The Pillars of Sand

by Mark T. Barnes

  “There’s a celebration on tonight,” Qesha-rē said as she put her instruments back into her bag.

  Mari stood still as the servants rubbed light oils into her skin, then began scraping away the hair from her torso and limbs with strigils. Their hands were steady and sure, leaving no new marks on Mari’s already marred skin. “I’ve been told I’m to attend.”

  “I’ll be spending the evening in, I think.” The surgeon buckled her bag shut and slung it across her narrow shoulder. “Some meditation and reading will do me good, and I’ve a book by the Nilvedic Scholar, Amapursha, on the healing practices of the Y’arrow-te-yi that will be fascinating.”

  “Nothing I can do to tempt you?”

  “Not a chance. Besides, the Dowager-Asrahn’s entertainments often end up with somebody needing to visit my surgery—if they survive—so it’s best I remain where I can be prepared. Try not to get yourself hurt again, my dear. You never know, you may actually find having no broken bones, or cuts from the whip and the rod, quite delightful.”

  “Oh, you know me,” Mari said dryly. “I’m a free spirit.”

  “This isn’t the place for it.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Mari sat at the high table, and she watched, and she listened. She ate voraciously, but drank only water from the chipped earthenware bowl that made everything taste a bit like mud.

  But mostly she sweated. She felt it prickle her scalp, dew her brow, and trickle down the curve of her spine where it pooled at the small of her back. In each of the four walls, fires burned in hearths so large Mari could stand in them. Tall windows of rough glass perspired in the heat, melting the snow outside where it tried to stick to the iron window frames. Hundreds of lanterns in sea-hued glass hung from the domed ceiling. The skeletons of gigantic sharks hung among the lanterns amid the silver- and gold-plated skulls of fallen enemies. The mosaic walls seemed to ripple, giving Mari the impression she was trapped beneath the sea with the drowned, who continued to drink and dance and fight, unaware they were already dead.

  The guests at the Dowager-Asrahn’s feast were a raucous, mongrel crowd of hard-drinking cutthroats and opportunists, mixed with the rough and ready leaders of the nearby fishing villages and mining towns. Tamerlan was, as best Mari could describe it, a frontier fortress. At one time it had no doubt been glorious, this ancient construct of faceted quartz and polished marble, carved granite and bronze domes that spiraled up and around the mountain. Now Tamerlan attracted those who had nowhere else to go: those too world weary, disenfranchised, or steeped in failure and infamy to be anywhere else. Even the Sea Witches sworn to the Dowager-Asrahn—pale and hungry eyed, stern in their layers of blue and green and black like deep-sea shadows—seemed poor and rough in comparison to the stark pride of the Sēq, or the red witches of the Mahsojhin.

  Mari looked on with barely concealed disgust as the Dowager-Asrahn’s colors hooted, shouted, and stamped their approval of the fourth duel of the evening. Two men and one woman were dead already, their bodies given back to the deep to be consumed, as was the custom in Tamerlan. The Dowager-Asrahn’s captains and lieutenants moved among the crowd, inciting their hunger for blood. By any other standards they were common bravos that could be bought for a handful of copper rings, and a lukewarm meal, in the backstreets of any city in Shrīan.

  Chief among them was Jhem the Blacksnake and his cohort. The wounds Mari had given Jhem after he and Nadir had taken her prisoner had turned septic, almost killing him. Sadly Qesha-rē had saved his life—at the expense of some of his jaw, the teeth that went with it, and part of both lips. When he was seen in public, it was only with a leather half-mask, studded and scaled, that covered his disfigurement. In reprisal for Jhem’s mutilation, as well as for the death of Ravenet—Jhem’s daughter and Nadir’s sister—her father’s two servants made it their mission to make Mari’s existence a misery.

  Nadir, doubly stung by Mari’s refusal to rekindle their lost love, took great pains to torment Mari whenever he could—but it was not without cost to himself. Tonight he slouched on a chair next to the Dowager-Asrahn with the pained expression of a man who had been soundly kicked in the stones. And so he had been, when he had come to Mari’s chambers earlier that evening, along with three of his bravos, to give her some bruises before the feast. Nadir was the lucky one: He was still alive. Mari would apologize to Qesha-rē later for giving her the added work.

