Lady of the Sands

by Fuad Baloch

Ruma forced her clenched fingers to relax on the saddle’s pommel. She had ridden starships, piloted frigates, been a part of fleets far too majestic for these primitive people to wrap their minds about. Yet at the end of the day, something as humble as a mere camel was proving harder to ride. There was irony there somewhere, but she was too damned tired to give it much mind.

  “Are you doing alright, Mzi?” asked Sivan, glancing back at her. His eyes twinkled in the fading light. To his right, Ruma could spy both Tarani and Cian high in the sky, their soft moonlight complementing the young Kapuri’s rugged features.

  “Fine,” she lied.

  “Um…” he said before trailing away. Unlike his sister, he didn’t speak half as much, but thankfully, he also didn’t have her manner of calling her out openly.

  To his side, Yenita blabbered something, the words far too quick for Ruma to latch on to. Sivan laughed.

  Ruma groaned, shifted around the saddle. Unlike horses, the blasted camel didn’t seem to get tired easily, either. A tireless machine made for the desolate desert, it continued to lumber onwards, unencumbered by her weight, grunting occasionally as it jostled her constantly from one side to the other.

  The ride reminded her of the first time she had been at sea with her father. The little boat had rocked continuously, a mere nothing in the great waters. She remembered crying out. Yaman had laughed, thumped her back, taking delight in her discomfort.

  How had that day ended? Ruma couldn’t really recall overcoming the discomfort of the day or why they’d been out in the first place. All that had stuck was the memory of a little girl spending time with a father she rarely got to see.

  A man who had ditched his family, crippling them with his debts.

  One of the mules behind her brayed. The other two joined it. Ruma rolled her eyes. Neither Yenita nor Sivan, her employers, seemed affected by the din. Young as they might have been, they’d obviously spent enough time traversing the wide expanses between the Andussian cities to let minor things like the constant braying and nonstop travelling affect them much.

  Well, if they could do it, then so could she.

  A painful interlude she would laugh at once she got back to her life.

  The ungainly beast underneath her grunted once more, turning its long neck sideways. Ruma heaved a sigh, shivered a little as a cool desert breeze blew over. As she leaned forwards to adjust the shawl, her eyes fell on the distant Tarani.

  The sight arrested her attention. In all truth, it was a pretty ordinary satellite of a minor planet, as far heavenly bodies went—there were more luminous moons within the same solar system—yet in the moment, it seemed majestic. And far. Way too far.

  Was it really true she had once gallivanted between entire systems? Jumping the distance of light years in the matter of instants, courtesy of the Shards?

  Shards that the Pithrean had left behind.

  Constructs of a being that had made home in her mind.

  “Are you there?” Ruma whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  Silence met her.

  “Wake up, you bastard!”

  Again, the First remained silent. Either the blasted creature had left her, something she doubted, or he too had need of sleep and was indisposed of for the moment, another possibility she discarded. Most likely, he was watching her muddle through for the moment, taking some malevolent delight in the process. She nodded, then grimaced.

  Well, if he was keeping shut, it suited her just fine. More time when she didn’t have to grapple with someone she doubted she’d ever be able to truly understand. For what it was worth, she wasn’t doing anything even remotely close to what the Pithrean had demanded. Simply accompanying two young traders across the desert towards an oasis town where they stood to make a tidy profit. A safe option.

  Except the nagging thought rose again—had she made a mistake interfering in the lives of these siblings? Wouldn’t it have been truly safe to leave them be? She shoved the thought away, deciding it would amount to little over the course of time. As it subsided, terror reared its head once more.

  Why in the worlds was she here? How would she get back?

  Growing restless, Ruma adjusted her weight. The camel’s leisurely pace was far too slow for her. The urge to go recklessly fast, somehow speed through this primitive era until she was back in her world, gripped her tight. She scratched her thigh, chewed her lower lip, looked behind her. Just the three of them astride their camels and three donkeys hauling their merchandise in the wide Ghal desert.

