The Wound of the World

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Nails? Like the little jabby bits? The ones you whack into things with the poundy stuff?"

  "There aren't many iron mines out here in the swamps. To bind things together, Tanar Atain makes the finest ropes, twines, and threads you'll ever need. But sometimes, what you really need is a good nail."

  "Were you two able to reach a deal?"

  "Ha! Half the rats on the wharf were sniffing around his cargo hold. I made my offer, and when it wasn't good enough, I made another. I was still waiting on his decision when he went missing."

  "Missing?" Dante said. "Where?"

  "If I knew that, he wouldn't be missing, would he?"

  "Yeah, you dolt," Blays said. He smiled. "Sorry, just trying to do as the locals would."

  Dante muttered something impolite. "Is it possible he accepted a deal with another merchant and left port as soon as it was concluded?"

  "It's not impossible." DaNasan glanced from the deck toward the middle of the waterway, where two rafts had bumped into each other. Their crews were currently engaged in a fevered skirmish of words that was threatening to explode into all-out war. This drew a few glances from people on the shores of other islands, but nobody seemed too concerned. "I wouldn't call us fast friends, but Naran and I have had acquaintance with each other since he was a deckhand. I don't know that he can fill Captain Twill's boots, but you're right that he's a man of honor. If he'd made another deal, he would have told me before striking out."

  "Unless someone else was hot on his heels," Blays said. "Any idea what happened to the Sword of the South? Could it have been seized by the authorities? Or by its own crew, who shamefully mutinied, leaving their captain behind?"

  "Either possibility is a constant risk for any trading vessel. And if either one had happened, there will be a record of it at the Bureau of Interlopers."

  Dante folded his arms. "'Interlopers'? Does the state really keep track of every foreigner in the city?"

  "Indeed it does—and it seems as though you should be grateful for it."

  "'Grateful' has rarely described my encounters with bureaucracy. Will we need an interpreter? Or does everyone here speak Mallish?"

  "Most speak two or three languages," DaNasan said. "But only the most backwards, raft-humping swamp-leeches don't speak Mallish. Children are taught by dint of law."

  DaNasan provided them directions to the bureau, housed in a tower a half mile inland. Dante and Blays trekked across a series of bridges and islands, forced to backtrack twice when a bridge was lacking in the direction they needed to go. Trees sprouted wherever they could, forming dense green rings around the edges of each island. Towers dropped cold shadows across the city. Some were black brick, but the taller ones were hewn from big blocks of a curiously mottled orange and green stone. When Dante got a closer look, he saw the green spots were patches of mold. This grew on the trunks of trees, too, making everything look as if it had been here for ages.

  After crossing a few islands and stealing plenty of glances at the locals, he leaned close to Blays. "Am I crazy, or do they not allow their women out on the streets?"

  Blays gave him a sidelong glance. "If you can't pull your nose out of your books long enough to experience the real world, at least get a few with better illustrations. There are women everywhere."

  As they passed a group of people clustered around a vegetable stall, Dante heard one of the hagglers speak in a clear feminine voice. Like that, the scales fell from his eyes. It wasn't that there were no women on the streets, it was that they shared the immediate appearance of the men: they were dressed in the same sleeveless garments; the men were beardless; men and women alike wore their hair clipped short, or shaved on the sides and longer on the top. Combined with their unfamiliar faces, his mind hadn't noticed the difference.

  They were a slim people, but now that he knew what to look for, the subtler differences in musculature and hips stood out to him. Their garments and sandals were decorated individually, too—feathers, buttons, intricate stitching with colored thread, the occasional flash of a small piece of metal. Likely, there was meaning in the items on display that he was utterly blind to.

  An orange tower loomed on the next island. Most of the dollops of land sported two to four towers, but this one stood alone, and was squatter and more military in appearance, with a thin watchtower rising from its roof. The bureau was just as DaNasan had described.

  They crossed a final bridge and approached the tower's front steps. Outside, a man stood on a wooden box, its planks held together with artful loops of twine. A crowd surrounded him as he gestured and barked.

  "…the last time we so much as saw Drakebane Yoto?" The man on the box was red-faced with anger—or from the contents of the wineskin in his left hand. "If he cares for us so much, why hide in the capital? Or worse yet, the deep swamps? I say the Drakebane forsakes us! That he must be replaced by a Bane who loves all the land equally! I say—"

  "I say you're as ugly as hot vomit," a woman called to him from the crowd. "You don't smell much better, either."

  The man swung his sharp chin to face her, unbalancing himself. He windmilled his arms to stay on the box. "The truth is ugly, isn't it? And the truth is the Drakebane doesn't give a fish's testicles for the people of Aris Osis. He should be replaced by someone who loves every city, float, and raft. Who loves every inch of this land!"

