Secrets of the Sands

by Leona Wisoker

  She paused, her lips thinning, a hard light in her eyes.

  “I'm not cut out for stealth,” she said simply. “They caught me.”

  Scratha pursed his lips and said nothing. Idisio, horrified, didn't know what to say. They all sat staring at each other for a long moment of dreadful silence.

  “They dragged me back into the stables with a hand over my mouth and a knife at my throat to keep me quiet,” she said in an eerily even tone. “The stable lad was gone, it was my turn on duty that night. I usually am; I like being awake at night . . . Anyway. Karic brought out a little bottle, about this tall—” She held thumb and forefinger apart to illustrate. “— and made me drink it all. And said nobody would believe me and that if I even tried telling people what happened, his friends at the edge of town would get me. And that I was to lie to you, and tell you they ran north, through the Great Forest. But I know they're going south, to Sandlaen Port, and I know they have a contact here in Sandsplit named Yuer.”

  Scratha started at that name; his face seemed to darken instantly.

  “Yuer!” he said. “Gods help us all, he's involved in this? And he lives here? I thought . . . hells. Go on.”

  She shrugged, looking down at her hands again, her back straight and stiff. “I don't remember much after that. I woke up the next morning out in the main aisle of the stable, with several people, locals and travelers, staring at me; I wasn't . . . dressed, and I reeked of wine and . . . well.” Her mouth tightened. “You know. And Karic was right, nobody believed me. They said I'd been acting the whore with Karic for months, and everyone knew I was nothing but a useless slut, and even my own parents turned me out for shaming them. The stable master only kept me on and let me sleep in the stables because I'm so good with the horses, but the way he looked at me—he'd have cornered me himself soon enough. And after that would come the village. I couldn't . . . I couldn't stand that. I'm stupid, but I'm not a whore.”

  “And what did you hear Karic and Baylor talking about before they caught you listening?” Scratha asked, his frown unwavering.

  She ducked her head. “That they'd killed a girl, back in Kybeach.” Her voice broke. “And they'd tried to put the blame on an outsider, and it wasn't working, and so they had to run. That's when they caught me—I gasped when I heard them talking about murdering the girl, and they heard me.”

  Scratha tilted his head to one side, frowning at her. “Mmph. And that was two nights ago now?”

  She nodded mutely. He studied her for a moment more, then shook his head.

  “Eat,” he said abruptly, turning his attention to his own plate. “I need to think about this, and it's best done on a full stomach.”

  The steam had long ago faded from the platters, but even cold the food tasted good. Idisio shoveled it down enthusiastically, feeling a bit guilty that her horrible story hadn't dimmed his appetite in the least. Scratha ate with equal speed and gusto, while Riss picked over her plate listlessly, her determined show of strength fading at last.

  After the plates had been cleared away, Scratha sat back and said, without preamble, “Look at the mugs. Now close your eyes and tell me what they look like. Riss, you first.”

  Riss cleared her throat uncertainly. “It's . . . it's grey. It's made of metal. It's got a design on the side. Something with animals. A fox and some birds, I think.”

  “Idisio?”

  “Silver alloy,” Idisio said promptly. “Stands about as high as my hand is long, about as wide around as my palm. Handle embossed with birds in flight, body boss of three birds being stalked by a fox. I don't know what's on the side away from me, but I'd guess it's probably the three birds in flight and the fox missing on the pounce. There's a dent on the near side rim. That's all I remember.”

  Nobody spoke for a few moments.

  “Open your eyes,” Scratha said finally.

  Riss had developed a glazed look. “How in the s'iopes' seven hells did you remember all that?”

  Scratha grinned. Idisio had never seen him look so pleased.

  “Very good, Idisio,” he said.

  Idisio relaxed, feeling a sudden glow. “Thanks.”

  “Riss,” Scratha said, “you'll learn. Don't worry. It's impressive that you remembered as much as you did. You'll both take to aqeyva lessons just fine.”

  “Ack what?” Riss said, and looked confused when Idisio and Scratha started laughing.

  Scratha pushed to his feet, dropping a generous amount of coin on the table. “Let's go. I want to talk to Yuer before we turn in for the night. I've some questions for him, and I want both of you along as witnesses.”

  With those alarming words, he ushered them out of the tavern.

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  The bulk of Water's End sheltered in a natural bowl. Cliffs rose to all sides, some over a hundred feet high, and the path sloped steep and narrow down a hand-carved pass in the ancient rock. Sentries dressed in eyecatching white perched high along the cliffs: steady on impossibly thin ledges, supported by sturdy rope and leather harnesses. Long metal braces lined the tops of the cliffs; by the look of it, the sentries could slide sideways several feet in either direction.

  To Alyea, the engineering of those braces seemed as much a marvel as Oruen's solarium. How could they secure perfect metal rods into solid rock? Incredible. But this wasn't the time to ask about that.

