White Sand

by Brandon Sanderson

  “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 This time, unfortunately, the boy had been replaced by an older, more experienced scribe.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.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  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.
<
br />   “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.