“I fear I must apologize,” Delious said, taking a long gulp from his cup. Despite his collapse near the beginning of the party, he now seemed no more intoxicated than when he had begun. Of course, ‘no more intoxicated’ still meant fairly drunk when it came to Delious. His speech was slurred, his movements exaggerated and clumsy, and his face burned with alcohol.
“Why apologize, My Lord?” Kenton asked after translating Delious’s words for Khriss.
“I specifically asked you to bring this beauty of a darksider to meet me, then find myself with no opportunity to introduce myself. It seems our Lady Khrissalla was so busy tonight that even her host was unable to get her attention.”
Khriss blushed as Kenton translated. “The apology should be mine, Lord Delious,” she said. “I should have made myself known to my host.”
“No matter,” Delious said with a wave of his hand. “I hope you enjoyed the party.”
“It was a fine gathering, Your Lordship,” Khriss replied.
“By dayside standards or darkside ones?” Delious asked, handing his cup to his steward. “I have often heard that darksiders are more refined than those of us over here.”
“It was fine by my standards, Your Lordship,” Khriss answered. “Which is all that matters to me.”
“A good answer,” Delious approved. “And you, Lord Mastrell? How did you find the accommodations?”
Kenton translated, shooting Khriss a look. She shrugged almost imperceptibly—she didn’t know what to make of the Lord Admiral.
“It was agreeable,” Kenton said slowly. “Though, I must admit that I wish the kelzin were more receptive to my message. There is only a week left before the vote—I don’t have time for idle conversations.”
Delious chuckled. “I doubt you will find the lords of my Profession very willing to hear what you have to say, I’m afraid.”
“I know,” Kenton said with a sigh. “I just wish I knew what they had against me. I suppose it is simply centuries of sand master arrogance working against me.”
“True,” Delious agreed, leaning back foppishly against his cushions. “Of course, it could be the A’Kar.”
Kenton looked up. Delious was staring to the side, watching a large sandling with an ornate system of horns running from its head all the way down its back. His eyes were slightly unfocused from the alcohol. Surely there couldn’t be much coherence left in his mind. Yet, while looking at the man’s aged face, Kenton thought he saw something. A glimmer of wit that couldn’t be completely dulled by wine.
“The A’Kar?” Kenton asked slowly, shooting Khriss another look. She was watching the Lord Admiral intently—she had noticed it too.
Delious shrugged with an exaggerated motion. “It is said that the A’Kar plans to slow trade between the Kershtian nation and Lossand—assuming he wins the Choosing in a few weeks, of course.”
“That only makes sense,” Kenton said. The statement was obvious—of course the High Priest of Kersha would slow trade. That was one of the fundamental issues that made him different from his opponent, the High Merchant.
“Of course,” Delious said, toying with his crystalline cup, “it is also said that the A’Kar is willing to forego his embargo if certain conditions are met.”
“Such as?” Kenton asked hesitantly.
“I don’t know,” Delious said. “I think the rumors are that he will only consider trade with Lossand if it renounces its unholy past.”
“You mean if it renounces the sand masters,” Kenton said, his eyes thinning in thought.
“You could say that,” Delious agreed. “In fact, I believe the rumors are that the A’Kar would even be willing to reward Lossand for getting rid of the sand masters.”
“Reward?” Kenton prompted.
“Oh, like the Kershtian taboo against using goods that have traveled over water.”
So that’s it! Kenton thought with surprise. For centuries, the Kershtians of the kerla had refused to accept goods from Lossand that had traveled by boat, forcing merchants to use more lengthy land routs. The taboo had completely locked the Helm’s kelzin out of a great deal of profit, since they depended on shipping for their livelihood. If the A’Kar declared the taboo changed, however … .
“Sands!” Kenton swore softly. “It’s a wonder they haven’t had me assassinated themselves.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t tried,” Delious agreed.
“No wonder the kelzin hate me,” Kenton thought with wonder. “With so much riding on my defeat, I’m tempted to hate myself.”
