Sandstorm (10 page)

In his wagon, Corvus watched the last word fade from the page that was simultaneously bound in his journey book and in a workbook of the WeavePasha of Almraiven.

Then he turned to another page. Taking up his quill again, he penned a very similar message, meant for a very different reader.

A
T DAWN
, C
EPHAS STOOD ON THE DRIVER’S BOARD OF
a wagon, watching Corvus and a heavyset woman called Wagonmistress Melda scratch converging lines in the dirt with silver rods. Mattias waited next to the ringmaster’s wagon and explained the ritual.

“See how the road they draw recedes into the distance where all the lines come together? That’s a draftsman’s trick, and the wise know there’s as much magic in it as in any of Corvus’s toys and chants.”

Cephas nodded. Jazeerijah possessed little in the way of art, beyond the decorative flourishes worked into the deadlier armaments and most effective pieces of armor. He glanced down at the satchels stowed below the driver’s board, gifts from Tobin. They held the flail and piecemeal scale he’d brought with him out of captivity.

“Now Melda is pouring trails of residuum from their sketched road on the ground before her team. They always take the lead.” The woman retreated from the network of lines Corvus muttered over, walking backward and letting a stream of glittering dust flow from a leather pouch in her hands. When she reached a pair of oxen, placidly chewing their cud in the traces of a wagon plainer than most of the others, she straightened and pulled the drawstring of the pouch tight.

“What she’s got in her pouch there might be worth as much as what you’re so anxious to keep hidden away beneath Corvus’s bench,” said Mattias. He no longer watched the ritual, looking at Cephas. “Nobody here is going to take those pretties from you, Cephas.”

Cephas, flustered, focused on Corvus. At first, nothing happened as the kenku finished whatever magic he was working. But then the weeds in front of Melda’s team of oxen flattened. More than that, twin paths spread out before the imperturbable beasts, parallel to each other and just broad enough for the oxen to easily walk along. Boulders shifted and frost-heaved ground smoothed itself, as a new road led away from the more mundane track they camped beside.

The trade road led north and south. The ritual-wrought trail led west, away from the sunrise across a highland plain still cloaked in night.

The wagon train moved slowly, even with the benefit of the trail magically breaking before them. Corvus explained, “It just smoothes out the rough bits so we’re less likely to break a wheel or, worse, lose one of the oxen or horses to a broken leg. I don’t know the trick of grading real roads with spellwork.”

“It seems a great work to me,” Cephas said.

Corvus laughed. “Not so great. And temporary. This path closes behind us just as it opens before us. In fact, whoever is in the last wagon might be bushwhacking if they’ve fallen behind.”

Cephas thought that unlikely. The atmosphere among the members of the circus was as far removed from the grimness of Shaneerah’s training grounds as he could imagine, but the troop was no less disciplined. Corvus, though he never touched the reins, kept his wagon a uniform distance from the one in front of them, and when the trail swept around a hill or copse more easily avoided than navigated, Cephas could see that the same precision held true all up and down the line. The wagon train moved like a highly skilled team of gladiators tasked to fight a common foe.

The common foe, in this case, was the long distance that lay between them and a place called Argentor, and Corvus’s desire that they make the journey with as much haste and as much secrecy as two such conflicting demands allowed.

The second requirement, secrecy, kept Trill in her wagon. Mattias Farseer’s companion had her own place in the train, a wagon pulled by a double pair of oxen that wore feedbags over their noses stuffed with sweet-smelling herbs, and had blinders on their eyes. Cephas was surprised that the ranger would agree to have the wyvern confined in the wheeled cage he drove, but it soon became apparent that the bars of the wagon were not what they seemed. More than once, when he stood up on the seat of Corvus’s wagon to get a better view of the plain around him, Cephas spotted Trill’s wings spreading out
through
the bars or, with her tail twitching back and forth behind, extending out from the solid rear wall of the wagon, causing some small amount of trouble for the driver of the team behind.

“It’s illusory,” Corvus said, “and a constant source of grief. You’re right that Mattias wouldn’t allow her to be caged, even if she would consent to it. But there aren’t many people in this wide world who would permit us to transport an unbound wyvern through their lands. Not even the elves back where Mattias and Trill came from.”

“Elves,” said Cephas, thinking of Grinta, his only previous source of information about the lands and peoples of Faerûn. “According to Grinta the orc, they are the apostate get of the Demon Lord Corellon and the Mother of All Squirrels. They cower behind trees and shoot arrows. Swing at their knees.”

Corvus made a choking noise. “That’s … one point of view, to be sure,” he said. “I wish I’d known that the Calishites had such a sage of the free peoples as your Grinta secreted away in that canyon. I would have brought her out along with you.”

The thought of Grinta left behind on Jazeerijah stung. Cephas had noticed that Corvus managed to find a way to deflect the question every time he’d asked so far, but he tried again. “Why did you bring
me
out?”

