She knew her memory was gone, so she decided she would walk until she found something familiar. So far, her only existence had been walking amongst these sand dunes while the air became cool, and the setting sun lit bonfire clouds in a purple sky. She also knew it would become even colder once the sun fully set. She was aware that being confused like this was a usual thing for her and not to panic. These few things she knew, and not much more.
The long crystal walking staff helped steady her in the shifting sand.
She recognized these endless sand dunes and the forever press of an edgeless sky as the place she was accustomed to. She just did not remember exactly where she was, what had happened up until this point, or even the shape of her own hand.
The desert was a constant she did know. The mirage far away on the horizon; the way it tore holes where the sky and sand met, the same way her memory had been erased once again.
A steady breeze blew from behind, trailing her hair against her cheek.
She had a small pack on her belt. In it had been personal items one would use for travelling along with cakes of dried food, an old field glass, and a book. On the opposite side of her belt drooped a waterskin.
Her feet were bare.
The only mark that she truly had of a past was the shadowed footprints that led off behind her. She extended the spyglass and searched the distance. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but an impulse came to look, so she did.
It would be easy to miss something camouflaged out there: a scout, a predator lying in the sand. She scanned for the long crescent shadows that would indicate tracks like her own. The soldiers could be coming.
What soldiers? she thought.
She snapped the telescope closed and returned it to her pouch. Her hand brushed against the book.
She took it out, sat down, cross-legged in the cooling sun on the highest dune, laid the long black crystal staff across her lap, and flipped the book open.
Held like a bookmark against the spine was a child’s bracelet. Lavender wire vine strung with carved beads. Wayfarer made and given for luck at birth, from mother to daughter. She picked up the bracelet and was plunged into a scene, heard herself speaking, her voice high and very young, internal in her ears. The memory was so vivid her words made her chest thrum. It was more as if she was in the scene…
“Reason adapts itself to any obstacle if it’s allowed to, Shaka.” Her little girl’s voice. The bull lizard’s tough hide pulsed beneath her as he carried her across the dunes, the lavender bracelet tied onto her tiny sun-darkened wrist. The lizard’s back was broad and vast, and she was small. Her moccasin feet flicked uncontrollably with each of his strides. She reached forward and scratched the big bull on the neck. He liked that, she knew, and he also liked it when she talked to him. She could tell that these things soothed him. The bracelet her mother made for her clicked against his scales, the tiny white beads bright against his brown. Shaka liked that she trusted him and told him things.
The winds had gone, and when the winds were gone, it was her task to take the drift lizards out to feed. Her mother said that they never had anyone before who could guide the drift lizards without a prod or lead stick, and definitely, no one had been able to lead them by riding a bull. Her mother said bulls didn’t like people, but Shaka liked her, and she liked being with Shaka. She liked to tell Shaka the stories that the adults had told around the fire the night before. She was always careful to listen so she could tell Shaka each and every word the next day.
“Things external to our own character are neither good nor bad.”
She continued talking as the big bull climbed up and away out of the salt flat. He was the best alpha lizard they’d ever had, her mother said. She wanted her friend Shaka to know that she was good at things, too. Her mother said she was smart. Smart for one so small. She patted him again and scratched his tough hide. Shaka’s head flicked sideways with one of his quick movements, catching her with his eye. She knew she could be a too-smart girl with Shaka, and he didn’t care. He didn’t get annoyed like the adults would sometimes if she was too smart with them.
She coaxed and guided him to climb the big dune crest. His massive, webbed feet pushed loose sand to fall away behind them, and she glanced back to ensure the other lizards were following.
“All things present us with opportunities that the wise man uses well and the fool badly.”
“Keeaww.” The bull screeched as if in agreement as he crested the tall dune and picked up the scent of food. She looked back at their distant camp on the salt flats and the tiny specs that would be her mother and the others, Silky, Mirch, and Lava.
The little lavender bracelet fell from her fingers back onto the pages of the book, and the horizon wheeled around her. She was not on a bull lizard. She was sitting in the sand. Her hair was no longer short but long and blowing in her eyes again.
Now, a woman again. Again? How many times had she been a woman? No. A child. Was I a child? No. She wasn’t a child now. This had been only a memory from when she once was a child. She sat back up, the spin subsiding, and took an unsteady sip from the water skin.