“Don’t do that,” Delious chided. “It would be far too trendy.”
Kenton looked up again, studying the man’s face. He was a middle-aged drunken fool, but there appeared to be more to the Lord Admiral than he had once assumed. Some remnant of what he had once been, probably. Kenton could see hints of great wisdom in Delious—wisdom that had, unfortunately, been nearly destroyed by the constant drinking.
“The kelzin must not have thought much of your declaration of support,” Kenton said slowly.
“No, I don’t imagine they did.” Delious said, smiling broadly.
“Why did you do it, then?” Kenton asked hesitantly.
Delious shrugged. “Because,” was his uninformative answer. “Tell me, Lord Mastrell. How much do you know about the Helm and its method of choosing its leader?”
“Not much,” Kenton admitted. When one studied the Taisha, it was customary to leave out the Lord Admiral.
“It’s probably best that way,” Delious said with a smile, rising. “Well, I fear I must be going. I have many other people to bother before I’ll be satisfied that this party was worth the time. Please, eat as much as you want. Oh, and do try to waste some wine for me.”
Waste. He had emphasized the word. What did it mean?
#
“Kenton,” Khriss said, watching the Lord Admiral stumble away, his steward following, “that man is more than just a drunken slob. Or, at least, he has the potential to be more.”
The statement was based more on observation than on what the man had said. Kenton had grown very involved in the conversation, and his translations had grown abbreviated during the exchange. However, even with the limited information, Khriss had been able to tell that this drunkard held an interesting wit beneath his besotted exterior.
“I know,” Kenton said musingly. “What do you suppose he is hiding?”
Khriss shook her head. “I have no idea. He really was drunk, though.”
Kenton nodded. “He holds it well, however.”
“Agreed.”
Kenton shrugged, turning back to their meal.
Khriss hadn’t been lying when she admitted the food was good—it appeared to be the same ZaiDon that they had eaten while travelling to Lossand, but its flavor was completely different—it had an almost buttery taste. The dips were good too—though one of them smelled strongly of the horrid Ashawen spice. She ignored that one, instead focusing on a sweet garlicky sauce.
Kenton ate in silence, his eyes thoughtful. Finally, Khriss decided to try broaching the topic she had been thinking about all night.
“So,” she said conversationally, “how does this sand mastery of yours work, anyway.”
The comment pulled him out of his contemplations, and he looked up with startlement. He recovered quickly, however, dipping his ZaiDon and shaking his head. “I can’t tell you that,” he said distractedly.
“Why not?” Khriss pried.
“It’s forbidden,” Kenton explained. “The secrets of sand mastery are for the Diem only.”
“I thought you wanted to share sand mastery with all of Lossand,” Khriss challenged.
“I do,” Kenton replied. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell everyone how to make their own sand masters. A master craftsman shares his art with all who see it, but he doesn’t necessarily reveal the secrets of its creation.”
“But surely you can tell me,” Khriss continued, giving him her sweetest smile. “You
don’t have to worry about me misusing them,” at least, not on this side of the world … .
Kenton shook his head. “Sorry, Khrissalla. Even in my rebellious days I wouldn’t have done that. Some things are just too sacred.”
This is going to be more difficult than I assumed, Khriss thought with annoyance. “Can’t you tell me anything?”
Kenton’s eyes thinned slightly. “Is this why you’ve been so nice to me today?” he asked. “Because you wanted to get this out of me?”
Oops. Went too far. “Of course not,” Khriss huffed. “I’m just curious, like always.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Khriss,” he said, dipping his ZaiDon, “but this is one curiosity that will have to go unsated. You won’t find a sand master willing to talk about such things with an outsider—the taboo runs as deep as our injunction against overmastery.”
“Overmastery?” Khriss asked. “What’s that?”
Kenton chuckled. “Sorry, Khriss, but I’m not going to tell you.”
“Well, what if you made me a sand master?” Khriss asked. “If I joined, then could you teach me?”
