The New World

  “You anticipated my need.”

  “Circumstance forced our action. You won’t remember Tolwreen, Highness, though you have been venerated there as a god for eons. We worked hard to maintain our number so we could rejoin you when the time came. We kept to ourselves but Turasynd Black Eagles found us. Since you had allied with them in the past, we forged our own alliance. Barely a month and a half ago we concluded an agreement. The Black Eagles and their allies already maneuver to attack Deseirion.”

  Nelesquin frowned. “At what cost?”

  “They want Deseirion.”

  “Ha! I would never give them part of the Empire. Did you agree to this?”

  “Yes, Highness.” Pravak’s metal flesh flowed into a smile. “We never had any intention of allowing them to keep it. Prince Pyrust, as near as we have learned, is the most capable military leader alive. We wished to distract him.”

  The Prince nodded. “Pyrust was the best. He’s dead now.”

  Pravak shook his head. “The Black Eagles could not have reached Deseirion yet.”

  “He did not die in Deseirion. He died here. I killed him myself.” Nelesquin rubbed a hand over his beard. “But, tell me, how did you learn of Pyrust and the state of affairs in the Nine?”

  “There are wanderers in the Wastes who tell us much. We’ve used them in your service before.” Anger etched deep lines onto Pravak’s face. “One such was a man named Ciras Dejote. He bore the sword our brother Jogot Yirxan carried. We welcomed him and he told us much of the outside world. We thought him Jogot’s reincarnation and believed his arrival was a sign that your return was imminent. Then he betrayed us and almost destroyed our alliance with the Black Eagles. Worse yet, we believe he and his companion were searching for Empress Cyrsa.”

  Nelesquin rested a foot on the circled edge, then leaned forward on his raised knee. “Cyrsa is in Moriande. Pyrust was her general. My troops defeated him and are on their way to lay siege to Moriande. I shall be leaving in a week and you shall join me. All who can travel will join me.”

  Pravak shook his head. “How did you…?”

  Nelesquin reached inside his robe and pulled out a black leather sack. “The stones warned me. They warn me of many things.”

  The metal man laughed. “And I used to think you relied on them too much. They have served you well.”

  Pravak looked back at the barge and Nelesquin followed his gaze. Two of the vanyesh—one hopelessly slender and the other with a human torso grafted to a metal scorpion’s body—carried a large wooden box off the ship. The scorpion bore it on his back while the other flitted to the left and right, steadying it. The nervous one calmed considerably once they reached solid ground and the box could not fall into the river.

  Nelesquin’s mouth went dry. “That is it, then?” Without waiting for an answer, he shook the stones in the pouch, then opened it and peered within. “Almost. Almost.”

  “As you wished, Highness.”

  The Prince nodded and forced a smile onto his face. “Kaerinus, see that the box gets to the palace, in the place we have prepared.”

  Kaerinus bowed deeply. “As you desire, my lord.”

  Pravak frowned and lowered his voice. “Kaerinus looks odd, Highness.”

  Nelesquin nodded. “He has spent much time away and has picked up some odd habits. He is yet as loyal as ever. Now how is it that you were taken in by the one who bore Yirxan’s sword?”

  “He and his companion slew some looters who were despoiling graves for corpse dust. They showed respect for the dead. We tested him and he is Jogot reincarnated. We had no means of knowing he would betray us.”

  “No, of course not.” Nelesquin smiled slowly. “He returns and repeats the betrayals of before. We’d known there was a spy in our midst, Pravak, and now we know who it was.”

  “I would not have thought it was Jogot. I questioned him and never suspected.”

  “Kaerinus did as well, and so did I. He was good, but he failed to destroy me then, and has failed to destroy our cause this time.” Nelesquin patted his comrade on the shoulder. “Think no more on it. You are here now. We have no more worries.”

  The two vanyesh smiled at each other and turned to watch their surviving comrades leave the ship. So many of them could barely move. Nelesquin was struck by the number who could be carried in a child’s arms, hanging limply as rag dolls. These men had once been a proud company of sorcerers and warriors who feared little. Magic had become their way of life and now, for so many of them, it was life.

