The Pillars of Sand

by Mark T. Barnes

  “We can leave quietly, Mari.” Kyril spoke softly. “There’s no need to poke a stick in the wasp’s nest.”

  “Is Morne here?”

  “No.” Kyril looked at her suspiciously.

  “I need to speak with him.”

  “You’re being followed, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “I noticed. Can you bring Morne here?”

  “Not until tonight, no. And I’ll not risk him for you unless I have to.”

  “Then I’ll need to go to him. Now.”

  “That poses much the same problem,” Kyril said dryly.

  “I’ve a way of coming and going without being seen, though it’s not without its risks.”

  Kyril muttered under his breath, but gestured for Mari to go. “I’ll meet you at the old sun dial in the smaller of the town squares in an hour. Will that be enough time?”

  Mari nodded as she walked away. On her way she came face to face with her complement of guards.

  “Who were you talking to?” one of them snarled.

  Mari affected boredom. “I’m going to my room.” She rolled her eyes. “The quality of what you call entertainment has quite underwhelmed me, and I need to rest from all the nail-biting excitement.”

  The Savadai put a hand out. “Who was—”

  “Some bloody nahdi wanting an introduction to the old shark.” She barked a laugh. “Calm yourselves, boys. I sent him on his way. Now I’ll be on mine, if you please.”

  The guards gave Mari sour looks as she walked by them, chuckling. But they asked no more questions, and fell into step after her as she went back to her room. When the door closed behind her, and the locks sounded, Mari rapidly changed her clothes and steeled her hearts for another nervous traversal of the ledge.

  Kyril was waiting where he said he would be, amid a crowd of merchants and customers who milled between the storefronts on the square. He was rubbing gloved hands over a brazier when she approached.

  “It seems, dear, that we are both children of the summer.” The plume of his breath vanished in the gray. Buildings and people and wagons were little more than indistinct shapes. Street braziers painted the faces of those around them a ghastly orange. Sound was muted: the creak of ship timbers, the groan of wagon wheels, and the voices of people unlucky enough to be outside. He gestured for her to follow.

  “Where are you from, Kyril?” Mari asked as he led her through the shadowy planes and angles of the town. “Originally, I mean.”

  “I was born in Darmatia,” the warrior said wistfully. “It’s beautiful country. Rolling fields of emerald grass, and a sky so big and broad you’d think you could just fall into it and never stop. And horses! Have you seen our horses, Pah-Mariam?”

  “Just Mari,” she said. “And no, I’ve never left Shrīan.”

  “You should come to Darmatia if for no other reason than to see the zherba. They are a natural wonder, Mari. Strong and intelligent, they choose their riders, not the other way around. Legend has it they are the very essence of the world, Īa’s longing to run free and unfettered, made manifest.”

  They turned into the shadows that buttressed a narrow lane. Light shone between the slats of shutters, and lanterns hung like fireflies over doors. Leatherworkers, glass blowers, the pounding clang of a smithy, carpenters, and merchant stores: no tea or coffee houses, no galleries, or libraries. Kyril paused and held open an ill-fitting door, and unpegged the leather curtain behind it. They entered quickly, the sudden warmth a pleasure. Mari waited while Kyril pegged the curtain back in place.

  The tavern was a claustrophobic place with smoke-darkened beams above a cobbled floor, low benches and tables scattered under dirty yellow lamplight. Indistinct shapes huddled over their meals and drinks. The air was thick with the smells of fish and seasoning, and decades of wine and beer that had been soaked up by the timber. It was a quiet place, filled with an equally quiet menace.

  “And where did you meet Morne?” she asked softly.

  Kyril’s eyes crinkled in delight, his smile so infectious that Mari responded in kind. He truly adores him, Mari thought. “Morne Hawkwood. We met in service in the Immortal Companions, fighting in the Conflicted Cities on the Tanis-Manté border. It was about ten years ago, I suppose. He was so beautiful before the world took its toll on him, chipping away the pieces to reveal an even more beautiful man beneath. Morne, his sisters and brothers, plus no small number of the Immortal Companions, are descended from the refugees of Ivoré. We—”

  “Ivoré? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Few have,” Morne said as he loomed large out of the darkness between pools of lantern light. He kissed his husband, then leaned down to kiss Mari on the cheek. “Because it no longer exists, and few other than us remember the name. We are a people without a country, and our numbers dwindle with each generation. But we happy seekers look for better days to come.”

