A Secret Atlas
The message to Moraven, penned by the Prince himself, had been separately sealed. “Gryst is paramount. All else matters not.” Moraven had read it, then burned it saying, “The Prince wishes us luck. I’ll let the gods read the message of luck in the smoke, and we shall have help on our journey.”
The others accepted his not having let them read the message themselves. He didn’t like Prince Cyron’s subordinating their efforts to the locating of one man, but leaders always put their concerns first. The implication in the message had not been subtle at all: the others could die or be murdered as long as Borosan Gryst was returned to Moriande.
Moraven felt a chill ripple down his back. There had once been a time when he’d thought of lives in such a casual manner and he was glad he had changed. Killing the men at Asath had been necessitated by the fact that survivors would have summoned more help. Their pursuit might have continued even into Solaeth or, more likely, would have drawn unwanted attention to the four of them.
The deaths in Asath will barely merit a mention to the Prince. Moraven wished Cyron would have the chance to see the true value of an individual life, but he doubted it. The scale of the problems the Prince had to deal with, and the fact that his ministers insulated him from the gory realities of life, meant he never would have that chance. It was a pity, but was also likely the only way the Prince could acquit his responsibilities to the nation.
Moraven considered this and other things as they rode. Thank the gods I’ve not been placed in those same straits. Even as that idea occurred to him, a carrion crow’s piercing cry mocked him.
Solaeth had only ever been a frontier province and never truly a full part of the Empire. Very little in the way of Imperial influence could be seen in the architecture or the tangle of alleys and roads that threaded through the city. Warlords had long since divided the nation, though they sent representatives to a ruling council in Eoloth, keeping up the pretense that it was a nation and that the High Governor actually ruled it.
What struck Moraven as the greatest departure from Imperial influence was the preponderance of devices created through gyanri. He had seen the blue lights that glowed at night in the larger cities and knew them to be very expensive, but here the same blue light glowed from brooches or the pommels of decorative swords. He had no doubt that the light would not last very long, for the thaumston to power it came dear, but these people used as trinkets what the finest people of Moriande could only dream of owning.
The sheer volume of gyanri product did make entering a discussion about it easy. Moraven and the others had no trouble appearing wide-eyed with amazement at the things they saw. Carefully they were able to turn the resulting discussions toward Gryst, and after a day had been pointed in the right direction. They traveled almost due north out of Eoloth, bound for the small town of Telarunde.
Telarunde had sent people to the capital to seek help. The village lay at the foot of a mountain containing the ruins of an old citadel. A creature, said to be of the Ixae Yllae, had taken up residence in the ruins and regularly preyed on cows, goats, sheep, and the occasional shepherd. It had become more emboldened in the dry summer, and carried off far more than it had before. The villagers were afraid that it might be feeding a brood.
Borosan Gryst, with a wagonful of his gyanri inventions, had headed off to destroy the beast. He’d said it was on his way to Dolosan anyway, and he would be happy to help. He’d gone with the town’s representatives, and everyone who had related the story to them in Eoloth was pretty certain it would not have a bard’s-tale ending where everyone lived happily ever after.
How true their predictions were. Moraven smiled in spite of himself as he watched the villagers working hard in the town square. They were piling bundles of sticks, bales of straw, and even the occasional broken piece of furniture onto a heap. They muttered as they worked, with an occasional sharp outburst shocking everyone to silence—a silence that was then filled with murmurs of agreement.
At the center of this pile, bound to a thick stake with thick ropes, was Borosan Gryst. At least Moraven took him to be Gryst, for he had the man’s reddish-brown hair, and his eyes did appear to be mismatched blue and hazel. He’d not been described as being too tall, and the ropes, despite being snug, did allow his paunch to show. The match to the description was enough for Moraven to feel confident in his identification, but when the man spoke, that cinched it.
Exasperation colored his every word. “No, no, why won’t you listen to me? The bundles of sticks should be closest to the stake and angled up. Point them at my knees. The kindling goes under them. You hold that other, bigger wood back because it will take much longer to burn, and it’s mostly hardwood. It will burn slowly. You want softer wood, so it will burn hotter. Listen to me. Do you want your fire to be efficient or not?”
The response from the crowd indicated their wishes ran to the contrary. His exhortations just made them work harder, piling things higher and in a most haphazard manner. Plead though he might with them, they refused to pay him any heed. “Save your breath for screaming, you fool!” one man shouted.
“Told you we should have gagged him first,” remonstrated another.
Moraven spurred his horse forward and raised his voice. “Good people of Telarunde, my companions and I are curious. What are you doing?”
“They’re building a wholly inefficient fire. This will take an hour to do what could be accomplished in tens of minutes, with less wood wasted!”
The swordsman held a hand up. “If you don’t mind, Master Gryst, I understand your thoughts in this matter. My wish is to learn how you came to be lecturing these good people on how to build a fire.”
An older man, the one who had extolled the virtue of a gag, squinted up at Moraven. “I’ll tell you and gladly. He come here and said he’d kill the monster in the mountain. He put one thing here, another there, and another until he had things all over, then he put them together into something round as a cookpot and pointed it at the fortress and sent it rolling off like it was a hound after a fox. He said that would take care of it and we all celebrated.”