  "How do you have time to stand about criticizing the Drakebane when you're still searching for someone to love both inches of you?"

  The crowd erupted into laughter. The man on the box went so red Dante expected him to start sweating blood, but then he laughed loudest of all, bending at the waist and clutching his stomach.

  "The Drakebane needs to be cast down," a second man said. He was young, but his black hair was already beginning to withdraw from his temples. "But not because it's been too long since he was in Aris Osis. Instead, because of his lies. He tells the bondsmen and the rafters they can own land, but how many have you ever seen free themselves from the lords' fields? He tells us we can serve the body as whatever part we choose, but how can we learn new trades when the masters keep choosing students from the same families year after year?"

  The man turned in a circle, arms raised high. "What freedoms do we really have? The freedom to yammer and blather and turn on each other? All that does is divide us while the Drakebane laughs in his throne! He must be brought to the noose for his crimes—and replaced by one who will finally unravel the ropes of injustice!"

  A few in the crowd raised their fists and made noises of agreement, but others looked silently angry.

  "Other people's politics," Blays said. "Is there anything more boring?"

  Dante pulled himself away from the scene and walked up the steps. A pair of green-clad guards stood watch in front of the doors, watching the argument below with tolerant amusement. Dante didn't know what was funny about hearing citizens calling for the death of their ruler. In Narashtovik, you could be jailed for such a thing. And that was widely considered lenient. In Mallon, you were likely to be tortured until you recanted your words and turned over any friends, family, or acquaintances who might harbor similar beliefs.

  Granted, Mallon took things too far. It was important to give your people space to decide for themselves what they would worship, think, and say. That gave them the opportunity to come up with new ideas, and to test them against each other like knights on a tourney ground. Dante believed a large part of Narashtovik's renaissance was due to the fact he'd allowed the citizens much more latitude than most rulers did.

  Even so, there had to be limits to such things. What good did it do for your land if you allowed your people to call for it to be destroyed? Didn't that just foment anger and unrest for no reason? What if dangerous ideas were, in a sense, like the traces: when you kept them confined to your own head, they were merely an inert unit, of no harm to anyone.

  Yet when you pooled your dark idea with people who shared it, feeding it and growing it, if it grew large enough, it wo
uld create a demon.

  As Dante neared the tower doors, one of the guards moved to stop him. He stated his business as briefly as he could—never a good idea to overexplain; it made you sound desperate, and the wider you stretched your story, the more chance that holes would appear. The guard told them to wait, then went inside.

  Below, nobody was listening to the drunk man on the box anymore, arguing instead with the younger man who'd called for the so-called Drakebane's death. In contrast to the loud but ultimately convivial debate the drunk man had been having, this new discussion soon grew so heated that the second guard was obliged to jog down the steps and intervene. The young man was angry enough at the interruption that he appeared in danger of assaulting the guard, but before Dante could see the outcome, the other soldier returned from inside to let them know that the Minister of Guests had agreed to see them.

  He and Blays were brought into a high-ceilinged foyer and led up three flights of stairs to a round hall thirty feet across. Light sliced through the open windows, bringing with it the not unpleasant scent of mingled waters.

  A slender man awaited them in the center of the room, smiling pleasantly. The official's garment was tailored to his trim body, and as he shook their hands, its expensive fabric rippled like the surface of a wind-blown lake. Metal baubles adorned its hems, but they were tastefully few in number. It was clear that anyone in the city would find him impeccably dressed, yet to Dante's eyes, accustomed to breeches and trousers, the sight of the official's bare thighs made him appear childish.

  "Welcome to Aris Osis," the man said in perfect Mallish. "My name is Yata Jon. By your appearance, you are not from here. Do you think you should have the same rights for petitioning this government as the citizens of Tanar Atain?"

  Dante shrugged. "Who says we expect the same rights they have?"

  "A foolish assumption on my part! Do you believe that you should have any right to petition a government that you're not beholden to?"

  "Do you ask this question to every foreigner who comes to you?"

  Yata's eyes twinkled. "I do! It is useful to remind them of their standing, and me of mine. However, while your question is insightful, it's also irrelevant. Now would you be so kind as to answer mine?"

  "As long as I'm here, am I beholden to your laws?"

  "Naturally. If you were exempt from our laws, wouldn't that grant you more rights than our own citizens?"

  "I didn't want to make any assumptions. I bet I'm held to the laws I don't even know about. Right?"

  Yata looked him up and down. "There might be some judgment exercised depending on the nature of your offense. But yes, the strangeness of your own customs is no defense against violating our own."

  "If I'm beholden to the punishment of your laws—including the ones I don't even know about—I should also have access to the protection of your laws. Including the ability to petition you, like I'm doing now, and ensure that I am acting within the law."

