White Sand

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Ais moved through such a crowd now. He was walking through Portside, the largest and most hectic of Kezare’s marketplaces. However, despite the press of people, Ais had no trouble moving. People gave trackts a wide berth. As was often the case, the source of justice in Lossand’s society was also somewhat feared by its people. Everyone had their tiny secrets they irrationally feared the trackts would expose. They should have known better. Ais had much larger prey to deal with.

  Secrets, Ais thought to himself. We all have secrets. Even trackts.

  He pushed such thoughts from his mind, continuing forward, moving with the distinctive formal posture and emotionless face that had made him one of Kezare’s most recognizable trackts. Of course, his heritage had a lot to do with that as well. Even as he passed through he crowd, Ais caught glimpses of his Kershtian brothers eyeing him with looks of distaste, and even hate. Lossand had a large Kershtian population—some of whom had been living away from the kerla for a half-dozen generations. Kershtians were Kershtians, however, and they owed their first allegiance to their DaiKeen. It was an unwritten law that no Kershtian would serve Lossand’s heathen government by joining the Hall’s trackts, the Tower’s soldiers, or, of course, the Diem’s sand masters.

  Ais didn’t return the harsh looks—he simply continued to march through the crowd, ignoring the dark Kershtian faces. He had grown accustomed to the resentment long ago. Yet, almost unconsciously, he felt the warm metal of his DaiKeen symbol slapping against his forehead—like many Lossandin Kershtians, Ais chose to wear one of the medallions instead of tattooing or scaring his skin. He claimed the affiliation of DaiKeenKar, what Lossandin people would call the priest’s DaiKeen. Such allegiance made his choice of Professions seem all that much more odd—at least, to others. To Ais it made perfect sense.

  Justice belonged to the Sand Lord. Right and wrong were decided by His divine judgement. Ais served that justice—it was his passion. He brought order to the chaos around him. Since he lived in Lossand, the only way to maintain order was to join the trackts, so that was what Ais had done. He saw no hypocrisy in serving Lossand Law, as long as that Law was fair to both Lossandin and Kershtian.

  Besides, there were other reasons for joining the Hall. Other reasons for seeking the justice, the order, and the stability it brought … .

  Ais caught sight of two trackts approaching from a short distance away, their black uniforms doing their job. The approaching men were Lossandin, of course, and they wore clothing identical to Ais’s own. The trackt uniform was constructed of a single piece of black cloth. Its long sleeves reached all the way to the wrists, and ended in stiff cuffs. The top half of the uniform pulled tight across the chest and waist, fastened by silver buckles. From the waist down, the uniform became a loose robe-like skirt, however, providing freedom of movement in battle. On the head was a simple, straight-topped cap and, like Ais, the approaching men were armed with a sword at his waist and a polished zinkall on his left forearm. The only thing that these men lacked was black cape like the one Ais wore—the sign that Ais was a senior trackt, leader of his own band.

  The men, Ais’s Second and Third in command, saluted as they approached. Jedan had served in Ais’s personal band of trackts for over three years now, and had proven himself a competent and effective subordinate. The other man, Tain, was a little newer to the band—two years. He was a pleasant man, and one Ais had been grooming for leadership for some time. He would make a fine Senior Trackt.

  “What is happening in the Hall?” Ais asked.

  “They’re hearing testimony about the Diem, sir,” Jedan explained, falling into step beside Ais

  “Perfect,” Ais said, careful to keep any hint of emotion out of his voice. Nilto would be there, listening to the testimonies, like always. Now was the time to act. “Tain, you’re with me. Jedan, take command of the second squad.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jedan split off, moving down a side-street as Ais continued forward.

  Of course, it would have been better to catch Nilto—the so called Lord Beggar—in the raid that was about to take place. The Lord Beggar, or Lord Thief as Ais liked to think of him, was too clever for to be caught so easily, however. Ais had tried for years to implicate the man as leader of Kezare’s criminal underground, but so far had found little success. Nilto covered his tracks well. In all of his illegal dealings, he was known as Sharezan. Yet, in all his years of investigation, Ais had never found a person who could describe what Sharezan was supposed to look like. No one had seen him—he was a non-existent cover.

