Chapter Twenty-one

6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Shirikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Pyrust lifted the lid of the small ebony box on the table in his suite’s parlor. There, nestled in a swatch of red velvet, he found nine metal figures, gaily painted save one, with the tallest measuring two and a half inches. This one—the one painted black except for the face and the white hawk emblazoned on the breastplate of the armor—he plucked from the box and held in the light of the nearest candle. He turned it left and right, marveling more at the artistry of the sculpting than the painting, for that had clearly been done quickly.

He smiled. “They are more kind in their treatment of me this year than in the past. Is that because I am here, or is it an edict from Cyron?”

The other person in the room sat in a corner, cloaked in shadow, a hood pulled up so naught but a few wisps of long grey hair could be seen. Her voice, though quiet, crackled with age. “This we are not certain, Highness. Cyron is not as given to issuing edicts as his father was.”

Pyrust set his simulacrum on the table and pulled out Cyron’s piece. The robe he wore had been painted with exquisite skill and looked even better than the garment worn at their meeting. The gold of it would have been all but blinding in brighter light. The artisan had taken great care to portray the hawk beneath the dragon as being in great distress, with feathers flying.

“I find it curious to hold him in my hand so easily now, but to have difficulty controlling him in life.”

His guest slowly shook her head, but no light fell across her features. “Control is an illusion. He thinks he controls you now.”

“Does he?” Pyrust set him down as well, taking minor satisfaction that his figure was taller than that of the Naleni Prince. “His offer of food was not one I could refuse. Along with it came conditions of behavior. I violate them at my nation’s ruination.”

“Do you, my lord?”

“Is it not obvious, Delasonsa? Your agents are the ones who have brought me an accurate picture of the state of my nation. The bureaucrats hide things in statistics and the manner in which they let reports filter to court. They dole out bad news in degrees.”

“It is their means of maintaining order, for bureaucracy breaks down in the face of chaos. They see themselves as the real keepers of order in the world, the heirs to the Empire the Empress abandoned so long ago. She split political power among the Nine Princes, but the mechanism for maintaining the Empire fell to the bureaucrats. Save that it would be the ultimate invocation of chaos, they would have supplanted the Princes long ago.”

She gestured, the tip of her finger with its long crooked nail barely escaping a heavy sleeve. “You were not surprised Prince Cyron knew of the harvest. You supposed, not incorrectly, that Helosundian agents brought him that news. Bureaucrats confirmed it, however, as they sought to open negotiations on your behalf with his bureaucrats. Information was flowing through those channels well before the harvest failed.”

With his maimed left hand Pyrust stroked his goatee. “Those same channels will convey information about any invasion I was to make. It is those channels that tell him about my attempts to hunt down the Helosundian rebels.”

“In part, yes, but we have been taking care of those problems.” Her hood shifted. “It is both a blessing and a curse to have the bureaucrats. Yours are greatly efficient, duplicating or triplicating every report, sending them on through different couriers, demanding dated receipts so things can be tracked. When you desire something done, it gets done.”

“Yes. I use the same system in the field with troops.”

“Of course you do, Highness, which is why your campaigns have been successful, and will continue to be so in the future.”

“You need not flatter me, Mother of Shadows. I rely upon others for that.” Pyrust turned back to the box and pulled out the figure of Qiro Anturasi. He held it up as he turned back. “Here is the key to the future.”

“Would you have me slay him?”

Pyrust focused beyond the white-robed figurine to the huddle of rags in the chair. “You have oft asked me to give you leave to kill him. What is this personal animosity you bear him?”

“None, Highness.” She chuckled lightly. “It is the challenge. Anturasikun is as secure a prison as Prince Cyron and his father could devise. Getting in is not simple, and getting out is less so. For me to slip in, slay him in a manner that made it appear he died naturally, and escape again is probably the hardest task imaginable.”

“Save escaping from the Nine Hells.”

“Or Nine Heavens. Yes, Master.”

Pyrust studied her for a moment. From his earliest memory she had appeared thus: an aged crone shrunk by the weight of centuries. His father had said she had seemed the same to him, so Pyrust doubted she truly looked like that. But still, it meant that she was very likely jaecaivril—so masterful in the shadow arts that the merest touch could kill. She had long run the mechanism of state security in Deseirion—both the visible forces and those that dwelt exclusively in the shadows, most of whom were of her blood. Generations of them.

I do not doubt you could kill Qiro Anturasi. He let the figure of the man slip into his fist and tightened his grip. “I hate denying you that challenge, but as long as he has his vulnerabilities, he is more useful alive than dead. Besides, he is merely contributory to the problem we face. His entire family would have to be wiped out, and all of their charts destroyed, and even that would only slow Nalenyr, not stop it.

“Explorations bring trade to Nalenyr, and that results in gold with which the Prince can train and maintain an army of Helosundian mercenaries to harass me and defend his nation. It puts him in a position to hire an even larger army, if need be. Any assault I could begin would be bogged down in Helosunde fighting mercenaries. He brings Naleni troops up, and mine starve before we can win even a foot of Naleni soil.”

“Hence your financing expeditions into the Wastes and the study of gyan. If you can recover enough artifacts or the machines can be perfected, you could create an army that would overwhelm his. It becomes a race. He wants more gold; you seek the means to take his gold from him.”

“I do not like such impasses.” He set Qiro down next to the other two figures in the set. “I like them less than Cyron’s jerking a leash and my having to heel as if I were some cur.”

“There is an advantage to that, Highness.”

“Yes?”

The crone gestured vaguely in the direction of Kojaikun. “He believes himself a hero on this night of heroes, and he believes you a cur secure at the end of a leash. He has told you that if you are hostile, you will starve. Do you think he really cares if you continue your campaigns in Helosunde or not?”

Pyrust frowned. “True. His proxy war in Helosunde bleeds me but does not bleed him. It can only be to his benefit if we continue fighting.”

“And if you continue fighting, he will assume you are stupid, since you risk cutting off the grain heading north. You know he will delay shipments to you, but he dare not do that to his allies. If you are successful in stealing their grain, he will divert shipments to them, but you shall be fed nonetheless.”

“This gets me nothing.”

“On the contrary, it gets you much.”

Pyrust’s head came up. “It shows him I am predictable and stupid.”

“Which he will be more than willing to accept. After all, he already believes you follow dreams.” She pointed to the box of figures. “Draw out the two Guards figures: the Cloud Dragon and the River Dragon.”

Knowing she had a point and assuming it would be of value, he turned to the box and pulled out the two figures that represented the most elite of Naleni troops. Save for the colors and insignia painted on their armor and shields, the pieces were identical. They had been cast from the same mold and differed only in color.

“They are the same.”

“Indeed, they are. There is no way to tell them apart save for their uniforms.”

“Exactly, my prince. You have the Shadow Hawks and the Mountain Hawks operating in Helosunde. They cross the river and strike at various points in punitive expeditions. What if you used the same troops, but differed their uniforms? What if the bureaucrats still sent the same reports, indicating where the units were, their strength and their disposition? You would, in essence, free one unit from observation.”

“And one unit consumes half the fodder of two, so I can hoard some of what we capture. This I understand. To what end, though?”

“I would have thought it would be simple, Highness.” Her laughter mocked him. “The Naleni assume you will never defeat them because they can buy well-trained troops to oppose you. You, it is assumed, need gyan-worked swords to equal them, or relics or troops fueled with corpse dust and other unsavory things. As we have discussed in the past, such troops would be useful at the start, engaging Naleni troops, pinning them so your better-trained and disciplined troops could sweep past and seize valuable targets.”

“Agreed.”

The crone stood and hobbled forward, her head bent low and her dowager’s hump visible above the set of her shoulders. “What if you used your troops to provide your rabble some very basic training? Enough to establish discipline? Instead of sending them into battle to die, you send them into battle with some chance of survival. You can take them and train them into an effective force. You need not worry about any becoming overly skilled, since you will be simply teaching them how to march and follow orders.”

Pyrust frowned for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Those who show promise could be brought to schools and further trained. Yes, this might well work. The basic discipline could even be disguised as an effort to establish local militias to protect villages against marauders looking for food in a time of famine. Cyron would take this as a further sign of disorder and it would make him underestimate me more.”

Delasonsa moved past him and tapped the Anturasi figure on the head with a finger. “While Prince Cyron believes you are turned inward to stave off disaster, we find ways to threaten his monopoly on world knowledge. Plans, as you know, are unfolding. You spoke to his grandson, Keles?”

“Yes, just a preliminary talk. I sensed no willingness to come out of his grandfather’s shadow.”

“No, that one is loyal. The other is wilder and can be tempted, though sending him off on the Stormwolf will take him outside my influence.”

Pyrust smiled and set the guards on the table. “You have yet been frustrated in your attempt to infiltrate an agent onto the ship.”

“It would have been a waste of time regardless. Someone of sufficient skill to duplicate the work Jorim Anturasi will be doing would have been instantly recognizable. Their ability to communicate back to us what they had learned would have been questionable, and their discovery a disaster. Instead, I think using the time the ship is gone to compromise people who will have information during its absence and upon its return will provide us a much greater reward for our efforts.”

“What of our attempts to get Anturasi charts, or even the charts of other houses?”

She laughed. “Anturasi charts are better guarded than the Naleni treasury, so we have not been successful there. The other charts have come to us, but our people have seen their like before. They have noted something interesting, however.”

“Oh?”

“We have our own coastal charts for much of the waters once claimed by the Empire. There have been changes down through the years, such as the shift of sandbars that create navigational hazards. What is curious is that the newest charts either do not show these or have indications of hazards where there should be clear water. The conclusion is inescapable: the Anturasi have gotten their own agents into the other houses, creating charts that bring disaster for those who use them.”

The Desei prince picked Qiro’s figure up again. “Craftier than I would have imagined, then.”

“And, as you said, Highness, he is vulnerable.” She turned and flicked a finger toward the west. “Keles Anturasi will be traveling to the Wastes. I shall have agents following him. I will seek to slip one into his company, if it is possible. I am less concerned with what he will learn than placing him in situations that keep him beholden to us. If we can earn his trust by saving his life, splendid. If we have to take him and hold him, we can do that as well. At the very least we will have him in our control, and that will give us a means to control Anturasi.”

Pyrust slowly nodded. “There is, of course, one other thing we could do.”

“Say the word, Highness, and it shall be done.”

“Not yet.” Pyrust set the Anturasi figure down, then flicked a nail against Prince Cyron, knocking the figure onto its back. “I will save killing him for a more crucial moment. It is not something considered lightly.”

“Since the Empire’s division, assassins have not claimed a crown.”

“To the best of your knowledge, Shadowmother.”

He caught the flash of teeth from within the hood. “No other has better knowledge, Highness. It has not yet been done by an assassin. I would know.”

“So you would.” Pyrust nodded easily. “It is a strategy that will only work when the time is right. At a time when many things hinge on him, when all the pressure is on, that’s when I will take him. It won’t matter if he is the hero of heroes or not. All that will matter is that he is dead, and in the chaos that follows, it will be the sword of a warrior, not the pen of a bureaucrat, that reclaims order.”

 

Chapter Twenty-two

8th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles Anturasi set aside the book and rose slowly from his chair as his brother entered the sunroom. The surprise on Jorim’s face gratified him, and made Keles determined not to show the least twinge of discomfort. He forced a smile and straightened, despite the lingering pain in his back.

“You’re up quicker than anyone expected, Keles. Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Yes, I feel wonderful. Thank you for asking.” Keles let his smile grow. “The Viruk ambassador’s magic has had a good effect on my back. I have to be up and around because if I’m not, I’ll be trapped here for Grandfather to vent his fury upon.”

“Has he actually visited you?”

“No, but he has sent Ulan with more dictates than Urmyr has for bureaucrats. I’m well sick of it.”

Jorim nodded and tugged at the black sash on his green robe. “I can understand that. While I feel sorry people have to work on provisioning the Stormwolf during the Festival, I can’t wait to be heading downriver and away. The journey cannot begin too soon.”

“Give me at least a couple more days, then I will be able to travel upriver and get away myself.”

“Gladly.” Jorim moved past and picked up the well-worn, leather-bound volume from which Keles had been reading. “ ‘The Memoir of Amenis Dukao’? You’re not considering this research for your journey, are you?”

“No, but it does have value.” Keles eased himself back down into his chair and motioned for his brother to seat himself on the footstool. “We enjoyed it as children. Nirati had been reading to me from it, and I find it comforting now. As well, there is some truth in there. Dukao did travel through the Wastes and fought alongside the Empress against the Turasynd.”

“Value? May the gods be merciful.” Jorim dragged another chair around, seated himself, and put his feet on the footstool. “Keles, Keles, Keles, what am I going to do with you?” He rapped a fist against the book’s cover.

Keles held his hands up. “I know what you’re going to tell me. The book is a compilation of earlier legends, all framed with a story about how scavengers found a handwritten memoir in the Wastes. They brought it to an author who transcribed it, then the original manuscript mysteriously vanished.”

“Right. Kyda Jameet is a pseudonym of some Virine noble who’d never been further north than the mountains and no closer to the Ixyll Wastes than the shore of the Dark Sea, and he plucked Dukao’s name from history because no one knows that much about who he was.”

“We’ve argued all this before.” Keles sighed. “Still, some of the observations about conditions in the Wastes are true.”

Jorim sighed and his brows arrowed sharply toward his nose. “There are parts of Ummummorar and Tejanmorek that felt the fringes of the Cataclysm. Things get pretty strange there. And where you are going will be worse.”

“Which is exactly what it describes here.”

“But not well, dear brother. Where I have been, and have seen the effects, they were more than Jameet ever dreamed. I have seen a tree—one single one in the midst of a forest—that was turned to crystal. It has leaves which, when they fall, revert to normal matter. It has fruit which, when plucked, decays immediately. The flowers smell sweet, but, when picked, die in the blink of an eye.”

“But here he talks about such things.”

“Yet insufficiently. I’ve seen a tree, he describes a grove, but you’ll ride through forests of crystal—and worse.” Jorim opened the book to a plate showing the hero in armor. “Amenis Dukao was lucky. He died in the grand battle. He made his way to Kianmang well before his brothers, and was there to welcome them to the Warriors’ Heaven when they fell. He never saw, much less had to survive, what the Cataclysm did to Ixyll.”

