Unfortunately, Drile had soon made use of the situation. The former mastrell claimed that the sand masters weren’t safe in Lossand, that the Kershtians and the trackts were working together to kill them all. His words didn’t make sense, but they didn’t have to. Any addition to the confusion and general sense of paranoia in the Diem served Drile’s purpose. Just hours after the attack, almost no one remembered that Kenton had actually defeated six assassins—they all focused on the fact that he had nearly lost. If the Lord Mastrell wasn’t safe, who was?
Drile’s in league with them, Kenton decided. Somehow he poisoned the mastrells at the conference, and now he’s using the assassins to wrestle control from me.
Kenton sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. There were too many battles to fight, to many enemies on each side. He spent a day trying to get the Taisha to follow him, but in the meantime Kershtian assassins were sneaking into his rooms. He fought the Kershtians, only to find his success flipped around by Drile’s cunning ploys.
There were too many questions. Why had he spontaneously gained the ability master three ribbons? Who was leading the Kershtian assassins? And what about you? He thought, looking down at the ledger in his hands. It was opened to the last page of entries, the one titled ‘money owed’ at the top. The amount at the bottom was very distinct—seven-hundred thousand Lak. To whom did he owe the other five hundred thousand? What if he did find a way to pay off the Lord Artisan? Would some debtor step forward at the last moment and demand payment?
“Lord Mastrell, we’re finished in here,” a voice said. Kenton turned, nodding to the group of trackts who had come to clean up the bodies and fill out reports. The man—who had introduced himself as Ais’s second—saluted and nodded for his men to follow him out of the room. A few moments later they appeared on the top of the staircase and worked their way down, several younger trackts carrying the corpse-bags.
When they were gone, Kenton was left alone again. I should probably get some sleep, he told himself. Assuming I really do try and find the Lord General tomorrow, then it will probably be a long day.
Yet, he didn’t go to his bedroom. He remained where he was, staring out over the courtyard. He wasn’t tired—his mind was too full of questions to be sleepy. As he contemplated, his eyes fell on the conference building in the very center of the courtyard. Its bulbous, mushroom-shaped body seemed dark despite the sunlight. It was empty. Just a few weeks ago, the mastrells had met there every day to discuss the workings of the Diem.
Now the building seemed more like a tomb, a cairn dedicated to the bodies of those who were still drying in the sun out on the kerla. No one would hold conference in it for a while.
Of course, it hadn’t always been a conference chamber. Perhaps now that the mastrells were dead, it would revert to its original purpose. Few people even remembered what it had once been used for … .
Kenton looked up, noticing a movement below. An acolent, staying up late? But, no, it wasn’t wearing sand master white. Kenton felt himself tense—what if Ais was wrong? What if he had lied to put Kenton off guard? Maybe the assassins would return tonight.
The form stepped out into the light, and Kenton was surprised to realize he recognized it.
“Elorin?” he asked with surprise.
#
“I felt guilty,” the older man explained, accepting a cup of chilled juice from Kenton. “I abandoned the Diem. I … I shouldn’t have done that, no matter my personal pain. I realized that when I heard you had returned.”
Kenton sat down in the chair across from Elorin. His room still showed signs of the attack—the toppled table, bloodstains on the sand floor, an arrow sticking from the desk in the other room. Kenton didn’t pay attention to the damage, however. He couldn’t help smiling as he looked at the squat Elorin. Suddenly, life looked a lot brighter.
“Where did you go?”
“South, to my home village,” Elorin explained. “I didn’t even arrive, though. I couldn’t go back, after all this time, after what I had become … . So, I came back.”
“We’re glad to have you,” Kenton said warmly. Though the mastrells had ruled the Diem, Elorin had always been the one who ran it. He organized the acolents, assigned duties to the middle ranks, and saw that the mastrells’ will was carried out.
Elorin looked down shamefully. “Kenton … Lord Mastrell, you heard that …”
“Yes, I heard,” Kenton said quietly. “Your power is gone.”
