“I heard the challenge,” Eric replied, sitting down. “What does it mean?”
“It means that Drile and Lord Kenton will fight to the death in the Pit,” Elorin explained, standing beside the balcony, his aging eyes sad. “It is an old tradition, one almost forgotten. Sand masters haven’t fought one another for centuries—the Pit has become a conference room for the mastrells. But once, long ago, even sand masters were more barbaric. Back then, the Pit was a place where they were allowed to kill one another.”
Eric paused, accepting a cup of juice from Dirin. Ais continued to stand by the door, looking displeased about something.
“And,” Eric asked hesitantly looking directly at Kenton, “can you defeat Drile?”
Kenton shook his head. “No. He will kill me.”
“Great Sand Lord, man!” Eric snapped. “I’m supposed to be the insane one! What were you thinking?”
Kenton shook his head. “A Diem with Drile in charge is better than no Diem, Eric. Your father is right—the Diem keeps sand masters in check. If Drile were allowed to run off to the Rim Kingdoms, there is not telling the chaos he would cause. Someone had to stop him.”
“By committing suicide?” Eric asked.
“Drile will make a horrible Lord Mastrell,” Kenton said, sipping his drink. “But others will follow. Maybe the work I can do in these next few days will last through Drile. If I change the Diem’s Charter so sand masters will have to earn their keep, not even Drile will be able to repeal it. Either way, it’s the only thing I could think of.”
Eric sat quietly for a few moments, leaving Kenton to his thoughts. Finally, he spoke. “Kenton, you are the most noble idiot I have ever known.”
Kenton smirked ruefully. “I’ve been selfish all my life, Eric. I always claimed I wanted to be a mastrell. Well, maybe it’s time I did something worthy of the title. Besides … who knows, maybe I’ll beat him.”
The disbelief must have sounded in his voice, because no one seemed encouraged by the remark.
Chapter Twenty-One
Well, maybe I can beat him, Kenton thought for the hundredth time. He still hadn’t managed to convince himself. Still, he had to keep hoping. There had to be a way.
He stood on his balcony, thinking to himself as he watched the workers reinforcing Dirin’s steps below. They toiled in the hot sun, lifting large stones into place at the base of the construction to stabilize it against the wind.
Kenton sighed. Unfortunately, it came down to one simple fact: Drile could control twenty-five ribbons of sand. Kenton had intentionally forced himself to stay awake for much of the day before, even though he had been tired, so that his sleep schedule wouldn’t get out of sink with the rest of the Diem. During that time, he had read every book he could find on fighting another sand master. There weren’t very many, but they all agreed on one thing. The sand master who could control the most ribbons had the definite, almost unbeatable, advantage.
“I’m ready, sir,” Dirin’s voice said from behind.
“All right,” Kenton said, turning back into his rooms. “Let’s try this.”
The boy, standing on the other side of Kenton’s rooms, raised his fist uncertainly, a look of concentration on his face. The sand clutched in his hand didn’t flash to life, like Kenton’s did. Instead, it slowly began to glow, like old coals being stoked to build a new flame. A wavering ribbon lurched out of Dirin’s fist, glowing sickly as it moved through the air toward Kenton.
“Good,” Kenton approved. “Now hold it steady.”
Dirin nodded, his face already showing signs of fatigue.
Kenton called his own sand to life. His glowing ribbon arced in the air for a moment, then snapped towards Dirin’s. As soon as the tip of Kenton’s ribbon touched Dirin’s sand, Dirin’s ribbon fell stale, dropping to the floor. Kenton’s remained glowing.
“All right,” Kenton said, pulling his sand back to let it hover in front of him. “Now, you try me.”
Dirin reached down to pick up another handful of sand and called it to life. His ribbon didn’t whip forward; instead it meandered. Eventually, it reached Kenton’s ribbon and touched it on the side. Kenton’s sand immediately fell stale.
“Now, directly on,” Kenton said.
The two raised ribbons and sent them toward one another. They struck head on, and both fell stale.