  The official raised his eyes to the ceiling, smiling up at it. "You have been favored with a most convincing argument. How can I be of service?"

  Blays introduced them as Pendelles and Orson, then jerked a thumb at the windows. "Are you aware you have a pack of seditionists outside? They seem unusually fond of regicide."

  Yata laughed lightly. "Would that be Sober Rogi? I thought I heard him slurring."

  "The fellow who seems to have lost his hand in a war and replaced it with a wineskin? It started with him, but he was soon replaced by an earnest young sort who seemed very concerned that young people aren't being granted free land and lofty guildships."

  "Ah, a representative of the Righteous Monsoon. They insist with all their soul that there is a great hand crushing them down, yet when you ask them to show you the hand, they point at empty air—and insist that if you can't see it, then you must be a part of it."

  "Are they any real danger? Or do they just like hearing themselves make big threats to big people?"

  "I think they understand nothing of why our country is as it is, but have decided that the only explanation for its flaws is that it is run by evil men."

  "When in reality you're probably just stupid."

  Yata blinked. "You present me with a conundrum. Are you an outlander who thinks his insults are disrespectful? Or are they a sign of respect to our ways?"

  Blays smiled. "Might as well get away with it when I can."

  "It's one thing to let your people grumble about taxes," Dante said. "But it's beyond the pale to let them advocate for treason. What good does that do?"

  Yata laced his fingers together. "We believe that the gods might speak through one of us at any moment. If there's truth in the words, they'll rise up from even the darkest waters. And if they're rotten, they'll sink into the silt." He lifted an eyebrow. "Does the loudness of our streets frighten you? If that's what brings you to my office, I can assure you it is all thunder and no lightning."

  "We're here to find an associate of ours who appears to have gone missing. A fellow foreigner named Naran. Do you know of him?"

  "Of course. It's my duty to know of every guest in our city."

  "We were intending to meet him here. Do you know where he went?"

  "Why, he was arrested."

  "Arrested?" Dante blurted. "For what?"

  Yata lifted his eyes in thought. "Crimes against the state? Yes, that was it. Crimes against the state."

  "We need to speak to his jailers. Immediately."

  The official got a good laugh from this, then grew thoughtful. "Sometimes, ignorance is sad; others, it's funny. Why is that?"

  "If you can't take this seriously, the only thing that's going to be sad is your family, regarding your gruesome demise."

  "Your threats are unlikely to elevate us to any special truths, sir," Yata said plainly. "Captain Naran was taken to the capital. Foreigners such as yourself can't leave Aris Osis. Foreigners can't speak to those outside Aris Osis. You have no recourse. The sooner you accept this, the happier you will be."

  19

  The civil servant's words hung in the air like the stink of an uncovered pot of week-old stew.

  "I don't understand." Dante's head was buzzing. "He's being held in the capital, but we can't go there? Why not?"

  "Because it isn't allowed," Yata said.

  "I've gathered that much. What I'm having trouble with is the idea that any trouble could be caused by two men of commerce who are simply trying to find out what happened to one of their debtors."

  "As I informed you, he was arrested. As for why you can't leave Aris Osis, we have decided that we have no need for outsiders in the interior of our country."

  "Your people can call for the death of your ruler, but we can't travel to inquire peacefully about one of our partners?"

  Yata nodded, earnest as a priest at his sermon. "Yes, because our people are our people, and you are a dirty foreigner."

  Dante could feel his pulse hammering in his face. They were still standing across from each other—the Tanarians didn't seem to think much of chairs—and dressed in his tunic without any hose or leggings, Yata's pale thighs made Dante feel as if they were holding an official conversation with a man in his underwear. The absurdity of it versus the seriousness of their conversation made him want to start melting the walls.

  "We're all reasonable people here." Blays folded his hands behind his back and paced leisurely around the room. "Or at any rate, you and I are, Yata; my friend Orson's sense of justice is so sensitive he's been known to pick fights with inanimate objects. Now, you said we can't go to the capital, or speak to people outside this city. But what if we hired an intermediary to take a message to the capital for us?"

  "That can't be done," Yata said without hesitation. "The law forbids it."

  "What if, in addition to sending a messenger, we also made a donation to your office? One that would surely outweigh any troubles caused by a temporary and one-time breach of convention?"

  "You're trying to bribe me?"


  "I wouldn't dream of it! This would merely be a way to help you cover the costs of running your institution. You could even use it to hire more guards, or keep closer watch on those sleazy foreigners. Why, such a deal would make your country safer."

  "I stand corrected: you're trying to bribe me and proposing that we lie to the world that it is in fact a bribe. Sir, you have the moral character of a rutting cat. You show the very reason why foreigners are forbidden from the interior."

  "It was just a suggestion."

  "This can't be the first time something like this has happened," