White Sand

by Brandon Sanderson

  Khriss marched from the room and down the hallway toward the building’s exit, Baon and N’Teese following behind.

  “That last comment didn’t make any sense, you know,” Baon noted as they left through the pyramid’s broad front gates, Khriss pausing only briefly to pull out her dark glasses.

  “I’m a duchess!” Khriss fumed, shoving the glasses over her eyes. “I don’t have to make sense!”

  “All right …” Baon said, shaking his head. He followed behind as Khriss began walking away from the Hall down a moderately busy street. “Are we wandering somewhere specific, or did you simply pick a random direction?”

  Khriss continued to march, ignoring the comment—especially since she had, in fact, picked a random direction. Finally she slowed, forcing herself to grow calm. Obviously this Lady Judge wasn’t going to be of any help.

  “N’Teese,” she ordered. “Who else did you say was important in this town? The Lord General? Well, if he’s one of these Kelzin, like you say, then maybe he’ll have more respect for someone with a proper title.”

  “Maybe …” N’Teese said without much conviction.

  “Take me to him,” Khriss demanded.

  #

  Unfortunately, N’Teese’s pessimism proved well-founded.

  The Tower turned out to be a tall stone structure that lived up to its name. It sat like a low-walled castle, with its own gate and squareish perimeter. Soldiers sparred and trained across its inner courtyard. The keep at the back was constructed almost like a darkside castle, though it wasn’t as high and it had a lot more windows, not to mention a domed roof.

  Inside, Khriss was forced to endure a somewhat shorter—but equally infuriating—wait before being told that the Lord General wouldn’t be able to see her. Apparently, he was planning some sort of hunting trip, and would be leaving in just a few hours. The soonest he would be able to see her was when he returned, just under two weeks hence. He did send a very flowery apology, however.

  Khriss’s anger lasted as they traipsed away from the Tower to walk halfway across the city to the Guild headquarters, a large mansion-like building with a rich interior. Here she found that didn’t have to wait at all—she was promptly informed that she could see the Lord Merchant immediately. If, that was, she were willing to pay a 2,000 lak processing fee.

  She returned to darksider town frustrated, angry, and several hours late.

  #

  Eventually, a very tired Khriss arrived back at the meeting place in front of Loaten’s house. However, neither Acron nor Cynder were there to meet her. Instead, a distinguished-looking darksider in a simple white suit approached them and bowed. He was perhaps forty years old, and had close-cropped hair and long sideburns.

  “Duchess Khrissalla?” the man asked with a Vetoian accent.

  “Yes?” Khriss responded.

  “I have been sent to fetch you. Please come with me.”

  They followed the man for a short distance to a brick-fronted house along one of the town’s darkened streets. He opened the door with a white-gloved hand, standing aside to let Khriss, Baon, and a somewhat confused N’Teese in.

  The room inside was comfortably darksiderish, and even appeared to have been constructed after Elisian architecture. There was a long staircase twirling up the right side of the entry hall and several doors leading off to the left. Khriss nodded approvingly, stepping forward and down a short decline to enter what should be, assuming the house followed standard format, the study. Inside she found Cynder sitting contentedly in a houserobe, chewing on the end of a pipe and sitting in front of a glass-fronted fireplace.

  “Ah, duchess,” he said, rising as she entered.

  Khriss waved him to sit back down as she took a seat for herself. The room was tastefully decorated with plenty of wood to give it a darksider feel—there were even several books in one of the cases. The only light in the room came from the fireplace, but it was more than enough illumination by darkside standards.

  “I hope dinner is already cooking,” Khriss said, leaning back in a chair so plush it had probably been imported from darkside.

  “Of course,” Cynder said. “The cook says it will be finished within an hour. I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t return in time, my lady.”

  “I was beginning to fear I wouldn’t ever return,” Khriss mumbled, taking off her shoes and rubbing her sore feet. She had never walked so much in her entire life.

  “Idan, fetch the duchess some slippers, if you would,” Cynder requested.