  But when I employ them in battle, they will vanquish all they face. Cyrsa has nothing like them. They will crush her troops and my empire will be returned to its rightful owner.

  Nelesquin nodded. “It will be good to fight together again, won’t it?”

  Pravak did not immediately reply. He stared past Nelesquin and slowly stood, drawing his swords.

  Nelesquin turned and followed Pravak’s gaze to the east. Something huge and black rolled along the river—a wheel of incredible size. Trees cracked and fell as it rolled closer. People and livestock ran from beneath it, then turned and stared as it rolled past.

  The wheel slowed, then stopped at the foot of the furthest dock. The man in the center of it descended, drifting to the ground. Nelesquin caught the tingle of magic. Pravak clearly felt it, too, and straightened up as if newly energized.

  Nelesquin recognized Qiro, but there was something different about him. He, too, seemed rested and years younger. He comes as if joining his equals.

  Qiro bowed, but hardly deep enough, and certainly not long enough. As he came up, he nodded to Pravak. “It seems forever since we met, but it cannot have been more than fifty-four years. I am Qiro Anturasi.”

  Pravak’s face grew animated. “I would not know you, save for your voice. This is Prince Nelesquin, my master. Highness, Qiro Anturasi played a big part in your return.”

  Nelesquin held a hand up. “I already know Master Anturasi, thank you. Qiro, I had not expected you to come here.”

  “Circumstances have changed, Prince Nelesquin. My presence is required.” Qiro smiled and his voice remained even. “You move to conquer Nalenyr. Without me, your invasion will fail.”

  “Have you forgotten the troops we fashioned, my friend? The Durrani have already defeated a Naleni and Desei force.”

  Dockside commotion stopped Qiro from answering. The earth beneath the stone wheel began to sink and the wheel tipped. It hung in the balance for a heartbeat, then it went over. The wheel toppled, smashing the dock into kindling and exploding an old fishing boat. It splashed into the river, sending tall waves washing over the banks, which lifted the vanyesh boat and deposited it on the end of its dock.

  Nelesquin frowned. “The wheel blocks half the river. Please move it.”

  Qiro nodded. “Of course, Highness.”

  The cartographer turned and slipped a foot out of his sandal. With his big toe he drew a straight line, then an oxbow curve, then another straight line. About six inches closer to the river he drew the same figure paralleling the first.

  Magic crackled through the air. Blue fire played over Pravak’s silver bones. Some of the somnolent vanyesh jerked and thrashed as if they’d been dashed with a bucket of cold water. The magic raked stinging nettles over Nelesquin’s flesh. He dug fingernails in his own palms to fight the urge to scratch.

  The Green River, four hundred yards wide and thirty deep, shifted in its bed. The water quickened, carving through the southern bank. The ferry dock tore away. Warehouses collapsed and debris began to flow downstream. People scrambled from houses mere seconds before the river consumed them. The water boiled black with mud. Fish floated to the top, flopping weakly before being sucked back down.

  Inch by inch, foot by foot, the river changed course. What it inundated to the south, it left dry on the north. The vanyesh boat slipped off the dock and came to rest amid flopping fish and mud-covered pilings a good ten feet below the level of the dock. Children ran out, heedless of their parents?
?? cries, to pull fish from the river and search for lost treasures. Here and there lay bones of men and horses or other beasts that had been washed away in spring floods, or tossed into the river to hide murders.

  Finally, the water slid past the stone wheel and continued east to the ocean. The river calmed itself. Fish were able to swim again as the silt settled. On the far bank, one more warehouse collapsed, but the river nibbled away no more land.

  Qiro turned back to the Prince and slipped his sandal back on. “You should have them make a garden here. The dirt will be rich and the garden will prosper.”

  Nelesquin shook his head slowly. “I merely wanted you to move the wheel.”

  “I know.” Qiro smiled. “But I wished to move the river.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It is simple, Prince Nelesquin. Yours is the Empire, but mine is the world.”

