The Key to Creation by Kevin J. Anderson Page B

bare. He kept his thick black hair in an unruly mane, though he could have had it trimmed, oiled, and tied back in a ponytail. His hair and clothing marked him as an interesting foreigner among the Urabans.
    He enjoyed being the center of attention. Asaddan liked to let eager bystanders buy him drinks in taverns, in exchange for outrageous stories. He could also charm daring women who were curious to know whether a Nunghal man had the same parts as a Uraban. “Oh, we do.” He would quirk his lips in a grin to show off the mysterious gap in his front teeth. “Maybe more than you expect.”
    As he journeyed along the Middlesea coast, however, Asaddan was uneasy to see how poorly the captain treated the men chained to the oars. Captain Belluc insisted that every one of the rowers had committed heinous crimes, and now they were repaying their debt through blood and sweat.
    Peering through the open hatches to scrutinize the downtrodden men, the Nunghal began to doubt that all these prisoners were unrepentant murderers or rapists, especially the meek and peaceable Aidenist who spoke Uraban even more clumsily than Asaddan did. He had heard terrible stories about bloodthirsty Aidenists, and had seen their hateful fleet attempt to burn Ishalem, but he began to gain a new perspective as he listened to that man’s mumbled stories.
    On deck, Captain Belluc often tried to engage Asaddan in conversation, eager to hear stories about the vast grazing Nunghal lands south of the Great Desert and how he had crossed the dry wastes to Missinia. “What would you say is the strangest thing you’ve seen among us?” Belluc was like a child, eager to hear adventure stories.
    Asaddan scratched his shaggy black hair. “Strangest thing?” He gestured toward the open hatch and the slaves below. “I would say this practice.” The echoing drumbeats wafted up, along with the clatter of chains and the groan of oars. “There are many beasts of burden—why treat men as animals?”
    Belluc laughed as if he could hardly believe what the Nunghal had said. “But these are animals. They die content knowing they have served some use. Without slaves to work the oars, how would our ship get to Olabar on schedule?”
    Asaddan shrugged. “Why not wait a few extra days for favorable breezes?”
    Belluc laughed again. “You are a strange man, Asaddan.”
    As the galley quieted for the night, Asaddan remained awake on deck. Before long, in a low voice, the persistent Tierran slave began to speak again. Though he was chained to his bench, his dedication to his Aidenist beliefs remained undiminished. Asaddan was beginning to admire him.

Arikara

    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