  The man who had led Khriss to the house bowed and moved out of the room to perform the errand. As he did so, he passed an amazed N’Teese who still stood in the den’s doorway.

  “You hired servants?” she asked incredulously.

  “Of course they did,” Khriss said with a frown. “I told them to find us a place to stay, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yes …” N’Teese said.

  “Well, houses come with servants, don’t they?” Khriss asked.

  “Actually, not on this side of the world, apparently,” Cynder informed. “We had to hire them separately. Of course, they were very happy to find work. Apparently there is a dearth of nobility here on dayside—most of the people who flee the Dynasty tend to be of the lower classes for some reason.” Cynder chuckled at his own comment as Idan returned with a pair of slippers for Khriss.

  “You people are amazing,” N’Teese mumbled.

  Khriss frowned, still not certain what was bothering the girl. “I don’t understand, N’Teese. Why wouldn’t we hire servants? How would we eat if we didn’t?”

  “I don’t know. Fix it yourself?”

  Cynder snorted quietly. “You’ve obviously never tasted a noblewoman’s cooking,” he mumbled.

  Khriss ignored the gibe. “Where is Acron?”

  “Shopping,” Cynder explained. “It appears that our gemstones are worth even more than you thought—much more than our gold or silver. We got several thousand lak for each one we sold; we could probably live here for the rest of our lives on what we earned.”

  “Then that merchant back in the first town did cheat us!” Khriss growled.

  Cynder smiled, his aged eyes twinkling. “My Lady appears to be in a rare humor this hour.”

  Khriss sighed as Idan brought her a cup of warm tea. “You have no idea,” she said, sipping at the liquid—it was the perfect temperature, considering the relative heat on dayside.

  “The rulers didn’t know of the Prince’s whereabouts?” Cynder guessed.

  “Worse. None of them even agreed to see me!”

  “Really?” Cynder asked, genuinely surprised. “I guess we are far from where our titles mean anything, aren’t we?”

  Khriss just shook her head, sipping her tea. “Perhaps one of the others will let me in. I only tried three of the eight.”

  Suddenly, they heard the sound of the front door opening. A moment later Acron’s bulk appeared in the doorway, followed by three darksider packmen bearing bundled packages.

  “That was the most enjoyable day I have ever spent!” Acron announced to the room. He was wearing a bright red dayside robe and three different medallions on his forehead. He also, Khriss noticed with a sigh, was wearing a black zinkall on each arm.

  “The cultural experience of shopping in a market where no one speaks your language!” Acron explained, seating himself and taking a cup of tea from Idan. “Even when I traveled the Dynasty, everyone spoke the same language. Never have I been immersed so completely in a different culture. It was exhilarating—oh, you can set those over here.”

  The packmen obliged, placing the packages on the floor beside Acron’s chair, then went to Idan for payment. The butler dutifully counted out a lak for them each, and they left.

  “You wouldn’t believe the things I found!” Acron said, still excited. He began to unwrap packages, pulling out bowls, rugs, utensils, and other random articles. “Works of art carved by primitive fingers, exotic clothing … even an intricate hourglass like no
ne I’ve ever seen. Oh, and I purchased some clothing for you, duchess. I assumed you were growing tired wearing the same things every day.”

  Khriss perked up slightly as he pulled out a package and handed it to her. Inside she found several dayside robes of different styles, all of them colored slightly—none as bright as darksider clothing, but much better than the standard dayside grays and tans.

  “Thank you, Acron,” she acknowledged. “This is the first pleasant thing that has happened to me all day.”

  “Oh?” Acron asked, happily turning a massive hourglass—actually, five hourglasses in a row, each one smaller than the one before—and watching it with intrigued eyes.

  “The duchess had a less-than-successful day of information gathering,” Cynder explained, still puffing on his pipe.

  “Be cheered, My Lady,” Acron said dismissively. “It’s only the first day. We’ll find the prince.” He didn’t, however, seem half as interested in Gevin as he was in the dribbling sand. Eventually, he put the glass aside and sighed. “It was quite the taxing day, however,” he admitted. “If you don’t mind, My Lady, I think I’ll have the man there draw me a bath before we eat.”

