White Sand

by Brandon Sanderson

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “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?”