by Devin Hanson
More than enough provocation for a balai to act with lethal force.
“Save it,” she hissed back. “Dust off and I will forget you came in here.”
“Afraid that is not in the cards, lady.” A wingman to the first thug said, dropping the act completely. He was standing a pace back, hands hidden up voluminous sleeves. Holding weapons, no doubt.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Just another dumb wench who does not know when she is outmatched.”
“I am a balai lieutenant. Remove yourself, and I will consider letting you live.”
“And I am Mai Kappa, king of thieves,” the ringleader chuckled, his red eyes wide with the drug. “You think I have not heard that before? Get up before we have to make a scene.”
Iria’s lips tightened. It was an off chance, but there usually wasn’t much arguing with a man on piroki. “Very well. Remember that I offered you the chance to walk away.” She shifted her weight as if to stand, snaked one hand out and flung a bowl of powdered chilies into the ringleader’s face, courtesy of the noodle house. In the same movement, she slammed her other fist up into his solar plexus. The breath whooshed out of him and his mouth opened to gasp air in for a scream, but all he made was a choking noise as chili powder rushed into his nose and mouth.
“Hey, what?” The man standing back raised one arm from his sleeve, and Iria caught the glimpse of a wrapped hilt.
She shoved the stricken ringleader, and he stumbled back, arms flailing, tangling with the armed thug. With room to stand now, she slid out of the booth and the third man stepped up, arms spread wide. Iria gripped the front of his tunic, planted a hip against his thigh and used his own forward momentum to fling him over her shoulder to the ground. Before he could recover, she punched him in the throat once, twice, then bounced to her feet.
Around her, shocked patrons were opening their mouths to shout. The remaining thugs near the door craned their necks, unable to follow the action through the crowded noodle house. The armed man fought his way free of the blinded spokesman and drew his blades.
Iria spread her arms, inviting him in. “Come. I told you what I am. Is this where you want to die?” She saw the hesitation spread across his face, saw him glance down at the stricken men at his feet. The moment was all she needed and she snapped out a kick, knocking one of his daggers out of his hand.
He snarled something, and the other blade came around in a heavy overhead swing. There was no finesse in it, and Iria stepped inside the arc of his arm, locked the limb out and heaved her weight against the joint. His elbow snapped and the other knife dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
She stepped back, and caught a clout across the cheek. The man was still fighting, his right arm flapping loosely in his sleeve. His face was screwed up into a berserker rage, the pain of his shattered elbow lost in his piroki bloodlust.
Iria had forgotten about the drug. The raw cactus juice she had given Rajya in the desert gave a full-body numbness and fogged the mind, more analgesic than hallucinogenic. The purification process that turned the juice into the serum reduced the numbness and gave the user a sense of invulnerability while completely removing any sense of pain.
She stumbled back, and the man came swinging after her, leading with his right arm as if it wasn’t hanging loose at the elbow. His swing was short, though. Whatever illusion of immortality the drug lent didn’t also grant an awareness of physical limitations. Contemptuously, she stepped back and kicked him hard in the side of the knee. He either didn’t see the blow coming or was too far gone to care, and all his weight was on the leg when her strike landed. His knee buckled sideways, the joint giving way with a crunch of splintered cartilage and he tumbled to the floor. No berserker could fight with a shattered elbow and a broken knee, however much he wanted to.
The rest of the group, nine bulky men, their eyes spread wide and red with piroki serum, were spreading out to block her exit out the front door. Knives, chains, clubs, even a sword were coming out of concealment. Iria spared a glance for the three men at her feet. One was dead, his larynx crushed, the other two would likely live, though one would likely be blind and the other crippled for life. Neither of the two were in any condition to follow her.
No time to waste, then. Iria turned and dashed for the kitchen entrance. Behind her, she heard shouts and the rush of booted feet. A pair of cooks looked up in surprise as she burst into the kitchen, but didn’t attempt to stop her. She whipped her scarf off her neck, threw a turn around her mouth and settled the leather sand mask over her face. Without breaking stride, she pushed through the door in the back of the kitchen and was immediately enveloped in the blowing sandstorm.
Visibility was instantly cut to an arm’s length in front of her, though gusting winds would sporadically clear the air and let her catch a glimpse of the street ahead before the sand closed like a curtain in front of her face once more.
She heard one of the cooks scream as the thugs burst into the kitchen, and she dashed out into the street without looking back. Split-second glimpses of the buildings lining the back alley gave her direction, and she broke into a run.
“There she is! Don’t let her get away!”
Iria made it out to the main street, and the gusting wind knocked her off balance for a moment. She caught herself before falling and moved into a wide-spread fighting stance facing the alley. Ghostly through the blowing sand, she saw the thugs rushing toward her. The ring of her scimitar clearing the sheathe was lost in the static noise of the storm. She waited, poised, for the first of the thugs.
Shadowed bulk gave her a second’s warning as the leading thug darted at her out of the alley. She caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes wide from the piroki, streaming tears and caked about the rims with sand, his mouth open in a howl buried in the storm. She snapped the sword forward, felt the shiver of impact all the way up to her shoulder, ripped the scimitar sideways and free, already spinning away and assuming the next position.
