White Sand, Volume 1 by Brandon Sanderson
N’Teese’s eyes thinned, but she did smile slightly in contemplation.
Loaten chuckled. “Yes, duchess, my sources were certainly … inaccurate concerning you. Of course, I knew that much the moment you announced you were organizing an expedition to dayside. I understand you caused quite a commotion back in the Elisian court with that little declaration.”
Khriss smiled. “It was … unexpected,” she admitted.
Loaten rubbed one of his chins in thought. “What could cause a politically inactive, socially reclusive scholar of a noblewoman to cross the border oceans with minimal protection and almost no knowledge of dayside? It’s hard enough for those of us who know about the smuggling ships.”
Khriss felt herself begin to blush. “Surely your sources can explain my motivations, My Lord,” she said.
“Actually, it appears they were wrong again,” Loaten said cryptically. However, before Khriss could question further, the sound of a door opening came from behind.
When she turned she saw a man with a revolting mass of flesh where his face should have been. One eye was completely lost in scar tissue, and the other was bulging and red. He walked with a limp, and wore one of the medallions on his head that Kenton said identified him as a member of the Kershtian merchant class. It was difficult to tell his skin color because of the scar tissue, but it looked Kershtian.
“Who is the woman?” the man croaked with a harsh voice that was almost a whisper.
“A visitor from darkside, Nilto,” Loaten said. “A rather important person. A ruler, on her side of the world.”
Nilto snorted. “Get rid of her,” he ordered.
“You’ll forgive Nilto’s lack of tact, dear Duchess,” Loaten apologized. “He is a rather impatient man, though many people suffer him. Probably because he is a Taisha.”
“Taisha?” Khriss asked. She had heard Kenton use the word.
“The Taishin are the rulers of Lossand, my dear,” Loaten explained. “There is one at the head of each Profession, and it is their council that governs the country.”
“Him?” Khriss asked incredulously.
“Beauty isn’t required for the job,” Nilto croaked, flopping down in a chair. He eyed her for a long moment with a look Khriss couldn’t read—and didn’t want to, considering how revolting his twisted face was.
“Well?” Nilto demanded. “Get rid of her.”
“I’m afraid the Lord Beggar is a difficult man to refuse, dear Duchess,” Loaten apologized. “But, I believe our conversation was at an end anyway, wasn’t it?”
“It was, and I thank you,” Khriss said, rising and curtseying to Loaten—intentionally ignoring this Lord Beggar. “N’Teese, are you coming?”
The little girl sighed, but climbed off her chair to scamper out of the room. Khriss followed more gracefully. As the door opened, she saw Baon and the others waiting outside. Baon, however, didn’t see her—he was focused on Loaten’s bloated form.
“Is that who I think it is?” he asked with a harsh sound in his voice.
Khriss frowned as she approached. “Loaten?” she asked. “He—”
She stopped as Baon cursed, his hand reaching for the pistol at his belt.
“Baon!” Khriss cried.
The mercenary froze, as did the two men in the room. The soldiers guarding the door, however, immediately reached for their swords.
Baon slowly let his hand slip from the pistol holster. Khriss sighed in relief, looking back into the room. Loaten had seen Baon as well, and the old Dynastic official’s eyes were wide—but not with fear. They looked more … confused than anything else.
“That man is a traitor,” Baon hissed.
“I know,” Khriss said. She had never seen Baon so emotional before.
“Let’s go,” the mercenary finally decided. “Before I decide to kill him.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Cynder agreed.
Khriss passed through the doorway, and Loaten’s guards relaxed, falling back into their regular stances. But, something was wrong with the way they had been standing. Almost as if they hadn’t been reaching for their swords at all—but something else.
Before, Khriss would have let the discrepancy drop. Baon’s training, however, urged her to look closer. As she did she could see a distinctive, though well hidden, knob of pistol hilts hidden in holsters underneath the men’s coats.
So they do have guns, Khriss realized. Or, at least, Loaten’s men do. They keep them hidden, though—they don’t want the rest of the darksiders to know about them.
