Race the Sands Read online

  Thing was, none of the kehoks that her patron owned this season were fast enough, and the River knew none of her former students were strong enough—yesterday’s fiasco had made that clear.

  I have to go to the auction. Today. Before any more time is lost.

  She had to find a new rider and a new racer. But first . . . she needed her patron to back her, for both money to purchase the kehok and for the race entrance fees. And this was easier said than done. After last season, she’d been lucky just to be able to teach using Lady Evara’s kehoks. Maybe her attitude will have mellowed. And maybe she won’t have heard about yesterday’s fiasco. Besides, it had been several months since Tamra had last approached her.

  And there’s no better option. I have to try.

  As much as she despised begging for gold, she’d do it. For Shalla.

  It took nearly an hour to cross the city by foot, another half hour of waiting to pay a bronze coin to cross the Aur River by ferry, fifteen minutes on the crowded ferry pressed up against workers who smelled like lye and soot and spent the entire trip complaining about how the emperor-to-be still wasn’t crowned yet, and gossiping about fears of foreign invaders while Becar was emperor-less—no treaties could be signed, no troops could be moved, no laws could be passed until Prince Dar was coronated, and that couldn’t happen until he found the vessel for his predecessor’s soul. By the time the ferry docked on the southern bank, Tamra felt as if her shoulders were up at her ears and every back muscle was a knot of tension. She didn’t even want to think about what would happen if the emperor-to-be couldn’t be crowned. She had enough of her own problems, thank you very much, without worrying about the world falling apart around her.

  After the ferry, it took another half hour to wind through the back streets of the palaces. Men and women from the north bank, “lesser Becarans,” weren’t allowed to use the wide palm-tree-lined streets that connected the palaces. If they needed to get someplace on the southern bank, they had to use the narrow, covered alleys that hid them and their inferior clothes from the eyes of the wealthy.

  More than once, Tamra had imagined riding a kehok down one of the thoroughfares, in full sight of the rich. They watch and cheer loudly enough during the races, the same as the poor. Yet we’re somehow unviewable where they live.

  Centuries ago, when the first augurs built the first temple, wealth was bestowed on the worthy and pure of soul. Their descendants were fond of believing that was still true—that the wealthy were naturally superior, even though there was no proof of that anymore. By law, all augur readings were private, shielding the nobility from charges of hypocrisy. She could guess who’d made that law: some rich parent who wanted their spoiled, rat-souled kid to inherit their land, gold, and title.

  But she shoved her resentment down where it wouldn’t show on her face as she approached her patron’s palace. Over the past few months, ever since the death of the last emperor, the number of city guards patrolling these streets had doubled—it wouldn’t do to look like a troublemaker.

  Lady Evara possessed what she would have called a “modest” home, a sprawling complex of “only” six buildings and three gardens. The unrest throughout Becar, the threats brewing beyond the empire’s borders . . . none of it appeared to have touched this oasis in the slightest. But that had to be an illusion. Even the aristocracy needed the empire to function in order to maintain their wealth and power. The rich were merely better at hiding any hint of strain, due to the fact that they, by definition, had absurd amounts of money.

  Each building looked like a temple of polished white marble with a blue-tiled dome that gleamed against the cloudless sky. Strikingly beautiful, yes, but it was the gardens that were extraordinary. Entering through one of the servant archways, Tamra marveled at the gorgeous sprays of purple, blue, and yellow flowers that were suspended on impossible-to-see trellises so that they appeared to be floating. She inhaled the perfume of the blossoms, so thick that it made her head feel as if it were spinning. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers across the petals of the velvet-soft blossoms. Imagine having enough gold to create floating gardens. Surely, Lady Evara will spend a bit of her fortune on a has-been rider’s dreams of lost glory.

  Maybe she should think of a better sales pitch than that.

  Trouble was, she wasn’t good at asking for money. Or for anything. She’d become a rider to prove her worth, and that hadn’t changed—she wanted this patronage because she deserved it, not because anyone pitied her.