Keles nodded, hiding a smile at his brother’s slowly smoldering anger. He knew he could play with him like that for a while longer, but he didn’t want to trigger an outburst. “Your point is well-taken. Still, the stories might prepare me for what I will see.”

Jorim, it appeared, was in a conciliatory mood as well. “That’s true. And, truth be told, I wish you had a hero like Amenis Dukao to accompany you out there.”

“I can handle myself.”

Jorim set the book aside, planted his feet on the ground, and leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. “Keles, two things you must know are true. The first is that I have the utmost respect for all you have done. The survey of the upper reaches of the Gold River is flawless. I envy your ability to see in such detail and to be so exact. Second, you must know that I am sure you will be just as diligent, if not more so, in this trek. The work you produce will be stunning; there is no doubt about it in my mind.”

“But?”

“But I worry about you.”

“Jorim, I’m the older brother, I’m supposed to worry about you.”

The younger Anturasi smiled for a moment. “Keles, you are a cartographer. I am an adventurer. The survey you’ll be making into the Wastes is one that really calls for an adventurer.”

Keles pointed toward the river. “And the Stormwolf voyage won’t?”

“Yes, it will, but not as much.” Jorim stood and began to pace. “I’ve been in the wilds, Keles. You can take nothing for granted, nothing at all, and out in the Wastes it will be worse. You are an indifferent swordsman. You once were a passable archer, but you’ve let that skill atrophy. Out there you will be defenseless.”

Keles sat back, bringing his hands together and pressing index fingers to his lips. His brother’s genuine concern stoked the fear that had been smoldering in his belly. Aside from what was written in books like the memoir, or any of its similarly fanciful cousins, which delighted children and disgusted most adults, he knew nothing of what he would be facing. His brother’s comments were accurate concerning his skill with a sword, and he made a mental note to have a bow and arrows included in the supplies he would take with him.

Though Jorim was right, Keles didn’t want to deal with that point immediately, so he did the only thing he could: he deflected the argument.

“You’re wrong, Jorim, when you state that my journey will take more of an adventurer than yours. At least I know what to expect. You have no clue. There could be anything out there, or nothing. You could fall off the edge of the world.”

Jorim laughed. Those who were not conversant with maps and the world often subscribed to the superstitious notion that the world was flat and had edges. But they knew it was a ball and one of a finite size. Their grandfather had even calculated it and, based upon those calculations, the Stormwolf had been fitted out for a two-year journey.

“There could be anything out there, and probably is.” Keles deliberately widened his eyes. “Cannibals. Demons. Monsters. You’d best be an even better swordsman than the stories make you out to be.”

Jorim bit back a response, then nodded slowly. “I have thought of that, you know. Whatever is out there was enough to kill our father. I don’t think it will get me, but I am aware of the danger. As for cannibals, monsters, and demons, I was told those lurked in Ummummorar and other places. I never found any of it to be true, so I’m not terribly worried.”

“You’re not?” Keles frowned. “Then why did you come here to see me?”

“I think I’m too much of an adventurer for the Stormwolf, Keles. I’m good at leading folks into the unknown, reading the land, hunting for animals.”

“Which is exactly what you will be doing.”

“But not while we’re on the ocean. The ship has a captain, and she’s very good, so what use will I be? You’d find a way to do something useful.”

“Come here. Sit down.” Keles pulled his feet from the footstool and this time his brother accepted it. “You’ll do what is required of you on the journey, Jorim. Your job is to track longitude and latitude, then lead expeditions into the places you find. That’s your role, and you had best be as bold and breathtaking as you can when you fulfill it. That’s what they will expect. You are being sent on the greatest adventure of all time. Our father is a giant in my eyes. I loved him dearly, but even he would bow to you on this voyage.”

Jorim frowned, swiped at a tear. “Allergies.”

“Of course.”

“Does this wisdom come with being just two years older?”

“Well, that, and having a little brother who so often needs it.”

“Uh-huh. If you were that wise, you’d have avoided the sharp side of a Viruk’s claws.”

Keles laughed. “Very true indeed.” He nodded toward his brother. “I have listened to what you’ve said. I will have a bow taken along with me, and I will practice.”

Jorim’s smile broadened. “I’m glad to hear that. I already took the liberty of having my second-best bow stowed with your gear. I’d have given you the best, but you won’t be up to drawing it for a while. The one I’m giving you will put an arrow through armor at forty-five yards.”

“You’re giving me your bow so I won’t get close enough to have to use a sword, right?”

Jorim leaned forward and patted his brother’s knee. “Keles, let me put this to you gently. You’re so bad with a blade that an apple doesn’t get worried when you approach it with a paring knife.”

“I am not that bad.”

“Close. Doesn’t matter, though.” Jorim ducked a hand inside his right sleeve and it emerged holding a ring of jade with an inch-long flange that curved in toward the far side. “This thumbring is something I found here in Moriande. It once belonged to Panil Ishir. He’s even mentioned in your memoir there—though that’s probably the only fact in the book. He was one of the finest archers in the Empire. Practice with this, and you’ll be shooting better than ever in no time.”

Keles took the smooth stone ring and fitted it over his thumb. The flange protected the pad, and was worn where it had been used to draw a bowstring back. The cool jade didn’t tingle with magic or otherwise betray service to an ancient hero. But he had no doubt it would work as his brother suggested, helping him refine his skill, and he knew his brother must have paid dearly for it.

“This is too great a gift for me to take into the Wastes, Jorim, and you’re more likely to need it where you are going.”

“Nonsense.” Jorim closed his brother’s hand around it. “You’ll need it, I’m sure of that.”

Keles sighed. “I will take it, but only because I have an ulterior motive. Panil Ishir is one of those who supposedly survived the battle. He’s out there with the Eternal Empress, ready to serve her on her return should ever the Nine Principalities require succor.”

“Oh, really?” Jorim burst out with a laugh. “You should go back to reading the memoirs. They are much more believable than the stories of the Sleeping Empress.”

Keles shifted his shoulders uneasily and felt a twinge in his back. “You’re not looking at it correctly. The tales make sense.”

“You’re delirious, but I’d love to hear your reasoning—flawed as it is.”

“It’s not flawed at all. The Imperial forces must have been victorious; otherwise, the barbarians would have long since overrun the Principalities. She and the others were trapped in this new place that is changed because of the battle, with monsters and other things that are as much of a threat to her Empire as the barbarians ever were. She and the survivors stayed out there eliminating these threats, and still remain there. Had they not, the monsters would have long since overrun the Principalities. It’s all very logical.”

“It would be if you weren’t basing things on a fallacy. You assume monsters aren’t here from the Wastes because they’ve been killed in the Wastes. If monsters ever existed, and if they were killed in the Wastes, it does not follow that it was the Empress and her troops who did the killing. And while they were all great heroes, I doubt many of them will have survived the centuries since then—if any.”

“Kaerinus did.”

“He was not a hero.”

“Immaterial.” Keles smiled sheepishly. “If one of them did, and he is Panil, wouldn’t it be great to return his property to him?”

“If he doesn’t take you for a grave robber and shoot you first, yes.” Jorim shook his head. “There are times, Keles, when I wonder about you. Perhaps that Viruk venom has softened your head.”

“Hey, you used to believe this as fervently as I did.”

“Sure. Then I grew up. One of the reasons I envy you your journey is that I know you’ll see things far more fantastic than the Sleeping Empress.”

“But maybe I’ll see her, too.”

“Maybe you will. In the wilds you hear stories. They’re nine times more fanciful than the memoirs.” Jorim frowned for a moment. “It is odd, though, that something kept the Viruk from using the Cataclysm as a means to reestablish their Empire. They take to the cold better than us, and survive magic better. They could have returned, but they didn’t.”

“See? It could have been her.”

“Or they could have been killing the monsters you say she has been slaying.”

“Could be. Not much of a comfort if it is.” Keles’ mind flicked to a greater problem that his brother’s comment raised. Fear flared in his stomach. “The battle released enough magic to change this world. What if it did more?”

“Like?”

“Like open a hole into another world so that things from there came pouring through? What if the Viruk did spend the dark years fighting for their very survival against whatever came from that place?”

“Well, Keles, if that is what happened, I’ve only two things to tell you. First, learn to shoot really, really well.” Jorim’s eyes tightened. “Second, watch your back. You don’t want anything following you home.”

 

Chapter Twenty-three

9th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron dismissed his attendants and the minor minister with a wave of his hand. “I shall finish dressing myself. Minister Delar, you will wait in the corridor until Master Anturasi and I are finished, then you shall conduct him back to the ball.”

The minister bowed silently, waited for the dressers to exit before he did, then slid the door closed.

The Prince tugged at the shoulders of his overshirt, then glanced up at Keles Anturasi. The young man looked pale and just a little afraid, both of which were understandable. Cyron smiled, shifted his shoulders, and lowered his hands. “Does it look good?”

“Yes, Highness.” Keles—wearing a simple overshirt of black, adorned with his family’s crest in white, over a green tunic and green pants—cleared his throat. “Yes, Highness, it is spectacular.”

“But not what you would have expected me to wear?” The Prince moved to a pair of chairs with a small round table set between them. The table had a box made of dark wood centered on its circular top. He motioned for the cartographer to take the other chair. Keles bowed abortively, then sat, uncertain of himself.

“Please, Keles, be at ease. I’ve not asked you here to discipline you. I consider you a friend, and I have been concerned about you. My physician has kept me informed of your progress. He does not like Viruk magic, but he has grudgingly testified to its efficacy.” The Prince seated himself, going so far as to extend his legs and cross his booted ankles. “You honor me by coming here with your family tonight. I even understand that you will head up the river as your brother sails down in the Stormwolf.”

“Yes, Highness.” Keles frowned and eased himself back in the chair. “Highness, I am honored you consider me a friend, but this puzzles me. You know my brother far better, and I would have expected he would be here instead of me.”

“And he has been, but not tonight. This is your night.” Cyron opened his arms to take in his dressing room. Rich golden wood predominated, save where strips of dark wood divided the doors and walls with a geometric pattern. Mobile panels blocked off doors, screens hid corners, and well-fitted doors concealed closet space. Aside from the chairs and table, the room contained very few furnishings, and most of that practical, such as armatures for the hanging of robes and a small cabinet for storing wine and drinking vessels.

“I invited you here to know I really do appreciate the great lengths to which you have gone for Nalenyr, and to which you will go. May I speak frankly?”

Keles blinked, his light eyes wide. “You need not ask my permission for that, Highness.”

“But no word of this meeting must ever pass your lips.”

The cartographer clasped his hands over his heart and likely would have sunk to his knees save for the lingering effects of his wounding. “Never, Highness.”

“Good.” The Prince sat forward, leaning on the left arm of his chair. “I was appalled when your grandfather sent you on this mission to Ixyll. It is true that he and I had discussed the necessity for sending someone there. That used to be the area through which trade was carried on with the Far West. For us not to know the state of things would be foolish. If that way were open, the Stormwolf expedition—and the knowledge it recovers—could be redundant. Still, given what few reports do come from there, we were fairly certain the way would remain sealed for another ninety years or so. That would give us the time needed to profit from trade and find another way to put the Empire back together.

“His choosing you, and invoking my name in doing so, put me in a difficult position. As you know, your grandfather can be . . . contrary at times.”

Keles laughed and his manner relaxed. “You are very diplomatic, Highness.”

“I try to be, but with you I can be very open. Your grandfather defies me from time to time, with increasing frequency, and were he not so vital to Nalenyr, I’d have him publicly flogged. Now, isn’t that something you’d like to see?”

“See? There are times I would like to help.”

“Well, I doubt you will get the chance, but you can help in other ways.” Cyron’s voice dropped in volume, forcing the younger man to lean forward. “The mission you are undertaking is of vital importance, and you will hear rumors about it. Rumors I have started. The rumors will indicate that you are too valuable to be left to go out into the Wastes, and that is true. People will be led to believe that you will be secretly recalled to court.”

“I’m not certain I understand, sire.”

“It is for your safety. A show shall be made of your departure. I have already obtained someone to impersonate you. I have assembled an entourage to travel upriver, both to draw attention to your double, and to keep others from getting too close. The company will make slow progress and attract much attention. Our enemies will watch that group. And you, disguised and on the same boat, will pass unnoticed.”

“Forgive me, Highness, but would it not be more prudent to send me out on another boat?”

“No. Our enemies will be working so hard to learn what they can from the actor, they will have little attention to spend studying much else. Moreover, their focus on your double will allow others to identify them.”

“I see, Highness.” Keles lowered his hands and tightened his arms around his stomach. “You think there will be danger on the trip? I mean, beyond the dangers out there?”

Cyron laughed aloud. “You are an Anturasi. You will be seen as being the key to your grandfather. You are also invaluable in and of yourself. I know Prince Pyrust spoke to you about undertaking a task for him.”

“I refused, Highness, instantly and without equivocation.”

“Calm yourself, Keles, I know that. I know you love your family and nation, and I know I can trust you.” Cyron’s voice grew softer again. “I can trust you, can I not?”

Keles winced, but dropped to a knee and bowed his head so low he almost hit it on the table. “In anything, Highness.”

“As I expected. And thank you. I knew my trust was well placed. Now you need to understand something from me.” The Prince drew back, his eyes sharpening. “I will see to your safety. You must trust me on that, regardless of what appearances seem. I will keep you safe and you will gather the information your grandfather wants. There may be another service or two I require, and if the opportunity arises, I will communicate my needs to you.”

Cyron flicked his right hand up and Keles rose, seating himself on the edge of his chair. The Prince laid his hand on the wooden box on the table. “You know the legend about my great-grandfather, that because he had played war games with toy soldiers as a child, he was able to take the throne and establish this dynasty? While others drilled and learned swordplay, a sickly child marched armies through battles and learned the skills to make those swordsmen most effective in combat.”

“Yes, Highness. My brother and I used to fight many battles with soldiers when we were young. My father, and sometimes our grandfather, would show us the Festival figures, though we were never allowed to play with them.”

Cyron smiled. “I don’t think anyone ever played with them, which is a pity.” He opened the box to reveal nine figures on a bed of velvet within. “You know, then, that the Prince gives a set to each family invited to this final celebration. Aside from the sculptors, painters, and myself, you are the first to see this year’s figures. We made only the number of sets required for this evening, and all that are unclaimed will be destroyed.”