“You couldn’t be a sand master,” Kenton explained. “Darksiders can’t join the Diem.”
“Why not?” demanded.
“Because.”
“For the same reason there aren’t any women sand masters?” Khriss asked. “Simply because ‘that is the way it has always been.’”
Kenton paused at this one, then he finally shook his head and continued to eat.
“Kenton, change is what brings progress. You yourself said that the Diem is having troubles because its lack of members. Well, maybe it is time to open your doors to women and darksiders.”
“Maybe sometime in the future,” Kenton agreed. “But I can’t afford to make a disturbance now. Tradition is what will see us through these times. That is one of the things I have learned recently. At a future date, when things are more stable, then maybe I will be able to look at entrance procedures and loosen them.”
“What are you so afraid of?” Khriss asked.
Kenton raised an eyebrow, then reached over to the sand beside their mat and picked up a handful of sand. Khriss watched closely as he took control of it. It didn’t make sense—it seemed that all he had to do was touch it and it started to glow. Where did the power come from? What kept the sand in a perpetual state of energy release?
The sand extended from his hand in what looked like a thin ribbon, perhaps a couple of inches across. In his other hand, he picked up their now-empty carapace plate.
“Do you have any idea how powerful sand mastery is, Khriss?” he asked.
Suddenly his sand whipped forward and, with barely a sound, sliced through he plate along its diameter. Half of the plate fell to the mat, cut precisely in half as if by a powerful razor.
“Sand mastery is the most dangerous tool on the continent,” Kenton explained, moving his sand out over the ground, then letting it fall black. “Can you imagine the horrors it could produce? Armies with sand masters attacking one another, slaughtering thousands upon thousands of people? This is why we keep the secrets of sand mastery to ourselves. If the method of our creation were known, then dayside would be thrown into chaos.”
Khriss could imagine armies with sand masters, armies killing one another. However, in her mind it was the army of Elis, defending itself against invaders. Even a tiny country could survive against the Dynasty if it had such an awesome weapon.
“And you get to decide?” Khriss asked. “You are the gods who determine who benefits from sand mastery and who does not?”
“Better us than no one,” Kenton replied. “The Diem is flawed, but even a flawed system is preferable to complete anarchy.”
“I disagree,” Khriss returned. “People should be able to determine for themselves how to use sand mastery.
“Disagree all you want,” Kenton said with a smile. “I’m still not going to tell you how it works.”
Khriss sat and fumed, mostly because of her helplessness. No matter what she said or did, he still held all of the information. She didn’t have anything with which to bargain.
Kenton rose, the meal apparently over, and helped her to her feet. Ais saw them leaving and moved to join them, following behind with an unreadable expression. After collecting Baon from the servant’s tent, they simply made their way back to the front of the building. Apparently the arrival of the meal was an understood dismissal by the Lord Admiral, and they weren’t required to bid him farewell.
As they were leaving, however, Khriss saw a familiar form. “Is that Nilto?” she asked, nodding toward a hunched figure speaking animatedly with a few seated kelzin.
“Yes.” Surprisingly, it was Ais who answered her.
“You know him?” Kenton asked with surprise.
“We have met,” Khriss said simply. “Why wasn’t he at the party?”
“Maybe he arrived late,” Kenton said with a shrug.
“No,” Ais said from behind. “I saw him at the beginning. He slipped out just after we arrived.”
Khriss frowned. “Why would he do that?”
“He probably hates sand masters,” Kenton said. “The sentiment is fairly prevalent amongst the people he represents.”
“Maybe,” Khriss agreed.
“Shall we go greet him?” Kenton asked.
“No,” Khriss said with a flat voice. “Let’s go.”
#
The carriage waited where Kenton had left it, and the four climbed in for their return trip. Kenton rode quietly, feeling guilty for some reason.
You don’t have to answer her questions, he told himself. You’re in the right—sand mastery must retain its secrets for the good of dayside. Such was what he had always been taught.
