When the rider came out of the sandstorm his eyes were red and his throat sore, despite the gauze filter mask that covered his face. The sandstorms were as bad this season as they had ever been, but even the drifting wall of dust could not disguise the works of construction being carried out in front of him. After the work was completed, the occupant would have a fine view of the beaches and harbour below the cliffs.
The rider’s camel snorted uncertainly. It had caught the scent of something it did not like, but what? Most creatures with any sense would be sitting out this filthy hell-sent storm for the rest of the day in whatever shelter they could find or burrow into for themselves.
With the strength of the whipping winds, the rider almost missed the figure squatting on the ruins of a stone desalination pipe, a strong cape pulled tight around him, an ornate filter mast protecting his face from the fury of the gale.
The figure’s voice carried across on the gusts. ‘You are a long way from the sands of the Mutrah, nomad.’
That voice, there was something oddly familiar about it.
‘Curiosity has carried me here on the storm,’ shouted the rider. ‘What else is there to do in such filthy weather?’
‘Yes. What else?’
‘Who rebuilds here?’ demanded the rider. ‘The ones who destroyed the town are no more, that much I know.’
‘Those who have title to the land build here,’ called the figure.
‘And who has granted such title?’
‘The Caliph Eternal.’
Snorting, the rider turned his camel towards the ruins of a line of water farms. ‘We are a long way from the court. Who rebuilds here?’
‘Filthy townsmen,’ laughed the figure. ‘Filthy civilized water farmers, Alim of the Mutrah.’
The rider’s camel stumbled, snorting in alarm as it caught sight of the massive long neck of the creature half buried by sands in front of the ruins. A drak, one of the great flighted works of imperial sorcery; just the sight of it enough to chase away the shock the nomad felt at this strange devil appearing to conjure his name out of the very gale itself.
‘There will be a large pipeline,’ called the figure, rising and leaping onto the saddle behind the drak’s neck. ‘It will run water all the way from here to the capital. It would be a good thing for the bandits and vagabonds of the dunes to avoid while out raiding.’
‘And why would that be?’ challenged the nomad.
‘Because it would sit badly with me, killing a dog who I still owed a fat purse full of tughra to. Rascals might say that I killed him so I wouldn’t have to repay the debt, and what would that do for a great man’s reputation?’
Alim grunted as the drak powered into the air and disappeared into the twisting wall of dune dust, taking the visitor along with it.
Alim’s laughter echoed around the roar of the storm, swirling with the wind, until the camel and its rider were swallowed by it.
And then only the desert was left.
