In his hilltop palace in the capital of Missinia soldanate, Xivir spent the afternoon with his abacus and registry rolls. He sat on silk cushions by a low mahogany table, making notations of taxes and goods kept in inventory. He did not hurry his letters and numbers: he could at least keep his penmanship neat, even when the ledgers showed losses instead of profits.
The bandit raid on Desert Harbor had destroyed the sand coracles, which ruined an entire season of trading with the Nunghals. Unable to cross the Great Desert, merchants reported plummeting profits, and the numbers on the soldan’s tax ledgers showed a commensurate drop. Missinia Soldanate, and all of Uraba, had come to depend on the lucrative trade with the nomadic people.
But while Soldan Xivir might have lost tax revenue, the bandits had lost plenty of heads. His master carpenters had built special shelves to hold and display the heads of twenty-three executed bandit leaders, each gruesome trophy preserved in tar—far more impressive showpieces than any enameled vase or glazed pot, he thought.
The voice of his sister interrupted him. “I’m about finished with my letter to dear Imir. Do you have anything you’d like to add?”
Xivir slid his abacus to one side. Lithio often joined him in his afternoon ponderings, and now she lounged with a square of lacquered wood on her lap serving as a desk. She wrote pages of details that could not possibly interest the retired soldan-shah.
Lithio and Imir had been estranged for decades; though they were both proud of their son Omra, the two had little else to show for their union. They were content to live far apart, and Lithio persisted in writing Imir regular letters, although she never received any reply.
“Why do you spend so much time at your correspondence, sister? You know it merely annoys Imir.”
“Precisely the reason.” Lithio smiled teasingly. “And I find it amusing.”
Xivir rearranged the beads on his abacus. “You should find another husband. Imir would certainly sanction it.”
“Why do I need another husband? I’m quite content with my life as it is.”
A servant entered carrying a tray with two glasses and a pot of steaming lemon tea. “Soldan, your son has arrived from Desert Harbor.”
Xivir brightened, closed his ledgers, and set aside the abacus. “Send him in. He needs no permission to see me.”
Lithio placed her wooden writing surface on the tiled floor and raised herself from her cushions with exaggerated grace. She embraced Burilo as soon as he entered, then wrinkled her nose. “You need a bath and some food.”
“I would not disagree.” Burilo pulled up a cushion in front of his father’s low desk. “First, though, you should know the good news from Desert Harbor. After months of hard work, we’ve repaired the damage from the bandit attack—and completed the frameworks for ten new sand coracles. The improved design is even larger than before, so the coracles will be able to carry more cargo next season.”
Xivir tapped a fingertip on the disappointing numbers on his sheet. “They’ll need to make up for this disaster.”
“By now, Khan Jikaris must be worried. Our merchants have come every year, and he will wait for months. I wish we could send him a message.”
“And I wish the bandits would disappear.” Xivir grimaced at the grisly display on his shelves. “But the winds are already changing for the season, and we’ll just have to wait. Maybe next year Khan Jikaris will pay higher prices for trinkets and delicacies from Uraba.”
“You could always walk across the dunes like Asaddan did,” Lithio said. “Take the direct route.”
“No, thank you. Even a trip by sand coracle sounds too rugged for me.” Xivir sipped his lemon tea, then offered the rest of the cup to his son, who gulped it. “I am the soldan, and I enjoy my comforts of civilization.”
As if to punish him for his smugness, a deep rumble shook the ground. The stone walls of the palace thrummed and vibrated, and heavy blocks fell from the top of a wall in the courtyard. Xivir’s abacus fell over with a clatter of beads, and he sprang to his feet, looking in alarm at the cracks that raced along the plastered ceiling. “Outside—get outside, now!”
While Lithio stood openmouthed in confusion, Burilo grabbed her arm, and Xivir herded them both out into the wide corridor. Behind him, just as they rushed out of the chamber, the wooden display case creaked forward and toppled. The grotesque preserved heads tumbled onto the tiled floor like rotten fruit.
Lithio, Xivir, and Burilo rushed into the open courtyard, while portions of the palace began to collapse around them. Walls buckled and clay bricks fell inward; support pillars rocked and swayed drunkenly, and also collapsed. The roof crashed in.
From the rise on which his palace was built, Soldan Xivir gazed across Arikara, the marketplaces, the churches, the watchtowers. Bells clanged in a violent cacophony, and a roaring wave of sound seemed to press the very air itself. Swaths of rickety vendor stalls and tents collapsed; terra-cotta roof tiles became deadly missiles that smashed into the street. He could see the ground itself roll and heave as the earthquake went on and on.
Xivir watched his city fall.