“These are the Founding Stories,” he would say, casually flipping pages as if he were not casting the most potent magic Cephas could imagine. “This collection here.” Azad’s bottle of palm wine would find his lips at this point. “This book was made on the order of Kamar yn Saban el Djenispool, the leader, the great human leader of all Calimshan, sometime … I don’t know, sometime back in those old days.”
A book was a sort of box made of leather, and its contents the rustling stuff of dreams. Dreams, Cephas had long ago learned, could be captured with an elixir called ink and locked in prisons called pages. To set them free again, one had to know a sort of magic that the Calishites kept from Cephas, a discipline called reading.
One night long ago, when Cephas was not even half the height he would grow to, around the time of his fiftieth escape attempt, Azad read aloud a story called “The Chain That Set Bashan Reaver Free.” It told of a human slave who learned to slip his iron collar at night, and who discovered that the very chains that bound him could be used as weapons in his desperate quest for freedom. In the tale, the slave Bashan became a desert raider with thirty wives to do his bidding, and a thousand camels.
Then Azad brought out a double-headed flail—this double-headed flail—and held it high above his head. “Do you remember this, Brothers?” he asked. “Do you remember the chain I used to wear; the chain I used to set us free?”
Everyone in the stands, even Cephas, awkwardly crouched on his high-soled clogs, had cheered. Cephas, though, had been cheering for Bashan Reaver, not for Azad.
Now the master of games lifted his hand from the weapon and walked over to another wooden stand. This one swiveled so that the object it held was concealed from view until Azad slowly rotated it toward Cephas. It held the Book of Founding Stories. For a moment, Cephas thought Azad really was going to read aloud, probably a story meant to teach him a lesson about the futility of escape, but the young man didn’t mind. He had yet to hear a story from the book that he did not learn something valuable from, even if what he learned was not what the story—or its reader—meant to teach.
“Yes, I thought I would read you a story,” said Azad, opening the book. “But which one? Which one could teach the lesson that I mean to impart?” Azad was among the oldest of the Calishites, perhaps even as old as Grinta the Pike, but he was heavily muscled, with the build of a brawler. Still, his thick fingers managed the delicate act of turning pages nimbly.
“And then I realized the time for lessons is past. You have ignored so many, after all. No, now is the time for punishment.”
Cephas tensed, but Shaneerah had not moved from her relaxed stance. In fact, there was a glint of amusement in her eye.
“So now is when I tell you, Cephas,” finished Azad, “that you will never see this book, or hear any of its stories, again.”
The claims of the elf sages may be disregarded,
as they are born of vanity and fancy.
The dwarves depend on legends, not scholarship.
History is clear. The djinn invented war.
—Akabar ibn Hrellam
Empires of the Shining Sands, vol. iv
Printed and Bound at Keltar
960 DR
FOR ALL HIS FAULTS, AND HE WAS MORE THAN WILLING TO admit they were many, the freedman Talid was no fool. He knew what his fellow former slaves thought of him. He knew, too, that the only time he was ever assigned guard duty on the downland bridge was when Azad and Shaneerah judged that there was no threat from that direction. Other than a few hapless wildcat miners scratching in unpromising places, the western mountains were empty.
That suited Talid just fine. He regretted he wouldn’t be able to liberate any whiskey from the kitchens during the night’s matches, but he knew he wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of actually watching the downslope trail, either. Talid usually managed to get a great deal of rest on guard duty.
He was not yet fully asleep when the rumbling sound came from behind him, and a wave of cool, moisture-laden air flowed over the canyon rim. Talid turned just in time to see a boulder that had sat immobile by the trail since the Calishites had arrived, a boulder under which he had been shaded on more than one occasion, fall back to the ground with a heavy thud, as if it had hovered in the air before he turned around.
