clasped together at the Sea Lord’s waist. And his face –
Sturm would long remember that face! Two black eyes
glittered on either side of a sharp nose. The skin of his
beardless face was gray and dry as autumn leaves . . .
strange that his hands, though bony, were pink and
unwrinkled. The Lord of the Sea had only a few wisps of
black hair clinging to his globular skull.
“My name is Mukhari Ras,” he said. His voice was like
a creaking door. “I am so pleased to meet you.” He
extended a hand to the boy. Sturm took it uncertainly. It was
dry and hot, almost feverish.
“Have I done well?” asked Artavash.
“Oh, very well, far better than I expected,” said
Mukhari Ras. “And you shall be rewarded. All my loyal
subjects will be rewarded.”
He picked up a large canvas sack, grunting from the
obvious weight. Shuffling to the front of the platform,
Mukhari said, “Loyal men of Kernaf! I am pleased with the
guests you have brought me. Taste the gratitude of Mukhari
Ras!” So saying, he dipped his hand in the sack and flung a
handful of the contents into the air. A shower of gold coins
fell on the soldiers below. The men broke ranks and
scrambled after the money, which rang and rolled on the
paving stones.
Sturm blinked. He saw coins hit the ground, but it was
sand, common sand, that Mukhari threw by fistfuls from the
sack.
“You – you’re a magician!” he said.
“No, boy. I am no crude conjurer, but a humble acolyte
of the mysteries of cosmic matter. My alchemical art has
made me master of this island. Soon I shall command all the
Inland Sea.” Mukhari threw another handful of sand to the
Kernaffi. “More! Take more! All the gold in the world is
yours if you serve me!” The men dropped their weapons
and crawled on all fours in the dirt. They filled their helmets
with gold and laughingly chased each new coin as it struck
the ground.
The sack emptied, Mukhari Ras tossed it aside. “That’s
done,” he said, showing blackened teeth in his smile.
“Artavash, my dear, bring the boy and his noble
companions to the palace. I shall receive them for dinner.”
Sturm, Lady Ilys, and Carin were taken to an airy suite
of rooms on the east side of the palace. There, amid
billowing sheets of gauze, the smell of incense, and the
ever-present tinkling of wind chimes, bowls of scented
water were brought for their bathing. Vested servants stood
by with towels, even presuming to pat dry the Solamnians’
faces and hands for them. “What odd people they are,” said
Carin. “That Mukhari Ras is the oddest of them all. Who
could imagine a quacksalving alchemist as the ruler of an
island? It’s – it’s contrary to nature, that’s what it is,” said
Lady Ilys.
“Mother, what will become of us?” Sturm said once the
towel was taken away from his face.
“I cannot guess,” she confessed. “A man who throws
gold in the street cannot desire ransom money. In truth,
were it not for the violence of our being brought here, I
would believe we were honored guests.”
Sturm was uneasy. Why had no one else noticed that
Mukhari’s gold was only sand? He opened his mouth to
mention it to his mother, but before he could say a word,
Artavash appeared at their door.
“The table of my master is laden. Let us eat,” she said.
Dinner in the palace was a major event, presented in an
elaborate style. Sturm enjoyed sitting on the floor at the low
table, though Lady Ilys provoked a minor crisis by insisting
that a proper chair be provided for her. It was not decent,
she said, for a well-born lady to squat on her haunches like
the family wolfhound.
As the diners – including Sir Radiz, Artavash, and Soren
– were busy hacking open their first course of melon, Lady
Ilys said, “Lord Mukhari, may I ask how you came to rule
this country? Your servant,” she gestured to Artavash,
“admits not being native to Kernaf.”
The alchemist, who sat by a plate heaped with fruit,