Secrets of the Sands

by Leona Wisoker

  Bright dark eyes stared back at Idisio, and the man's thin mouth twisted into a wide grin.

  “Please, come sit,” the man said in an astonishingly clear bass. The sound of that rich tone coming from the frail, wrinkled form made Idisio's jaw drop again. “Hot tea?” He leaned forward and lifted the ceramic teapot, tilting it to fill three small cups with a rich, steaming amber liquid. The scent of cloves and cinnamon filled the room.

  Scratha didn't move. “You expected us.”

  “Of course. And I must say it's lovely to see you again, my lord.” He arranged each of the small cups a little distance apart from each other, choosing each spot with careful precision, then looked up at them. “Oh, do sit down. I get a twist in my neck so easily these days.”

  “I thought you'd gone further north,” Scratha said.

  “Oh, it's far too cold up north,” the man said. “Speaking of which, the tea is getting cold.” He blinked at them with a lizard-bright sparkle in his eyes. “Won't you sit and have tea with me?”

  Scratha drew in a long breath, let it out through his teeth, and slowly sat in a chair, motioning Idisio and Riss to follow suit. Idisio sat down gingerly and reached for a small cup of tea without really thinking about it. He passed one to Riss and the last to Scratha, uncomfortably aware that the wrinkled man seemed to be watching him attentively.

  “Idisio, Riss,” Scratha said, “this is Yuer.”

  “Ah,” Yuer said, reprovingly. “You didn't introduce me properly, my lord. It should have been ferahd Yuer, son of Lord Regav Darden and dista Atha; you'd say bastard son of a whore, I think, in the northern tongue.”

  Scratha's face tightened. “I saw no need to introduce that.”

  “I'm not ashamed of it,” Yuer said. “I can hardly claim to control my birth, can I? And my mother was a favorite of Lord Regav's until his unfortunate meeting with that Aerthraim bitch.”

  Scratha's face settled into a dark frown. “Yuer, don't bait me.”

  “Still fond of dear old Azni, are you? Well, spare me a moment of fun,” Yuer said. “I have so little of it these days.”

  Scratha shook his head and didn't answer.

  “And you think you have no time for my foolishness,” Yuer said. “Well.” He sipped at his tea, his gaze shifting among them. “Perhaps you don't, at that. But time is an odd thing, isn't it? I recall you saying once that if you never spoke to me again in this lifetime it would be too soon.”

  “You've said the same of me,” Scratha said. “And I've said many things over the years, some of which should have been left silent.”

  Yuer made a faint coughing noise, almost but not quite a sniggering laugh. “Now you admit mistakes? Could these children have made such a difference? Could you have possibly have grown . . . attached to them?” His eyes glittered. A chill ran down Idisio's back at the tensions rising in the air.

  “Stop it,” Scratha said, his stare as flat and dangerous as a snake's. “That's enough, Yuer. This is today. If all you're going to do is rake through the past, I'll leave, and then I'll send my report to Lord Oruen. He'll take great joy in hanging you one piece at a time from each of the Gates.”

  In the silence, the sound of rain came pattering gently against the window shutters. Idisio stifled an impulse to bolt from the room.

  “Ah,” Yuer said at last, his voice soft. “You do have a compelling argument there. I am fond of my skin remaining intact, such as it is.” He poured himself more tea and sipped thoughtfully for a few moments.

  Idisio glanced at Riss. She slouched back in her chair, both hands curled round the small cup, looking deeply unhappy.

  “Politics are never simple,” Yuer said at last. “And they reach into the past further than any of us have been alive, and will echo into the future far beyond our children's lives.”

  “Politics or profit?” Scratha said.

  Yuer smiled briefly. “Politics is all about profit on some level, whether that be coin or other gain; successful profit involves understanding politics. You worry over a few pounds of dasta and esthit and redweed moving south to north, untaxed, illegal. In your mind, it is all wreaking horrible havoc in all lives involved. But it's such a small, small piece of the overall politics that it's hardly worth noticing . . . unless, of course, current politics move attention to that tiny piece.” He sighed.

  “Dasta is illegal in the northlands,” Scratha said. “The Church bans it, and Lord Oruen has backed that ban.”

  Yuer grinned and shook his head. “A knife is not evil. The hand that holds it can use it to cut bread or cut throats. Look to the hand, not the knife.”

  “I'm looking for the ones who seek out assassins to sell their knives to.”

  “Why?” Yuer asked, still smiling. “You're no King's Guard or secret enforcer. Why would you worry over the nonsense of the northlands?”

  “I want to know how it gets through the Horn,” Scratha said. “If Darden has corrupted the teyanain, that's valid desert business.”

  “Corrupted?” Yuer's smile broadened. “The teyanain are incorruptible.”

  “Then how can they let your carriers move through the Horn?” Scratha said, leaning forward and putting his cup on the table with a hard click. “There's a two-hundred-year-old agreement on that!”

  “Agreements change,” Yuer said. “Initin the Red was a wise man, a good leader, but he couldn't predict that when he died, his chosen successor would refuse the throne and turn control of the kingdom to a minor branch of the royal family.”

