Sandstorm

Chapter Fifteen

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.”

Corvus had as well. “I’m guessing that recalcitrant fighters are taken to some arcanist or dark priest who charms them,” he said. “The strongest of them last little time before they are returned and take up arms on the sand, but our friend never came back. You believe this means she did not survive whatever spells were laid on her.”

The Ilmatari priest spoke for the first time. “Or they killed her when her resistances proved too expensive to overcome. They would have measured her value in the arena against the cost of forcing her to fight. I am sorry, kenku. The Hammer That Falls has spoken of your friend at great length, and it is clear that hers was a rare and gentle soul.”

Corvus nodded. “Rare and gentle and possessed of a greater strength of will than all of us in this room combined. You believe she set a precedent in resisting them until she died. I tell you the precedent is something more than that. She resists them still. El Arhapan is a sadist and an obsessive, and probably the finest judge of fighters in all Faerun. He will go to any length to break Cynda’s will, and she will go to any length to resist. And survive. She lives. I assure you, she lives.”

The maskmaker spread his hands. He asked, “What do you want us to do?”

Cephas and Ariella quickly established the boundaries of their luxurious prison. They were confined to one wing of the el Arhapan manor, but they soon learned that left a lot of room to cover.

“Four suites of private rooms, including our two,” said Cephas. “The dining chamber, two or three rooms full of couches and cushions, a half-dozen verandas and balconies. And whatever this place is.”

Ariella did not turn from her careful study of the map that made up the floor in the final room they had explored. It showed the city and its environs as far east as the Plain of Stone Spiders and as far west as a wavering line running from the Marching Mountains in the North all the way to the sea in the South. “The disputed boundary between Calimien and Memnonar influence,” she said.

At least they were no longer troubled by the slaves and servants who had initially followed their every step, offering refreshments, baths, or intimate companionship. These men and women greeted Cephas’s attempt to recruit them in an escape attempt with confusion that turned to anger when he persisted. Finally, he himself grew angry enough to chase the staff through a door he and Ariella were denied passage through by an implacable djinni sorcerer who, Ariella advised, was better ignored than engaged.

Now, once again wearing their armor over the simplest clothes they could find, they studied the contents of el Arhapan’s map room.

“I see where Manshaka is meant to be,” said Ariella. “And I suppose this glyph indicates the ruins of Schamedar. But what are these numbers in the deep desert east of the Calim River, beyond the Crying God’s Redoubt at Kelter?”

“I believe I know,” said Cephas. “Corvus said el Arhapan leaves the city only to travel to Manshaka or to training camps in the desert. And see, the glyphs for that city are the only ones besides the numbers picked out in gemstones. They look like the symbols around Corvus’s platform.”

“Of course!” said Ariella. “This is not a map. It’s a teleportation circle. An ornate one, designed for just a few locative combinations. That is, if we’re to believe what the kenku said about those camps.”

Before Cephas could answer, a windsouled courtier flew through the open window. Cephas brought his flail up into a ready position, but, to his shock, the man appeared to catch fire.

“He’s transitioning to firesouled!” said Ariella.

“Cephas Earthsouled,” the man said. “Listen. If you are your mother’s son and not your father’s, the house of el Arhapan must fall. Find the foundation stone, and remember the fire at Argentor.”

The man’s skin shifted from silver to burnished copper, and his crystalline hair burned away in flames that persisted around his scalp. “Ariella Kulmina. I am not the only firesouled hidden in this house.”

Those were his last words before Shahrokh flew into the room on a cyclone that flashed lightning. He gestured and the stranger rose into the air, struggling against unseen attackers.

“The kenku’s last words puzzled me,” the djinni said to the trapped man, ignoring Cephas and Ariella. “But the message they hid is now found out. You will show me where your pathetic conspiracy has hidden him in the sewers.” With that, the djinni swept the firesouled genasi back through the window.

Unable to intercede, Ariella and Cephas watched Shahrokh and his captive vanish into the distance.

Cephas turned to her. “I believe the ringmaster has just cued the last act.”

Far below, Marod el Arhapan paced back and forth in the luxurious box of the master of games. He was impatient at the slow pace of the crowds filing in, but exultant to be at his rightful place behind the lectern. This was his place; this was his role. Playing Shahrokh’s political games, parrying with his hopeless son, even warring against the cursed WeavePasha … All of it paled next to the exhilaration of the arena.

