City Under the Sand Page 10

  So far, Aric had not done that. A half-elf ordinarily couldn’t expect much more than basic survival, or so he had been told. But he wanted more from life than survival. Perhaps this was the curse of the literate, the knowledge that there was more to be had, and if this expedition gave him that, he would take it gladly.

  4

  Elsewhere in the city, the man was back at the fringes of the elven market. He had ventured into the market briefly, spent a few bits on spices, eyed some of the elf women, and then retreated into a dark alleyway from which he could watch the goings-on.

  He had tried, once again, to resist the urge that compelled him here. But he could not do so. The memory of that last time, the slashing of his blade, the blood slicking its polished surface and spattering wetly on walls and road, the astonishment on the face of the elf as she watched the human with her dying, then realized the blade would bite her next … these things were too powerful to deny. They held him in an iron grip, their images seemingly more real than his daily life. His family members spoke to him with words that sounded distant, their faces ghostly, while the dying breaths of those he had killed were immediate and alive.

  He realized that each time he did it, the compulsion to return and do it again gripped him sooner. If this kept up, if he could not forestall his own appetites, he would be here every night. That would never do—he would be seen, recognized, remembered. Already there were more foot patrols in the area, soldiers in the market, forcing him farther back into the alley, where he could lose himself in shadows.

  Maybe tonight he should go home, lie in the arms of his wife, put all this from his mind. He was torn, not wanting to turn away from the market, but wishing he wanted to. Then he saw a human man strike up a conversation with one of the elf women. She didn’t look like a prostitute, but he couldn’t always tell. Anyway, elves were notorious for loose morals—prostitute or not, most of them would do anything for a few coins.

  The elf and her human struck away from the market, toward the seedier end of the Hill District. Just as the last pair had done. These had a similar look about them, too, the man obviously of a high enough station to pay well for an hour’s pleasure, the elf fair-skinned, voluptuous, with hair so red that when he cut her, the blood would hardly show on it.

  He hurried up the alley and saw them crossing the next street. He had to get ahead of them over the space of the next block, fast enough to make it around the corner. After that they would reach a busier area, one where women and men stood outside the buildings beckoning passersby inside to watch entertainment of the most depraved sort.

  The man sprinted to the corner, then tore around it without looking first. A couple, both human, were dragging a cart laden with firewood, and the man crashed into them. The people released the two-handled cart when the man hit them, and the cart upended, tipped over by its own unbalanced load. Wood spilled into the street.

  “Sorry!” the man said. He had to step over the firewood. The encounter slowed him down too much—his targets made it across the street, and within moments would be within view of the debauchery up ahead.

  “Sorry?” the woman who had been pulling the cart said. “I’ll show you sorry. There’s a patrol just down the block. Let’s see what they have to say about madmen running full tilt without watching.”

  “I was careless,” the man argued, “not criminal. I’ve apologized.” He yanked a coin from the purse hanging at his waist and tossed it onto the ground. “That should make up for my error.”

  The couple took their eyes off him as soon as the coin clinked against the ground. The man darted back around the corner, into the dark shelter of the alley. He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding.

  That had been too close. He had let the targets get too far ahead of him, and he had taken foolish chances to catch up.

  With one wistful look back at the market, he gave up and headed for his home, his family.

  For tonight, he had to resist the impulse. He couldn’t afford to be caught. That would be humiliating, and potentially suicidal.

  The farther he got from the market, the more his heart slowed, and his step. The urge told him to go back, try once more. But he didn’t; he still had the presence of mind to listen to reason, he told himself.

  As long as he could do so, he wasn’t utterly lost.

  5

  In her sleep, Myrana thrashed and kicked so much that Lauriand punched out at her in the darkness of their tent. “Ow!” Myrana cried. She sat up, rubbing her forearm. “That hurt!”

  “Sorry, but you were pummeling me. Were you dreaming again?”

  “People always dream,” Myrana said.

  Lauriand’s younger sister Krisanthe groaned. “Not me,” she said, “because I’m not asleep, and I’m not asleep because you two won’t shut up!”

  “Sorry, Kri,” Myrana said. “Yes, Lau, I was dreaming. Go back to sleep, and I’ll try to stop flailing about so.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Lauriand said.

  “Me as well!” Krisanthe flopped back down onto her pillows—life on the road was hard, but she was a girl who loved her pillows and she always slept with several.

  Myrana put her head down on her single pillow, but her eyes wouldn’t close. The dream had been so vivid, she didn’t want to accidentally find herself back inside it. But as she tried to think about it, to analyze it, the memory dissipated, like trying to hold onto a fistful of sand held underwater.

  All she was left with was a grain of meaning, and she could hardly wait for sunrise to share it.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Although inside the tent she wasn’t able to tell, the night was almost over when her cousin hit her. Soon she heard the caravan’s morning sounds, someone stoking the fires for cooking, someone else filling the trough the mekillots drank from, shouting at the beasts when they tried to breakfast on her, still another walking away from the camp to empty a bladder held throughout the night.