  “What?” Scratha sat up straight, scowling. “You don't believe that old nonsense, Yuer. It's never been anything but a madman's rumor.”

  “Madness for madness,” Yuer said mildly. He poured himself another cup, shook the pot gently, and set it back down. “I’ll have a servant make more.”

  “I want you to explain how you can give any credence to that mad story.”

  “Because I know the name of his chosen successor,” Yuer said. “And because the families of Mezarak, Ninnic, and the other mad kings had never shown any evidence of instability before taking the throne. Their madness came from a curse laid on the line for forsaking the proper order of things.”

  “Who?” Scratha demanded.

  “You won't believe me.” Yuer smiled. “You'll call me a liar and a fool.” A faint noise brought Idisio’s attention to Riss. She'd begun drowsing in her chair, empty teacup held loosely in her hand. The rain must have put her to sleep; Idisio had to fight the urge to let his own eyelids slide closed.

  “Say it and let me judge,” Scratha said.

  “Ienna Aerthraim,” Yuer said. “Mother to Asoana Aerthraim, who gave birth to Osenna Aerthraim, who gave birth to Aziarna Aerthraim, who gave birth to your darling Azaniari Aerthraim. They run a matrilineal heritage, like Scratha does.”

  Idisio found himself blinking rapidly. The list of names had been so similar in sound—a standard complaint by northerns about the desert Families—that he'd completely lost track. But it sounded as though Lady Azni, who had been so kind to him and given him that miraculous salve, should have been in line for the throne in Bright Bay.

  What a different world he would have grown up in if that had come true!

  Scratha shook his head slowly. “How did you come to find that out?” “The teyanain keep records of everything,” Yuer said. “They have books going back to before the Split. Every king had a teyanin attend his court as a record-keeper since the beginning of the kingdom; that is, up until Ienna refused her calling. The kings from that point on refused to allow a teyanin the post of record-keeper, and as a result the royal line bore a curse from that point on.”

  Riss snored softly. Yuer glanced at her and smiled.

  “That's not possible,” Scratha said. “I would have—”

  “No,” Yuer said. “You wouldn't have known. Even your beloved Azaniari probably doesn't know. Ienna wanted no part of a throne; she wouldn't have told her descendants. The Aerthraim have never accepted a public office that would brin
g them notice. Ienna passed the throne to one of her lovers.”

  “I don't believe any Aerthraim would dishonor her family that way,” Scratha said, and stood, expression grim. “If all you have to go on are slanderous falsehoods, I'm through listening.”

  “I did say you'd call me a liar,” Yuer noted, looking amused. “But I've been through the records of every desert fortress that would let me in, and a few that didn't know of my presence, before I was encouraged to leave the southlands. On my way through the Horn I gained access to the books of the teyanain. There's no argument with the facts!”

  “How did you get into the books of the teyanain?” Scratha demanded.

  “I rendered them an indispensable service,” Yuer said, and his grin turned unpleasant. “You don't need that story. I think this is more important right now.”

  “Go on,” Scratha growled, settling back into his chair. Yuer glanced at Riss, then at Idisio. A faint frown passed across his wrinkled face, barely noticeable. “First, more tea.”

  A gesture brought a quiet servant into the room with a second teapot, almost identical to the first, and four fresh cups. After tea had been poured and the tiny cups taken in hand, Yuer said, “Those books I studied . . . each of them from a different point of view, each of them with a tiny piece of the overall truth. I doubt too many people have seen as many of them as I have, to see such a complete picture.”

  “You flatter yourself,” Scratha said, frowning over his tea. “You're no wise scholar, Yuer.”

  “Not when you last knew me,” Yuer shot back, “but people do change, don't they? I think I could name a few myself, and I know you can.” His gaze moved, rather speculatively, to Idisio for a moment.

  Scratha snorted and shook his head, but sipped his tea and made no other argument. “Go on with the story.”

  “It's interesting,” Yuer said, leaning forward a little, his eyes narrowing, “that this boy is still awake. I'd expected you to be awake, not him.”

  The room suddenly seemed very quiet, and very warm. The soft rain outside faded to an occasional plink. Idisio stared at his tea in horrified understanding.

  “You tried to drug us?” he squeaked, and bit his lip at the cracked, whiny sound of the words.

  “It's always been one of Yuer's favorite games,” Scratha said dryly. He took another sip of tea, his dark stare fixed on the wrinkled old man. “I'm surprised, myself, that you're still awake.”

  Idisio stared at his master, appalled and feeling rather betrayed. “You knew?”

  “I expected it,” Scratha said, not looking away from Yuer. “The question is why he'd risk it.”

  Yuer smiled. “I knew I'd at least slow down your servants,” he said. “With them asleep, you'd be less likely to run before Pieas gets here.”

  Scratha sat up straighter. His scowl made Idisio cringe into his chair reflexively, even though he knew he wasn't the target.

  “Pieas!” Scratha said; the name came out as a dire curse.

  Yuer smirked. “Yes. I received a bird-messenger this morning that he was on your trail and to hold you against his coming.”