An aide approached with a slate covered in chalked figures. After a quick glance, he dashed it onto the ground, the shattered pieces crunching beneath his boots. “No, fool! There will be no other matches on the card. The fight we witness tonight is a fight for the ages! No one will need to be warmed up for this!”

He took his seat, eager for the night to truly begin. He had forced twins to fight one another before, of course.

But never twins who also happened to be Arvoreeni adepts.

Inside the hidden chamber tucked away in Calimport Below, the priest raised his head. “Shahrokh comes,” he said. Then he added, “I fear our friend did not survive the task we set him.” He looked at the others, then at Corvus. “His name was Ravin. He was an excellent chess player.”

All the Jannisars said, in chorus, “His name was Ravin. We will remember.”

Corvus felt helpless. Things were going badly before they had properly begun. He paused in his furious calculations. “Ravin,” he said, committing the name to memory. “I will remember.”

The others began to file out of the chamber, making use of a hidden way on the wall opposite. The maskmaker waved them through, urging speed. He said to Corvus, “Shahrokh is a skylord of the djinn. There are none here who can stand against him.”

Corvus said, “Go, and continue your work. Live.”

The halfling nodded once, and disappeared into the passageway. Once he closed the secret opening, it was undetectable.

Beside him, Tobin said, “Those Janessar are some pretty stout fellows. Can we stand against this Shahrokh?”

“Not even for an instant,” said Corvus. “If you know a way to the Djen Arena, go there and do anything you can to delay the fight between Shan and Cynda. I will deal with the skylord.”

“I know a way to the arena, Corvus, but you should not sacrifice yourself. You just said we cannot stand against him!”

“Good friend,” Corvus said, “there are sacrifices I have not told you of yet. But you must go now. I will not try to stand against Shahrokh. As I said, I will deal with him.”

“They’re still out there,” said Ariella. “At least a dozen as far as I can tell.”

Djinn swarmed the el Arhapan manor in numbers allowing no possibility for the windsouled pair to escape by air. Below, the Djen Arena was lit by enormous floating lamps, the stands nearly full. Cephas did not know what to expect, but he feared that the match his father had planned would mean death for some or all of his missing companions.

“If only the firesouled had told us what this foundation stone was!” he said. “And whether I’m meant to set it afire or throw it over the side, or something else.”

“I wish we hadn’t chased all the servants away,” Ariella said. “Perhaps they’d know what he meant by his message.”

“The servants have all fled the manor, windsouled.” The voice came from the far end of the hall. “I do not know what thorn you have thrust in Shahrokh’s side, but he has made this house a prison, and now only we remain on this ridiculous floating hovel.” Other words were murmured below these, in another’s voice.

Ariella did not hesitate. She drew her sword and released it with a whispered word of power. It spun past Cephas, down the long hallway, and into the neck of Lavacre, the tall, fat firesouled ambassador from Akanul. He was still translating when it struck, and Cephas saw the man’s lips moving even as blood poured from between them.

“At least his last words were in the holy language,” Cephas said to Flamburnt. The short man watched the sword extricate itself and sail into Ariella’s waiting hand.

He ran.

Shan sat, waiting.

She had listened to Cephas talk about arena fighting to Tobin and the others during their journey across the Tethyrian highlands. She knew that the crowd played some role in the fighting, that their cheers or catcalls affected the morale of the gladiators.

Shan was not a gladiator.

For the twentieth time since the Calimien slaves turned her into this small room, she checked her equipment. The armor was not the equal of that she usually wore, but it was of good quality. Her style of fighting depended more on avoiding blades altogether, anyway, than the hack-and-slash Cephas and Tobin favored.

After she had considered and rejected a hundred or so blades in the outfitting rooms, a djinni had appeared, apparently an unprecedented occurrence to judge by the way the windsouled overseers bowed and scraped. The elemental dropped a package wrapped in oilcloth at her feet, then flew away. When she unrolled it, Shan found her own sword and parrying dagger.

These now hung at their customary places at her hip and over her shoulder. The scabbards were new, so she had rubbed fish oil into them to ensure smooth draws, after she had given up on making the Calishites understand she wanted tallow for the job.

They were afraid of her, although she had offered no resistance. They let her wander from room to room until she came to a kitchen and found the pot of oil.

