White Sand

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Thanks for the conversation,” the man said absently, wandering away from the docks.

  #

  Ais dashed through the crowd, pushing his way through the confused people. Those ahead him tried their best to get out of his way, but the crowd made it difficult. The press grew worse the closer they neared the docks, slowing his progress even further. Fortunately, Lokmlen wasn’t moving any more quickly, despite his cursings and shovings. Eventually, the man ducked to the side, running into an alley. Ais reached the same spot a few seconds later, leaving behind the crowd and its cries of anger and surprise as he entered the alley.

  Immediately, a zinkall arrow whizzed past his head. Ais cursed, firing a shot of his own blindly into the alley as he ducked to the side, pressing up against the building’s wall, using a pile of chipped clay bricks as cover. A second later he heard footsteps retreating down the alley, and he hissed quietly, leaping over the pile of rubble to follow. After just a second of running, however, he heard a noise to the side of him, and caught movement in his peripheral. He ducked just in time to avoid the sword strike that followed.

  Lokmlen leapt at him from behind another pile of rubble, attacking deftly with a thin-bladed Lossandin sword. Ais parried, blocking with his own Kershtian weapon, whose carapace material lent itself better to thicker, wider blades. The two traded blows, fighting in the unique manner of dayside fencing. The swords were almost secondary to the battle—the zinkallin were what mattered. Both Kershtians fought carefully, their left arms kept outstretched to the side, using their zinkallin like bucklers when necessary, but mostly holding them in reserve, searching for an opportunity to fire. zinkallin made decent medium-ranged weapons, but their true deadliness was at short, man-to-man ranges. A point-blank shot from a zinkall could easily be deadly—and, even if it wasn’t, a man fought very poorly with an arrow sticking from his chest.

  Lokmlen fought well, better than Ais had expected. Of course, the man had managed to murder three trackts, which said something for his skills. After just a few seconds of fighting, it was obvious who was the better fighter. Ais was an exemplary trackt, but his true talents were in investigation and leadership. He was only moderate when it came to sword-play. If he was going to win the battle, he would need to get in a good shot with his final arrow.

  And, fortunately, one came quickly. Lokmlen ducked to the side, leaving himself open to fire as he turned back to the battle. Ais moved instinctually as he swung his left arm around, drawing aim on his opponent’s chest. Too late he realized Lokmlen’s feint. The thief had lowered his arm in what Ais assumed was a balancing move, but was really putting himself in to position to fire. Not at Ais’s chest, which would have been too obvious, but at his leg.

  Lokmlen fired first, and Ais felt a searing pain in his leg. His own shot, thrown off Lokmlen’s attack, went wild, and his final arrow snapped uselessly against the alley wall.

  Ais stumbled back against the side of the alley, gritting his teeth against the pain, holding his sword defensively. Lokmlen raised his arm. He had fired twice already—he might still have an arrow left.

  “Surrender, zensha,” Lokmlen ordered. Zensha. Traitor.

  Ais smiled, then launched himself at Lokmlen. If the man had another arrow, he would have fired it.

  Sure enough, Lokmlen lowered his arm, blocking Ais’s attack with a curse. Now the swordfight truly became intense, both men using their zinkallin as shields, blocking with the thick carapace shells. Ais, however, was wounded, and his mobility was severely hampered. In addition, Lokmlen was a much better swordsman. There was only one way this battle could end.

  “The Sand Lord has left you weak, traitor” Lokmlen whispered in Kershtian. “I’ve met children with more skill. This is what you betrayed your people to become?”

  Ais continued to fight, throwing himself into the battle with zeal. Lokmlen blocked deftly, waiting for Ais’s strength to run out. Ais stepped forward, then slipped on his own blood, which poured from his wound. Lokmlen’s blade immediately struck, biting into Ais’s arm.

  And, deep within, Ais began to feel his control slip.

  His swings became more wild, his vision began to blur. As it had happened so many times before, Ais’s secret revealed itself. He began to beat at Lokmlen, using his sword almost like a club. He heard the growls coming from his throat. He felt the spittle running down his chin. His body began to grow numb.

