but that innocence had been traded for strength and understanding. She would not go back, even if she were given the opportunity. Eric turned eyes toward Kenton’s cabin again. “I suppose he’ll learn on his own,” Eric whispered. “Nothing is worth that—nothing is worth the expectations, the responsibility for other men’s deaths, the responsibility to kill so that others do not have to. It destroys a man, unless he escapes. I escaped. Maybe he will.” Then he turned, his eyes passing over Khriss as if she weren’t there, and he just wandered toward his own cabin. Kenton awoke the next day feeling rejuvenated. He sat up, his body completely devoid of the weakness it had felt before. Eagerly, he reached for the sand pouch beside his cot and commanded the sand to life. Nothing. He sighed, dropping the sand back in its pouch. There was a wash basin and a rag beside the cot, and he proceeded to wipe his body down with the scented water, washing away the day’s grime. Ais was gone. Kenton frowned—how long had he been asleep? Yawning, he pulled some clothing out of his trunk. It was wrinkled from the packing, but ShalRim tended to resist wrinkling, as opposed to the more expensive darkside materials, and once he had them on they didn’t look so bad. He pulled open the door, walking up toward the deck. As he stumbled into the light, he was surprised to find the ship resting beside a wooden dock, a large city extending around him. Lraezare. “Sleep well?” a lazy voice asked. Kenton spun to find Delious and his steward speaking with the ship captain beside the port wale. “When did we arrive?” Kenton asked anxiously. “Less than an hour ago,” Delious replied. “The darkside girl insisted we let you sleep a little longer.” “Where are they?” “In the city,” Delious said with a nod. “The Kershtian went to visit the temple; the others trying to figure out where old Vey is hiding.” Kenton turned, scanning the city. Lraezare was built where the Ali met the ocean. Most of the city lay on the eastern side of the river, where reefs formed a natural bay that made a perfect dock. The city itself extended along the crescent-like peninsula which ran a short distance out into the ocean. It was built on an incline, with a line of enormous mansions running in a row at the hill’s apex. The homes of the Shipowner’s Circle. Even as Kenton searched, he noted a distinctive dark-skinned form approaching down one of the main streets. Baon was very easy
|
to pick out of a crowd, and Lraezare wasn’t nearly as busy as Kezare. Khriss and the others were walking with him. “Lord Admiral?” an amazed voice said. Kenton turned. He had been so focused on studying the city that he hadn’t noticed the blue-robed attendant who had walked up the plank. He was a short man with tiny, coin-like ears and wide eyes. His robes bore the symbol of the Helm on the breast—a symbol encased in a bright red circle. “Yes?” Delious asked as he turned toward the man. The Lord Admiral suddenly appeared more drunk than he had just a moment before. He even managed to stumble and nearly topple to the deck as he turned—only his steward’s steadying hand prevented the collapse. “My Lord…” the Helm member said, still stunned. “We weren’t aware that you were coming to visit.” “I came on a whim,” Delious said, gesturing with his hand—the hand that held the cup. The movement accidentally sprayed the attendant with red drops of wine. Delious appeared not to have noticed the mistake. The man turned, wiping a drop of wine from his forehead, noticing Kenton for the first time. His eyes thinned in suspicion. “I’ll go and tell the Circle of your arrival, My Lord,” he said to Delious. “If you wish,” Delious said with a shrug. “I don’t see that it will matter, however. We’ll be leaving soon—I have to make certain the Lord Mastrell gets back in time for the next Council meeting. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?” The man paused for a moment. “Yes, My Lord. Good day, My Lord.” He bowed, turning to dash down the plank. Yes, you’ve heard of the Council meeting, Kenton thought suspiciously. He remembered well Delious’s comments at the party a few days back—the Circle stood to gain a lot in shipping privileges to the kerla if the Diem were disbanded. Of all the Kelzin in Lossand, they had the greatest cause to oppose Kenton. “Who was that?” Eric asked, climbing up the plank. “I’m not certain,” Kenton admitted, shooting a look back at Delious. The man was smiling foppishly, but there was an evil glint in his eye. What are you planning, Lord Admiral? “Kenton, are you all right?” Khriss’s voice rose behind him as the woman pushed past Eric and onto the deck. “I feel surprisingly good,” Kenton admitted. “And the…” “Sand?” Kenton asked. He shook his head. “No, not back yet.” “It will come,” she encouraged. “It had better,” Eric noted. “Well, you have reason to thank us again, great Lord Mastrell.” “You found him?” Kenton assumed. Eric nodded. “He’s staying with one of the local Kelzi,” Khriss explained. “A man named Lokkall.” Delious snorted. “What?” Kenton asked. “Lokkall is head of the Shipowner’s Circle. He’s the man that does what I should.” Delious smiled to himself. “Perhaps we should pay him a visit? I’m certain he’d be happy to see me. Then, we can all have a little discussion.” “An excellent idea,” Kenton said. “Let’s go. I’m eager to see the Lord
|