The thugs came boiling out of the alley and she danced among them, her scimitar glinting red with blood. Her mask kept the blowing sand from her eyes as she slid from one form to the next, graceful, swift as a snake, each movement punctuated by a powerful surge and the lightning strike of her sword.
They had numbers and the berserk vitality of the piroki, against the deadly training and calm poise of a balai. The fight was over in less than a minute. Iria stood for a moment, scimitar held in a sheltered block for a space of a deep breath. The huddled shapes of her attackers were scattered about, shadowed piles trimmed with flapping cloth, already turning into low dunes in the blowing storm. Under the influence of the piroki, anything short of death would have kept them coming.
Iria let herself relax fractionally. Adrenaline shuddered through her, demanding action, and finding nothing to vent itself on, gradually subsided, leaving her shaking slightly. She grimaced down at the sword blade, red to the hilt and clotted with lumps of bloody sand. Kneeling, she wiped the worst of the gore off on one of the fallen thugs and turned to head back to the noodle shop.
Gasps greeted her as she came in out of the blowing storm and kicked the door closed behind her. Sand cascaded from the folds of her clothing and piled about her feet as she stripped the mask off her face and unwrapped the scarf.
“Bring your master to me,” she snapped at one of the cooks, “and bring me a bowl of water and a rag.”
She was still washing the last of the blood from her scimitar when a balding man inched his way through the door and bowed to her, his face pale and sweating. “Anything you want, mistress, it will be so. Just please, do not hurt anyone else.”
“Relax,” Iria said, irritation making her voice tight. She sheathed the scimitar and showed him her badge. “I am balai. I am not here to make trouble.”
The man glanced back toward the dining area and swallowed.
“You own this establishment?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Your name.”
“Emmat, mistress. Muhandir Emmat.”
“Mr. Emmat, do the men still live?”
“No, mistress,” he wrung his hands, “I mean, yes. One does, still.”
“What happened to the other?” Iria frowned as she shook her hair out and did her best to clear the last of the sand from her clothing.
“His throat… the spices… he choked, mistress.”
Iria grunted. “You have a back room? Somewhere quiet?”
“A storeroom in the cellar.”
“Bring the survivor down there. Ensure no one disturbs me.”
Emmat nodded jerkily, pointed out the cellar door to her, then disappeared back into the dining area.
Iria followed the man’s direction and walked down a narrow wooden staircase to the cellar. Lanterns turned low dimly lit a heavy trestle table in the middle of the floor, stacked with goods due to be taken upstairs. Racks and shelves lined the walls, heavy with dry and preserved food. She busied herself clearing the table and finished as Emmat and one of the waiters carried the injured thug down the stairs.
“Thank you, gentlemen. On the table, if you would.”
They had crudely splinted the man’s arm, and had lashed a snapped broomstick to his leg. It had been a solid ten minutes since the man had dosed himself with the piroki serum. It was fast-acting in its purified state, taking moments to bring on the rush of strength, but fading into mild hallucinations after only a few minutes.
The man was slowly coming out of the second stage hallucinations, gradually getting a grip on the world about him. With it came the sensations from his body the drug had been blocking. He started moaning in pain, followed by panic as he realized the extent of the damage to his limbs.
Iria hung back in the shadows, knowing his piroki-stricken vision wouldn’t be up for picking out fine details for another few minutes. She let the pain and the panic grow until he started looking about himself, trying to figure out where he was, the pain tearing ragged half screams from his throat every breath.
She cranked up the wick on the lanterns, flooding the cellar with light. The thug flinched, tried to raise his right arm to shield his eyes and yelped before using his left. Iria stepped to the side of the table next to his head and he lowered his arm enough to see her face.
It turned her stomach, watching the surge of fear wash over his face, but she hardened herself before speaking. This man had earned no mercy. “Your name,” she demanded.
“Please, I –”
She snapped out a fist, punched him in the shattered elbow and he screamed. Tears and runny snot smeared his face. “I do not have the time or patience to listen to your blather,” she said, anger making her voice hard. “You will answer my questions immediately, with the information I request.” She leaned over him. “Do you understand?”
The man nodded, eyes wild, breath sobbing out of him.
“Good. Your name.”
“Hessle.”
“Thank you, Hessle. Continue answering and I will let you live. You came into this noodle shop with a purpose. What were you told, and by whom?”
“We were shown a drawing matching your description. You and another girl. We were told the other girl was injured.”
“And your purpose?”
“To subdue and kidnap. It was okay to rough you up a little, but not kill you, I swear it!”
“Who ordered it, Hessle?”
“I don’t know. Please! I wasn’t there, Burrat handles the negotiations.”
“Which one was Burrat?”
“He was the one who talked to you first.”
Iria grunted. It was unfortunate this Burrat had died from the spice inhalation. Some of the hot peppers would do nasty things to delicate tissues. She would have to commend the owner on his fine blends. “The kidnapping, was it for ransom?”
“No, we had a buyer already lined up. Burrat said it was the easiest job we’d had all month. A quick snatch and no long hideout from the Rangers waiting for a payment.”
“Where was the trade to happen?”
