The Pillars of Sand

by Mark T. Barnes

  “Jhem, your Master of Assassins, and Nadir are useless in Tamerlan. We need them here doing what they’re supposed to be doing. Part of which is fighting your unsanctioned war and not keeping Mari a damned captive—another thing we need to talk about.”

  “Your sister’s predicament is of her own choosing. But are you seriously blaming the Blacksnake and Nadir for your failure?”

  “The Anlūki I killed at the Weavegate was only nineteen years old, Father. If we’d had accurate intelligence rather than just blundering through the Drear—”

  “You are blaming others, then.”

  “We were reliably informed,” Belamandris said slowly and evenly, “that Sayf-Yoseq of Kashmar, his wife and children, were traveling the Faladin Road between Tyr and Näs-Sayyin with a small personal guard. He was going to be invested as the new Prefect of the city, sworn to the service of the Näsarats.”

  “And?”

  “When we arrived, that small personal guard happened to be a score and a half of the Lamenti, led by Bensaharēn himself. And I expect they didn’t want to expose old Yoseq to danger, so for laughs there were four squads of the Lion Guard, Father. Twenty of those big bastards all armed to the teeth and eager to let our insides out. We were lucky as many of us survived as we did—”

  “Really? One old man, thirty of his students, and some mongrels from the Taumarq drove the great Widowmaker and his Anlūki away?”

  Belamandris looked at his brother for support. “Is it just me, Kasra, or is there no talking to him these days? Seems Mari saw things clearly.”

  Corajidin bristled. “So. You not only failed me, you—”

  “Were outmatched by some of the best warriors in Shrīan—and no, Father, neither I, nor even Mari, are a match for Bensaharēn the Waterdancer on our best day. The rubbish intelligence we had only added height to the steaming turd pile we had to climb. If it weren’t for Sanojé opening up a way for us to get out, we’d all be dead or imprisoned.

  “And that’s another thing. We’re even more at risk using the Weavegate than we are fighting your battles. Sanojé says that the more we use it the more we stir the Drear up, and the more the things that live there are likely to notice us. Each time we use it, more of my crew report troubling visions and nightmares. They can’t sleep, barely eat—”

  “Father.” Kasraman held up his hands in a calming gesture. “Belam has a point. The Emissary warned us, all the witches warned us, and I warned you, that the Weavegate was not to be used lightly. We’ve other means at our disposal. And how can you expect Belam and the Anlūki to execute these missions without the proper intelligence, unrested, and plagued by the visions traveling the Weavegate gives them? Every time you send them out they’ve no idea what they’ll be facing.”

  “Or if we’ll arrive, or who we’re fighting, or how many…,” Belamandris muttered. He took another sip of wine, then rolled the dewed bowl against his forehead.

  “It’s true, Asrahn,” Nix said from where he was stabbing one of his knives into the tabletop. Corajidin looked at the mad little assassin sourly. I’ll need to get that table sanded, and polished. Again. The greasy lengths of Nix’s fringe fell over his eyes as he spoked away at the wood. “Not the bit about not doing it. I’m fine with that. One thing I learned in Tanis is that all politics is red work. But the Blacksnake is next to useless in Tamerlan. Free me up from leading the secret police so I can take the role of—”

  “That will not be necessary!” Corajidin smiled at Nix, taking in the man’s fishbelly skin, trembling fingers, and twitching eyes. He remembered Nix’s delight in chaos. The little man eyed Corajidin darkly, but held his tongue. “Until Jhem returns we need to continue taking hostages from among the families of those I need to control. You are doing well as the Knight-General of the ban-kherife, Nix, anonymous as the role may be. Fear not. Soon enough I will have you step from the shadows into a more public role.”

  “But scaling?” Belamandris grimaced. “Isn’t that a little gruesome, even for you? And what about these other murders? Bodies drained of blood and torn apart. We need to set boundaries somewhere.”

  “Such are the times,” Nix said. “We need to make people so afraid they feel they have nowhere else to turn. Abductions, murders, thefts, threats … It’s all in a red day’s work for my crew. When the time comes, we’ll not need to point fingers at the Iron League: I’ll have left a trail of evidence so obvious the blind could follow it. The Teshri will beg us to go to war. I’ve found the Soul Traders to be a great help, and they’re keen for an introduction, Asrahn. They’re a grisly bunch, but both my father and I have dealt with them for many years. They can be surprisingly helpful, and have access to assets beyond us.”

  “Pashrea first,” Corajidin said. “We need to unite the Avān first.” And appease the Emissary. “As for the Soul Traders, Nix, I want you to cease all dealings with them. They are an abomination, and I will not be beholden to those who harvest the souls of the dead for their own aims.”

  Nix lip curled, and his color rose. “But, Asrahn—”

  “Do as you’re told, Nix, or you will yourself outside of my good graces.”

  “So there are some lengths to which you won’t go? I’m surprised. You damn us all with this, Father.” Belamandris finished his drink and stood. He put the wine bowl down with an audible click, tapping his finger against its rim. “We’re all of us riders in this suicidal race of yours. It’s only a matter of time before we slip, and are trampled.”

  “Is the Widowmaker afraid of doing his duty to his Great House?” Corajidin regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Have you forsaken me, you, the child I love above all others? Will you, like your cursed sister, lead us to the brink of ruin?

  “Afraid?” Belamandris snorted. “I’d not given the word a great deal of thought until you brought me back from the lip of the Well of Souls. Until you released the witches and made bedfellows of those you should revile. And again, more so, when you started relying on the Drear, and losing sight of what we should be holding as sacred. Yes, I suppose I am afraid, Father. Not of my duty, which I’ll always do, but of where that duty is taking us.”

  Belamandris turned to the door, shoulders slumped with fatigue.

  When Corajidin spoke, his voice carried more venom than he intended. “Are you off to the bed of that Tanisian girl, that filthy daughter of Nomads? You were raised for better!”

  Belamandris paused, but did not turn. “If you mean Sanojé, no. I’m going to make sure the Anlūki are getting the care they deserve after fighting your battles, while you sit here safely. It’s what a leader does, Father.” Corajidin drew in a breath to speak but Belamandris shook his head, reaching for the door handle. “I’d not. We’ve shared enough words that can’t be unsaid for one conversation. Besides, it’ll be no great revelation how far your hypocrisy goes. You need a different mirror than I to see what you’ve become.”

  Corajidin clenched his teeth, white-knuckled fists rapping on the tabletop as the door closed behind his son. He looked at the others in the room, but they turned away, silent.

  Corajidin stood by the tall windows of his office. Heavy drops beat a rapid tattoo on the glass, forming thick rivulets that trickled down to pool on the sill. The sky was a uniform gray, dull as an old shield, with tiny scratches of light where the sun tried to break the cloud. His breath fogged the glass, despite the firestones that warmed the room. Fog, too, coiled about the monochrome streets of Avānweh, strands of it blending with the platter of the Lakes of the Sky, flattening the world into a bland expanse.

  The contents of the reports in his hand were as expected. Corajidin idly scanned the missives from Master Baquio of the College of Artificers and Master Prahna of the Alchemist’s Society. The institutions had reproduced and made available for sale scores of inventions, potions, and other useful items. Chemical light globes, healing salves, improved metallurgic techniques, and plans for new and more terrifying siege weapons. However, their progress where it matte
red had been uninspiring. A full season almost over and the Torque Spindles remained still. Such phrases as close to a breakthrough, ongoing testing, and promising results no longer encouraged him. Banker’s House, too, were proving recalcitrant. They knew Corajidin was building for war. Knew he needed additional funding. Between themselves, the Mercantile Guild—and their newfound political aspirations under Teymoud—and the consortium of trades from the middle-castes, they were on a course to extort the Crown and State for all it is worth. Unpalatable as their business dealings were, Corajidin’s investment would pay off in time. Across Shrīan the industries of violence worked in preparation for the war that would unite the Avān under one monarch, then arm them for their journey of conquest.

