Sandstorm

by Christopher Rowe

  For some reason he couldn’t name, Cephas turned to Ariella for guidance, though of all these people—who grew more mysterious the longer he knew them—he knew her the least.

  The woman shrugged. “He is a powerful sorcerer. He has powerful enemies.”

  Cephas nodded. “I have already said I’ll go with you, Corvus.” And I’ll find out who the horned woman is, he thought, and what you have not told me.

  Corvus looked to the others, though he need only have looked to Mattias. Cynda would follow Shan, and of all the circus folk, Shan was the most unquestioning in her loyalty to the kenku. Tobin watched Mattias, though Cephas would have guessed his heart told him to follow his fellow clowns.

  “Well, old man,” asked Corvus, “will Trill be ready to move? The WeavePasha knows to weave his gate large enough for her to pass through.”

  Exhaustion hung over Mattias. He looked, thought Cephas, so very old.

  The fire had burned down, and the late-hour chill of a spring afternoon was in the stones. Sunset was not far off.

  Corvus said once more, “Will Trill be ready to move?”

  Mattias did not answer aloud, but he nodded.

  Ariella Kulmina had not left Cephas’s side since the talk at the campfire.

  “See the symbols your ringmaster has scribed around the circle there?” Ariella asked him. “The WeavePasha has them recorded in an enormous book along with hundreds of others. He can use them to open paths across the world that can be traveled with a single step.”

  The others had, along with good-byes to make, personal belongings to gather, or, in the case of Corvus, preparations of a more secretive nature. Cephas pulled the leather satchel he used to store his armor from beneath the seat of the wagon and laid it next to his flail, and with that he had gathered all his worldly possessions. He did not feel he should interrupt the mourning Argentori to give any farewells.

  Besides, he found he was content to stay close to the windsouled swordswoman, since she was no longer trying to kill him. Ariella reminded him of Sonnett and Shaneerah and even Grinta the Pike, all at the same time. Not long into their conversation, Cephas had been struck by the knowledge that he could count on the fingers of his hands the number of women with whom he had spoken. There was something about this woman that set her apart from the others, even beyond her exotic accent and her skin that matched the color of high clouds in early morning.

  Cephas cursed at his inability to figure her out. Is she like those others, or is she something new? She can’t be both, he thought.

  Unless … Cephas remembered a trick of the arena. When faced with an opponent using unfamiliar arms or armor, or some beast with a way of fighting unlike any other, then the first thing to do was to decide what, in the gladiator’s experience, was closest to the new opponent. Take care, raise the broadest of defenses, and learn the other combatant’s ways, following the clues provided by similarities. An orc with a folding mace like none he’d ever seen did not fight as a brutish goblin with a stone club, but both foes bore heavy, blunt instruments. What he knew about one, he could use against the other.

  “Planning to attack me again?” she asked.

  “What?” Cephas replied. Arms wide, he was crouched, presenting a flat profile so that a swing from an unedged weapon would skip across his chest instead of finding a landing place for a heavy impact.

  “You are holding yourself as if you think I am about to engage, Cephas Earthsouled, though you should have learned by now that I could spit you like a pig if I chose.”

  If Sonnett’s taking his hand the day before caused his cheeks to burn, this woman made every bit of his skin glow with embarrassment just by speaking. “I am”—he cleared his throat—“practicing my act.”

  The woman laughed. This made things worse.

  He was desperate to change the subject. “Am I to call you Ariella Windsouled, then? None of the genasi here in Argentor used the words that way, as names.”

  She shrugged. “If you like. I say that because I know no other name for you beyond Cephas, and among my people, using a single name implies familiarity. You seem uncomfortable with familiarity.” She laughed again.

  This was a familiar sensation, at least, having spent so many years under Grinta’s tutelage. “You are mocking me,” he said.

  “Yes, a bit,” she said.

  To Cephas’s enormous relief, the twins approached Corvus’s wagon, each lightly burdened with haversacks and wearing bandoliers bristling with row upon row of the silvered darts they favored.

  “Here’s another pair of warriors,” he said.