Merchant again.” “Not as eager as I am to see his face when you walk in that door,” Delious said quietly. If Khriss were going to live on dayside, this would be the city she would choose. The sun was low in the sky, more than halfway down to the horizon. The resulting shadows were deep and cool, and now that it was lower in the sky, the sun seemed to have lost some of its power. For the first time since she had arrived on dayside, she found she was able to go out in the light without her dark spectacles. The entire city seemed to have a more leisurely feel to it. There were people on the streets, but they strolled instead of rushed. The streets were cobbled, and the buildings looked more… relaxed. They weren’t squished together, like they were in Kezare. They were still made primarily of carapace and stone as opposed to wood, but the simpler one-story structures were more visually appealing than the Kezare versions. The only thing wrong with the city was the hill. It was incredibly steep, and her legs were already complaining from being forced to climb it for the second time in a few hours. This time, however, she would have to go all the way to the top, not just half-way, where they had found the local Hall of Judgement. The trackts there had easily answered their questions as to the location of the Lord Merchant. Kenton strode beside her, looking, as he said, fully recovered from the previous day’s weakness. Khriss was still worried about him. Still, he looked fine, striding purposely up the hill. He seemed to be dealing well with his loss of mastering ability. She caught him reaching for his sand pouch occasionally, but he never said anything, never complained. In his arm, Kenton carried a ledger with a thin carapace binding. He had retrieved it from his trunk before they left. “What is that, anyway?” she asked, pointing at the ledger. Kenton looked down. “This? It’s the record of how much the Diem owes.” Khriss frowned. “Why bring it?” she asked. “If I can’t get Vey on my side, then maybe I can get him to tell me who I owe the rest of this money to. If anyone has record of something like that, it would be him. In this case, I think he’d be eager to help me—it would, after all, involve laughing at the hopelessness of my cause.” Khriss nodded, holding out her hand for the ledger. Kenton handed to her, and she flipped to the last page as they walked. There, at the bottom, she found the daunting number. 700,000 lak. How could someone possibly accrue so much debt? Yet, as she flipped through the pages, she noted that it went back decades—even centuries. There was an entry every month. “Seven hundred thousand,” she said out loud, her voice amazed. “I know,” Kenton said with dissatisfaction. “With that kind of debt, it’s no wonder the others want to get rid of us.
|
And it didn’t look like there was any way around it. She deciphered the writing top—it was written in Kersha—which announced quite prominently that the enormous number in the second column was the ‘amount owed.’ “Good luck,” she mumbled, handing him back the ledger. Delious threw open the doors, striding into the home as if it were his own. “Hello?” he announced as several servants began to rush forward, their faces confused. “I’ve come for a visit! Someone bring me something to drink.” Kenton stepped in after the Lord Admiral, somewhat less certain of himself. Maybe they should have knocked… “Welcome, Lord Admiral,” a voice said. Lokkall was a tall, distinguished Kershtian man with thin beard and a long face. His voice, despite its words, did not sound very welcoming. “Your visit is… unexpected.” “I exist to make your life exciting,” Delious announced, his overly-drunk persona returning. He leaned against a side wall, nearly knocking an intricately-painted vase off a nearby pedestal. A servant steadied it just in time. “Where is our dear friend the Lord Merchant?” Delious asked innocently. “The Lord Merchant?” Lokkall said, mock confusion on his face. “Why would I know where he is?” Kenton frowned in dissatisfaction. Off to the side, standing behind several of the servants, he could make out a familiar blue robe—the attendant that had confronted Delious on the ship’s deck just a short while before. Vey was warned, Kenton thought with disappointment. Yet, they had left the ship just after the attendant. Vey couldn’t have gotten much of a warning. He was probably still in the building somewhere. “Vey, this is ludicrous,” Kenton said, stepping forward. He spoke loudly, looking up at the second story and its closed doors with a frown on his face. “If you didn’t want to vote for me, that is your choice. I will not force you do so. But you needn’t run. Surely you have more dignity than that. If you are so determined to destroy the Diem, then strike a blow against it valiantly. Don’t hide from sand mastery with a whimper and hope it will go away.” There was no response. Kenton sighed. “All right,” he said. Opening the ledger. “If you aren’t going to come back, then you can at least…” he trailed off, sighing as he looked down at the ledger. Suddenly, the awesome weight of what he had to do pressed down on him. How had he possibly hoped to succeed? Why had he even tried? Why had he bothered coming south? Vey wasn’t going to go back with him. It had been a foolish idea in the first place. So many people hated the Diem, and it owed so much… Amount owed. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide. Could it be? His head snapped up. “All right, Vey,” he said. “If that is the way you want it. I’ll just take this ledger I found in my father’s office, the one that lists seven hundred lak on the bottom line, and turn it into the Lady Judge. I’m certain she—” A door burst
|
