Ais looked up with a silent sigh. “An entire ship? It would be expensive, Ry’Kensha. Probably a couple of thousand lak.”
“All right, Dirin,” Kenton said. “See what you can find, and take what you need from our stores.”
“Sir, we only have a couple of thousand left …”
“Use what you need,” Kenton reiterated.
“Yes, sir,” Dirin said, walking toward the door. However, before he could leave, the boy had one last question. “Um, sir?” he asked.
Kenton turned around. “Yes?”
“Did you really do it, sir?” Dirin asked eagerly.
“Do what, Dirin?”
“Save those men yesterday?” Dirin explained. “They say you dug through twenty feet of rock, lifting nearly an entire building, to save some trapped workers.”
Kenton smiled. “It’s an exaggeration, but it’s essentially true. Where did you hear about it?”
“It’s all over the city, sir,” Dirin said. “Everyone is talking about you. They heard about what you’re going to do—with Drile, I mean. How you’re going to … . Anyway, there are lots of rumors. No one can believe that a sand master would rescue people like that, let alone sacrifice himself …”
“You’re a celebrity,” Eric noted.
Kenton snorted. “For now. If I actually manage to save the Diem they’ll all go back to hating us.” Then he nodded toward the boy. “Thank you, Dirin. The news is heartening. Now hurry up—you have less than six days to get to Nor Tallon and back.”
“Yes, sir,” Dirin said energetically, rushing from the room.
#
Kenton and Eric went back to their talking in the other room, and Ais was finally given a chance to return to his reading. Unfortunately, something else started to distract him. His own mind.
He had been pondering a subject lately. If a man died nobly for an evil cause, what was that man? A misguided hero? A sinner of the worst kind because he tried to make that which was evil seem good? Ais was lost for an answer. Kenton’s actions the day proved that he himself was not an evil man.
Of course, Ais had never believed that all sand masters were evil by nature—they simply made evil choices, and it was by ones choices that one would be judged. Good or not, Kenton and his sand mastery still needed to be exterminated from the sands, lest their evil continue to corrupt others.
Still, Ais was impressed with this Lord Mastrell. Kenton was an earnest man, trying his best to accomplish an impossible task. Such was basis for nobility, if only his efforts had been applied to a noble cause.
But, Ais believed—contrary to many Kershtian teachings—that the Sand Lord had mercy in his heart even for sand masters. It was a basis of Ker’reen philosophy that the world was made up of opposites, and God was He in whom opposites could coexist without destroying one another. He was darkness and light, for He had created both. He was good and evil, cold and heat, love and hatred. He could condemn the sand masters, yet have mercy for them at the same time. The doctrine of Coexistent Contradiction was a major part of the Kershtian belief system.
Perhaps Kenton would find forgiveness once he died. Until that time, however, Ais was required to hate him. It was a pity, really, but he didn’t have a choice.
#
Khriss took the betrayal quietly. She had to remain strong—she had let herself go when she found out about Gevin, and that was wrong. Of course, Baon had been the one to teach her that … .
“We need to find him,” Khriss said softly, sitting on her bed, hands in her lap. “He deserves a chance to explain himself. Perhaps there is more to this that we don’t know.” Of course, she had no idea where to find him. She had sent N’Teese to find Nilto, so that she could ask the beggar to look for Baon, but she didn’t have much hope. Baon was too skillful to be captured.
“My Lady … .” Cynder said sitting awkwardly on the chair beside her scientific table. He rested his hand on her shoulder, obviously uncertain what to do. “My Lady,” he repeated, “Baon was very good at what he did. Too good. I had often wondered how a simple mercenary became such a learned, even crafty, man.”
“I never trusted him,” Acron announced. He sat on her table, munching on a bag of some candied confections he had purchased in the Kezare marketplace. The legs to the table were bowing, as if seriously considering a collapse. “You know, he was the one who drove Flennid and the other soldiers away. He probably planned that, so we would be left only to his mercies. Everyone knows how well-trained Scythe’s assassins are.”
