Song of Time

3

"Do I have this story straight? you do not have your payment because… you had your mark in front of you, and you let him leave the shop? Then he got away from your man in the streets? Riolla, I am very disappointed in you. 1 thought I had taught you better than to be so careless. And such an unimaginative excuse at that." The hooded man spoke softly, but his words pierced Riolla's heart. "And why would that be? How many more like him have you let get away, hmm? Did this particular young man distract you to the point of blindness, or is your incompetence because of your new 'love'?"

"I did my best, Raptor," Riolla countered, anxiety making her words sound futile. She ignored the Raptor's mention of her newest attempt to procure the throne of Sumifa. "But Saelin, my best assassin, says he is ensorcelled. It's as though he feels you coming. Saelin reports that the digger dropped down in the street at just the instant before the silent, spinning blade would have struck him. Saelin the Butcher has never come back without the head he was sent for… perhaps there is magic here, or just very bad luck. Some people are followed by such luck, you know7 0

Teri McLaren

they move through their lives with no care at all, never bowing to our beloved Caelus Nin, forswearing the ancestors, and nothing bad ever happens to them."

Riolla caught herself chattering nervously and stopped it. No true Fascini would ever do such a thing. The Raptor would not respect it. She moved to another tactic. One she knew the Raptor could not resist.

"Perhaps we might discuss future plans concerning this young man rather than past failures. I think he could be very valuable anyway. After all, he is a digger, and diggers are always after treasure. And I think this one has found something. He has been asking about a totem with a peculiar glyph on it, written in the old language," Riolla continued, mentally shoving her fear into a bag.

In the darkness of the hot room, which seemed especially hot today, Riolla waited for the Raptor to consider her tempting words. How she longed for an open window…

The Raptor lived on the topmost floor of Sumifa's tallest building, smack in the middle of the Citadel, the central feature of Sumifa, a spectacular view at his command. But in all the many years Riolla had answered to this man, paid him for the protection he gave her several businesses, legitimate and otherwise, she had never known him to open a window, light a lamp, or leave the airless room during the daylight hours. She had never seen his face, and just now, as he paced back and forth in front of the dark stone walls, the only way she could pick out his location was by the rustle of his robes and the click of his heels on the black marble floor.

How glad I will be when I don't need you anymore, you cruel-hearted, self-absorbed, fear-mongering vulture. When I have married Prince Maceo, I will turn you out of this dark roost and clean this house. Saelin does not miss. If this digger has escaped my best assassin, then that young man may very well have the

magic to lead me to the Clock, and its hoard, and then the entire Mercanto will look to me, and I will control what is paid and when. Maceo will be invested within the month, and I shall many him upon the same day. And the Fascini will throw parties just to argue with each other about how and to which of them I am suddenly related, for I will be the queen of Sumifa. Maceo will, of course, come to an unexpected and tragic, though very sudden, death. And you, Raptor, when I have the treasure from the Clock, I will find a way to destroy even you. You will never make me feel common and unimportant again.

Riolla smiled to herself, ruby lips perking at the edges just a little, her eyes unfocused in the darkness. A slow trickle of sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat. Today, as always, she had removed the black pearl before her audience with the Raptor-it was the one thing she could not afford to pay him. She flicked open a flabellum made from the stiff white feathers of an extinct peacock and began to fan herself as the Raptor stopped pacing and finally spoke. His voice was hard and edged like Sumifan steel.

"Riolla, how many foreign diggers do your spies tell you work the site?"

"Three, Raptor. The leader, the linguist, and this young man." Riolla was puzzled by the question.

"And the young man… how old is he?"

"Well, I would guess him to be about his naming year, that is, if he had a name to take up," Riolla replied. Though she couldn't tell exactly why, things seemed to have taken a very bad turn here.

"And Saelin said he is ensorcelled? Magic? When, then? He must be the one. Of course I could not see him. How very, very clever of Javin… but he will pay for such boldness and such cleverness. His time, I believe, will shortly run out," the Raptor muttered to himself. Though Riolla understood none of his ram-blings, she sat listening keenly anyway. Information was information.

"By the grace of Nin, Riolla, you have escaped death at the hands of your own assassin. If Saelin had taken this head for you, he would be taking yours for me."

Stunned, Riolla put down her fan and strained to hear what he said next. "But… I could do worse than to let this particular digger lead you to his hoard, bring it to daylight, and then inform him of my prior claim on it."