The bandit quickly forgot any questions about levitating boulders when he spotted the three figures standing before him. Talid had seen dwarves many times, of course. The savage clans on the jungle islands south of Calimport were a favorite source of new talent for the genasi who had owned him. And these mountains were home to their own variety of the squat, muscle-bound little men. Once or twice a year one would show up on the canvas, usually lasting longer than most humans.
But neither the wild-eyed jungle dwarves he’d known in the South nor the quieter ones he’d encountered since Azad had led them north prepared him for the pair that confronted him on the trail. Talid was an expert on arms and armor, so he knew a good word to describe the baroque angles and intricate details, infinitely impractical, of the bejeweled suits of armor these two white-beards wore. That word was “archaic.”
As for the goliath fighter who loomed behind them, his mail shirt and enormous mattock struck Talid as infinitely practical.
The dwarves were a little shorter than Talid, who was not a tall man, but their shoulders were twice the breadth of his. They wore full suits of plate, ridiculous off a military battlefield; certainly no soldier had designed them. The ores that went into their making—unrecognizable to Talid—bore a sheen so high that at first the Calishite thought their golden color reflected the late-afternoon sun. And the jewels!
Cuirass and vambrace, hipguard and gauntlet, every surface that did not bear a spike or serration; all were fitted with a multifaceted ruby, sapphire, or emerald, and with other precious stones Talid didn’t know. They were clear in color, flaming orange, or royal purple, and none of them, no matter their hue, was smaller than the size of Talid’s eyes just then.
But the demeanor the dwarves projected was not martial. Rather, it was haughty, confident, to be sure, and troubled at finding Talid standing there, not because he represented a threat but because he was a bothersome inconvenience. The attitude they wordlessly expressed reminded Talid of nothing so much as the windsouled genasi back in Calimport; he had seen them almost every day of the first five decades of his life, but they almost never saw him at all. Only the memory of that inhuman haughtiness kept him from shaking in fear as the huge warrior reached down and between the dwarves and relieved Talid of his spear.
The dwarf who was not bearing a sword began to speak, but not to Talid, and not in any tongue he was familiar with. This ancient being bent almost double under the weight of the king’s ransom of precious stones woven into his enormous mustache. He leaned on a pair of canes that must have had wood or bone somewhere in their construction, but for all that Talid could tell, were cut straight from a vein of silver.
The armed dwarf, whom Talid judged the younger one, startled the Calishite by speaking in perfectly accented Low Alzhedo, the language the slave classes in the Emirates used among themselves.
“Legate Arnskull offers you a gift, though he must recognize that it is of little value. He offers you your life.”
Talid was a liar and a thief. He was lazy, dishonorable, and, worst of all—in the eyes of the other women and men who’d followed Azad’s promises across a waterless hell—he was weak. But he was not a fool.
“Please convey my thanks to the legate,” he said. “And please tell me what services I may rush to provide.”
The next time Cephas woke in his cell, the woman leaning over him was not Grinta. He fought the urge to scramble back, to hold his arms in front of his face in a defensive position.
The first time he’d ever seen one of the little people the other slaves called halflings, he’d mistaken the man for a human child and paid for the mistake when the man efficiently hamstrung him. Without a word, the man had then disappear
ed over the edge of the mote, the only slave to ever successfully escape Azad’s clutches.
This woman—the lines beneath her eyes and the scars on her hands would never let anyone mistake her for a child—held a short sword beneath his chin. She gazed down at him with impenetrable brown eyes. He shifted his gaze left and saw that the woman was also standing beside his cell’s grillwork door.
Before Cephas could decide whether he was dreaming or still seeing double from the blow to the head he’d taken on the cliff, the woman by the door flicked her right ring finger in a clear signal. The one standing above him leaned in, putting enough weight into the blade at his throat that Cephas felt his own blood flowing over his skin for the twentieth time in less than a day.
The halfling woman placed her forefinger before her lips and breathed out. In the dying light of late afternoon, Cephas was able to recognize that she was not a perfect double of the one by the grill, though the resemblance was uncanny.
