Sandstorm (34 page)

As he spoke, Corvus regained his feet and made a careful study of the floor, then the walls. There was no sign of the door he had been pushed through.

The djinni moved around to where Corvus had no choice but to meet his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, “as you intimate in your ceaseless cawing, I
have
grown too used to the company of mortals. The reason you are still here is that I am curious. I have a question for you.”

Corvus decided he was through talking.

“It is a simple question, spy. When did you withdraw from the game?”

Corvus did not look away from the djinni’s eyes. He did not blink, and he did not answer.

“Ten years ago,” Sharokh said, “when we first approached you, I would never have guessed that it would be the WeavePasha you betrayed instead of us. We believed you would never turn the book over if you managed to locate it, and we had made our preparations assuming that. When you told us to make ready for the el Arhapan whelp to be returned as an instrument of the WeavePasha’s will, we even made arrangements should that plan have succeeded. Other windsouled have been prepared to take that family’s role in the Rituals of Return. All of that work assuming things would go awry. Yet at some point, you made a decision to do exactly what we asked of you. When was that?”

Corvus said, “I see there has been some mistake. If I have fulfilled my obligations, then I am sure you meant to offer some other reward than to strip me naked and torture me.”

Shahrokh considered this. “No, I do not believe we did. Once again, and this is the last time. The third time, which should please you. When?”

If Corvus could have smirked, he would have. “Never,” he said.

“You will never answer?” asked Shahrokh.

“No, you floating fool. I never did what you asked.”

When he awoke again, Corvus was in a squalid cell lined with straw, dimly illuminated by gray light falling from far above. The door was open, and a short figure squatted on its heels just beyond the door’s frame. Ah,
thought Corvus, raising himself up on his elbows. Now this is what I expected.

The shadowy figure stood, revealed to be a halfling man with an ugly scar running down one side of his face. He threw a bundle at Corvus.

“Bird-head man,” he said. “Ain’t never seen one of them. The slave tattoo looks funny through your feathers. Here’re your tunic and your pail. Tunic’s to wear as clothes, use as bandages, whatever you want, really. Pail’s for slop. The kind that goes in and the kind that goes out, both. Welcome to Calimport Between.”

Corvus rose and cracked his knuckles. He felt the indelible tattoo of windblown sand marking him as a slave as a dull throbbing pain on his forehead, but whatever spell had put it there had also healed the worst of his injuries. He made a swift check of his surroundings, then wasted no further time in pulling the filthy shift over his head and gathering up his pail.

“Don’t you mean Calimport Below?” he asked the man.

The halfling was already walking away. “Sure, bird-head man,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

T
HE 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!”