  “Are those teyanain?” Alyea asked Chac after a single swift, furtive glance upwards.

  “No,” the old man said. “Their authority stops at the ridge we just crossed. Water's End has its own guards. Every desert lord tithes to support Water's End; some of them send their young men and women to train here as guards for a time. It's something of a coming-of-age ritual, serving time here as a guard.” He glanced up and sighed.

  “Did you serve here?” Alyea asked, prompted by the wistfulness in the old man's expression.

  “Yes,” Chac said, and pulled his horse to a halt. “Lead your horse down by hand.”

  Alyea glanced back as she swung off her horse. Micru had already dismounted and stood ready, hand on bridle. “Do the guards get upset if you ride down?”

  “No,” Chac said. “Trail's too tricky to ride.”

  “What about caravans?”

  “Different trail,” Chac said. “There's three north trails. One two-way trail for caravans; you have to pay to use that one, and it's a hefty fee. One free trail for walking out, one free trail for walking in.”

  The rocky, sandy ground underfoot proved slippery and treacherous. Alyea placed her feet with care and tried to avoid having her horse step on her toes. That quickly turned out to be a lost cause as they slipped and scrambled their way down the narrow trail.

  “Why . . . isn't . . . the trail . . . wider? Smoother?” Alyea panted halfway down. Sweat trickled down her face, funneling into her thin shirt; she'd look a proper mess when they reached bottom.

  “Why should it be?” Chac said over his shoulder. He moved like a cat over the uneven ground, guiding his horse easily, and didn't seem the least bit out of breath. “Deep southerners don't want much to do with the northlands. This serves as a natural barrier to kings that get a mad notion of taking over the desert Families' lands. If anything gets past the teyanain, they won't make it past this.”

  The idea of an invading army trying to make it down this slope brought a sour smile to Alyea's lips.

  “What about the other trails?” she said, jerking her foot away just as a heavy hoof slammed down. Hard boots weren't helping; her feet felt bruised and she suspected at least one toe might be broken already. “Or ports?”

  “The other trails both have their own tight spots, and you have to have a recognized guide to make it through,” Chac said. “The ports wouldn't be friendly to invasion attempts, either.” He fell silent, his attention on navigating a tricky turn.

  They were nearly at the bottom of the trail. Water's End spread out before them, a patchwork of stone buildings, some two and three stories; tent
s, at the edges, and even, incredibly, lush patches of garden greenery. Alyea had been expecting something much cruder, from Chac's comment at the first way-stop.

  “I thought you said Water's End wasn't much,” she said as they descended onto relatively level, wide ground again.

  “Never said that,” the old man said. “Just said it was a larger version of the way-stops, and it is. Prettier, too.” He drew a deep breath and surveyed the area as the guards finished the descent and gathered behind them.

  Alyea looked as well, and forgot her sweat, her disheveled appearance, the dirt and dust on her clothes, her aching feet.

  The scent of desert rose and whitemusk flowers, feather-herbs and bitter onion, fresh baked bread and citrus fruits all clashed in her nose. With a shift of the faint breeze, those aromas faded into the dust, dirt, and sweat of a busy camp in hot weather. The smell of metal lent a tangy accent to the air, and nearly everyone seemed to be wearing a sword or dagger.

  People wearing brightly patterned, lightweight fabrics filled the winding streets. Most wore their hair either intricately and tightly braided against their skulls or completely shaven. The predominant skin tone ranged from dark brown to black, a shade she'd rarely seen in Bright Bay; as Chac had said, the deep southerners wanted little to do with anything north of the Horn. Here and there she saw the bronze or burnt-almond skin tone and hawk-like face of an old, noble bloodline; crowds parted before those visages. The people moving out of the way didn't even seem to glance up first, as if they felt the presence before seeing it.

  A cacophony of laughter and shouting and arguing filled the streets, punctuated by the erratic screams of caged desert birds. Now and again an asp-jacau howled or whined; there were more of those creatures here than Alyea had ever seen in one place, all neatly groomed and obediently trotting behind their masters. Some wore gold, silver, or gem-studded collars; a few had swirling patterns bleached or dyed into their fur.

  Alyea blinked wind-flung dust from her eyes and looked at Chac, feeling overwhelmed and helpless. He stared at her, his expression thoughtful; when she met his gaze he nodded as if coming to a decision.

  “This way,” he said.

  The group wound through a seemingly erratic path, past tents, buildings, and gardens, finally halting again in the courtyard of what must surely be the largest building in Water's End. It stood three stories high, block upon huge limestone block set and firmly cemented together. The wide windows on the upper stories were flanked by heavy, metal shutters, currently open and fastened securely back to the sides of the building.

  A nearby stable building, large enough to house fifty horses in comfort, boasted a fenced enclosure with thick grass and three thick-trunked oaks with huge, abundant foliage. Several horses dozed in the shade created by those giant leaves, their tails twitching idly.

