City Under the Sand

by Jeff Mariotte

  “No,” Aric said. “I mean, yes, I know how to use it. But I’m no adventurer, Ruhm. The last time I used a sword of steel—well, let’s just say it wasn’t my best day.”

  “What happened?”

  “I haven’t told you this story? How I got this?” Aric touched the scar that bisected his arched left eyebrow, like a tiny pink worm parting the hair. He was sure he had told Ruhm, maybe a couple of times. But Ruhm might have forgotten, or he might just be toying with Aric again.

  “Don’t remember it.”

  “I made it myself, for myself. I wasn’t too good at swordsmithing yet, but it came out half decent just the same. I strapped it on and thought I was the handsomest devil in all Nibenay.

  “I guess the sword was handsome enough, at that. I had been out that night, and on my way home four elves saw me. They thought, because of the sword, that I was wealthy. Or else they just wanted the sword, I was never sure which. In any case, they tried to rob me, holding their own swords and daggers on me.

  “I drew my sword and went at them. I tell you, Ruhm, I was something to see. I wove a glittering web of steel. The longer the battle went on, the more it took me away, until I had become a fighting machine. I felt I was watching myself from a great height, yet I was in the middle of it, too. My mind had ceased to think about anything but where the next thrust might come from, the next jab, and how I could counter those with my own.”

  Aric touched his brow again. “When I regained my senses, the four elves were dead, and my only wound was the one that left this scar. But a templar accused me of brawling—only the intervention of others on the street, who didn’t realize I was a quarter elf, kept me out of trouble. They swore the elves attacked first, trying to rob me. The templar picked up her skirt and swished away. When she was gone, I saw one of the witnesses notice my ears. The whispers started, and I got out of there as fast as I could.”

  “Got lucky,” Ruhm said.

  “That I did. You don’t want to call attention to yourself, not in Nibenay. That’s what I say. It’s just a bad idea. Bad enough I decided to earn my way in the world this way—working with metal, crafting objects for nobility, that’s a good way to get noticed. All I want is to stand behind the forge and polish my steel and let the rest of the world pass on by. So no more steel swords for me, thanks. I’m no fighter, I’m a craftsman, and that’s just fine with me.”

  “Me, then,” Ruhm said.

  “You what?”

  “Make me a metal sword.”

  Aric tried to picture it. “A longsword, big enough for you? Not just a bastard sword, but a big bastard sword? With a three-handed grip? Maybe it could be done if you had the coin. It’d weigh a ton, but I guess that wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  Ruhm’s face split into that wide grin once more, an expression that was at once endearing and not a little terrifying. “Could you?”

  “Our forge isn’t big enough, nor our quenching tank. But with the right equipment and materials, I could do it.”

  “One day?”

  “One day, Ruhm. Not today, but one day. Now, get out of the doorway. I’ve a sword to deliver.”

  3

  Aric’s building was a temporary structure, small but all he could afford, made of wood from the Crescent Forest and clay bricks. As a temporary structure, it didn’t have to abide by the law applying to all permanent buildings, those of sandstone, laterite or granite, decreeing that the exteriors must be completely covered with carved images, mostly scenes from the Shadow King’s life. As a result, the shop was plain, dull. Just as he liked it. It didn’t call attention to itself.

  But because it was cramped on the inside, and contained the forge, it was always hot. The smells of half-elf and goliath sweat had permeated every surface, so no matter how clean Aric might be when he walked in, the place still reeked. He had a tiny apartment at the back, just a room really with a space for a kitchen, a cistern, and a mat for sleeping.

  He had been to the homes of nobility, many times, but that familiarity didn’t make the contrast between their residences and his own any less stark.

  To even reach the estate of Tunsall of Thrace meant cutting through the winding, busy streets of Nibenay—made busier to the eye by all those carvings in the walls, creating the effect that every street was a single undulating surface, part of something alive—to the Cliff side neighborhood. Here, luxurious estates carved from the sheer cliffs rose up behind the city’s north end. Once there, Aric had to enter the Snake Tower. The turret’s outside was carved to resemble a writhing mass of tangled serpents. Its windows were shaped like scales, its opening like a snake’s fanged maw. Aric suppressed a shudder as he walked beneath those fangs and started up the stairs.