  Seated at another desk in his office, Mēdēya penned notes on a small mountain of paperwork. Dressed in layers of damask silk, his latest wife frowned at columns of names and numbers as she chewed the end of her ink brush. The frown was little more than a faint line on otherwise unblemished, burnished skin. Her eyes were almost black, her long curls so dark they had a bluish tint. In Pashrea they would have called her Yashamin-Mēdēya, and welcomed her for what she was. Here in Shrīan she was Mēdēya, Corajidin’s scandalously young fourth wife. There was little or nothing left of the original Mēdēya save her body—had not been since the Emissary traded one soul for another in the sycamore grove overlooking the Mahsojhin. She was younger, differently alluring than before, and seemed to be Yashamin in most ways. And yet … somehow not. As much as Corajidin wanted to welcome his wife back into his heart, there was too much about Mēdēya that was not Yashamin. Caught in the nets of his doubts, he could not call her by that name, which would not taste the same. She looked up, sensing his scrutiny, and smiled.

  Ignoring the call of desire, Corajidin sat at his desk. He took an ink brush in hand and had begun writing his response to the artificers and alchemists when a knock at the door caught his attention. Kasraman and Wolfram entered, expressions troubled. Wolfram handed Corajidin a scroll, then took a step away. Corajidin spared a glance at the green and silver seal of the Great House of Kadarin, before cracking it open.

  He tapped the missive against the tabletop. “When did this arrive?”

  “Mahav, the witch appointed to the Great House of Kadarin, arrived not ten minutes ago from Kadariat,” Wolfram said, leaning on his wretched old staff.

  Corajidin desperately wanted a drink of something stronger than tea. “This letter is from Pah-Kadarin fa Anankil. He says that Rahn-Narseh took ill almost thirty days ago, and that no treatment seems to work. This at least explains the vague excuses for her not being here to help us in the Teshri. You’ll find the symptoms interesting.” Corajidin handed the parchment to Kasraman, where he and Wolfram pored over it.

  “How did this happen?” Wolfram asked. “You were the first person to present with these symptoms!”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Kasraman said. “Father, do you remember when you were at Amnon, I mentioned that there might have been a way for you to remaster your Awakening?”

  “Vaguely.” Corajidin had significant gaps in his memory from when his illness was at its worst and playing havoc with his mind.

  “There were references to something that matched your illness in one of the diaries of a Sēq Lore Master, sworn to our House before the Scholar Wars.” Kasraman paused, clearly choosing his next words carefully. “You were focused on wringing Ariskander’s secrets from him, so I did not pursue this any further. Recently though I found mention of it in Grandfather’s journal.”

  “Ancestor’s teeth!” Corajidin swore. “My father knew about this?”

  “Grandfather died from it,” Kasraman said flatly. “He did not last so long as you, but the early symptoms are there. Like you he hid it from the world. Unlike you he didn’t find a solution in time.”

  “None of us ever knew,” Corajidin mused. “Father sent us away long before it was obvious he was that sick. Have we any intelligence on whether this afflicts the Federationist rahns, also?”

  “Nothing, Asrahn,” Wolfram said. “The last we knew the Federationists were ensconced at Narsis. Rarely have we been able to get an operative in there, and when we do they get discovered and disposed of quickly.”

  “Find out.” Corajidin leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the tabletop. He felt the comforting weight of the potion nestled in a pocket of his embroidered silk coat. “Call it my urgent need to know. And find me the damned Emissary! I want some answers.”

  Kasraman and Wolfram nodded, leaving Corajidin to his musings.

  Mēdēya stood by the window, a shadow against the glare. “If this is more widespread than Narseh,” she said, “the death of the rahns could work in our favor.”

  She sidled across to where Corajidin sat, her over-robe sliding off her shoulders as if by its own volition. Quick motions of her fingers and her trousers likewise slid down, leaving her in her silk tunic: revealing nothing, but promising everything. She straddled him, fingers entwined in his hair. She smelled of aloe vera and apple. He felt the warmth of her, an almost fever heat, burning through his clothes. Corajidin’s lips opened involuntarily, his tongue resting against his teeth. Ancestor’s teeth, she is like elemental desire! His hearts beat faster with passion as much as a lingering fear of what she was. This is not the woman I loved and lost. There is something at once more … and less, to her. Like the other deals with the Emissary, this, too, seemed tainted. The Sēq Order, for Belamandris. A stranger, to bring back what he had hoped was Yashamin. And to come, the toppling of others’ thrones in order to ensure his own.