  Morne took Kyril’s hand and led the way to the back of the tavern. Mari passed a few faces she recognized from the deck of The Seeker, nahdi tanned by the Tanisian sun, armed and armored in precious metals, stones glinting. She was reminded of the Exiles and the fortunes they had brought back with them from the Conflicted Cities, fortunes her father had used to buy the Asrahn’s crown. Seated around a table were what Mari took to be Morne’s officers, as well as two figures that pulled back their hoods to reveal themselves as Shar and Ekko.

  “You weren’t followed?” Morne asked as he sat down.

  “In this soup?” Kyril replied. He took off his great cloak and folded it neatly. Morne poured wine into two chipped tumblers, and handed one each to his husband and to Mari. Kyril nodded to Mari. “There’s a bit of attention on Mari, but she said she needed to speak with you, and we’ve no time for delays.”

  “May I talk freely?” Mari asked, gesturing to the others around the table.

  “My officers can be trusted,” Morne said.

  Morne looked at Kyril, who shrugged before he spoke. “Mari apparently wants to kill everybody in Tamerlan.”

  “Not everybody, no,” Mari said. “Just those who would follow the example the Dowager-Asrahn sets. The Avān need to be better than that. Getting Vahineh out will not be without its challenges, but I can’t leave a rahn here that the Dowager-Asrahn, Jhem, Nadir, or this Emissary can use to strengthen their position. I’ve seen enough of the Dowager-Asrahn to know the world would spin a little more lightly without her walking on it.”

  “Mari speaks truth,” Shar said. “Corajidin wants nothing more than to raise the Avān to an empire again, and he’s proven he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.”

  “This Emissary bothers me, also,” Morne added. “I’ve seen her like in Eidelbon, the great City of Masks in Manté. That Emissary was masked in blackened jade, and was known to provide counsel to the Catechism who rule Manté—and where Manté points, the Iron League walks.”

  “Well, this one serves my father,” Mari replied. “And if we can end her, I’d count it a fair day’s work. But, Morne, what I need from you and the Companions is a distraction, so I can get Vahineh out in the confusion.”

  “Do you want big, bigger, or biggest?”

  Mari reached out and patted Morne on the cheek, making the scarred man smile. She nodded at Kyril and said, “I see why you love this one. He’s worth keeping.” Mari returned to Morne. “How do you feel about biggest? Something whoever remains on Tamerlan won’t forget in a hurry. I’ve an unexpected ally in my brother, recently arrived.”

  “The Widowmaker!” Shar spat. Ekko’s eyes widened dangerously.

  “We’ve spoken,” Mari said. “Belam is here to help. So, Morne. Biggest?”

  “We can do biggest,” Morne said confidently.

  “Then tonight, in the Hearthall, will see the end of the Dowager-Asrahn’s reign.” Kyril wrapped his long fingers around his tumbler of cheap wine and raised the glass high. Everybody finished their drinks to the last drop.

  Mari placed her tumbler on the table, rim down.


  “Tonight, we’ll see the end of the Dowager-Asrahn’s life.”

  And the others, too, slammed their glasses rim-down on the table.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Our fate is the result of choices, not chance.”

  —Penoquin of Kaylish, Zienni Scholar and philosopher

  Day 60 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  Corajidin heard the burbling echoes of the voices from the deep places of the Drear, and felt their gaze, and the touch of their tentacles about his limbs, and saw the flashes of sea-green light behind his tightly shut eyelids. The cold of the depths seeped into his limbs, weighing them down. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came. His feet pounded on an analogy of reality and the hands on his arms guided him through the murk until eventually there was giddiness and nausea and—

  The contents of his stomach pooled in his mouth. It was more an act of pride than will that allowed him to walk with an infirm step to where he could privately spit the foul mess out. As much as he wanted to collapse to his knees, to heave and tremble and suck in great gasps of air, he stood straight and was glad of the shadows that hid his terror. The Anlūki, more experienced in traveling the Drear, took station around him.