The Raptor started pacing again. "Yes. You will follow him. He will probably go west, across the desert. Perhaps a good long journey is just what you need. You haven't been getting out much lately."

Riolla began to fan herself again, squirming in her fair, delicate skin at the thought of crossing the desert and sleeping on the ground… at having to speak with commoners all day long. The Raptor said nothing for several moments. Riolla felt perspiration trickle down her back, but her fan kept its steady beat, counting out the seconds. At last she answered.

"As you wish."

The Raptor moved on to another question. "Riolla, what do you know about Kalkuk?"

"Kalkuk?" She coughed, completely off her guard. "I have not seen him for a while…" If the Raptor knew she had killed the old shopkeeper, he would also want to know about how she had put him in the old crypt. The pearl…

"That is odd. He was found dead at the old city. Under very strange circumstances, from what my sources report. I wonder…" he breathed. Riolla did her best to control her fan, timing its languid sweeps to the same rhythm as before he asked his question. The Raptor said nothing.

"Perhaps the diggers did away with him themselves," she began. "Maybe he got in the way of their work, or tried to steal something they'd unearthed. That would make perfect sense. He was behind with his payment, which of course is why I myself am late," she improvised.

The Raptor laughed softly. "Or perhaps you have found a way to make it seem so. If you are lying to me, Riolla…"

"Raptor, by the broken face of Caelus Nin and my most revered ancestors, I would be a fool to lie to you. I offer only a possible explanation for the untimely death of one of my best customers. I shall miss him sadly."

"You shall miss his regular payments sadly. And your revered ancestors are bought. But you will continue to pay Kalkuk's portion anyway, Riolla. Or I shall be forced to look further into his, as you say, untimely death."

Riolla knew when to be quiet. The Raptor paced the room for a while longer, then spoke again at last. "About this lucky young man. If he is who I think he is-if he is who I hope he is-I have waited a decade to find him again. I want him alive and unharmed. Follow him. As I said, he will go west. Discover his path before he takes it, so that you do not lose him again. Again I say to you, do not hurt him: do you understand? Your assassin was trained by Drufalden. He will have his pride to avenge. You must keep Saelin from that work. You are quite capable of your own work, I believe. If he is not left alive, how would the digger find the treasure for me, do you see?"

Long in the practice of reading this particular voice, Riolla noticed the Raptor's tone had softened, as though he felt he had told her a bit too much. She felt a little more confident. He was truly interested in the digger and his treasure. It made her want it even more.

"You have dealt with the peoples along the old route before," he continued. "Only do not forget that you are my agent abroad to all those whose boundaries you must pass. Take this with you. Give it to Drufalden for the surety of your army. I will collect it later myself."

An ancient coin with image of Caelus Nin on it, the eastern face on one side, the western on the other, chimed like a silver bell on the stones and rolled to Riolla's feet.

"I expect to see this again. I will send someone to rendezvous with you before you reach the Borderlands. Trouble me no more until you present me with the trove and the healthy person of this strange, elusive, young digger."

Riolla got up to leave the airless room, knowing she was dismissed, but not breathing much easier for it. Just before she cleared the threshold, the Raptor spoke again.

"Riolla."

"Yes, Raptor?"

"Pay your dues."

"Yes, I am angry. Cheyne, there is more at stake here than you know. If you were any younger, I would send you home. As it is, listen to the facts and act like the grown man you are. First of all, you told no one where you went today. Aside from the fact that we are now very shorthanded here, that put me into a bit of a stir until you returned safely. A body was found here! And we still don't know why, except that we could be right on top of the Collector's treasure. You go and disappear-what am I supposed to think? Aside from your little excursion, there is the matter of the rumbling in the ranks of the Fascini. The old king at least had a sort of tolerance for us. So long as we didn't bother him, he didn't care what we did with this forsaken sandhill. But Maceo is another matter. I expect King Thedeso won't be cold in the ground before his irritating son is carted out here to decree our immediate dismissal."

Cheyne started to say that he'd already met the heir to the crown, but had no chance. Javin continued almost without another breath.

"There could be a fight-I must refuse to leave. It's my last chance at the Collector. I need to know where you are at all times from now on." Javin dropped his head between his hands, elbows propped on his knees. "And I need to convince the Fascini to give us at least one more season. It would help if there were money enough to buy Maceo off, I suspect. But until we find the Collector's treasure, all I can do is promise him his share of it. Things will depend on my powers of persuasion. Judging from the way those powers worked on you today, the dig is all but finished," he added miserably.

