White Sand

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Khriss watched the battle with concern. Eric appeared to be right—Kenton was doing rather well. Three of the assassins already lay immobile on the floor, and a fourth was clutching one of Ais’s arrows in his side. Only three remained, and they appeared to be out of arrows. They were trying to circle around and flank Kenton, but the wild sweeps of his table kept them at bay.

  “I’m glad you’re here, friend,” Eric suddenly said. “This soup is delicious—I’d like another bowl.”

  Khriss looked at Eric with surprise, and only then did she notice the serving man who had been crawling their direction, as if frightened by the fight. The man’s face was Kershtian and, Khriss noticed uncomfortably, he had a large bulge underneath the sleeve of his left arm. A zinkall shaped bulge.

  The serving man stood quickly, pointing his arm at Khriss and yelling something toward Kenton.

  The sand master turned with surprise, lowering his table when he saw Khriss. His three opponents quickly advanced on him.

  “No!” Khriss yelled in alarm.

  The assassin threatening Khriss turned with a smile. As he did so he got a face full of soup.

  Eric leapt from his seat, slapping his hand at the Kershtian. However, the attack wasn’t aimed at the man’s face or chest, but his arm. Moving with the lithe precision of a warrior, Eric knocked the zinkall away from Khriss’s face and then, with a second blow almost to quick to see, struck at the weapon itself.

  The Kershtian’s arm hissed for a moment, then fell silent. The assassin backed away, wiping his face and cursing as he pulled out his black carapace sword. Eric sat down on the edge of the table and smiled at the man. As soon as the Kershtian attacked, however, Eric dodged out of the way, moving almost like an acrobat as he kept just beyond the man’s thrusts.

  So he is the Lord General’s son, Khriss thought, pulling back against the side of her booth, watching Eric with amazement. She had never seen a man fight with such skill. Even Baon didn’t fight like Eric—though, to be fair, swordplay was becoming increasingly rare on darkside. Eric’s balance was incomparable, he leapt from table to table, sometimes using his weight to tip them over and block blows from his opponent.

  Yet, for all his skill, Eric didn’t attack. He continued to dodge, easily keeping away from the frustrated Kershtian, sometimes using flagons or bowls to bat the man’s weapon away. As he fought, Eric abandoned the smile that always seemed to be on his lips. His eyes were focused and intense. As he dodged, his body suddenly didn’t look quite as husky as it had before, his small paunch almost disappearing, his legs moving with a speed that denoted strength rather than fat.

  Kenton had raised his table in time to ward off his foes, and was now using his sand to grab random objects, such as plates and bowls, and hurl them at his opponents. The missiles flew powerfully, and his three opponents were quickly reduced to a single man, whom Ais suddenly tackled from behind.

  Then Khriss noticed something. One of the men who had fallen earlier had managed to get onto his knees. He rose, stumbling in her direction, raising his sword. His eyes were disoriented, but they were also hateful.

  “Kenton!” Khriss yelped, searching for some sort of weapon. She was backed into a corner. She considered sliding beneath the table again, but that would do little good. So, instead, she moved out of the booth and tried to dash toward a nearby window.

  The Kershtian lunged forward, grabbing her arm as she passed. The man swore at her in Kershtian, raising his weapon and screaming at Kenton.

  There was a sudden crash in the air, and the Kershtian’s chest exploded, spraying Khriss with gore. He tumbled to the ground, releasing her hand. Khriss stumbled backwards, sickened, stunned, and horrified. Then she looked up. “Baon?” she asked.

  Acron stood in the doorway, his shaking arm holding Gevin’s pistol.

  Khriss felt herself slip backward, tumbling toward the floor in a daze. A strong arm caught her. A strong, glowing arm. She blacked out for a moment, and when she awoke she found herself gripped in an embrace of sand. Kenton was there a moment later, sitting her down against the wall and wiping the blood from her face with a rag.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have let you come with me.”

  She shook her head, gathering her wits, trying to remove the image of the assassin’s sudden death from her mind. “Kenton?” she asked, still slightly disoriented.