  Lokmlen deftly, almost leisurely, dodged Ais’s blows. Ais continued to attack, but the quiet side of his mind, the side that remained conscious even during moments of rage, knew the battle was over. Rage didn’t impart power, it didn’t give strength like the stories said. All it did was make him lose control. An unseen strike from Lokmlen took him on the arm, and Ais spun. He could barely feel the pain. He used his spin to build momentum, screaming in anger, striking at his opponent.

  His hand, empty, passed in front of Lokmlen’s face, carrying no weapon.

  Stupefied, Ais looked at his bloodied hand, then noticed his sword on the ground. It had slipped from his numb fingers following Lokmlen’s last strike.

  Ais felt himself slide to the ground in despair. You always knew this day would come. The day when your secret finally killed you. All those years of struggling, all your time in the Hall, forcing yourself to become a model of control. Wasted.

  Lokmlen raised his blade, using it to snap Ais’s DaiKeen symbol off his forehead. “You are a disgrace, trackt,” Lokmlen hissed. “I give you now to the Sand Lord’s judgement.” Then moved to strike.

  “Um, excuse me?”

  Lokmlen looked up at the sound, confused. Ais did as well, his vision clearing slightly as the rage backed away. A figure stood in the alley, a shorter man of husky build with dark curly hair and an oblong bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Now, I realize it’s probably none of my business,” the newcomer said, leaning against the side of the alley. “But, don’t you think the poor man has had enough for one day? I mean, I’m a strong proponent of humiliating trackts, but killing them is a bit extreme.”

  Lokmlen bent down, picking up Ais’s sword and tossing it to the newcomer. The man caught it with a deft movement of the hand. Ais watched the exchange with a measure of returning sentience.

  “If you wish to fight me, stranger, then I accept your challenge,” Lokmlen said, raising his blade.

  The newcomer eyed the sword with a distasteful look, tossing it aside as if it were some kind of venomous sandling. “Thank you, but no,” the man said. “Swords and I don’t get along very well together.”

  Lokmlen snorted. “I don’t think you have much choice,” he said, and attacked with a quick, precise thrust.

  Which the stranger dodged.

  Ais watched, struggling to regain control of his rebellious body. The stranger didn’t look like a warrior—he didn’t act like one or move like one, not to mention his obviously out-of-shape body. But, when Lokmlen struck, that all changed for a brief second. The stranger altered his stance, dropping his bag and suddenly moving with a fighter’s fluidity. He easily dodged out of the weapon’s way, then immediately fell back into his relaxed, pedestrian stance.

  Lokmlen frowned, pulling his weapon up to regard the stranger, who now stood leaning leisurely against the alley’s other wall. The assassin struck again, obviously with a more determined thrust, but again the stranger somehow wiggled past his blade.

  Ais didn’t know who the stranger was, but as his sentience returned, he thanked the Sand Lord for the man’s arrival. Slowly, Ais slipped a small zinkall arrow from the quiver tied to the back of his belt and loaded it into the front of his weapon.

  Lokmlen was attacking continuously now, fencing with the stranger like one would an armed opponent. Yet, the stranger continued to keep just barely out of the sword’s path. The weapon wove and sliced, sometimes coming close enough to the stranger that Ais could hear its tip tear at the soft darkside cloth. He never drew blood, however.

  Finally, the stranger pulled an o
dd feint, jumping forward instead of backward and catching Lokmlen’s weapon in one hand. The move put the two men face-to-face, one confused, the other smiling happily. Then, the stranger released the weapon and proceeded to slam the heel of his boot into his opponent’s foot.

  Lokmlen cried out, dropping his sword in pain. The stranger nodded cheerfully to Ais, who had just finished pumping his zinkall. Ais raised the weapon, pointing it threateningly at the disarmed assassin.

  “Eric’s first rule of combat,” the stranger said, picking up his pack and waving farewell to Ais as he strolled back toward the street. “Always go for the toes.”

  #

  Ais handed Lokmlen off to a couple of trackts guarding the front of the thieves hideout. He ignored their suggestions that he let a healer see to his wounds—none of them were very bad, and had stopped bleeding now that he had them bound.