  Scratha snorted. “You think I would have run from that little ta-karne? He's been all but disowned by his own family, he's on the run in disgrace, and he's got a blood-right call on his head. I certainly wouldn't hesitate to kill him, in or out of your home, Yuer.”

  Moving with exaggerated care, he pulled several sheets of parchment from his pouch and tossed them on the table.

  “Read it!” he said. “A message from the king's own hand, telling about Pieas's disgrace.”

  Yuer grabbed the folded papers. His dark eyes scanned the close-set lines of writing rapidly: page after page, four in all. He read through them again, more slowly, then looked up at Scratha.

  “Pages are missing,” he said.

  “The others held no relevance to you.”

  Yuer looked down at the pages, shaking his head slowly as he settled back in his chair.

  “Disgraced,” he mused, rattling the parchment. “That changes . . . quite a bit.”

  “I won't hold the mistake against you,” Scratha said, baring his teeth in a thin, humorless smile. “We all make mistakes, after all. Even you.”

  “Apparently so,” Yuer murmured, his gaze distant. “It seems I have some talking to do with Pieas when he arrives—which ought to be soon.”

  “Even disgraced,” Scratha said, “he's still child of a powerful desert family. I'd advise against killing him yourself. There's enough other people after him for that.”

  “Oh, I'm not too concerned over killing him,” Yuer said, and his expression sent a shiver down Idisio's back. “I've other methods for expressing how upset I am with him. And other reasons besides this incident.”

  A faint rattling sound, like feet scraping against gravel, came clearly from outside. One of the guards opened the door and looked in, his broad face furrowed in a frown.

  “Man running,” he said briefly. “Got by us, think he was listening. Follow?”

  Yuer sat up, his face flushing with instant rage. “He was eavesdropping? On me? He dared? Yes, gods damn you, bring him to me!”

  The door clacked shut as the guard sprinted away. Scratha and Idisio both leapt to their feet and headed for the door. Idisio checked just shy of the threshold, turning a worried glance back to Riss, who still drowsed peacefully in the chair. Yuer flapped a thin hand at him impatiently, the gesture serving as reassurance and imperious command all at once; Idisio nodded and bolted after Scratha.

  Just as they reached the main village road, the light haze of mist condensed into a heavy, thundering downpour. Idisio's foot hit a mud slick; he went down hard and spat mud along with curses while rolling clumsily upright. A hard hand caught in his armpit and yanked him the rest of the way to his feet.

  “Let the guards get themselves soaking wet searching like fools,” Scratha said in Idisio's ear. “Stables, Idisio. He'll have to get back to his horse to run anywhere in this weather.”

  Idisio slogged after Scratha as fast as he could; whatever had been in that tea seemed to be affecting him at last. His legs seemed filled with sand and his body worked sluggishly; he fell behind despite his best efforts, and Scratha disappeared into the downpour ahead.

  Unable to move another step, Idisio stopped, panting. Not far ahead, a woman screamed; the sound jolted him back into motion. A handful of steps later, a thudding sound barely gave him time to fling himself out of the way as a large black horse thundered by, rider crouched low on its back.

  “Looks like he got away,” Idisio muttered, picking himself up off the ground for the second time, and trudged, in no hurry at all now, towards the stables.

  Scratha stood in the center aisle of the stable, his expression bleak as the weather and three deep scratches threading blood trails down one cheek. He glared at a woman who crouched, weeping, at his feet.

  “Get up already,” Scratha snapped.

  She raised a shaking arm over her head and cowered, as if expecting to be struck. Idisio, unable to help himself, moved forward and crouched beside her. He could feel Scratha's hard glare on the back of his neck.

  A splotch of damp mud slid off his head as he leaned forward; it splatted on the floor right next to the girl. She flinched further into herself and whimpered.

  “S'a?” he said tentatively.

  Her thin, bruised face tilted up towards him, revealing wide, wild eyes and a desperate stare.

  “Don't let him hurt me,” she whimpered. “Don't let him—”

  “He won't hurt you, s'a,” Idisio said. The pattern of bruises and cuts on her face and arms warned him against trying to touch her right now. Overhead, Scratha breathed heavily. His looming, intimidating presence filled the air with an almost palpable anger.

  Idisio risked saying, “Master Scratha, could you . . . back up a step, please? Maybe a few steps?”

  Scratha growled but moved back two long steps. “He threw her at me. The little ta-karne threw her at me.
” He touched the ripped stripes on his cheek gingerly. “Damn you,” he added.

  “He hit me,” the woman whimpered, quivering. “Don't let him hit me again.”

  “She clawed my face,” Scratha said unsympathetically, glowering.

  “He won't hit you again,” Idisio reassured the woman. “I promise. I won't let him.”

  “Then she'd best not claw at me again,” Scratha retorted. “Get up, get up, woman! What in the hells are you doing here? Who are you? Why did Pieas leave you behind?”

  “Wian. I'm Wian. I'm Lady Alyea's . . . I was. . . .” The woman shuddered and shook, crying again, and refused to say anything else.