The Wound of the World

by Edward W. Robertson

  Blays strolled out beside him on the deck. "Given any thought to our cover story?"

  "We obviously can't be ourselves, the mighty rulers of Narashtovik," Dante said. "If Naran has gotten in trouble with someone—be it local authorities, or an outlaw outfit like Raxa's—they'll be tempted to kill us, or hold us hostage. We'll pose as ambassadors. Then they'll be afraid that if they hurt us, they'll call down the wrath of Narashtovik."

  "If we put Narashtovik on their brain, somebody might recognize us for who we really are. We ought to say we're Naran's creditors and we're looking to find out what happened to our money. If he's in trouble, and they think we're just as mad at him as they are, they'll be freer with the truth." He glanced at a fish as it leaped from the waves, followed by a much longer and vicious-looking fish. "Not to mention less prone to think we're there to do something stupid, like breaking him out of prison."

  "That's a genuinely cunning idea. How did you come up with it?"

  "Don't forget I spent years trying to bankrupt the Gaskan Empire. Lord Pendelles became quite the expert on business and investment. As a matter of fact, if we ever retire from gallivanting around saving some people while killing some other people, I'd give some thought to becoming Narashtovik's lord of finance."

  "You? Lord of finance? You spend more money than a crew of sailors making port!"

  "Who better to decide how we use the city's money than the person with the most experience spending it?"

  The Finder of Secrets veered slowly toward the coast. The forest pressed to the edge of the water, the trees propped up on dense, finger-like roots. At once, the land pulled inward, revealing a placid bay. Across the water, towers thrust into the sky. Not just the occasional spires of churches or keeps, but scores of them, as thin as reeds, the tallest more than two hundred feet in height.

  "What's that about?" Blays said. "Don't like to get their feet wet?"

  "In Tanar Atain, there is always more water than land," Vita said. "They must make use of every piece of ground they have."

  She ordered her crew to strike the sails and row the cog into the bay. A rocky jetty extended from both sides, protecting the interior. A tower rose from the end of each jetty. Vita guided them to a pier at the base of the tower on the right.

  Three men waited at the end of the pier, two of them armed with long bows and a rack of arrows that resembled thin harpoons. The third man was unarmed. All three wore pine-green tunics trimmed with white and plain jerseys beneath them. The buttons of their tunics were made of bone and the collars and sleeves of their jerseys were laced with finely braided strings of obvious quality.

  All three had a faint green tinge to their pale faces that might have been a trick of the light. They had long faces, eyes that were almost colorlessly gray, and short but pointed chins. The soldiers' faces and hands were tanned from being out on the water, but glimpses of their sleeved arms and collared necks showed skin that was paler than Alebolgians, Colleners, or the Mallish.

  The unarmed man cast them a pair of ropes, which the cog's sailors tied to the ship's cleats. The man grinned in a way that wasn't particularly happy, but nor was it threatening.

  "Of the north?" His Mallish was lightly accented.

  "Alebolgia," Vita said, injecting serious pride into the word. "I have been here before. I am Vita of Osedo, and this is my ship, the Finder of Secrets."

  From his light coat, the man produced something that looked like a cross between an abacus and a small harp. With deft fingers, he tied tiny knots into a few of the strings.

  "The Finder of Secrets," he mused. "Does naming it that make it better at its duty?"

  "Perhaps it does. It can't hurt to try, can it?"

  "What if its name makes you falsely confident in its abilities? If you think it's that great at finding the secrets you're after, won't you be more willing to overlook any mistakes you make along the way, justifying to yourself that it's destined to get there anyway?"

  "If I am slack-witted, perhaps it could." She tugged down the end of her triangular cap. "But it can also serve as a constant reminder of my duty, honing my vigilance and always bringing me closer to my goals."

  "Hmm. If a proud name brings you closer to your goals, shouldn't you call it The Ship of Greatness That Will Bear Its Captain to Massive Riches and Eternal Glory?"

  Vita's mouth fell open in horror. "In my land, we depend on ships like a nomad depends on his horse. If you don't give your mount a respectful name, how can you ever expect it to serve you well?"

