Cirin shielded his eyes. The winds were picking up.

“Oi, Sol cover ya eyes more, mon!”

Cirin reached for Sol’s scarf and pulled it down over his face.

“I can’t see this way, Cirin!” complained the prince.

“Dere be notin’ ta see.” Retorted Cirin. And it wasn’t because of the blinding sands either.

All around their company, a sea of tannish sand stretched from horizon to horizon. The further they trudged the more it seemed to engulf the world.

The skies were murky behind the scores of dusting sands. Besides the winds and idle chatter all Cirin could hear was the sliding of their giant pack snake, which carried a small sand sled as well as their supplies. Cirin eyed it uneasily. The snake was a fat but short thing, it looked more like a slug with scales that sometimes stuck its forked tongue out.

“Not a fan of snakesss?” slithered the lone woman in their company.

Cirin pouted and looked away from her.

“Mother Manama can tell ya be having a fear of em.” She continued, “Mother Manama can tell ya a story about Toftof ta cheer ya up.”

“Mana, mind telling him about your own stories, eh?”

Cirin glanced from Manama to Toftof, still at awe that Azhar had managed to conscript the bandit, “I dun want ta hear eider of ya stories.” Started Cirin.

“Tell me! Tell me!” jumped Sol at the offer.

Manama chuckled, letting a few more of the numerous beads and metal rings attached to her hair jingle than usual. She weighed her head on one tattooed hand as she began, “Lets see. Do ya want ta know how I got this piercing?” She spun her supporting hand and pointed at one of the two piercings on the bridge of her nose.

“Dat one? Tell da boy how ya got your udder piercing.” Teased Toftof.

Manama smacked Toftof on his balding head, “No wonder ya never grow talla’. Ya still be acting like a child.”

“Oi, I can beat men twice my size!”

“Only at fighting.” Added Manama.

From the front of the pack, Azhar let out his own chuckle, inciting the already furious Toftof into a bright tomato, “Shuddup, both of ya, I ratha hear da winds dan listen to dis nonsense!”

“So the piercing?” asked Sol.

“ah yes dat. It all began…”

Cirin let the voices mull into the background as he stared into the desert. He had heard about the endless sands his entire life. How most of their country was just sands and nothing else. Every so often he’d see a dune towering in the distance, well swept and shifting. He’d wonder when the very sands would swallow him up.

Then in the distance, he spotted what looked to be three dark furred slender creatures, much like the otters by the palace waters. The three of them were diving in and out of the sands in the same direction the company was heading.

“Azhar, what are dose?” He questioned his master.

Their soft steps continued a little further and Azhar halted abruptly. He calmed the pack serpent as Cirin turned towards him.

Azhar’s eyes were fixated on the sand-ferrets.

“Sand seals.” He said simply.

Mother Manama let out a short gasp and Toftof walked up to Azhar.

“Think, we should get on da snake?”

Azhar did not answer. He watched those three ferrets until they dove into a sand dune and did not return.

“No. We keep going.” Ordered Azhar. Cirin tensed. Azhar’s voice had taken on a deeper commanding quality. He had only heard him like that a few times before, “Cirin, Sol. If ya two spot any of dose creatures again, tell me.”

Cirin nodded and so did Sol. In times like those Cirin learned to just listen to what Azhar said.

The company continued as they had for the day, and when the cold desert night came, Azhar had Sol and Cirin bundle up and on the cart while the three adults would take turns resting as well. Yet, no matter what, they did not stop moving.

The next day, the winds cleared and re-emerging sun played a blistering spell upon them. Sweat kissed their skins underneath the layers of fine silk and cotton, soon it became almost unbearable. It was hard, but it was nothing compared to the days he had to train for hours outside. Cirin remembered those days well. At first he languished it, but little by little it became the norm. Azhar said it was the young age in which he started that let him do that. Train when the body is yet a softened clay, and the training shall mold it. Azhar was the worst poet even at the best of times.

The five them walked and walked for the rest of the day, and at times Azhar offered Sol a seat on his shoulders that made Cirin the slightest bit jealous, though he dared not show it.

Finally at the top of a peculiarly tall dune they saw it. Cirin could not take his eyes off it. He had seen Lamanori’s every morning he trained yet this one, though exactly the same in every way, was immediately different. The black Tower of Ezmir lumbered in the distance.