She wished she had tried harder for the tallow. The fish oil would suffice, but the smell in the small ready room was driving her to distraction.

The fish oil conjured memories of a hill village far away, secreted above a brackish swamp that provided access to the sea. They traded with the halflings of the marshland, mutton and leather for dried fish and nuts and news of the wider world-and fish oil. Until this moment, she would have guessed it was the news she would come to curse the most.

News of the wider world meant glory and adventure, concepts she greeted with suspicion and that her sister greeted with wide-eyed wonder. Eventually, it meant the abbey and the deep training of the Defender’s Way, and then the wandering years the Way required. It meant word from the village of a monster that would come to steal hers and her sister’s voices. It was word of a halfling monastery razed by unknown enemies.

She shook her head. Damn that smell.

She checked again. The straps of the armor were tight. The draw of the weapons was smooth.

Shan did not know what she would face when the doors opened. Nor did she care, because she had no intention of fighting for the entertainment of the people outside, who must number in the thousands from the noise they raised.

Her plan was simple enough. She would scan the crowd for people who looked important. She would go to where they were and kill them until just a few remained. She would hold the last of them hostage and somehow make herself understood. They would bring Cynda. Then the two of them would leave this terrible place and go somewhere else. They would go to the next part of their lives.

The plan would have been even simpler if Mattias were alive. He would have found a way to sneak in and bring Cynda out undetected, or to swoop down from the air with Trill and pluck her out of her prison. If nothing else, he could have destroyed the arena.

If Corvus were there to direct her-and if she still trusted him-her role would have simply been to kill until someone told her to stop. Probably Cynda-it was almost always Cynda who found a way to stay Shan’s hand.

She checked her equipment again. Damn the smell of the oil.

Shahrokh was forced to dissipate the lower part of his body in order to pass through the door, but he in no way appeared diminished. Rage spilled from the djinni, elemental power radiating from him so strongly that Corvus would have been hard-pressed to stay conscious if he had been more sensitive to such emanations.

Even so, he felt buffeted by more than just the wind that blew from the towering djinni. Corvus was glad he had chosen to await Shahrokh from a reclined position, propped up against a pile of pillows and drinking tea.

Shahrokh opened his hand and tossed a familiar object into the room. The Book of Founding Stories bounced and spun, its pages rifling. Corvus hoped the carpets protected the book’s covers from any damage.

“You will tell me where you have hidden the Book of Calim!” roared Shahrokh.

Corvus’s reply was calm. “Yes. I will.”

“Why is there a goliath on the sand?” asked the pasha of games. He turned to his aide. “I told you there will be no other matches!”

“There are none, Pasha, I swear it!” the aide cried. “Look! He is alone. There are none for him to fight!”

“Then what is he doing?” demanded el Arhapan.

The aide had no answer. He was as mystified as the pasha when the crowd roared-particularly because they roared with laughter.

Flamburnt was fast for a man of his particular size and shape, but he was no match for Cephas in his windsouled form. The ambassador made it no farther than the central veranda before the gladiator brought him down.

The firesouled had no fear in his eyes when he looked at Cephas. That emotion did not appear until he glanced back down the gallery-where Ariella was taking her leisure in joining them. Cephas shifted his weight, raising his knee from the man’s throat.

Flamburnt struggled but could not throw Cephas off. “You are the earthsouled son of el Arhapan,” he said, talking fast. “It is your death you lean over. I am a wizard of the highest degree and an initiate of the Sacred Hunter’s Lodge in the holy city of Memnon. The flames that devour your soul will be set by my hand!”

Corvus leaned closer. “These soul-scouring flames, you can call them up before I toss you over the side?”

“Perhaps a deal can be struck!” said Flamburnt. “Call off the swordmage and tell me what it is you need explained.”

Ariella had reached them. “Ask him why two Cabalists of Memnon or Airspur or wherever they’re from are skulking about a Calimien palace.”

Flamburnt spit his response. “We were to act as observers, to ensure that the djinn did not manage to lose their half of the Ritual of Return yet again. But of course they’ve managed just that!”

Cephas remembered the pronouncements of the elementals in the desert but decided he was more concerned with the lives of his friends than the plots of the insane. “I am told,” he said, “that this house has a foundation stone, though the words sound out of place in the sky. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course I do,” Flamburnt said, rolling his eyes. “The windsouled build these extravagances atop mystic air quarried from the cliffs of the Plane Below. The foundation stone is a sort of keystone in reverse-it is the means of gravitational defiance. Somewhere in the center of this manor is a chamber open to sky, containing an elemental matrix that’s both wind and earth.”

