They abandoned shovels and dug with their bare hands as they came near the supplies, and found the first of the dead, Tofi sobbing and swearing the while. The fifteen beasts that had belonged to the lost tent had sought shelter behind another tent, and they had survived. The supplies, bundled in canvas, turned up knee deep under sand. One corner of the bundle, wrapped solidly, had abraded to threads, but had not spoiled. The water, buried deepest in the stack, had survived, and that was a relief.

They found the bodies of most of the lost up against those bundles, the caravan master and his sons among the rest, a lump of sand and cloth, where all in the tent who had not wandered to safety or to their deaths had attempted to protect themselves. The sand had come over and smothered them, in the outermost bodies blasting skin from flesh and flesh from bone.

Tofi was beside himself with grief. “Murderers!” he cried when they found his brothers and his father. He ran and took a rope’s end to the slaves. They ran screaming, with Tofi chasing them through the remnant of the storm. He caught the slowest, and beat him with his fists; but Marak ran after and pulled him off the slave.

“They are slaves,” he reasoned with the boy. “They had no orders. They had no idea what to do!”

“They’re fools!” the boy wept.

“Take charge of them. Take charge, or lose all that you have from your father. What can your father pass to you, but this caravan, and these two slaves? They are your skilled workers! We need their work! Don’t kill them!”

The strength went out of the boy, and his hand fell, and he kicked the slave at his feet. “Get up! Get to work!”

The slave gathered himself up, still protecting his head, and backed away, preferring to run away into the desert, while the wind battered at all of them, while the voices insisted, Marak, Marak, Marak, and a tower built, and built and built.

The sand still blew so that farther figures were shadows, and invaded the eyes so a man only dared look out and breathe through the gauze headcloth. It was no time to be beating those who knew how to rig the tents and tend the beasts.

“You are your father’s heir,” Marak shouted at the boy, above the flap and thunder of the nearby tent, the wind momentarily gusting. He held the boy’s arm in a tight grip, compelling his attention. “Take charge of the caravan. The an’i Keran and I can ride on alone, and likely survive, but these other lives are all in your hand. Your father’s legacy is yours to keep or lose! What did he teach you?”

There still were sobs, but dry ones.