“Yes, My Lord.”
Delious sat in his chair, spinning his cup in front of him, watching the red liquid reflect light. “Steward,” he said thoughtfully. “What opinion would you say the kelzin have of mastrells?”
“They hate them, ”the steward replied. “Many kelzin are Kershtian, and those who aren’t are usually Ker’Reen. Besides, it is the nature of the wealthy to hate anyone more influential than themselves.”
Delious regarded his cup for a moment longer, then smiled to himself.
Chapter Sixteen
“I can’t believe that man!” Khriss sputtered. “I saved his life, traveled across half the kerla with him, and still he lied to me! He knew what I was looking for in Lossand, and he deliberately hid what he was from me.” Khriss paused. For the hundredth time in just a few minutes, she was confronted with a single incredible fact. The sand mages were real.
She had seen Kenton defy physics, seen him use sand like it was an extension of his own body. The sand had glowed with some inner source of power, shining and radiant, its shifting colors more beautiful than anything else she had experienced on this side of the world.
It appeared that some of the stories, at least, were true. There were foolish ones, of course, that were obviously conjurations of the darkside imagination. Kenton was not twelve feet tall, and he didn’t wear deep black robes, or move through shadows. She had seen no hint of him draining the life from those around him to fuel his powers—though, she supposed, she couldn’t completely rule out that possibility. He couldn’t speak and force people to obey him, like Scythe was said to be able to do—if Kenton had possessed that power, she probably wouldn’t have been able to get those slaps in.
Still, despite the obvious falsehoods, some of the stories were true. Sand obeyed Kenton’s will, moving as he commanded. He obviously had power in the society, even if he didn’t rule, like the stories claimed. And she had been travelling with him all that time … .
“Duchess?” Baon asked in a slightly confused voice.
Khriss looked up with surprise. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed their boat arrive at Kezare’s docks. Baon and N’Teese stood on the docks, waiting for her to join them. She scrambled up with as much dignity as she could manage as Baon handed the boatman a stone Lak.
“Are you all right, duchess?” Baon asked.
“I’m fine,” Khriss snapped.
“You knew he was hiding something,” Baon reminded. “It is a standard political move to hide one’s true power until necessity reveals it.”
“What would you know of politics?” Khriss said.
“More than you might expect,” Baon replied, following as she began to stalk through the city. “Are we going anywhere specific?”
Khriss paused, an action that caused her to get jostled and pushed by the flowing crowds. With a quiet curse, she pushed her way over to a less-bustling section of the market, standing in the shade beside a store.
Why was Kenton’s deception bothering her? She usually considered herself a level-headed person. She didn’t allow herself to get pulled into court politics and gossipings, had never been one to let others enrage her. She had been content with her studies and her simple, non-intrusive political life as Gevin’s fiancée.
Of course, no one had ever had reason to anger her before. The court recognized her as a non-threat. She knew how they saw her. She was an important match for Gevin in more ways than one—not only would she unite a very powerful house to the throne, but she would never be a political threat to Evella, wife to Gevin’s older brother. It was better to marry a younger son to someone politically reclusive, someone who wouldn’t steal the light from the future queen.
So, the court had, for the most part, left Khriss alone. They didn’t consider her a factor in their intrigues. They often laughed at her, she knew, but they never did so to her face, and their mockery was never real malice. She was just Gevin’s simple, politically-inert attendant. She wasn’t worth the bother of spiting. Even Gevin, with his occasional teasing, had been very careful not to anger her or go too far.
Kenton was different. He didn’t seem to care what her rank or station was; he mocked her with aplomb, completely ignoring decorum. He was absolutely insufferable. What was worse, there was nothing she could do about it.
Slowly, as the chaos of the city swirled around her, Khriss felt herself begin to calm. She would worry about the sand masters later, when she could be rational. At least she had found out that they were real—that gave her one important insight. Gevin’s mission had not been doomed. He had been right. And, if he had made it to Lossand, then he must have known that.