  Small statues of rearing horses, dancing children with jugs in hand, and howling asp-jacaus dotted the central area. Water poured from each statue into a stone trough, which ran for several feet before turning into an underground pipe.

  “Incredible,” she breathed.

  “Aerthraim engineering,” Chac said, sounding smug. “Wait until you see inside.”

  Grooms trotted towards them, smiling cheerfully; one rattled off a question: “Ka-s'eias, ahaki t'ass ekita? Pahaki t'ess?”

  “I'm sorry,” Alyea said, “I don't. . . . ”

  “T'ass, s'eias, essata; keyassa natoya su-s'a Peysimun,” Chac said. “Let them take your horse, Alyea.”

  Feeling suddenly lost, Alyea let the nearest groom lead her horse away. “What did they say?”

  “They asked if we were staying at the enclave or just stabling the horses for a while,” Chac said. “I told them we were staying, and gave him your family name so they can bring the baggage to our rooms.”

  “What's ka-s'eias?” Alyea said. “I haven't heard it that way before. S'eias is a mixed group of people; what does the ka make it?”

  “It's unique to the deep southlands,” Chac said. “Means they're not sure of our exact status, but know we're not commoners and want to offer proper respect. 'Honored' is probably the closest translation. Now that they know you're a northern noble, you'll find everyone calling you sus'a: northern lady.”

  “What are they going to call you?” Alyea asked, with a touch of mischief.

  Chac's expression went remote. “Chacerly.”

  “What, no term of respect?” Alyea teased, and immediately regretted it. Chac didn't even look at her. His expression changed from remote to stony.

  “No,” he said curtly, and started towards the enclave building.

  Alyea hesitated before following him. She couldn't imagine what the old man could have done to lose even the most basic term of courtesy before his name, especially in the deep south where respect counted for everything. Deiq's words came back to her: the men you ride with aren't the ones to trust . . . they watch you with the care of men that serve two masters.

  For the first time, Alyea wondered if she and Oruen were the ones Chacerly served.

  Chac reached the door to the enclave and went inside without even looking behind to see if she followed. She put her suspicious thoughts aside for the moment and hurried to catch up.

  Considerably nicer than the last way-stop, this room held a single bed and a lower cot for a servant to sleep on. Halla looked around the room, seeming uncertain, and sat on the cot with a lost expression.

  “What's the matter?” Alyea asked, dropping her pack on her own bed and sitting next to it.

  “I don't know where to go,” Halla said. “I've been asking and asking after my son along the trail, and nobody knows anything.”

  Alyea thought about Chac's lessons on southern custom, sighed, and said, “Halla, I have to explain something to you.”

  She sketched out the obligation concept as clearly as she could. The northern woman looked steadily more baffled.

  “I have to pay for someone to tell me where my son is?” she demanded at last.

  “Well, not with coin, and no. . . ” she forestalled the woman's gathering indignation. “Nothing to do with sex. You don't have to sell yourself. But you have to have something to give in order to get any information about your son.”

  “So the people I asked could have been lying?” Halla looked perplexed. “Why would anyone lie to a mother looking for her son?”

  “It's nothing personal,” Alyea said. “That's just the custom here. I'm having to learn it myself; Bright Bay isn't like that.”

  Halla sat brooding, frown gathering deeper, and finally said, “No offense, my lady, but your southern world is madness.”

  “Just different from your customs,” Alyea said. “That's all.”

  “No,” Halla said, shaking her head. “Any place where people could lie to a mother seeking her son is completely mad.”

  “They may not have lied,” Alyea said. “They honestly might not have known. Don't think the worst until you have to.”

  “I have nothing to offer,” the northern woman said.

  She looked so miserable Alyea couldn't help crossing to sit beside her. She put a hand on Halla's shoulder. “Chac told me there's an old saying: sooner or later, everything comes through Water's End. We'll find word of your son here. I'm sure of it. And don't forget, you have some status by being my servant. Don't be afraid to use my name; it might tip the balance.”

  “But won't that put you in debt?” Halla asked dubiously.

  “Maybe,” Alyea said lightly, “but I'm sure I can afford it. Go on, go ask around.” She gave the woman a few small coins. “Buy me one of those wonderful red silk tunics I've seen people wearing around here.”

  Not that she wanted the tunic, but the errand would give Halla a reason to be out on the streets talking to vendors; the northern woman's nod held instant understanding. “It may take me some time,” Halla said, testing, and Alyea nodded.

  “Take as much time as you like,” she said, smiling.

  “Thank you, my lady,
” Halla said with deep sincerity, and hurried out the door without a backwards glance.

  Still smiling, Alyea crossed to the window and watched: the northern woman emerged into the street and headed for the market with eyes modestly lowered and a stride that held nothing but purpose. People moved out of her way, as they did for the desert lords, without really looking; then seemed oddly perplexed, glancing back over their shoulders at the northern woman.