And as he had every time before, Corvus found a way to lead Cephas to another subject. “And yet this Grinta never told you about
you
, about the genasi and all their secrets of earth and fire and water. Yours is a strange race, Cephas, and there are few who could tell their tale with authority. Perhaps none with as much authority as the people we go to perform for next.”

Cephas seized on this new information. “The people in Argentor know about genasi?” he asked.

Corvus said, “My friend, the people in Argentor
are
genasi. Earthsouled, all of them. A whole village of people just like you.”

Their second night on the plain, Cephas sat atop the wagon, watching the circus pitch camp.

“I should help,” he told Corvus, who puttered back in the recesses of the wagon. “I’ve listened to the earth for days now. I can keep from getting lost in it, I’m sure.”

Corvus stuck his long beak through the beaded curtain that concealed his wagon’s interior. “We’ll make Argentor in three more nights, Cephas. The people there will be able to tell you how to control what you hear. And other things. Things you can do.”

“I understand,” said Cephas. “But look at Tobin and Whitey setting up that cursed stage for me to rest on like the pasha of Manshaka. I do not want to … stand out.”

Corvus came outside. He waved away Cephas’s concerns. “ ‘The pasha of Manshaka,’ you said.” The kenku’s voice was subdued. “What do you know of that place?”

Cephas shook his head. “It is just a place in the stories, some of them. The man who ruled there was as fat as a gelded boar and went about the city on a litter carried by four just men. One of the bearers fell in love with the pasha’s daughter, and she disguised herself as a courtesan so she could smuggle a dagger of stone into the slave pens. He used this to free all the righteous among the gladiators of the Arenas of Blood.”

“The
righteous
among them,” Corvus said. “What about the unrighteous?”

Cephas shrugged. “They were left in the pens, I suppose—if there were any still alive at the end of that day’s games. It is the righteous who prevail.”

Corvus took a long look at Cephas, then called out into the hum of the camp. “Tobin!” he said. “Find Shan and have her bring me the copy of the
Book of Founding Stories
she and her sister bought in Innarlith.”

The goliath, who had taken to wearing a silk shirt died yellow and red and festooned with dozens of bright flowers, smiled and waved. “The
Book of Founding Stories,”
he said. “Yes, Corvus.”

“Tobin,” called Corvus, interrupting the goliath’s long strides across the camp. “The copy they bought at Innarlith. Make sure you tell Shan that in particular.”

“Innarlith, right!” the goliath replied.

A moment later, Shan slid onto the bench between Corvus and Cephas, dropping down from the roof of the wagon behind them. She handed a worn leather-bound book to the kenku and waited, obviously curious.

“You’ve seen one much like this, Cephas?” asked Corvus.

The sight of the volume overwhelmed Cephas with memories of Jazeerijah; of Azad’s telling him he would never see the book again, never hear another of its stories. He spoke in a hushed tone. “This book was made on the order of Kamar yn Saban el Djenispool, the great human leader of all Calimshan in the … old days. It has the whole of the world in it.”

Cephas reached his hand out and Corvus let him take the volume. He studied the cover, tooled with a single character, tracing its slashes and curves with the tip of one finger. “But this is supposed to be silver, with a blue stone set in this place here.”

Corvus held out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Cephas returned the book.

“Yes, well, Azad yi Calimport read from a different copy of the same book,” Corvus explained. “He was right that his book, like Shan’s and Cynda’s, was made by the scribes and binders of the Djenispool dynasty. That’s the mark there, which lost its silver foil long before it made its way to the Innarlith bookstalls, or our friends would have paid quite a bit more for it than they did. The books were made a long time ago, as humans count things.”

Corvus opened the book and turned the heavy parchment leaves. He stopped at a page that did not bear the lines of flowing script that covered most of the others, instead featuring a colorful drawing of a bold warrior brandishing a tulwar. The man stood with his back to the viewer in an endless landscape of red dunes, facing a giant with black horns and eyes of fire.

“See the red ink the engravers used for the sand? How bright it is? The Calimien print shops didn’t learn that trick of the Shou until well after the start of the Ninth Imperial Age. And in fact, these books weren’t made until the Year of the Broken Blade, about, oh, two hundred and twenty years ago. Kamar yn Saban commissioned their printing in celebration of his twenty-fifth year on the Caleph’s throne. I’ve seen the pasha’s written order, actually, though the precious-minded antiquarian who owned it at the time wouldn’t let me touch it. The order called for one copy for every household in Calimshan. An impossible task, because in those days, the cities of the Shining Sea held
millions
of people. Still, the effort they made was enormous. There are almost no other books left from that time because almost none were printed—the Caleph’s book used all the ink and parchment available between Baldur’s Gate and the Shaar.