  The yellow-white glow of the sunlight lanterns softened the shadows, but did little to cheer the place. A recent gift of the alchemists, the globes burned with a warm radiance to reveal a spherical chamber that reeked of damp and mold. Curtains of fibrous roots hung from the ceiling, and lichen clung to stone walls that had been hidden away for Erebus knows how long. It was an oppressive place with people clustered cheek by jowl between its walls. Corajidin glanced over his shoulder at the ornate gazebo of the Weavegate, the end of the disturbing road that led them here from Avānweh. Every surface was carved in round glyphs, joined by arcs and lines in geometries only their long vanished scribes understood. Try as they might, Kasraman, Wolfram, and the other witches had made little progress in translating the language of the Time Masters.

  “This way, Father.” Kasraman opened his fist and sent a will-o-the-wisp down the corridor ahead of them. Corajidin lifted the skirts of his over-robe from out of the muddy water and followed. After several twists and turns he could see natural light ahead, and the walls eventually opened up into a round hall topped with the skeletal remains of a domed glass ceiling. He blinked against the gray glare of the afternoon sky and felt slight flurries of rain so cold they stung his face. The black stone walls were covered in creepers and vines that shone in vivid color from within, the detritus of the ages filling the thousands of characters carved into the glassy rock. A golden astrolabe hung from what remained of the ceiling, a stilled pendulum surrounded by characters that were spheres rather than circles: as if the Time Masters wrote in three dimensions, or possibly more.

  Corajidin stood to the side, surrounded by his guards, as Wolfram, Elonie, and Ikedion escorted the manacled Kimiya out into the open. The puppeteer-possessed woman lifted her face and sniffed the air, making an inhuman rattling sound deep in her throat, part purr, part the clatter of chitin. Kimiya rolled her head in Corajidin’s direction. “You stand in the ruins of cowards and traitors, Corajidin. Best you don’t follow their example; my people aren’t known for their tolerance.”

  “No,” Wolfram said as he scuffed the ground with his staff. The old man leaned down to rub at his legs where his breeches were bunched under the leather straps of the calipers. The witch looked up at Kimiya through the ropes of his fringe. “Your people are murderers and anarchists who feed on the terror they bring.”

  “Yet you are helping us all the same.”

  “That we are, Kimiya.” Kasraman stood close to her. He looked on her with a wonder that made Corajidin uneasy. “And you’ll show us all the treasures of the Rōmarq and be our allies for so long as the Erebus live.”

  “As you say, Master. And not for the first time.” Kimiya responded to Kasraman, but gave Wolfram a smile that would have been seductive once. Wolfram slammed the butt of his staff on the ground, splinters and a rusted old nail falling from it. Kimiya’s eyes widened, and her lower lip trembled, momentarily granting her a disturbingly innocent air. Then she smiled and the effect was ruined by the insanity writ in the twist of her lips. Wolfram gestured sharply, and Kimiya was led away by Elonie and Ikedion.

  Not for the first time? Corajidin suppressed a shudder. First the Emissary, and now the marsh-puppeteers. What have my Ancestors done? But you will not answer me, will you? Now, when I need your guidance most, you are silent.

  Corajidin, Kasraman, and Wolfram walked cylindrical corridors and through spherical chambers sometimes completely enclosed, at other times open to the elements. They exited in a circular plaza, where weeds and the stumps of trees protruded from between paving stones. The smoke of wood fires and cooking fowl was familiar, and made Corajidin’s mouth water. He heard none of the sounds of the Rōmarq, blanketed by the sounds of his army. Command tents dotted the plaza. He saw Feyd, Tahj-Shaheh, and Nix bent over maps that flapped in the wind. Part of their assembled fleet floated above, Torque Spindles flickering with mother-of-pearl radiance. There was Tahj-Shaheh’s flagship, the Skywolf, lean and hungry beside her sister ship, the Sea Witch. Corajidin’s massive Art of Vengeance and the destroyer, the Wind Stallion, loomed nearby. Martūm had ordered Selassin ships into the mix with the Dawn King and the Sunspear, their lion figureheads gleaming sullenly. Yet all paled into comparison next to the enormity of the Manifest Destiny, the dreadnought’s hull near blazing with the multitude of spindles needed to keep her airborne, dotted with the protruding cylinders of storm cannons, and the spinning platters of her Tempest Wheels. Smaller skiffs and cutters soared out on patrol or stayed parked by their larger brethren like remora.