  In another world, the three hundred or so miles between Fanima and Irtiza would have been a matter of seconds—a number she could have calculated easily but didn’t for fear it would cause her more anxiety. Here, she was meant to travel for more than ten days. Atop this blasted beast.

  Ten days!

  “Is that your doing, Alf?” she said, casting her eyes back at the heavens staring back at her. Was it true that this very second, in the distant systems these humans hadn’t seen yet, the Hengoli were still sparring with the Zrivisi?

  And as actually impactful histories were being forged across systems, setting the direction of entire sectors, she sat bloated over a foul camel that threatened to throw her off its back every stride it took.

  What would Gulatu have said to her if he could’ve seen her?

  She smiled at the thought of the obstinate, silly man. For one so gripped with indecision and seeming crises of faith, he was in effect a rather straightforward man of faith. Everything that happened had a simple explanation. God.

  He’d have shrugged, a faint smile spreading on his thin lips, then declared Alf would take care of it all.

  She felt the smile fade away. Beyond the simple facade that might fool others, Gulatu was a much more complex man. One torn between many crossroads—a foot each in two worlds, a heart divided and never given in full.

  Ruma gritted her teeth. She’d made the right call in leaving him behind—after all, no man was worth the sacrifice of one’s self-esteem—but now, a deep melancholy spread in her gut at the thought of possibly never seeing him again.

  Whatever their life could have been had disappeared the moment she and her father had taken a frigate and left the prophet’s fleet behind. But now, the decision hung over her head like a razor-sharp sword stabbing a thousand different points.

  What if she’d never left?

  How could their lives have turned out after the war was concluded?

  Would she ever get back to her world?

  “How long will we keep riding?” Ruma bellowed.

  The Kapuri siblings fell silent. Yenita looked back. Like her brother, she too wore a shawl around her head to protect against the sand. Smiling, she made a cooing noise, pulled at the reigns, slowing down her camel until Ruma was beside her.

  “We can take a break if you’re tired,” she said. “Would you like that?”

  Ruma narrowed her eyes. Now that she had spent some time with them, Ruma could tell the Kapuri’s accent wasn’t the same as those she’d heard in Salodia. A dialect she still had trouble understanding, yet one in which she could hear inflections of the far northern reach of the Andussian peninsula in her time.

  “All good,” Ruma replied, not wanting to admit weakness. “Do you travel to Salodia much?”

  “Not really,” Yenita replied, her voice carrying easily despite the braying mules. “We, my brother and I, travelled here two years ago along with our father.” Her voice faltered. “He… was a good man, stayed on the road long, always made time for us.”

  “Ah.”

  Yenita coughed, dipped her chin. “You’ve got family?”

  Ruma hesitated. “Yeah.”

  Silence fell upon them. If Yenita was expecting her to continue, she got the hint soon enough. “Sivan and I were talking about the prophecy. Two centuries since the prophet Pasalman left behind his last will. Most had thought the idea of anything like the prophecy to be... hearsay. Until now that is. And now it’s going to be unveiled at Fanima. In o
ur lifetimes! With us present alongside our goods!” She clicked her tongue. “What do you think the prophecy will say, anyway?”

  Ruma shook her head. “Don’t know much about prophets or prophecies.”

  “A fair point,” Yenita conceded. After another long silence, she cleared her throat, her voice carrying over the susurrating wind. “Your red hair… I’ve never seen one like you before. Are you truly from the Vanico Empire?”

  Ruma took in a long breath. She had to be careful to what she admitted. Truth was, she had very little knowledge of her racial heritage. Race just wasn’t important in a species that had to interact with bona fide aliens. It mattered here, though. Then again, there was no telling whether her city of birth even existed in this reality. After all, the people she’d seen so far formed a reasonably homogeneous set—none quite with her red hair or pale skin. “Even higher up north.”

  “The Furthest Reaches?”

  Ruma grunted.

  “Never known anyone from there, either!” declared Yenita, a childlike glee spreading on her face.

  Despite herself, Ruma smiled. Here was yet another reminder of how different this world was from hers. Entire nations could rise and fall here without meeting the other races of this planet. Simpler times!