  “Yes?” he replied with concern.

  “What is that rag made out of? You don’t have sheep over here. I’ve always wondered how you make cloth.”

  Kenton chuckled. “You’re hopeless,” he said. “It comes from a shalrim, a plant that grows underneath sand of moderate depth. It’s one of the main things we trade with the Kershtians for.”

  Khriss nodded—she had assumed it was something like that. “I’m all right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “How is everyone else?”

  “Eric is complaining of a bruised finger,” Kenton said. “Other than that we’re all right.”

  “My Lady,” Acron said, kneeling on the ground beside her. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know what else to do. He looked like he was going to strike you, and I didn’t know what he was saying, so I just … .”

  “It’s all right, Acron,” Khriss assured. “You did the right thing.” And I thank the Divine you actually hit the person you were aiming for.

  Kenton gave her one final glance, as if he didn’t believe her assertion that she was all right, then stood. “Ais,” he said loudly. “I thought you said they wouldn’t attack today.” Eric, sitting in a nearby booth, translated his words for her.

  The trackt knelt a short distance away, studying the body of the man Acron had killed. There was a deep frown on his face. “They shouldn’t have,” he said, rising. “At least, not by regular interpretation of the KerKor.”

  “The KerKor?” Khriss asked.

  “Kershtian holy document,” Eric explained. “Though, I suppose ‘document’ is a bit misleading. The thing is huge—it forms the basis for most Kershtian customs and laws. The Lossanders copied it when they made their Law.”

  “According to the KerKor,” Ais continued, “the assassins can attack on odd numbered days by the Kershtian calendar. If they skip a day, they’ve missed their chance, and should wait another day.”

  “Well, they obviously didn’t,” Kenton challenged.

  Ais just shook his head. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “Whoever is doing this must not understand the KerKor very well.”

  “The A’Kar?” Kenton asked with surprise.

  Ais snorted. “No, not the A’Kar, sand master. The one he assigned to perform the assassination. He must not have read the KerKor closely. I can’t believe that anyone would ignore the stipulations intentionally.”

  Kenton sighed, turning concerned eyes back toward Khriss.

  “I’m fine, really,” she promised, standing up to prove her point. “I was just a little stunned.”

  “All right,” Kenton said. “Ais, I assume you want to stay here?”

  The trackt nodded. “Perhaps I can discover some clue as to who is organizing the attacks, Ry’Kensha,” he said.

  #

  Ais watched the Lord Mastrell go, then turned back to his investigation. However, he wasn’t as interested in the possibility of finding the man behind the attacks as he was in what had killed the assassin on the floor in front of him. He had seen—and heard—the strange weapons once before, when Kenton had been attacked in darksider town. Ais hadn’t received an opportunity to investigate them that time.

  Ais knelt beside the body and rolled it over, revealing the enormous hole in the man’s back. Ais had never seen damage so extensive. With his eyes he traced a line from the dead man to the place the fat darksider had been standing. Then he moved the other direction, searching for the weapon that had killed in such a powerful, gruesome manner. He found the small bit of metal embedded in the far wall. It was spattered and mangled.

  What was it? Some sort of stra
nge power, like sand mastery? He had heard stories of the marvels of darkside, but had never believed them. Somehow, the tube the darksider had been holding was powerful enough to slay a man faster than Ais could blink.

  “Sir!” Tain said, hurrying into the room, bringing a dozen of Ais’s trackts with him.

  Ais stood. “Clean this up,” he requested. “See if you can determine anything about the one who send them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tain said, saluting. Then he proffered a black piece of paper. “Here, this came for you today.”

  Ais frowned. It looked suspiciously like one of Nilto’s letters. However, when he ripped it open, undoing the seal made by wiping a tiny bit of water on the edges of the paper and folding it together, he found that he was wrong. It wasn’t from Nilto. It was actually from a completely different source.

  Meet me at eighth hour in the building where you caught Lokmlen, it read.

  “What is it?” Tain asked.

  Ais’s face was emotionless, but he was smiling inside. “A gift from the Sand Lord himself.”

  #

  Kenton was only just beginning to understand what a horrible thing responsibility could be. As a boy, he had seen the Lord Mastrell as an arrogant tyrant, a man who played with the emotions of others for his own pleasure. The boy Kenton had seen no logic behind Praxton’s decisions; he had seen only the hurt, not the further pain that hurt could prevent. Life had been easier then—Kenton had been so certain of what was right and what was wrong.

  Kenton stood in his rooms, trying to confront the decisions before him. What would he do if he were given the opportunity to blackmail the Lord Merchant? He wasn’t certain yet, though he did resent the need to make such a decision. However, as Lord Mastrell, he somehow knew that this would not be the first difficult choice he would be forced to make—assuming, of course, the Diem and he both survived the next few days. It was almost as if he were a sacrifice for the rest of the sand masters. As leader, he would tarnish his sense of right and wrong so that the rest of them could maintain their innocence.

  No wonder Eric fled all those years ago, he thought suddenly.

  He could see the young Eric in his mind, a tall, powerful boy with close-cropped dark hair and intense eyes. Eric had always been the same, so quick to please, so formal and righteous. He had been the same up until the day before he left when, inexplicably, he had suddenly cracked.

  It had happened during NaishaLa, one of the traditional Kershtian feasting days. Kenton had been with Eric at an enormous feast thrown by the Lord General. Kenton still didn’t know what had set Eric off, what final grain of sand had proven too much for him to bear. They had been eating, Kenton monopolizing the conversation as he usually did. Then, Eric had suddenly exploded into a mess of tears, accusations, and pain. He had run from the party, cursing his father, Kenton, and the formless sense of ‘responsibility’ he felt.

  The next day, Eric had left for darkside. His only explanation for his outburst had been to say he just couldn’t handle the idea of some day becoming Lord General. He had disappeared for three years.

  I almost wish I could do the same, Kenton thought ruefully. It wasn’t just the decision about Vey—that was a minor thing, really. He didn’t even know what the Lord Merchant was hiding. His stress was greater than one complaint—it was everything combined. It was the knowledge that so many people depended on him, the feeling of helplessness in the face of the Diem’s awesome problems. Most recently, it was the knowledge that being near him could prove deadly to his friends.

  The attack earlier in the day had shaken him more than any so far. For the first time, the assassins had specifically targeted those around him as a means of forcing him to stop fighting. Poor Khriss had nearly been killed in the attack, not to mention Eric. He even worried about Ais—the obstinate trackt wasn’t really a friend, but Kenton would feel terrible if the man died in his defense.

  So, he finally understood what had made Eric flee. This new Eric, the carefree vagabond, wasn’t really so new. He had always been there, hiding behind Eric’s statuesque persona. Kenton had seen hints of the boy’s true personality, though such glimpses had been rare. It was responsibility—the knowledge of what he would have to become—that had forced Eric to be so stiff.

  The other thing that bothered him was his upcoming fight with Drile. The duel was like an ominous sandstorm, blowing in the distance. Kenton couldn’t avoid it, no matter how he tried. He had to face Drile.

  If only there were a way to increase my power, he thought with frustration, pounding the balcony banister lightly with his fist. He’d thought he had it figured out. Overmastery made so much sense. It was the only thing that could have increased Kenton’s powers, and it was a good explanation as to why mastrells were so powerful. Why, then, had Overmastering taken away Elorin’s powers.

  Maybe you have to be very careful, Kenton thought. If you go too far, you burn away your powers. But, if you Overmaster just enough, you tax your abilities and cause them to stretch.

  It made sense, but there were still too many questions. Dare he try Overmastering? What if he lost his powers? What if he didn’t get them back in time for the fight? What if the Kershtians attacked while he was helpless?

  “Ry’Kensha,” Ais’s voice said.

  Kenton looked up, turning around on the balcony to look back at the trackt, who sat looking over papers in his usual place.

  “Yes, Ais?” Kenton replied.

  “I trust you will not object if I leave you now?” Ais replied, stacking his papers together and rising from his seat.

  Kenton frowned, checking the time. The moon was barely visible peaking over the Diem roof to the southwest. It was only eighth hour; Ais usually stayed at least until tenth hour.

  “You’re leaving early,” Kenton noted. “What is happening, Ais? Do you have a pretty woman waiting for your company somewhere?”

  Ais didn’t respond, maintaining his normal expressionless face. “I have Hall duties to deal with,” he said simply.

  “Hall duties?” Kenton prodded.

  Ais shot him a look, obviously not appreciating the intrusion. Kenton didn’t care—the trackt had been intruding on Kenton’s affairs for the last ten days.

  “I am close to catching a criminal,” Ais finally explained. “A very important one. Today I have a meeting with one of his former associates.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Kenton said, he said impassively. He needed something—anything—to take his mind off of his moral dilemmas. “Perhaps I can help.”

  “I doubt it,” Ais said with a stern voice. “Your presence won’t be necessary.”

  Kenton shrugged. “If you wish, Ais. While you’re gone, though, I think I’ll go and speak with one of the Taisha. I haven’t been to meet with the Lord Farmer yet.”

  Ais paused, and Kenton caught a glimmer of conflict in the Kershtian’s eyes. He had been ordered to spy on Kenton for the Lady Judge. She obviously wanted to know what kind of deals Kenton was making to get the Taishin on his side. Ais knew Kenton’s threat was a hollow one, but if Kenton did go to see a Taisha while Ais wasn’t there, the trackt would be in obvious violation of his orders.

  “All right,” Ais finally said. “You may come with me.”

  #

  They stopped first at Ais’s house, where the Ais left a note for his family. What he was doing could be dangerous—if something were to happen, Ais wanted them to know what he had been doing. After that, they made their way to the meeting place, the very room where Ais’s band had been attacked a week before, the place where Jedan had been killed. Ais stood by the window, keeping a careful look on the building’s entrance three stories below.

  “So, who is it we are meeting?” Kenton asked quietly, peeking out the window beside Ais.

  “I don’t know,” Ais confessed.

  “You don’t know?” Kenton asked incredulously.

  “He didn’t give his name,” Ais said with annoyance. “Those who work with Sharezan don’t often pub
licize the fact.”

  “Sharezan?” Kenton asked. “That’s who you’re trying to catch?”

  Ais nodded, wondering for the hundredth time why he had agreed to bring the fool of a mastrell along.

  “Sands, Ais, that man is supposed to be insane!” Kenton said. “Don’t you think we should have brought some more men?”

  “We’re not meeting Sharezan,” Ais said. “Just one of his associates.”

  “One you think will betray him,” Kenton pointed out.

  “Yes.”

  “That sounds dangerous enough to require a few more tracts,” Kenton noted.

  Ais snorted quietly. “I have you, don’t I, Lord Mastrell?”

  “Yes, but you weren’t going to bring me. Besides, you hate it when I try to help you.”

  Ais sighed to himself, turning to the white-clothed Lord Mastrell. Kenton was right—it was dangerous—but Ais couldn’t admit that. He couldn’t tell Kenton that the reason he hadn’t brought any more men was because he didn’t want them to know what he was doing.

  Technically, he shouldn’t be here. The Lady Judge had taken him off the Sharezan case. Though she hadn’t expressly forbidden him to continue investigating, Ais doubted she would be pleased to hear of this meeting. He hadn’t even told Tain or the other members of his personal band.

  “What reason would I have for bringing other trackts?” Ais asked. “To protect me? If the man we are going to meet wanted me dead, he could have accomplished that goal with much simpler methods.”

  “And if he tries to escape?” Kenton asked.

  “If he runs, then that means I have failed,” Ais explained. “Catching an uncooperative man won’t lead me to Sharezan.”

  “If you say so,” Kenton said, unconvinced.

  Ais offered no further explanation, continuing to keep watch below. I have to find the answer, he thought to himself. I have to find the proof I seek. He had been trying for years to prove his suspicions, that Nilto and Sharezan were the same man. If he could just find one witness. …