"Javin, I had to go. Because of the grown man I am," Cheyne began, certain that Javin hadn't sent anyone to the city to look for him because he probably hadn't been missed until the guard had seen him light the lamp in his tent. Javin had had too much else to think about. "You just don't understand. It's not about the treasure for me. It's about who I am. That's a question you never had to ask. You knew your parents, you knew your country, you knew your work. I don't even know what my face looks like, or what my full name is. Everywhere on this continent we have gone, people have a surname. Even the Sumifans who live in the Barca have that. There are too many mysteries for me. I won't always work on your digs, Javin. I want my own life. My own name. How can I have a future unless I have a past? I need to know where I fit."

Cheyne was about to pull the amulet from under his shirt and show favin the matching glyphs on the totem, but Javin whirled on him angrily, his patience worn away by the heat and the day's ugly discoveries.

"Cheyne! I gave you a direct order not to leave the site today. You disobeyed it. Why? Because you cannot see past your own small issues. If we-when we-find the Collector, I am sure that the answers to your questions will follow. But I need you to show some concern for something besides your own petty pains. Something far larger than your need for a name is at stake."

Cheyne's face began to bum with Javin's last words and he dropped the amulet back inside his shirt, a horrible new awareness dawning on him.

What did Javin care? For that matter, what had Javin ever cared? When he'd found Cheyne, Javin had been looking for the Collector, just as he was now. All

Javin had ever told him was that Cheyne had been the only survivor of a vicious attack on a trading caravan. Cheyne had turned the story over and over in his mind, searching each detail Javin had supplied for historical consistency, for truth. There were things that just didn't seem right. For one, the ores had done a strange thing in killing off the drivers and the families traveling with the traders. Usually, ore bandits, well known for their laziness and lack of organization, just took what they could carry in a lightning strike of a raid and let the caravans go on, knowing they would return via the same, the only path, laden with more goods. It had taken some thousand years for the ores to understand that principle, and they practiced it with consuming faith. Why, then, had they destroyed their own livelihood for one haul of goods in that raid? It didn't make sense. It never had.

Apart from his first name, Cheyne had never recovered any memory of events before that day. AH his life, the questions of why he had been part of the lost caravan or who his family was gnawed at him like rats, growing bigger and more insistent with every new summer's end, the anniversary of the attack. Now it was his twenty-first year in Argive, and also here in Sumifa- that was the year a person took a name and left their father's house-and still he had no more than the amulet and Javin's shaky story to claim as his heritage.

For Cheyne, it seemed life had begun the moment Javin had shaken him awake, pulling him from an enchanted sleep, with only the strange amulet around his neck as proof of the first ten years of his life. For months afterward, he could not even talk. That's when Muni had come. Muni was the best linguist there was, and it had taken him nearly a year to get the boy to speak coherently. All the while, Cheyne awoke every night bathed hi a salty drench of sweat, shaking and terrified by indecipherable, recurring dreams-bizarre images of color and light, of a tall, sear-faced elf, of a man with no face.

Cheyne's dreams weren't the only ones in question. Before Javin could remount his dig, the Fascini heard about the hapless traders and permanently closed the caravan route, causing the elves to retreat into their magical forest, leaving no paths for outsiders through the curtain of light. As if that weren't enough, Javin had lost the support of future crew members-nobody wanted to go where the ores were so vicious. Barely escaping them three times on the way back, Javin knew he could never make it across the hostile lands of the Wyrvils again alone, even if he could convince the elves to let him in. So because he had troubled to care for Cheyne, Javin had lost his chance to dig in the Borderlands for all time.

So why, when Javin faced the same loss again, would he ever care about Cheyne's desperate need to search out his identity? The perfect sense of it dawned on him with stunning clarity. Javin had too much at stake here to be distracted by anything-a man like Javin, who, before he had found Cheyne, had lost two wives in foreign plagues, who now fostered no friendships and sought no roots-to such a man, work was everything. Javin's heart was set on this dig. Come the Fascini or the whirlwinds, he would not be denied this last chance to find the Collector's grave.