“They are beautiful, Highness.”

“I think so, too.” Cyron smiled slowly. “Each year I determine who will be cast.”

“It is a great honor to receive a set, Highness.” Keles slowly shook his head without taking his eyes from the figures. “To be cast as one is unimaginable.”

“Allow yourself to imagine, Keles Anturasi.” The Prince lifted out the figure of Qiro Anturasi. “Your grandfather, as invaluable as he is to us, was cast this year in honor of his eighty-first birthday. You and your brother will be cast upon returning from your missions. So much greater will your contribution to Nalenyr be that such an honor is easily within your grasp.”

Keles’ expression of awe slowly dissolved as he met the Prince’s gaze. “If my grandfather were to guess that were possible, he might do the unthinkable.”

“True, so we shall not let him know.” Cyron replaced Qiro in the box and closed it again. “That secret shall remain as safe as these figures are. And I shall keep you equally safe.”

“Yes, Highness. Thank you.”

The Prince opened his hands. “You shall return to the party and enjoy yourself. Tell the assembled that I’d heard a story of a jungle cat the color of red sand with black stripes and, while you are not your brother, I dearly wished you would capture me a half dozen for my sanctuary. Something like that will suffice for most, and those it won’t satisfy will be smart enough to know you could not be saying anything anyway.”

“Yes, Highness.” Keles rose from his chair and bowed.

Before he could straighten up, the Prince rose and clapped him on both shoulders. “That you bow despite your injury marks the depth of your soul, Keles Anturasi. Your future and that of our nation are intertwined. They will grow together into prosperity. Never forget you are loved and respected, and your return is anxiously awaited.”

Keles nodded, rose, and withdrew from the room.

As the door slid shut behind him, Prince Cyron turned to a screen that had concealed one corner of the room. “We will be undisturbed now.”

Moraven Tolo, dressed in black and white with black tigers embroidered on his overshirt, emerged from behind the screen. “I have listened as you bid me, Prince Cyron.”

“I beg your forgiveness, serrcai, for making you a party to that deception, but I needed you to hear two things. First, you would agree, he really has no idea of the sort of difficulties he will face. He is naive and will need protecting.”

The swordsman bowed his head. “You wish me to do that?”

“I would not presume to reduce you to the role of a mercenary, serrcai. I think you will find that in your mission for dicaiserr Jatan, having a cartographer along will be of great aid.”

“The wisdom of your words cannot be denied, Highness.” Moraven turned and looked back toward the door. “I will not be alone in seeing to his survival?”

“You have your apprentice.”

“True, Highness, but you evade my question.”

“He will not travel alone.” The Prince slipped a folded paper packet sealed with red wax from the interior of his overshirt. “I will have another service I require from the both of you. You will open this only when you meet him again in Gria.”

The swordsman’s eyes narrowed. “I do not begrudge you a service, Highness, for we both know I owe a debt of honor to your family. You want two things from me—great, difficult things. You do presume much.”

Cyron killed the smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “The other evening you did a favor for a friend in entertaining me. I ask you to pay your debt to the House of Komyr. And the House of Komyr will now be indebted to you.”

Moraven bowed his head slightly, but brought it up far too quickly. “It will take more than casting me as a toy to pay this debt.”

“Some debts can never be paid, Moraven Tolo, but let us worry about the service being performed first.” The Prince forced his expression to soften. “In your wanderings, you are able to shield a few from disasters. On this journey, you will find the means to prevent war from destroying many. I will stand the debt, but we both know that I shall not be the only one to benefit from your actions.”

“Were it for any lesser reason you asked me to do this, I would refuse you, Prince Cyron.” Moraven bowed respectfully. “I hope my efforts will succeed.”

“As do I.” A shiver ran down Cyron’s spine. “If you fail, there may be no House of Komyr left to honor its obligation.”

 

Chapter Twenty-four

9th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles was not surprised that his sister was the first person to find him after he returned to the Festival celebration. Plenty of people had seen him drawn away, doubtless wondering if he were being singled out for some honor or an upbraiding. When he returned without some visible sign of the Prince’s favor, most people decided to ignore him.

“Why are you so concerned, Keles?” Nirati took his arm and rubbed a hand over his back. “You’re frightened.”

He glanced at her, realizing she was correct. “I thought you couldn’t read my mind.”

“Only your face.” She smiled bravely at him. “And even if we were able to communicate that way, you know I would not be able to read your mind, just that which you wished to send me.”

“I wouldn’t wish to send you any of this.” Keles led her over to a side table, where servants poured him a small porcelain cup of sweet wine. He drank, then purposely shrugged his shoulders and tried to let tension drain from his body. “The Prince did nothing to scare me. In fact, he did everything he could to be reassuring. I actually do take heart in what he told me, and you should, too, Nirati. Do not fear for me.”

His sister’s blue eyes narrowed as she accepted a cup of wine. “If I promise not to worry, will you tell me what he said?”

“I cannot. He forbade me to reveal anything he said to anyone. I’d give you the story he told me to tell others, but you’d see through it in a heartbeat.”

Nirati regarded him for a moment over the curved rim of the cup. “Tell me why you are frightened, then.”

“That’s a little more difficult.” Keles drank again, thinking that if he gulped the wine he might find some euphoria. He also realized that was actually the last thing he needed. That wouldn’t make his situation any better; it would only put off what had to be faced.

“In talking to the Prince I truly came to see the enormity of the task ahead of me. Jorim pointed out the dangers accurately enough when we spoke the other day. I figured they would all be things that an arrow or two could handle.”

His sister laughed. “All things considered, shooting well won’t hurt.”

“I agree, but the Prince made it apparent that there was more going on. My mission is not just a way for Grandfather to banish me for spoiling his birthday party. It actually has value, and could be crucial to Nalenyr. He took what I’d seen as little more than a family squabble and broadened it.”

She nodded. “He raised the stakes, making the price of failure much higher.”

“As if the possibility of dying was not enough. Yes.”

“And you want me not to worry?”

Keles leaned in and kissed his twin on the forehead. “No, I’ll do enough of that. I want to know you are back here in Moriande having fun, breaking hearts, and finding someone who will be a brilliant addition to our family.”

Nirati’s eyes sparkled. “I think I have the harder task, given that Mother and Grandfather will be watching over me. Still, there are possibilities.”

Keles turned and followed her gaze. Just entering the hall were Majiata Phoesel and her family. Along with them came a tall man who, by his dress and demeanor, embraced his Desei heritage. The man was handsome, and certainly the type that had attracted his sister in the past. When the count had visited him, Keles found him to be intelligent as well, which was good; his sister would suffer no idiots.

“Tell me, Nir, do you want the Desei because of him, or because he is with her?”

He felt a shock run through Nirati. “Your lips are moving, but I hear Jorim’s words.”

“You’re not answering the question.”

“One of those reasons suffices, but the other makes it that much more fun, brother dear.” Her eyes slitted as Majiata broke from her group and approached them. “I’ll let you speak with her alone.”

“Could be she is coming to warn you off.”

“She can send me a letter—if she learns to write.” Nirati kissed him on the cheek and wandered away, not even acknowledging Majiata with a nod as she passed.

Keles nodded as Majiata reached him. “Pleasure of the Festival to you.”

“And you.” Majiata clasped her hands at her waist. “I am pleased to see you have recovered from your injuries.”

“Am recovering, but it is expected I shall heal fully.”

She hesitated for a moment, clearly expecting something, then glanced down. “I am recovering from my injuries as well.”

“Your injuries . . . Ah, yes, I heard you were at the healing. I was unconscious.” Keles imagined a red scar on what had previously been soft ivory skin. He recalled her near panic, once, when a blemish had appeared on her chin. It struck him as curious that he didn’t want to offer her succor or sympathy, but wished to see the scar so he could forever erase the vision of her beauty from his memory.

Her gaze came back up and her face became a smooth, ivory mask with a splash of color at lips, cheeks, and eyes. “In the spirit of the Festival, I wish you to know that I bear you no ill will for what happened to me. I absolve you of all guilt in the matter. It was not your fault.”

“Not my fault?” Keles frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You needn’t feign ignorance, Keles. Despite your rejection of me, I know you intimately, and you me. I know what you are feeling inside.”

“And what, exactly, would that be?”

“Many things. Regret and anger chief among them.” Majiata kept her voice even and quiet, prompting the scandalmongers in the crowd to edge closer to hear. “You regret having sent me away and regret not having been able to keep me safe.”

“I thought I did keep you safe.” Keles held his cup out for a servant to replenish. “That, or I got these scars for nothing.”

“Oh, not that.” The dismissive tone of her voice coupled with disdain, and put a twist in her mouth that was not attractive. “That you were not able to tell the Prince you would have excused me the whipping.”

“What?”

“You are not so cruel as to wish me harmed, though you are the man who broke my heart.”

“I broke your heart?” Keles drank to give himself time to think, trying to pierce her logic. “You are the one who came to break things off with me, remember? You are the one who refused to accompany me on the Stormwolf.”

“But, you see, had I agreed, I would now be bound for Ixyll.”

He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, hoping her words would make sense as he reviewed them. “But, had you agreed to join me, I would not be bound for the Wastes.”

“You see, so it is all your fault, Keles.”

“But you said it wasn’t my fault.”

“No, I am forgiving you.” Frustration had begun to rise in her voice, but she gained control of it. “I want you to know I will always love you.”

He drained his drink and, in the moment of solitude afforded him by the cup eclipsing her, things made a crude sort of sense. Majiata had always been self-centered, but had never before ventured so far into fantasy. He would have put it down to her having been whipped, save for the calculation he saw in what she was saying.

Quite simply, she and her family were hedging their bets. Leaving things on good terms with him would make further relations with his grandfather possible. It might also be seen as something that would please the Prince. Moreover, when he returned—Keles refused to think of it as if—he might very well have found an overland route to the trade of old days. In that case still being friendly with him would directly enrich her family.

He lowered his cup again and a smiling servant refilled it. “Majiata, I have something I must say to you.”

“Yes?” Her reply came in a husky hushed whisper reminiscent of words spoken postpassion, in the dark of the night. “Tell me, Keles Anturasi.”

“I see many things right now. Things about you and about me. Truths that cannot be denied. You say you love me, and will always do so.” He pressed his left hand to his breastbone. “I also feel something.”

“Yes, Keles?” Her words came breathlessly, and her expression changed to one of expectation. “What do you feel?”

“Frankly,” he began, his heart racing, “I feel sick.”

“Oh, poor Keles.”

“No, I think you mistake me. I feel sick that I was for so long deceived about you, your feelings, and your aims. You clearly thought, perhaps from the beginning, that you could use me as a toy. You could play with my feelings, even as you are trying to play with them now. That with a coo and a whisper and a kiss and the spreading of your thighs, you could win a prize from me. My eternal adoration? My family’s wealth of geographical knowledge? The fortune that has earned us? I don’t know what you thought you would get. What I was offering you was my heart, my devotion, my love, and you spurned it.

“And now you come to me and tell me that you forgive me and that I shouldn’t feel guilty for your having been whipped? Right now, Majiata, right now”—his voice began to rise and he exercised no restraint—“I wish you’d gotten the full measure of the Prince’s threat. I’d have been dead, but that would have been fine. Better me dead and you broken than your believing in your delusions.”

All color had drained from her face. “You are not well. Clearly the Viruk venom has addled you.”

She turned to leave, but he grabbed her with his left hand and spun her back. “Not so fast.”

“Unhand me.”

“Not yet, for, in the spirit of the Festival, I would tell you something.” He held her tightly in that one hand, certain his fingers would leave bruises on her upper arm. “I would be inclined to forgive you for the scars on my back and the fact that I’m being sent into the Wastes, but my doing that would require a few things from you. First would be an acknowledgment that you are responsible for what happened to both of us. Yes, I acted to safeguard you, no denying that, but I never would have had to act were you not unthinking, petulant, and so self-absorbed that you believe the world is centered on you.”

Her eyes went flat, and he knew nothing was getting through. It didn’t matter, though, for he had an audience and other ears to fill. “Well, Majiata, the Anturasi know, better than anyone else in the world, that all creation is not centered on you. We explore the world. We broaden it. Those who are capable of seeing outside themselves understand what a wonder that is. We make the world bigger and that just makes you smaller. Of course, making you smaller than you make yourself is tough, but you know what?”

He tossed off the last of his wine with relish and deposited the cup in her hands.

“I’m going into the Wastes . . . happily . . . joyously . . . all because I’ll be very far away from you.”

 

Chapter Twenty-five

3rd day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Stormwolf, Moriande

Nalenyr

Jorim Anturasi planted fists on his hips as he mounted the deck of the Stormwolf. The massive ship rose and fell ever so slightly under his feet. The Gold River’s sluggish current did pull at the ship, but its sheer size and weight made it resistant to the river’s efforts to move it. Above him, purple silk sails hung furled from crosstrees on each of nine masts. On other ships, some of the nine would be purely ornamental, but on this ship there was nothing that was not meant to be functional.

“If I could beg your pardon.” A slight voice came from behind him. “You are blocking the gangway.”

“So I am.” Jorim stepped aside and watched a small man come aboard, bent almost double beneath an overstuffed bag. He wore a good blue robe and, despite having lost most of his hair, looked young. He certainly wasn’t a sailor or soldier. What is he doing here?

The Anturasi grabbed the bag and lifted it from the man’s back with one hand. “Have you a concubine hidden in here?”

The little man straightened, his face tight with surprise. “No, I have only necessities.” His voice took on a bit of an edge. “I do not require your aid with it, either.”

Jorim bit back a riposte. The blue robe had a yellow sash, which was not unusual for one who functioned as a minor clerk in a ministry, but the ends had been embroidered with a coiled dragon. That meant the man had some sort of court appointment and if someone so unsuited to the voyage were on the ship by court choice, he was not a quantity to be made sport of until his measure had been taken.

Jorim set the bag on the deck. “I beg your pardon. I am Jorim Anturasi.”

“And I am . . . did you say Anturasi?”

“Yes.”

The man snapped forward in a deep bow. “Forgive me for speaking sharply to you, Master.”

Jorim took him by the shoulders and forced him to straighten up again. “No forgiveness necessary. You were telling me your name.”

“He would be Iesol Pelmir.” The new voice came from a tall woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. Though she was slender, neither her voice nor stance suggested weakness. Despite her relative youth, she wore a captain’s robe. It and her mien underscored her strength of personality. “I would see the both of you in my cabin. Immediately.