  “Oh, do we have running water?” Khriss asked with surprise.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Cynder replied. “But we do have a well right outside, and I ordered a couple of houseboys to being warming water for our evening baths.”

  “Baths?” N’Teese asked, almost forgotten near the doorway.

  Khriss smiled. “Yes, baths,” she said, imagining the luxury.

  “In water?” N’Teese asked.

  “Now who’s asking stupid questions?” Khriss returned.

  “Daysiders have an aversion to water, My Lady,” Idan explained in his deep voice. “They are afraid of swimming, and find the idea of immersing oneself in water extremely discomforting.”

  “The probably assume they’ll melt,” Cynder mumbled.

  “How odd,” Khriss said. “I guess it makes sense. They don’t take baths at all, then?”

  “It is customary to wipe oneself down with a damp cloth before one dresses after waking,” Idan explained.

  “How sad,” Khriss said. “They’ll never know the luxury of floating, surrounded by warm water.”

  N’Teese was growing increasingly pale as the conversation continued. “You people are too strange,” she finally decided, standing. “I’m leaving—you don’t need me any more today.”

  “If you wish,” Khriss agreed. “Of course, you’ll miss dinner.”

  N’Teese paused. Then, resentfully, she sat back down. “I’ll leave after dinner,” she mumbled.

  #

  Ais checked the moon with a distracted look, noting the time. It was approaching twelfth hour but, of course, the city was still active. Though most of the important officials followed Taisha standard time, working from fourth hour to ninth hour, Kezare itself never slept. The streets were slightly less busy during off hours, but the change was barely noticeable.

  For Ais, it was time to sleep. He kept Taisha standard, and twelfth hour put him well past his normal bedtime. His tired eyes and fatigued body agreed with the supposition. Unfortunately, he couldn’t sate them. He had too much work to do.

  With a quiet sigh, he walked up the Hall’s steps. He ignored the larger entry doors, which had been shut hours ago, and instead opened a smaller door at the side. It was unlocked, of course—trackts patrolled Kezare’s streets all hours of the day.

  Ais closed the door, closing out the sun’s light and the city it watched. He nodded to the trackts just inside the front door, and they saluted back, standing rigidly as he passed. Temmin and Len were their names. Temmin had already applied for one of the empty positions in Ais’s investigation band. Ais had his file, and two dozen like it, stacked on his desk awaiting his decision.

  I make a mistake, killing a fourth of my band, and still they line up to get in, he thought with amazement, turning right and following the hallway toward his chambers.

  This time there were far too many open positions. It had taken Ais the better part of the day to visit all of the widows his mistake had caused, to inform his men’s parents, wives, and children of their loss. A few of them had blamed him, as they had a right to do, but most hadn’t said anything, taking the news with sickened looks that warned that they had expected such an event to happen some day.

  Oh, Ker’Naisha, Ais thought as he unlocked and opened the door to his chambers, your eternal workings brought much grief this day.

  His personal chambers were neat and unadorned—many accused Ais of lacking imagination. They were right. Ais had little use for imaginative decorating, frills or pictures to distract the mind. The Hall was a place of work and efficiency.

  On his desk sat two piles of black paper. One contained the files on all who had applied for his band, the other the paperwork for each of the men he had captured in the safehouse. The judges wanted to know which of them Ais intended to charge, and with what crimes.

  Ais shook his head, rounding the desk, constructed of two stone pillars and a carapace top, to sit down and begin to sift through the papers. It was looking as if he would be going home late once again—of course, the day had been a disaster so far, why not let the unpleasantness continue? Not only had Ais lost a good number of men, but Lokmlen refused to implicate Nilto as the motivation behind his killings. Ais’s men had lost their lives for nothing—he was no closer to proving that Nilto and Sharezan were the same person than he had been weeks ago.

