Sandstorm (single books)

by Christopher Rowe

  If Corvus could have smirked, he would have. “Never,” he said.

  “You will never answer?” asked Shahrokh.

  “No, you floating fool. I never did what you asked.”

  When he awoke again, Corvus was in a squalid cell lined with straw, dimly illuminated by gray light falling from far above. The door was open, and a short figure squatted on its heels just beyond the door’s frame. Ah, thought Corvus, raising himself up on his elbows. Now this is what I expected.

  The shadowy figure stood, revealed to be a halfling man with an ugly scar running down one side of his face. He threw a bundle at Corvus.

  “Bird-head man,” he said. “Ain’t never seen one of them. The slave tattoo looks funny through your feathers. Here’re your tunic and your pail. Tunic’s to wear as clothes, use as bandages, whatever you want, really. Pail’s for slop. The kind that goes in and the kind that goes out, both. Welcome to Calimport Between.”

  Corvus rose and cracked his knuckles. He felt the indelible tattoo of windblown sand marking him as a slave as a dull throbbing pain on his forehead, but whatever spell had put it there had also healed the worst of his injuries. He made a swift check of his surroundings, then wasted no further time in pulling the filthy shift over his head and gathering up his pail.

  “Don’t you mean Calimport Below?” he asked the man.

  The halfling was already walking away. “Sure, bird-head man,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Alas, the only person who could

  grant her redemption was herself,

  and herself she never thought to ask.

  -“When Janna Grew Old”, The Founding Stories of Calimshan

  The halfling man’s rolling gait was deceptively fast, but Corvus had little trouble keeping up. Despite the trauma of the djinn’s stripping him of his various ritualistic contingencies, he felt energized. Here was a city of nothing but shadow, and perhaps he had grown too dependent on magic, as Mattias often said.

  But would never say again.

  He pushed the thought aside. There were some he could save yet.

  The halfling led him through corridors that were also streets, between cells that were also roofless cabins built of rubble. He knew it was still some time before sunset, but the sky above looked something like a starry night, though the constellations were none he had ever seen.

  He realized the light shining through the flagstones made the manor floors looks like stars from below.

  “You still got one more thing needs doing, bird-head man,” the halfling called. “If you’re through lazing away back there.”

  Corvus quickened his pace, only to find they had arrived at their destination. This was a doorless building where torches hung from wall sconces. Its smell reminded Corvus of a village potter’s shop.

  When he saw what filled the rooms of the house, Corvus’s mood deflated. Every bit of available space was taken up with masks.

  Teetering stacks of masks stood at either side of the entryway. The walls were hung with masks nested five or six deep. The terra-cotta pieces, done in relief, represented folk of many races. Corvus saw the faces of humans and halflings by the dozen, but he also saw a large number of orcs, a few dwarves, and scattered here and there, lone representatives of more exotic races. One corner was given over to larger masks, mostly minotaurs. As varied as their features were, the masks all shared one thing in common. There were no openings. Their eyes were shut and their mouths were closed.

  Corvus saw that the halfling man was staring at him. “Yeah, I make the death masks for the el Arhapan stable. Usually it’s best to go ahead and get it taken care of right off, in case you don’t make it through your first night. And usually it makes people feel better if I tell them that all the ones you see here is for people that’s still alive.”

  “Ah,” said Corvus. “And is that true?”

  The halfling pulled a screen of rusty wire and a handful of wooden dowel rods from beneath a table. “No. But it makes people feel better, so that’s what I tell them. Not many think to ask that, bird-head man. You’re pretty smart.”

  “Thank you,” said Corvus.

  “Smart don’t last too long in the pits,” said the halfling. “You breathe through them holes close to the top of your beak there? How long can you hold your breath?”

  Corvus realized why the man was asking and held up his hands. “I am going to pass on your services for now, Master Maskmaker. I’m sure you’ll think me a fool, and I’m sure I’m far from the first who’s said this, but I won’t be here long.”

  The halfling looked disappointed but set his equipment back beneath the table. “Too bad,” he said. “You was going to be an interesting challenge. Now it sounds like you’re just going to be an uninteresting challenge.”