“As you will it, Captain Gryst.” Iesol fell in behind her, then hesitated, torn, half-turning back for his bag.

Jorim hefted it again and swung it easily onto his own back. Iesol’s look of horror was reward enough as Jorim followed the two toward the ship’s stern and the cabins below the steersman’s deck. He deposited the sack in the narrow passage outside the captain’s cabin and followed Iesol.

He’d expected a cramped cabin, but found himself pleasantly surprised. The rear bulkhead had been made of shutters which, when open as they were now, admitted light and air while affording a wonderful view of Moriande and the river. Lamps hung on chains from rafters above the edges of an ancient desk. Off to the right lay the captain’s bunk and wardrobe. The area to the left of her desk had been set with a table and chairs, clearly serving as a dining and entertaining area.

But Captain Gryst offered neither Iesol nor Jorim a seat. The little man glanced around nervously, but Jorim calmly planted his feet and clasped his hands at the small of his back. He had an idea what was coming and braced himself for it.

Anaeda Gryst positioned herself behind her desk, allowing the cityscape to silhouette her. She rested her hands on the desktop and studied papers filled with long columns of script. Her voice began low, but in it Jorim could hear the commanding tone of a leader.

“This is a talk I expected I would only have to give your brother once, Jorim. You might require it twice, but you’ll not get it a third time. In lieu of that, I’ll be leaving you on the nearest rock with fresh water. As for you, Minister Pelmir, I never expected to be giving you this talk at all. I understand that Minister Hisatal has new duties that require him to remain on dry land; hence you have been foisted on us.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Her head came up quickly and the small man shook. “When I want you to speak, Minister, I will invite you to do so. I did not ask you a question, nor do I require confirmation of something I already knew. I have no idea why you were chosen to replace him—what evil, perceived or real, you performed to get this berth—but . . . Yes, you wish to tell me?”

“Is that a question?”

Her eyes tightened and Jorim began to find her attractive. At least ten years his senior, her flesh had been darkened by wind, sun, and sea. Her hazel eyes were of the kind considered handsome within the aristocracy, and the sense of character that shone through them was riveting. Unlike the women of his class and society, she had steel in her spine and a mind attuned not to artificial nuances, but to those things that could and did make the difference between life and death.

“Tell me, Minister.”

“I-I asked to be assigned to the Stormwolf.”

She turned her head slightly to the left and said nothing for a moment. Then, coming upright, she regarded him openly. “Interesting. That makes you even more of a candidate for this talk, so I’ll begin. This is the Stormwolf. I am her captain. On this ship, my word is law. If an event is entered into the ship’s log, it is a fact. If it is not, it never happened. I will require meticulous care be given to the log and account books, but I will review and edit as I see fit. The Prince, in his wisdom, wishes to know all but needs not be burdened with details of no consequence.”

Her gaze shifted from the clerk to Jorim, and he felt a jolt. “You are an adventurer. Your passion, your life, your vocation demand you take chances, and I will expect you to do just that. On land. You do that on my ship and I’ll have you clapped in irons and stowed below with the ratters and other livestock. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“This ship has over a thousand crew, plus a hundred and eighty concubines and ninety distinguished scholars, guests, and assorted others. To actually sail this ship I require four hundred and fifty. Attrition can and will occur, but it is my intention to keep it to a minimum. I want to come back with at least ninety percent of those I go out with, and if we come back with more, I will be very pleased.

“This ship is as much a village as it is a vessel. The sailors have been drawn from the best of the Naleni fleet. All have volunteered. All are hoping for riches and glory, but they know all they’ll be certain of getting is food, water, and older. I don’t know what your thoughts are on the chances for riches and glory. I don’t care. What I care is that you’re not going about spreading stories that promise much and deliver nothing.”

She pointed at Jorim. “You, very specifically, are going to be a problem. You have very little to do while on board. I suggest you find something to do. Learn how to play an instrument. Visit every concubine we have. Join the scholars in intellectual discussions. Do something, because if I find you to be disruptive, I will find you something to do. And I can guarantee it will not be pleasant.

“As for you, Minister, I will run you ragged. If you get a chance to draw an idle breath it is because you are shirking duty. You will be available to me at all hours. You will report instantly, you will draft orders, follow orders, and report back promptly and accurately. No excuses, no tardiness, no laziness.”

Iesol bobbed his head.

“Has either of you anything to say?”

Jorim nodded. “Permission to speak, Captain.”

She eyed him up and down, then nodded. “Granted.”

“First, I wish to apologize for not having reported before this. I know we will sail with the tide tonight. But I have spent much of the time leading up to this closeted with my grandfather and I have with me the best possible charts.”

“Very good.”

“Second, I fully acknowledge you as the Master of this ship, and I shall obey you in all things—save one.”

Anaeda Gryst’s eyes narrowed. “Did you not listen to what I said?”

“Please, Captain.” Jorim held a hand up. “No disrespect intended, but I have orders from the Prince to attend to the device in my cabin without failing. If my obligation to deal with it is, in my opinion, more important than your current order, I will do my duty to the Crown.”

“We will discuss that point more, Master Anturasi.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “And you, Minister? What have you to say?”

Iesol bowed his head to her. “I understand all you have said and will obey. I am not the person who was meant to be here, but I will work very hard to prove to you that fortune has been kind in appointing me to this position. If there is any service you require of me, Captain, I shall not hesitate to acquit it.”

The hint of a smile curled the corners of her mouth. “You are from which Ministry?”

“I have studied for Protocol, Etiquette, and Diplomacy, as well as Regulation, and have all the training for Accounting and Economics. I most recently served Harmony.”

“You did not answer the question.”

His shoulders slumped a bit. “As yet, Captain, I have not been acknowledged by a Ministry.”

Jorim felt a tug at his heart for the small man. As with any trade, a person studied and worked hard to be accepted into his occupational community. Captain Gryst had proven, through her past voyages, to be worthy of the great command she had been given. Though Jorim’s grandfather often was displeased with him, he, too, had been accepted as a cartographer in his own right. In both their cases, the laws of the land dictated the minimums they could be paid, the sort of treatment they would receive, their social standing, and the like.

Iesol had not yet been acknowledged. While he could and clearly did function as a clerk or employee—probably for the very Minis-tries that would not acknowledge him—without their sanction he had few, if any, rights. Had he a powerful patron, his position in a Ministry could have been assured, which would pave the way to a known and stable future. Without it, however, he worked at the whim of others and could be used as a pawn in any manner of political situations.

“Were you promised acknowledgment if you returned?”

“Not precisely, Captain, but the indications were strong.”

She nodded. “As I said, my word here is law. Serve me well and, if the voyage is two years in duration, you will have served the Maritime Ministry for long enough that they must acknowledge you. They have reciprocity with the other Ministries. It seems likely the one who gave you this chance did not think you would survive the voyage. If you can, they will have been fooled.”

Iesol nodded slowly, as if unable to believe what he had heard.

“That’s very good of you, Captain.” Jorim smiled easily and gave her a nod.

Her face closed. “Did I give you permission to comment?”

Jorim bowed. “No, Captain.”

“Very good. Remember that, Master Anturasi.” She turned and patted the sternpost. “The Stormwolf is the greatest of the Naleni Wolves. The voyage we will undertake will live forever in the annals of history. Do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, and we will make it back to Moriande. Disobey me and the ship will get back. You likely will not. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good. Minister Pelmir, please collect your belongings and report below. You will be shown to your cabin—which you will share with two young apprentice sailors. I doubt either will be good for much, being yet children, but perhaps you can teach them something useful like writing and addition.”

“Yes, Captain.” Iesol bowed and kept bowing as he shuffled his way backward out of the cabin.

Captain Gryst came around from behind her desk, then sat back on it. “Master Anturasi, you are going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

“I will do my best not to be, Captain.”

“I hope so.” She pointed a finger at the deck, and for a moment he thought she was indicating he should kneel before her, which he just wasn’t going to do. “The device that was installed in your cabin, I know what it is.”

“How?”

“Fear not. The state secret is safe. Borosan Gryst, its inventor, is my cousin. He told me of his desire to create such a thing. My uncle installed it here. I know what it will allow you to do, and why the Prince has given you the orders he has.”

Jorim smiled. “I am glad you understand its importance.”

“I do, but I have a problem.” She regarded him openly. “As I said, my word is law on this ship—even overruling the Prince. I cannot and will not have you obeying him when I need you obeying me. If you fail to do that, not only could you put the ship in jeopardy, but you could find yourself in trouble. This crew contains many people who have sailed with me for years. Defy me, disobey me, and someone might take it into his head to discipline you in a manner that would show how much respect they have for me.”

“I hadn’t looked at it—right, you didn’t ask for a comment.”

“You’re learning.” She held up a finger. “You would disobey me to obey the Prince, I know that, so I need to deal with that problem. Therefore, I now issue you an order: without fail you are to see to all your duties concerning that device. Without fail, do you understand me? This standing order will supersede any other order you are issued.”

The cartographer smiled slowly. “I understand you perfectly, Captain.”

“Good.” Her dark eyes hardened. “What I said before I meant. I will remind you once that you’re not to be a disruptive influence on my crew. After that, I leave you behind. The only thing you are uniquely qualified to do here is make maps and communicate the information to your grandfather. I can make maps; I can use the device my cousin made. If the Prince has to wait to get his maps, I’m sure he won’t mind as long as they arrive and are accurate.”

“And if you don’t get them back to him, Captain?”

She smiled easily. “It will be because the Eastern Sea has swallowed us whole, Jorim Anturasi. That’s the only way we won’t be returning. Obey me and you’ll be with us when we get back.”

 

Chapter Twenty-six

3rd day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Catfish, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles Anturasi stood by the rail on the river vessel Catfish as it slid past the Stormwolf. The tall, long ship, with its many masts and swarming crew, mocked the small, flat-bottomed boat that trios of oarsmen propelled up the river with broad sweeps of long oars. Further upriver they would pole the ship through shallows, but rowing was the only method of moving against the current when in the deep channels dredged for ships like the Stormwolf.

The sun had begun to set, so he knew his brother was already on board. He felt a pang of envy, and another of loss, both of which surprised him. Going on the Stormwolf had been something he’d been looking forward to, but he didn’t live for it the way his brother did. Even when they’d said their farewells at the family tower, Jorim’s anticipation kept distracting him.

Keles would have preferred to see his brother to the Stormwolf, or have Jorim visit the Catfish, but that was not permitted. Keles had been ordered by the Prince to dye his hair Helosundian blond and grow a beard. With three days’ growth it was not much, but did alter his appearance somewhat. He’d also taken to dressing in robes of coarse material and had confined much of his conversation to grunts and short sentences.

True to his word, the Prince had found an actor who looked enough like Keles to make Siatsi pause. Nirati had come to the Catfish to see the actor off and had played her tearful part exquisitely. She’d given Keles himself barely more than a glance when he boarded.

Keles tried not to pay too much attention to those who were supposed to be accompanying him, but the deception fascinated him. He found the actor to be pompous, playing him like an effete noble. The fake Keles lectured about the river, quoting directly from the report Keles had written, but he kept putting the emphasis in the wrong places. It annoyed Keles, but he did admit that everyone was paying attention to the pretender, while he sank back into the crowd unnoticed.

Keles likewise kept his eyes open for any Desei agents who might be watching, but so far the only northerner he’d seen was Count Aerynnor, who conducted his sister back to Anturasikun. Still, just as he was trying not to look Naleni, he knew the Desei would be trying to look like anything but themselves, so his observations were bound to be fruitless.

His life, he realized as the Catfish wiggled its way against the current, had become very complex. Not that it hadn’t been complex before, but that had been controlled complexity. He had been given problems, like the Gold River survey, which had very clear success and failure parameters. The problem had been manageable and he had managed it very well.

The problem he now faced was not manageable at all. He could barely even define it. He was going into the unknown, opposed by unknown forces, aided by unknown forces, with future-but-unknown work for the Prince in the offing. About the only known quantities were guesses based on rumors and legends, and those were worthless. The only thing he could be certain about was that he had enemies who would do him harm if they discovered his identity.

He glanced down at the deep green water and contemplated throwing himself in, but it was just a passing thought. It would make things much easier, but it would also mean I lose. And I don’t want to lose.

“It is good to meet a kinsman on this boat.”

Keles turned, then looked up. The woman who had spoken had long hair that hung in blonde ringlets. Her slender, well-formed nose and high cheekbones combined with a strong jaw and pale blue eyes to make her very pretty, but the vapid expression she wore did not fit her face. The life burning in her eyes belied it, and the obvious deception put Keles on guard. In addition, though her simple, oversize robe of brown wool tried to soften her outline, there was no hiding her broad shoulders.

“Yes. A comfort.”

“I am Tyressa Joden.”

Keles shivered. “I am Kulshar Joden.” He stiffly offered the name the Prince’s ministers had supplied him, not at all liking that she had used the surname first.

“I know.” She smiled slightly, then glanced out at the water. “Ah, Wentokikun. Do you suppose that man up there at the window might be the Prince himself? He would watch to see Keles Anturasi off, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.” Keles’ mind raced. “Or one of the Keru.”

Her smile broadened a little. “Perhaps. We have the same name. I don’t believe in coincidences, do you?”

“No, I do not.” He looked around and saw no one nearby. “You are Keru?”

“And entrusted with your safety, yes.” She kept her voice low. “You should continue your quiet ways, as your accent will never pass as Helosundian. You’re berthing below with most of the other passengers while your double will get the second-best cabin aboard. You’ll want to be very careful.”

“Are there enemy agents on board?”

She snorted. “If there are any active ones, I will find them and deal with them. You must be wary, though, for anyone could see something odd. And if they let their puzzlement slip to someone else, that person, or someone they talk to, could be in communication with the enemy.”

Before he could ask, she added, “And the enemy could be anyone.”

Keles smiled ruefully. “I am glad you were able to narrow that down for me.”

“I’ll do my best.” She pointed a finger toward the river’s south shore. “How far do you think it is to the bank?”

Keles shrugged, but studied the distance for a moment, then answered. “Sixty-seven yards, give or take.”

“Precisely. You’ve just given yourself away.”

“What?”

