Empty Horizon

by A. C. Cobble

  “The chieftain wouldn’t make his sons the next leader?” asked Ben.

  O’ecca absentmindedly spun her naginata in front of her while walking. “A chieftain has many sons from many women. His warriors will have many sons as well. The next chieftain will not be decided by which father was strongest. It will be decided by who is the best warrior and who can attract other warriors to support him. Even a weak warrior’s son can rule if he proves himself worthy and convinces his peers to follow him.”

  Ben shifted the heavy pack on his back. He thought it might be helpful to choose a leader based on merit, ability to fight in this case, but the Dirhadji’s system of rule seemed to invite constant upheaval and violence. He said as much to Rhys and O’ecca.

  “Of course,” agreed Rhys. “Why do you think there are no histories about the people in Qooten? Education and writing is worthless in a culture like theirs. When you know you could die with a spear in your gut at any time, you don’t spend your time studying. You spend it fighting, drinking, and fucking. Each generation reinforces the ways of the ones before.”

  “There!” called Corinne from the front of their party.

  She was pointing ahead, and Ben saw a collection of stone buildings rising out of the desolate landscape. At first, he wondered if they were occupied. After a while, he realized there were thin streams of smoke drifting up from some of the structures. The wide, red-dirt road lead directly into the formation. From what he could tell, the settlement was the end of the road. To the south, there was nothing.

  “Welcome to Vard,” muttered O’ecca. “The last bastion of civilization, if you can call it that.”

  As they drew closer, Ben could see the stone buildings housed inns, homes, and shops. In the middle were a number of tented market stalls. People browsed in the loose, flowing robes and britches of Ooswam. Others wore undyed, light, linen robes and had turbans wrapped around their heads. A few wore dark leather.

  “It keeps the heat off,” explained Rhys, nodding to one of the turbaned men. “They can also pull the wrap up over their mouth and eyes when there are sandstorms.”

  “Sandstorms?” wondered Ben.

  “There are places deeper in the desert where the sand extends for leagues in all directions. A powerful enough wind can kick it up and blow it around wildly. When we’re out there, watch the horizon constantly. If you see a storm building, we must immediately take shelter.”

  Ben grunted. “There’s a lot to know about surviving in the desert.”

  “It’s a good thing you have me with you,” said Rhys.

  Ben rolled his eyes.

  “I have never been to Vard,” interjected O’ecca, “but my father and brothers have been many times to trade with the desert folk. I recommend we stay at the Goat Tender’s Daughter. It is where they always stay. From there, we can find a guide.”

  “I thought you were our guide?” questioned Ben.

  O’ecca shook her head. “I know of the desert, but I do not know the desert.”

  “We need to find someone who knows the geography as well as the Dirhadji do,” added Rhys.

  “They aren’t all Dirhadji?” asked Ben.

  Rhys shook his head. “The people here live on the outskirts of the desert. Sometimes, they may venture deeper for trade, but they do not follow the ways of the Dirhadji. The Dirhadji rarely come into any town. They live in the deep desert and stay there. If the Purple are looking to stay hidden, that is where they will be. The Dirhadji are the ones we must find.”

  They stepped into the town and strange smells filled Ben’s nostrils; sharp spices, dust, and the pungent odor of animals.

  The buildings were comprised of roughly stacked stone, many of them built into the rocks and hills around them. There was no wooden construction. Instead, fabric hung over doorways and windows. It blocked the light, but Ben was certain it did nothing to keep out the sounds or the smells.

  Exotic music, oddly accented shouts, and bleats filled the thick, dusty air. As they entered the village proper, a troop of the goats streamed across the road in front of them. Ben and his companions had to stop while two score of the skinny animals were herded past.

  “Goats and maybe a few ostriches are the only livestock they’ll have,” mentioned Rhys. “Nothing else can survive on the scrub brush that grows around here. I hope you like goat milk. Fresh in the morning, cheese at midday, fermented in the evening.”