“So the trick is to hit your opponent’s ribbon from the side,” Kenton mused. “Power doesn’t matter. If you touch another sand master’s ribbon with the tip your own, then you can make it fall stale.”
Elorin, sitting in one of the plush chairs, nodded. “That is why the Diem has rules against touching another sand master’s ribbons, Lord Mastrell. The tip of a ribbon contains the concentration of its energy; if it touches another ribbon, it interferes with that sand master’s control.”
“This is also why having more ribbons is such an advantage in combat,” Kenton said with a sigh. “If you have enough ribbons to neutralize your opponents’, you can deliver the killing blow.”
“It appears so, My Lord,” Elorin agreed.
“So, it’s obvious what I have to do,” Kenton said.
Dirin and Elorin looked at him with confusion.
“I just have to learn to master more ribbons.”
“A task not easily accomplished, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin said with a shake of his head. “Some might call it impossible.”
“But it’s not,” Kenton said. “We know that because I’ve done it once already. The problem is, we don’t know how I did it.”
Kenton began to pace along the side of the room. “It doesn’t make any sense, Elorin,” he continued. “Why can I master three ribbons now. What did I do that changed my abilities?”
“I don’t know, My Lord,” Elorin confessed.
Kenton continued to pace, ignoring Dirin, who had pulled out a small rake and was evening the layer of sand on Kenton’s floor. What did I do? He hadn’t done anything. This one fact continued to bother him—as far as he knew, no sand master had ever gained more ribbons once he hit maturity. What was different about Kenton.
He continued to pace, his steps taking him from one side of the room, out onto the balcony, and back again. “What did I do … ?” he mumbled. Then he stopped. His eyes fell once again on the workers, their muscles straining as the lifted the stones.
“I only did one thing, Elorin,” Kenton realized. “I overmastered.”
“What are you saying, Lord Mastrell?” Elorin said from behind.
Kenton smiled with excitement, turning back into the room. “What if overmastering could make a sand master stronger?”
“But it doesn’t, My Lord,” Elorin corrected. “Overmastery weakens a sand master, destroying his power and possibly killing him.”
“Who told you that?” Kenton asked.
“Why, the mastrells,” Elorin replied, frowning at the challenge.
“Exactly,” Kenton replied. “Elorin, what if it has all been a lie? Ever since my first day in the Diem I have been warned against overmastery. It was called evil, destructive, selfish—as acolents were we instilled with a powerful compulsion not to overmaster. But, what if it was all a lie?”
“A lie by whom?”
“The mastrells,” Kenton informed. “You know how they loved to hoard power. If there were a way to increase the number of ribbons a sand master control, I’d swear on the Sand Lord that the mastrells would keep it secret. Haven’t you ever wondered why powerful undermastrells can never control more than nine ribbons, yet even weak mastrells can control eighteen or twenty?”
“That is because they are mastrells,” Elorin explained. “Mastrells are special.”
“Special because they know how to increase their power,” Kenton said with a nod. “Don’t you see, Elorin? It makes sense. The taboos against overmastery, they are all just to keep anyone else from discovering the secret! I’ve heard guards in the Tower explain to me that the only way to build large muscles is to exercise to the point that you�
��re sore, and when your strength returns you will be able to lift more next time. What if this is the same thing?”
On the other side of the room, Dirin was frowning.
“What, Dirin?” Kenton asked.
“I’m sorry, but … what about Elorin, sir?” Dirin asked. “He overmastered too.”
Kenton paused, looking down at the elderly sand master. “Elorin,” he asked, “how long has it been since you tried to master sand?”
“I haven’t tried since I burned myself out,” Elorin said uncomfortably.
“Would you try again?” Kenton requested.
Elorin sat for a moment, then he nodded slowly. Kenton could see the pain in his eyes as he picked up a handful of sand, feeling it between his fingers for a moment. Then, he stretched the hand forward and closed his eyes. Kenton waited with excitement.
Nothing happened.
“I’m sorry, My Lord,” Elorin said, shaking his head and dropping the sand. “But I can’t feel anything. The sand won’t do what I tell it.”