The woman standing at his side lowered her hand and drew a cylindrical object from the pouch at her belt. Still moving in perfect silence, she handed this over to Cephas. It was a long sheet of some thin, fibrous material, and Cephas had a good idea what it was. Thinking of the tale of the Land-locked Marid, he gingerly unrolled the sheet. He whispered, without meaning to, “A scroll …”
The sisters—for they were clearly such—exchanged a quick, confused glance. The one next to Cephas, who wore her chestnut-colored hair to her shoulders whereas her sister’s was cropped close to the scalp, eyed Cephas uncertainly. She twirled the fingers of her left hand—Cephas noted that her right held a dagger—mimicking his unfurling of the scroll in a faster pantomime.
Complicated rows of black lines were inked onto the parchment. He showed the unrolled scroll to the women. “I’ve never held writing in my hands before,” he said, still unsure of their purpose but unable to believe they would give him a scroll and mean him harm.
The sister closer to him opened her mouth and eyes wide, as clear an indication of surprise as any Cephas had ever seen on the canvas. In response, the other woman clapped her free hand against her forehead and shook her shoulders. Even though it was silent, Cephas recognized the halfling’s laughter.
“You thought I would be able to read this,” he said. “And now you mock me because I cannot. But it’s no fault of mine. Azad says that letters are for the free. If you are free women, then read me what is written here.”
They leveled long, inscrutable looks at each other. Then, as one, they kneeled before him and put their hands to the heavy scarves wrapped around their necks. As one, they lowered the scarves, and Cephas saw the flesh there was gray and lifeless. If these halfling sisters meant to mock him, they would have to find means other than taunts, for it was clear they had no voices.
There was a dwarf among the caravan guards up from Saradush—a greasy-bearded spearman with evil breath—and Azad sent for the man to serve as a translator. He did not want to depend on the strange dwarf whose Alzhedo was too flawless for Azad’s liking. Luckily, the guard was more or less sober, but his usefulness proved limited.
The man was awestruck by the pair, and, in any case, it grew apparent that the one Talid had claimed spoke only a Dwarvish tongue—this Legate Arnskull—had no plans to speak in Azad’s presence.
“He ain’t likely to start any time soon, neither, sir,” said the spearman, running dirty fingers through his beard. It took Azad a moment to realize that the man was actually attempting to groom himself. “Look at them runes on the legate’s armor. Look at the pattern of the gems in his beard—sapphire, then garnet, then sapphire, then diamonds colored like chalcedony. Sir, that is a lord out of legend sitting on your pillows there—one of the high councilors of Iltkazar; a prince of Old Shanatar, and liegeman to the Clanless King.”
The elderly dwarf with the mustache sat ignoring everyone in Azad’s quarters, sniffing at the plate of figs and dates Shaneerah had ordered brought, without deigning to let one pass his lips. Azad grabbed the caravan guard by the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet.
The other strange dwarf, who had not given a name and chuckled when Shaneerah suggested that he sheathe his sword, watched the Calishite with undisguised interest, and not a little amusement. Azad reminded himself that these fools—whoever they were—had elected to come alone and barely armed into his place of power.
He shoved the spearman toward the exit. Shaneerah, standing guard beside it, opened the cedarwood door and hurried the dwarf along with a curse and a kick. Azad turned to the supposed legate’s bondsman, and said, “Your finery impressed that fool. But that’s still not to prove the old man is some kind of ambassador from the dwarves who built this place. If you thought he might encounter the forces who took the mote from your people, why would he come without an armed escort?”
“The legate’s mission, freedman,” said the dwarf, still using the archaic dialect of Alzhedo that the djinn of the deserts favored, “is one of investigation and research. The outpost that was here when you and your people arrived was not sanctioned by our king, Mith Barak, and the outlaws who built it absconded from our caverns with several valuable machines we wish to recover. If these are still to be found among the equipment you have claimed, and should you maintain your refusal to simply wager the earthmote on the contest between our goliath servant and your champion, we will offer you salvage fees we believe you will find most reasonable.”