  “Just wanted to tell you,” continued Yenita, “despite what your folks… the Vanico Empire is doing, we do not hold you responsible.”

  “Erm…” she faltered.

  “We really don’t.”

  Ruma nodded, thankful for not being challenged. She had to get away, find a way back to her world, and it wouldn’t do to attract unnecessary attention by appearing to know nothing about this Doonya and its sociocultural currents.

  Time. That was what she needed to formulate a plan against the Pithrean. Assuming it was possible.

  “I don’t like wars,” said Yenita, shivering and warping the shawl tight around her and adjusting herself on the saddle. “Bad for business, Father always used to say.”

  “Wise words.” Then, cautiously, feeling compelled by the lull, Ruma asked, “What did happen to him?”

  “Raiders of Vanico Empire killed him last year.”

  “Oh.”

  They rode on in silence for minutes. Sivan called for Yenita once, but she shook her head, motioning towards Ruma with a discreet nod. Ruma saw it, letting the girl travel with her if that was the least she could do.

  Wars were nasty business. She did recall this much—the civil wars that had plagued the early Alfi empires were long-drawn, especially charged affairs in which more than a million believers had died. A catastrophic number considering no more than fifty or so million souls had lived in this time frame.

  Ruma had no recollection of who had won what parts of the civil war. Or what had happened when the Vanico Empire decided to get involved in the unrest as well.

  All she knew, and something she wasn’t going to share with these young traders, was that the worst had a habit of being just around the corner.

  Seven

  Challenges

  Boisterous laughter rolled through the tavern hall once more. Rolling her eyes, Ruma glanced right at the old merchant in crumpled grey robes, who swayed beside a table laden with a flagon of bubbling hot tea. Two young men, likely apprentices, exchanged worried looks, each refusing to meet the other’s eyes.

  “—and that was how we ended up giving the bandits the slip!” declared the old merchant with a flourish that almost set him reeling over to a nearby torch.

  “Zirconium trinkets for gold?” enquired an onlooker, a middle-aged man, his long hair spread out in curls over broad shoulders. He shook his head. “Don’t know if I buy it.”

  “Whomever Alf keeps,” said the older man, “no man touches.”

  “Spoken truly,” replied one of the apprentices, shooting an angry look at the doubter.

  Ruma groaned, shuffled her weight on the uncomfortably high-backed chair. Two days of riding had left her chafing at the thighs. Her fingertips were numb from the constant rattle of the shifting saddle, and she was well and truly over any sort of nostalgia for the olden times the fashionable elite in Egania would have clamoured to experience.

  “Try the beef curry,” offered Yenita, laying a gentle hand over her shoulder. “Not going to get anything remotely better till we reach Fanima.”

  Ruma groaned once more, rubbed her belly, feeling the cold metal of the dagger Sivan had given her press against her thigh. It was stupid of her to dunk her head in that water trough. Even stupider to then go on and eat their primitive food without considering its impact on her body’s immune system. Only Alf would know how many strains of viruses and bacteria still lived in this era.

  “Go on,” repeated Yenita. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  It wouldn’t, Ruma knew. Her stomach growled again and she squeezed her eyes shut. Short of stepping over to the cook pots herself, personally testing the ingredients for impurities, did she really have a better alternative? Besides, it wasn’t like she knew how to cook.

  “By the Lady…” Ruma croaked.

  “You’ll be fine,” said Yenita, shooting her another smile. She raised a hand, shouted at the passing tavern-keep. “Two more soups!”

  The tavern-keep, a towering figure with a stooped back, nodded, stomped off.

  “Seems to have a right temper this time around,” observed Sivan. He had set aside his hat and sat beside the window looking out at the dark night outside.

  “If the Vanico Empire does march for Salodia, he’d be the first target in their way,” said Yenita. “Not something that would raise his mood too much.”

  “True.” Sivan scratched at his chin, his eyes moving over to meet Ruma’s. He offered a smile, his cheeks growing red before he looked away.