  Myrana pushed aside her blanket and dressed quickly. She snatched up the staff that helped her walk and headed from the tent, looking for her brother.

  Welton, in whom House Ligurto had entrusted the ultimate responsibility for this caravan, squatted beside the fire, holding a mug of tea. The sky was lightening, and soon enough the sun would roar over the horizon, bringing with it the punishing heat of the day, but for the moment the air was crisp and cold. Myrana limped to his side, her staff digging into the sand with every step.

  “Good morning, sister,” Welton said when he heard her.

  “And to you.” She put a hand on his shoulder and lowered herself carefully to crouch beside him.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “I’ll have some in a moment,” she said. “I need to talk to you, Welton.”

  He looked at her for the first time. His hair was as black as hers, his eyes almost black as well, burning with fierce intensity. He was lean and muscular, and would have been commandingly tall if not for his hunched posture. Myrana had never understood why he kept his shoulders curled in, instead of standing straight and letting their breadth show. “Yes?”

  “I need to leave the caravan.”

  “Why?”

  “I have been having these dreams …”

  He regarded her over the rim of his mug. “You’re not leaving because of some dreams.”

  “They’re not regular dreams,” she said. “Special ones.”

  “I know the kind you mean.”

  “Then you know it’s best not to ignore them.”

  “Usually.”

  “These are urgent, Welton.”

  “Telling you what? Just go? Walk away from your family, your responsibility?”

  “It isn’t that … it’s just, what if my true responsibility lies elsewhere? I think that’s what the dreams are saying. They demand action.”

  Welton tried to treat every family member the same, but whether he realized it or not, Myrana saw that he sometimes babied her, as if her youthful injury made her less capable than o
thers. She watched his gaze flicker toward her bad leg, and then back to her face. “Where do they want you to go?”

  “I’m not sure. Into the desert. From there I’ll just have to let them guide me.”

  “What if they don’t, Myrana?”

  “There isn’t much in this life I can put my faith in, brother. You, our family, and my dreams, they’re all I have. If I don’t trust them …” She left the statement unfinished. She didn’t know how to finish it—it was rare for her dreams to steer her wrong, and when they were this persistent she knew there was meaning behind them. She didn’t always know where they would lead, but if she remained open to their message she was generally rewarded. Sometimes the whole family was—her dreams had led them to a new, previously unknown oasis when one they had used for generations had become poisoned, and had warned of ambushes, and of suppliers trying to cheat them.

  So if her dreams wanted to take her into the wilderness, without the family, who was she to ignore them?

  “I don’t like it. It’s dangerous out there.”

  “Danger is everywhere, Welton. Two of us died not ten days ago, and they hadn’t even left the caravan. None of us will live forever.”

  Welton took her hand. “I want you to, though.”

  “I know, Welton. And I want the same for you. But we can only do what we can do.”

  His face tore into a wide grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard truer words. Nonsensical ones, perhaps, but true.”

  “I will miss you terribly, brother. But I have to do this.”

  “I know what you’re like when you get this way, Myrana, trust me. I won’t try to stop you. But I won’t let you go without protection.”

  “What sort of protection do you have in mind?”

  He tapped his fingers against his mug for a moment, considering. “Two of our best,” he said. “How about Sellis and Koyt?”

  “Can you spare them?”

  “I can’t spare you. It’s worth it to do without them if it means you’ll do whatever it is your dreams want you to accomplish out there and then return to us quickly.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Will you tell them, or shall I? I’d like to leave today.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Welton said. He rose to his feet, drawing her up with him, and wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace. “You be careful out there. This family needs you.”

  “Not as much as it needs you,” she said. “I’ll take no unnecessary chances, and with Sellis and Koyt along, I should be as safe as if I were right here with you.”

  Having procured her brother’s unwilling but necessary consent, she kissed his stubbled cheek and then roamed off to empty her own bladder, her staff chunking into the earth beside her as she walked unevenly up the slope of a low dune. She appreciated his concern for her, and his belief that the caravan needed her. She had spent most of her life believing she needed it, but the truth was for more than a year she had found herself hating the unceasing travel, the uncertainty of life and location, the fact that every beautiful view or delicious sip of water from an oasis or spring would be nothing but a memory in a day’s time.

  Myrana wanted nothing more from life than to find someplace she could stay, somewhere to become rooted. She’d been born into he nomadic life, but did that mean she could never try any other?

  She didn’t know if these dreams had anything to do with that goal—if at the end of whatever trail they sent her down, she would find her spot to stay in—but sticking with the caravan would only guarantee that she would never have it.

  It wasn’t Myrana’s intention to desert her brother. She said she would try to return, and she meant it. But intentions were only that. Dreams or no dreams, no one knew what the day after tomorrow would bring.