open at the top of the stairs, and a sweating Vey sprung out. “No!” he wailed. Kenton looked up at the Lord Merchant. The man was a wreck—his hands were shaking, his eyes wide, and his clothing disheveled. “Let’s talk,” Kenton said, smiling slightly to himself. “Lord Lokkall, do you mind if we use one of your rooms?” Lokkall paused, looking up at Vey. Then he looked back at Kenton, noting the golden sash. “Of course not, Lord Mastrell,” he said with a slight frown on his face. Kenton walked up the steps, resting his hand on Vey’s shoulder as he reached the top, leading the small Kershtian man toward the back room. “Trying to leave me behind, Lord Mastrell?” a voice demanded. Kenton turned. Ais stood in the doorway below. “Ah, you’re here,” he said. “Good. You should hear this. Come on.” Ais frowned at the comment, but he did walk up the stairs and join Kenton and Vey. The three entered the room, which turned out to be some sort of study, with a desk, bookshelf, and several stools. Kenton closed the door behind him. “You owe the Diem seven hundred thousand lak, don’t you, Vey?” he asked. Vey groaned softly, taking a seat on a stool. Kenton smiled, but for some reason he didn’t feel like gloating. He thinks his life is destroyed, Kenton realized, suddenly feeling sorry for the man. If it came out that he had such a large debt, he wouldn’t just lose his place as Lord Merchant, but his status as a kelzi as well. Oh sands, I know how he must feel. “But how?” Kenton asked. “How could you possibly…” he paused. The amount had been accruing for centuries. “The Lord Merchant acquires all the wealth of his predecessor. Does that mean he acquires all of the former Lord Merchant’s debts too?” Vey nodded, looking sick. Ais stood beside the far wall, watching the Lord Merchant with keen eyes. “A long time ago, a Lord Mastrell must have started a personal account with a Lord Merchant,” Kenton guessed. “And, since the Diem didn’t really need money, the Lord Mastrell would place all of the tribute money in the account.” “His name was Hennin,” Vey whispered. “An idiot of a Lord Merchant. He acquired the position by accident—a relative died, leaving him a fortune that, stacked upon the one his father left him, was enough to win him the title of Lord Merchant. Unfortunately, he ruled for a very long time. When the next Lord Merchant obtained the position, he found a previous unknown ledger listing a vast amount owed to the Lord Mastrell. The interest that had been accruing was monumental. Hennin had lost most of his fortune in the failed deal that lost him the Lord Merchantship, so the new Lord Merchant didn’t acquire any of the man’s money—only his debts. “Over the next few centuries, the interest continued to accrue. Eventually it became so large that no Lord Merchant could ever pay it. Fortunately, the Lord Mastrell was willing to keep the
|
account private, which meant it wasn’t counted in the Lord Merchant’s public avowal of wealth. Otherwise, every Lord Merchant that inherited the Taisha would immediately lose it. “The Lord Mastrells used the debt to force the Lord Merchants into continuing to pay the tribute. Each quarter, the Lord Merchant would have to send two thousand lak of his personal fortune to the Diem. The Lord Mastrell would immediately return it, of course—telling the Lord Merchant to deposit it in the private account. So, while the Lord Merchants didn’t actually lose money, the private debt grew incredibly large.” “And now that debt is yours,” Kenton said, feeling sorry for the poor man before him. Vey was weeping openly now, and Ais was regarding the man with a look of barely-veiled disgust. “Someone else must know about it,” Kenton continued. “Otherwise it would simply be one Taisha’s word against another. The Lady Judge?” Vey nodded. Kenton shook his head ruefully. You knew all along, Lady Heelis. You gave me a seemingly impossible task, knowing all the time that there was a way to get beyond it. “The Lord Judge several decades ago decreed that the debt wasn’t good for Lossand,” Vey explained between quiet sobs. “He said that when and if the Lord Mastrell demanded payment, the Lord Merchant at that time would have to take responsibility for the full amount, rather than passing it on to his successor.” “That is harsh,” Kenton said, shaking his head. Vey took a deep breath. “Well, you have succeeded, Ry’Kensha,” he hissed. “You’ve beaten me—you can continue a century-long tradition of blackmail. Hall sanctioned blackmail, no less. Force the Lord Merchant to be your slave, as others have done before you. You have my vote, just keep this debt silent.” Kenton regarded the man, sitting abjectly on the stool. No wonder he hates the Diem so. I almost hate the Diem for doing something like that. The worst thing was, his position seemed to demand that he continue the extortion. Or, at least, just long enough to get Vey’s vote. But, could he? He had spent the last few weeks preaching that the Diem could change, that it would change. What would it matter to get Vey’s vote if by doing so he had to sacrifice the Diem’s integrity? The Council was right, Kenton realized. The Diem should have been disbanded. “I don’t want your vote, Vey,” Kenton said quietly. The Lord Merchant looked up with a distrusting eye. “I want your support,” Kenton explained. “The two aren’t the same. The debt is foolishness—consider it forgiven.” Vey’s jaw dropped in stupefaction. More satisfying, however, was the look of amazement on Ais’s face. Kenton smiled slightly to himself, but his stomach churned at the mistake he had missed. If only he could… No, he decided. I’ve already made my decision. The Lady Judge is right—if the Diem can’t convinced the people of Lossand that it should exist, then it doesn’t deserve to do so. That includes the Kershtians, the trackts, and the merchants. I’ve spent my life trying
|