  The House of Thrace was a well-known noble house in Nibenay, with a huge emporium facing onto Sage’s Square, and a spread of cultivated fields outside the city walls. While some of the city’s nobles had reputations more for their decadent behavior than for honesty or discretion, the House of Thrace did not fall into that category—the members of the family were considered beyond reproach in almost every way.

  Each Cliff side estate was at a different level, each with its own skywalk extending from the tower to a front entrance. Aric had been to the Thrace estate once before, to measure Rieve for her sword, so he knew which tower exit to take. He was glad when he broke into open air again—the tower had been almost as hot as his shop, and scented with cloying incense. Presumably the aroma appealed to nobility, but Aric greatly preferred the sweat-stink of his own place.

  The skywalk came to an end at a large bone gate. Standing before the gate was a goliath, wearing loose linen trousers of a bright yellow color, a leather cuirass, a yellow, red and black krama on his head, and sandals with straps that went up to his calves. On the center of the cuirass, on a circle of white, was the red silhouette of a jalath’gak, the monstrous wasp that the House of Thrace had adopted as its crest. A fist almost as big as Aric’s head was wrapped around the shaft of a gouge, a long-handled weapon with a grip at the base and another just beneath a sharp-pointed, double-bladed head.

  The goliath looked at Aric with unbridled curiosity. Aric didn’t blame him—the guard was in the employ of a wealthy family, and here came an obvious commoner, a half-elf no less, carrying a long bundle wrapped in a threadbare, moth-eaten blanket. The goliath was past his prime, probably retired from the Nibenese army, but he would still be hard to take in a fight.

  “I’m expected,” Aric said. Unconsciously, his right hand went to the medallion that hung around his neck, a metal coin with a hole punched through it suspended from a leather thong. He had worn it so long he almost forgot it was there, but when he was anxious he often caught himself toying with it. “Aric, to see Tunsall.”

  “Just Aric?”

  Aric had never known his human father. His mother had been doubly cast out from her clan—if the fact that she was half-elf hadn’t been crime enough, the fact that she had fraternized with a human male, and had a child with him, had done the trick. As a result, she refused to use any name other than Keyasune. Aric had never even been sure if she’d been given that name or adopted it on her own. At any rate, she had become indignant any time young Aric asked if he shouldn’t have a family name of some sort.

  “Just Aric,” he said. “He knows me.”

  The goliath raised one bushy eyebrow and regarded Aric with suspicion. But he called through the bone gate, and when someone came, he muttered a brief, unflattering description of Aric, focusing mostly on peaked eyebrows, oddly half-pointed ears, and long scraggly hair the color of burned butter. When whoever was on the far side bustled away, the guard turned back to Aric. He didn’t speak, just gave Aric a frown and eyed him as if he’d like to hurl him from the skywalk.

  Aric waited, trying to maintain a casual air. Once he started to whistle tunelessly, but the goliath cleared his throat and Aric stopped. After several minutes, he heard footfalls beyond the bone gate, and then it opened with a rattle and
squeal and Tunsall himself appeared.

  “Aric, my boy,” he proclaimed, earning him a look of surprise from the guard. “Is it done?”

  “It is, sir,” Aric said. He held the bundle up. “Would you like to—”

  “Not here, boy, not yet.” That, Aric remembered, was what he liked least about Tunsall—his habit of calling anyone younger than forty years old “boy.” Aric had seen twenty summers; he was no boy. But Tunsall’s coins spent as well as anyone else’s, so he was willing to overlook that small fault. “Inside, inside now.” He turned around and disappeared through the gates again.

  Still toting his bundle, Aric followed.

  4

  As was customary among the Nibenese nobility, Tunsall of Thrace wore little in the way of clothing, just a sash tied below the waist, the ends dropping to mid-thigh in front. He was an elderly man, fifty or more, and the years had not been kind. Though his eyes were bright, his eyebrows looked like two small, furry gray mammals had settled there and were twitching in their final death spasms. Decades of chewing betel nut had stained his uneven teeth blue. His chest was sunken, his limbs scrawny. He wore his gray hair long and straight in back, cut just above the brow in front. His neck looked like a thin, wrinkled tube with a ball of cheese jammed in it.