Baon caught her eye and nodded, and they began to move away from Loaten’s room. As they did, however, Khriss heard Loaten asking Nilto a question while the door closed.
“So?” the darksider asked. “Has the Diem been dissolved?”
“Actually, no,” Nilto replied. “Something very interesting happened … .”
Chapter Ten
Kenton’s appearance had an immediate effect on the crowd outside the Hall. He hadn’t changed into traditional sand master robes—he was still wearing a simple Kershtian tan—his ribbons, however, were enough to declare what he was. Even still, there were enough sand masters in the crowd that simple mastered sand wouldn’t have been too surprising. The golden sash, however, was a different matter.
The stunned bodies were lethargic to move, and Kenton had to slow his step to keep from arriving at the crowd too quickly. Eventually, however, the people realized who he was and where he was going. They parted before him, watching in silence. Then one voice, exclaiming in surprise, started as a catalyst to the rest, and sound returned in a massive wave.
“What are you doing?”
“Kenton? You’re alive?”
“I thought the mastrells were dead!”
Years as the Diem’s favored topic of rumors had prepared Kenton to be the center of attention, and he ignored the people as he climbed the steps to the black-stone Hall of Judgement, Dirin trailing somewhat less confidently in his wake. Two trackts, dressed in formal black Hall uniforms, crossed their spears before him, blocking his path to the doors.
“The Council is in session,” said one of them—a broad-faced Lossandin man. “The Hall is closed.”
Kenton paused, letting his three ribbons of sand continue to twist and spin in the air around him. He was amazed at how little thought it took to keep them moving in their simple pattern.
“Not to a mastrell,” Kenton informed.
“There aren’t any mastrells left,” the guard replied.
“You’re certain of that?” Kenton asked, allowing one of his glowing ribbons to flip at his sash.
The guard paused, shooting a look at his companion. Then he sighed, pulling his spear back.
Kenton stood, half-stunned by the exchange. He had been expecting to argue his way into the Hall—all his life, he had needed belligerence and stubbornness to gain even the slightest concession. Yet, two simple statements had won this conversation. Perhaps there was something to be said for authority after all.
Still a little unsure at his victory, Kenton reached forward and pushed open the sub-door in the massive gate, stepping inside. He held it for Dirin, the allowed it to slam closed.
His eyes immediately began to adjust to the darker interior, and he let his sands fall stale to the ground—it would be inappropriate to keep them going within the Hall.
Like all dayside buildings, the Hall had been constructed with numerous openings in its pyramidal walls to provide light. Kenton stood in the antechamber. Directly before him was another set of doors, these ones open, with another pair of trackts guarding them. Beyond those doors was the Judgement room, which took up the bulk of the Hall’s space. Inside that room he would find the Taishin, leaders of the eight Professions—well, seven since there was no Lord Mastrell.
“Come on,” he said to Dirin. “I’ve done this before.” Each year, when Praxton had refused to grant Kenton mastrellship, Kenton had appealed the decision to the Council. He was very familiar with the
Dirin nodded quietly, staring up in wonder at the insides of the Hall. The buildings, sources of law and justice in Lossand, were regarded with nearly as much reverence as Kershtian temples.
“This place is huge,” Dirin whispered back.
Kenton shrugged. “About as big as it looks on the outside.”
Kenton strode forward, trying to gather his optimism. Just because he was familiar with the process didn’t mean that he would be successful—in fact, he was probably going to have a difficult time convincing the Taishin to listen to him. All four times he had appealed to the Council they had denied him with seven-one decisions. He suspected that after four years of useless appeals—made only to spite Praxton—the Taishin were growing tired of him.