  After giving her name to one of Lady Evara’s servants, Tamra waited as instructed by a pond that was overstuffed with lilies and shimmering silver fish. A waterfall fed the stream, pouring from bronze vases. Even though she knew it cycled back through hidden hoses, it still felt like a frivolous waste of money.

  But then, I suppose, so am I.

  Last season her patron had showered her with enough money to buy the best racer at the auction and hire the most promising rider. Both had died when she’d pushed them too hard in their final race in the Heart of Becar.

  Even worse, they’d taken down multiple racers and riders around them.

  A high-profile disaster like that, accompanied by so many fines that Tamra had lost all her savings from her champion years, should have been enough for her patron to abandon her entirely. Tamra should just be grateful that she hadn’t. Yet here I am, about to ask her to trust me again.

  This is never going to work.

  She fixed her thoughts on Shalla, attempting to firm up her resolve once more.

  It was funny, but she’d never once felt this kind of self-doubt on the racetrack.

  It’s age, Tamra thought. The youth can be confident because they don’t know how many doors are closing with each passing day. The youth had the illusion of limitless possibilities, whereas Tamra had already had her fate, her failure, shoved down her throat.

  I can’t fail again. I won’t.

  “My petal!” Lady Evara swept across the garden, looking as if she were wearing a garden on her body. She was draped in gauzy layers of fabric embroidered with a riot of flowers, all in gold- and emerald-colored threads. Her hair was dyed emerald and gold as well, and was wrapped around a puzzle of golden trellises so high and wide that Tamra didn’t know how she managed to walk without tipping over. “Such a delight to see you, my dear, especially after what happened yesterday. Losing all your students at once. Tut-tut.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised that Lady Evara knew, but it still caught her off guard. Even with so many city services hamstrung by the lack of an emperor, the rich still found ways to get news faster than anyone else. She wondered whether one of the other trainers had sent a messenger wight with the humiliating details. Or it could have been one of her students’ parents. Tamra tried not to let her dismay show on her face as she bowed low. “Gracious One, you look as beautiful as your garden.”

  Lady Evara laughed, a tinkling sound that resembled a wind chime. Tamra knew she’d cultivated that laugh—she’d once interrupted the great lady practicing when she thought no one could hear her. Or maybe she simply hadn’t cared if Tamra had.

  “You have probably guessed why I have come, Gracious One.”

  The laugh died as if it were a fire doused with water. “You want. Isn’t that why you always come? Your wants. Your needs. Your dreams. But does anyone ever ask what I want and need?”

  Oh, spectacular. It’s going to be one of those visits. “What do you want and need?” Tamra asked dutifully, though what she really wanted to ask was how could Lady Evara need anything, living in such splendor? Her every whim was catered to. She’d never known true need. Maybe want, though. Even the rich had wants.

  “Absolutely nothing. All my dreams have been fulfilled.”

  That . . . wasn’t the answer she expected, even if she suspected it was true.

  “That’s a lie, of course,” Lady Evara said airily. “I want to sponsor a winner. You promised me one. You were so very certain.” She pouted, and Tamra tried
to guess what the appropriate response was. An apology? Bravado? She went with truth:

  “I can make a winner.”

  “Oh? So confident, sweet petal? You’re cursed, they say, after last year’s catastrophe. They call me foolish to encourage you. They’d rather I toss you to the jackals. But I’m not so fickle in my judgments. And I judge that you can do as you say.”

  Tamra allowed herself a hint of hope. Maybe this would be simpler than she’d thought it would. Maybe she’d be given another chance. Maybe . . .

  “Still, I don’t like to be considered a fool. You don’t consider me a fool, do you?” Lady Evara looked at her then with piercing eyes, as if Tamra’s answer were vitally important.

  Someone else might have lied. Someone who played the games of the wealthy, who knew how to flatter, who knew how to handle people. Tamra wasn’t good at reading people.

  She was, though, excellent at reading monsters.

  “Foolish, yes,” Tamra said. “But a fool? Never.”

  Lady Evara laughed, clearly pleased with that answer. “Then I have a bargain for you. Last year, I gave you unlimited access to my funds to purchase your mount and woo your rider. This year, you may have two hundred gold pieces. Plus I will sponsor your entrance fees.”