to force people to do what I want. I won’t see the Diem’s rebirth founded on such principles. He turned with a quiet sigh, pulling open the door. How was he going to explain this to the others? Khriss would probably kill him. “Wait,” Vey objected. “What are your demands?” “Demands?” Kenton asked. “There are none, Vey. I don’t expect you to be responsible for that money—it was improperly gained. The mastrells extorted it out of the Guild, forcing your to use your own money to push yourselves deeper into debt. That’s simply not right.” “But,” Vey said, his face completely baffled. “I have to vote for you before the debt will be forgiven, don’t I?” Kenton shook his head. “You vote as your conscience demands, Vey. Represent the people of your Profession as you have been elected to do. If you think that the Diem’s continuation is not in their best interests, then you have no choice but to vote against me.” The concept seemed beyond Vey’s comprehension. Of course, Kenton had just abandoned seven hundred thousand lak. That was a fairly amazing amount of money. Vey considered his words for a moment, obviously unable to believe that the shadow that had oppressed him for so long was finally gone. “What do you want?” Vey finally asked. “Want?” Kenton asked, turning. “What I want is a loan, Vey. Two hundred thousand lak—from the Guild, not you—to pay off our debts. You can take a lean against the sand masters’s future wages until the sum is paid off. The interest from such an amount alone should be enough to make the Guild a handsome sum.” “And I don’t have to vote for you?” Vey asked, still stunned. “No,” Kenton said, shaking his head. “But, if I don’t, then I won’t make the money off the loan,” Vey assumed. “I suppose,” Kenton said with a shrug. “So it is a threat!” Vey decided with a satisfied smile. “No… it…” Kenton sighed. “Never mind.” “Well, I accept your proposition, Lord Mastrell,” Vey announced, catching Kenton’s eye. There was intellect there—Vey wasn’t quite as misunderstanding as he had made himself seem. He won’t be able to justify his switched vote unless there’s some reason, Kenton realized. The members of his profession think in terms of monetary gain and loss. If Vey changed his mind because of my kindness, he would be ridiculed. If he voted for me because of some future monetary gain, however… Kenton chuckled slightly. “Yes, then,” he declared. “You’d better vote for me, otherwise you won’t see a lak of that loan money.” “You are a cruel bargainer, Lord Mastrell,” Vey returned, also smiling slightly. “I will curse your name right up to the moment I vote for you.” He leaned in close, adding in a lower voice, “I will, however, pray for your soul, Lord Mastrell. The Sand Lord is known to be more lenient with those who are merciful themselves. I trust you have arranged passage back to Kezare?” “I have,” Kenton said. “We can leave as soon as we
|
pick up the Lord General.” “Reegent?” the short Kershtian asked. “Where is he?” Kenton paused. “Didn’t he come with you?” Vey shook his head. “He disappeared from the Tower about the same time you left for Lraezare,” Kenton explained. “The rumors were that he had come with you.” “I know nothing of Reegent,” Vey said, his face earnest. Sands, Kenton thought with concern. Where is he? They left the room, Kenton enthusiastic, Vey relieved, and Ais looking very, very confused. Down below, Kenton was surprised to see that the small entryway had been filled to capacity during his absence. Fully twenty men stood below, each bearing the circled Helm symbol on the breast of their robes. Kenton frowned—this could be none other than the Shipowner’s Circle. They were of little importance to him, however. He would soon be leaving. “Lord Delious, I trust our ship has room for one more passenger,” Kenton asked. “I suppose,” Delious said with a shrug. “Especially if it’s Lord Vey—everyone knows how fond I am of him.” “Good, then let us prepare to go,” Kenton said, shooting an uncomfortable look at the Circle. The men were watching him as he went down the stairs, their faces distrustful. “I think you will find that a difficult task without a ship,” Lokkall said smoothly. Kenton turned suspicious eyes on the head of the Circle. The tall Kershtian man was smiling to himself. “Without a ship?” Kenton demanded quietly. “I’m afraid the Council had need of your ship,” Lokkall informed. “Your things are sitting on the docks. The captain set sail for Kezare fifteen minutes ago.” Kenton cursed, gritting his teeth in anger. Delious just laughed. “What a childish move,” he declared, draining the wine from his ever-present cup. “Don’t worry, Lokkall,” Vey said quickly. “The Lord Mastrell and I have come to an agreement. I shall need to return to Kezare immediately.” Lokkall shot Vey a disgusted look—one Vey received with narrowed eyes of distrust. “I care not if you choose to deal with the unholy one, Vey,” Lokkall hissed in Kershtian. “I have other concerns. It is very important that you make no vote in that Council.” “You wouldn’t!” Vey challenged. “This is outrageous!” “It’s unimportant, is what it is,” Delious cut in. No one but Kenton seemed to notice his flawless Kershtian. Delious switched back to Lossandin. “We’ll just commandeer another boat—I can take my pick, you know.” “Not any more, Delious,” Lokkall said, a sneer on his face. “What?” Delious asked. “Delious of Kezare,” Lokkall announced in a firm voice, the other Circle members standing supportively behind him, “by unanimous vote of the Shipowner’s Circle, you are hereby stripped of your title as Lord Admiral. Your drunkenness has been an embarrassment to the Helm for long enough. You have cost it exorbitant sums and offered no service in return. Your support of this sand master, enemy of the Helm, is the final grain of sand. You have gone too far, and we are left with no choice. Consider yourself released. As of this moment, you are
|