“Sands!” Kenton cursed, turning back to his pacing. “I thought I had something.”
“Sir?” Dirin asked.
“What?” Kenton asked absently.
“Sir, do you recognize this?”
Kenton looked over to where Dirin was standing. The boy was stooped over, pulling something from the sand on the floor. It was dark black, like a folded piece of paper. Kenton walked over, studying the paper with a critical eye. He didn’t recognize it.
He unfolded it as Dirin handed it to him. “It’s in Kershtian,” he sand with confusion.
“Can you read it?” Dirin asked.
“Yes,” Kenton said, “at least, most of it. ‘To the hunter,’” he translated. “‘the prey grows wearied of the chase. He will act soon. Be warned.’”
“What on the sands are you people talking about?” Eric asked, pushing open the door.
“I wish I knew,” Kenton said, lowering the piece of paper. “Did you sleep well?”
“I slept just fine, thank you, oh condemned one,” Eric replied, walking over and taking the paper from Kenton’s hands. He read it with a confused look on his face. “It’s either the oddest death threat I’ve ever seen, or a secret recipe for Kershtian stew cleverly disguised as utter nonsense.”
Kenton snorted, refolding the paper.
“Where did you find it?”
“Dirin found it,” Kenton said, nodding toward the boy. “It was buried in the sand on my floor.”
Eric nodded appreciatively. “Thanks, kid. It’s always nice to start the day with a bit of insane babbling.”
“You’re in rare form this morning, Eric,” Kenton noted, leaning back against the wall as Eric poured himself a drink.
Eric shrugged. “My best friend is determined to be a martyr, my father has gone from ignoring me to hating me, and I’m hungry. What isn’t there to be pleasant about?”
“I’m not determined to be a martyr,” Kenton corrected. “Trust me, I’m doing my best to find a way out of this. But, if that’s what it comes down to, that is what I will need to do.”
“That’s the problem with the new you,” Eric said, raising his cup at Kenton. “You’re so concerned with what is expected of you that you’ve forgotten what it is that kept you going all those years. The thing that got you into the Diem in the first place.”
Kenton smiled ruefully. “Eric, I can’t be a rebel and an authority figure at the same time.”
“Why not?” Eric asked.
“Because,” Kenton said with exasperation. “The two are mutually exclusive. I’ve spent the last few days finally realizing how wrong I was all my life. All the fighting, all of the rebellion—I was wrong.”
“If you were wrong,” Eric said quietly, “then I should be Lord General. I refuse to accept that. You’ve realized what you did wrong, now you just have to realize what you did right. Somewhere in the middle is who you really are. So, where are we going today?”
Kenton shook his head slightly, trying to make sense of Eric’s words. Who I really am? I don’t have time for personal discovery right now, Eric. I’ve got a Profession to save.
“Well,” he said out loud, “there is only one Taisha left. I suppose we should at least try and visit him.”
“Vey,” Eric replied with a nod. “What about the Lord Mason?”
Kenton shrugged. “He hasn’t appointed another emissary yet—in fact, the last one probably just got back to Nor’Tallon. We’ll have to wait for the Lord Mason to appoint another representative before we can do anything.”
Eric nodded. “To the Lord Merchant, then. I’m glad I didn’t have anything for breakfast—Vey will probably make me sick to my stomach.”
#
Ais poured over the documents, memorizing every detail, searching out every hidden clue, squeezing information from the stark words. He couldn’t participate in the investigation—not while he was required to follow the Lord Mastrell—but he could still lead it. His men made careful records of what they observed and what their contacts told them. Every morning, before meeting the Unholy One, he looked over the previous day’s findings.
Eventually, the random information formed into a pattern before him. “You will strike here,” he declared.
Tain leaned in close. He was doing a fine job of being second, now that Jedan was dead. The tall man had a deceptively-simple face. Tain was much smarter than he appeared, even if his features—a large, flat nose and bushy, unkempt eyebrows—didn’t give any hint to that fact. At least one thing was comforting—if Ais couldn’t lead the band personally, at least his replacement was competent.