“Acron is right,” Cynder agreed. “Dynastic spies are a very elite group. There is no shame in having fallen for Baon’s lies, My Lady. Scythe employs only the most crafty, careful men. Prince Gevalden himself was killed by one.”
Khriss nodded slowly, still staring down at her hands. She felt helpless and stupid. How had she not seen it earlier? Cynder was right—a simple mercenary would never have known the things Baon did. He was too shrewd, too skilled … too perfect. He had only made one mistake—the guns. He must not have been able to resist taking them, once he killed the two senior officers. The guns were masterfully made, and he would have realized their usefulness.
“I’m just wondering how Captain Deral found out what he was,” Acron said conversationally. “I mean, how did the Captain see it when I didn’t?”
Cynder rolled his eyes.
Khriss took a deep breath. “All right, it is time to move on. Baon left, but the expedition still has a purpose it needs to fulfill.”
“My Lady?” Cynder asked.
“I’m going to the Diem,” she informed, standing. “If Kenton isn’t going to tell me how sand mastery works, then I’ll just have to watch and learn for myself.”
“But, duchess, it is too dangerous,” Cynder warned. “The assassins … .”
“They care nothing for me,” Khriss said. “They want Kenton.”
“Still, My Lady,” Cynder said speculatively. “Perhaps you could wait … .”
“Until when?” Khriss demanded. “Until Kenton is dead?” Khriss shook her head. “No, Cynder. I have to do this now. We know the prince is dead, now we need to gather what information we can and return to Elis. Every day I waste is another day Elis goes without sand mastery to protect it.”
“My Lady,” Acron said, standing as she walked toward the door. “At least let one of us accompany you. Now that you don’t have a bodyguard, you may need our protection.”
Khriss turned back to the two professors, one overweight, the other elderly. Neither would be of much use for protection. Both, however, stood with determined, honorable looks on their face. Their skill might be questionable, but their loyalty was not. They would do what they could to defend their duchess.
“All right,” she said. “You may become my bodyguards. Cynder, look over there in my trunk.”
The linguist did as ordered, moving to open the trunk. He reached inside, and pulled out a shiny silver pistol.
“What?” he asked with surprise.
“Prince Gevalden’s,” she explained. “I think he would approve of its use in this case.”
“Certainly, My Lady,” Cynder agreed.
“But, the scoundrel took all the charges!” Acron complained.
Khriss smiled, tapping the almost-forgotten jar of saltpeter on the floor. “That’s all right.”
#
A harsh lisping voice sounded from just beside Khriss. She jumped with surprise.
“You wanted to speak with me?” N’Teese translated.
Khriss stopped in the middle of the crowded street. She hadn’t even seen Nilto approach. Of course, the man, with his dayside cloak and nondescript manner, blended well with the people flowing around them. She turned to regard him, and was once again struck by his horrible ugliness. His face was disfigured, like it had been smashed when he was a child, and his flesh ribbed and twisted. She stared at him for a moment, Nilto meeting her eyes, then she blushed. He must be used to people staring.
Nilto began to m
ove toward the side of the street where they could speak more privately, and Khriss followed, moving through he crowd with difficulty now that Baon wasn’t there to clear a path for her. She and Acron had been on their way to purchase more gunpowder ingredients—her investigation of the Diem would have to wait for tomorrow. It was an acceptable delay considering what they would gain by her spending a few more hours in her impromptu laboratory.
Acron followed her through the crowd, shooting suspicious looks at the Lord Beggar. Nilto returned the looks with rolls of his eyes.
“What do you wish of me, woman?” Nilto rasped through N’Teese as Khriss arrived.
“A … friend of mine has disappeared,” Khriss explained. “I would like you to find him, if you could.”
The Lord Beggar snorted. “You waste my time,” he informed, a drip of spittle running down the side of his cheek.
“I could pay,” Khriss explained.