Both wind and earth, thought Cephas.

“I know that because I read it in a children’s primer, buffoon,” said Flamburnt. “Such knowledge hardly seems worth bargaining for.”

Cephas said, “If you say so.” He removed his weight from the man, letting Ariella take his place above the firesouled mage. “I know what to do,” he said to her.

Then, ignoring Flamburnt’s cries of protest, he flew.

The wizard known as the Spiritbreaker stood with his hand on the shoulder of his finest work. The halfling woman remained motionless, a short sword in one hand and a parrying knife in the other. Neither he nor the other genasi in the room was concerned about the bared steel, even though both pieces were possessed of considerable magical potency. The Spiritbreaker’s control of the woman was absolute. He had broken the mind of an Arvoreeni adept.

He asked his assistant, “Have they cleared the sands yet?”

She shook her head. “He’s still out there. He keeps slipping away at the last moment and causing the yikaria to stumble. I don’t sense any magic, so I cannot explain where he’s finding all those pastries. Perhaps his pockets? Those are enormous pants.”

The wizard growled. “Why doesn’t Marod just order the fool shot and be done with it?”

“He’s tried,” the woman replied. “But every time the archers appear on the towers, the crowd goes insane, and they withdraw rather than risk being pulled down.”

He tried to find calm. He so wanted to see this woman fight. He patted the tamed halfling on the head. “I don’t care how perfect he thinks your foe is, dear,” he said. “You’ll make short work of them.”

She did not respond.

Even if he had given her permission to speak, of course, she couldn’t. That had been the key. She could not cry out in pain, and for the first few days, she had not evinced any other signs that his usual tricks were having any effect, either.

But then it came to him. She was drawing strength from that handicap, he thought. She was reveling in the fact that he could not take her cries of pain from her, no matter how he tried. And he could use that. He could push on that. He could push past it.

He reasoned that a voice is like a sense in reverse. Taste depended on many of the same physical features that some undead creature had destroyed in this subject, so that was easy to clip away. Smell, his studies revealed, was related to taste, so the same alchemical formulae worked double duty there.

Touch, now, had been more difficult. That was, truly, where his own expertise could be best appreciated. That was all magic, the most delicate of ritual extractions and insertions. And it had not taken her overly long to learn to grip her blades without the benefit of feeling them.

Hearing, well … That was just a matter of making sure the help didn’t get carried away and push the spikes too far into her ears.

She had not responded when he stroked her hair and whispered. She could not feel his hand. She could not hear his voice.

“That book is worthless!” Shahrokh shouted.

Corvus picked up the copy of the Book of Founding Stories and examined it. “Many would agree, Vizar. It is not rare. Its making is merely competent. The contents-”

“The contents are not what Holy Calim set down between those covers!”

Corvus agreed, nodding. “That is true. Though these are the covers he inscribed the Ritual of the Rising Wind between. And the pages themselves are, in fact, very similar. But no, if you pass a palimpsest stone over them, you will not find his writing.”

“Such a pathetic trick …” said Shahrokh.

“Now, now,” said Corvus. “I believe I did an excellent job switching out the covers. I daresay I even improved both volumes. And, if I may be allowed a bit of pride, I did manage to deceive an efreeti cinderlord and a djinni skylord.”

“Tell me where the Book of Calim is, spy. Should I make specific threats, or is it enough to know that every life within a thousand of your ridiculous paces depends on your next words?”

“El Arhapan has filled the arena with the elite of the city, and fifteen thousand slaves,” Corvus said. “That is many lives. Many loyal servants of Calim among them.”

“The loyal would count their deaths blessed. The Return is the only thing of importance.”

“And that book that will ensure it, yes. Which only I can recover, so to speak.”

“There are a thousand ways I can drag this secret from your mind, kenku. You do not have to be alive for all of them.”

“Ah, well, there’s where another of my advantages lie, though I admit its value is … debatable. Shahrokh, you came to me because I am a Graduate Survivor of the Rookery of Tears. The deaths we deal are permanent, irrevocable. Especially when we deal them to ourselves. If you seek to test the truth of this claim, come closer. I will be dead before you can bellow another curse, and the only powers in the universe that could bring me back are powers with no desire to see the return of Calim. Blessed be his name.”