However, his problem wasn’t as much with the arguments against him as it was with his desire to tell Khriss what she wanted to know. For some reason, he had stopped being annoyed by her curiosity—it was just part of who she was. He wanted to answer her questions. This time, however, he could not. It was frustrating.
So bothered by the subject that he didn’t notice the voices until Khriss pointed them out to him.
“What is happening over there?” she asked with concern.
Kenton looked up immediately, hearing the yelling. Baon was already half-crouched, his hand on the butt of one of his pistols. However, the sounds didn’t sound like a battle—more screams for help.
Frowning, Kenton stood, reaching into his sand pouch. “Wait here,” he ordered, leaping out of the carriage.
He raced down the street, following the sound. They had left the kelzi district of Kezare and were nearing the more busy section of the city. People stood looking toward the sounds with confusion on their faces. Kenton pushed by them, making his way down a side street until he approached the source of the disturbance.
A wreck of a building stood before him. Workers stood anxiously around the collapsed structure, many of their faces bruised and cut. From what Kenton could tell, the building had fallen as they tried to add the second story. One of the walls, a massive construction of blocks and mortar, had fallen inward.
“What is going on here?” he demanded.
One of the workers, a foreman of some sort, noticed him for the first time. The man cried out in surprise, pulling off his brimmed worker’s hat and holding it before him nervously.
“I … I’m sorry, My Lord!” he apologized. “We didn’t mean to disturb you!”
“Nonsense. What happened?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with, My Lord,” the man promised, his eyes horrified. Kenton ignored him, studying the other workers. Most of them stood facing him, their eyes cast down at the ground. A couple of them weren’t looking at him, however. They continued to work, their faces desperate as they pushed against a steel rod, using it to vainly try and lift part of the collapsed wall.
As Kenton looked closely, he could hear a couple of pitiful voices calling from below the wreck, in what must have been a
basement chamber. The stone wall was barely holding together, its mortar cracking even as the workers continued their futile effort to lift it. The enormous blocks were beginning to break free from one another.
“There are men down there?” Kenton asked with alarm.
“Please, My Lord,” the foreman wailed. “Don’t punish them. It wasn’t their fault, it was mine. We didn’t mean to bother you.”
Kenton frowned. He shouldn’t do anything—it would break horribly with tradition. Sand masters didn’t use their powers in public.
Sand masters were fools. Kenton pushed the foreman aside and reached for his sand. The foreman collapsed to his knees in fear. “Oh Sands, oh sands …”
The three workers at the bar—which was now bent horribly—cried out in surprise as Kenton gathered his sand. Three ribbons whipped toward them, and they cringed in fright, then looked up with surprise as the sand didn’t attack them, but instead moved in-between the fallen wall and the lip of rocky ground.
Kenton held his hands before him, his fist clinched, his eyes closed, and then began to push.
A sand master’s ability to lift depended on the height he wanted to obtain. Ribbons could only handle so much stress, and they buckled if one didn’t have enough sand to create a proper foundation. Even the weaker sand masters, the ones who could only control a single ribbon, could usually lift themselves a few inches into the air. It was height that required strength.
This day, Kenton didn’t need height. He strained his power, pushing against the stone wall, the muscles in his body growing tense, as if he were working with his entire body and not just his sand. And, with a groan that mimicked the one that escaped Kenton’s lips, the wall began to rise.
He could only lift it a few feet, but it was enough. He cracked his eyes, holding the massive weight with difficulty, as three grungy workers scrambled from the dark basement room. Helping hands pulled them to freedom. A second later, Kenton’s strength ran out, and he dropped the wall with a sigh. It crashed back to the ground, its mortar shattering immediately, dropping a half dozen massive blocks into the basement.
Kenton felt drained—he nearly collapsed from fatigue as he reached out to a nearby wall for support. He waited a few moments, trying to rally his strength. His body immediately began to sweat now that the drain on its water had been removed. Kenton slumped back against the wall with a sigh, pulling out his qido and taking a huge gulp—one he nearly choked on, he was breathing so deeply.
White Sand, Volume 1 Page 47