“No one save a cartographer or surveyor would estimate the distance the way you just did. Most would say ‘a middling bowshot’ or ‘further than I can throw a stone.’ ”

“But you’re here to protect me.”

“And how do you know that?”

Keles quickly reviewed their conversation and felt his stomach fold in on itself. He began to slide back along the railing away from her. “I guess I don’t.”

Tyressa grabbed him by the shoulder and he tried to bat her hand away, but he couldn’t break her grip. He wanted to take that as confirmation that she was Keru and there to protect him, but the only thing it signified was that he was in trouble.

“Stop, Kulshar.” She loosened her grip, but only a little. “I was told to tell you the sculptors won’t include your beard, and the painters will work with brown.”

A sign from the Prince. Another shiver rocked him and her hand fell away. He shook his head. “You are going to have to work hard with me, right?”

“I will, yes, but there are advantages. I know you can learn. I think you will take orders.”

“Yes, to both of those.”

“Good. You’re like the Prince in the first, and I wish he were like you in the second.”

Keles smiled. “Is that why you are here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m on this trip because I earned my grandfather’s ire.”

“I have no grandfather. He died in Helosunde.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Tyressa turned and leaned on the rail. “Why is that? You didn’t know him. From what my family has said, he makes your grandfather look pleasant.”

“I still won’t say I’m happy for you.” He turned and leaned his elbows on the rail, too. “But you know what I mean and you’re evading the question.”

“What question was that?”

“Why are you on this trip?”

She said nothing, but nodded in the direction of Wentokikun. “I was given an order. I am here.”

“That’s it?”

She looked at him sidelong. “That’s all you need to know.”

He frowned. “Maybe I need to know more.”

“That is all I want to tell you.”

“But, if I’m to trust you . . .”

Tyressa shook her head. “You don’t have to trust me. You just have to trust that I know what to do and how to do it, and that I will do my duty. Anything beyond that is immaterial. The Prince trusts us. Why should you be different?”

“If he asked that sort of question, would you answer him?”

“That, Kulshar, is a hypothetical question with no validity, so it gets no answer.”

“I see.” He fell silent, letting the scent of cook smoke supplant the river’s heavy, sour miasma. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

He waited for a reply and when he got none after a moment or two, he looked over and saw she’d drifted away. Keles considered going after her, but hesitated. It was probably for the best he didn’t, since that could attract attention. Moreover, she could have been off to check something he didn’t notice. He felt frustrated and helpless, and that sank him back to the night of the Prince’s celebration.

He’d made his bold statements to Majiata and waited for her reply. He expected she’d scourge him, but it would have been worth it. In an instant, he’d seen how shabbily she’d treated him, and his resentment had been immediate and strong. He’d braced for her to strike back hard, fully shocked and petulant.

Instead, she’d just looked at him and begun to cry. Tears welled in her eyes, then gushed down her cheeks, melting cosmetics in a dark stain. He imagined, just for a moment, that this was all for effect, but then tears splashed down to soil her gown. Her lower lip trembled and her nose began to run. She looked up at him, her moist eyes summoning up a torrent of guilt.

She said nothing.

Keles had immediately been of two minds. The first was certain he was being manipulated. How could someone who had used him so ruthlessly be so vulnerable? He knew this was just another ploy, another way to get under his skin and make him hurt.

The other part of him just melted. This was the woman he had loved, and he’d been cruel to her. He’d reduced her to tears, which was bad enough, but he’d done it there, at the Prince’s Festival, where everyone could see how he had shamed her.

He wanted to reach out and hug her, offer some sort of comfort, but he couldn’t raise his hands. She looked so small and weak, so hurt by what he had said, that he questioned his vehemence, his certainty. Could I have been wrong all along? Maybe she does love me.

The two halves of his mind warred against each other, which left him standing before her frustrated and impotent. Not doing something was worse than doing the wrong thing, but how should he act? He could turn his back on her, walking away, but that would have been even more cold and callous. Yet standing there just increased the awkwardness and made it so very much worse.

Keles had instead turned toward the wine table and held his cup out to be refilled. He had intended to offer her some of the wine, but when he turned back, she had already retreated, cutting swiftly through the crowd, audible sobs accompanying her tears. People looked from her to him—a few with surprise, but more with anger on their faces. One and all they seemed to be saying, “She might have had it coming, but did it have to be now?”

Jorim had rescued him. His younger brother had approached, gotten a cup of wine, then pulled him aside. “Are you all right, Keles?”

Keles had drunk, then nodded. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“She came to forgive me. She told me it wasn’t my fault.”

Jorim laughed heartily and spoke perhaps a bit louder than he might have otherwise. “She forgave you? You, the one who prevented her from being clawed into sweetmeats? She forgave you?”

The effect of his brother’s words had been immediate, both in Keles and the surrounding audience. Gossipmongers immediately repeated his remarks, countering what they’d said when watching the drama unfold. What had been an emotional encounter shifted into one more entertainment for the evening.

The change in Keles was one he now reexamined as he stared down into the waters. He’d steeled himself to accept that what the people in that room felt about him didn’t matter. He’d done nothing wrong. She’d chosen the confrontation and he’d just dealt with her as best he could.

Here, too, what he thought of his guardian and what she thought of him likewise didn’t matter. They both had missions to fulfill, and would do so. Tyressa would keep him safe, he would complete the survey for the Prince, and that would be that.

That seemed right to him, but after a moment’s reflection he located the flaw in his thinking. What Tyressa thought of him, and what she thought about how he conducted himself, were very different. There were things he could learn from her, especially about being observant. While she might be charged with his safety, he couldn’t cede that responsibility to her. Not only did he owe it to himself to be observant, but he had to think ahead to a time when she might not be there to help him.

To this point in your life, Keles, you have been sheltered. Just because he’d learned to deal with his grandfather didn’t mean he was prepared to deal with the world. There were going to be folks, like Majiata, who wanted certain things from him—such as his knowledge or even his death. He needed to be wary of them.

Do any less and you’ll not be worth the lead it would take to cast you. He smiled. Any less, and you’ll not even be worth the dross that spills out of an overfilled mold.

 

Chapter Twenty-seven

14th day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Jandetokun Inn, Moriande

Nalenyr

Nirati slipped the hood back on her white mourning cloak as she entered the Jandetokun Inn. Those gathered in the common area on the main floor slowly quieted as they realized someone in mourning was in their midst. Since she had thrown the cloak back and wore no tear tracks drawn in black down whitened cheeks, the others became instantly aware that the person being mourned was not a family member. Their conversations began again, but at a low murmur that would remain sober until she left.

She found their deference a comfort, for she still remained in shock. The death had been so brutal—at least, this was the impression she’d had of it from gossip and whispers. Those of her cousins who talked about it didn’t think it was the sort of thing a young woman should hear, so she dwelt in ignorance. This left her imagination free to conjure up all sorts of ideas. While she wanted to suppose that what she made up was worse than reality, somehow she didn’t think it was.

Nirati also found herself feeling guilty. She might have, once, thought of Majiata as a friend. Majiata had been younger than she and always a bit aloof. Nirati had tried to like her when Keles began courting her, but they had never developed a deep friendship. Nirati’s hopes that they could become as sisters died quickly, and that left her with a crystal-clear vision of what the woman was doing to her twin.

That Keles had remained ignorant of how horribly she was treating him came as no surprise to Nirati. Her twin had the tendency to see the best in people, acting as if they had risen to fulfill the idealized role he’d pictured for them. The reality was often quite different.

But at least he learned to deal with Majiata. Their confrontation at the Prince’s celebration had pleased Nirati. It marked a shift in Keles’ attitude. She hoped it would stand him in good stead in the middle of the wildlands—though she dreaded the inevitable conflict it would cause when he returned and had to deal with Qiro directly.

Try though she might, she could not project what Keles’ reaction to the news of Majiata’s death would be. Before he had started to grow, she would have imagined that it would have hurt him deeply. He would have felt, somehow, it was his fault, and he would try to make amends. With her death, the Phoesel family might have gotten maps and concessions that even her wedding to Keles would not have gained them.

Now, however, his reaction remained unpredictable. It was possible he could revert to his old ways and become overly kind to her family, but Nirati doubted that. Likewise she didn’t think he would laugh at the news or hoist a glass in favor of her killer. She didn’t think he would swear vengeance on the thing that had done this either—Jorim would have, but not Keles. But, however he chose to deal with it, she resolved to be there to help him.

She put her twin out of her mind as she mounted the steps to the rental rooms above the inn’s main floor. Though she had not been there before, she knew unerringly which room she was bound for. Others might have put this down to her family’s skill with cartography, but it was less complicated. Her informant had been very specific in his instructions, as well as in relating that the resident did not want to be disturbed.

Topping the steps, she turned left and moved toward the front of the building. She knocked gently on the middle door and waited. She heard nothing, so she knocked again, more loudly. When that brought no response, she hammered her fist on the door, then spoke in a very clear voice. “It is Nirati Anturasi. I am not leaving until I speak to you, and I’ll beat on this door until my fist is bloody.”

That brought some noise from within. Beneath the edge of the door light flashed, indicating the heavy curtains had been drawn back. The agonized gasp that accompanied the light suggested the person within had enjoyed too much drink and too little sleep.

“The door is open.”

Nirati slipped the latch, but hesitated in the doorway. While light flooded in through the window, the room still had the sour scent of nightsweats and bodies long unwashed. She would have expected things to be more disorderly, but aside from tall boots lying flopped over in the middle of the floor, gloves scattered to two corners, and an ale bucket tipped on its side near the bed, things looked relatively neat.

They contrasted sharply with Junel Aerynnor. He sat on the side of the bed, his shoulders slumped, wearing a stained linen nightshirt and two days’ growth of beard. His hair needed taming and his sunken eyes were rimmed with black and tinged with red. His skin looked white enough that had he leaned over and retched into the bucket, she would not have been surprised. In fact, she almost righted it and slid it to him. She closed the door and moved to the chair by the small table beneath the window.

“I had no desire to intrude on your grief, Count Aerynnor, but you have no one else here that I know of.”

He glanced at her, his lips pressed in a grim line. “The Phoesel family has no desire to see me. I was the one to bring them the bad tidings. When her father asked me to tell him what I had seen, I had no idea he wanted me to lie. In the north, perfect candor would have been expected.”

Nirati seated herself without waiting for an invitation. “I heard of their reaction. The constabulary asked you to identify her instead of the family?”

He rubbed his right hand over his eyes. “It sounds so official that way. One of the constables who had attended her punishment recognized her. As he was going to her home he chanced across me. I agreed to accompany him, but now I wish I never had.”

Junel’s hand fell from his eyes and he stared past Nirati. “There are things men are not meant to see.”

Nirati nodded as a shiver ran up her spine. “What can I do for you, my lord? If you want to tell me . . .”

He snorted. “That offer from anyone else would be an invitation to gossip. Not you, Nirati. You’d tell no one.”

“So tell me.”

Junel shook his head. “No, you’d have it locked inside the way I do. That’s not a burden anyone should have to bear.”

She slipped the clasp on her cloak and allowed it to drape back over the chair. “I think, my lord, you will find me stronger than you imagine. If it is such a burden for you now, imagine the relief at having it shared. I will bear it, and not blame you.”

He half smiled. “I know you Anturasi are more hardy than the Phoesels, but even so . . .”

“I think you are feeling guilty for not having prevented this tragedy. It was not your fault.”

“How can you say that?”

“I know you. You once saved her from Viruk talons. You would have done that again.”

“Is that who they say did it? A Viruk. The Viruk?” Junel’s eyes tightened. “It was enough of a mess that he could have.”

Nirati nodded. The hottest gossip in Moriande suggested that the Viruk Rekarafi had slain Majiata to cleanse some blot from his honor. The authorities had asked for him to be produced for examination, but the ambassador said her consort had long since quit the city. She even submitted to a search of the embassy, but the constables could not find him.

Some wags even went so far as to suggest that after killing the girl he had set out in pursuit of Keles. Nirati shivered. She’d seen the scars on his back and had no doubt that Rekarafi would rend Keles limb from limb if he found him. Perhaps the Prince’s deception will give Keles enough time to get where the Viruk cannot find him.

She blinked and refocused on Junel. “The Viruk is the leading candidate, but plenty of other rumors abound. One even suggests one of my brothers did it.”

“Keles or Jorim?”

“Keles. They say his heading upriver was a trick, and that he could have ridden hard to join the ship after he did the deed.” Nirati shook her head. “Now, tell me. What happened?”

Junel sighed and his shoulders slumped further. “It was all quite a muddle. I was living with the Phoesel family, but I knew that Majiata and I were a poor match. Her father was still upset about her having embarrassed the family and lost your brother. I was a poor second choice, and while Majiata’s father was polite, he was not silent in sharing that opinion. Still, I was better than nothing.

“I had expressed my reservations about our union to Majiata and said I planned to leave her home. Three days ago, when I awoke, I found a note in her hand slipped beneath my door. She begged me to do nothing rash and to meet her in the city after dark, away from her family. She asked me to burn the note, which I did.”

He frowned. “I knew I should not have agreed to meet her, but something in that note touched me. She’d always been immature and selfish, but there was something different in that missive. I resolved to meet her and left the house early so her family would suspect nothing. I went to meet her at the appointed time but got delayed. I arrived perhaps a quarter hour late, but really thought nothing of it.”

Nirati snorted. “Majiata was never punctual. You should still have been early.”

“That’s what I thought. I waited for an hour, then just assumed she had decided to go back on whatever she had been thinking. I returned to the house and went to sleep. The next morning I got up and out early to meet the people who had delayed me the night before, and that is when I ran into the constable.”

“What happened then, my lord?”

He shook his head. “You do not want to know.”

Her flesh crawled at the tone in his voice. “I have to know. You’re not alone in feeling guilty.”

“I don’t think you know what you are asking.”

“But I’m still asking.”

“Fine.” His spine straightened, but he refused to look at her as he spoke in a flat tone. “Whatever, whoever, did this to her met her in the street. She probably knew him and went with him willingly, or he was strong enough to carry her off. He took her to a rooftop where she could easily see the southern sky and the three moons chasing each other through the constellations. It would have been beautiful. I keep reminding myself of that, hoping, somehow, that such beauty was the last thing she knew.”

The strain in his voice suggested Junel knew his hope was forlorn.