  He quietly strode up the steps to the top floor. In the back room he found members of his band cleaning up and searching through potential evidence.

  “Sir, you’ll want to see this,” one of them said, nodding toward the side of the room.

  Ais followed the gesture, noticing a man sitting against the wall, a healer at his side. The man wasn’t a trackt or a thief—he wore the colorful robes of a rich man, though those robes were stained with filth and blood. The man held his face in his hands, shaking with quiet sobs. Though his features were obscured, the man’s scraggly beard and emaciated body bespoke a lengthy imprisonment.

  “Who?” Ais asked quietly.

  “Torkel,” the trackt replied.

  Ais frowned, trying not to let his surprise show on his face. Torkel was a wealthy landowner, advisor to the Lord Merchant himself. The man and his family had disappeared during a trip down the river over half a year ago. It had looked like a boating accident.

  “We found him in a chamber hidden in the closet,” the trackt said in a hushed voice. “Along with … the corpses.”

  “Corpses?” Ais asked.

  “His wife and children,” the trackt explained solemnly. “Apparently, Torkel used to be one of Sharezan’s informants. When he tried to back out, Sharezan wasn’t pleased. They locked him in the closet, killed one of his family members every month, and tossed the bodies in with him.”

  It was nearly enough to make the rage return. This time, however, Ais fought it down, keeping his face under control.

  I will find you, Sharezan. Nilto. By the Sand Lord, I will catch you.

  This was why he chased the man. This was what drove him to work at this case as he had no other. Sharezan wasn’t just a criminal, wasn’t just a murderer, he was a maniac. Torkel wasn’t the first one he had tortured to the point of insanity. Not by far.

  “See that this man’s involvement in Sharezan’s operations is kept quiet,” Ais ordered. “He has suffered enough.”

  The trackt nodded.

  Ais turned and looked back into the main room, where zinkall arrows lay scattered around the floor, tables and chairs toppled by the battle. Ais held his mask of emotionless in front of him like a barrier as he surveyed the scene. He counted black-dressed bodies with cold eyes. Six dead, one of them Jedan. Stiffly, he stepped through the hole between the rooms, ignoring the bloodied body laying in the amongst the rubble.

  “Tain, you’re now Second,” he said flatly as he passed his Third, who knelt beside Jedan’s corpse.

  Several trackts stood, watching Ais as he walked toward the exit. The new members of Jedan’s band. “Great Sand Lord!” one of them whispered, barely audible as Ais left the room, “doesn’t he have any feelings at all?”

  Ais bowed his head as soon as he was out of view, sighing to himself an shuddering slightly. Then he looked up, forcing his face to be flat, to be strong. Control. It is all about control . …

  Chapter Twelve

  “Young Kenton, would you mind helping an old woman to her quarters?”

  Kenton turned with surprise. Heelis, the Lady Judge herself, was standing behind him. People were flowing from the judgement chamber, most of them eagerly discussing the day’s events. Many had paused to congratulate him on his arguments, though Kenton didn’t see what they found so impressive. A two-week forestallment of the Diem’s destruction was hardly a stunning victory. Still, he had accepted their praise graciously, though his first reaction was to spurn them. He was quickly coming to understand that he couldn’t afford to make enemies amongst Lossand’s elite. He already regretted his treatment of the Council in years past.

  Which was why he hadn’t expected to see any of the Taisha approach him. The elderly Heelis, however, appeared to have lost all of her earlier hostility. She now stood before him with an unreadable expression, her wrinkled eyes studying him.

  “I’ll help her, if you want,” Dirin offered.

  “No, Dirin,” Kenton said slowly. “Wait for me outside the Hall. I will escort the Lady Judge.”

  “Quite kind of you, Lord Mastrell,” Heelis said, extending her arm for him to take. She wore a long gown of Hall black, loose at the waist, and the only jewelry she wore was a silver necklace.

  Kenton let the Lady Judge lead as they strolled away from the judgement chamber and its chattering crowds, walking around the periphery of the hall. Most of the pyramidal building’s space was taken up by the central chamber, and, as Kenton recalled, the rest was filled with offices. Heelis moved leisurely, not speaking at first, leaving Kenton to ponder on what it was she wanted to tell him.