  Ruma licked her lips, torn between the desire to rush out to the filthy latrine and shoving the soup down her gullet. “That’s what happens when you can’t just up and take your wares elsewhere.”

  Yenita chuckled.

  Ruma clicked her teeth, looked away. Yaman used to laugh at any business with a physical presence. “Trade is virtual, little girl,” he’d say. “Stocks, the markets, the exchange rates, the various trade treaties and exemptions. Everything. Anyone that sets up a physical presence is simply calling for trouble.” Of course, his solution—becoming a smuggler—was hardly any better, but at least it had worked out well enough for him.

  And for her, after he’d upped and left.

  Ruma shuffled. For all the reasons she had hated her father, why in Alf’s name had she ended up following his footsteps? Easy enough to rationalise picking up his line of work so she didn’t have to waste time learning a new trade, but couldn’t she have picked anything else more… honourable?

  Curse it all! Ruma gritted her teeth, turned the other way. A pale-skinned merchant met her eyes, grinned, then winked at her. Winked! Ruma narrowed her eyes. If there was any chivalry or sense of decorum in this world, it obviously hadn’t touched this man. Unabashed, he continued to eye her, the lecherous eyes travelling up and down her body, lingering far too long at the hint of cleavage she knew was visible under the tunic she had borrowed from Yenita.

  Ruma ground her fingers into fists. Careful!

  Forcing herself with every iota of strength she could muster, she forced herself to look out the window.

  “Can I ask you something?” asked Yenita.

  “What?” she replied without turning back.

  “This… Lady you just mentioned. Who is she? I heard you call out to her in front of the merchant as well.”

  “Oh, how would I know!” Ruma replied bitterly. “This is your world and…” She shook her head. “Never mind!”

  Sivan said something and Yenita replied in hushed tones.

  The tavern-keep was shouting at someone. The old merchant most probably, judging by the defensive replies from the apprentices.

  Ruma sighed, very aware of the grumbles in her stomach. All this sitting wasn’t helping, either. Why di
d this world have to move at such a glacial pace? Not just travel, but the very idea of being bound spatially felt like pure torture. All this sheer boredom was bleeding into her consciousness now. Far from being up and about, as she moved at a snail’s speed, her mind tried to counter that by dredging up ancient, painful memories.

  Yenita said something and Ruma nodded absentmindedly. At least, her mind was also putting together the outlines of a plan. Raw minerals. Basic chemistry ingredients. Suitable instruments. That was what she needed to try and forge a basic radio at the very least. If this was the past and there was no hope at attracting some Arkos ship, at least she might be able to contact anyone else stranded here, too—an idea her logical mind couldn’t discount, not so long as she had reason to doubt the Pithrean’s words.

  Merchants, traders, and peddlers of all sorts were congregating at Fanima. High chances she’d be able to barter, pilfer something there, get started on an escape plan.

  In hindsight, she could have stayed at Salodia as well. No shortage of merchants there, either.

  Too late for that now!

  No, her best chance was to build a radio, see if she could find someone willing to lend her a hand once she reached out. If not, well, she would put something together. She had to.

  “Yenita,” Ruma said, interrupting the young girl’s excited flow. “Would there be traders at Fanima selling metals like aluminium, iron, and copper beside the usual fare?”

  “Maybe,” Yenita replied, exchanging a glance with Sivan. “Time like this, all these people congregating, we can’t be the only merchants with the sense to travel there.”

  “Good,” said Ruma, nodding her head. Once she had the base elements, she’d of course need hammers to beat iron and copper into wires, some parchment to draw plans for a water wheel, a stream with a strong enough current for her to start producing electricity.

  Her stomach growled again. Ruma closed her eyes, cursed herself for not having taken more care of what she was eating. For all she knew, these backward people hadn’t even discovered the basic rules of sanitation yet. Both Yenita and Sivan were fastidious enough with always boiling their water and milk, but could the same be said about everyone else? For all she knew, a hundred different strains of plague were already eyeing Ruma with relish.