Shahrokh moved himself lower. “I hesitate to invite this on myself,” he said. “But speak.”

“First, no djinni is to act against the wishes or actions of any mortal in this city for, let us say, a day.”

The vizar’s eyes turned the color of thunderheads. When they returned to normal, he said, “It is done. My people withdraw to the skies to await my word. Where is the book?”

“Second. No djinni under your command, and not you either, will cause harm to any person who has ever been a member of Nightfeather’s Circus of Wonders for a period of one thousand years, starting now. And let’s say that goes for anyone who signs on in the next year.”

“You recognize how easily I will circumvent this by using mortal agents, I am sure, but on the condition that you reveal the book’s location, then it shall be as you say. Will you mouth more inanities, or is the deal struck?”

Corvus got to his feet. “The copy of the book containing Calim’s ritual hidden in its text was in my nest. When you severed my link with that, the book spilled out, along with many other things I value. Almost all of those things were books. So when you find them, you’ll have to be careful to choose the right one. I trust you’ll not make the mistake of judging a book by its cover again any time soon.”

Shahrokh glowered. “Your judgments of me mean nothing, kenku. I have lived millennia and toppled empires, because I make estimations about my foes. If you think I will now pay some terrible price because I underestimated a mortal, then you have forgotten that my only goal is to hold the book. The forms are fulfilled. So I will meet that goal.”

Corvus said, “The forms, yes. The ancient protocols for striking a deal with a djinni.” He held up the book of stories. “They’re all in here, did you know that?”

Shahrokh did not reply. He crossed his arms, ready to wait as long as necessary.

“You’ll forgive me if I do not simply name a location. The terms of our bargain will be met, I think, as long as I give you adequate directions to find the book. In fact, I think I could even convey them as a series of riddles if I had the time.”

“You think I will blindly follow your directions?” Shahrokh asked.

“I think you must, because that is my third demand. That meets the forms.” Corvus leaned over and rolled back carpets until he uncovered the floor. It was coated with dust. He set the book aside, then kneeled and began sketching with one talon.

“You know ritual magic well enough to recognize that these are the sigils needed to open a portal in the mortal world. Surely there’s no place in the mortal world you would be afraid to travel in order to recover the Book of Calim?”

Cephas floated above his father’s house, unpleasantly aware of the scattering of djinn hovering somewhere beyond. They had streamed past him as he flew, as disinterested in him as one might be in a fly.

He did not know why the djinn had withdrawn, and he watched for their return; however, for the moment, he counted it as luck to be unhindered as he studied the courtyards and verandas below. The manor was enormous, and its design included many interior chambers open to the sky. He flew on the windsoul, so his flight must be brief. He went as high as he dared, risking a fall to the manor or even farther if he did not go back down soon.

Ah, he thought, seeing the manor below him. Of course. To a denizen of the elemental plane, something that combined aspects of both earth and wind was necessarily impure. The flagstones lining all the courtyards were perfectly clear. Only the floor of a single round room had something in its character to distinguish it from the rest.

With the last moment of flight granted him by the wind-force, Cephas floated above the foundation stone. He felt his body begin to fall, and he wondered if earth combined with wind had a song of its own.

Then he felt the earth-force gathering inside. It spread through his limbs, and all along his szuldar, as the change came over him and his earthsoul manifested.

When he had made the shelter beneath the burning tent in Argentor, Flek told him to shape a space inside himself, a shape he knew well. The shape had been the only home he had ever known-his cell on Jazeerijah. It had barely been large enough to hold him and his friends.

Such a small place would never be sufficient to contain the force he felt inside him. The cell had been his home, but any home he would ever make now must be large enough to contain more than just him and a few others-Ariella and Tobin, Melda and Whitey and all their kin, his long-lost cousins of Argentor, the twins. Grinta the Pike needed space. He must have room, too, for Mattias and Trill, even though they would occupy it in memory. Their memories loomed so large.

Maybe even space for Corvus; he did not yet know.

Cephas opened his eyes against the wind. He extended his arms and legs, pointing himself down toward the foundation stone. He dived through the air, like an aerialist. He gathered his strength, like a strongman.

He clenched his fists, striking for home.