But why then hadn’t he returned to darkside? She could only come up with one conclusion: he was still trying to get the sand masters to help him.
It made sense. Two years was a long time, true, but she knew Gevin. If there was a chance he could complete his goal, he would pay no heed to time. Assuming he had decided that these sand masters could help Elis against the Dynasty, she could see him remaining in Lossand all this time, trying to find a way to persuade some of them to return home with him.
If that was the case, however, why didn’t Kenton know who Gevin was? If the Prince really was trying to win favor with the sand masters, then he would have spent a great deal of time in negotiations with their upper officials.
Khriss frowned. Kenton had said he was the sand masters’s new leader—that he had only been Lord Mastrell for a day. What had happened?
Suddenly, a memory flashed in front of Khriss’s eyes. She was taken away from Kezare’s markets, with their bodies, scents, and motion to a place still and stagnant. A broad basin on the sands, strewn with motionless white forms. Bodies, their white robes stained with blood …
“Shella,” she whispered softly to herself. “N’Teese, what … happened to the old leader of the sand masters?”
The girl looked up. She had been quietly inching her way toward the shop beside Khriss, one stacked with some sort of bread cakes that smelt strongly of peppery Kershtian spices. Khriss spoke just as N’Teese’s hand was a few inches away from grabbing a cake.
The shopkeeper looked up at the sound, and cursed, swatting at N’Teese. The girl slunk away, grumbling to herself.
“N’Teese, pay attention,” Khriss ordered.
“He died,” N’Teese grumbled, sitting herself on the ground beside Khriss, resting against a brick wall.
“How?”
“The Kershtians killed him,” N’Teese explained. “They killed all of the mastrells, except this new one. He survived somehow.”
Khriss felt cold. “He’s … alone?”
N’Teese shrugged. “There are other sand masters, just none of the really powerful ones. Of course, everyone says the new one is pretending, that he’s not really a mastrell. He’s too weak.”
“Why would he pretend?” Khriss asked. It didn’t seem like something Kenton would do. Of course, he had proven himself quite good at lying … .
“If he doesn’t, the Taisha will destroy the Diem.”
“Destroy it?” Khriss asked with surprise.
N’Teese nodded. “They’re going to disband it.”
“Why would they do that?” Khriss asked with a frown.
N’Teese shrugged, playing with a few pebbles on the ground before her. “I don’t know. Because they want to? No one likes the sand masters.”
“Why?”
N’Teese frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why do you ask so many questions?”
Khriss raised here eyes in exasperation. “Never mind,” she mumbled.
So it was possible that Gevin had been talking to the leaders of the sand masters—the ones who were now dead. Perhaps the prince was here, in Kezare somewhere, and simply didn’t know she had arrived. It was a big city, filled with many people. Apparently, new arrivals in darkside town weren’t all that rare. Perhaps he hadn’t even heard she had come looking for him—she had only arri
ved a day ago, after all.
“Baon,” Khriss said, tapping her foot thoughtfully, “how good are you at gathering information?”
Baon raised an eyebrow. “Horrible,” he said simply. “Even on darkside, I’m not very unobtrusive.”
“I need someone to spend time in darkside town, searching for information about Gevin,” she explained. “Could you … ?”
“No,” Baon said simply.
“But—”
“Duchess,” Baon said, folding his arms. “I was hired to protect you until such time as you return to Elis. I can’t do that sitting in a pub.”
Khriss sighed.
“Send the professors,” Baon recommended.
“I considered that,” Khriss confessed. “To be honest, Baon, I don’t know how effective they’ll be.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Baon said with a shake of his head. “They’re all you have. Delegation is one of the most difficult parts of leadership, duchess. The simple fact is, most people aren’t going to be as competent as you would like. Some of them will be complete idiots. Your job is to find a place for them to be productive, even if just a little bit. A little bit, plus what you’re doing, will always be more than you working by yourself.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Khriss agreed.” I guess we should walk back to darksider town and tell them.”