  The official nodded deeply. "I've heard other people say that they talk to their ship or their bow or to their raft. And I think, if it talks to you, then it must be a person. And if it's a person, then shouldn't you let it go? Or at least pay taxes for owning slaves?"

  Vita tilted her head a few degrees to the right, cupping her hand to her ear. "If so, my ship tells me that it is happy to remain mine, and that it does so of its own free will. And also that it wishes to make port."

  The official narrowed his eyes, as if ready to say more, then glanced down at his abacus-harp. "Of course. Of what part are you?"

  "I belong to the legs."

  "What do you carry to Aris Osis?"

  "Spice—and iron."

  Eyebrows raised, the official added new knots to his record-keeping instrument. "Then you will be very popular. May I see it?"

  She gestured to the deck. "Naturally."

  He came aboard, accompanied by one of the soldiers. Vita showed him to the hold. Witnessing the ingots of iron there, he and the soldier returned up the stairs and crossed back to the pier.

  There, the official handed Vita a yellowed bone the size of a knife handle. It was inscribed with a few glyphs Dante had never seen before.

  "You are permitted entry for one week," the official said. "You are not permitted to travel inland from Aris Osis. Violating this dictate will result in your immediate imprisonment. If you need more time in the city, speak to the Bureau of Interlopers. When you are ready to depart from the city, please notify the same bureau."

  "Naturally." She motioned to her sailors, who untied the pier's ropes from the ship's cleats.

  "And if you'd like to tell me more about your talks with your boat," the official said, "then I will be right here."

  Vita smiled in a way that promised she would do no such thing. The oarsmen pushed away from the pier and stroked toward the city's many docks, stirring brackish water and the scent of waste and rotten things. Greasy purple seaweed floated just below the surface.

  "That," Blays said, "was one of the weirdest customs interviews I've ever heard."

  Vita grunted. "Most of his questions had nothing to do with his duty. The Tanarians, they talk. And talk. And talk. At least when we Alebolgians get long in the tongue, it's due to wine. The Tanarians, they argue as if it were a sport."

  A few other oceangoing boat were docked at the piers, yet the vast majority of the ships there were rafts, barges, and double-hulled canoes, with or without sails. Dante homed in on everything with a tall mast, checking for the Sword of the South, but didn't see the sleek vessel anywhere. The air smelled of raw fish and beached seaweed. Porters and stevedores unloaded cargo and lugged it into the city of towers. Most were human, but a few were neeling, small and gangly, their faces round and amphibian.

  The Finder of Secrets eased in to an empty pier and tied up. Debarking, Vita showed the etched bone to another pair of green-clad watchmen, who gave the northerners a lingering stare before gesturing them down the pier. Vita strode forward, weaving through the schools of dockworkers with a shark-like momentum.

  She drew a lot of looks. This in itself wasn't remarkable—she was one of few women on the docks, and was certainly the prettiest—but Dante, Blays, and Vita's guards and attendants were drawing nearly as much attention. Their gazes weren't overtly hostile, but they didn't appear particularly friendly, either.

  Vita reached dry land and came to a stop in the shadow of a high warehouse. Dante took another gand
er at the docked ships, hoping against hope they'd find the Sword of the South, and Naran aboard it, with a sheepish story about how he'd dropped his loon overboard.

  Instead, Dante saw nothing. He was abruptly aware that he was standing in an alien city in search of a man who they hadn't heard from in weeks. A man who had come here with the express purpose of hunting down Gladdic—quite possibly the most dangerous sorcerer Dante had ever encountered—and who owned a ship that could have sailed hundreds of miles away in the interim. The idea that they'd be able to find Naran suddenly felt horrifically naive. He was buffered by the squalling urge to climb back aboard the Finder of Secrets, sail to Cavana, and ride straight back to Narashtovik, never to see the Collen Basin, Alebolgia, or this place again.

  "What's the plan, then?" Blays said. "Wait for Naran to fall out of the sky? Or stand here until someone takes a look at us gawking like idiots and decides that helping us is a good use of their time?"

  Dante grinned, doubts dissolving like sugar in Galladese tea. "Let's get to work. You coming, Vita?"

  She settled her cap over her dark hair. "I wish you luck. But I have business of my own."