“The boat races, sir?” Tain asked with confusion.
Ais nodded slowly, shuffling a few papers out of the many stacks. “Look,” he said, pointing to a set of figures. “The bookkeepers show a huge influx of money in private accounts over the last month.” He pulled out a second sheet of paper from a completely different stack. “Now here, what do you see?”
Tain shrugged. “Winnings lists.”
“See any patterns?”
Tain studied the paper for a moment. “No,” he finally said. “It looks completely random. The results are in line with the separate odds for the boats.”
“No,” Ais corrected. “Maybe in the individual cases, but not on a large scale.”
Tain shook his head. “I can’t see it, sir,” he confessed.
“The outside lanes win more than the inside ones,” Ais explained. “It doesn’t matter which boats are in those lanes, they tend to beat the odds. Nilto’s too smart to rig the races so that a single boat is favored—that’s too obvious. But, if he can work it so that certain lanes win more than others, he can steadily make money. He just has to tell his people to bet on the outside. Eventually, over time, it will pay off.”
Tain nodded slowly. “All right, sir. We’ll set up observation.”
“Good,” Ais said, standing and straightening his uniform.
“Sir,” Tain said, turning before he left, “your presence is missed.”
“In nine days, Tain,” Ais said formally, “this will all be over. Trust me—it will be worth the wait to get rid of the sand masters.”
“Yes, sir,” Tain said, saluting and leaving.
Ais left a few moments later—he didn’t want to miss the Lord Mastrell. Somehow he knew that despite the man’s overtures of friendship, Kenton would ditch Ais if possible. Ais walked down the hallway, his cloth-wrapped shoes falling quietly on the stone floor. There had been precious little time for his family lately—a problem, since Mellis was growing increasingly worried. Ais felt he was close to Nilto. Lokmlen had been convicted of murder a few days before, and in exchange for his life, the man had finally agreed to release a few names. None of them were Nilto, of course, but both were very important men in his organization. If Ais could cut off enough of Nilto’s revenue, he would grow desperate. Desperate men made mistakes.
Unfortunately, Ais knew that desperate men were also
capable of incredible cruelty—especially men like Nilto. Ais had ordered a pair of trackts to keep constant surveillance on Mellis, while silently cursing his inability to head the investigation. He understood the Lady Judge’s need, but her timing couldn’t have been worse.
All of the tension had put Ais on edge, and he was finding it more and more difficult to maintain control. On top of it all, he hadn’t been able to visit the Ker’Reen temple recently. His interaction with the Lord Mastrell had sullied him, and he would have to go purification rituals before he would be worthy to return to sacred ground. And so, Ais was left without either of the stabilizing forces in his life—he saw his wife sporadically, and he was unable to take part in Ker’Reen worship services.
Nine days and it will all be over, he reminded himself. I am witnessing historic times. The end of the sand masters.
He just hoped he would last that long.
#
One would probably presume to find the Lord Merchant’s office somewhere in the marketplace. Such was not the case. Vey’s business office was situated on the northern side of the island, far from the bustle and exchanges of the marketplace. It wasn’t on the small kelzi island—Vey liked to keep his social life and his business dealings separate—but it might as well have been.
The office looked more like a mansion. The northern edge of Kezare was a rocky shelf, with a steep cliff bearing the brunt of the river current. Vey’s office sat overlooking the cliff, holding arguably the most scenic point on the entire island. To one side lay the river and horizon, and in the other direction one could look down at the entire city.
“What makes you think he will even agree to see you, Ry’Kensha?” Ais asked. The trackt had met them outside the Diem just after Eric and Kenton had started on their way to visit the Lord Merchant.
“He has to,” Kenton replied. “It’s professional courtesy.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Eric mumbled, “the Lord Merchant is a little bit lacking in courtesy—professional or otherwise.”
“He is a businessman,” Kenton said firmly. “He’ll negotiate, as long as I have something he wants.”
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