“Why not send a messenger?” N’Teese mumbled, still playing with her pebbles.
“One who speaks Dynastic?” Khriss asked. “We need you to take us to visit the Taisha.”
“Write a note,” N’Teese suggested with a shrug.
“A note … ?” Khriss asked.
N’Teese pointed to a shop a short distance away. Khriss couldn’t make out the sign, but it prominently displayed a picture of something that resembled a writing pen.
Khriss shrugged, and nodded for Baon to lead the way toward the shop. He moved, slicing through the crowd with N’Teese and Khriss behind.
The shop was light inside—it had several holes in the ceiling to provide illumination. It was small and the walls were stacked with rolls of paper and books. A short Kershtian man approached with a smile. He moved toward Baon and bowed, gesturing for him to take a seat on a cushion before a small table.
Khriss took the seat instead. The Kershtian started in surprise at the move, seating himself with a slight frown. Baon took a seat beside her, and Khriss found his frown more troublesome.
“What?” Khriss asked as the warrior caught her eye.
“Independence is good, duchess,” he replied softy. “But you are fool to flout their traditions so.”
“But their traditions are silly,” Khriss countered.
“You know that after just a few weeks on this side of the world?”
Khriss paused. “Well, I do know that they are demeaning.”
“That may be, duchess. However, your life will be much easier if you don’t immediately make an enemy out of every Kershtian you meet.”
Khriss sighed. “Is there any topic you don’t have a lecture prepared for Baon?”
“If you ask my opinion, you will get it,” Baon replied simply.
“Right,” Khriss mumbled. “N’Teese, tell the merchant I apologize for any offences I may give. Tell him I am still unfamiliar with the customs on this side of the world.”
N’Teese shrugged, but she did as asked. At least, Khriss could only assume the girl was doing so.
“I told him,” N’Teese. “I also told him you wanted to write a letter.”
The Kershtian smiled in the exaggerated way of one whose life centered on pleasing customers and pulled out a dark sheet of paper and a pen tipped with a nib that appeared to be constructed from some sort of chalky substance.
“Tell him I’ll write it,” Khriss said, reaching for the paper.
The merchant looked surprised, then chuckled uncomfortably.
“He thinks you’re joking,” N’Teese explained. “The only people on dayside who know how to write are scholars, scribes, and sand masters. Women never learn.”
Khriss frowned. “What about the noblemen?”
“The kelzin?” N’Teese asked. “They have scribes.”
“Well, kindly tell him where I come from, all noblewomen are expected to know how to write. Especially those who are professors in the Elisian university.”
She heard Baon sigh softly beside her at the comment.
“Well, at least I tried,” she hissed as the scholar reluctantly handed her the paper and pen. Khriss’s annoyance was quickly forgotten as she inspected the items. The paper had the same texture as the jerky they had eaten, though it was much thinner and drier.
“Made from carapace?” she asked N’Teese.
The girl nodded. “Pressed and dried.”
“I wonder what keeps it from rotting,” Khriss asked, turning the pen around to inspect its nib. It wasn’t quite like chalk—it was more oily. Experimentally, she made a little scribble at the top of the sheet. The line it left was thin and uniform, but it smudged easily. Surely they didn’t write books in the same way?
She paused her ponderings as she heard N’Teese snickering beside her.
“What?” she demanded.
“The merchant,” N’Teese explained, pointing at the Kershtian. “He thinks you’re slow of mind.”
Khriss blushed, realizing what the man must have thought, watching her rub the paper, play with the pen, and make incoherent scribbles. She sniffed in disdain at his amused expression, and began to write.
She had intended a quick message, but the merchant’s assumptions incited her to greater things. She wrote a very detailed explanation of what she had discovered at the building known as the Diem, she explained her theories on Gevalden’s whereabouts, and she explained her intentions for the rest of the day. She told Cynder and Acron what she wanted them to do in darksider town, how she wanted them to do it, and what she expected them to discover. And, just to look clever, she switched to formal Kersha at the end. She might not be able to speak the language all that well, but she had a decent written knowledge of it.