  Up ahead Ais could see the object of the day’s raid approaching—a tall, run-down market building that appeared little different from those surrounding it. Months of investigation, however, had told him that the building’s top floor hid a meeting-place far different from the building’s ordinary appearance. Ais had long ago given up trying to get directly at Sharezan. Instead, he worked indirectly, toppling what thieves and bandits he could, trying to inch closer and closer to their leader. The process had worked—he was getting closer to Sharezan himself. Soon Ais would catch someone high enough in the organization to implicate Nilto.

  Today was a perfect opportunity. Ais had been following the movements of a Kershtian named Lokmlen, one of Shaerezan’s chief assassins. Over the last six months, Lokmlen had murdered three trackts. Fortunately, he had been spotted completing the last of the killings, and had been forced to go into hiding. If Ais’s sources were right, then the nondescript building just above was also Lokmlen’s safehouse.

  Ais felt anticipation welling inside him as he and Tain left the main street, then ducked into a shop out of the safehouse’s line of sight. Inside the shop waited ten trackts, all members of Ais’s personal band. A short distance away, Jedan’s team—dressed in plain clothes—would be working their way up the building beside the safe house. They would take out the watchmen on the safehouse roof while Ais’s team attacked from below. Hopefully, the look-out’s gone, Ais would be able to get to the third floor before Lokmlen even knew he was in the building.

  It had taken months to find Lokmlen, then weeks to plan a proper raid. But, the couldn’t have a more perfect opportunity than this day. Nilto was giving testimony at the Hall—which meant his organization was temporarily left without leadership. If Ais struck quickly, then Lokmlen would be in his custody before Nilto even finished his speech.

  #

  “I’m telling you, it’s empty,” Merris urged. “All of the Diem’s riches are completely unguarded, left to be plundered. And, the best part is, we know no one’s going to come looking for them. They’re all dead!”

  “I don’t know,” Reen said playing absently with the stone coin in his hand. “They aren’t all dead.”

  “Enough of them are,” Merris shot back. He eyed the other two men at the table, neither of which had much to say. Namot’s Kershtian face had grown pale at the mere mention of sand masters, and he was now mumbling something in his people’s incomprehensible language. Tarn was trying his best to ignore the conversation—he was just mad that the card game had stopped. Of course, Tarn had always been more soft than courageous; he would rather gamble for months, barely cheating enough people to get by, than take one chance that would set him for life.

  Reen flipped his coin into the air and caught it again—it was an heirloom of sorts, the first coin he had ever stolen some fifteen years before. Merris found the flipping annoying—he always had. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t do this job alone. The Diem didn’t have stairs, and all the valuables were on the second or third floors. Merris would need man-power to make a decent run of it in one attempt.

  Theirs wasn’t the only such conversation happening in the room. The room was a favored meeting-place, and was filled with tables, plush chairs, and cushions on the floor. The room was well-lighted by the windows—even thieves on dayside shunned darkness—but was on the building’s third floor, which offered a measure of protection against being seen. At least a half-dozen conversations just like
Merris’s were happening around the room—each of them potentially discussing the same plan. That was why he needed to move quickly.

  “Look,” Merris cajoled. “I know it sounds dangerous, but are we going to let a few sandies—dead sandies—keep us from the haul of a lifetime? I’m telling you, we don’t have long. As soon as people realize that the mastrells really aren’t coming back, the Diem is going to be crawling with job-men.”

  “What about the ones that are still alive?” Reen said, flipping the coin again.

  “Most of them aren’t even powerful enough to get to the upper floors—they’ll never know we’re there. Besides, I have it on good authority that after today, we won’t have much to worry about.”

  “What do you mean?” Reen asked carefully.

  Merris smiled. Reen was interested. “Let’s just say that the Diem as a Profession is about to go the way of its mastrells.”