  Two hundred! That was barely enough to—

  “Standard cut of the prize money. But . . .” Lady Evara paused dramatically. “Succeed in training a rider and racer who can place top three in a race in the Heart of Becar, and I will not only continue to be your patron, but I will also pay your family’s debts to the augurs for the next three years. I will see that your daughter continues in your care while fulfilling her destiny.”

  The offer was grand enough to make Tamra’s head spin. Top three . . . It wasn’t impossible. After all, Lady Evara hadn’t said she needed to compete in the final championship race. Just in a race in the Heart of Becar. There were dozens of those—you just needed to win one of two regional qualifiers to be allowed to run. But with only two hundred gold pieces to begin with . . . “Five hundred,” Tamra countered. “You can’t purchase any reasonable mount—”

  Lady Evara cut her off. “Then purchase the unreasonable. Win with a beast that others undervalue. Choose a rider who hasn’t yet proven his or her worth. You must find yourself an uncut emerald and polish it until it gleams.” She flashed her rings, catching glints of sunlight that filtered in between the flowers. Several of her jewels were emeralds. Others, rubies. One, a priceless black diamond. “Think, Tamra, what do you have to lose by accepting my offer? And think what you have to gain.”

  “What do you have to gain?” Tamra asked bluntly.

  “Why, amusement, my petal,” Lady Evara cooed. “I will have the pleasure of shaping the greatest triumph-against-adversity story that the Becaran Races has ever seen. Or I will have the entertainment of watching you destroy yourself in the effort. Either way, I will not be bored. And boredom, my dear, is the greatest enemy of all.”

  Tamra stared at her for a moment, speechless. That wins for the most horrible thing I’ve heard a human say to another, at least recently. How empty did your soul have to be to take joy in the destruction of another’s hopes and dreams?

  How rich did you have to be?

  “Well?” Lady Evara asked. “This is a onetime offer. There are other river leeches who desire my money too, you know, especially in this time of uncertainty, and they may prove even more entertaining than you. Come, Tamra, will you seize your destiny and dare the sands once again?” There was a mocking lilt to her voice, but her eyes were fixed on Tamra like a jackal on its prey.

  Gathering her dignity, Tamra tried not to feel as if she were making a deal with a kehok. “I accept your offer, Gracious One.”

  “Splendid!” Lady Evara beamed at her. Like her laugh, her smile vanished as quickly as it had come. “Now leave, and don’t break anything—or anyone—on your way out.”

  Tamra gritted her teeth against the insult. “The gold pieces?”

  “Oh, I don’t handle such trifling amounts myself. One of my servants will meet you by the gate with my tokens.” She made a shooing motion with her hand.

  Tamra held on to her manners. Barely. “May your next rebirth bring you peace.” Silently, she added, Even though I’m certain you’ll be reborn as a river slug.

  Chapter 3

  Tamra traveled by river to the famed Gea Market. She both heard and smelled the market long before she saw it: the sound of the musicians’ drums, the cheers from the gambling pits, the pervasive scent of garlic and the irresistible smell of baked pastries. Closer, she joined the other passengers near the front of the riverboat to see the riot of colors come into view.

  Unlike her home city of Peron, where every building had white walls and blue-tiled roofs, Gea Market boasted buildings painted in every color under the sun, and between the poppy-red and sky-blue houses were clusters of tents made from rich purple, green, and gold fabrics. It was all so bright and beautiful that it made Tamra’s eyes ache.

  Shalla would have loved this.

  She used to come with Tamra, before the augurs swooped in and changed their lives. Tamra would sneak her out of her reading and math lessons, and they’d travel together on the ferry. Shalla would point out everything she thought was interesting: the smooth curve of a hippo beneath the water, a stick floating by that looked like a crocodile, a man who wore bracelets from his wrists to his armpits, a woman with a leashed monkey on her shoulder that might have once been the woman’s cousin. At the market, Shalla would be running in a dozen directions at once, so much to look at and see that she’d collapse exhausted in Tamra’s arms before the sun was at its zenith, and they’d squeeze themselves into an unused bit of shade and rest until Shalla was ready to run and point and shout again. Often, they wouldn’t even buy anything—it was just the joy and the spectacle that made the trip worthwhile.