possessionless—as per the Law, all that you had is now the Helm’s. Your service, such as it was, is appreciated.” Delious slumped back against the wall, his eyes wide with shock. “I’m… released?” he asked. “Now? After all this time…” Lokkall smiled, turning to Kenton. “As you see, Lord Mastrell, you appear to be without a means of transportation. You might be able to commandeer some tonks—the trip should only take you a week.” Kenton cursed to himself. Will this never stop? He thought with frustration. Every time I close my eyes, something else new— “You have the documents?” a new voice suddenly asked. Kenton frowned. He thought he recognized the voice—it was familiar, yet different. He turned amazed eyes toward Delious. The former Lord Admiral was standing tall, his aged face somehow looking distinguished despite his foolish clothing. “Right here, Delious,” Delious’s steward said from behind, unrolling several sheets of paper. “Good. Let me sign them.” Delious’s voice was firm—in control. He showed no sign of his former drunkenness. “Trackt,” he said, nodding toward Ais. “Would you look these over to judge their legality?” Ais stepped down in front of Kenton, accepting the sheets and looking over them. “These look in order,” he said after a moment of study. “What are they?” Lokkall said, a bit of uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Deeds,” Ais said. “Deeds to ships, it appears.” Lokkall grew pale. “As Lord Admiral, I was forbidden to own property,” Delious said with a quiet smile. “But the Charter says nothing about my servants. Or my son.” “Oh, sands…” Lokkall whispered. “Delin,” Delious said, looking over the deeds, “is there still a carapace shortage in Kezare?” “I believe so, father,” the steward said, smiling broadly. “Why is that again?” The steward chuckled. “Probably because you ordered all of our ships to buy the incoming loads of carapace and keep them in their holds.” “How many ships do I have in Kezare’s docks?” “Twelve, father,” the steward replied, shooting a satisfied look at the Circle. Delious nodded. “Send our fastest skimmer north. Order the captains to unload their cargoes and sell them at a fourth of the going price.” Fully five members of the Shipowner’s Circle fainted at that remark. Kenton smiled to himself. With the Kezare shortage, it only made sense that they would have purchased all of the carapace in the south and begun shipping it to the north. Entire fortunes could be made—or lost—on such an opportunity. Delious handed the deeds back to his son and took a step forward, staring Lokkall directly in the eyes. “When you steal a man’s fortune, when you give him a title mocked and reviled by the rest of the nation, and when you give him five years to contemplate his hatred, make certain you never give him a chance to get revenge. Remember that next time.” Delious spun to face the rest of the Circle, most of whom were helping their stunned comrades back to their feet. “I nominate Lokkall as the new Lord Admiral,” Delious announced. “If enough of
|
you vote with me, I will change my order, and only sell my carapace at half the going rate instead of a fourth. Those in favor, please make it known.” The vote was unanimous. To his credit, Lokkall managed to bear it without fainting. Delious nodded at the result, turning to the new Lord Admiral. “You are now Lord Admiral, Lokkall,” he said with a hint of vengeance in his voice. “All of your wealth is forfeit. All of your ships are forfeit. You can demand nothing from us but a home and some food. You will probably grow to have a taste for wine, if you don’t have one already.” Lokkall closed his eyes, a look of pain on his face. “This is what you did to me, Lokkall,” Delious whispered. “Feel it. But, unlike you, I’m going to give you a way out. I am going to personally hold all of your wealth and ships. Vote for the Lord Mastrell in the Council, and I will find a new Lord Admiral and return your possessions to you. Do you understand?” Lokkall nodded, his eyes dazed. “Good,” Delious snapped. He turned to Kenton. “Are we going?” Kenton nodded, smiling. “I suppose.” Delious began to walk toward the door. He paused, however, next to his son, removing a wine bottle from the man’s pouch. He uncorked the bottle smelling the wine inside with closed eyes. Then he turned it over and dumped the wine on the floor of Lokkall’s mansion. “You know the ironic thing?” Delious asked to no one in particular. “I absolutely loath wine. Always have.” Khriss caught up to Kenton and Delious as they walked toward the docks. Kenton had explained the way the Lord Admiral was chosen, and she had thought it atrocious. She had known that there was more to the Lord Admiral than he had let on, but this…? Eric had translated most of what was said—though he did so in his summarizing way. Still, she had understood most of what happened. “So,” she demanded, pushing her way between Kenton and Delious, “you were faking all this time?” she asked with amazement, forcing Kenton to play translator. “Define faking, Khrissalla,” Delious responded. “I really did feel like a fool. I really did feel like drinking myself senseless. I really did loose faith in truth and justice. I didn’t give up, however. I spent the first month after my appointment to the Lord Admiralship feeling sorry for myself. After that, I began planning. You don’t become a successful merchant without knowing how to deal with temporary setbacks.” “Five years is hardly temporary,” Kenton noted. Delious smiled, a bit of his old humor showing through. “It is, when compared to a lifetime,” he noted. “True,” Kenton admitted. “Only the Council could release me,” Delious explained as they walked down the street. Going down suited Khriss much more than climbing up. “Therefore, the only thing I could do was annoy them to the point that they decided to get rid of me.” “And you planned for all those years…”
|