In the end she took up five full sheets of paper. When she was finished, she looked up to find a properly amazed expression on the Kershtian’s face. He accepted the papers from her hands, looking over them. Then he reached over and picked up a large metal plate of some sort—it had been resting in direct sunlight. He pressed it against each paper in turn.
Khriss watched with interest, taking one of the papers from him when he was done. It was warm to the touch, and the oil-like white ink no longer smudged beneath her fingers. “Fascinating,” she mumbled. Then she looked up. “How much do we owe him?”
N’Teese handled the negotiations. “Five Lak,” she finally said. “It a little expensive, but he’s going to have to hire a courier who knows Lonzare. I told him where to find the house.”
“Good,” Khriss said, nodding to Baon, who picked out a blue-and-white five lak coin and gave it to the Kershtian. “What time is it?” she asked.
Baon reached down, checking Cynder’s pocketwatch—which Khriss couldn’t carry, for lack of a pocket in her dayside robes.
“Two o’clock,” he said.
“First hour,” N’Teese countered, sticking her head out the door.
“Same thing,” Khriss said, rising.
The merchant did likewise, bowing slightly, his medallion twinkling in the light.
“We probably could have walked to the house and back by now,” Khriss said with a sigh, realizing she shouldn’t have spent so much time on the letter. “Well, let’s get going.”
“Where to?” N’Teese asked as Khriss replaced her glasses and walked out into the sun.
“Who’s left?”
“The Lord Farmer, the Lord Artisan, and the Lord Admiral.”
“Admiral,” Khriss mused. “That sounds important.”
“It isn’t,” N’Teese replied. “He doesn’t really do anything. Everyone knows that the Helm is really run by the Shipowner’s Circ
le.”
Khriss frowned. “Why is one Taisha a figurehead, while the others aren’t? Is the man just a fool?”
N’Teese shrugged. “Well, he is,” she admitted. “But I think the Lord Admirals are always fools.”
“All right,” Khriss said. “Then, let’s try the Lord Artisan.”
N’Teese nodded, and dashed off through the crowd, leaving Khriss to sigh and try to follow.
#
Two hours later, Khriss was beginning to wonder if this Council of Taisha had collectively decided to drive her mad.
The Lord Artisan’s offices were much more comfortable than the Hall had been, but the wait didn’t seem to be going any more quickly. The building sat on the eastern edge of the island, far away from the docks and their hustle. This area was still busy, of course, but not quite so chaotic. The buildings here seemed to be larger, and though they were still pressed close together, they weren’t as narrow.
The Lord Artisan’s waiting room was on the ground floor, and it was decorated with two dozen seals that N’Teese explained were representations of the Draft’s sub-Professions. Apparently, the Lord Artisan oversaw varied activities, including everything from carpentry and cobblery to medicine and painting.
Khriss sat back on the bench. It was cushioned, though the cushion was, of course, filled with sand. There was a basin filled with drinking water, and even a man playing a stringed instrument quietly in the corner. The large room was filled with a dozen or so people, all waiting, Khriss presumed, for the same thing she was.
“I told you he was busy,” N’Teese mumbled. She sat on the floor beside the bench, absently spinning one of the carapace cups from the water basin.
Khriss sighed, leaning back. The waiting was frustrating, but she was getting better at it. She was beginning to realize that she wasn’t going to get anywhere on dayside without a long wait first. At least the Artisan’s steward, a younger Lossandin man with large ears, assured her that they were actually waiting to see the Lord Artisan, as opposed to just waiting to make an appointment. The steward sat at a small desk beside the large set of carapace doors that Khriss assumed led to the Taisha’s conference room. So far, during several hours of wait, only three people had been allowed in.
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