“On the roof, her clothing was cut from her. She didn’t fight much if at all. The constable said she would have had cuts on her forearms if she had. ‘Defensive wounds,’ he called them. He also said she might have scratched her attacker and they’d find skin under the fingernails. She had such long nails.”

He snorted. “Of course, to do that, they’d have to find her hands.”

Nirati’s mouth dropped open. She’d heard no inkling that Majiata’s hands had been taken. She knew of no reason anyone would do that. Her stomach began to roil.

“He cut her throat, nice and clean, almost severing her head completely. It surprised her, for she died with that shocked look on her face. Then he opened her from throat to groin and dressed her out as a hunter might a deer. He hollowed her out, and spread her organs out around her. And, as I said, he took her hands.”

Nirati clapped a hand to her mouth. “No, that is too horrible.”

“Horrible. Odd how a word fails, isn’t it?” Junel exhaled slowly. “The constable said it would have taken an ax to take her hands off like that. Or a bite. And the cutting, that was one knife, maybe two. Or talons. Even then they were thinking Viruk, I guess.

“When I saw her, I dropped to my knees and vomited. Had I been on time, he might not have gotten her. If I had not decided that our union would be useless, she might not have felt the need to meet me away from the house. If, if, if . . .”

His lean body again bowed forward. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes and began to sob, repeating that one word over and over.

Nirati rose and crossed to the bed, gathering him in her arms. He slumped across her thighs, his body convulsing with silent sobs. She hugged him hard, despite the stink. She stroked greasy hair and hushed him, holding on until his body slackened and his breathing came more regularly.

Then she shifted him off her and laid him back in the bed. She got up and swung his legs around. She pulled the thin blanket over him and stroked his face. In sleep he seemed a bit more peaceful and this brought the hint of a smile to her face.

Poor Junel. Compassion for him filled her, but fury at Majiata ran countercurrent to it. Majiata’s death tortured Junel, and it was not right. Majiata had been unworthy of such honest feelings—and, were she alive, would have only thought of how she could profit from them. If there was something good to be taken from her death, it was that she would no longer be around to torment Keles.

I hope he does not learn of her death for a long time. I’ll talk to Grandfather about that. Keles, however, is not my immediate problem.

Stooping, she scooped up the ale bucket and carried it down to the common room. The innkeeper’s wife, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman, accepted it from her. “Shall I just fill it for him as before?”

“No.” Nirati kept her voice firm. “You’ll bring him soup when he’s awake, something that isn’t heavy, and watered wine. I want you to go up there and wash him, too.”

The woman frowned. “He’s a grown man. He can be doing for himself.”

Nirati’s nostrils flared. “Have you any idea who I am?”

The woman bit back a quick response. “I don’t suppose it would make a difference if I did.”

“It might. I am the granddaughter of Qiro Anturasi. If I let it be known that the Jandetokun Inn is favored, you will prosper. If I let it be known you have displeased us, this place will fail. If need be, I could even ask the Prince to shut you down. You understand this, I see, but you need not fear, because I am asking you for a favor, so I shall do you one in return.”

“Y-yes, my lady?”

“Do as I ask with the Desei count and you will be blessed. Any bills, reasonable bills, for his care will be paid immediately and in gold.”

“Or spices?”

“If you wish, yes, we have some influence there.” Nirati kept a smile from her face, though it was clear she and the woman understood each other. “I want him sober, fed, cleaned, and groomed. I shall come back daily to see the progress and settle accounts.”

The woman nodded. “I understand, my lady Anturasi. Been in this business long enough to know how to dry someone up.”

“Good. One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“If anyone else asks after him, you don’t know where he has gone. You’ll even complain about accounts left unpaid.”

“Do I keep any money they give me to settle them?”

“Yes. And I will pay you to know who asks for him.” Nirati nodded to the woman and accepted a bow in return. “Your cooperation will be rewarded.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The woman’s voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ll do what you ask, but why? He’s just a Desei. Why help him?”

Nirati let her question rattle around inside her skull, but found no answer the woman would understand. In fact, she did not even understand her first thoughts. She just smiled and replied in another whisper, “It’s an investment in the future. He owes me a dance or three, and it’s not a debt I shall let go unpaid.”

 

Chapter Twenty-eight

20th day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Stormwolf, Nysant

Cartayne

Jorim Anturasi used the slight rise and fall of the Stormwolf as a means to quiet his mind. He sat on the deck in his cramped cabin, legs crossed, spine straight. His personal logbook, containing measurements and hastily sketched maps, as well as time lists, lay open before him. In the dim light of a single candle he could make out enough to let it serve as a boost to his memory. Most things he held in his mind, however, which was where they needed to be so he could send them to his grandfather.

He regulated his breathing and relaxed, which was harder than he imagined because of the impatience that kept coming from Qiro. Each day, as close to Naleni noon as possible, Jorim had composed himself to send information. The experience had never been a pleasant one, but of late it had been even less so. Qiro had changed, and not for the better.

When Jorim had first learned telepathic communication with his grandfather, things had flowed easily, much the way the massive Stormwolf rose and fell rhythmically at anchor. His grandfather had been welcoming and gentle, prompting recollections or details in a wordless manner. Jorim always sought to communicate as much as he could. He’d been eager to please his grandfather, and reveled in any encouragement he’d gotten.

But now Qiro regarded any lack of information as an act of conspiracy. His gentle prompts had become sharp jabs. The few times Jorim had been too exhausted to muster a defense, his grandfather had raked through his mind, leaving a blinding headache in his wake.

Even when his grandfather invaded his mind, Jorim had little worries about his secrets being betrayed. Numbers communicated very easily. Subjective concepts, such as beauty, or even a color, did not get conveyed as precisely. Even when he had worked with Keles, there had been mistakes, despite their closeness. The emotional and generational gap with his grandfather meant Qiro could get less from him, and also meant the old man cared very little for Jorim’s personal adventures.

The old man just wanted more data for his maps.

With this lot, he would get quite enough. The Stormwolf did not travel alone. With it were a dozen other ships, which carried food and water, fodder for the cavalry horses on board, as well as other necessary supplies like lumber, cables, and sailcloth. As they approached the island of Cartayne, the fleet had been split and lesser cartographers had taken measurements as they sailed north and south. The two halves of the fleet converged at the western port of Nysant, and Jorim had worked all night combining the information into an accurate chart of the island, complete with soundings of a southern harbor and the route to it through a reef.

Reaching out with his mind, visualizing Anturasikun and his grandfather’s sanctum, he reached the old man easily. Qiro began to devour his information with the fervor of a starving man falling on a haunch of venison. For a heartbeat Jorim actually saw an image of the world on the wall and watched Cartayne sharpen in definition.

He braced for a mental assault, but his grandfather broke the link with a swift finality. Jorim slumped back against the bulkhead and bumped his head—not enough to injure himself, but sufficient to shock him back to full consciousness. Sitting up, he rubbed the back of his head.

I hope everything is all right. The quick termination of their link could have meant his grandfather had collapsed. His heart might have failed, or he might have suffered a brain tremor. He might even have been murdered. Jorim dismissed the latter instantly, since Uncle Ulan would never have the nerve to kill him, and would permit no one else close enough to do so. The Prince’s precautions would keep assassins out, so the old man was safe from anything other than natural disaster or the vengeance of the gods.

He just as easily dismissed the idea that his grandfather was ill. Jorim felt certain he would have gotten some hint of pain, shock, or panic through the link before it was broken. His grandfather’s ego was such that he’d not have been able to conceal his dismay at being prey to mortal afflictions.

But it surprised Jorim that his first reaction was concern for the old man. He would have expected to feel some sort of relief, or even glee, for he had long since ceased to like his grandfather. He didn’t respect him much either, save in the area of mapmaking. Outside of that, Qiro Anturasi was a creature worthy only of contempt.

A knock on the cabin door prevented him from examining his feelings further. “I’m not hurt. The thump you heard was nothing.”

The door opened and Anaeda Gryst stood there. “I’m glad to hear that. We’re going ashore.”

“I thought . . .” Jorim scrambled to his feet and scooped his logbook up as her eyes narrowed. “As ordered, Captain Gryst. Let me lock this away first.”

“Be quick about it, and bring your sword.”

He opened his sea chest and deposited the log, then drew out a simple sword. Single-edged, running just shy of a yard from hilt to point, the blade resided in an unadorned wooden scabbard. The hilt was long enough to let him use the blade two-handed, but the sword was light enough that he could duel with it easily as well. Jorim had not studied swordsmanship at a serrian, but the Prince had seen to it that the Anturasi heirs knew enough to protect themselves. Jorim had gotten better on his own and might have been Fifth Rank if tested by a school in the capital.

“Do you expect trouble, Captain?”

“If I did, you’d see our cavalry mounted and ready to escort us.”

Jorim shut the chest and locked it. “I notice you’re unarmed.”

She smiled slowly. “The people we’ll see already know how dangerous I am. Your sword will win you a modicum of respect. That will be enough for the moment. Come, we’ve not a moment to lose.”

He followed her from his cabin up to the main deck, and then down netting to where a small boat bobbed beside the Stormwolf. Five sailors—four oarsmen and a coxswain—waited for them. Captain Gryst sat in the stern, leaving Jorim the bench at the bow, which he didn’t mind taking. The oarsmen pushed off the ship, then began the half mile pull in toward the shore.

Nysant had, ages before, been a Viruk outpost. Little could be seen of what once had been strong fortresses because stones had been stolen from them and mud buildings grafted to their walls like hornets’ nests. The squat human buildings mocked the former grandeur. Their imprecise angles and slouching forms dragged on Viruk architecture, much as the human slaves must have dragged on the last of their Viruk masters.

When the heart of the Viruk Empire sank beneath the Dark Sea, the Cartayne colony had begun to wither. The Viruk had brought Men and Soth slaves to populate the place and work it. Gemstone mines and plantations in the interior had provided a lot of wealth for the Empire, but with no home market, the economy collapsed. The Viruk retreated, not caring what happened to their slaves.

Nysant had become, over the centuries, a center of commerce. The trade winds made it easy for ships from the east to reach the city, and the coastal currents allowed them safe passage back home. Along the way they filled their holds with a variety of things that fetched high prices in their home ports. Until Naleni fleets had begun to travel to the west themselves, Nysant had been the source of western treasures. It yet served the same role for a number of the other Principalities, and ships from the Five Princes all rode anchor in the harbor.

Jorim and Captain Gryst climbed a ladder to a wharf and headed inland. Just beyond the normal thicket of dockside warehouses, they entered a free marketplace where wares from the world over were touted by hundreds of loud voices. Textiles and spices, exotic animals and enslaved peoples all were offered for sale. Captain Gryst stayed well away from the slave pens, where half-naked ebon-fleshed men from Aefret stood chained in a line on an auction block. The auctioneer—a mongrel of dusky skin and muddled features—solicited bids with a combination of flattery and abuse, all in the local cant. Jorim caught words here and there, and liked the lyrical flow of his voice, though the practice of trading human flesh did not appeal to him at all.

They continued on past stalls with fruits and vegetables, squawking yard fowl and collections of odd trinkets. Captain Gryst led him out through the eastern edge of the bazaar and turned north. They plunged into a dim world of twisting alleys. Despite his skill at cartography, Jorim quickly became lost, and he gained the impression that she wanted it that way.

Finally, she stopped before a small shop and entered through a doorway hung with a ragged blanket. He found himself in a small room with a carpeted floor that had been strewn with thick pillows. The carpet had come from Tas al Aud and would fetch a fortune in Moriande—likewise the beautifully embroidered pillows.

That she sat in the midst of a fortune did not seem to make any impression on the tiny, wizened woman facing them. She drew on a long pipe and exhaled sweet smoke that drifted into a low-hanging cloud. Captain Gryst bowed, then sank to her knees, drawing some of the smoke down with her. Jorim likewise bowed, instinctively holding it long enough to convey great respect, then knelt a step behind and to the right of Captain Gryst.

The old woman smiled toothlessly. “I am pleased you have returned, Anaeda. Your absence has been mourned.”

“It grieved me as well, Grandmother.” Anaeda bowed her head again. “I came when word reached me that you wished to see me.”

“Would that you thought to come sooner, for my home is yours. But the Stormwolf demands more attention than I do.” The old woman pointed the pipe stem at Jorim. “He is not your bodyguard. Your lover, perhaps?”

“An associate, Grandmother.”

The woman snorted smoke out her nose, then clamped the pipe firmly in teeth. “You will be more forthcoming, I know.” She shifted a pillow and withdrew from it a bamboo case corked at each end. She opened one end and withdrew a scroll, which she spread out on the carpet. She used her bare feet to hold two corners down, leaving it to Anaeda and Jorim to secure the corners nearest them.

Jorim fought to conceal his reaction, but Anaeda did not. She gasped, then chuckled. “This is wonderful, Grandmother.” She turned to Jorim. “What do you think?”

Jorim rubbed his free hand over his chin. The rice-paper scroll measured two feet by four and clearly depicted the southern reaches of the Principalities, stretching west to Aefret. Cartayne figured prominently at the center of the map; but from their voyage so far, he knew it to be shown about three hundred miles too far west. To the south of it, however, a string of islands curved gently east to the mythical Mountains of Ice at the bottom of the world. Those islands had appeared on no chart he’d ever seen, and one of them had a city indicated. The others all had fanciful images of strange people and creatures—as did the interior of Aefret over on the left side of the map. He suspected those were more decorative than informative, but he’d seen nothing like them before, and they intrigued him.

Of course, they’re likely as much fable as the Mountains of Ice.

He glanced up at the old woman. “Where was this found?”

“It was drawn from voyages.”

Jorim knew better than to contradict her. “It was drawn from many voyages. Voyages that took place many years apart.”

Anaeda looked at him. “How do you know?”

He traced a finger along the coast of the continent to the north. “This is a fairly recent representation of the coast. It probably came from a Desei chart because of the shape of the bay right here in southern Ummummorar. Two hundred years ago a volcano’s flow extended the left edge, making the harbor larger than it once was. The coast of Aefret came from a chart their navigators use.”

He tapped Cartayne. “This placement of Cartayne in the center of the map is a thing the Soth did. The island is smaller than it should be. The Soth did that to show how unimportant it was in comparison to Virukadeen. They made maps that way to flatter their Viruk masters, so this part of the chart is thousands of years old. Now, the question is, did this archipelago appear on the Soth map, or have others actually sailed south to the Mountains of Ice?”