Khriss said with amazement. “I had little else to do,” Delious pointed out. “I have a question, Delious,” Kenton asked. “Why are you helping me? Your plan is finished; you won. Wouldn’t it be better for your profession to oppose the Diem?” Delious shrugged. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “The truth is, Lord Mastrell, that I empathize with you. I know treachery, and I know what it is like to fight impossible odds. What was done to your profession was not right, and I will not support its destruction.” Khriss shook her head. She couldn’t believe the change in the man. He walked proudly now, where he had stumbled foolishly before. His eyes were keen, rather than dulled by drink. He spoke firmly, rather than with slurred tones. She had yet to meet a person on dayside who felt more like a nobleman than the new Delious. He had the lucid eyes and honest face of a kind and just lord. No wonder the Circle was afraid of him, she thought. She turned to Kenton. “And what about you?” she asked. “What did you do up there? How did you beat that merchant into submission?” “I didn’t,” Kenton said frankly. “It turns out he was the one who owed the seven hundred thousand, not the Diem. He had a debt that transferred from Lord Merchant to Lord Merchant—a debt owed to the Diem.” “So, you demanded it from him?” Khriss asked with amazement. Suddenly, he was rich. “No,” Kenton said. “I forgave it. I didn’t want to get money that way.” “You…” Khriss said, trailing off. “Kenton, that was stupid.” Kenton chuckled to himself. “What?” she demanded. “Nothing,” he said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Vey was so impressed that he offered to let me push him into giving me his vote.” “What?” Khriss asked. “I’ll explain later.” She frowned—she never liked that answer. She didn’t press the point, however. “How are we going to get back?” she asked. “Didn’t they send our ship away?” Delious smiled. “Delin,” he said, addressing the nondescript man who was apparently his son, “how many ships do we have in the Lraezare docks?” “Three,” Delin replied. “Which one is the fastest?” “The Kalqin,” Delin informed. “Tell the captain we’ll be leaving for Kezare within the hour.” “Yes, sir,” Delin said, nodding and hurrying ahead. “He’s a good boy,” Delious mumbled. “His mother left me when I lost my fortune—the first time, I mean.” Khriss froze, stopping in place. “Wait a minute,” she said. “What about the Lord General?” Delious paused too, frowning. “You’re right. Wasn’t he supposed to be here?” Kenton shook his head. “No. Vey said he hadn’t come with him.” “Then where is he?” Delious asked. Kenton just shook his head. “We only have three days to find out.” A good tailwind sped their progress north. Even still, travelling against the current meant that it would take nearly two days to complete the trip. Kenton withstood it in silent frustration. By the time they got back to Kezare, he would only have one day until the fight
|
with Drile and the judgement, which would occur a few hours later. He was so close. Vey’s support would not only bring him the Lord Farmer, but the loan should be enough to placate the Lord Artisan. The Diem would still have debts—however, many professions took out loans from the Guild. He could only hope that the Lady Judge would accept the deal, with the promise of payment, as proof that the Diem was on the road to financial stability. Kenton leaned against the ship’s wale, watching the land pass. A short distance away, he could see Vey speaking quietly with the elderly Cynder—as a merchant, Vey knew a smattering of Dynastic. It was odd, seeing Vey in such a manner—seeing him as a person, rather than an opponent. He laughed happily with Cynder, trying out his limited vocabulary. He was the Lord Merchant, and he was a Kershtian, but he was still a person. Maybe if I hadn’t assumed he would oppose me from the beginning, I could have avoided all of this, Kenton realized with guilt. Of course, that was his problem, wasn’t it? He assumed everyone was against him. It had seemed that way in the Diem, and he had fought for so long that he had begun to see the entire world in a similar manner. You were right, father. You were right all along. I was a fool. He felt relieved, in a way, to realize that. The world seem like a much more optimistic place now that he understood that he didn’t necessarily have to defend himself against everyone he met. Of course, he still had to win the Diem’s judgement. Delious had secured him the Lord Admiral’s vote. Even if Kenton didn’t personally agree with Delious’s motives, he couldn’t fault the man. After what had happened to Delious, he had a right to be ruthless. The opportunity he had offered Lokkall, allowing the man to have his possessions back after his term as Lord Admiral, was far more merciful than could be expected. Delious stood now, speaking quietly with the ship captain as they sailed north. Kenton watched them, leaning against the bow wale. His nose and eyes no longer red from alcohol, the former Lord Admiral cut an imposing figure. He had abandoned his flowery robes, instead choosing ones of a more moderate style—simple tans and grays. However, the plain clothing did not detract from his presence. Before, one’s eyes had been drawn directly to Delious’s clothing, and its flowery bright colors and frills had formed an immediate impression in the viewer. Now, however, the clothing faded to the background, allowing one to realize just how distinguished a man Delious was. He stood tall and proud, his gray-flecked hair lending him a sagacious air. This is the type of man I would become, Kenton decided. He could immediately tell why Delious had been so successful, no matter what Profession he chose. He had an air that made men want to follow him. His movements bespoke experience. Kenton turned around, staring out across the passing
|