And she looked down at the book. She was careful not to touch the bracelet and leafed over a page to cover it. Pressed into wax on the next page was a coin. An old, worn coin, the edges nipped away for trade. She could still make out it had been embossed with an eagle. She brushed the coin’s edge with a fingertip…
This time, when the memory overtook her, she was almost expecting it. A loud cacophony of noise bombarded her, along with discomfort. Her back was aching. She leaned against the warm fireplace and stretched her leg out in front of her. Her bare foot was cold. It was a cold night. She was sitting on the stone floor in a crowded pub with a crutch beside her. She fed the fire from the basket beside her. She had just filled the basket so she would not have to crutch out into the cold wind of the night into the stables again. Her other leg was bound beneath her, and she wore the rags of a beggar. Three Sisters of the Cloistered had just sat down at the table nearest her. She strained to overhear their conversation. Their information would be crucial to the next stage of her plan, and she had paid off the other beggars for this place at the hearth. These Sisters were travellers from the east, and she had expected them to sit as close to the fire as they could.
“This is disgusting,” the Sister spoke. Her voice was subtle, quiet, only meant for those at the table, but she could still make out the words. It was the small one that was speaking. She marvelled at the accent. Strangely lilting and deep, as if all the emphasis in their speech was backwards. She had been talking to the taller Sister as they sat down, and now she continued, “At least you spent the day at the soldier’s encampment, in clear fresh air, with athletic-looking men. I’m sure that was all wasted on you, Sister. I had to slog through the allies of this barbarian outpost they call a city. And this hovel, supposedly the most magnificent. Everything stinks. And it is cold.”
“The One teaches us tolerance and acceptance,” the older woman between them said. She wore the largest mask. It covered most of her face, only revealing her mouth and chin tattooed in green.
“Well, it’s too cold, and the warmer that fire gets, the more it stinks in here. Whatever that cripple is burning in the fireplace smells like rancid swamp grass mixed with dung.”
“Yes. That’s what it is,” the tall sister said.
“Hush now,” the older one said. “We are here amongst these people to learn. Our studies tell us to accept them for who they are.”
“Oh, I’m learning. I have learned this city stinks because they burn dung.”
The tall one replied, “And they would find our coastal city moss strewn and wrapped in fog and humidity.” Her long, heavy tech-staff stood propped in the corner, possibly a charge staff. It was difficult to know if it would work, and these days, such was rare. The girl at the fireplace had marked this tall Sister as a fighter. The small one was also a fighter with some type of matching dual weapons under her cloak. She had shifted them under her robe to sit down, and now the weapons bulged through the cloth—weapons larger than knives with a complexity of shafts to them, but still small enough to be concealed.
Two armed Sisters escorting an older one. Why? Because they would have things of value. Things of value to trade could also be stolen. Not to steal everything, mind. That took more manpower than the girl disguised as a cripple could muster or would want to. She specialized in not drawing notice, not hiring men who would just simply take from her. She stayed unnoticed and stole only a little. More often than not, her thefts weren’t even noticed—just a bolt of cloth here, a bag of spice there—mistakes by the sellers or something lifted or lost in shipment—trivial things, but worth enough to keep her and the other children she trusted comfortable.
The older Sister held a station of respect; therefore, she should have a separate room. She needed to confirm which one had the key. If it was the older one, everything was going to go much easier. If it were one of the younger ones, the key would be much more difficult to lift. She would have to have some contingencies planned: a pickpocket, a distraction, or some well-placed bribes.
The small one leaned forward. “You have the most foolish thoughts, Oda. I can never understand you. Why would you even consider what barbarians of some outpost would think of our great city Baal?”
“Enough of your squabbling. Behave yourselves in accordance to doctrine,” the older woman said. The two leaned away from each other. “We have had a long journey. We must expect the fatigue and the intolerance it will generate and suppress it. Now, both of you, concentrate on the task at hand.” She looked at both of them. The women returned curt nods. “Klara, what were you able to find out?”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
A burst of noise, louder than usual, boomed across the room. One group of soldiers had been exceptionally boisterous. They had been pounding on their table rhythmically, playing some dice drinking game. One of them had just lost an especially long round of table thumping and dice rolls and would be buying the next round of drinks. Laughter rang out at their friend’s bad luck.
“Don’t they at least have something hot to drink here?” the small one, Klara, asked, ignoring the question and glaring at the men.
“I have already inquired,” Oda replied as she poured. “All drinks are alcoholic, and nothing is pure.”
“We will have tea at our lodging later, Klara. Tell me what you discovered.”
“It is true, the Sisters have been expelled from the pyramid by the ambassador, who now controls it. There are thieves in the city but no guild. They tell me any thieving is done by children, unorganized children. Small gangs more concerned with fighting amongst themselves. Our goods will be secure in the warehouse after we leave. I don’t know why we had to come here to this slum. It is absolutely freezing. And it—”
“We need to sell what valuables are left in the warehouses. I know. It stinks. The trader wished to meet at this location. We will wait until he arrives.”
I will have to give Back Alley John extra, she thought. The misinformation he spread amongst the traders is still being believed. Possibly time to put John on the permanent payroll.