  The people seemed friendly enough, but they got a lot of stares. Back in Ayd, they’d changed into the loose tunic and trousers that were common in Ooswam, but they couldn’t hide their pale complexions. They were clearly foreigners. Vard was a town built on trade between two distinct cultures, though, so people seemed curious but not concerned.

  The Goat Tender’s Daughter stood near the center of town, just off the market. O’ecca and Rhys led them to the door. After one step inside, they both came backpedaling out.

  “Maybe another inn,” choked O’ecca, bright crimson flooding her cheeks.

  Even Rhys whistled through his teeth and mumbled, “Now that was an inn.”

  Corinne peeked inside then quickly scampered after Rhys.

  “There are girls in there that are…” Her face flushed and she trailed off.

  Ben’s curiosity got the best of him and he stepped toward the door. Amelie caught him and slid her arm through his. She steered him after their friends.

  “If it makes Rhys blush, then you don’t need to go inside,” declared Amelie.

  Ben grinned at her. “I’m just trying to take in the sights and experience the culture.”

  “Sure,” she responded, rolling her eyes.

  Three buildings down from the Goat Tender’s Daughter, they found the Brown Lizard. At least, Ben thought it could be called that. There were no letters, only a rough, painted outline above the door. It was, almost certainly, a lizard. Whether it had originally been red and faded to brown or brown from the beginning, he wasn’t sure. Either way, on the red-brown rock, it gave the painting a chameleon-like feel as if the place was trying to remain unnoticed.

  At the door, O’ecca hesitated before brushing past the linen curtain and shuffling inside. When she didn’t immediately come stumbling back out, they followed her in.

  Ben wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find inside, but it certainly wasn’t this.

  All around the room, low couches and thick carpets were scattered haphazardly. Short tables sat in between the couches. Most of the tables held colorful glass vases with thin tubes sprouting from the tops. Richly scented smoke poured out of several of the devices and robed men were huddled around them. They inhaled the smoke, blew it back out in thick clouds, then reclined and sipped at delicate tea cups.

  A slim man approached them, his long robes rustling around sandaled feet. Long, oily locks fell around his shoulders. His face was clean shaven except a narrow beard sprouting from his chin. He’d styled it into a sharp point and it glistened with the same oil he’d rubbed into his hair. He ignored the women and focused his attention on Rhys, clearly the oldest man in the party.

  The rogue negotiated two rooms for the night and asked what was on the hearth. Ben barely hid his grin when the innkeeper proudly answered, “Roast goat, stewed goat, and a goat cheese with bread.”

  Before showing them the rooms, the innkeeper offered them mint tea and appeared only slightly offended when Rhys asked for an ale. Towaal interrupted, and they were shown the rooms first.

  Rhys, Ben, and Milo returned downstairs quickly after dropping their packs in the room. They picked a spot and reclined on a set of the low couches. Ben eyed the glass device on the table in front of them.

  “It’s for smoke,” explained Rhys. “Like from my pipe, but they flavor it. Herbs, fruits, all kinds of things.”

  “Is it good?” Milo asked curiously.

  Ben was surprised. The former apprentice rarely spoke up.

  “Let’s find out,” responded Rhys with a grin.

  A quick wave to one of th
e serving men and soon they had three mugs of ale, a small bowl full of dried herbs, and a plate of flat bread and some sort of mushy paste.

  “Dip the bread into the paste,” advised Rhys while he crumbed the herbs into a bowl on the glass vase.

  Ben tried what Rhys suggested and was pleasantly surprised. The bread was hot and fresh, and the paste had a rich, earthy flavor. He dipped his bread again and tried the ale. It wasn’t good. He sat it back down and watched as Rhys lit the herbs and picked up one of tubes. The rogue sucked on the tube then sat back, a cloud of blue smoke slowly escaping his lips and nose.

  Milo picked it up next and also inhaled deeply. He let the smoke pour out of him. His lips curled into a smile and he coughed weakly. “That’s not bad.”

  Ben pursed his lips and tried the smoke as well. He inhaled deeply, the smooth flavor reminding him of the scent of the rogue’s pipes but with cinnamon and baked apples. He exhaled slowly, blue smoke billowing up in front of his face. On the way out, he felt his throat tingle, and he involuntarily fell into a fit of coughing.