Elorin nodded, pain in his eyes.
“That doesn’t matter, Elorin,” Kenton assured. “You’re still a sand master as far as I’m concerned. I would rather have you back than a dozen mastrells.”
Elorin blushed. Then he looked up, his wise eyes searching Kenton’s. “You’ve … changed, Kenton. It’s only been a few weeks, but you’ve changed.”
Kenton sighed, taking a sip of his juice. “It seems like so much longer, doesn’t it?”
“Infinitely longer,” Elorin agreed.
Kenton smiled. “So much has happened, but, well, I can’t help thinking we’re bound to succeed now that you’re here. Tell me, you’ll resume your duties in the Diem, won’t you?”
“If you command, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin said with a bow of his head.
“Please, Elorin, you know you don’t need to act that way around me.”
“I know, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin said quietly. “But, well, that is who I am.”
Ah Elorin, Kenton thought, so docile before authority. I wonder how many people realize how truly strong you are on the inside.
“I understand Elorin,” Kenton praised. “Please, get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll announce your return—I doubt I will be the only one who is glad to see you.”
Elorin nodded, finishing his juice then rising. “Thank you, Lord Mastrell. Please, sleep in safety.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kenton unlatched the bottom of the pole, releasing the tripod legs. He dug these into the sand, then rotated the box on the top of the pole, lining up the first of its sights with the moon, which hung in about sixth-hour position to the south.
Kenton bent down beside the pole, delicately maneuvering the box’s first sight until it exactly overlaid the moon. Then he locked the instrument’s controls and checked the compass on the sunmap’s side. It pointed due north, toward the pole, which lay somewhere in the northern Border Ocean. He measured the exact time of day, then spun the top of the pole, moving it to compensate for the moon’s position.
The second sight raised higher in the air than the first. By crouching down beside the sunmap, one could look past the second sight’s angles pointer up into the sky. When the second sight exactly overlaid the sun, they would be at their destination—the place where Reegent’s aides said he planned to go hunting. Kenton hoped the aides were right—with no landmarks besides the sun and the moon, searching in the kerla was nearly impossible. If Reegent weren’t at the coordinates specified, there would be no point in looking for him. Not only would it be futile, but one could easily wander onto deep sands.
“We need to go another two degrees east,” Kenton explained. “And about a half a degree south.”
Eric nodded, shading his eyes as he looked toward the sun. “I’ve always wondered if the Kershtians can really find their way without a sun-map.”
Kenton began to pack the sun-map, careful not to bend either of the wires holding the sighting hoops. “I doubt the ones who live in Lossand can. Their cousins in the kerla … maybe. Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” Eric said, following Kenton down the side of the dune toward their mounts.
Kenton had to admit, despite his arguments against the mastrells’ flagrant use of power, having the golden sash was proving extremely useful. Ais waited at the base of the dune with their three rezalin, the fastest—and most expensive—sandling mounts on dayside. The creatures had two enormous legs in the back, limbs so large that the knees rose high into the air, far above the rest of the creature’s body.
The front legs were short and powerful, and the creature stood at a sharp decline, its neckless head nearly touching the sand.
As long as maneuverability wasn’t an issue, a man riding a rezal could travel a dozen times faster than one on a tonk. The creatures needed several days to rest to store energy before-hand, but if they were rested they could run non-stop for nearly twelve hours. Kenton had only ridden a rezal one time in his life, and that had been as a child visiting a fair. His mother had paid twenty lak for a ten-minute ride. Now he could commandeer one with barely a whim.
Don’t get too used to it, Kenton, he told himself as he stuffed the sun-map into the rezal’s packs. This wastefulness is exactly one of the things you’re trying to change. Of course, this was an emergency. He couldn’t afford the week’s travel it would take to reach deep sands by tonk.
He climbed into the rezal’s saddle—a strange sand-padded contraption that sat on the creature’s inclined body. First he put his feet in their places beside the creature’s head, then swung his body up onto the saddle. The position was like a reclining stand. Once he was in, he reached over and very carefully strapped himself in—riding a rezal could be dangerous without support.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ais said simply.