  And then, on top of it all, Ais had found out that the Diem continued to exist. As a senior trackt, Ais was privy to information that others did not have. He had known about the Lady Judge’s plan to shut down the Diem, and had approved of it. The sand masters were blasphemy poorly masked as people, their mere existence an affront to the Sand Lord. Ais may have chosen to disobey tradition and join the Hall, but he was still Kershtian. He followed the Priest’s DaiKeen. He often found it ironic that he, as a representative of the Law, was forced to protect the very beings that he accepted as his God’s eternal adversaries.

  In addition, Ais had other reasons for hating the sand masters. The mastrells, with their golden sashes, often made mockery of the Law. When the Law had been written, and Lossand formed from a group of smaller warring countries, the only way to persuade the sand masters to join with the new federation had been to give their mastrells near-immunity from the Law. Mastrells could take from merchants without fear of retribution. Mastrells were not required to follow the commands of a trackt, even in the case of an emergency. Mastrells could not be brought to trial, or even arrested, without the permission of the Lord Mastrell.

  The sand masters were Lossand’s deepest and ugliest stain. It was because of them that the A’Kar named Lossand a nation of heathens, even though a large percentage of its people now believed in the Sand Lord. If it weren’t for the sand masters, then it would have been all right for Ais to join the Hall. It was because of the sand masters that Ais was rejected by his own people, called traitor even by murderers like Lokmlen … .

  Ais took a sharp breath, calming himself. Slowly, he forced his fingers to relax, letting them slide free from the tabletop, where his fingernails had been threatening to crack against the hard carapace. Ais shook his head. One thing, at least, he couldn’t blame on the sand masters. There was only one person behind his lack of self-mastery.

  He had done it again. He had lost control, turning from careful trackt into witless fool. Fortunately, none of his men had been there to see his shame, the secret their leader—assumed greatest of trackts—hid. Quietly, Ais closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks to the Sand Lord for the stranger who had saved him. If the odd man in darkside clothing hadn’t arrived, Ais would have joined the day’s casualties.

  With a quiet sigh, Ais picked up his long wooden pen and fitted a new tip of white ashink into its end. If he didn’t get to work, then he would probably still be doing paperwork when it came time to begin his sh
ift the next day.

  He started with the second stack of papers, looking over names of criminals and deciding whom he could hold and whom he could not. Regrettably, most of the names were unfamiliar—petty thieves with small histories of crime. Ais couldn’t send them to trial, for he had nothing more than assumptions. He scribbled ‘No Charge, Please Release,’ at the bottom of a paper, then reached over to grab the metal stamp heating over a small brazier beside his desk. He absently pressed the stamp against the sheet, letting its heat bind the ashink to the paper so it wouldn’t rub away, then returned the stamp to its place and moved on to the next document.

  A sudden knock at his door drew his attention away from the paper. Ais frowned. Who would be bothering him at this time of the day? He began to order them in, but the door opened before he spoke. Ais reacted immediately, standing at attention. There was only one person who opened his door without waiting for a reply.

  “My Lady Judge,” Ais said formally, saluting as the elderly woman walked into the room.

  “Please, be seated, senior,” Lady Heelis encouraged.

  Ais responded—though he did wait for the Lady Judge to seat herself in the room’s other chair before doing so. Then he sat patiently, waiting for the Lady Judge to address him. It wasn’t odd for her to be in the Hall so late—the Lady Judge was said to need very little sleep.

  Lady Heelis studied him for a moment, her aged eyes shining with the wisdom that had gained her the most prestigious of Lossand’s titles. Many years before, a young and foolish Ais had resented Heelis because of her sex. That young man had grown into a man who respected Lady Heelis more than any living person, save perhaps for the holy A’Kar himself.

  “Oh, Ais, must you always be so formal?” Lady Heelis finally asked, smiling slightly. “How many years have we worked together now?”

  “Eighteen, my lady,” Ais said, a little surprised as he realized how many years it had been. He did not, however, soften his posture. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.