river, feeling the cool breeze blowing against his face, the ship quivering slightly below him as it forced its way against the current. Perhaps someday he could be like Delious, but only if he survived the next few days. His powers still hadn’t returned. He was beginning to think Khriss and Eric were right—he had been a fool to do something so drastic so close to the judgement. Of course, despite all of his successes, he still had three votes he couldn’t count on. Dirin’s ploy to gain the Talloner vote was a completely random factor. The Lord General, the first supporter he had thought he’d gained, had disappeared completely. Most stressful of all, however, was the Lady Judge’s vote. With Ais giving her information, Kenton could only guess what she thought of him. The loan from Vey was only a half-answer to her demand that the Diem get rid of its debts, and he had no idea how she would judge whether or not the Diem had convinced the people of Lossand to accept it. At least I can count on one thing, he thought ruefully. The Lady Judge had told him that the Diem needed a solid leader in order to prove itself. One way or another, the sand masters would have their leader—either he would kill Drile or, more likely, Drile would kill him. Kenton could only hope that if that happened, all of the Taisha would still vote as they had promised. “It’s not working.” Khriss paused. She had just left her cabin and was on her way up to the deck. The voice, however, made her pause. It was coming from the room Eric shared with Cynder. The door was slightly ajar. Cynder, however, was on deck—or he had been a few minutes ago when she’d left him. Who was Eric talking too? “You’ve done a pretty good job, these last few years,” Eric said conversationally. “Except for that one incident, of course. Still, for the most part you’ve completely avoided responsibility. No worries. No one depending on you. No one dying for you.” Khriss frowned. Who could he possibly…? Feeling a little embarrassed—but only a little—she peeked through the open door and scanned the room. Eric reclined on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. There was no one else in the room. “He’s going to drag you down with him,” Eric continued. “Already, you feel as if you have some stake in this stupid contest. You feel that if he doesn’t succeed, you will have somehow failed. How did you let yourself get pulled into something like this? Next thing you know, he’ll try to talk you into being captain of his personal guard.” Why is he talking to himself? Khriss wondered, rechecking the room for another occupant. She shook her head. You’ve always known he was a little odd, she reminded herself, leaving the door behind and continuing on up to the deck. Kenton stood by the bow, looking out over the passing waters, and Delious was speaking with the captain. Cynder sat in
|
the same place as before, compiling a list of words he had collected from Lossandin, trying to outline the language’s grammatical structure with the help of the diminutive Lord Merchant. All of them seemed absorbed in what they were doing, and didn’t appear as if they would appreciate an interruption. And, since Eric was talking to himself and Baon was down below napping, Khriss was left without anything to do. Well, I’ll go bother Kenton, she decided. He’s used to it. Besides, it isn’t good for him to spend so much time thinking about his fight with Drile. Besides, she had something she wanted to talk to him about—something she had been avoiding for the last few days. She approached quietly, but he noticed her anyway, turning to see who it was, then smiling when he realized it was Khriss. Once that would have been a scowl, she realized. He would have been annoyed when he saw it was me. What changed? She walked over, leaning against the wale beside him. The water rushed below, looking so cool and refreshing. She was almost tempted to leap in. Of course, even if the ship hadn’t been moving, that probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. The daysiders would all immediately assume she had gone insane. “I don’t think two weeks have ever passed more quickly,” Kenton said, staring out across the water. Khriss nodded, regarding his contemplative face. The weeks may have passed quickly, but it seemed like each day had contained a year’s worth of experiences. Kenton had grown solemn and responsible during that time. He still had the same smirk, but it was tempered by discerning eyes and an earnest temperament. “If only I had another week,” he said quietly. “Time to firm up my support, time to make certain the Taisha really will vote for me. Time to get my powers back…” “Everyone always wishes for more time,” Khriss said. “It’s human nature. Next week always seems better than right now.” “Not always,” Kenton said, turning to meet her eyes. “Some moments I wish would never pass. Sometimes I wish I could drift in the here, wish that next week would never come. Some instants are special.” Khriss couldn’t speak for a long time. She simply stood, staring into his bright daysider eyes. They were so colorful—she’d never noticed that before. They had no Skycolor, but the seemed to shine anyway. Blue, with flecks of green. Eventually he turned, looking back across the moving shore. Behind them, Khriss heard Eric’s voice speaking with Cynder—the daysider must have finished his conversation with himself and come up on deck. “The Kershtians say immortality is being held in the Sand Lord’s memory for all time,” Kenton whispered. “As long as he knows you, you live on.” He turned back to her. “Remember me,” he requested. “Don’t talk like that,” she said. “You’ll live.” Kenton didn’t respond. “Come back with me,” Khriss suddenly heard herself blurt. “What?” Kenton asked. Inside, Khriss cursed her lack of tact. She’d been wondering how to make the offer
|
