Day 4

Alexander spat sand from his mouth, scrubbed it from his eyes. The desert sun beat high above the empty shore, warming the wavelets licking at his boots. He was surprised he still had boots. The storm that had taken the Carida had been violent enough to tear the sword from his back. He stripped off his tunic, drenched it, tied it around his head. Where was Sylpha? There was no sign of life in either direction, no way to tell what path was shortest to people. East would lead towards Ise, he was sure; they had been a fair way towards Mora when the storm had broken. East or west? His pouch was still their, fastened securely to his belt. He reached in and drew out a coin, slim and gold, glinting on his palm. It spun high in the air, flashing until he snatched it back. The face of Pesh, the war god grinned up at him. To the west, then.

He lost count of the days, after the third. He stared at his feet, one in front of the other, the leather of his boots gradually wearing thin. When the heat became unbearable, he submerged himself in the sea that he kept ever in sight on his right hand. Never for long; the urge to drink from its saltiness was strong. Instead, he caught scuttling crabs in his hands, crushing their shells with his teeth. Few fish came near the hot sands, but those that ventured near he captured, tearing the pale flesh from their fine bones, sucking their eyes for moisture. A taste of the heavens, those fish eyes.

At night he dug pits in the sand and huddled in them, gritting his teeth against the scouring cold that sucked the warmth from the ground and from his flesh. Finally, after a week or more (the moon had changed, he knew that much at least) he topped a dune to see, at last, the walls of a city spread before him. It was a city he knew, but it was not Mora. It was Qurat, the shining jewel of the sea.

* * *

Alexander bounded down the street, cloak geturing wildly behind him. The wall of water was hard on his heels, sheet rain sweeping across the city. Few others were still out of the safe dryness of their homes; Alexander made haste to join them. He spied a tavern just ahead, the light of friendly light of burning fat glowing through its shutters. He ducked inside and slamed the door behind him, leaning heavily on it. So he could still run, he thought with surprise, even after . . .

"You there, innkeeper, what is the date?"

The barman bustled up, offering to take his cloak, offering rooms, talking of rates and food.

"Yes, yes," said Alexander impatiently. "The date, man!"

The barman told him.

"Nine days," he said softly. "Nine days. Well, the desert may have taken my water and had a good start on my sinews, but it has not taken my gold. I wager that that is not the case with you," he gave the barman a shrewd look and pulled a gold coin from his pouch. "The coin that sealed my fate in the desert. How fitting that it should buy food and shelter now."

The barman snatched it and secreted it away, clearly revising his estimation of the ragamuffin vagrant before him.

"This way, my Lord," he said, scuttling before Alexander like a sand beetle. "A private room for you, with wine, stew, a bath, a dancing girl perahps, if you fancy."

"Water and food first. A bath can come later. And then sleep! I mean to sleep myself out. Warn your servants not to disturb me, landlord!"

"As you command, my Lord," the barman assured him, bobbing up and down. "This way, this way!"

The room he left Alexander to was plain, but clean and dry and warm. The floor was neatly swept of sand, and the pallet was made with cloth sheets. Not a poor room by any means.

Alexander set to his meal - strong mutton stew and bread - pacing himself carefully and drinking much water. He would sleep for a few hours, wake and eat again, then sleep, until his strength had returned. Then he would set about searching for Sylpha. If she were alive - his hands clenched in his bread, crushing it. If she were alive, she might well have come to Qurat before him. More likely she had washed up in Mora.

He finished the stew and set the remainder of the loaf aside longingly. Sleep now. He would eat again soon.

He slept the night through, and the next day past noon. He arose, cleaned himself, then descended the stairs in search of the landlord. The man's name was Soran, a short, round fellow with a face full of stubble. Alexander slipped him a silver coin.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Landlord. Your inn is most comfortable."

Soran grinned toothly, tucking the coin away.

"Your Lordship is most welcome, most welcome!" he said, bowing. His meaning hung clear in the air. _As long as your coin is good, I am your humble servant_. Alexander gave him another silver.

"I am seeking Princess Sylpha of Tyrndon. Has there been any news of her in the city?"

"You and half the world, my Lord. Every inn in the city is full of seekers come to search for her. Evan a lord such as yourself might look twice and more at such a sum." Soran placed a long finger along side his nose. "If I were twenty years younger, I might be tempted myself. But alas. I must be content with the lot the gods have given me." He gave Alexander a cunning wink. "Content to take the coin of hopefull adventurers."

"What sum is this?" Alexander asked.

Soran was flabberghasted. "My Lord! Have you not heard? The Lords Council if Ise have offered weight in gold for the safe return of the princess Sylpha and Captain Alexander, her lover!"

"I see," said Alexander, slowly. "Thank you, landlord. This has been a most illuminating conversation."

* * *

The seekers came for him as he was returning from the outfitters. New sword on his back, wrapped in new clothes, his feet cushioned by new boots, a feeling of gladness and comfort mingled with his steadfast resolve to find the princess. She was not as well off as he, maybe. He must make haste. Whistling idly, he turned to admire a large camel tied to a hitching posts, when the ambushers fell upon him. There were three of them, dressed all in black, faces shrouded and hooded like Assassins. The first hurled himself against Alexander's sword arm, trapping it to his side, while the other two raised their daggers and closed in.

Alexander dropped to his side, scisoring the first attacker's legs from beneath him. The man fell with a surprised grunt, and Alexander bounced up, pulling out his sword. He spun it calmly to and fro in his hands. The remaining attackers regarded him for a moment, then backed away, disappearing into the darkness. He heard their running feet retreating.

Not Assassins. Assassins would embrace death rather than return in failure. The third man still lay on the ground, stunned from Alexander's buffet. Alexander dragged him up by his clothes. The inn was not many steps away. Alexander marched his prisoner like a drunkard, keeping his sword in hand to be safe.

"My Lord," Soran exclaimed as Alexander entered. He sounded surprised. "Are you well? I mean . . ."

Alexander looked at him sharply. "My friend has had too much to drink I fear," he said, giving his slumped prisoner a shake. "I will take him to my room to sleep himself out."

"Certainly my Lord, whatever you wish," Soran was rubbing his palms together nervously.

"Then perhaps I will have a word with you, friend Soran," Alexander said darkly.

* * *