“Sure,” Eric called from behind. “Wake me when we get there.”
Kenton snorted. The comment was facetious—it would be nearly impossible to sleep atop a rezal’s bouncing, rushed gait.
Taking a breath, Kenton lightly gave two taps at the side of the rezal’s head with his feet, ordering it to move. The creatures only knew three speeds: stop, walk, and insane gallop.
The creature jumped forward, its mighty hind legs throwing up sand as it moved. Kenton’s head slammed back against his headrest, and he gritted his teeth against the jostling. The creature jumped up to the top of a nearby dune in a single leap, then proceeded to move in the direction Kenton had indicated, hopping from the top of one dune to another. Part of a rezal’s incredible speed came from the fact that it often ignored valleys between dunes. Of course, that speed came at a cost—it was difficult to find a more uncomfortable ride.
As the creature sped across the sand, Kenton carefully tapped it with his feet, angling toward the southeast. Two degrees travel would take a man walking about four hours to cross—a third of a day. The rezal would make it in about a fourth of an hour.
Kenton still wasn’t certain what he would say to Reegent. The Lord General was a harsh, formal man who hid a horrible temper under his disciplined exterior. Unlike most Taishin, Reegent had known what he would become one day. As a child Reegent had been groomed for his eventual position—and, unlike Eric, he had accepted it gladly. He strongly believed that nobility was an inborn trait, that the Sand Lord intentionally sent his chosen to the families of the rich. He was also a strict disciplinarian—a trait that had always put him and Kenton at odds.
For the hundredth time, Kenton wondered if it had been a good idea to bring Eric with him. Not only did Reegent blame Kenton for Eric’s disappearance, the Lord General was known to grow livid at the mere mention of his son’s name. What would he do when Eric suddenly appeared after three years without communication?
Somehow, he suspected that next to Reegent, even Ais would look friendly.
#
“That’s them, all right,” Eric agreed, looking down at the expansive series of tents and pavilions. “Father likes to travel with plenty of attendants.” He paused, then looked over at Kenton. “Have you ever been on a deep sandling hunt before?”
“Me?” Kenton asked, shaking his head. “Never.”
Eric snorted. “You’re in for an interesting time.”
“Barbarity,” a cool voice said behind them.
“What?” Kenton asked, looking toward Ais. The trackt had barely said a single word during the entire trip.
“This is the Sand Lord’s holy place, Ry’Kensha,” Ais explained, sitting unstrapped in his saddle. “Men don’t live in the Deep Sand; it is a place for the Sand Lord’s grandest creations. It should not be a place of hunting.”
Kenton paused for a moment, looking over the white expanse. It didn’t seem any different from the kerla. The dunes looked a little larger—but that could have been an optical illusion. In the very far distance he could see a herd of wild tonks grazing. It looked pastoral, not dangerous. Yet this was the most feared place on all of dayside.
“Come on,” he mumbled, leading his mound down the side of the dune.
The Lord General’s attendants and soldiers took note of them as they approached, calling out in surprise. However, the cries quickly turned to ones of welcome as some of the soldiers recognized him.
“You’re popular,” Eric noted with confusion as several of the soldiers called Kenton by name.
Kenton shrugged. “I had to have someone to spar with once you left,” he said, gesturing toward the sword at his waist.
“A sand master visiting the Hall?” Eric said incredulously.
“Sparrings are open to anyone who wants to come,” Kenton replied, nodding to a man he knew.
“Yes, but … a sand master?” Eric was still disbelieving.
“Kenton!” a voice shouted. Kenton turned with a smile—he recognized that bellow.
“Big Head!” he yelled back, waving to a soldier who was jogging out from underneath a canopy. The man was of medium height, but was extremely broad of chest. As wide as his body was, however, it still seemed disproportionate to his one other overwhelming feature—his enormous head.
“What did you call me!” the man yelled back.
“Nothing, Gremt!” Kenton called back.