  But the wealthiest and most powerful citizens of Nibenay didn’t have to wear clothes, and given the heat of the average Athasian day, to many people that was the best reason to aspire to wealth. Aric wore loose linens and a checked krama wrapped around his head, from which his own long hair descended.

  Tunsall led him into an inner courtyard with a long table down the center of it. A small fountain, with real water, burbled against one of the walls. The air was cooler here, sheltered from the sun by virtue of having been dug right into the cliff’s face. Torches provided some light, and more streamed in over the walls, from outside. Tunsall smiled and patted the stone tabletop. “Here you go, boy, let’s see it!”

  “Yes sir,” Aric said. He set the bundle down, slightly ashamed that his ragged blanket should be seen in such a luxurious setting. Chairs made of wooden frames with stretched animal hides surrounded the table, and a goblet that looked like brass stood at the far end, as if Tunsall had been sipping from it just moments ago.

  He unrolled the blanket, revealing the sword. Seeing it shine, Aric’s heart swelled with pride, and he forgot about his shabby blanket and his old clothes. “Here it is.”

  “Oh, my. Oh, my.” Tunsall paced around the table, regarding it from every angle but not touching it. “Oh, my.”

  “Is there—” Something wrong, he would have finished, but Tunsall cut him off.

  “It’s beautiful. Quite lovely. I knew you did good work, Aric. But I never anticipated … simply lovely.”

  “Do you want to try it?”

  “Oh, no. No, boy, it isn’t for me, after all, is it?” He clapped his hands twice, long fingers coming together along with the palms. Aric heard the rustle of someone he hadn’t even seen, who must have been standing just behind a doorway.

  Moments later, Rieve walked into the courtyard. Torchlight caught in her red hair and winked at Aric, and he felt his cheeks warming. Her hair was braided, falling well past her shoulders. She wore a simple white dress, belted loosely at the waist, with straps that bared those shoulders.

  She graced Aric with a smile that he expected to remember until his dying days. “That’s it?” she asked.

  “That’s it, lady.”

  She looked expectantly at her grandfather. “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  She gave a squeal of delight and snatched the sword from the table, then waved it about in such a clumsy fashion Aric was glad he wasn’t standing too near.

  “With all the fuss over in Tyr, and even Raam,” Tunsall said. “I want her to be able to protect herself.”

  “Of course,” Aric said.

  “But there’s more to it than just owning a sharp sword, isn’t there?”

  “It’s perfect!” Rieve cried. “Like it was made just for me! I mean, I know it was, but—”

  “There is,” Aric affirmed.

  Rieve stopped slashing at the air and approached Aric. She held the sword in her right hand, and with her left she took his right. Her hand felt impossibly soft in his hard, callused one. “Thank you, Aric,” she said. He felt like he could fall into her cinnamon eyes. “I love it.”

  “It was a pleasure. I am proud of that one, I must say. It’s balanced just right, and that blade will hold its edge.”

  “You are a true craftsman,” she said. She held his gaze with her own. Much as he wanted to watch the way her plump pink lips moved as she spoke, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers. A smell like fresh apricots surrounded her.

  “I thank you.”

  Finally, she released his hand. Aric hadn’t even had that much physical contact with her when he had measured her—hand, arm, and leg—to be sure the sword would be just right. His hand felt as if he had leaned it against the forge at white heat.

  “It didn’t even take you terribly long,” she said. “Did you do nothing else but this?”

  “Slept now and again,” Aric said. “Ate some meals. But I did no other work, not while I was engaged with that one.”

  She carved the air a little more, and Aric took an involuntary step back.

  “As I was saying,” Tunsall said. “Now that she has a fine blade, she needs instruction in its use, wouldn’t you say?”

  “She … seems to have a natural affinity,” Aric said, hoping the patriarch wouldn’t notice his lie. “But instruction is always a good idea.”