  She hiked off into the streets, which were paved with black mud bricks. In the strange city, Dante barely knew which direction was north, let alone where anything was, but he had the names of three people Naran had been in contact with: Oto LoMota, Undan Walan, and Iko DaNasan. Since they were merchants, there would be nothing strange about a well-dressed foreigner asking where to find them.

  Dante was afraid they'd have to hire an interpreter, but as it turned out, most of the locals spoke Mallish, and those younger than thirty bore only the faintest hints of an accent, as if they'd grown up speaking it. According to the people they questioned, LoMota was off in the capital, but Walan and DaNasan were right there on the wharfs.

  Dante tipped both people who'd given him directions to the merchants' offices. Both times, the young men looked down at the silver coin in their palms with an expression of mingled excitement and anxiety, then hurriedly pocketed the money, as if it were contraband the town watch would take away from them.

  Iko DaNasan's warehouse was the closer of the two. Dante and Blays headed down the street, soon coming to an arched brick bridge over a sluggish sprawl of brownish water. The bridge offered a vantage of several other waterways and bridges, revealing that the city was a mass of small islands. The shores were dotted with rafts, many of them sporting a slant-roofed shack.

  At DaNasan's warehouse, stevedores lugged casks and crates through the tall double doors. Watching the men and women sweat with labor, Dante realized he hadn't yet seen a single horse, mule, or ox. No dung in the streets, either. Not of animal origin, anyway.

  Blays found someone who looked cleaner than the rest and inquired about Mr. DaNasan. After a brief delay, they were brought to the back of the warehouse and onto a roofed wooden deck extending over the water. If it had been a warm day, the open walls and water flowing underneath would have kept it pleasantly cool.

  A man rose from a brightly colored rug in the center of the deck. While most of the Tanarians wore a sleeveless sort of tunic that was cinched at the waist, covering their torsos before stopping halfway down the thigh, DaNasan was dressed in a pale orange robe that hung to his shins. A pattern of blue dots was tattooed on his forehead.

  He gave them each a glance. "Mallish?"

  "That's right," Blays said. "My name—"

  "Do you think it's wise for a land to accept foreigners into it?"

  "Foreigners into..? I'm not sure I take your meaning."

  "It's an exceedingly simple question. Is a land made better by accepting outsiders into it? Or worse?"

  "Well." Blays' cheery air deflated visibly. Hardly a moment had passed before he lifted his chin and brightened his voice. "You'd have to think it's for the better, wouldn't you? After all, foreigners often bring goods and news that aren't available in your own land."

  "That doesn't make their presence necessary. If we wanted those goods and news, we could travel to their land to acquire whatever we lacked. Furthermore, when it comes to goods, if they're not vital, then they're by definition not necessary. And if they are vital, and we allow ourself to depend on outsiders for them, that leaves us vulnerable to the whims of people who care nothing for us. Wouldn't it be much better to learn to create these goods for ourselves?"

  "Difficult to argue with that one, isn't it? But if you're right, I can only hope the king doesn't hear about it until after we two foreigners have done our business here."

  DaNasan tightened his mouth as if disappointed—or even insulted. "What is your business?"

  Blays smiled and bowed his head. "My name is Pendelles, and this is my associate, Orson Smallhorn. Are you acquainted with a sea captain by name of Naran?"

  DaNasan regarded them with sleepy eyes. "Why?"

  "It's a simple question, sir."

  "Mine's simpler."

  "We represent his creditors. Captain Naran, you see, had only recently taken command of his ship following a period of…difficulties. To get his vessel back on its feet, so to speak, an infusion of capital was required. Unfortunately, while he was in the process of discharging his debts here in Aris Osis, we lost contact with him."

  "Lost contact." DaNasan withdrew a pouch from a thong around his neck, withdrew a pinch of a reddish paste, and tucked it between his molars. "Sounds like you blew good money on a shit captain."

  Dante cocked an eyebrow. "If so, that would imply we're idiots, wouldn't it?"

  "Most likely, yes. But maybe you got lucky, and only invested in a bad choice because you were working on bad information. Either way, if he's run into trouble, shouldn't you be happy to hear he's gotten what he deserves?"