  Today, though, would be a busy one. She had to pack, had to say her goodbyes, and had to set off early enough to put some distance between herself and the caravan by nightfall. Sellis and Koyt were not family but they were loyal, and they would go where she led them, without complaint. They would die to keep her safe, if need be.

  She honestly hoped it would not come to that. But since she didn’t know her destination, or what would be expected of her once she found it, she knew it was a possibility. They might all die.

  That and the heat of the sun were two of the surest constants on all of Athas—on any day, anyone might die.

  She hurried back to her tent, anxious to tell her sister and cousins before they heard the news from someone else. They would fuss, but they would not dissuade her. Myrana had made up her mind, and once she did that, as even Welton would admit, changing her course was no simple task.

  She couldn’t help wondering where that course might take her this time.

  VII

  INTO THE WASTELANDS

  1

  They gathered at Sage’s Square, one of the few spots in the city with room for them all, and left through the Mekillot Gate. An expedition of such size couldn’t be kept a secret, and people had climbed the fifty-plus dense, blue-trunked agafari trees of Sage’s Square for a better view. Others lined the wide stone thoroughfare running from there to the gate to watch them go. Some cheered the procession, others shouted taunts or insults, though none knew the expedition’s purpose.

  There were twelve argosies in the expedition, with four axles and many wheels, each of them pulled by a pair of mekillots. These armored wagons were largely empty at the journey’s start; people would ride inside them, and they carried water and supplies for the trip, but primarily they were meant to carry the metal from Akrankhot back to Nibenay. As the journey progressed, food and water would be consumed, making space for the return cargo.

  Fifty goliath soldiers of Nibenay accompanied the argosies, along with an assortment of slaves, many of them muls, to do the hard work of lifting and loading. For now, the templar Kadya walked at the head of the expedition, although Aric suspected she would be riding within minutes of passing through the gate. He and Ruhm had chosen to leave the city inside a wagon. Although the expedition itself was common knowledge, being too large to hide, its goal was not, and Kadya had instructed them not to talk about it, even with friends. They had decided that staying out of sight would make it easier to avoid anyone who might want to ask questions.

  Even so, they could hear the shouts of onlookers, and as they approached the gate, they shifted their shoulders and tapped their feet to the musicians playing from balconies suspended above it. Aric watched out a side window, better to watch the half-giant soldiers try to maintain their military bearing while swaying and strutting to the hypnotic melodies of the gate’s musicians.

  The lumbering beasts, some thirty feet long, pulled the armored wagons at a steady, stately pace. People could have walked faster, but the strength of the animals would be needed to haul the steel back to the city. Aric tried to prepare himself for a long, uncomfortable journey.

  Ruhm stayed in his seat, swaying gently with the rocking motion of the wagon. In front, beneath the seats occupied by the drivers, was space for storage. The main section had rows of sturdy wooden benches, with legroom between—although not much, considering most of the soldiers on the trip were half-giants. Because there were so many argosies and so few riders, some of them were filled stem to stern with supplies. “Will it be like this all the way?” Aric asked. He rocked back and forth, exaggerating the effect. “I think I’ll get sick if it is.”

  “Oh, no,” Ruhm assured him. “It’ll be far bumpier out there, once we’re off the cobbled roads of Nibenay and the caravan road beyond the gate.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “You can walk any time,” Ruhm reminded him. He had traveled more than Aric, to Raam and Draj and even Gulg once. “Just don’t get too far ahead or stray into wilderness. Nibenay only sent one of you. What will the rest of us do, we can’t find metal under the city?”

  “I definitely will walk as much as I can,” Aric said. “Better than being stuck in here.” He sniffed the air. “It already sme
lls bad in here, worse than my rooms in Nibenay.”

  “Worse when ten or fifteen soldiers in here trying to stay out of the sun. Stifling hot in these. Outside at least some hope of a breeze.”

  “This is going to be a long trip, isn’t it?”

  “Always are.”

  Aric kept shifting from his seat to the window to watch their progress. Once through the gate, they passed between four giant statues of Nibenay, collectively called the Omnipotent Receivers. Each was sculpted in a different style, and from Aric’s recent experience meeting the Shadow King he knew the representations of him were more than a little idealized. Beyond those statues, the road sliced through the sparse farmlands of the sorcerer-king, then fields of sandgrass interrupted at irregular intervals by small tenant farms and clutches of adobe buildings.

  Sure enough, within the first hour of travel, Aric had had enough of the stuffy air inside the argosy, which windows on the sides and the opening in front used by the mekillot drivers barely alleviated. He and Ruhm got out and walked alongside the wagons, enjoying the slight breezes and the changing scenery. Soldiers cursed and complained, slaves hiked on in stoic silence, occasionally breaking out into song but stopping when their overseers grumbled.

  The caravan road they traveled would take them through the Blackspine Pass, between the Windbreak Mountains that shielded Nibenay from the worst of the northern winds, and the Blackspine Mountains. If they stayed on it, they would end up in Raam, but they had been told that they’d veer off the road long before that, and journey overland to Akrankhot.