  “You are much like your father, young Kenton,” she finally said.

  “I don’t know, My Lady. I am stubborn like he was, perhaps,” Kenton said with a slight frown.

  “Stubborn,” Heelis agreed, “and contradictory.”

  Kenton blushed slightly.

  Heelis laughed to herself. “Don’t be too ashamed of your nature, child. There is a vague line between being contradictory and being discerning. Just learn when to object, and when to allow authority to do as it is intended.”

  Kenton walked in silence for a moment, his Lossandin boots—tightly wrapped to keep the sand out—falling softly on the Hall’s stone floor. “I must confess I’m confused, My Lady,” he finally admitted. “Aren’t you angry with me?”

  “Yes,” Heelis admitted. “You arrived at a very inopportune time, young Kenton. No one likes to be surprised at the last moment.”

  “But you were going to destroy the Diem!” Kenton objected.

  “After a manner, yes,” Heelis admitted.

  “I couldn’t let that happen.”

  Heelis sighed quietly. “Do you understand the responsibility you have taken upon yourself, young Kenton?”

  Kenton smiled. “Now you sound like my father.”

  “He did enjoy laying responsibility, didn’t he?” Heelis said, a fond look on her face. “I will miss Praxton.”

  “I thought you didn’t like the sand masters,” Kenton said.

  “Nonsense, child,” Heelis returned. “I had great respect for the Diem, and especially for your father. Both grew too powerful, however, and too arrogant—those are things that breed enemies. The Diem built itself up so high that when it fell, even I couldn’t rescue it.”

  “You would have tried?” Kenton asked with a frown. Was this the same woman who had pronounced such harsh judgement just a few minutes before?

  Heelis sighed. “I did try, young Kenton. That was what I was doing today. You said yourself that the purpose of the Law was to protect, not to destroy.”

  “I must admit confusion, Lady Judge. Perhaps we were attending different trials.”

  “Yes,” Heelis mumbled. “Very much like your father.” Then, in a stronger tone, she continued. “The Lord Merchant and Lord General are very powerful men, Kenton—as powerful as your father was. The three of them have been vying for leadership in this nation for decades now. Once the Diem stumbled, there was no chance that the other two would let it survive. There was no way I could have saved the Diem—I could, however, allow its enemies a complete victo
ry at first, then convince them to go easy on the remnants of your kind. The sand masters could have continued practicing, probably as a sub-Profession in the Draft.”

  “We wouldn’t have had a voice in the Council, then,” Kenton objected.

  “True. But you would have been able to keep your identity as a group.”

  Kenton frowned. “But,” he continued, “if you are so intent on helping the Diem, why did you push such harsh limitations on its continuance? There is virtually no chance that I will be able to convince all seven Taisha to vote for me. I could have perhaps gained a majority, but a unanimous decision … .”

  “Ah, young Kenton,” Heelis said, staring down the corridor with slightly unfocused eyes. “You must not mistake Heelis the person and Heelis the Lady Judge. The Lady Judge must remain impartial, no matter what her personal biases. The Diem is wounded, perhaps mortally. A simple majority decision wouldn’t be enough to heal it. Now that the doubt of a practically unanimous decision has been cast against the Diem, only a complete reverse of that decision will be enough to restore the nation’s faith in sand mastery. Any less would be a disservice to the Diem—such a decision would leave it irreparably weakened. My decision was not made out of vengeance, but out of pity.”

  The Lady Judge drew to a halt beside a large door marked with the Hall’s seal. “You have a chance, young Kenton. But, I will admit that it isn’t a very good one. I do not envy you.”

  “Can I at least count on your vote?” Kenton asked.

  Heelis shook her head. “I am afraid not.”

  “But you said you don’t want to see the Diem destroyed!”

  “I don’t,” Heelis agreed. “But, if destruction is in the best interest of Lossand, then that is what I must support.”

  “The Diem’s arrogance is broken,” Kenton said. “There is nothing to fear from us now.”

  “Arrogance will return. Wherever there is power, there is pride. Besides, it is more than the Diem’s power that I am worried about.”