8 At the Edge of the Great Desert, Missinia Soldanate

In five years, the settlement at the edge of Missinia's sandy wasteland had grown from a camp to an actual village. Most of the workers still slept in tents, but a permanent administrative dwelling now housed Soldan Xivir and his son Burilo. Deep wells had been dug to provide water for the crews working on the sand coracles, for the merchants and adventurers who flew them, and for the suppliers who brought Uraban goods to be sold at outrageous prices to Nunghal clans on the other side of the Great Desert.

Imposing taxes and tariffs on any goods carried aboard the sand coracles, Soldan Xivir had transformed a rough camp into a civilized town with necessary services, and the road from Desert Harbor to Arikara was well traveled. He was quite proud of his operation.

Once each year, at the seasonal turning of the prevailing winds, intrepid explorers inflated silken balloon sacks fastened to wicker coracles and flew them across the sea of sand. The previous year, nine such vessels had braved the crossing; this year, twelve had launched.

Even priestesses had made the passage, hoping to spread the word of Urec. The Nunghal nomads had listened politely, but showed no desire to change their own beliefs, much to the sikaras' consternation. The Nunghal khan Jikaris had asked a frustrated priestess to become one of his wives. Pragmatic, she had agreed to be his lover on the condition that he convert to the Urecari faith, but Jikaris responded that while the offer was tempting, he didn't find her quite that attractive. He preferred his own rough, open churches and his own version of tales of the sailor Sons of God and unexplored lands.

In the past four years, eight Uraban sand coracles had been lost during the hazardous crossing. In one terrifying incident, the wicker basket of a loaded coracle had caught fire from the brazier that kept the silken balloons inflated. As flames engulfed the basket, some men had thrown themselves overboard to their deaths; others climbed up the ropes, clinging to the balloon sack, where they were roasted alive. The burning sand coracle had crashed onto the dunes like an angry meteor.

However, because of the potential for riches and adventure, many merchants still braved the crossing. Each year, the colorful vessels departed from Desert Harbor like a fleet of sailing ships. Six months later, the winds would reverse and blow the sand coracles home. The camp town swelled again with eager caravan leaders and representatives of merchant families ready to receive the unusual Nunghal merchandise.

Any day now, the first sand coracles were expected to come back.

Since the flatlands offered no high points for lookouts, Soldan Xivir had erected a tall wooden tower at the edge of Desert Harbor. All day long, anxious observers stood on the upper platform, scanning the skies with spyglasses, alert to glimpse the first colorful balloon.

Just after noon, a spotter shouted out, “Two coracles! Red and orange balloons!”

Men rushed out of tents, and three eager caravan leaders scrambled up the wooden steps to crowd the observation platform. Soldan Xivir marched out of his headquarters building and turned to the portmaster. “Go, look in your records to see who owns the red and orange coracles.”

The small-statured man did not even need to check. “Why, my Lord, the orange vessel carries the former soldan-shah himself. The red balloon belongs to the Gahari family.”

The soldan of Missinia felt a wave of relief to know that Imir—his brother-in-law—would soon be returning. He shaded his eyes, looking up. “Prepare a traditional reception feast, and you'd better make it an extravagant one.”

Drifting along with painstaking slowness, the airborne vessels took two more hours to arrive at Desert Harbor. Gentle breezes delivered the orange balloon well in advance of the second coracle. High above, the figures in the wicker basket doused the central brazier and let the silk balloon sack deflate. As the coracle descended, the men threw coils of rope down to ground workers who had pounded stakes into the patchy grass.

When the basket was anchored, former soldan-shah Imir swung himself over the coracle's side and dropped to the ground, where he swayed unsteadily on knees unaccustomed to solid land. “What a pleasure to be back on Uraban soil again!”

Xivir came forward to embrace him, sending up a flurry of brown dust and grit from the other man's dirty traveling clothes. “Welcome home.”

“Please tell me you have a bath and food—most importantly a bath.”

Burilo came up to shake his uncle's hand. “We have already drawn water from the wells, my Lord. Cauldrons are heating it over a fire.” Xivir's son was Omra's age—the two had been boys together—and Burilo had already proven himself to be a good administrator, a wise man, and a fitting soldan-in-training to rule Missinia.

The three men walked toward the bath tent. “Was your journey successful?” Xivir asked.

“Oh, yes.” The older man's eyes sparkled. “More than I had hoped, more than you can imagine.”

When the second coracle drifted in half an hour later, caravan leaders and representatives of the Gahari merchant family swarmed forward with slate boards to tally the goods. Curious camp workers unloaded the cargo, while traders squabbled over the division of the profits.

Imir had made the desert trek three out of the past five years, and by now he had grown quite fond of the nomadic people; he knew their culture, their customs, and had even learned to speak passable Nunghal (though Khan Jikaris teased him for his silly accent).

Given the freedom to travel, and relieved of political responsibilities, the former soldan-shah felt more content now than when he'd ruled all of Uraba. He did not miss the press of advisers and emissaries with their accompanying rivalries, nor the tragedy of scheming wives and assassination attempts. His only disappointment on these trips was that Sen Sherufa na-Oa did not accompany him. The Saedran scholar would have been a great companion during his explorations—not only because she spoke the native language far better than he, but also because Imir was quite fond of her company. However, while she encouraged him to bring back any information about the unknown southern half of the continent, Sherufa didn't personally enjoy the rigors of traveling.

Nevertheless, Imir clung to hope….

Entering the shade of the bath tent, he gulped down a flask of cool well water, then savored a cup of good Missinian wine. Burilo directed servants to pour buckets of heated water into a wooden tub, while a young woman added aromatic herbs and oils.

With a groan and a sigh, Imir shucked his filthy travel clothes, let them fall to the ground, and nudged them away with his toe. “No need to wash the garments—just burn them.” He sank into the steaming tub of water with a contented sigh, closed his eyes, and slid his entire head beneath the surface, scrubbing the dirt from his stubbly gray hair and beard. Traditionally, Imir kept himself clean-shaven when in Uraba, but never bothered once he boarded a sand coracle.

He spluttered to the surface again, shaking his head and spraying water from his lips. Burilo and Soldan Xivir pulled up tripod stools with leather seats and waited to hear more of his travels.

Imir's eyes were hard, and his expression had changed from a smile of delight to a predatory grin. “You'll be happy to know that we spotted two bandit camps as we flew over, and I noted their positions.”

Burilo looked eager. “We will raid them and crush them, as we've done before. They've been a thorn in our sides for far too many years. In fact, the bandits harassed Desert Harbor only a week ago, but we drove them off.”

Soldan Xivir shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “We interrogated one of the captives. Before he died, he told us the name of their new leader: Norgo. Each time we kill one, another springs up. More severed heads for my growing collection back in Arikara, I suppose.” He placed his hands on one knee. “But enough of that. You said that your mission was more successful than you had dreamed. What did you mean by that?”

Imir enjoyed the relaxation of the warm water, though he was anxious to join the first caravan back to Olabar, given his vital news for Omra. He blew air through his lips again. “After years of pleading, I finally convinced Khan Jikaris—well, a great deal of gold convinced him—to give me what I wanted.” He smiled enigmatically. “I have the recipe and process for making firepowder. Now we can blast the Aidenists from the face of the world!”