There was no sea here. No screeching gulls or rocky cliffs, compared to Lamanori, Ezmir was its own entity. As they moved ever closer, Cirin squinted at the base of the tower, noting the shimmering sandstone palace and then the various houses that grew shorter as they strayed away from the base of the tower.

They arrived at the entrance in a little under an hour. A line had formed there with a dozen pack snakes and companies. Each company had its own banner representing the city they came from, and each company had its own style of resident. Some had head clothed merchants, covered in fine silks from neck to toes. Others hosted armored mercenaries not so dissimilar to the sandrats back home. And yet another gathered white robed men with golden piercings and black tattoos all over their heads.

Azhar leaned down to Cirin as those particular men shuffled to the gate guards, “Towa priests.” He whispered.

Cirin narrowed his brows, feeling uneasy knowing there were those who worshipped the towers. From what little Catherine waged on about the towers, he knew there was not much good that came about them.

At about the time they were next in line, Azhar tapped Cirin on the shoulder. Cirin paid him due attention and paused at the weapon Azhar held out in front of him. It was the wooden sabre he had trained with that year.

“Hold onto this, Mouse. Remember what I told ya and use it wisely.”

Cirin grasped the blade from both ends and nodded to the man.

At last their turn came to arrive at the gates. One of the two guards their lowered his spear before they entered and the other walked up to them.

He was armored in typical royal guard mail with a pointed chain hat and a blue-gold tabard. His crest had a fish with an arrow through it.

“Reason for coming here?” asked the guard.

“Royal visit.” Said Azhar cooly.

“Royal?” The guard gave his companion a look then spun back to Azhar, “Where is this royalty? And why wasn’t it announced?”

Azhar sighed, “I was afraid my courier would not make it. It be a matta of urgency and it be a visit from dis boy here.” Azhar waved a hand at Sol, “I present ta ya, Prince Sol Gel’Rave.”

“G-Gel’Rave!? Ah yes, yes. Show me da paperwork.” Azhar handed him a clean piece of beach tree paper from his coat pocket, “Ok I see. Tank you. Wait in da guardhouse inside, we’ll have escorts for ya right away, ah ya majesty.”

The speaking guard bowed awkwardly, and the other followed suit.

The waiting room was a little cooler with mud lining outside absorbing the heat. Ten minutes in and a fat and heavily sweating magistrate burst into the guardhouse. His nervous face was immediately upon Cirin’s company the moment he could look up from panting.

“Prince Sol? I’ll be your escort.” He spoke between breaths.

Cirin, Sol, Azhar, Toftof, and Manama along with their pack snack followed the magistrate who late introduced himself as Ade down a deliberately pleasant looking path. The sandstone buildings that lined the sideways were large enough to be mansions, and every so often they’d pass a bridge with a rushing canal underneath it. Cirin even noticed a blooming greenery in between the spaces of the sandstone path.

Ade nervously explained the sudden life of the place, “It’s always been like dis in our fine city. Dere be well springs well beneath us and near da tower. So da closer ya get to da tower da more watta dere is. It be no Gin dough.”

“The great oasis of the desert.” Noted Azhar.

Cirin glanced about as they walked. There were little people here to. Strange, considering how valued an oasis was to any desert resident.

“Not much people here.” Caught on Azhar.

“Well yes dat. Ofcourse!” asserted their guide, “Most of the nobles who live in dis area are visiting da palace today.”

Azhar exchanged glances with Toftof and Manama, “I tought our visit was unannounced?”

Their guide slowed as they neared a large, closed gate. The guide disappeared for a while to the gate house and returned to the sound of the gates opening. The company of five entered the luxurious courtyard, well equipped with crystalline waters and an assortment of exotic flowers. Yet as soon as they entered the doors behind them slammed shut. Cirin scanned the courtyard again. For a so called party, it seemed strangely empty save a stout man dressed in a black suit and fisherman’s hat by the gates.

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A straight path separated the gate way from the palace doors, and cherry trees blossomed in rows on either side of the path. As they neared the palace doors, chatter could be heard within.

“Apologies. I forgot ta mention we had udda guests of import today.” Spoke Ade, “Now, if you’d follow me. Ah.” He stopped tersely and motioned at the reins of the pack snake Azhar was carrying, “Leave ya pack snake here, will you? I’ll have da attendants see to it.”

“Excuse me.” Queued the voice of the stout man.