  Corvus had an idea. He strolled over to the corner where the bull-faced masks were stacked. Other large masks, not minotaurs, were leaned face in against the wall. He lifted the newest of these-its recent firing evident by the lack of dust on its upper edge-and turned it around so he could examine the face it depicted-a goliath. “The masks are cast from life,” he said. “And then what? They’re buried instead of bodies when the slave dies?”

  The halfling said, “Yeah. Old Marod has beasts for his Games that need a lot of meat. Frugal man, our owner.”

  “I am surprised he pays for this practice, then,” said Corvus. “And now I expect you to tell me that he doesn’t. Or that he don’t, rather.”

  The halfling walked over and examined the mask in Corvus’s hands. He appraised the kenku with renewed interest. “Ancient hin tradition, death masks. Maintained for all the slaves of Calimport with dispensations from the Church of Ilmater. I’m going to backtrack to interesting challenge. That’s the Hammer That Falls there in your hands.”

  Corvus said, “Hammer That Strikes would be a better stage name for a gladiator.”

  The halfling walked over to a cooling rack and removed a much smaller mask, this one of a scowling halfling woman. “Hammer That Strikes is too martial sounding. Your boy there’s got kind of the opposite approach. Six fights and he ain’t won a one, but somehow he’s still alive.” He pulled another halfling mask from a peg. It was nearly identical to the first, except that instead of a scowl, the face it captured showed a shy smile.

  “You’re Corvus Nightfeather,” said the man. “This would have gone a lot quicker if the Hammer had mentioned you’re a bird-head man.”

  “Of course Corvus lied to you,” Ariella told Cephas. “He lied to all of us. We already knew that. That doesn’t mean your father is telling the truth.”

  Cephas was sure he would have been too distracted for conversation by Ariella’s diaphanous gown had the circumstances been different.

  “He admitted he owns slaves and has killed relatives of the WeavePasha,” he said.

  “Cephas,” she said, “your father rules the oldest slaveholding city in the world, a city that has been at odds with Almraiven for almost a century. He was never going to convince you he is a hero out of one of your stories.”

  “You should listen to the swordmage, Son,” said Marod el Arhapan, striding into the dining room ahead of a train of servants bearing platters of food. “Her reasoning is sound. I have no illusions that the nature of our society could be concealed from you. As I believe that it is a noble and successful society, and our family lives at its apex, neither have I any wish to conceal it. The philosophers of other states who decry the institution of slavery have merely renamed it in their own terms.”

  “A long-discredited argument, Pasha,” said Ariella.

  El Arhapan waved them to cushions set along a low table. As he sat, he answered her.

  “And dismissal of an argument as discredited circumvents the need for the dismisser to offer an argument of her own. Neither of us are debaters of much merit, Ariella. I am a master of games and you are a swordmage, and we will not settle the question of slavery over pepper-crusted goat and citrus jams
.”

  He clapped twice, and servants rushed in bearing platters the size of shields laden with dozens of tiny ceramic bowls, each overflowing with a different, unrecognizable foodstuff.

  Cephas eyed the food with suspicion. The master of games laughed. “I don’t know what most of them are, either, Son,” he said. “They’re always very good, though. Perhaps our guest can be our guide through this meal. She grew up in a legendary kitchen, after all.”

  Ariella regarded the man coolly. “Your father thinks to intimidate me by revealing he knows details of my life,” she said to Cephas. To the pasha, she said, “To humor you, yes, I know these foods. They are all very expensive, and most of them are quite rare. Such food as this is reserved in my mother’s establishment for patrons possessed of much gold, but little taste.”

  The pasha popped a candied fruit into his mouth and chewed it. He grinned broadly at Ariella, strings of gummy orange caught in his teeth. “Gods, I hope you marry my son. It will give me great pleasure to have you as a daughter-in-law instead of as a state visitor. That way I won’t have to write a letter of apology to your hapless queen when I beat the defiance out of you.”