without sounding too forward. She’d spoken now, however. There was nothing to do now but continue on. “Come back to darkside with me,” she repeated. “Don’t let him kill you, Kenton. Come to Elis with me. You’ll like it there—darkside is a beautiful place.” Kenton smiled slightly. “You should have asked me two weeks ago,” he replied, “before I learned responsibility.” “You’ll die!” Khriss objected. “There’s no responsibility in that. You’ve done your best—once we find the Lord General, we can leave. The Diem will be safe.” Kenton shook his head. “And how would the Taisha regard such an act?” he asked. “The sand masters have been cowards through the history of Lossand, Khriss. They hid behind their power, never taking responsibility for what they did. If I run now, I’ll just confirm everything my opposition has been saying. If I die fighting, that is one thing. But I can’t run. I began this, I must do my best to finish it.” “Oh, Kenton,” she whispered, searching for hope in his eyes. She had been wrong about him. When she had compared him to Gevin, she had pronounced Gevin perfect and Kenton flawed. How naïve she had been. Gevin wasn’t perfect. But, neither was Kenton. That wasn’t the point. Perhaps if she hadn’t idolized Gevin so much, she might have seen what he was trying to tell her. Kenton wasn’t perfect, but he was many other things. He had courage and determination—both things she respected in him. He fought on, no matter how horrible things seemed. He made Khriss want to do likewise, made her feel—by association—that Elis really could stand against the Dynasty, that she really could do something to help, and that, despite her recent failures, she could find the things she yearned for. Kenton reached out, touching her cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers. The moment, however, was spoiled as the captain began to yell curses. Khriss turned. A smaller ship had come close to getting itself run down by their ship. The captain had his fist raised in the air, and was yelling at the other captain. Kenton chuckled, shaking his head. “I haven’t heard that word in a while,” he mumbled. Suddenly, Khriss noticed something. The smaller ship wasn’t responding to the captain’s curses. It was still drifting closer to their ship. It was a flat, barge-like vessel, with several figures standing on its deck. Eight of them, their skin an olive tan. “Kenton, down!” she said, pushing him to the deck as the archers began to fire. Screams rang out across the ship as sailors dropped, arrows sprouting from their bodies. Ropes thunked against the side of the ship. It took them a moment—the Kershtians didn’t look too happy to be on the water—but they did make it onto the ship, and they immediately turned toward Kenton. “Get below decks!” Kenton urged, pushing Khriss toward the open cabin doors. She would probably be safe down there—the assassins were only after him. But why shoot the sailors? He thought with confusion. Then he realized why
|
as a couple of sailors pulled out short swords, standing defensively. They were probably trained to deal with the possibility of piracy. Only two were still standing, however—the captain and another man. Khriss followed his command, scuttling toward the doorway. Two of the assassins got there first, however, slamming the door closed. What? Kenton thought with surprise. Then he saw them throw down the bar, locking the door. Baon and Ais were both down there. Without them, and without his sand mastery… Oh, sands! Five of the Kershtians were heading toward them, their weapons held suspiciously, their steps uncertain on the rocking ship’s deck. Still, they were determined, despite their discomfort at being on the water. They had shot off all of their arrows trying to kill him and the sailors. Each of the five had either a sword or a shortspear, however. Suddenly, Kenton realized just how much trouble he was in. The Kershtians only paused to see what he would do—his defeat of their comrades in the past had made them wary. As soon as they realized he wasn’t going to use sand, they would attack. I can’t fight five men at once! He thought with despair. Even on a good day, he was lucky if he could defeat a single trained warrior in combat, let alone five. This is it then. He wouldn’t even survive long enough to be killed by Drile. Khriss made it halfway to the stairs before the two Kershtians blocked it, holding the portal to keep any more people from coming up on deck. Behind her, Kenton was quickly surrounded by five warriors. The last man moved toward the captain and Delious, holding his zinkall threateningly. No! Khriss thought angrily, crouching down and pressing herself against the wale. She had to do something. Without his sand, Kenton was in serious danger. She looked anxiously across deck, searching for something to help. The door downstairs was shaking—Baon was probably using something to try battering it open. The two Kershtians were still standing there, however, holding the door shut. Baon wouldn’t dare fire his pistols through, not without knowing who he might hit. There was nothing she could do. Suddenly, the five Kershtians advanced on Kenton, two swinging at him directly, distracting him while the other three moved around to flank him. Kenton parried recklessly, trying to fight the two men before him while keeping his eye on the ones to the side. It wasn’t working very well. Khriss continued to search for help. Cynder and Vey had fled, and were seeking cover on the other side of the ship. Neither one of them would be much help. She turned, desperate. At that moment, her eyes me Eric’s. He crouched beside the opposite wale, watching the battle with calm eyes. He wasn’t going to do anything. Khriss held his eyes. Please! She tried to communicate the feeling with her eyes. She didn’t know what he could do, but she had seen him in the previous fight. He had at least some experience. Eric watched the battle. He
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.