  I’ll take your crew away from you, one by one, Mari thought. And as I plant each one of them in ashes, know that it’s one less person between me and your final, humiliating end. When the day comes, when you’re alone and friendless, your reputation as dead as anybody who followed you, I’ll open you up from stones to throat, and leave your steaming corpse on a midden heap. Right beside that worm you call a father…

  A raucous shout caught Mari’s attention as a defeated warrior was hurled into a large hole in the floor lined with twisted old blades like the teeth of some iron shark. It was called the Maw of Savajiin and was part threat and part promise to those who displeased the Dowager-Asrahn. It also formed part of what passed for entertainment at Tamerlan. Tonight the entertainment was for Eladdin—the Dowager-Asrahn’s own son by her last, late, husband—a young man who had not yet reached twenty-five years. Eladdin was celebrating his becoming one of the Exalted Names of Shrīan the only way Tamerlan knew how.

  Eladdin, the Sidewinder as he was now named, could almost have been Belam’s brother, but where Belam was golden, Eladdin was made of bronze: a little cruder, a little more tarnished. He stood beside the Maw, his long red-blond hair tied in a high ponytail, his eyes like chips of tourmaline. Sweat poured down his torso, shimmering on ridges of muscle. Two long-knives, each with a coiled snake in silver worked into the hilt, were thrust through the sash at his waist. He had already killed three men this evening, hurling their bleeding bodies into the Maw to feed the sharks that circled below.

  The Dowager-Asrahn leered at her son from the high table. She threw a handful of silver rings into the air, careless of where they fell, so intoxicated was she by death, and drink. The Shark of Tamerlan had seen her centenary come and go decades before. Her eyes were wide and fevered, her mouth hung open to reveal a row of sharpened teeth, light glimmering from a small trail of drool at the corners of her thin, wine-stained lips. She gripped her golden drinking bowl, the plated skull of a treasured enemy, in one liver-spotted hand. A beauty in her day, time had hardened her. Jutting cheekbones. Flinty eyes. A coronet made of a shark’s jaw, set with sapphires and gray pearls, sat on her wispy hair. Even her wrinkles looked sharp, as if to run your hand along them the wrong way would open your skin. Her relatives sat to her left and right, stretching in a glittering row to the very edges of the high table, with Mari seated at the far end on a chair that creaked with every move she made. Even her bloody chairs talk about every move I make!

  Most of the other familial inmates of Tamerlan kept their distance from Mari, no doubt for fear of punishment by association. From time to time the Dowager-Asrahn’s favorites—hard and beautiful—would risk a glance at Mari. As the daughter of the Rahn-Erebus, Mari lived a privileged life with freedoms the others could only have wished for. It appeared to give her gathered relatives some comfort that she had fallen from grace.

  The Dowager-Asrahn summoned Eladdin to the high table, then took a flanged iron ball in her hand—the symbol of her authority in Tamerlan—and started to hammer it on the wood. Those in the Hearthall took up the beat, stamping their feet, clapping in time, or chanting “more” over and over. Mari barely contained her disgust as warriors, already baffled with drink, glared around the room with murdering eyes. She knew it would not be long before more would draw steel and kill, or be killed, for the Dowager-Asrahn’s favor.

  A man stepped forward, tall and broad, moving with predatory grace. He was relatively new, come from some sun-warmed country from the look of his tanned skin and streaked hair and beard. Mari leaned forward in interest. This one was
not like the others. He might have been handsome once, but years of the sun—as well as the scars that crossed his cheek and oft-broken nose, vanishing like furrows into his short beard—had robbed him of that claim.

  The nahdi looked around the circle of warriors, all of whom almost trembled with battle fever, before he pointed at the largest fellow in the room, a bullish man, his squared head set directly on vast shoulders. He was the captain of the ragtag Southern Fists Company, come to Tamerlan for the winter. The nahdi who made the challenge spoke with a lilting accent Mari was unfamiliar with. “I’m waiting for you. But not too long. You’ll regret it if I have to come looking for you.”

  Mari froze, the words reminding her of her farewell to Shar, Ekko … and both Hayden and Omen, who had been killed. Guilt and sorrow threatened to swamp her. Indris, if you only knew how sorry I am—

  His opponent gave a stentorian bellow. He stood and upended a mug of beer, most of it washing a face that was already largely covered in beard, dirt, and scabs. The captain bellowed again, drawing a wicked hatched from his belt. The Dowager-Asrahn screamed in delight as her man charged forward, feet pounding.