  “That could be taken to mean, Master Anturasi, that you no longer serve me or my cause.”

  “Hardly, Prince Nelesquin.” Qiro laughed easily. He walked over to a pair of puddles and gouged a channel with his heel that linked them. “There, I do you yet another service. You may not think so now, but you will see.”

  The cartographer’s smile broadened. “Now, let us discuss this invasion of yours, and how I shall make it succeed.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  6th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Wentokikun, Moriande

  Nalenyr

  The last thing I wanted to do was to appear before the Empress at the head of a defeated army. The battle had not been mine to lose. My troops and I could not have salvaged it—I knew that, and so did they. Even so, I still bore responsibility.

  Deshiel Tolo, Pasuram Derael, and Captain Lumel took charge of our force. They reorganized it, rounded up deserters, and deployed our meager cavalry as scouts. They ranged south to check on the enemy advance. For whatever reason, the kwajiin did not seem interested in pressing their advantage, but none of us were inclined to trust appearances.

  Just over a hundred miles separated them from Moriande. They could be there in a week. There weren’t enough kwajiin to surround and isolate Moriande, so the siege would be nasty. Their very presence would cause a panic. It was easy to imagine streams of refugees heading north.

  Messengers had been dispatched to Moriande with the dire news. Out of the forty-four thousand warriors we’d had at Tsengui, only a third survived. Desei line troops had taken the majority of casualties. The survivors—primarily cavalry—might well have been dead. Their prince had fallen. Though they never could have saved him, they all imagined they might have and that gutted their morale.

  If there was going to be any hope for Moriande, we had to rebuild that morale. I focused them on vengeance. I told them that if Prince Cyron thought they’d been broken, he’d send them home. They’d never get their chance to avenge their beloved Pyrust. I also played on their contempt for soft southerners, using it to rekindle their pride. They would show us all how true warriors fought, and they would gain immortality because of it.

  The Desei conscripts were little more than cattle. Most abandoned weapons and armor as they fled. They’d been reduced to exhausted, terrified wretches marching north through enemy territory. Their spirits had been completely broken. The surviving Hawks had nothing but contempt for them. And shunned by their own people, they had nothing to live for. They just wanted to go home.

  Only I couldn’t let them do that. Once we got to Moriande they’d be rearmed or used as forced labor. A handful might see Deseirion again, but war’s voracious appetite made that doubtful.

  The Virine and my xidantzu were in the best shape of all. They’d fought the kwajiin before and survived. They didn’t share contempt for the other. I culled the troops from Tsatol Deraelkun for officers and imposed them on the Desei conscripts. This created sufficient structure that desertion dropped off and the conscripts’ morale began to pick up.

  I selected a valley about eight miles out from Moriande to house the army temporarily, then rode ahead to meet with the Empress. Resupplied, clad, and fed, they would look much better coming into the capital.

  Tired though I was, just catching sight of the White City lifted my spirits. It gleamed, its tall towers unbroken. I reined my horse in and stared—wondering what Nelesquin or the kwajiin would make of the view.

  Then three men stepped from the forest. Not even a year previous I’d stopped in the same spot.

  Back before all this had begun.

  Back before I knew who I was.

  The largest stepped to the fore. “There’s a toll on this road, friend.”

  “Blood or gold?”

  “I’m sure you’d rather be paying gold instead of blood.”

  I shrugged and shifted in the saddle. “I’ve killed your like on this road—in this spot—since before the Time of Black Ice.”

  Two of them laughed, but the third slowly clasped his hands at the small of his back.

  I glanced back over my left shoulder. “In half a week an army will be coming up this road, to lay waste to Moriande. Now you can go to Moriande and be useful, or you can die here.”

  The leader laughed again and looked at his two comrades. One laughed with him, but the other kept his hands behind his back. The leader frowned at his companion. “What’s with you?”

  “My mother lives in Moriande.” The goldfish crest on his robe shimmered as he shifted from foot to foot. “If what he says is true…”

  “He’s lying to save his skin.”