  “You were talking of the rahns,” he breathed into her mouth.

  “They aren’t necessary for you to become Mahj.” Her voice hummed against his throat as she leaned in close. “You can be father of the empire without them. Wasn’t that foretold, my love?”

  Corajidin allowed himself to melt into her, his inner voice of caution little more than a cry from another room. Her sure hands slid his coat from his shoulders. What Mēdēya said was true. Those same hands reached insistently for the buckles of his trousers. But why was Narseh sick? The sharp ricochet of ruby and gold buttons as she tore at his tunic. And why now?

  Mēdēya moaned low in her throat as Corajidin frantically cleared a space on the desk for them, reports falling to the ground, forgotten. Mēdēya took his earlobe between her lips, lightly massaging with her tongue. His hands wandered, lips tracing a warm track down her neck, then her torso, as she urged him downward.

  “And Vahineh.” Mēdēya gasped, the muscles in her abdomen twitching. He watched as gooseflesh stippled her skin. “Her road needs to end at my hand, as mine almost ended at hers. Give her to me, my love. Give her to me, and I will give you…”

  Intoxicated by her, all he did was nod.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Truths can change like the clouds in the sky, as the wind of fact blows them into more meaningful shapes.”

  —Zienni proverb

  Day 55 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  Indris ached, sweating from his labors in the Manufactory. With three of the forges and two of the athanors working, the place was sweltering, the air seeming to stick to his skin. He stood and stretched, letting the hammer fall to the anvil, flexing his tired hands.

  His drawings hung as layered panels moving sluggishly in the hot air, backlit to reveal a layered three-dimensional view. Above him the completed fuselage for the Skylark hung by chains and pulleys from the iron girders that crisscrossed the ceiling. The wind-skiff looked like the giant glass skeleton of a falcon, with additional struts in the wings and tail. The pilot’s gimbal had been installed, as had the mountings for the Disentropy Spools and the Tempest Wheels. It had taken more than a month to construct by himself, in what hours were left to his own devices after he worked with the Masters and spent what had been fruitless hours in the library.

  Calming his mind with a quick breathing exercise, Indris used his improvin
g farsight to inspect the contents of the athanor, the specialized furnace removing the impurities in the thaumaturgic gold, silver, and bronze he needed for the circuits of his new Tempest Wheels. Flicking his mind across to the forges, the serill sheets and spars were almost done: There were no drakes at Amarqa-in-the-Snows, but the mystic forges generated the heat necessary to make drake glass. Indris dropped his metapsychic vision and called upon his psychokinesis to gently lower the Skylark to ground level. As the skeleton settled in to its cradle, Indris took up some of the serill panels he had finished, and the vanes of alloyed thaumaturgic metal, and swept them into place with his mind. Just like any other muscle, or skill. The more he practiced, the stronger he became. And since arriving at Amarqa, Indris had taken every opportunity to practice.

  “So this is the secret you’ve been keeping, boy?”

  Indris spun, prepared to flee rather than let Femensetri mine his mind for his newfound skills. But she was not looking at him: Rather her attention was fixed on the Skylark as she fanned her face, perspiration beading her brow. After a short bout of cursing, she crooned a canto that surrounded her with a pale nimbus. The redness faded from her features, perspiration vanishing.

  “It’s loud in here,” she observed. “And too bloody hot.”

  “It’s the silence I can’t stand”—because it reminds me of the voices of friends I can’t hear anymore—“and the heat doesn’t bother me. What do you want?”

  “Relax your sphincter, boy. I was curious what you were up to.” Femensetri rested her fingers on the golden vanes that would make the feathered wings of the Skylark. She admired the way the light brought out the different colors in the serill and the elegant shape and unique design of the flyer. Femensetri stood before Indris’s schematics, tracing them with a dirty, broken nail. “It’s beautiful. You’ve been busy.”