  The first passes of weapons were fast and brutal, a complex weave of steel and flesh. Weapons and sweat glittered under the lanterns. The audience stamped and shouted and clapped louder, a few even adding brassy horns to the tumult. Neither of the men was a warrior-poet, nor had they the styles of any of the sûks that Mari knew of. Their fighting was brutal, sourced in battlefields, pitched chaos, and savagery.

  Like waves against a cliff, both men smashed together, then parted, then hammered into each other again. Again and again in a shrinking spiral of brutality that saw blood and sweat fly. Mari sat on the edge of her seat, ignoring the idiot commentary of her family. There was something about the new nahdi’s style, a glimpse here and there in his footwork, or the angle an overhand strike…

  Then the captain charged forward, axe a blur, moving faster than his fatigue should have allowed. But the nahdi stepped in, rather than away. He gripped his antagonist’s wrist with one hand, then punched his knife through the man’s forearm with the other. Turning his back into the circle of the captain’s arms, the nahdi swung down and pierced his enemy’s thigh, then swung his head back to smash into the captain’s face. Calmly he slid forward, and turned to face the captain as the man fell to one knee, nose and teeth splintered. Slowly the bull rose to his feet and staggered sideways, lowing in pain. His hand spasmed open and the hatchet dropped to the red-streaked floor. There he stood, swaying, dripping blood, and waiting for slaughter.

  Rather than end his opponent, the nahdi bowed his head, wiped his knife clean, and stepped back. Another man dashed forward—a lieutenant of the Southern Fists—with a raised maul, ready to smash in the head of his captain, and secure his own promotion. But the nahdi grabbed the lieutenant by the wrist and the scruff of his neck as the man dashed past, spinning him around and hurling him into the Maw. The lieutenant screamed as he was lacerated on its iron teeth, the sound becoming a forlorn shriek as he fell into the depths, bleeding food for sharks.

  “Coward,” the nahdi said dismissively. He sauntered to the edge, carefully picking his way through the sharp sword blades around the hole in the floor. Leaning over, he spat, then said, “If you want to come back up and finish it, I’ll wait. But only for a bit. I’ll keep a light on.”

  Mari felt a smile stretch her lips. She tried to catch the nahdi’s eye but he had already returned to sit with his companions, who were markedly more disciplined and sober than the bravos around them. She searched, unsuccessfully, for a familiar face among the man’s hard-eyed crew. Surely they’ve been sent to find me? Are Shar and Ekko also here? Or Indris? She warmed at the thought. How else could the nahdi know the last words I spoke to my friends?

  Members of the Southern Fists came to help their bewildered captain. The Hearthall resounded with derisive laughter, and shouting. The Dowager-Asrahn seemed satiated by the display, emptying her wine bowl, then refilling it to the brim. Mari saw the drunken flush beneath the sweat on the old woman’s cheeks. The shark leaned closer to Eladdin, face lit with drunken avarice. When her emaciated hand rested on his bare skin, the Sidewinder’s lips curled, then became a hasty and appreciative smile. Eladdin then stared at Mari, his smile widening, his look suggestive. Mari gave an exaggerated but heartfelt shudder.

  Turning to Dhoury, a bug-eyed cousin with a soft doughy face, flowering gin blossoms, and thinning white hair, Mari asked, “Do you know who that man was? The one that fought the captain of the Southern Fists?”

  “Hmmm?” Dhoury blinked at her, squinting as he tried to focus. Of her relatives at Tamerlan, he was one of the least odious, and most like a friend. Mari had to grab her cousin by the chin and point him in the direction of the man she was referring to.

  “Him! Do you know who he is?”

  Dhoury frowned with concentration … then farted. Mari almost choked on the stench, leaning back to breath marginally fresher air. The cloud wafted away, causing others at the high table to swear, gag, or both. With a dreamy, self-satisfied smile, Dhoury said, “I think I heard his name was Hawkwood. Marn? Mern? Morne! Morne Hawkwood.”