  Ariella said, “To say the least. The WeavePasha named them among the kenku’s allies when he accepted my offer to come north. I had hoped to meet them, and I am happy they came through the fire with you. In Airspur, it is believed that no Arvoreeni adepts survive. I am glad that belief is wrong.”

  Cephas said, “They’re rangers, I thought. Students of Mattias.”

  The twins joined them, and Ariella shared with Cephas the smile she offered them. “To say the least,” she said.

  An odd rushing sound came from behind them. On the lowered platform next to the wagon, a dim green glow manifested out of nothing, twisting shapes into the air and causing a light, inward flowing breeze to draw the dust of the terrace into a spiral.

  Mattias returned, mounted atop Trill, who had her wing tips bound together above her lashing tail with lengths of leather, preventing flight.

  “Clear out of the way,” called Mattias. “It’s best if we go through first, and she’s in an irritable mood after being left behind this morning.”

  Trill grumbled and snapped as she made her way awkwardly to the portal. She normally used her wings to aid her balance when she went about on her two legs, and with them confined, her gait was even more like that of an enormous chicken than usual. Cephas had known the wyvern long enough to school his features into a respectful expression.

  The ranger did not speak again; he did not, in fact, even acknowledge them as he passed. Trill did not hesitate next to the platform any longer than it took her to bring her enormous clawed feet together, bend her legs, and hop forward. If the gate had not been there, she would have crashed into the wagon, no doubt overturning it. As it was, she and Mattias simply vanished.

  Ariella raised her eyebrows at the twins. “He really does have a wyvern,” she said. “And she’s traveled through a portal before. This is quite a circus—I regret I did not see you perform.” With that, she followed Trill through in two easy strides.

  Cephas stood, unsure of whether he should wait or go after her when Corvus and Tobin walked around from the front of the wagon. Corvus muttered something into his hand, then pitched a bit of tinder beneath the wheels. “Best we all go through now,” he said. “Whitey knows to let the wagon burn.”

  Cephas hoped never to see anything burn again, beyond cookfires and lamp wicks. The flames licking the underside of Corvus’s wagon were more than enough to overcome any unease he felt about walking through the portal.

  Tobin stepped next to Cephas. “I have my hammer,” he said. “Do you know, Cephas, I thought I would never have to use it again? I liked the crossbows made of balloons better.”

  The twins passed through. Cephas saw Shan draw her wicked parrying dagger at the last instant, ready for battle despite Corvus’s assurances they would reappear in a safe place.

  Corvus would go through last.

  “Why do you not go with Whitey and the others?” Cephas asked Tobin.

  Tobin looked at Corvus, who motioned him on through. The goliath disappeared.

  Corvus said, “Tuber died in the fire with the other clowns, Cephas. Now go. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

  Cephas had trained for most of his life to never show fear, because, the Calishites said, fear was a quick path to death.

  He set his foot on the path before him.

  When blurred vision returned to her right eye, Ninlilah realized it was not pain that had blinded he
r, but blood. She had managed to escape the powerful foes who tracked her into the depths of the Spires only by sacrificing one of her horns in a desperate toss of her head that threw the goliath’s body between her and the arrows of the crippled archer.

  She did not dare approach the genasi village now, but neither would she make contact with the master of games. She had been reminded of older, truer oaths than those that bound her to the slaveholding windsouled of Calimport and the djinn who lived among them.

  She turned south, wondering if old allies yet lived.

  The sha’ir who does not seek

  the origin of magic is a coward.

  The sha’ir who believes there is one is a fool.

  —“Clever Janna and the Third Sha’ir”

  The Founding Stories of Calimshan

  ALMRAIVEN, THE CITY OF SPELLS, HAD STOOD BY THE Shining Sea for more than seven thousand years, despite the sea’s best efforts.

  More than once in the city’s unthinkably long history, some sultan or potentate managed to offend a goddess who responded with enormous waves crashing over the high seawalls of the port. More than once, some magic user drunk on power called up creatures from the fathomless depths, hoping to harness their inhuman might, only to die with tens of thousands of others when the beasts breathed clouds of madness and sorcery through the ancient streets.