He pointed at a longhouse toward the north edge of town. The northernmost third of the thatched roof was missing, and Moraven guessed much of the back wall was gone as well. “We were sitting in there, thanking him and praising the gods for our good fortune, when the monster came and ripped the longhouse open. It grabbed a man or three—full-growed men, not boys like in the fields—and hied off for its lair. Now he said it would take time, and we gave him time, but a deadline was set, and now this fire will be set.”
Moraven shook his head. “I would not light the fire yet, were I you, for Borosan Gryst kept faith with you.”
The old man’s face screwed up sourly. “You’re not from around here, and we don’t like being tricked by strangers. We already have been tricked once. Speak plain. We’ve wood aplenty.”
The swordsman gave Gryst a hard stare that silenced him. “The device he employed works in many ways. It went to the fortress. It found the beast. It realized the beast was more than it could deal with, so a message went out to me. I have come with my companions to help it complete its work.”
The villagers around the old man watched as he tried to figure out whether to believe Moraven or not. Flickers of emotion stole over his face, and for a second Moraven thought he’d won. Then the man’s expression darkened and he opened his mouth to speak.
He never said a word, however, for Keles Anturasi slid from the saddle and pointed toward the fortress. “Without a doubt, that’s the Fortress of Xoncyr. It’s just like the other one said. That’s where his sister is.”
The old man blinked. “What other one?”
Tyressa rode up and leaned forward in the saddle. “The other creature we destroyed. Borosan here is our scout. You can’t imagine we’d have come without a scout, can you? We’d have been here faster, but the last one was her older brother, and his bride had just laid a clutch of a dozen eggs, so both were very determined
.”
The villagers began to murmur among themselves, but the old man refused to be fooled. “You don’t look like you’ve been in no fight.”
Ciras spoke softly. “It was not the fight that delayed us. It was laying to rest the five of our comrades who were slain. We were once nine.”
The invocation of nine had the desired effect. Some people grabbed the old man and others started tearing apart the bonfire. One even asked Borosan if there was an efficient way to remove wood, and he happily offered advice.
Moraven looked down at the village’s leader. “If you would show us the destruction done and let us confer with our comrade, we will determine how best to proceed.”
“Yes, of course.” The old man held his hands up. “You wait right here. I’ll get everything ready for you.”
As the old man ran off, Keles came closer and looked up. “We get Gryst and go, right?”
Moraven shook his head. “We bought Master Gryst’s freedom with a promise.”
Keles’ eyes grew wide. “You’re not joking, are you? You’re going to go up there and kill whatever that monster is?”
“Me, no.”
The cartographer smiled. “Good to hear that.”
“No, I’m not going to do it, Keles.” Moraven smiled. “We’re all going to do it.”
Chapter Thirty-three
5th day, Month of the Rat, 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 sat on his throne, again encumbered by the suffocating robes of state. Between him and the doorway ran a red carpet, edged in purple, but barely wide enough this time for one man to walk down it. A stretch of blond wood remained visible between its edges and the pillars, which was why the two ministers who knelt on either side of it, at his feet, were allowed to be in the center of the chamber. Had either of them or their robes even accidentally touched the carpet, he could have ordered their deaths.
He did not smile as he recalled the story of an emperor who had once combed a hated and grasping minister’s robe to find purple fibers on it. Whether or not they had been there or planted by the Emperor himself in the bristles of the brush used, no one knew. Cyron doubted he would ever go to those lengths to rid himself of an annoyance, but some days he found himself sorely tempted.
His own Minister of Harmony, Pelut Vniel, knelt at his right hand. As befitted the man’s lineage and station, his blue robe had studious dragons coiled back and breast, while purple trimmed each hem. Vniel was not his most senior minister, but had risen to the powerful position of Harmony through his wiles and the fact that he seldom remonstrated with the Prince about matters of form over substance. This meeting, however, had been one of those times and had set Cyron’s temper slowly boiling.
Across from him knelt Helosunde’s Minister of Foreign Relations, Koir Yoram. Even younger than the Prince himself, Koir had the fiery spirit of a refugee who wished nothing more than the complete liberation of his homeland and the restoration of his nation. The fervency with which he wished this left him trembling whenever he was given news he did not like hearing. Much had happened since the Festival that did not please him and, Cyron was certain, he’d badgered his Master into letting him approach the throne with demands.
Pelut had given vent to his irritation in explaining things to Cyron—less to reveal his true feelings than to show Cyron why this audience was necessary. Bureaucrats evidenced odd patriotism because they fought more to protect the structures that kept them in place than they did to defend their nation against predation or outrage. Koir’s request for an audience had come far too abruptly and on too high a level to be tolerated.
Cyron had finally consented to the audience because it was expedient. He was more than happy to fund Helosundian military options, for it was better to shed the blood of mercenaries than that of his own people. The difficulty was that these mercenaries didn’t think of themselves as such. They actually thought they were a nation and should have a say in their own affairs. Moreover, they saw themselves as full allies of Nalenyr, not paupers begging alms, and therefore entitled to advise the Prince and consent on any policies that affected them.