  Rhys passed him his ale and Ben drank gratefully, trying to ignore the taste and let the liquid soothe the burn in his throat.

  Around them, men smoked and drank, talking quietly. In the corner, an older woman was slowly strumming an almond-shaped stringed instrument. The room was quiet and peaceful. Ben wondered about the violent descriptions his friends kept giving for Qooten.

  He said as much, and Rhys responded, “We’re not in Qooten yet. This is still Ooswam. The deeper we go, the more obvious the changes will be. Besides, even here, if you pay attention, you’ll see we are right.”

  Milo nodded, puffing thick rings of smoke from his puckered lips.

  “Look around,” suggested Rhys. “How many women do you see?”

  Ben took the tube from Milo wordlessly and studied the room. Rhys had a point. There were only a few women, and most of them old or clearly with a group of men. Ben blew the smoke out like Milo had, attempting to form the rings. Instead, he only produced misshapen balls that quickly dissipated.

  “I’m sure you can do it with practice,” consoled Milo, taking another turn and producing more perfectly formed rings.

  “Have you smoked from something like this before?” asked Ben, curious if he could get Milo to open up about his past.

  The former apprentice shook his head and didn’t give any more details.

  Ben grunted and sat back on the couch, nursing his ale.

  He’d only gotten to his second one when the women appeared. Amelie flopped down next to him on the couch and helped herself to the foamy liquid.

  “That’s not very good, is it?” she asked, wiping her hand across her lips.

  He nodded. “It’s terrible. Everyone else seems to be drinking tea.”

  “We should as well,” suggested Towaal. “Drinking heavily is frowned upon in southern Ooswam. It’s unusual to see a local consuming alcohol in a place like this. When they do drink, it’s in places like the Goat Tender’s Daughter. In Qooten, drinking is only done after a raid or during a few auspicious times of the year.”

  Rhys snorted but didn’t comment.

  “Mint tea is popular around here. It should be quite good,” advised O’ecca.

  Towaal leaned forward and brought one of the smoking tubes to her mouth. She drew in a deep breath then relaxed. She puffed out a wide ring of smoke that slowly drifted away from her. Next, she blew a long streamer of smoke which caught up to the ring and passed through the center. She sat back on her couch and winked at Ben.

  “You were watching us,” he muttered. “How did you do that?”

  “I keep telling you. You can do anything in the world if you have the will to make it happen,” responded Towaal.

  Ben’s eyes widened and he glanced around, alarmed someone had seen her. He hissed, “You used magic!”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Whether I did it with my mind or my lungs, both are efforts to manipulate the smoke. What’s the difference?”

  Ben eyed her suspiciously.

  “She grew up not too far from here,” mentioned Rhys. “Probably not her first time smoking from a water pipe. My guess, it’s evidence of a misspent youth.”

  “Really?” wondered Ben. He looked to the mage for confirmation.

  “Where, exactly?” asked O’ecca

  Towaal sighed heavily. She glanced meaningfully at the girl. “It was long ago.”

  The diminutive lady seemed confused about Towaal’s look, but Ben and the rest of the companions understood. The girl had a difficult enough time coming to terms with the idea that Towaal was a mage. She didn’t need to know Towaal was long-lived. Ben suspected when Towaal said long ago, she was talking about centuries.

  “As Rhys said, I wasn’t always the paragon of pure living,” added Towaal. “When I was younger, my friends and I would smuggle water pipes from the men’s quarters and smoke until my father’s guards found us. My father would be apoplectic. It took me years to realize it wasn’t that we were sneaking away and smoking. He was livid at the idea of us being in the men’s quarters.” Towaal chuckled. “If only he’d known what we were up to with the boys from the University who came to tutor us. He would have had their heads on the block before the sun set.”

  “Your father’s guards?” queried O’ecca. “He is a lord, I presume. Maybe I know him.”

  Towaal shook her head. “I don’t think you will.”