The two trackts at the door didn’t attempt to stop him—if he had come through the gates, then he was valid. They stood quietly as Kenton walked through the open doors and entered the judgement chamber. Shaped like an inverted pyramid, the chamber had a central platform for testimonies, surrounded by three sloping walls filled with seats. Nearly every chair had a body in it—Hall seats, especially in Kezare, were expensive commodities. It was more than the privilege of watching judgements—a seat in the Hall was a sign of prestige and importance, even if they were purely spectatorial in nature. Kelzin, influential Profession members, and public officials vied for the places ferociously.
Of course, the only people in the room who really mattered were the Taishin. Eight raised chairs stood on the far wall directly in front of the testimony platform. Seven were filled, one was empty. Kenton’s eyes sought a place on the second wall, about midway up, where the mastrells usually sat. The chairs sat empty, like an open sore in the otherwise packed wall of people.
Taking a deep breath, Kenton approached the proceedings judge on the side of the corridor. Kenton stood in the open-topped tunnel that sloped up to the testimony platform. He could make out a familiar form standing on the platform—the man’s ugliness could be recognized even from a great distance. Nilto, so called Lord Beggar, leader of the unofficial ninth Profession. What reason would he have to make testimony during proceedings held to ratify a new Lord Mastrell?
Nilto had obviously finished his arguments, for he was stepping off the platform to return to his seat.
“Who gives the next testimony?” Kenton asked the proceedings judge, a squat old man who sat at a desk at the side of the corridor. The man looked down at his open book of proceedings, where he had been making notes of what each speaker said.
“No one,” the judge said. “Nilto was the final speaker. The judgement should be coming soon, now.”
“It cannot—I have testimony to add to these proceedings.”
The judge looked up with surprise, looking Kenton over for the first time. “A … Mastrell?” the man said skeptically.
“That is right,” Kenton informed. “Mastrell Kenton. I was advanced during the ceremonies a few weeks before. By Law, I am entitled to speak on this matter.”
The judge raised his eyebrows, but shrugged slightly, scribbling Kenton’s name at the bottom of the list. Then he spoke a few words to the courier dressed in Hall black beside him.
“The man will announce you, My Lord,” the judge informed. “Be warned, however, the Council may find this … irregular.”
Kenton smiled. “I suspect they will.” Then he nodded to Dirin, who smiled encouragingly, even though he was looking more and more overwhelmed the further they got into the Hall.
“May the Sands guide, Kenton,” Dirin offered.
Up above, the courier announced Mastrell Kenton. Kenton heard his name reverberate through the chamber, the unfamiliar title of ‘mastrell’ sounding quite odd to him. As the courier finished, Kenton strode up the slope and onto the platform, wishing he had taken the time to change into formal robes.
Kenton would try for the rest of his life to find an experience that matched that first look around the judgement chambers. Three walls of shocked faces stared at him, their confusion almost a palatable thing. It was as if the Sand Lord himself had decided to appear to them.
“Ah, our dear Kenton of the Diem,” a sudden voice said, as if completely oblivious to the surprised tension in the rest of the room, “back to bother the Council again. I always knew that something as paltry as death would never be enough to keep you from annoying us.”
Kenton smiled. At the far end of the line of Taishin, in the least-respected and often-ignored Council seat, lounged a man in ridiculous violet robes with a frilly white shirt underneath. The cuffs of the shirt were undone, and were stained with droplets of wine. He was an older man, perhaps in his late forties. His face could have been a respected face, it had strong features and almost a venerable quality. The face, however, betrayed the rosy cheeks and red nose of drunkenness. Delious, the Lord Admiral, the embarrassment of Lossand.
“I apologize for my tardiness, Lords and Lady Taishin,” Kenton announced, smiling slightly at Delious’ comment. He rested his hands on the front of the platform’s podium, looking across at the six men and one woman who would decide the Diem’s face. Hopefully, he wasn’t too late.
“Kenton, this is most irregular,” the woman in the direct center of the group announced.
Kenton smiled a her choice of words. Heelis, Lady Judge and Taisha of the Halls of Judgement, Profession for trackts, judges, and scribes, represented her Profession with exactness. Cool, calm, and decisive, the elderly Lady Judge—oldest of the Taishin by at least two decades—was the very embodiment of justice.