She took note of the location, an unused trading warehouse near the northern gate, a half-hour walk from Jeb’s inn. “Any codes or call signs?”
“Nothing like, that. We were to make the trade tonight at the second bell.”
“Very well. I will summon a Ranger to take you into custody. May your trial be swift and your judgment fair.”
“Wait! Please, you cannot leave me like this!”
Iria turned her back on him and walked up the stairs, ignoring his cries. She had enough blood on her hands today already. Let the courts deal with him. She found Emmat waiting for her at the doorway, wringing his hands. Sunlight streamed in through open windows. The storm had passed while she was downstairs.
“Mr. Emmat. For your trouble,” she pressed a purse into his hand. “My apologies for disturbing your establishment. It was not my intention to bring violence.”
“Of course not, mistress,” he stammered and jerked out an awkward bow. “My thanks. The men…”
“I will contact the Rangers. A squad will be by to pick up the bodies and take away the man in your cellar.”
“Thank you, mistress.”
“If someone comes by later asking questions, you need not remember details about my face. I would appreciate it.” That she was a woman would be common knowledge, but it wasn’t likely any of the customers would have a good description of her. There weren’t many female balai, but no need to make it easy for her enemies to track her.
“Of course. Anything.”
“Good man.” She flipped her hood up and walked outside. The storm had dropped several tons of loose sand onto the city, and people were busy sweeping it up and dumping it into the donkey-pulled carts already running through the streets. Down by where the alley came out into the street, a huddle of beggars clustered around the buried corpses of the rest of the kidnappers. The beggars would strip them bare before “discovering” them and alerting the Rangers. She left them to it.
She hailed a passing city guard and sent him running for a Ranger, saying only that there had been a fight in the noodle shop. She smiled. She had a much better lead than the inconsequential middle-man she had been following before the storm hit. Now to lie in wait at the warehouse and see who came to claim her.
Chapter 9
Arrival in Nas Shahr
Andrew sat in the back of the wagon and glumly watched the sweat drip off his nose. They had erected a little canopy in the back, much to the amusement of the native Maar. The four square meters of canvas had become his home away from home. The sides were open. As they had quickly discovered, even a hot breeze was better than the stifling heat that grew in a closed area.
A few hours after breakfast, they crossed the great stone bridge that spanned a massive chasm the Maar wagon driver claimed went straight down to the center of the earth. Andrew dismounted from the wagon long enough to peer over the side and couldn’t see the bottom. Jules claimed it was cut by a river over the millennia, and the bed had undercut one of the banks far below and that’s why they couldn’t see the glint of water. The wagon driver scoffed and invited Jules to climb down and verify that claim.
He had thought the land was dead before. After the chasm, or God’s Reach, as the Maar called it, the land quickly dried out. By noon, they were rolling along through a blasted desert. Nothing grew taller than a man, and even the brush seemed dead. He started seeing cactus and soon lost track of the variety. Short, tall, spindly, thick, fleshy, emaciated, graceful, tangled and more, all of it covered with spines, cruel hooked barbs and hair-like bristles sharper than surgical steel.
And sand. For a while, the road was packed earth, but that soon gave way to an endless sea of sand. The wagon drivers stopped and added what seemed like paddles to the wagon wheels. The wisdom of these additions soon became clear as the paddles enabled the wagons to roll over drifts of sand that would have bogged them down impossibly otherwise.
The aurochs hauling the wagons, if anything,
grew more spirited. This was their native land, and the dry air seemed to give them renewed strength. Some of them grew positively frisky, making the wagon drivers have to work extra hard to keep them from prancing through the sand dunes.
He tried to concentrate on emptying his mind again, forcing out the stray thoughts and trying to still the sluggish churning of his mind, but the changing landscape kept pulling his attention. Finally, he gave up and shook his head convulsively. He needed something to distract himself for a little while before he continued practicing.
“Is all of Nas Shahr like this? Endless desert?” Andrew asked the driver.
The driver took his time answering then finally shook his head. “These are the sands that border your wet country. The real land is beyond. And beyond that, the Silent Sea. All is Nas Shahr.”
From Andrew’s time traveling with his merchant parents as a child, he knew the Maar referred to bare outcroppings of rock as “the real land”, and scoffed at the rich soil and lush greenery of Salia. The driver’s tone was slightly condescending, as if he were saying ‘you think this is harsh?’
A while later, the driver called back. “Condign. Come up here, you will see a thing.”
Andrew clambered out from under the awning and joined the driver on the bench. Jules followed after a dour look at the sun beating down. “That’s strange,” Andrew said. “I thought there weren’t any mountains in this part of the land.”
“That is no mountain,” the driver said. “A sand storm. Many miles away.”
Andrew stared at the black wall on the horizon, trying, and failing, to put some sense of scope on it. The wind where they were was sporadic gusts. “Are we in any danger?”
“Here?” The driver shook his head. “No.” He nodded down at the auroch placidly pulling the wagon. “The bourn would know. That storm is nearly spent. If you were in the path of such a storm, Andrew Condign, you would do well to seek shelter among the real land and pray to your tiny gods that you are not buried alive.”