"Look, Cheyne, I've had enough. I'm going to bed. Muni has found a man willing to stand guard at the vault. We've taken out most of the sand, but there's still a corner full of it. The Collector isn't down there, but I'm sure that it's his house. Maybe he's on the next level, but we have to empty this one first. Think you can help Muni for awhile tonight, while it's cooler? I don't know how long before the Fascini come. We need to move as quickly as we can," said Javin, his voice strained with fatigue.

"Sure, Javin," Cheyne answered hollowly.

As Cheyne made his way up the dunes, the three sisters, first evening stars in this part of the world, appeared one by one in the deepening sky. Though the sun had set an hour ago, heat lightning still flashed in the west and the dunes still reflected the day's warmth on his face and hands. Soon the warm air would turn into a cold and constant breeze that would sweep over the site relentlessly until dawn.

Cheyne mounted the topmost dune as the blue dusk turned to complete darkness. He stood looking at the fading horizon for a moment, the peaceful view soothing the pain of Javin's disinterest. Some of the old palace's outer columns, invisible only a few weeks ago, ringed the site like silent sentries. Their basalt heads were chipped and cracked, or missing altogether. Still, they looked regal to Cheyne as they cut even darker silhouettes against the flashing sky. Behind him, the broken shell of a round watchtower, probably the tallest part of the ruin, rose in stark elegance.

He took out the totem from his tunic and held it to the sky, watching the colors in its edges dance with the lightning. He thought of the totem's glyphs and imagined that it was his name, his true name, carved there, sign of the beloved king of a great and mighty people, holding a just court amid those tall columns, his ancestors' faces carved in the stones behind him and looking on with approval.

He laughed aloud at the fantasy, sure that of all the pasts that might be his, this was not one of them. His voice echoed peculiarly in the columns just as the totem's edge caught a strong flash of lightning and the rainbow shot upward into the sky, the tight beam of colors softening to form the image of a woman's hand, her first two fingers oddly crooked at the first joint. Hie vision was gone almost before Cheyne saw it. Cheyne turned the prism in every direction, trying to make the image appear again, but the lightning moved off after a couple of minutes, and the sky was truly dark. He shook his head in disbelief, thinking the desert played tricks upon his eyes, that the lightning had deceived him. He put the totem back in his pack and moved on toward the vault.

The high desert air tasted clean and pure, and the brilliant white stars nearly outshone the large moon and its small companion. Cheyne often marveled at the little moon-it had been an integral part of every ancient civilization he had studied. In Argive, each record of the moon's advent was the same, though. One night it hadn't been in the sky-the next night, it was, and it had been there ever since.

It just appeared there, no way of knowing how. Like me, he thought as he trudged up the dunes to the vault, where Muni leaned casually against the marble slab they had moved that morning. It lay in the same position, the plaited ropes in their original knots.

"I am glad you have returned safely from your adventure. My apologies, by the way, for the assassin, though you acquitted yourself admirably. I had my hands full with his three friends."

"You followed me?" Cheyne looked at him incredulously. Muni smiled broadly, his teeth showing very white in the darkness.

"No. I took a dead man home. On my way back, I saw your predicament." Muni held the ropes up and offered him one end, securing the other one around his own waist.

Cheyne did not move. Muni sighed.

"Cheyne. You come and go as you will. When our paths cross, it is my calling to assist if I may. A simple 'thank you' will suffice, my friend." Muni bowed deeply, as Almaazan man to man.

Cheyne was glad of the darkness. It covered his embarrassment. For the first time, Muni had just acknowledged him as an equal and he had nearly let his anger make him a fool. He returned the bow and took the rope. "You're not going down?"

"No. Kifran and I will stand guard up here. I will feed you buckets and empty the backfill. The only things likely to disturb you inside are the living vermin." He smiled.

Kifran, a large, bearded Sumifan, saluted Muni and took his place by the tallest column. He was one of the men from the crew Muni ran, one of the few who did not believe in the old juma stories of an evil djinn which had once hovered over this place, bringing deadly sandstorms and making it uninhabitable, the very reason old Sumifa had moved to its present location. Muni's explanation to Cheyne had been more pragmatic: the community had simply outgrown its bounds, and the river had changed its course over the years, forcing them to rebuild across the Nantas to the west, where the town now rambled and sprawled, every so often adding another wall around the last when the population expanded. But the old legends had a hold on most of the Sumifan citizens-ask any Fascini's right-hand man, and the answer was the same. Old Sumifa had moved because it was destroyed by an evil force which still roamed the dunes.