  Servants brought guests steaming platters of grilled fish and octopus. A larger platter carried by four tense servants was placed before the Dowager-Asrahn, who grinned in delight. With an ingratiating smile, Nadir removed the shield-sized cover from the platter to reveal a roasted torso and head.

  Mari’s stomach churned in disgust. She held her hand to her nose, hating herself for the way the smell reminded her of roast pork—even to the hint of apple, thyme, and garlic—that made her mouth water. The taste of the saliva in her mouth made her want to vomit.

  Nadir took a small axe and caved in the chest of the cooked torso. The Dowager-Asrahn gleefully reached into the cavity and carved out the hearts, one of which she dropped steaming onto Eladdin’s plate, the other she kept for herself. The Dowager-Asrahn then took her preferred cuts of meat, before having Nadir cut portions for himself and those favored ones nearby. The torso was then handed to carvers, who sliced away filets that were passed down the high table to the less-favored family members. Only those most deeply in the Dowager-Asrahn’s thrall set to their food with anything resembling enthusiasm. Beside her, Dhoury stared at his plate in horror, jaw clenched.

  “You don’t have to eat it,” Mari whispered to him. The young man picked up his knife and fork in trembling hands. “Dhoury, don’t!”

  “And become like you!” he almost wailed in misery. He hesitantly cut his meat, eyes fixed. “You rebel and you rebel and we’ve all seen what it gets you! There is no refusing her, Mari! You either swim with the Shark of Tamerlan, or are eaten by her.”

  “Sharks die, like everything else.”

  Dhoury leaned in close and hissed in her ear. “Shut up! She’ll hear you. Grandmother hears everything! Grandmother already hates me! I don’t need your help in making it worse.”

  “How can it get worse?”

  “She can offer me to the Deep at the Sea Shrine!” Dhoury’s bloodshot eyes widened, and he took a swig of his wine. “She’s already threatened me with it unless I improve. Old hag says that if I weren’t of the Blood Royal, I’d be completely worthless.”

  “You’re a damn sight better than these degenerate halfwits.” Mari nodded down the table. “If they come for you, come to me.”

  “I doubt they’d give me time to run, Mari. And you? Have you forgotten your whippings, or being locked in the Tidal Cage, or the broken bones…? Mari, do you want to die?”

  “Once, yes,” she admitted.

  Mari was about to take Dhoury’s plate away and damn the consequences when she noted conversations dying around the Hearthall. Jhem had arrived, gliding through the crowds in his high-collared coat and over-robe of black snakeskin. His masked face turned neither right nor left as he made his way to the space before the high table. Beside him was a tall woman, folded in the swirling thunderhea
d of her cloak. She was dressed like a Seethe, her frayed clothing tied together with strips of cloth. The blade at her hip was sheathed in jade-tinted serill, flecked with red, the hilt wrapped in skin, the pommel in the likeness of a blackened jade octopus. Mari felt a rush of cold as the hooded face turned in her direction, which passed as soon as the other woman looked away. The Dowager-Asrahn’s colors gave the woman speculative glances, even called out a few raucous comments, elbowing each other and laughing.

  “Sayf-Tamerlan.” Jhem’s lisping voice was sepulchral from behind his mask, his ophidian eyes dead as stones. Mari’s father’s Master of Assassins gestured to the woman beside him. “This is the Emissary. One of the Asrahn-Corajidin’s closest advisers. She has come to speak with you.”

  The Dowager-Asrahn held the cooked heart in her hand and took a large bite. She chewed with her mouth open, a gnashing of pointed teeth and bloody flesh. She swallowed, then wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. The old woman did not stand to speak. “My son takes counsel from Seethe bitches now, does he? How much further can he fall, Jhem? I will not have this daughter of a degenerate race in my home. Take it out of my sight and give it to the sea. Perhaps my mewling son, who pretends to rule a nation, will choose more wisely next time.”

  “Khurshad of the Savajiin,” the Emissary said in a voice like an iron bar being bent on itself. “You would do well to keep your tongue behind your teeth, and show respect for those greater than you. How is it that you’ve forgotten those who protected you, guided you and your family down the centuries? Let me remind you…”

  The Dowager-Asrahn’s eyes rolled back into her head, back arching like a bow stave. Her body trembled and glistening bubbles of spittle frothed at the corners of her mouth. Wheezing, struggling to breath, her head lolled from side to side.