  Ariella laid a warning hand on Cephas’s arm, cautioning him against rising. She did not try to prevent him from speaking, though.

  “You feint and dodge like a fencer, Marod el Arhapan!” Cephas snarled. “When will you strike? What game do you think you are mastering with us?”

  Before the pasha could reply, there was a commotion at the entryway. The least impressive windsouled man Cephas had yet seen was trying to get past guards who barred his way. He was remarkably thin, and the color of his skin was closer to dull gray than silver. He affected no finery in his clothing, either, wearing a simple tunic and trousers beneath a much-stained leather apron, sporting sagging pockets full of potion bottles and hand tools. “I must get in! Look, he’s right there! Marod! Marod, I’ve broken her!”

  The pasha instantly forgot his meal and his guests. He leaped to his feet. “Excellent! Excellent news, old friend! Let him go, you fools!” The pasha rushed across the room and grasped the other man’s forearm. “I never doubted you!”

  The other man laughed. “You never believed I would succeed for a moment. Their wills are legend. I wonder if you’ll be so happy when you learn how much of your gold I spent with the pasha of apothecaries.”

  The pasha of games shrugged. “No matter. Your timing is exquisite. I have the perfect opponent lined up.” He whirled to the nearest slave. “Find Shahrokh. Tell him to send criers to the pits and messengers to the great houses. We will have a memorable game tonight!”

  With that, he and the other man rushed from the room, leaving Cephas and Ariella to stare after them.

  Cephas had learned much from the many people he’d met since he left Jazeerijah.

  It doesn’t matter whether you’re a liar or not, el Arhapan, he thought. It doesn’t even matter if you’re the man who sired me. What matters is that you’re the master of games.

  Cephas shoved the table away and stood. “We have to find Shan.”

  Corvus followed the halfling man down a circular staircase beneath a concealed trapdoor. At the bottom of the steps, they found themselves in a broad passageway floored and walled with drystone brickwork of a type unlike any Corvus had seen in Calimport Between.

  He said, “This is Calimport Below.”

  “Yeah,” said the maskmaker. “Good call, bird-head man. This is the Muzhahajaarnadah, or part of it, anyway. The genasi co-opted its most famous nickname when they built their city in the sky. Most of us call it the Muzad. We’re going this way.”

  After many twists and turns, they came to an iron-bound door guarded by a pair of human men, only one of whom, Corvus noticed, bore a tattoo. They obviously recognized the halfling but still halted him with the tips of their spears. “You have to pay for entry, halfling,” the tattooed man said. “Same as always.”

  The halfling shrugged and fished a copper coin from a pouch at his belt. “I have a coin,” he said to the guard. From his tone, Corvus decided the statement was something like a password.

  “A coin has value,” said the tattooed guard, and palmed the copper.

  The two humans turned their attention to Corvus, who reflexively reached for his breast feathers, then ruefully made a quick inventory of the sum total of his worldly goods. The sisters’ masks were in his pail, and Tobin’s larger mask was tucked beneath his arm.

  “It ain’t the kind of exchange where you lose something, bird-head man,” said the halfling. “The price of admission is returned, as long as it’s something you truly value.”

  All three of the Calimien waited, having offered all the guidance they intended. Corvus considered the maskmaker’s words. He took the larger mask from beneath his arm and held it out awkwardly in one hand, balancing it against the weight of the pail he held out with the other.

  “I have friends,” he said.

  The man who accepted the halfling’s coin nodded. “Friends have value.” He set down his spear. He took the larger mask, holding it very carefully. “Especially friends like the Hammer That Falls.”

  The other man opened the door as his partner returned the mask and the copper coin. The chamber beyond was lit with many lanterns, and carpeted with many rugs. A number of people sat inside, drinking tea.

  “Corvus!” one of them called, and jumped to his feet. Tobin wore the same kind of shift as Corvus did and had a cushion tied to the top of his head with a length of twine. The cushion’s purpose became obvious when the goliath, on standing, knocked his head against the low stone ceiling. If he felt it, he made no sign. He rushed across the room and gathered Corvus in his huge arms. “I never doubted you would come!”