The large solder hustled forward, a broad smile on his face. “We’ve missed you at sparrings, Kenton,” he said as he got closer.
“Well, Gremt, I was kind of indisposed,” Kenton replied with a chuckle.
Gremt laughed, slapping Kenton on the shoulder. “I’m glad you made it, lad. You’re the only one in that lot that was worth saving.”
Kenton smiled back. Gremt was one of Reegent’s generals—the only man in recent history to rise all the way to the rank from the lowly station of footman. As such, he was the only general in the Tower who wasn’t also a Kelzi. When Kenton had first decided to try sparring at the Tower, Gremt had been the only one willing to fence with him. It took a man who had been forced to deal with prejudice all his life to see past Kenton’s sand master robes and to the man inside. Once Gremt had accepted him, the rest of the Tower—the regular soldiers at least—had been easy.
“Now, who’ve you brought …” Gremt trailed off, looking closely at Eric. He rubbed at his clean-shaven face for a moment. “Sands, boy, you look just like … .” His eyes opened wide with shock.
“Hello, Gremt,” Eric said ruefully. “How’s Mekal?”
“Aisha!” Gremt swore, jumping. “It is you!”
“Last I checked,” Eric mumbled.
“Does …”
“The Lord General know?” Kenton asked. “I don’t think so. Is he here?”
Gremt nodded toward a pavilion on the far side of the camp’s half-dozen tents. “Over there. But … .”
Kenton and Eric ignored Gremt’s hesitancy. Eric held Kenton’s eyes for a moment, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. This was why he had returned to dayside. Regardless of his desires to help his friend, travelling with Kenton was only a vehicle—Eric had realized that in Kenton’s attempts to save the Diem, he would eventually have to visit the Lord General.
The two nodded to Gremt, then walked toward the Lord General’s pavilion. Ais trailed along behind, a silent observer.
The pavilion was without walls—a shaded area where the Lord General could wait while his men searched out sandlings to fight. A few hundred feet in front of the pavilion a bright red line of flags marked the loose beginning of the deep sands—the place were water vines could no longer be found.
Reegent himself sat on a carapace and cloth chair, watching me
n in the distance as they ran a heard of tonks across a flat plain of sand. Bait for the creatures underneath. Kenton wasn’t interested in that hunt, however—his quarry was much closer.
The Lord General was tall and distinguished, even when he was sitting down. His Lossandin brown hair was speckled with gray, his jaw outlined with a short beard. Instead of Kelzi robes, Reegent wore his Tower uniform—a tight, long-sleeved tunic with a robe-like skirt underneath. His formal cape, died red, marked him as a member of the Hall, and his wide, gold-trimmed belt proclaimed him the Lord General.
Kenton and Eric approached from the side. Reegent took his eyes off the tonk-herders at the sound, then his eyes opened wide with surprise. Kenton held his breath, not knowing what kind of reception to expect.
“Lord Mastrell!” Reegent said, a smile on his face. He rose, arms outstretched. “You surprised me!”
Kenton paused, words frozen on his lips. Annoyance he had expected, anger projected, but acceptance? He immediately became suspicious. He mouth opened to release a barb, something along the lines of ‘I know you came here to try and avoid me.’ However, he paused again.
What was it Khriss said? That I needed to be more diplomatic? Diplomacy had never gotten him anywhere—only flagrant hostility had been useful before the mastrells’ arrogance. But, if the Lord General was prepared to treat him like an ally, perhaps he should try to be more reserved.
“I realize you came here to enjoy yourself,” Kenton said instead of a retort. “I apologize for interrupting your vacation time.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Reegent said with a nod, gesturing toward a chair. “Please, take a seat.”
Kenton complied. Eric, however, remained standing—something he obviously intended to do until his father addressed him. Reegent, however, turned away from Eric, looking at Kenton instead. “The deep sand is quite a trip from Lossand, Lord Mastrell,” he said formally. “I am impressed by your dedication in finding me.”
“Thank you, Lord General.”
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