The old woman cackled and her eyes shone. “Take him as your lover, Anaeda. Bear his children, for they shall be quick of mind.”

“It is something I shall consider, Grandmother. Now, what of his question?”

The old woman pulled her feet back in and hugged her knees to her chest. The map’s upper edge rolled in as she sucked on her pipe. Smoke drifted from her mouth, hiding her face for a moment, then she nodded. “I believe it was drawn from an old chart.”

Jorim kept his voice low. “Do you have that map?”

The old woman canted her head and closed her eyes. The dark hollow in the bowl of her pipe brightened to a cherry red. “I believe the original could be found. What would you offer for it?”

Anaeda needn’t have glanced at him, for Jorim was not going to answer even though he had a thousand thoughts of what he could give her. The captain bowed low, pressed her forehead to the map, and spoke in something barely above a whisper. “Our offering would be meager. As your chart might be of aid, so we could provide you with a similar chart. South and east there is another harbor. We have a chart of it that would let ships navigate even at night. A place where it is believed no goods could come ashore would now be open to you.”

Jorim watched the old woman but caught no hint of how she took that offer. It hardly surprised him that she might have connections to smugglers, for even the composite map she had shown them would be invaluable to all sorts of people. But the offer suggested she might benefit more directly from smuggling operations.

Finally, the old woman nodded. “That will be acceptable, Anaeda.”

Captain Gryst straightened up. “You are most kind, Grandmother.”

“I am, child, but it pleases me to be so with you.” The old woman turned to look Jorim full in the face. “You have something else you would ask of me?”

“Yes, Grandmother. Where did you find the map?”

She smiled. “There are many places on this island where the Viruk once lived. In one of them, on a wall, the world known at the time was painted. Much of the paint has been destroyed by lichen and molds, but that bit remained. I will have you taken there and you can make your own copy.”

Jorim bowed low. “Your generosity leaves me in your debt.”

“I accept that debt, Anturasi.” The old woman laughed. “Yes, I know who you are, which is why I make that offer to you. Only an Anturasi who has slain Viruk would dare enter one of their ruins. If your heart does not fail you, that map and perhaps more will be yours.”

 

Chapter Twenty-nine

20th day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Asath

Nalenyr

Keles snapped out of his trance as Tyressa jerked him to his feet. She planted a kiss firmly on his lips, sending a jolt through him and leaving him disoriented and surprised. Then she pulled her mouth from his, breaking the kiss loudly, and embraced him tightly with her left arm around his shoulders.

Her voice sounded strongly above the laughter of those assembled in the inn’s common room. “Enough of these river men. I am homesick. You’re coming with me.”

More hoots and calls accompanied them as she steered him toward the rough-hewn stairs leading up to the room they’d taken. She tightened her embrace against any attempt he might make to slip away and, reflexively, he wrapped his right arm around her waist. In an instant he knew his brother, in keeping with whatever deception Tyressa had deemed necessary, would have dropped a hand to one of her firm, round cheeks, but he could not. I like my arm in one piece.

He shook his head, clearing the last of the fog, and tried to imagine what had prompted her action. He’d seen nothing, but then he’d taken the opportunity to slip inside himself to send a message to his grandfather. The Catfish had come up the river as quickly as possible, but had been delayed by storms that washed debris into the river. When they continued, they reached Asath, which was at the lower end of a stretch of the river where glacial deposits made it impassable. Cargoes were off-loaded there and transported overland to Urisoti to continue the journey to the port of Gria.

They had arrived in midafternoon, and Keles immediately noticed that the work clearing and dredging the river was nowhere near as complete as had been reported to Moriande. He’d read the various reports and saw that the situation was little changed from when he was last there. The money set aside for the project was being squandered. Communicating the true state of affairs was vital and would only take a moment.

He’d slipped into the trance he used to reach Qiro easily and found his grandfather awake. He got a sense of things back through the link that he’d not experienced before. Impressions from his grandfather had always been strong, and while he expected ire, he got little of it. The sensations were vague and made him uneasy, but Keles could not determine why. Regardless of that, he did manage to convey the information before Tyressa had so rudely brought him back to Asath.

She said nothing even as she propelled him through the door to their room. He caught himself on the end of the bed, then cried out as his right knee slammed into the footboard. “What is the mea—”

Tyressa spun him around and clapped a hand over his mouth. Her whisper came harsh and strained. “Keep your voice down and gather your stuff. We’re leaving.”

He jerked his mouth from beneath her hand, but did keep his voice low. “What is it?”

“It was you.” She released him, then gathered her baggage, which consisted of an overstuffed backpack and bedroll beneath it, a sling pouch and her sword belt. “I think your fading was taken as drifting off to sleep. Not too suspicious, though it is a bit early. If they didn’t think you were sleeping, they might have figured out who you are.”

He rubbed at his knee, then gathered up his pack, bow, and quiver then belted on his knife. “What are you talking about?”

“Four men. Two local, two from the ship. They affected not to see us. But they worked too hard at not seeing us.”

Another jolt ran through Keles, one altogether different from what he felt when she kissed him. “Desei agents?”

“Perhaps. It’s well-known that all river traffic stops here and goes overland to Urisoti. It would make sense to have watchers here.” She crossed to the room’s window and opened the shutters. “Out you go. Be careful. Drop to the street. We’ll go to the livery and get horses. We’ll travel tonight and steal a march on the rest of the Catfish company.”

He frowned. “Wouldn’t it be safer traveling with others?”

“Not when those others are out to get you.”

“Good point.” Keles limped over to the window and climbed out. He crouched without her telling him and crept along the tiled awning to the back of the building. He lowered himself, then dropped to the ground and fell back firmly on his tailbone.

Any embarrassment he might have felt at being so clumsy vanished as a four-pointed throwing star whizzed through the night and stuck, quivering, in the side of the inn. He rolled and came to his feet, then jumped away as a small man slashed at him with a dagger. Keles bumped into the post supporting the awning and tried to cut to the left, but a nail in the post caught on his pack and held him firmly.

The knife wielder’s smile vanished as Tyressa leaped from above and smashed both booted feet into his face. He flew back, hitting the street hard; his knife sailed into the darkness. She landed in a crouch and came up quickly. She shifted her sword from right hand to left, then yanked Keles free of the nail.

“Run.”

He took off down the alley toward the livery stable. There was no mistaking his direction; his training and blood had already let him assemble a map of Asath. Though his previous visit hadn’t brought him to that part of town, his journey through it earlier had locked the details in place. Three more alleys down, then turn left and on two more blocks.

Behind him came sounds of fighting, with the occasional clash of steel on steel. He listened for the sound of Tyressa crying out, or the whirring of more throwing stars, but he heard nothing of the sort. As the din of combat grew, he was tempted to turn and string his bow, but he knew he’d be more of a hindrance than help in the dark.

He cut around the corner and the alley widened into a street. Directly ahead of him, a block and a half down, two men stood in the middle of the street. Ruffians, knives drawn or swords slipping from scabbards, bled into the street between the pair and Keles. He stopped and turned, but saw more men behind him. Tyressa had inflicted enough damage to keep those chasing her at a respectful distance, but they still came on.

She looked at him imploringly and waved him on, but then she turned the corner and realized why he’d stopped. She immediately dropped to one knee to catch her breath, then flicked her sword out to bat away a throwing star.

One of the men who had been chasing her took a step forward. “We are not required to kill you.”

Tyressa stood again. “You’ll get past me no other way.”

The man shrugged. “Kill her. Take his legs.”

The dozen ruffians began to tighten their circle. Tyressa closed with Keles. “Get ready to run again. We’re going at the stables. Now! Go!”

The two of them started to sprint. Her longer legs gained her a slight lead. The brigands between them and the stable moved to oppose her. With a backhanded slash, she battered one man’s sword aside and crushed his skull. She punched another man in the face, dropping him, but there was no way she could win through, especially not with the two men coming to reinforce the ones trying to stop her. The duo came with swords drawn and moved with precision their comrades lacked.

Striding forward boldly, the younger of the pair whipped his sword forward, cutting down one of the footpads. Another of them turned to oppose him, but the man struck so quickly his thrust punctured his foe’s chest and withdrew even before his victim completed his turn. A parry and slash killed a third man and, suddenly, the way to the stable stood clear.

Keles darted through the opening and Tyressa joined him. The two of them turned to see the swordsmen moving to cut off pursuit. The elder swordsman turned to his companion and spoke quietly. “You did well, Ciras. Guide them to the stables.”

The ruffians’ leader came to the fore and spared only a brief glance for his wounded and dying confederates. “You are meddling in affairs not your own.”

The swordsman smiled. “Then you know my affairs?”

“Well, no, but . . .” The head ruffian frowned. “Get out of my way or I shall be forced to kill you.”

“It would seem, then, that our intentions coincide.” The swordsman nodded, then slid a foot forward and set himself. “Ciras, you should be much closer to the stables than you are now.”

“Yes, Master.” Ciras tugged at Keles’ shoulder. “My Master bid me to get you to the stables. Let us go.”

“We can’t just leave him alone. There are seven of them, eight.” Keles shook his head. “Seven. That one went down again.”

“There could be nine, or nine times nine. Come, we have to get clear.”

Keles backed away along the street with Ciras, and Tyressa came as well, though as reluctantly as he did. The ruffians began to gather into a tight pack, preparing to rush the lone man opposing them. Many of them were larger than he was, and almost all were as well armed. Men wiped moist hands on their overshirts, then tightened grips on their swords’ hilts. Some shifted and advanced in a formal guard, while others just hunched forward and snarled. Onward they came, inch by inch, a mob ready to destroy the man in front of them. Having drawn to within two paces, the leader screamed an inarticulate war cry, and the human storm broke on the single swordsman.

The ruffians came at their protector in a tight crescent. The two men at each end shot out and past, coming for the retreating trio. The five who remained came on as a solid wall—all muscle, steel, and snarls. Keles watched without wanting to, utterly certain that Ciras’ Master would soon be dead.

The swordsman twisted to his right and moved ghostlike through the line of men opposing him. Their blades flashed in the moonlight, and in such close quarters, it seemed impossible they did not strike him. Eerily, no ringing of sword on sword sounded, and war cries swallowed the sound of footsteps in the street.

Then one of the war cries curdled into a whimper. The sound’s shift mirrored the way the group’s leader curled around a slit belly and fell. The swordsman emerged at the back of the crescent with the leader’s sword in his other hand, then planted a foot and spun back instantly. Two quick slashes cut down the central pair of swordsmen as they turned to face him. Their blades flew as they reeled away, throat and chest opened respectively.

As their bodies thrashed on the ground, the quintet’s last two fighters turned back to oppose him. The man on the right lunged, but the swordmaster slipped past the quivering blade effortlessly. A quick cut opened that man from groin to breastbone. A return slash took his head in time to silence his scream, but without erasing the expression of horror on his face.

The last man assumed a stance that betrayed some training. He stamped his forward foot and feinted a lunge. Then he pulled back, recovering from his feint, pulling his blade up to protect him from waist to crown. Sparks flew as he blocked a forehand slash. He even began to smile as the swordmaster whipped his right arm forward in a repetition of that attack. He moved to block again.

The swordmaster’s second blade came around and down behind the block, severing the man’s hands. Blood spurted as the sword dropped, then a third slash neatly cut the man’s throat. Gurgling a sigh, the man slumped to the ground.

The last two men had slowed their charge as Tyressa and Ciras had moved to oppose them. With their comrades’ deaths, their attack faltered entirely. As if sharing a mind, each chose to bolt for the safety of shadows, one going left, the other right. They ran as if the demons of the fifth Hell pursued them.

Only what pursued them was worse.

The swordsman dashed to his left and slashed, sending that man spinning to the dust with a split spine. Without pause, he whirled and threw his acquired sword. It spun in a flat arc and caught the last man in the legs. It tangled there, not cutting him, but tripping him up. He smashed face-first into a building and rebounded to flop loose-limbed in the mouth of an alley.

Without saying a word, the swordmaster drew a small knife and slit the throats of the last two men. He squatted and cleaned his blades on the tunic of the man he’d tripped, then approached them with his blades still bared. He stopped ten feet from them and bowed, both deeply and long. “You will please forgive my haste and resulting sloppiness.”

Keles, utterly disbelieving what he had just seen, returned the bow. He would have matched that of the swordsman in duration, but Tyressa remained down longer, and he took his cue from her. He had the impression she would have held it for yet longer, but lingering in the corpse-littered street was not a good idea.

As they straightened up, the swordsman sheathed his weapons. “I am Moraven Tolo. This is my companion, Ciras Dejote. We do not need your names. Speaking them here would not be a good idea just now.”

Keles opened his mouth, closed it, then shifted his shoulders uneasily. “How did you find us?”

“Prince Cyron arranged for us to accompany you to Ixyll. I believe, Tyressa, you have instructions from the Prince that were only to be opened in Gria?”

Tyressa nodded. “I was given such a packet.”

“It contains a letter of introduction for us. We had planned to reveal ourselves to you there, but circumstances intervened.”

“I understand and thank you.” The Keru slid her own sword into its scabbard. “I suspected the Prince would send others.”

Keles frowned. “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She ignored him. “Were you on the Catfish?”

Moraven pointed to the stables. “There will be time on the road to explain. We should hurry.”

The four of them trotted to the stables. Tyressa and Keles waited while Moraven and Ciras picked out their horses. Part of the money paid to rent the horses would be returned to them in Urisoti when they left the horses with the agent there. The fees were more than the animals and tack were actually worth, so any incentive to steal them vanished.

The swordsmen had chosen well and obtained two horses for each of them. That would allow them to move fast and complete the trip in less than the five days it normally took. Keles fastened his pack to the rear of his saddle, then mounted up and joined the others.

No one said much until they were well out of Asath, which was when Tyressa repeated her question about the riverboat.

Moraven nodded. “We were.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“You remember a young priest conducting his maiden aunt back to Gria? She had loudly exclaimed about the wonders of Festival?”

Keles blinked. He remembered the lady well, for her voice penetrated bulkheads as if they were rice paper and she repeated each story at least a dozen times. Even the actor pretending to be him grew terse with her. She had been fat and slow, complaining of gout and other maladies which, according to her, could be cured only through taking the waters in some hot mineral spring high in the mountains southeast of Gria.