“Woman, do you have any idea what my time is worth?” he asked sharply. “Do you have any idea how many people I have to care for? How busy my days are? You think I have time to search for a runaway servant?” He began to stumble away.
“Please, Lord Nilto,” she said after him. “At least watch for him. If any of your people mention a large, shaven-headed darksider, tell me. You need not expend effort, just … .”
Nilto turned slowly. “He’s important to you,” he mumbled. “A lover?”
Khriss blushed, shaking her head. “Like I said. A friend.”
The Lord Beggar turned back toward the moving crowd. “Keep your offered money handy, miss darksider. If I hear anything, I’ll expect a reward.”
#
The attack never came. Kenton waited and waited, growing more tense with each passing minute. Ais changed his trackts in shifts, keeping them alert and watchful. The assassins, however, decided not to make a showing that day.
“Maybe they finally ran out of people,” Elorin offered. He had joined the vigil, keeping Kenton company after Eric wandered off to get some sleep. As the hours progressed, Kenton was having increasing difficulty staying awake. The drain of the last few weeks was horrible—if the assassins or Drile didn’t kill him, the fatigue probably would.
“Maybe,” he said in response to the kindly old sand master’s encouragement.
“You should get some sleep, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin suggested.
Kenton nodded absently, his mind drifting. His major problem was still Vey. The Lord Merchant effectively held two votes on the Council, and he was Kenton’s strongest opposition. Somehow, as impossible as it seemed, Kenton had to get the Lord Merchant to join with him. Unfortunately, the only thing he could think of was bribery. The Lord Merchant’s vote was probably for sale, no matter what he said—it’s just that Kenton doubted he could afford his price.
The most confusing thing about it all was the tribute. Tributes weren’t even written into the law—they had been donated by the other Professions in gratitude for the sand masters’s protection. The system was antiquated, however, and it made sense that the other Professions would have stopped it—especially since the sand masters could just demand what they needed from local merchants.
But why had the Guild continued to pay all these years? It didn’t make sense. Vey hated the sand masters, yet his Profession continued to donate money to the Diem every quarter.
Kenton rose from his seat, stretching. Elorin sat dozing on one of the room’s chairs. “I think I’ll take your advice, Elorin,” he said. It was probably well past twelfth-hour. He would be safe for another day. According to Ais, if the assassins missed the day of their attack, they had to wait another one before they could try again.
Elorin sand master nodded his bald head, rising and walking toward the door. As he opened it, however, he frowned.
“Lord Mastrell?” he asked.
Kenton turned. “Yes?”
Elorin pointed to a note attached to the wooden door. Kenton frowned, approaching to pull the note off. It was folded in the same way the one a few days had been, the one that Ais had claimed was to him.
Kenton flipped it open, reading the short message. I warned you was all that it said.
Kenton frowned, reading the message. Then he shrugged, handing the note to Ais’s second, who was still standing watch on the balcony.
“See that Ais gets this,” he requested. The senior trackt had gone out to check on the watches. “I assume it will make more sense to him than it does to me.”
The second looked at the note with confused eyes, then nodded to Kenton, walking out the balcony and calling softly for another trackt to approach and receive the note.
Kenton wandered into his room and collapsed onto his sand mattress.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kenton was standing in the place where he would die.
Might die, he reminded himself.
He stood in the Pit’s direct center, where a forty-foot circle of sand formed the field in which he would fight Drile. The broad opening in the ceiling let in a column of sunlight which fell directly on the circle of sand, both to provide light and recharge any sand turned black by sand mastery. Or by blood.
The stadium-like benches rose around him, sand-colored, like the rest of the Diem. They were empty now, though Kenton could almost imagine the dead mastrells sitting around, staring down at him, their eyes judgmental. You were made Lord Mastrell little over a week ago, and already you have brought back our most abhorrent process.
Sand masters hadn’t killed one another in over a century. What was he saying to the sand masters, letting the reign of their next Lord Mastrell—whomever it might be—start with the slaughter of his opponent? Khriss had called dayside primitive; perhaps she was right.