“I apologize again, Lady Judge,” Kenton said. “I only ask that you hear me. As the Council has undoubtedly noticed, I come wearing a recent acquisition that may have bearing on your decision.”
“I can see that, Kenton. I assume you wear it to make a claim, and not just a fashion statement?”
“Indeed, Lady Judge.” Kenton smiled as Heelis inspected him. Despite her unquestioned impartiality, Kenton had always felt a kind of kinship to the Lady Judge. She knew what it was to fight authority—she was the first female Taisha in the history of Lossand. In fact, she was the first female member of the Hall in the history of Lossand. Very few of the Professions admitted women, and Lossand society was heavily influenced by Kershtian ideals. Heelis, however, had used the Law as her shield—for a neuter pronoun in Formal Kersha had been used in the Law’s writing. After years of struggle, she had come to hold what was debatably the most powerful position in all of Lossand.
“This is ridiculous!” a new voice announced. Kenton looked down, cringing slightly. He hadn’t seen Drile earlier—the slope of the entrance corridor had prevented it. The sand master sat in a low seat a short distance from the Council. He wore white robes, but no sash.
“Sand master Drile,” Heelis warned, “you are not in a position to address this Council. We have already heard your arguments this day.”
“My apologies, Lady Judge,” Drile said, forcing himself to be civil. “However, this is outrageous! This man makes mockery of the Law by taking for himself what must be given!”
“No more!” Heelis ordered, her voice firm despite her sixty-plus years. “If you wish to speak, add your name to the list. Until then, this Council requires your silence!”
Drile’s jaw snapped shut, and Kenton couldn’t keep himself from smiling. He winked at Drile’s hateful stare, then nodded to the side, where the proceedings judge was scribbling.
“Drile has a point, if not the right of address, Lady Judge,” a new voice—this one deep and hard—added. “This boy goes too far in his presumptions.”
The Lord General, Reegent, was a tall man with a rectangular face that was accented by a short, square beard. More than a warrior, Reegent was a politician and a statesman, the unofficial leader of Lossand’s wealthy landowners, the kelzin. He was not a man who dealt well with what he considered ‘nonsense.’
“Lord Reegent, Lady Judge, other members of the Council,” Kenton said before Reegent could continue. ?
“Lies!” Drile called from beside the proceedings booth, where he was ordering the judge to add his name in after Kenton’s.
Heelis shot Drile a harsh look, but then looked back at Kenton. “We had not heard of this, Kenton,” she said. “As far as we were told, the Lord Mastrell died in the middle of the ceremony. Are you implying he was going to advance you, and only didn’t because he was killed?”
“No, Lady Judge,” Kenton continued. “I imply nothing—it is as I said. The Lord Mastrell gave me this sash, and declared me a mastrell. It was the very last thing he did before the Kershtian arrow took him.”
“The other sand masters said nothing of this!” Reegent snapped, folding his arms and frowning at Kenton. There was no hatred in his eyes, only intolerance. Reegent liked things quick and simple—the last-minute addition of a testimony did not fit with his neat view of how a judgement should proceed.
“The other sand masters didn’t know about it, Lord Reegent,” Kenton said. “They didn’t hear the Lord Mastrell advance me—those who survived the attack were standing too far back to hear much of anything. If you bring them in for testimony, they won’t be able to say either way on this matter.”
“I can’t believe we’re even listening to this,” Vey, the Lord Merchant, snapped. Short and very Kershtian, Vey would hate Kenton for religious reasons no matter what proof he brought or arguments he made.
“Who’s listening?” Delious mumbled from his end of the table, taking a long drink from his cup.
“I agree with the Lord Merchant,” Gennel, the Lord Farmer, said.
“There’s a surprise,” Delious noted, pouring himself another drink. The Lord Farmer tended to agree with whatever Vey said. Gennel was not only the council’s other Kershtian, but he also belonged to the same DaiKeen as Vey. The younger man would do whatever his elder commanded.