  “I’ve heard tales of your prowess with a sword, Aric.” Tunsall touched his own eyebrow, right where Aric’s scar was on his. “Impressive.”

  “A fluke,” Aric said.

  “Not at all. I wonder if you would mind giving her some lessons. I would pay you, of course, for your time.”

  Aric could hardly believe his senses. “I … I am no combat instructor,” he said.

  “Oh, that would be wonderful, Aric!” Rieve said. She bounced enthusiastically. Her skirt flounced almost to her smooth thighs. “To learn from you …”

  “I suppose I do know a bit about the practice of swordsmanship,” Aric admitted. “Just from having worked with them for so long, you understand.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Tunsall said.

  “I’m sorry,” another voice said. Aric turned to see a tall woman, with thick auburn hair tightly coiled almost to her waist, enter the courtyard. “I am Solyara,” she told Aric. “Rieve’s mother.”

  “Enchanted,” Aric said.

  “I’m afraid that Rieve’s father has already engaged the services of an instructor for her.” Her voice was steady, with the even, confident tone of someone who rarely expected argument.

  “Oh,” Aric said. “Well …”

  “Who?” Rieve asked.

  “Who else but your betrothed, Corlan?”

  “Corlan?”

  “Why not? He’s of our class, he’s had martial training, unlike young Aric here. And he’s known to be quite skilled with a sword. Anyway, your father has made the decision, so it’s settled.” She turned her flat gaze on Aric. “I’ve nothing against you, Aric, and neither does Myklan, Rieve’s father, who after all advised my father to hire you in the first place. We’re quite tolerant of all sorts of people, you’ll find. But he has made Corlan an offer, and we can’t go back on it now.”

  “I understand,” Aric said. He couldn’t deny his disappointment, although he tried to disguise it. And in spite of Solyara’s self-proclaimed tolerance, he wondered how much it had to do not with his commoner class but with his half—quarter—elf nature. Elves, everybody knew, weren’t to be trusted, especially with the daughter of a noble human family.

  “Did I hear my name?” Another unfamiliar voice, this one booming, but with a friendly sound to it. A burly young man about Aric’s age swept into the courtyard, square-jawed and clean-shave
n, wearing a light tan sarami. His expression was fixed in what looked like a perpetual grin, blue eyes dancing in the torchlight.

  “Corlan!” Rieve cried. She put down the sword and ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He squeezed her tightly, then released her.

  “Who’s the stranger?” he asked. “I’m Corlan, of House Tien’sha.”

  “I’m Aric. I crafted Rieve’s new sword.”

  Corlan crossed to the table and examined it. “It’s a beauty,” he said. “You do good work.” He lifted it, took a fighting stance, and whisked it a couple of times through the air. Unlike Rieve, he knew what he was doing. “I stand corrected, Aric. You do excellent work. Perhaps you can make me one sometime.”

  “Just say when.”

  “I will, don’t worry.” He turned back to his fiancée. “And you, love? How do you like it?”

  “I like it very much,” Rieve said. “I’ll like it even more after you teach me how to use it.”

  “That will be my great pleasure,” Corlan said. “I only hope your lessons will be worthy of the instrument itself.”

  Aric hated how completely Corlan had drawn Rieve’s attention away from him. But he had to admit that they made an attractive couple, and he couldn’t bring himself to dislike Corlan. He had been nothing but friendly, seeming not to even notice Aric’s racial background.

  “Oh, I’m sure you can teach me wonderful things, Corlan,” Rieve said. “And I’ll have a wonderful tool to learn with, thanks to you, Aric.”

  Aric was about to take his leave when the group was enlarged again. A young man, perhaps a year or two older than Rieve, stormed into the courtyard. His mood was dark, brow furrowed, hands tightly clenched into fists, and he walked with his muscles tightly coiled, as if at any moment he would strike out at whoever was nearest. He was dressed, if that was the word, much like Tunsall, with a loincloth his only covering. His footsteps were tentative, as if he had burned the soles of his feet here on a previous occasion and was afraid of doing it again.