“That was you?”

The swordsman smiled. “It was. Ciras was the silent, suffering priest.”

Tyressa turned to look at Ciras, then back to Moraven. “If you were in disguise on the boat, why drop it in Asath?”

Ciras answered. “My Master charged me with the duty of listening to all but himself. There were two men on the Catfish from Asath, and they watched Keles Anturasi very closely. We were not certain why, but then when the ship docked, an official delegation met Keles and took him off to Lord-Mayor Yiritar’s house to stay. We suppose that the actor did something there to let the mayor penetrate the deception.”

“It wasn’t what he did, but what he didn’t do.”

Keles hoped the darkness hid his blush. “When I was here before, I lost a bet with the Lord-Mayor. He cheated, and we both knew it, so I promised him a dozen bottles of the best brandy Moriande had to offer. I told him I would deliver it myself, and we both knew I was lying since I would never return. I’d never mentioned the incident, and had quite forgotten it. My double would not have known and likely did not respond correctly.”

Tyressa shook her head. “But why send people out looking for us?”

Moraven shifted in the saddle. “The Lord-Mayor, knowing he was deceived, looked for everyone from the Catfish. He wanted to determine if the Prince had sent spies upriver. He may have even supposed, when he learned the actor was not you, that you were the spy.”

Keles nodded. “Who better to determine that he’s been taking the Prince’s money and doing none of the work required? Of course, if he did, the river would be clear and his town would cease to exist.”

The elder swordsman nodded. “That makes perfect sense. Thank you for solving that riddle.”

“My pleasure. If you would not mind, you could solve one for me.”

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me what is in the sealed orders Tyressa is carrying?”

“I do not know. I know what I believe they say, but it is speculation.”

Keles smiled. “Go ahead, speculate.”

Moraven shook his head slowly. “No, I think not. There may be many dangers between here and Gria. To speculate would distract us. What the Prince means us to know will be revealed when we reach Gria.”

“What if we don’t get that far?”

“Then whatever he would have tasked us with is immaterial, isn’t it, Master Anturasi?” Moraven laughed quickly. “Let us get to Gria and prove ourselves worthy of the Prince’s command.”

 

Chapter Thirty

27th day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Thyrenkun, Felarati

Deseirion

Prince Pyrust pulled his black cloak more tightly around himself and snarled. A glance in a looking glass reminded him that he now appeared very much like the model for the toy soldier of himself the Naleni had created. While his spymaster had told him he was not being played, and that it was good for Prince Cyron to underestimate him, being seen as a child’s amusement rankled.

It was not this alone that consumed him or made his thoughts as dark as his capital city. Upon his return he had called his chief ministers to him and demanded a full and forthright accounting of the harvest. They were hesitant—so much so he had to explain that while the sons and daughters of Deseirion would continue to enter the bureaucracy, their sons and daughters might not be among them. He did not elaborate, letting each man’s fears spur him on to action.

The full report had been even more dire than Prince Cyron had suggested. While Pyrust was forced to assume that the harvest had been underreported, even a generous estimate of supplies would have his people eating rice they needed to be sprouting and planting next spring. There was no way all of his people would survive without Naleni rice.

The ministers had even estimated a die-off of five to ten percent of the population. They did allow as how it would mostly be the old and the very young, but they cast that in the form of a tragedy. Even Cyron had seen it that way when he noted that Pyrust would not starve, but his people would.

The Desei Prince chuckled, for neither his neighbor to his south nor even the Desei bureaucrats understood the true joy of power and how it could be employed. If he deemed it necessary, he could keep the children alive, and even the ancient ones. He would simply order that food be given to them preferentially, and that if a child or elder died of malnutrition, their families would be slain, their goods divided and their ancestors’ bones scattered. He need not even carry out such a threat, but just spread the story of one or two places where it happened, and gossips would carry it far and wide. Overnight the reports would universally be attributed to a village or town a valley or two away, and everyone would toe the line lest their village be hit next.

The thing of it was, however, Pyrust saw no difficulty in carrying out his order. He could simply select a perfectly innocent family or two, accuse them of having a child die of malnutrition, and destroy them. Aside from being a superior means of eliminating local political troublemakers, a single true act was better than a hundred manufactured stories.

Still, the loss of five or even ten percent of his population, provided it was from the unproductive margins of society, seemed more of a blessing than a tragedy. His people were a herd that had overgrazed their range. A die-off was inevitable, and it would be the weak who died. Those who survived would be stronger, and would not be bothered with needing to care for the weak. The whole ordeal would make his nation stronger.

While he was fully prepared to accept this purge of his people, he resisted it for one simple reason—he loathed situations that were forced upon him, by man or the gods. If he could find a way to defy either, it pleased him. Immediately upon his return to Felarati, he had put into place several plans that did begin to make a difference, both for the short term and longer.

Delasonsa’s suggestion about making one military unit into two, and using the other to train villagers into militia units had begun in earnest. Pyrust had ordered villages to provide warriors for service in a local militia. He would feed those who joined, as well as provide extra quor of rice for the villages from whence they came. Those shipments would, of course, be delayed so the villages, which now had fewer mouths to feed, would eat off supplies that should have been made available to the Crown. The soldiers would be fed from the Naleni grain. Not only was there irony to that, but the golden rice from the south provided more nutrition than that grown locally.

He would allow the militias a month’s training, then put them to work in the second part of his plan. In response to hard times and tight markets, a system of smuggling and tax avoidance always sprang up. He would move the militia into the bigger cities and use them to hunt down and destroy the criminal element. They would liberate great stores of hoarded grain, some of which they would be allowed to convey back home, giving the militias combat experience as well as the joy of entering their villages as heroes. They would be lauded as having performed a service for the Crown, which would make them see themselves as part of the state. Once they began to identify with him and the nation, they would be his to use.

Reports from the training fields suggested that perhaps as many as one in five of the recruits might be talented enough to be trained as a warrior. This hardly surprised him, both because levies were regularly called up and those who survived battle with little or no training must have had some minor talent to begin with. As well, the tools used in cutting and threshing were, in essence, swords and flails. A farmer’s normal activities honed skills that were translatable into something Pyrust would find more useful. If the recruits accepted the call to further training, he paid a bonus to their families, the village and the village’s headman, which helped all of them to convince young men and women to accept the honor of further training.

Most recently, his ministers reported Naleni displeasure with his troops’ continuing attacks within Helosunde. The protests had come through the lowest diplomatic levels because the Mountain Hawks’ attacks had all been in response to Helosundian raids. Because those raids had been easy enough to provoke, and his response to them had been fierce, neither Cyron nor his people were fooled. Still, he felt fairly certain that as much as he was being admonished to stop all operations, so were the Helosundians, and that served his purposes as well.

Pyrust closed his half hand over his goatee and tugged on it unconsciously. There had been threats that rice shipments would be delayed or stopped, as Delasonsa had predicted, but Pyrust knew he could not withdraw all pressure from Helosunde. Cyron himself had said that he would willingly toss food to a wolf to keep him away from the door. If I do not show him fang, he will forget I am a wolf.

The Desei Prince crossed the creaking cedar floor, slid open the door to his tower’s southern balcony, and passed out into the dusk. Already, Fryl—the large, white owl-moon—had begun to rise from the sea. Its light revealed jagged silhouettes of the city’s rooftops.

Fog had risen to nibble at the wharves in Swellside. A thick tentacle stole its way up the sluggish Black River, while other small feelers filled streets and alleys. Yellow lights burned in windows and atop streetlamps, but the mist soon muted them. Only the gyanri lights on the largest trio of bridges over the river held the fog at bay. They glowed like sapphires, and the pattern in which they had been arranged revealed to him the constellation Shiri—the hawk.

Pyrust’s hands emerged from beneath his cloak as he leaned on the stone balustrade. Black stone had been used to shape the tower, for it hid the dirt and grime of the city. Likewise it contrasted sharply with the white towers of Moriande, mocking them. Felarati defied and challenged Moriande, as it had for ages, though seldom had the south felt any real threat.

Deseirion had always been a frontier province in the Empire. Its only worth, initially, had been as a place to stage troops to slow down barbarians. The early Emperors had created a string of fortresses to garrison troops, and slowly towns had grown up around them. Felarati had been the largest of these and the most vital, since supplies passed through it, up the Black River and its tributaries to the other fortresses.

A plague among the Turasynd killed enough of them to minimize their power for several centuries before the Time of Black Ice. Imperial interest in Deseirion waned as peace and prosperity waxed. Imperial support withered, but instead of retreat, the bold souls who had come to make Deseirion their home decided to stay. Prospectors found deposits of iron, copper, tin, and coal. The mineral wealth gave rise to foundries, with iron, bronze, and steel flowing south in return for gold and rice. Existence in Deseirion was not soft as it was in the south, but the Desei reveled in it.

The Emperors and other nobles also used Deseirion as a dumping place for obstreperous offspring and rebel generals. The Desei took these outcasts to their hearts, training them and molding them to survive in the unforgiving north. The people of the frontier knew they needed to be more united than the decadent provinces to the south. If they were not the strongest and purest of the Imperial people, the barbarians would come through and destroy the Empire.

When the Empress left to fight the Turasynd, leading them into Ixyll, she drew her last troops from the Desei. She gave control of the province to a small but clever man who kept Desei from Helosundian conquest by constant reports of pitched battles in which his people were the only thing that stopped hordes from pouring over the Black River. Though these battles were as mythical as the Mountains of Ice, his Helosundian counterpart—a cousin who was a grand warrior but stupid enough that he had trouble discerning day from night—prepared his nation for invasion and never furthered his ambition.

And when the Cataclysm came, it wiped out ambition along with much of the population. Since that time, Deseirion had changed dynasties every ninety to hundred and twenty years. As always, the perception in the outlying areas was that city life had softened the Prince into a southerner. Pyrust’s father knew that this fate would destroy his dynasty, so he launched the attack on Helosunde. Not only did the successful invasion make pride burn hotter and deeper in the hearts of his countrymen, but being constantly caught between Turasynd and Helosundian threats meant they had little time to think about weakness in Felarati.

Pyrust chuckled and looked at his maimed hand, corpse-white against the cold, black stone. Those missing fingers had proven how hard he could be. While the hawk remained the symbol of Deseirion, his personal flags had two feathers clipped from the hawk’s left wing. Four of his best units claimed to have his finger bones in their headquarters, where they were revered and worshiped much as the bones of great warriors were.

Felarati, the Dark City, spread out before him. Factories and forges belched black clouds full of red sparks into the air. Their foul stink permeated everything, muting even the finest of scents from the south. It poisoned the air, tainted the food, and soured the wine. It tainted the snow that fell, and made the Black River even darker as it entered the sea.

Pyrust saw no virtue in this state of his city, but neither did he see a way to get away from it. Out there in the factories, gyanridin worked on their inventions. Perhaps one of a hundred gyanrigot devices would actually work, and one of a hundred of those might be useful. He had reviewed plans for everything from riverboats that would row themselves to giant tripod figures that could carry troops, batter down city walls, and resist every attack. Neither of those plans had come to fruition yet, but they would.

If I can afford to continue financing them. Deseirion had spirit the way Nalenyr had gold, but it did not spend as easily or go as far. He had plenty of people traveling to the west to bring back thaumston to power the devices, but the west was not kind, and the supplies returning to the capital were both scant and costly.

The Prince caught the scrape of boot on stone and knew it well. He also knew he’d not have heard it, save that Delasonsa wished to announce her presence. He did not turn to face her but shifted to lean on his elbows. “What do you have for me, Mother of Shadows?”

The crone remained in her hooded cloak and back in the dim recesses of the doorway. “Many things, my Prince. Our whispering campaign among the Helosundians is working. They believe you will be forced to draw your troops back, and they are massing to punish you. They wish to celebrate the New Year’s Festival in Meleswin. They will attack and slaughter anyone we leave behind, then sack the city.”

“This is very good to know. This gives us two months to train more soldiers and organize its reconquest. I will lead the counterattack. I want you to determine who will be leading the Helosundians into Meleswin. On the eve of our attack, I will want the more popular of the leaders murdered, with blame falling to one of the others. I want them at each other’s throats. You’ll also make certain that the stores of wyrlu and rice beer are quite potent, so their troops will not be.”

“Of course, my lord.” She paused, drawing in a wheezing breath. “I could arrange a plague as well, or a fungus in grain to drive them mad.”

“No, it must be their own folly and factional disarray that allows us to smash them. It will weaken their alliances. And it needs to be a military victory, else Cyron will forget we are wolves.”

“Yes, Highness. I have also had word of Keles Anturasi. He reached Asath and is bound for Gria. His party is quite visible and moving slowly.”

“A deception.”

“Unquestionably. At the same time he arrived, the local authorities lost a dozen or so men in a midnight battle. Four passengers did not continue to travel with the others from their riverboat. Two pairs. Keles and a Keru traveling as Helosundians, or Keles and a xidantzu traveling as a priest and his dowager aunt. We have lost track of them, but should find them again in Gria.”

Pyrust nodded. “If Keles slipped away from his decoy, then he has no way to communicate with Moriande, save through his grandfather.”

“And transmission of information that way is limited, and there is no telling how much Qiro will pass to the Prince. Were Keles to pass messages through agents on the river, we would know, Highness. He has not done this so far.”

“Good. This means Cyron does not know precisely what his circumstance is, so cannot send support. That he is placing so valuable a person in jeopardy is curious, which means the gain he perceives is worth the risk.”

The Desei Prince turned. “Dispatch a group of your finest operatives. I want Keles Anturasi alive and here in Felarati within the year.”

“This is not what you wished for before.”

“I know, but I need to have him more than just beholden to me. I wish him in my grasp. If the Stormwolf is successful in its mission and Keles can be ransomed for those charts, it will mean more to us than his willing cooperation. Moreover, the longer he spends with us, the more he will come to like us. He may never wish to leave.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Her voice lightened slightly. “Do you wish me to conduct a survey of the comeliest daughters of your nobility and find a half dozen to tend him and steal his heart?”

“That will do nicely, but only as a fallback plan.” Pyrust smiled slowly. “Once I have him here I will show him that he can do more for us than his grandfather can do for Nalenyr. His grandfather is great, but I shall make him greater. Flattery, greed, and lust are the three weapons we shall use, and he will be won to our cause. That, or there will be one less Anturasi to plague me.”