  Corvus held his breath against Tobin’s hug for a moment, then said, “I have not always deserved your faith in me, Tobin Tok Tor, but I swear I will earn it now. I swear this on stone.”

  A number of mutters and hisses from the others in the room caused Corvus to look to his halfling guide.

  The small man nodded at Tobin. “That there’s the Hammer That Falls. We don’t know that name you used. We don’t want to know it.”

  Corvus retraced his memory. “You never told me your name,” he said.

  “And you never told me yours. I guessed it, bird-head man, and haven’t used it since. I got no plans to offer up mine or invite you to guess. We don’t use names. That man guarding the door, the one who didn’t talk? Been married to my sister for fifteen years and I got no idea what his name is.”

  Corvus considered that. “Does she know his name?”

  “How should I know?” the halfling answered. “Last I heard, they live down by the docks where I can’t go. I’d have to send a letter to ask, and I wouldn’t know who to address it to, now would I?”

  Other than the two companions and the halfling man, there were a half-dozen people in the room, evenly divided by gender and representing a gamut of races and roles across Emirate life.

  Corvus identified a man who bore no tattoo, but who did wear the symbol of the Crying God as a priest of Ilmater, a member of the only clergy still active in the Skyfire Emirates. A dwarf woman next to Tobin’s place in the circle was obviously a gladiator, and the man next to her wore silks like those of the courtiers in the el Arhapan palace. This man was a firesouled genasi, but Corvus had no doubt he expressed windsoul when he was in Calimport Above. The other three were all slaves, a pair of human women and another halfling man; this one with a demeanor so forgettable that Corvus was sure it had taken years to perfect.

  Finally, he said, “You’re Janessar. A resistance cell.”

  The maskmaker shrugged and took a cup of tea. “That ain’t a particular person’s name,” he said. “That’s a name lots of folks have heard.”

  Fair enough, thought Corvus. He leaned over and removed the masks from his pail. “Whoever you are,” he said, “if you are foes of the genasi of Calimport Above and dedicated to the freeing of slaves
, you should know that my intention is to leave this city, and soon. When I go, I will take the Hammer here with me, and a windsouled couple now in the el Arhapan palace. And I will take the women whose masks these are.”

  He laid them side by side, scowl and smile.

  None of them, not even Tobin, responded.

  Eventually, the maskmaker inhaled deeply, then sighed long and loud. “You were right earlier. When you said I’d think you a fool and that I’d heard all kinds of crazy escape talk before. Half right, anyway. I never met a fool quite so big, or heard talk quite so crazy.”

  It was Tobin who answered. “We will do it without you, then,” he said.

  The halfling looked at his companions. Again, he shrugged.

  The dwarf woman next to Tobin leaned in and tapped her split fingernail on Shan’s mask. “This one is with the dressers-has been all afternoon. They’re measuring her for leathers and laying out blades for her to choose from. She doesn’t talk, like the first one, but she hasn’t killed any of the overseers. The stablemasters think they’ve been given a second shot at glory-this one is more like a gladiator than her sister. There are a lot of windsouled around her. Difficult to spring, but perhaps not impossible.”

  The firesouled man said, “I can get a message to the heir and the Akanulan woman, but little more. The master of games has allowed them their weapons, though, and they seem capable. Perhaps if there was a coordinated effort.”

  Corvus clicked his tongue. “But this is excellent news!” he said. He pointed to the other mask. “What about Cynda?”

  Tobin sniffed. “That is why I was here talking to them, Cor-bird-head man. I have come every day for five days. They will not help me find her, because they believe she is dead.”

  The maskmaker looked at Tobin, the expression of sympathy on his face the first sign of anything but artful distance Corvus had noted there. “The ones that get taken up to the Spiritbreaker always come back in a few turns of the glass, Hammer, a day at most. When did she kill that last overseer? Six days ago? Seven?”

  Unaccountably, Tobin grinned at Corvus. “See, this is the sticking point, and they will not budge on it. You will be very impressed with me, Ringmaster. I have spotted a flaw in their logic.”