  “What is your House name?” insisted O’ecca.

  “House of Towaal.”

  The girl frowned. “I am not familiar with that house.”

  “I didn’t think you would be,” murmured Towaal. “My family fell on hard times. Our lands were forcefully absorbed by one of our neighbors. Aside from me, I don’t believe there is anyone left who claims the name.”

  “This is why you left for Alcott?” queried O’ecca.

  “It is one of the reasons I stayed in Alcott,” answered Towaal.

  Rhys, clearly sensing the young lady would continue to probe, interrupted to discuss what they should order for dinner, which led into how teas should be paired with the different types of goat, which led to whether goat cheese was really superior to cheese from a cow. By the time he was done, O’ecca had forgotten to ask further about the House of Towaal. Towaal, it seemed, was still thinking about it. Ben caught a far-off look in her eye, one he wasn’t used to seeing from the highly focused mage.

  When they retired to the rooms, Ben thought to ask Rhys what else he knew about Towaal’s past, but as he opened his mouth, he saw Milo shrugging out of his clothes and slipping into his bed. Without knowing why, Ben decided he’d wait until he and Rhys were alone.

  * * *

  The next day, Ben, Rhys, and O’ecca stepped into the dry morning air. It was warm but not yet the blistering heat of full day. Tiny clouds of dust puffed up as they walked down the street.

  “Does it ever rain here?” wondered Ben.

  “The locals say there is a rainy season,” answered O’ecca, “but for those of us near the coast, calling it rainy season is being a bit generous.”

  Ben kicked at the dry dirt and followed O’ecca. She was taking them to the goat pens where she said they could find someone who knew the desert. If a goat herder knew the watering holes well enough to keep a pack of goats alive, he could do the same for them.

  Halfway there, a brawny, black-haired man stumbled drunkenly out of a tavern directly in front of them. The man crashed into O’ecca and she went flailing backward to land on her bottom.

  She scowled up at the man and Ben bent to lift her to her feet.

  Before he could, the man took a swig from a battered leather drinking horn and snarled, “Watch where you’re walking, bitch.”

  O’ecca’s foot lashed out and swept the man’s feet from under him. He flopped down on the hard dirt street. A grunt of pain and surprise burst out of his mouth. O’ecca sprang up and kicked the man again, hard in the gut.

  “Speak to me
like that again, peasant, and I will geld you,” she shouted. She raised her naginata menacingly.

  The man curled into a ball on his side and coughed weakly. One hand reached out to grasp his now empty drinking horn. The contents were quickly soaking into the dust.

  From the door of the tavern, several men burst out laughing

  “Thyr,” called one of the men. “How’s Lana going to cut off your balls if this girl has already done it?”

  The man rolled over onto his stomach and looked longingly at his disappearing ale. He slurred, “The only thing either onna them is gonna do to my balls is lick ‘em.”

  The fallen man’s companions wailed with laughter.

  O’ecca glared down at the man, her hands shifting dangerously on her weapon.

  Ben placed a hand on her shoulder. He knew the lady in her wanted to teach this man a painful lesson, but there was nothing to be gained from it. It was critical they avoid trouble with whatever passed for the authorities in this place.

  “You sure about that?” jested one of the man’s companions. “Looks to me like you’re groveling before this little thing. You’re wiggling on your belly like a worm. She made you look like you’re a little boy still on your mommy’s teat.”

  The man on the ground snarled. Shockingly fast, he sprang up and snatched O’ecca’s naginata away from her. Before she could react, he spun the weapon around, the heavy blade streaking toward her body.

  O’ecca stumbled back and the tip of the spear sliced her shoulder, a thin spray of crimson flying from the wound. She cried out and gripped her shoulder, blood immediately welling up around her fingers.

  The naginata continued to turn and the man swung it back at her, this time the sharp blade directed at her head.

  Ben shoved past and raised a hand. The wooden haft smacked painfully against his palm. He stumbled back, but he stopped the weapon from hitting O’ecca.

  The man blinked uncertainly at Ben, the naginata hanging motionless in his hands.