  “But we saw the army head south.”

  “That was Pyrust, and good riddance to him. Let him rule in Kelewan. He’s never coming back this way.”

  I straightened up and looked at Goldfish. “Come to Moriande. Find me through Serrian Jatan. I’ll give you honest work.”

  The other underling, who wore a crest of a seated dog—probably stolen from a Helosundian deserter—looked up. “Me, too?”

  “Hurry.” I smiled at the leader. “Coming to Moriande, or do we make the road a little less thirsty?”

  His companions stepped away, isolating him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “The quiver in your voice suggests otherwise.”

  “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid for my mother.” He brought his head up. “S-she lives in Moriande, too. I think.”

  “Good. Wait here for my army. Ask for Ranai Ameryne. She will bring you into Moriande. Dunos will take you to Serrian Jatan. I’ll find you there.”

  The three of them straightened into a line and bowed. I returned the bow and rode on. I would see two of them again. This gladdened me, but only for as long as it took them to disappear into the woods. A month from now, none of them would be alive.

  I doubted, a month from now, that Moriande would be alive.

  Prince Cyron greeted me in Wentokikun’s throne room. He looked different than when last I’d seen him, and it was not just the half-empty sleeve. He’d lost weight and had that haggard look of a man with too little sleep. Yet his blue eyes still possessed an inquisitive quickness that marked the sharpness of his mind.

  He waved me forward and came halfway down the red carpet to welcome me. “I know it’s not me you wanted to see, but I needed to see you. Are you prepared to direct the city’s defenses?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What?”

  “I have no skill at defending against a siege, Highness. I will be on the walls fighting the kwajiin, but if I had any skill at resisting sieges—or any inclination toward that art—I’d have died in Kelewan.”

  Cyron stared at me. “But you were the leader of the Emperor’s Bodyguard.”

  “You’ve forgotten. He died. Not much of a recommendation.” I smiled. “I sent you the best man for the job. Count Jarys Derael.”

  ??
?Yes, but he’s…”

  “Crippled?” I frowned. “His body’s hurt, but not his mind. You must have an appreciation for that situation.”

  Cyron’s face flushed crimson. “Point well made. I have been sending him information. Humoring him, really, since you sent him. I thought…but, never mind. I will consult with him.”

  “And act on his plans?”

  The Prince laughed. “Yes. No need to twist the only arm I have.”

  “He’ll know how to defeat them.”

  “What of Pyrust?”

  “Dead, probably. I don’t know. I sent a messenger offering to ransom him.”

  “And Vroan?”

  “He survived. I did not like him, so did not extend the same courtesy.”

  “Pity. We could have spared a bucket of warm horse piss.” Cyron sighed. “I had planned to monopolize you to go over facts and figures, but I shall leave that for Count Derael.”

  “I am interested, but…”

  The Prince nodded. “She waits for you in my sanctuary. She hopes you won’t be angry with her.”

  “Why would I…?”

  “There are some things, Master Soshir, that only the Empress knows.” Cyron smiled. “Best not to keep her waiting.”

  The palace’s sanctuary made it easy to forget the horrors to the south. Lush plant life filled several acres, drawn from throughout the Nine. Flowers clung to trees, and sweet fruits I’d not seen in eons hung from branches. The thick vegetation deadened sound from beyond the walls. The yowls of exotic animals echoed through the jungle, and if not for the white stone pathways, I might have thought myself in the depths of Ummummorar.

  The scent of one flower, paryssa, conjured memories that carried me further away. I smiled and drifted deeper into the sanctuary. Lost in memories, I saw little of it. Wrapped in enchantment, I really didn’t care.

  I first saw Cyrsa in Kelewan, at an elegant brothel called the House of the Jade Maiden. The big, rectangular building possessed an interior courtyard garden very like the Prince’s sanctuary. I’d spent the night with a woman Nelesquin had recommended—his taste in women had always been exquisite. I had awakened and stepped into the garden very early, before the sun had evaporated the dew. From deeper within I heard girlish giggles and the clacking of sticks.