“A friend of yours?” asked Ade staring at the man with the hat.

Azhar shook his head, “We’ve neva met.” He said cautiously.

“If you’d like I can escort dis man out of da premise.” Added Ade.

“I need only a moment wit your guests, good sir.” Bowed the man in extravagant formality.

Ade glanced at Azhar, who lazily shrugged back.

“Alright.” Conceded Ade, “I’ll be awaiting ya presence inside.”

Ade bowed to the company, creaked open the door, and slipped inside.

There wasn’t so much as a hiss from the snakes as the heavy doors slammed after the man.

“So?” started Azhar, with a gesture of his head, “What is it ya want?”

“And be brisk about it. I smell something fine in dere.” Warned Toftof.

“I’ll endeavour, Sir.” Noted the stout man. With that, he reached in his pocket and withdrew a single card. He handed it towards Azhar with a flick of his white gloved hands. He twirled his curled mustache with his other hand and hoisted his head high. His slight tanned skin glistened red in the setting sun.

“A murder businessman?” read Azhar aloud, “Is dis some foul prank?”

The stout fixed his coat and guffawed in a simultaneous motion, “Not at all, I assure you. It is the truth, Sir.” He fixed his beady eyes on the Prince, prompting Azhar and Cirin to step in front of the boy.

“Let me explain.” Started the murder businessmen, “My name is Gorat Katar. I specialize in finding high priority targets, the kind I predict to fetch the highest bounties for veritable employers, and dispatching them.”

“You’re an assassin?” spat Azhar, with all but his hand on his favorite blade.

The stout man held up one hand, “Practice patience, my good sir. I am no assassin. I am simply…” He waved that clothed figure, “A middle man so to speak. I pay you, the guards, a sizable sum to forfeit your duties and I commit the deed. Then I take back proof of the kill for auction.”

“A foul business.” Scoffed Manama

Azhar spat a ways in front of the man, “And let me guess. Ya target be day boy behind me, eh?”

“Prince Solesio Gel’Rave.” Noted Gorat, “Precisely. How much did your benefactors pay you? Five Irs? Ten? I’ll triple it.”

“Look around ya, mista Katar.” Growled Azhar, “Ya see any of us flinchin at da notion?”

Gorat tossed his eyes about and frowned, “No.” he admitted.

“Den ya know our answer.” Concluded Azhar.

Gotar sighed, fixed his coat once again, and bowed, “Good day, gentlemen. Madam.” He nodded at Manama, before taking his time to go around the company. Cirin chased the man with his eyes. For portly man he was a fast walker.

Azhar shook his head, “Dis world be mad if men like dat exist in it.”

Manama laughed as the man pushed open the heavy doors, releasing an orchestra of pompous chatter.

“When was it eva sane, eh?” she mused.

Bare in proper attire and expectations, the five companions continued into the palace. For once they entered, they came upon a ball of sorts.

That much was to be expected considering that’s what nobles almost always did when they gathered. This particular ball was a masquerade. All attendees wore spectacular masks of various animals and desert spirits. Ade motioned the five travellers to follow him. As they did, the crowd of nobles parted to let them through, until an ornately dressed man came into view.

He had light chocolatey skin and wavy locks with sharp and refined features. He had the posture of an athlete, as straight as an arrow, while an oversized fur scarf hugged his neck.

By the time Cirin’s company approached him, he had already been speaking to another group of visitors.

Cirin’s eyes expanded as he remembered those few. They were the Tower priests Azhar had told him about.

“As long as you make da rounds, my people will appreciate dat ta tower be taken care of.”

“As you wish, honourable lord.” Bowed a priest.

The other priests shuffled and bowed in unison. By then Cirin’s group stood side by side with the priests, and Cirin was able to make out each of the priests, including a young boy who looked much his age but with brilliant golden eyes, light caramel skin and a similarly covered neck to the lord’s.

The golden eyed boy arched his slender eyebrows and narrowed his angled eyes until they were slits. He glanced ever so slightly at Cirin. Cirin returned the gesture, he felt a strange animosity from the priest.

Ade brushed past both groups and quickly whispered into the lord’s ears. The lord threw open his eyes and stood up with haste.

“Gel’Rave!” he declared in voice that could’ve been quieter. Though the moment he uttered the royal name, he had become the loudest voice among them all, for all the voices had gone still.