Azad glanced at the older dwarf’s supposed badges of rank. Sapphire, then garnet, then diamond, the spearman said. Yes, these dwarves could afford to buy anything Azad might be willing to sell.
“We put all the machines we’ve found to our own uses,” he said. “That’s why there is an arena for our fighters to meet upon. What if you’re after something we don’t wish to part with?”
The bondsman said, “The legate considered this possibility when we heard of the … imaginative way in which you deploy the furlers and the taps. Not to worry.” From his sleeve, the dwarf drew forth a small book, the gilded clasp of which was crafted not only to lock the cover, but to hold an ebony stylus topped with a ruby the size of a robin’s egg. “Should you have found a use for the particular instruments we wish to retrieve, I will simply execute a schematic, and the legate will re-create the devices upon our return to Iltkazar. You have been here for twenty years, after all,” he added. “The machines have no doubt suffered in your unskilled hands.”
“No doubt,” Azad agreed. “Which only leaves the question of why I shouldn’t let my dear wife relieve the legate of his enormously impressive mustache and send the two of you back to your holes with a warning to this clanless king that the next time he wants something from me, he should send a more impressive delegation.” Azad ran his hand over his own smooth chin. “The legate shouldn’t worry, of course. Shaneerah has a steady hand with a shaving razor.”
The pleasant expression on the standing dwarf’s face did not change. “The fee for merely studying the machines, instead of taking them with us when we leave, is, of course, smaller.” He still held the unadorned short sword loose at his side and made no moves with it, not even the idle gestures that would normally accompany conversation.
The old dwarf made a sign then. He waved the younger one over and indicated that he wanted to stand. The bondsman took one smooth step to his master, and, still not varying that loose, easy grip on his sword, extended his other arm. The legate made a wheezing noise as he pulled himself to his feet. The inelegant effort was painful to watch. He murmured something that reached only the younger dwarf’s ears.
“The legate wishes to begin our inventory of the mote’s machinery,” said the bondsman. “The sun begins to set, and he does not like to sleep above ground.”
The old dwarf produced a pair of silver canes, and began shuffling to the door, not even glancing in Azad’s direction. Azad started to speak, but to his surprise, Shaneerah interrupted him.
“There is a stairway cut out of the ground a few
paces to the left. It is the closest,” she said, swinging the door open. “Please wait for me there, and I will take you down to the winch below our quarters. I ask that you not go down alone—the man working the machine will draw on you if I do not accompany you. I will be there in a moment.”
The legate never even slowed but simply hobbled through the door. Azad noted the old man did turn left, even though his bondsman had not offered a translation. The younger dwarf sketched a brief bow to Azad, then swept out the door.
Shaneerah put a hand on his shoulder, and Azad leaned his head over to kiss her weathered fingers. “You mean to kill them in the narrow spaces where the works are housed?” he asked.
His wife squeezed his shoulder, then withdrew her hand. “Oh, my husband,” she said, “did you never face any of the stout folk in the arena? Confine them in close quarters and they become twice as deadly. No, my love, your eye has grown dull if you believe that old man endangered himself coming here. I do not know what the one you called a ‘bondsman’ is, but I know my heart and head tell me he could kill us both with a thought.”
Though Cephas was trained to always think of gladiatorial combat as a show for a paying audience before anything else, at heart he was a warrior—the moves he made that elicited the guttural cheers and savage hisses of the unlawful arena crowds were theatrical because they were the moves he knew best. The nature of the arena floor, with its variation and unexpected threats thrown against the combatants to thrill the bettors in the stands, demanded a fighting style that was almost as much flash as it was edge.
So Cephas knew what a show was. But he had never seen one such as the halflings silently acted out in his cell.
The women were clearly capable fighters. They had the wariness of eye and the grace of movement that the best Cephas ever faced possessed, and they handled their keen weapons with easy familiarity.
Sandstorm: A Forgotten Realms Novel Page 3