“We should have stayed in our lodgings. It would have been warm and clean, at least. My tea leaves are there, my kettle, my slippers. My feet are wet, and even my boots stink.”
“When the trader comes, we will greet him politely, let him know what and where it is stored, sign the sales agreement, and go home. Just a little while longer, please, Klara, settle yourself, for all our sakes,” the older woman said.
Her heartbeat quickened at these words. The trader was on his way now. They would need to steal a portion of the gossamer cloth and have it sold before dawn. Suddenly excited and unthinking, she threw more on the fire.
Through the cacophony of the pub, stained leather boots stomped up to her. The cuff to her head caught her unexpectedly, spinning a wink of brightness through her vision.
“Hey! Enough. I told you! Sparingly!” She stared up at the heavy keeper. In one hand, he carried a flat stone thick with hot grilled meat dripping grease, and in the other, he had four steins of slopping ale. “Are you a fool AND a cripple? They are packed in here like sheep. It’s too hot already! I told you not to let it go out! Not to burn up all the smudge! No more till I say!” A boot slid back to kick at her.
She cringed, bracing for the kick. “Yes, Keeper, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Please, Keeper.” The older sister stood and turned to the big man. “This is my fault. I’m sorry, but I am an old woman from the far east and not used to the crisp fresh air in your fine city. I asked the girl to put more on. The fault is mine. Please…” She held a coin out to him. “Take this for the expense.”
The coin had his attention. “OK, then.” He took the coin. I’ll go throw open another shutter,” he mumbled and stomped away.
“Did he say he was going to open another window?” The little woman hunkered into her robes.
“And here, child,” the old woman said, leaning with an arm outstretched. “One for yourself. Be sure to share it with the other children.” The cool coin was slipped into her hand. With her thumb, she felt the worn shape of the bird on it.
She pulled her hand off the coin. The images faded, but the memory remained. Both memories had remained. A very young girl riding a giant bull lizard and a teenager running a gang of thieves. She leafed another page to a bookmark. It was a playing card. It had a hand-painted picture of two men dancing. A silly cavorting man and a stern, stoic man. She used the book leaf to flip the card without touching it. The opposite side of the card was a complex pattern of lines, mazes, and dots with four words scratched into it as if from the tip of a knife. In reading the words, she clutched the long crystal staff that lay across her lap…
Inside a dimly lit room. There was music along with the hushed, quiet sounds of low conversations. Her hands were older, tanned, and moving through card tricks. The cards were smooth, clean, and cool. Three children sat around a table with her. A storm lantern hung from the rafters above them, glowing with the choked yellow light that saved fuel. One girl was very tall and willowy. Very pretty. She had her midsection wrapped to conceal some type of lumps or growths. The other one, very small, had a beast face that she tried to hide with her high collar and hood. The boy looked normal but could have been advanced. His muscle density was possibly too great for one still so young. They looked road-weary and dust-stained.
Tables surrounded her under their own lanterns. The room had a closed-in feel—the pressurized feeling of a closed vault door.
She palmed a card, held it up to the children, palmed another, made both disappear, and then pulled both from behind the boy’s ear.
She dropped both cards onto the table, and then she turned those two cards into the complete deck of cards as she fanned a continuous strip of cards across the tabletop.
They laughed softly, and their eyes sparkled. Children in a cantina and she was performing card tricks…
A blow to her hand knocked the card away, spinning. A heavy leather boot had struck the book, its pages flying, and she saw the coin flash brightly, and then it, too, was gone. Her hand was numb from the blow. The dim light of the cantina was gone. The music was gone. The book was scattered around her in the sand, its pages fluttering away into the breeze. In the moment between memory fading and reality returning, the playing card hung in the air, and she snatched it back, her fingers remembering their ability with cards. As she clung to the card, the staff was pulled from her lap.
“Since you feel it is wise to ignore me, I will just take it instead!”
She spun to her feet and stood up to face this new adversary. Her right hand throbbed. She held the playing card pinched in her left.
“Who are you?” A stocky woman faced her, holding her staff. She had a young face that had seen many fights. It had been cut and scarred over, the heaviest scar on her forehead over a broken nose. She wore metal down her arms into heavy gauntlets. Her head was shaved close, stubble bald, and she had unusual pink-red eyes.
“You answer my questions. I was following a child. I asked you where is the girl? About this tall. And how did you get this?” she asked, gesticulating with the staff.
“I haven’t seen any children,” she said. “Why did you assault me? That is my staff.” She held out her hand as if to receive it.