Pelut Vniel’s hands pressed flat against his thighs. “You will find, Minister, we never intended to keep news of rice shipments to Deseirion hidden from you. Reports were communicated to your subordinates. We apologize that the incorrect cover obscured their true nature, causing them to be set aside. New reports, updated reports, have since been sent, with the correct covers and under my seal.”
Koir bowed his head. The man’s green robe had gold hounds embroidered on it, but nothing to indicate that these dogs lived at the sufferance of the Naleni Dragon. And to think that purple fibers would show up so brightly against that emerald silk. Koir had dressed to show disrespect and all three of them knew it, but they also knew that to take notice and react would be a victory for him.
“Minister, your attention to detail pleases us. The question we have concerns this aid being given to our mutual enemy, at a time when he is most weak. For the first time in enneads we are poised to drive him from Helosunde. The grain makes his soldiers stronger. And at the same time you have slowed delivery of supplies to us. We do not understand this strategy.”
Cyron consciously controlled his breathing. The Helosundians had yet to agree on an heir to the last Prince—whose only talent, it seemed, was siring children on everyone but his wife. Then again, I’ve met his widow and found her so disagreeable that I would sooner become a monk than lie with her. The bureaucrats had formed a committee to decide which of the Prince’s bastards should lead Helosunde, as much to preserve their positions as to remove any claim to legitimate rule on her part. This embittered the widow even more, making a political marriage to her yet more unthinkable in Cyron’s mind.
The Naleni Minister of State kept his voice low. “The shipments of grain are not to the Desei troops. They go to the people.”
“But, Minister, you would acknowledge that Pyrust draws from his people’s stores to feed his troops.”
“Of course. We assumed this would happen. Pallid Desei rice fills the bellies of troops, while our golden rice goes to the Desei people. Do you suppose they do not know where it comes from? They do, and they know whom to thank when their elders and their children survive. They will see Nalenyr as the land of gold.”
“Which will prompt them to join Pyrust when he commands them to move south to take what you give. They will pour through Helosunde to get it. We will be unable to stop them, for our warriors are hobbled. Our requests have been reasonable.”
Pelut nodded thoughtfully. “Reasonable, yes, but for offense, not defense. You are planning an attack against Meleswin.”
Koir’s lower lip trembled, betraying his surprise at both the information Pelut possessed and his willingness to deliver it bluntly. By rights there should have been much more time wasted peeling back layer after layer of motivation until Koir expressed his desire to drive the Desei from what had been Helosunde’s third largest city.
“Our agents have learned that, in response to demands made upon him by your own Prince Cyron, Pyrust will withdraw his troops from Meleswin. We plan to take the city back, freeing our people.”
Cyron knew that for a lie. Meleswin had long ago spawned a twin Desei city on the north bank of the Black River. Since its conquest, the Helosundian population had been driven from it and the Desei leaders had transplanted their own people. Meleswin was now more a Desei city than a Helosundian one. Any conquest of it would result in a bloodletting that Pyrust could not help but respond to.
“Minister Yoram, the court has given as much study as possible to this situation.” Pelut pressed his hands together. “It is believed that any strike against Meleswin is ill-advised. We cannot support it.”
Koir did not even attempt to control his out
rage. “You mean to say you will not permit it.”
“That is your choice of words. Mine were chosen with care to their meaning.”
“Might I remind the minister that Helosunde is a sovereign state with every right of self-defense and every right to pursue its national self-interest. Reestablishing its power over territory stolen by greedy interlopers is but one of the ways in which we defend ourselves. Moreover, the stronger we are, the less of a threat the Desei pose to you.”
With a flick of his wrist, Cyron snapped open the fan in his right hand. A golden dragon on a field of purple unfurled on the crescent and hid his face from his eyes down. “ ‘And the Master said, “The dog awaits his master’s pleasure and is rewarded. Impotent barks breed only displeasure.’ ”
Koir stiffened sharply, and Pelut covered his shock as well. Had the meeting gone as scripted, Cyron would have said nothing, remaining impassive and unmoved throughout. By hiding behind his fan he was not to be noticed, and though they both heard his Urmyrian quote, manners demanded they had to deny he had spoken. At the same time they were required to heed him.
The Helosundian’s blue eyes blazed furiously, but he said nothing for as long as it took Cyron to close the fan. “Helosunde sees its duty to Nalenyr to be as sacred as it is to its own people. We have not forgotten the many kindnesses of the Naleni people. We are willing to interpose ourselves between the noble Naleni and the vile Desei, even as the Keru impose themselves between Prince Cyron and his enemies.”
Pelut allowed his eyes to half close. “Nalenyr would never forbid Helosunde from any action Helosunde’s prince deemed necessary, but this matter of Meleswin is one in which we urge extreme caution and deliberation.”
The flicker of Koir’s eyes betrayed his thoughts. Pelut had told him that Nalenyr would back the decision of a Helosundian prince. This would force the bureaucracy to come to a decision about an heir before they would authorize the attack. The wrangling over the heir might take months if not years, and the urgency of the attack would pass.