  To the side of the fleet there lurked a shade-washed and rickety avian shape of split timbers and tarnished fittings, its figurehead two skeletal hands holding an hourglass on its side, the light from its spools and wheels tinted red. Corajidin grimaced with distaste at the Soul Trader’s ship. He imagined the rag-garbed crew of Nomad and living merchants aboard peering hungrily at the world below, anticipating their harvest in the wake of such chaos as the Rōmarq would likely deliver.

  Through a semicircular arch in one wall, Corajidin caught a glimpse of tents set in concentric circles around the higher ground that held the command pavilions. The black and red of the Erebus, a paltry showing of the green and gold of the Selassin—not surprising given the questions around the future of their leadership— and even a small number of the green and gray of the Kadarin.

  With every passing moment, a noise grew in Corajidin’s head. Soothing and sweetly familiar, it reminded him of waves against the sands of Erebesq. Colors were more vivid, his vision sharper, the world more clearly defined. He took in a deep breath, and the air tingled on his tongue and warmed his chest. He turned to Kasraman and Wolfram, who nodded their awareness of what Corajidin experienced.

  Feyd and Tahj-Shaheh bowed as Corajidin and the two witches approached. “Have our forces gathered in full?” Corajidin asked.

  “We’d enough to take Fandra. The rest are on their way. We’ll maintain two camps, Asrahn: a command compound and set of soldier’s precincts here, as well as a garrison at Fandra, about three kilometers away.” Feyd’s mahogany face was seamed by time and trouble, his iron hair and beard fitting accompaniments to his much-used armor and bloodstained tribal clothes. He looked tough as an old tree. Beside him, Tahj-Shaheh was windblown and rakish, her clothing, armor, and weapons a tatterdemalion collection from the nations that bordered the Marble Sea: Tanisian silks, Ygranian leather and plate armor with its curlicues and embossing, a Shrīanese shamshir and knives at her belt. Nix’s bronze-shod steel, leather, and wool were the colors of the marshes. Knives were strapped to his thighs, and the pommel of a shamshir reared above his shoulder. Lean and dirty, nimble fingers never at rest, Nix surveyed all with a twitching eye beneath greasy hair dyed in greens and browns.

  “My Asr
ahn!” Baquio tittered. Mud stained the hems of the damasks that Corajidin’s investment in the College of Artificers had bought him. A baroque, many-lensed device graced his brow, and a wide belt contained a multitude of complex tools that Corajidin could not speculate on. “I was informing your Master of Arms and Sky Master about the miraculous engines I’ve brought you! Newly designed storm-cannon, incendiary devices, weapons and armor forged with new metallurgic techniques—”

  “It sounds fascinating, Master Artificer,” Corajidin interrupted. “However, as you can appreciate, there are many demands on my time. I am certain my commanders can accommodate you later in the day.”

  “Of course, of course!” Baquio’s smile was as ingratiating as Corajidin’s was insincere. “I’ll return to my fellow artificers. I’ve no doubt Prahna and her alchemists will likewise be excited to demonstrate their creations! Salves, potions, fire water—

  “If you would be so kind as to excuse us?” Corajidin said. Baquio bowed as he backed away, uselessly lifting the hems of his too-long over-robe from the mud. The man turned with a nod and traversed the soupy ground, carefully avoiding anything likely to stain his clothes more. Corajidin scowled at his back. “At least the Sēq and the witches just did what they did, without needing a pat on the back.”

  “True enough, Asrahn,” Nix said. “But Baquio’s and Prahna’s people have made a small fortune in new markets for their wares. The taxes on their revenue fill the Crown’s coffers nicely. And at least the artificers and the alchemists want to please you. The scholars and witches? Well, not so much.”

  Corajidin grunted. “Feyd, you were discussing our progress?”

  The Master of Arms pointed a whorled finger at the map. “We can hold Fandra for now. There wasn’t a large force here, mainly townsfolk. They fight like daemons when pressed, and if this is the accounting the tradesfolk of the Rōmarq can give for themselves, we’ll have a rough time of it here. When it became apparent they could not hold, the few marsh-knights and those townsfolk we’d not taken fled into the wetlands. I’ve no doubt we’ll be harassed by the marsh-knights for so long as we remain here.” The old tribesman shook his head. “Asrahn, by invading the Rōmarq, you’ve started an unsanctioned war against another Great House. And you’ve had us break faith with sende. The people won’t take kindly to you bringing war to civilians.”