  Reen thought for a moment, rotating the coin across his knuckles. “All right, I’m in,” he decided, sending the coin into the air with a particularly strong flip.

  As soon as the coin left his fingers, the room plunged into blackness.

  Cries of startlement sounded through the room—startlement that quickly turned to panic. Merris felt it himself—terror from the lightless void surrounding him. His yell of fright joined the others as he stumbled away from the table, tripping on his chair, disoriented and confused.

  Then, the darkness parted slightly. A door opened on the far side of the room, light from the hallway outside spilling into the room. However, Merris’s horror didn’t go away. Silhouetted in the doorway stood a form distinctified by its flowing bottom and wide cape. Merris reached for his sword as zinkallin began to fire.

  The coin fell forgotten, cracking against the table.

  #

  Ais strode through the room, sword in one hand, zinkall raised to fire. Few of the thieves offered resistance, however. They were too confused by the sudden darkness and subsequent attack to do much but stumble around in confusion. The thick cloth window-coverings—rolled down by Jedan’s men on the roof—were removed just after Ais’s squad entered the room, and Jedan’s squad began coming down ropes just outside. However, it appeared if such cautions were unnecessary.

  “He isn’t here,” Tain noted, approaching Ais as the rest of the trackts gathered up the thieves.

  Ais nodded. “No,” he agreed, double-checking faces. Most of the thieves were nameless ruffians or unimportant thieves. Lokmlen was nowhere to be seen.

  Jedan sighed, approaching from the other side. “Good experience for the men, I guess,” he mumbled. Most of Jedan’s squad was made up of younger trackts, recent additions to Ais’s band.

  Ais didn’t acknowledge the comment. He stood, arms folded, as he watched the criminals being led from the room. The trackts probably wouldn’t be able to hold most of them—they had no evidence. Ais ground his teeth in frustration—months of planning had been wasted. He was no closer to catching Nilto than he had been before. He had failed. He could almost hear the Lord Beggar laughing when he heard about Ais’s mistake, his raid on a den of pickpockets and petty burglars. Laughing … .

  A sharp pain brought Ais back to the room. His hands were clenched to tightly that his fingernails were biting into the skin of his palm, drawing blood. Ais quickly refocused, pushing back the anger and rage before it took him over. His breathing slowed, and his muscles relaxed. Deftly, he moved his fingers, pressing them against his palm to staunch the blood flow, then he looked around with concern. Had his lapse been noticed?

  Jedan was supervising the removal of the last few thieves, and Tain was standing outside, speaking with a few other trackts. They hadn’t seen him. They must never see him, must never know the rage that threatened their leader. Trackts had to be focused, bastions of order and control. Justice required such—there could be no chaos in the ranks of Lossand’s civil protectors. If it were known that Ais, most famous of trackts, could not control his own emotions … .

  “Looks like we’re done here, sir,” Jedan said, saluting.

  “Good,” Ais said curtly, clasping his hands behind his back.

  Jedan nodded, turning to the few remaining members of his squad in preparation to go. Ais frowned, watching his Second cross the room. Something was wrong. Ais followed Jedan, stepping off the distance from one wall to the other. The room was too small—it didn’t match the careful plans Ais had drawn for the building. That meant … .

  He looked up just as several small sections of the far wall opened, revealing the ends of zinkallin.

  “Trap!” Ais yelled. The call came too late as the sound of zinkallin air reports sounded through the room. A wave of arrows began to cut down both trackts and criminals. One missile took a surprised Jedan in the neck, dropping him soundlessly to the floor. Other trackts screamed in pain, falling with arrows sticking from their chests or limbs.

  Ais dashed forward, heedless of the archers. He ignored the death, the threat on his own life, as he ran toward the wall. A dozen arrows snapped past him, the archers finding it difficult to aim for single targets in such an enclosed space. One arrow passed within inches of Ais’s leg, tearing a hole in his cape as it hissed by. The trackts offered a pathetic resistance, many of them wounded or dead, the others unable to fire effectively against such a massive assault.