"Muni?"

"Yes, my friend."

"By chance, did you see a tall elf in the city yesterday?"

"No, I did not." Muni laughed. "But if I had, or if I do, I will be certain that you are the very first person I tell."

Cheyne sighed and dropped down into the pit, the torch Muni had tossed in before him burning brightly on the newly swept marble floor. Several of Muni's despised vermin had scattered from the fire, and a couple of fancollar lizards, the scorpions' chief predators, skittered after them, their tiny claws clicking faintly on the marble floor. Nature seemed to balance everything, thought Cheyne, taking a bucket from Muni, scraping it full of sand, shaking it over the screen into another bucket, handing that one back up full, receiving another empty one.

The work continued rhythmically, uneventfully, for an hour, Cheyne's mind turning to his afternoon's adventure, wandering through the streets of Sumifa again, to Riolla's, to the fight with her assassin, to the odd helper he'd found and lost again so quickly.

What was it about this totem that made Riolla, the Mercanto Schreefa, want it badly enough to take his head? She had lied about the last glyph. Maybe she really did know what it said. Cheyne thought of the strange little man who had helped him. He wished he could have bought the beggar a hot meal or a bed for the night, even though he stole my last two kohli, Cheyne thought, smiling. At the very least, a loaf of bappir, that strange, sweet grain bread all Sumifans so favored. He vowed to himself that if he ever saw the big-nosed beggar again, he would find a way to thank him.

"Cheyne?" Muni called down. The empty bucket bobbed on its rope.

"Right here, Muni. Just thinking. Sorry."

There were only three or four feet of sand left to remove from the corner. Then he could sleep. With a mighty pull on the bucket, Cheyne tore into the job with renewed energies.

Just then, the torch burned into a knot, flaring brilliantly for an instant, illuminating the dark corner where Cheyne was working. He stopped in midscoop, something in the cascade catching the sudden light. Cheyne stepped back for the torch and brought it close over the fine sand. Just under the surface, the thick lip of a pottery jar decorated with intricate, bright goldleaf markings caught the torchlight again, its crescent shape unmistakable. Cheyne braced the torch upright in the sand, pulled out his hand sweep, and began to brush away the thin layer of grains. In minutes, he had freed from its gritty tomb several shards of a good-sized clay jar.

"Muni! I found something. Besides sand, I mean," Cheyne called up in an excited whisper.

But his old friend had stepped away from the portal for a moment-Cheyne could hear him speaking sharply to Kit ran above, but could not make out the words. Agitation was not Muni's style. Troubled, Cheyne turned back to the shards, grabbed up the light, and shone it under the bright rim. More sand. He quickly sketched the situation of the find, then scooped his hand shallowly into the fragments, drawing out sand and letting the grains fall, their sharp edges sparkling like gold dust in the soft light of the torch. The sand inside the shards somehow looked redder and sharper than what he had been scooping away all night. And far more different from another kind of Almaazan sand-grains blown around for centuries in the high, towering storms of the eastern erg, settling to earth only when they became rounded, dull, and unreflective. There were supposedly great deposits of them hidden on the erg's surface. You could drown in sand like that, no water for miles. Just sink into the smoothness of it and keep sinking, until you were covered up. Like suffocating in silk.

But the crystals in his hand had been new when they found their way into the jar-as if they'd just been created, their edges sharp and faceted like little mirrors, catching the light in glittering waves. He ran his hand across the pleasantly rough grains, changing the pattern of sheen from the light, tiny rainbows appearing in the dark room for just an instant when the torch wavered.

Fascinated, Cheyne carefully dug more and more of the fine sand from under the mouth of the jar. When his hand struck the sharp edge of something, he leapt backward, thinking he'd been stung by a scorpion. Under the glare of the lantern, he saw a little nick on his hand instead of a sting and, relieved, took up his hand sweep to fish out a small, bronze-bound book the moment before Muni's face appeared over the portal.

"Sorry, Cheyne, I thought I thought saw something in the dunes-Cheyne?" Muni peered down into the vault, a slow smile creasing his weathered brown face. "You have found more besides vermin, 1 see," said Muni, delight in his voice. "What do you make of it?"