  When the sea could not defeat the city, it sought retreat. The coastline of southern Faerûn had changed a dozen times in the city’s life. Other cities drowned when the sea rushed in, or dried up when it disappeared over the southern horizon, but Almraiven endured. Whether by a god’s whim, the work of wizards of enormous power, or through simple luck, Almraiven still stood by the sea. It still thrived.

  And it had endured more than oceanic threats. Fires mundane and magical, plagues of disease and of pests, drought and rebellion, and the yoke of foreign tyrants—all these befell Almraiven down the fantastically long roll of years that made up its history.

  The city was conquered by human armies and by dragons, razed by alien orbs chattering indecipherable nightmare languages, and then rebuilt by freed slaves who cast off their shackles for a generation or two before finding it expedient to forge the chains again when some enemy force exhausted itself in another doomed attempt to wipe out Almraiven once and for all.

  Almost anything that could be imagined occurring in a city of the South had occurred there a dozen times.

  “Except for one thing,” the WeavePasha told Cephas. “Almraiven has never been conquered by the mad tyrants of the Elemental Chaos. Neither djinni nor efreeti has ever ruled her. No other city in these lands can make that claim.”

  The human proved a generous host. Cephas and his companions were met the previous night by dozens of servants who offered them food and wine, hot baths, and cool silk sheets. They had yet to enter the palace, but each of the travelers was given his own vast tent, divided into multiple chambers by gauzy curtains and screens of an aromatic wood that let a scent like blooming flowers and cedar fill the air when it was warmed by the first rays of sunrise.

  Cephas rose, dressed in loose cotton pants and an open-necked tunic, and considered what to do with his flail and armor, which were secreted beneath the huge round bed he’d slept on through the night.

  He recognized his surroundings from stories. This was the home of a king. He decided to carry his possessions, but not don them.

  In the courtyard, a horseshoe-shaped table stood next to a bubbling fountain. It was low to the ground, surrounded by cushions instead of chairs, and overflowed with platters of foodstuffs, vases of flowers, pitchers of chilled fruit juices, and carafes of fine wines. At least, that was Cephas’s best guess as to what constituted the enormous plenty. He could only be sure that he recognized a platter of oranges. He had once watched the freedman Talid win such in a game of dice with a caravan guard, only to devour the five bright fruits so quickly that he vomited them up.

  Tobin was taking little time to savor the morningfeast himself, and Cephas hoped the goliath’s constitution would aid him in keeping down the enormous quantities of food he consumed at a steady pace. The only other person who sat at the table, a human and a stranger to Cephas, sat watching Tobin, clearly impressed.

  The gray-haired man wore a short beard, neatly trimmed and oiled to a point. He smiled and beckoned for Cephas to join them. His manner was relaxed, but Cephas saw that he was armed with an ornate dagger thrust through a corded belt. Otherwise, he was dressed much like Cephas and Tobin.

  “Welcome to my table, friend,” the old man said. “I am Acham yn Aban el Jhotos yi Almraiven, Caleph Arcane of the Alcazar, Pasha of the Guild Arcane, and humbled to serve this ancient city as its Sultan Supreme.”

  Tobin spoke around a mouthful of mutton. “Corvus says we’re to call him ‘Your Grace.’ Or ‘WeavePasha.’ ”

  The man smiled and nodded. “Yes, those are appropriate. It is unfortunate, but no whisper in this place falls only on the ears it was meant for, and my vizars are much invested in the formalities of rank and station. Even old friends such as Corvus Nightfeather and honored guests such as you and this redoubtable goliath must keep the forms, lest I find myself being tutored in protocol by my grandchildren.”

  Cephas sat next to the WeavePasha at the man’s waved invitation and made a careful study of the closest platters. A heavy plate, gilded and empty, lay before him. He saw no utensils, but Tobin apparently violated no protocols in eating with his hands. Cephas tentatively reached for a bunch of purple fruits, glistening with condensation, and set them on his plate. As if sensing his reticence, the WeavePasha said, “Please, allow me to serve you.”

  Cephas leaned back, expecting the man to take his plate, but instead, the WeavePasha clapped twice. A dizzying array of fruits, meats, and flatbreads flew from every direction, and Cephas ducked, sure he was about to be pelted with the food. Instead, an artfully arranged meal settled down onto his plate.