“Ah, where be my manners.” Continued the lord, bowing graciously before the prince, “I am Zanzabara, lord of Ezmir. I had not expected ya presence dis day. My advisor.” He shot Ade a deadly glance, “Failed ta notify me.”

“It be not his fault, my lord.” Interjected Azhar.

The lord lowered his eyelids halfway and frowned at the man, “And who would ya be?”

“Personal guard and escort to da Prince, my lord. Azhar be my name. Though some would rather call me the Dog of Lamanori.”

After a moment of silence, the lord snapped his fingers and tapped his head, “Ah! I’ve heard of ya. It seems da young prince be needing proper protection. From what I pray ask?” The lord studied Manama, then Cirin and finally Toftof. The moment he saw Toftof, he made for the man and made a point studying him from top to bottom, “Short, balding, hands dat bear a propa bruising. You be dat sandrat lieutenant.”

There were whispers when he said that. Cirin shifted, ominous whispers. Scared whispers.

“You know what he be needing protection from and ya know why he be here. Look at him. All of ya!” Azhar gestured at Sol and swept the room with his eyes, “Solesio Gel’Rave is well and alive and he won’t be dying anytime soon. Tell ya friends, ya family, any visitors ya may have in ya manses and all ya servants and all ya servant’s friends.”

“Now now, Dog of Lamanori, ya suggest da young prince be in mortal peril. Yet, among ya guards ya bring wit ya a boy, not much older dan da prince, and a woman. Tell me, do dey hold any repute even I have not come across?”

Azhar smiled underneath his curls, “Not at all.” He said simply.

Cirin felt a little underrated by that comment, though he knew full well the benefits of keeping one’s strength a secret.

“Is that so? So be it den. Shame to, I be so very fond of surprises.”

Cirin narrowed his eyes, he could have sworn the lord had glanced at the golden eyed boy just then.

Azhar glanced at a few of the on-lookers, “We’ve done what we come here ta do. Tanks for da audience.” Said Azhar. He bowed then, and turned the moment his back straightened.

Toftof followed Azhar with a yawn, while Manama tugged Sol and tailed the man. Cirin glanced briefly at the golden eyed boy and he did the same.

“Leaving already?” uttered the lord. Azhar answered with his footsteps and those of his companions. By then they had already traversed half the hall, “It be dangerous in da dark, ya know.”

Azhar spoke as he continued walking, “We come from Lamanori, my lord, we’re not afraid of any shadows.”

The lord puffed and clapped his hands twice, issuing a bard in the far corner of his hall to begin the music. It was a joyous piece played on the Illivarin viola and accompanied by drums. The masked nobles, dressed in spools of cloth and oversized hats, began to dance and converse to that, soon covering the path Cirin’s company had crossed.

At the door, Cirin ran up to his master. “Old mon, was dat really necessary?”

“We were in luck, mouse.” Said Azhar. “I tink dose priests already had da lord call all da nobles. We did what we came here for wit out having ta gather dem.”

Azhar pushed open the heavy doors, holding it open for only the prince and Cirin. Manama left last.

“Mother Manama tinks so to. All does nobles dere. Such fat purses and hats, and so little attention.”

Toftof gave her a look of disgust, “Oi you didn’t”

Manama smiled and rose a brow, soon flashing a brilliant ruby brooch from the rim of her sleeve.

“A Sandrat questioning a theft?” scoffed Azhar.

Toftof bounded to the taller man, “We’re bandits wit morals!”

“But bandits all da same. You can murder, kidnap, extort, and ransom, but stealing be above ya, eh?”

“Mother Manama say most tings be above him.”

“Oi!”

That queued a laughing fit from Toftof’s tormentors. Their acrid laughs bounced about as the gate doors swung open for them.

Azhar waved at a bowing Ade on the other side of the barred gate. Before long, they had completely escaped from an eyeshot of the palace. Now the distant song of water flow could be heard as their feet played the chorus.

It had been so long since his feet had been on solid ground rather than sand. Cirin relished every step. Then, he felt a drop of sweat roll down his temple and it wasn’t because of the heat. In fact. He looked up to the dimming sky, Zanzabarra was right. Even here, the rules of the desert remained and so the simmering day had given way to the shivering night.