"What? Oh, you mean the shards!" Cheyne chortled, quickly hiding the small book in his robes. He wanted a chance to look it over before handing it up. There was writing, and once a linguist got hold of a book, it could be months before he saw it again. "Yes, I have. I don't think the piece is Sumifan, though-the designs and clay are wrong, don't you think?"

"Hmm. We'll need to see it in daylight. Your father will be pleased. And that won't hurt right now," Muni said knowingly.

"Muni, I'm going to stop for a minute and record the patterns on these shards."

"Good idea. Only make haste-we have yet to empty the room. And something feels very wrong about the weather up here. I think I saw some sort of shadow moving toward the camp."

"That 'evil presence' the men are always talking about? Surely not you, too, Muni?" Cheyne laughed and pulled out his sketch pad, quickly roughing in the odd shapes stamped and carved onto the pottery fragments.

He was finished long before he called Muni to resume the evacuation of the sand-time enough to examine the little book and decide it was without a doubt what (avin had been searching for. Now he'll understand why I have to find my past, he reasoned. He tucked the book into his pack, saving it for Javin's eyes first. Muni, he knew, would understand. An hour later, they left Kifran to continue the watch alone.

"It appears I was wrong about the djinn. I have neither seen nor heard anything odd for some good while. But the feeling remains. So, indulge me, please, and sleep in the mess tent tonight. I will take yours. May the sun find you well, may your sleep be dreamless." Muni bowed his night blessing and removed himself silently to the workers* shelter, leaving Cheyne outside the dark main tent. Cheyne shrugged, knowing he would be there all night if he tried to talk Muni out of his precautions.

Across the floor, under the netting on a low cot, Javin lay deep in sleep. Cheyne lit a small oil lamp and pulled out the book he'd found in the jar.

"Wake up, Javin." Despite his incredible excitement, Cheyne jostled his father's feet gently. "Look what I found." Cheyne produced the sketches first, saving the book for last and best, but Javin refused to move.

"Javin-" He finally held up the little bronze-bound book.

Javin snored soundly, stirring the netting about his face, the thin blankets tucked closely around the end of the cot to keep out unwelcome night visitors.

Disappointed yet again, Cheyne put the sketches on the table, sat down on the bench, and blew out the lantern. In the dark tent, his face toward the canvas, toward the east, he debated about leaving the little book for Javin to find in the morning.

He knew where the old pottery had come from. The signature stamps on it looked exactly like the ones on a matched set of grain pots Javin had said came from the Sarrazan forest. He had grown up with those two elven-made jars sitting at either end of Javin's big riverstone fireplace. And the elves' same signature glyph had decorated the tall elfs cloakpin. More importantly, all of them were originally word symbols in Old High Sumifan. Since he had first seen the elf in Sumifa, Cheyne had suspected the Sarrazan potters were the only ones who might still be able to read his indecipherable amulet and the totem's last carving. Now he was even more sure. But the elves lived in the Borderlands… past the western erg, past the Wyrvil territories, past the curtain of light. Beyond memory and time.

All right, favin. I tried. I tried before, and I tried now to tell you about what I have found. But all you care about is your own little square of trouble. Well, that's fine with me. You have done your duty by your foundling-educated me, and sheltered me. Why should I expect any more than that? You took your chance in coming here to follow your dream. I must take mine now. You save your energy for the Collector. It's time for me to look for my own past. Cheyne's face grew hot with pride and determination. His mind was made up. He would quit the dig-Javin did the really important work anyway-and go to the Borderlands, no matter how far, no matter how dangerous.

And I will not look back, he promised himself. / will never look back.

He quietly lifted the keys to the supply hut from their hook above Javin's cot. It would have to be a short night. Tomorrow, before the three sisters winked out again and Muni would rise to relieve Kifran, before Javin would sense the light and lift his head, fastening single-mindedly on keeping his precious work going, Cheyne would be back in Sumifa, finding a guide for his own expedition.

Across the dunes, in the new city, a whirlwind churned the sand into a scouring spray as it moved through the Barca, tearing the stalls down and scattering crockery, blinding three men and a shirrir-drunken woman as they reveled on the rooftops. When the wind reached the Mercanto, it blew down the sign in front of Riolla's shop, then moved over the Citadel with a new strength, finally resting, hovering over the tall spire that was the Raptor's tower. Seconds later, the sand fell to the ground outside the spire, cascading down the basalt stonework like a waterfall.