  Before he could give the WeavePasha his thanks, Ariella took a seat beside him. “Good morning, honored WeavePasha,” she said. “I see that Cephas is impressed by your famously generous table. You will forgive your humble guest, I pray. He is new to the ways of the wider world.”

  The WeavePasha said, “Yes, I was about to ask him about that, in fact. And good morning to you, Mistress Kulmina. Your countrymen have awaited your return most anxiously.”

  An unpleasant look Cephas hadn’t seen before came to the windsouled woman’s face—one that unaccountably troubled him—but she said only, “I am sure.”

  “Now, young man,” said the WeavePasha, surprising Cephas by taking his hand, “what am I to call you? Your friends name you Cephas, and I know the spymaster believes you to be connected to the windsouled el Arhapan pashas of the Calimien. Are you Cephas el Arhapan yi Calimport, then?”

  Cephas frowned. “I—I am Cephas, Your Grace. It is the only name I’ve known, though Ariella has called me Cephas Earthsouled. The freedmen I was raised among had other names for me, but I hope you will not ask me to answer to those.”

  The WeavePasha’s broad smile faded. “No, of course not. Cephas you have been and Cephas you shall be. At least until you decide to be someone else.”

  Cephas selected one of the glistening purple fruits he’d chosen for himself before the WeavePasha filled his plate. “Is that something one can do in Almraiven? Decide to be someone else?”

  This time the wizard’s grin was rueful and accompanied by a shrug. “A fair enough question. Though unexpected from one who travels in the company of a kenku who has as many names as he does voices.”

  Tobin paused in his chewing. “I have known Corvus for many years,” he said. “His was the first name I learned outside those of my clansmen. I believe it to be his real name.”

  The WeavePasha nodded in acknowledgment. “It is the one they gave in the rookeries in his youth, yes.”

  Tobin and Cephas were taken aback by the idea of Corvus as a child, and even Ariella gave the WeavePasha
a long, considering look. “You knew the ringmaster when he was young?” asked Tobin.

  The WeavePasha laughed. “Let us say I knew of him, at least. Just as I know of these two extraordinary halflings by their reputations.” Shan and Cynda, in the same fighting leathers they’d passed through the portal wearing, approached the table. The WeavePasha greeted them in a language Cephas did not recognize, full of lilting, songlike sounds and phrases.

  The women bowed. Shan tensed at something the WeavePasha said, but sat when her sister did.

  “You will forgive me, I trust, for welcoming your friends in their own tongue. I sought to make them comfortable after their restless night checking the boundaries of the garden and seeking a way into the palace. It is my hope that they will both sleep through the night should you grace this house with your company for another day.”

  “I’ve never known them to both be asleep at the same time,” said Mattias. Like the sisters, the old ranger had not followed Tobin’s and Cephas’s example in wearing the garments the WeavePasha’s servants left in the tents. The bit of straw stuck in his grizzled beard suggested he had not even made use of the bed, but slept with Trill in the nest prepared for her in a drained fountain.

  For the first time, the WeavePasha stood. He met Mattias halfway across the courtyard, and bowed to him, though the ranger did not return the act. “Mattias Farseer,” he said. “Oldest friend of my old friend. You are welcome here, as ever.”

  Mattias nodded. “El Jhotos,” he said, and that was apparently all the greeting he planned to make. “Shan tells me Corvus has already disappeared. Will he return today, or will Trill continue to work her way through your kitchener’s goat herd?”

  The WeavePasha was unflappable. “I have many goats. Enough even for that one’s hunger. And look here at your friends, so politely seeing to their own appetites.” Cephas noticed the wizard had avoided answering Mattias’s question about Corvus.

  He noticed, too, that the ranger walked past the WeavePasha without looking the man in the face. Cephas judged them to be roughly the same age, though the WeavePasha’s back was straight and he was more heavily muscled than the wiry ranger. Their skin tones differed as well, with the WeavePasha having the same olive skin as the freedmen of the mote and Mattias’s being only a shade or two darker than the white face paint used in the circus.