  Now, as she was jostled by other passengers eager to taste the wonders of the marketplace, she disembarked the ferry with a very different sense of purpose. Most of her fellow shoppers would return home with far less than they’d come with, but they’d be sticky with honey and bone-weary with dancing and draped in silks they didn’t need and didn’t mean to buy, and they’d be happy.

  She wasn’t looking for happiness, though.

  She needed a miracle.

  Specifically a two-hundred-gold-piece miracle.

  After giving her name to the dockmaster, Tamra strode through the market, weaving between flocks of laughing customers, vendors hawking fragrant perfume vials, and dancers who’d tied bells to their wrists and ankles. Everywhere vendors sold tokens in the shape of birds and animals to honor one’s ancestors, as well as lucky charms said to brighten one’s aura (which there was no evidence actually worked). She evaded the usual pickpockets, keeping a tight grip on her purse with Lady Evara’s tokens. A thief wouldn’t get much use out of them without Lady Evara’s approval, but the hassle of having them replaced would take time Tamra didn’t have (and earn further ire from her patron). The auction closed at sundown, and she intended to spend every minute seeking out the best bargain.

  The market had other ideas, though, and even the focused found themselves distracted. As she neared a purple tent selling jewelry, she saw a customer shove the shop owner. The owner grabbed a hammer used for pounding silver flat and waved it at the customer, who was screaming in his face about higher prices. The owner screamed back that the increase wasn’t his fault—instead he blamed everyone else under the sun: the River-blasted trade agreements were on hold because the River-blasted emperor-to-be, Prince Dar, couldn’t sign, and the corrupt Ranirans were milking the mess for every coin they could, and on and on . . . A crowd began to gather, making it impossible for Tamra to pass. She looked for another way around, trying to worm her way backward.

  I don’t have time for this!

  As the crowd began to join the shouting, the market guards converged, bringing with them an augur. The robe-clad augur, with his pen
dant displayed, weaved through the crowd, murmuring to the men and women, calming them. You didn’t misbehave when there was an augur nearby to bear witness—which made them excellent at diffusing escalating situations. The holy presence was enough to remind people to do better, to be the best version of themselves, for the sake of their future lives.

  “Be as peaceful as the heron,” the augur said. “Let your anger wash beneath you. Anger is an unworthy emotion, born of powerlessness. Choose instead to embrace your own inner strength and find serenity . . .”

  Thanks to the augur and his string of crowd-soothing platitudes, Tamra was able to squeeze by.

  Someday that could be Shalla, she thought. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that—no, that wasn’t true. Shalla would be an amazing augur. Even without a robe and pendant, she already made Tamra want to be a better person.

  Halfway across the market, Tamra smelled the auction—the stench of kehok was unmistakable, undercutting even the sweetest baked goods. She heard the shrill screams of the trapped beasts, the shouts of the owners trying to keep them from savaging potential customers, and the crash of the kehoks thrashing against their cages and shackles.

  The kehok auction was marked with black flags embroidered with the symbol of the Becaran Races, the victory charm given to the winning kehok. Imbued with rare and complex magic, the kind that few (if any) understood, much less mastered, the Becaran victory charm allowed the winner to do what no other monster could: be reborn as human.

  Without the charm, kehoks were only ever reborn as kehoks, nature-defying monsters sired by muck and filth, who sprang into the world fully grown and deadly. It was an endless punishment for the worst of souls.

  Tamra had the likeness of the victory charm tattooed on her right shoulder. It looked like a blue ring around a golden sun, to represent the life-giving River Aur that circles the world and the death-granting sun that scorches everything. It was faded now, after years of sun exposure, but she liked that—its age proved her decades-long commitment to the races. She wore a shirt that bared her shoulders to show off the tattoo to the sellers at the auction. She hoped it would dissuade those who thought she was a newbie they could cheat.