Another bead of sweat formed on his temple as they walked. His arms itched. Azhar had told him about something similar a while ago. It was after a long day of training and that old mon had finally let him rest. When Cirin sat down to do so, Azhar surprised him by sitting next to him. While Cirin looked up to him, Azhar’s eyes sat glued to the brilliant palace pools in front of them.

That was when he spoke.

“Ya be sweating. Good. Remember ya sweat. Remember dat feeling. It be ya body crying when ya soul won’t give up. Though Sometimes ya gotta listen ta dose tears. It’ll cry when ya work too much, when ya be getting too hot, when ya be in some place dat be making ya nervous. But most important of all…”

Cirin halted his stride and tossed his head in each direction, instantly remembering what Azhar said last.

“It’ll wail real hard when enemies be close.”

His hands reached for the wooden saber. Sol was the first to notice.

“Cirin?” he hushed.

By then, the three adults stopped too.

The red in Cirin’s eyes had become a buzzing fly. They spat in each and every direction and his iris expanded five times as he spotted them.

“Five. Surrounded.” He said aloud.

Azhar’s blade rasped, Manama pulled out two daggers, and Toftof cursed.

“Spirits, Just when we leave da noble grounds.” Managed Toftof as he adorned his knuckles.

Azhar ran behind Cirin, and stood with his back to the boy. “Da nobles need not hear da messy bits, sa try not ta be loud.” Teased Azhar, “Manama, Toftof defend from da sides and stay close. Sol, Cirin, keep in da middle. Do. Not. Move.”

Cirin gripped his blade hard and scowled. He had spotted them first, yet the old mon refused to acknowledge even that. He could defend himself. Even his wooden sabre could cut with the speed his used he used it with.

They had just passed the bridge in a residential district when they stopped. One canal parted their side from the other, yet stout and domed sandstone houses hugged either side of the main road and covered the rest of the land behind the first row of houses in close proximity.

There was next to no light save the dim shattered moon and its ominous reflection on the rushing waters.

A single palm tree stood on the other side of the bridge on the left side. The sound of rustling leaves roused Cirin to it.

“Six.” Alerted Cirin. “Three be on da udder side. One on da tree, two beside da first house on da right. One on da roof first house to da left on our side, and two in da right alley.”

“Well done, mouse. We be handling it from here.” Azhar flashed his blade in the open light, then flicked it to the side in lightning speed, “We see all of ya now!” He bellowed, “So let us end dis now.”

One by one the attackers complied. And one by one Cirin’s deductions proved true.

When all six assailants stood in the dim moonlight they acted upon another surprise. All six of the bandits dropped their weapons.

Toftof began to lower his fists when Azhar snapped at him, “Dun lower ya guard! It may be trap.”

“It be no trap, sir.” Began one of the bandits. He was a lean man with a bald head and a lone goatee. From where he was on the other side of the bridge he held up his hands and walked slowly to the bridge’s apex, “If Zanzabara let ya outta dere alive, it means ya people eider be on his side or ya be strong. Please.” He stopped at the bridge and lowered his head, “Help us.” He pleaded.

That made Azhar lower his weapon, queuing his companions to do the same.

“We’re not on his side. Dough, It is not often dat bandits seek strangers for help.” Stated Azhar.

“We know dat. But dis be worse dan even da Rentrala’far can handle… atleast what be left of it.”

Azhar stepped forwards, “What ya mean what be left of it?” he asked slowly.

The lean man looked up, his eyes were tired and his mouth a permanent frown. “We six be all dat’s left of our honored clan. Four days ago our men found all three of our leaders murdered in deir tents. Four days ago Zanzabarra arrived.

His honeyed words poisoned our former brutha’s minds when dey were most vulernable. We had no leada so he arrived just when we needed him. Told us we’d be da rulers of Ezmir if he followed his plan. A plan dat he kept secret til one of our men, our former seventh, said he’d spy on dem and figure it out.” He pushed his brows down, “Zanzabarra had him killed and made it look like da nobles did it. When we found da man’s corpse, we saw da words ‘Our leaders, Zanza killed em’ written into his flesh.”

“Hold on, Zanzabara isn’t da lord?” added Azhar.

The bandit shook his head, “Da lord is dead. Zanazabara killed him as he had our three leaders. Da devil den posed as da lord, and kidnapped all da nobles unda da pretense of a party.”

“I knew something was not right.” Cursed Azhar.

“Please.” Stressed the lean bandit, “Help us.”