  "You seem awfully happy to hear that Captain Naran might be in danger." Dante grabbed the collar of the man's robe and yanked him close. "Here is a piece of imagination you should treat as extremely trustworthy: if you don't tell me what's happened to him, I'll make sure that no one ever knows what I've done to you."

  DaNasan took on a quizzical look, then sputtered with laughter. "Forgive me, good sirs! I forget that you're new to these swamps, and I've spent far too much time here."

  "The air here makes you drunk?" Blays tilted back his head. "We'll make a fortune!"

  "It isn't the air of the swamps, sirs. It's the air of the people. Are you not familiar with dana kide?"

  "Afraid not. Is she your queen?"

  "Dana kide isn't a person. It's a concept. The Tanarians consider it distasteful to educate barbarians about their ways, but I'm also from a foreign land, and will take pity on you. Let's say that we had met in my land, or yours. There, a polite greeting from me might be along the lines of 'Goodness, this rain sure is miserable.' You, being a polite chap, would agree out of hand—'Sure is, my friend!'"

  Blays glanced at a gaggle of Tanarians arguing on a nearby island. "That wouldn't be polite here?"

  DaNaran shook his head, his thick chin threatening to wobble. "Hell, it'd be an insult! Here, a friendly reply to a complaint of rain would be, 'Yes, but it's good for the crops, isn't it?' Or 'Isn't it better to suffer a little rain if it keeps the mosquitos away?' And that is the idea of dana kide."

  "Er." Blays ran his hand through his hair. "Why?"

  "Oh, religious thing. Means something like 'heaven's voice.' The people here believe the truth is valuable because it's so hard to find. We can all see if it's raining, but if I claim that's a bad thing, there's no reason to take my word for it. Someone saying a thing certainly doesn't make it true. Could be they're lying. Or it could be they're a fucking idiot!"

  Dante grunted. "I think that concept extends far beyond Tanar Atain."

  "Difference is, here, they think it's your spiritual duty to argue with anyone who makes a claim of judgment. Doing that is the only way we can reach the truths hidden away by the gods. See then, you might be spitting away at a fellow, but if the two of you are bringing yourselves closer to the truth, wh
at nicer thing could you do for a person?"

  "This sounds like it has the potential to be extremely confusing. What if the two of you just hate each other?"

  DaNaran made a dismissive gesture. "Then agree with every word he says. Will make him look like a total prick. And take care not to insult him, either. Some people take dana kide even further, believing a divine voice may speak through us at any moment, so it is our duty to speak every thought as we have it, and without fear."

  Blays laughed. "They want you to speak whatever insults and cruelties flit between your ears? Did Aris Osis dredge all these canals to make it easier to get rid of all the murdered bodies?"

  The merchant chuckled, rubbing his hands together. "Maybe they're so used to getting gored they no longer feel it. Whatever the cause, they have the skin of elephants. If you're going to do business with them, you'll have to grow the same." At this, he gave Dante an accusatory stare.

  "I'm sorry for putting a hand on you," Dante said. "We're highly concerned about the fate of our business associate. Anything you can tell us about your dealings together could make all the difference." Though they were alone on the platform, he leaned closer, dropping his voice. "It could even save his life."

  "You're sure he wants to be found?"

  "Why wouldn't he?"

  "You said you're his creditors. Say he takes a long look at his ledgers and decides he can't pay off what he's owed. He embarks on a trip to Tanar Atain. Oh, there's great money to be found there, he tells you. And then when he lands in Aris Osis, he just…" DaNasan pinched his fingers together, then spread them wide, blowing on them. "Disappears. Along with his debt."

  "Ah," Blays said, still putting on the lackadaisical airs of a blue-blooded man of leisure. "If you know Mr. Naran, then you know he'd never welch on a debt, no matter how much he owed us. He's so stupid he'd rather keep his honor intact than the fingers and toes his creditors would take from him."

  DaNasan looked ready to argue, then seemed to decide it wasn't the time. "Near two months back, Naran came to port with a cargo that only a drooling idiot wouldn't want to buy: Alebolgian wine, and even better—casks of iron nails."