“I tracked a girl here.” She made no move to return the staff. “Her tracks led here. Only one set. All the way from the pod. You have her staff. Tell me where the child is.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m the only one here.” She turned, her arms out to encompass the entire horizon. “Only you and I are here. No little girl.”
“I’m claiming this staff,” she said, raising it up.
The tall woman in the Wayfarer cloak raised the playing card up for the other to see and flicked it over, so the value side showed. Scratched into the card were the words, THE STAFF IS YOURS.
“You can see why you are wrong. Return my staff.”
“No. You have done something with the girl and have taken her things.”
“I told you, I don’t know of any girl. It was only me here. And my staff…” She pointed to it. “The book…” She indicated the few remaining pages that were blowing away in the sand. “And this playing card.”
The woman harrumphed, turned away, and strode around the slope of the dune, studying the ground.
“There are no other tracks that lead away from here. You must have seen the child.”
“Are you stupid or something? Give me back my staff.”
“No.”
She strode towards her and reached for the staff, but before her hand grasped it, the other had jerked it aside. They stood tense, facing each other.
“You will not have it. I warn you. Don’t try that again.” The tone was quiet and filled with menace.
She slipped the playing card into her pack as the other turned and strode off, returning over their double footprints in the sand. She glanced around her at the few remaining pages of the book and at the other pages being carried far off over the dunes. She was torn between the magic book of memories and the staff, but it only took a moment of hesitation, and she turned to follow the other woman.
“Do not follow me.”
“I will not let you carry my staff away. Stop.” She quickened her pace and closed the distance between them.
Hearing her draw near, the other stopped and turned.
“I don’t know who you are, but I’m taking this staff for The People.”
“I don’t care what you’re doing. I didn’t ask you what you were doing. But that’s my staff, and you’re not taking it anywhere. Lay it there on the sand, and you can walk away.”
“You lie. You took it from the girl.”
“I think you may have destroyed the book of my memories. But I know that staff is mine. Leave it.”
“No.” And walking backwards she added, “And I’ll warn you, don’t try and follow me.”
When the other turned to continue walking away following the tracks, she ran and dove at her while drawing the spyglass from her pouch.
She turned and swung the staff in a backhanded horizontal arc. She hadn’t expected her to have a weapon and had turned too late.
The slender woman ducked low under the staff and drove the spyglass into her knee. The tube shattered and burst into a confetti plume of glass that was scattered by the wind.
The blow staggered her, and she stumbled, stopping her fall with a gauntlet pressed into the sand. With the other, she braced herself with the staff.
“I warn you. Do not try to stop me.”
“You can’t go far,” she replied. “You have no pack. No water. The desert surrounds us for as far as can be seen, and now you will be limping.” She tossed the broken spyglass away.
“My father’s cavalry will be following. I will travel south. I will find them.” She stood and limped.
“I won’t let—” The clutch of sand hit her directly in the eyes. Even without being able to see, she knew a swing of the staff was following. She lunged backwards, but too slow, and the sharp crystal caught her a glancing swipe across her front. She fell backwards, and now the stout woman stood above her, pressing her into the sand with the staff.
With the tip of its sharpness against her throat, the last rays of the sun fell away. She lurched against it, but the woman wielding it was stocky and strong, and she pushed the staff point into her neck to the point where it felt as if it would pierce her skin.
She stopped struggling. Wiping sand away from her eyes, she squinted and blinked.
“I will not tell you again. Do not try to stop m—”
And then the woman was gone—entirely disappeared—knocked away in the sudden swoop of a rush of blackness.
The woman was gone. Her staff was gone, and she was left with a scratch from where the staff point was jerked clean away. She scrambled quickly to stand.
The woman had been thrown a fair distance and now lay sprawled there, motionless.
The rush of black mass had crashed into the sand in a jumble of broken wings just a short way beyond. She realized it was a glider. A small shape rose from the wreckage and stood with a slight stagger. It was a girl who looked like she was in pain, but she made her way clear of her crash site, stooped, and then stood, holding the crystal staff.
“Everyone wants my staff,” she said and dabbed at her scratch that was welling with blood. She went to the girl, who was small in frame with a knife-edge of sharp grey features. She had black flowing hair under a leather headband fastened with a small eyeglass.
She reached to take her staff back, but the girl shook her head “no” and took a step back.
“Look.” She pulled the playing card from her sash and showed it to the girl, giving her time to read the words scoured on its face. “The staff is mine.” She reached for it again. The small girl took another step backwards and pulled a sphere from a waste pouch. With an audible “click,” the air was filled with a squeal, like screeching metal.
“I’d step back if I were you.” The woman in the armour spoke from her place, still sprawled in the sand. “That’s a grenade. A bomb. It will kill us.”
“Well, is this the girl you were looking for?”
“No. This is definitely a different one.”