  Ais reached the wall with a yell, reaching through an arrow hole to snatch the end of one man’s zinkall. The surprised archer fired his weapon into the floor as Ais grabbed hold of his arm with both hands and yanked it forward. The man’s unseen body slammed against the inside of the wall, shaking the structure. Ais yanked again, smashing the body repeatedly against the wall. He heard the cracking of bone, felt the man’s arm spasming in agony. With one final pull, a large section of the flimsy false wall broke free, and Ais pulled an unconscious body through the rubble.

  Ais jumped through the hole, surprising the archers on the other side. The small room was much plusher than the one outside, decorated with tapestries and cushions. There was an open window on the far side, and he briefly caught a glimpse of Lokmlen’s Kershtian face slipping out of the room and down a rope ladder.

  Ais didn’t have time for an extended look, however, as the archers around him reacted, pulling their arms out of the arrow holes to point at him. His own weapon was already raised, however, and he fired an arrow point-blank into the nearest archer’s eye. He ducked as the man screamed, hearing zinkallin releases sound from either side as the archers foolishly shot at one another.

  Ais rolled to the side, whipping his sword from its sheath. The shiny black carapace blade found its place in a second archer’s chest as the man realized his zinkall’s three shots had already been expended.

  Ais fought two battles as he attacked—one against the archers, and one against himself. The rage barely surfaced, however. He had learned to control it well, especially in battle.

  A moment later, the fight was over. His insane assault had forced to archers to stop firing at his trackts, and seconds afterwards Ais’s well-trained men had regrouped and followed him through the hole. The archers, horribly out-numbered, quickly began to surrender. Even as they did so, Ais was leaping through the window and swinging recklessly down the ladder in pursuit of his real quarry.

  #

  “You know, you’re a fool for coming back.”

  Iador the boatman looked up a his passenger’s comment, confused. The passenger, however, wasn’t looking at Iador. The man stood at the front of the small rowboat, heedless of its rockings, as he stared at the approaching city of Kezare. Eventually, Iador decided he wasn’t being addressed, and tried to ignore his strange passenger.

  “It’s so hot on this side,” the passenger continued, speaking conversationally. “You hate heat. And all that sand getting into your shoes and your lungs … it’s horrible.”

  Iador continued to row. His passenger was definitely an odd one. His skin marked him as Lossandin, but he spoke as if he’d been out
of the country for some time. He had curly brown hair that sat like a disheveled mop on his head, and was a bit overweight. His clothing was very irregular—it resembled the things that Iador had seen darksiders wearing in the marketplace. The clothing was constructed of may layers of cloth, and the bottom piece was divided like leggings, but not as tight. There were strange clasps and buckles everywhere. Darksider clothing had always confused Iador—why wear something with so many pieces when a robe worked just as well?

  “Of course,” the man continued, “you did have a noble purpose in coming. You haven’t seen Kenton in three years, and he was once your best friend.” The man paused for a moment. “Too bad he’s dead,” he added. “Of course, you always said becoming a sand master was a bad decision.”

  Iador raised his head. Sand master? Quietly, Iador made a Ker’Reen warding against evil. He wasn’t Kershtian, but he was a God-fearing man. More than half the Lossandin people he knew worshiped the Sand Lord now. The Kershtian religion made so much more sense than the old Lossandin gods, who had practically been forgotten over the last century.

  Slowly, Iador shook his head. He knew he should have refused to ferry this stranger, this man who looked like a daysider but dressed like a darksider. Now it looked like the man was a sand master—or, at least, was familiar with them. Not good at all. The Sand Lord frowned on those who fraternized with the demon Ry’Kensha.

  “Well,” the man said with a sigh, “I suppose you can still pay your respects at his funeral. Maybe there’ll be food.”

  Iador pulled the boat into the docks, moving as quickly as he could, for he was eager to release his passenger. The man didn’t comply with Iador’s sense of urgency, stretching leisurely, then reaching behind to pull out a strange darkside cloth bag he hung by a strap from his shoulder. Then he stepped up onto the dock, pulling out a couple of lak and handing them to Iador.