Of course, whoever won might not even become Lord Mastrell. Kenton’s chances of saving the Diem were looking increasingly dim. You will be the Lord Mastrell remembered for destroying his own Profession, the unseen sand masters seemed to accuse. You claimed to want this all your life, but when you get it you immediately lose it.
Kenton looked up at the benches, though it was hard to see them the way the room was lighted, with sunlight falling directly on the center pit. He stepped forward, leaving the warm sunlight, stepping out onto one of the stone benches.
Soon these benches would be full, packed with people come to watch an execution. Now that the news had spread through the city, Kenton had already begun to receive requests from the kelzin. Everyone wanted to be in attendance—it was becoming the social event of the century. Never mind that just a few days ago they had all shunned the Diem as unhallowed ground. Now they each expected favoritism, especially those Kenton had spoken with at the Lord Admiral’s party.
Kenton shook his head in disdain. None of them would come to a Lord Mastrell’s confirmation, but everyone wanted to see one’s execution. And that was what it would be, an execution. For all his positive thinking, Drile was going to massacre him.
“Contemplating your immanent meeting with the Sand Lord, Lord Mastrell?” an amused voice asked.
Kenton looked up toward the sound to find Drile standing in the Pit’s doorway. Kenton turned away, not bothering to respond to the baiting. Surprisingly, perhaps for the first time in his life, Kenton didn’t feel like arguing.
“You know,” Drile said, walking down the stone benches like steps, “the ironic thing is, your sacrifice probably won’t mean anything. Five more days will pass, and you still won’t have the support you need. You realize I’m not going to let you back out of your challenge, even if the Taisha are going to vote against you?”
Kenton looked up, meeting Drile’s eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
Drile just smiled. “And, even if you do find enough support, do you think the Taisha will hold to their promises once I’ve killed you? They’ll change their minds and dissolve us anyway. Then I’ll take the sand masters to the Rim Kingdoms. Be happy, however—you’ll get your revenge eventually. We’ll probably return at the head of Rim armies to
destroy Lossand.”
He was so arrogant, so uncaring of life. Suddenly, Kenton found himself wanting to do anything he could to tear that smile away from Drile. Kenton’s optimism returned, fueled by determination. You should know better, Drile. The surest way to encourage me is to taunt me.
Kenton raised his lips in a very slight smile. “I suppose you’re right, Drile.”
Drile frowned. That wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting. “You’re a fool if you aren’t afraid,” he warned.
Kenton shrugged. “I definitely should be. It looks hopeless, doesn’t it?.” He smiled to himself knowingly.
Drile snorted. “You are a fool.”
“Sure am.”
Drile started to look nervous. Kenton could almost see the question in his eyes. What do you know that I don’t, Kenton?
Finally, Drile backed from the room, a little less certain than when he had entered.
I know one important fact, Drile. I am a fool. Fortunately, so are you.
#
Kenton strode down the steps outside the Pit, heading toward his rooms. He was tired of sitting around—the day before had been excruciating. He needed to do something; if he simply waited for his five days to run out, then he deserved to fail.
“Lord Mastrell?” a voice interrupted. Kenton turned to see an older sand master, perhaps forty, wearing the tan sash of a Fen. Kenton struggled to remember the man’s name, and realized he didn’t know it.
“Yes?” he said a little awkwardly.
“You wouldn’t know which room my acolents and I are supposed to meet in, would you?”
Kenton frowned. “No, I’m afraid not. Why don’t you just pick one?”
“Well, Lord Mastrell, Dirin had all of the rooms organized by year. He was going to find us a new one, because the one we were using was too small. Do you know where he is?”
“I sent him on an errand,” Kenton explained. “You’ll have to do without him for a few days. Just find yourself a room—it shouldn’t matter too much.”
“Yes, Lord Mastrell,” the still unnamed sand master said, bowing and walking back to the small group of students he was apparently in charge of.
White Sand, Volume 1 Page 49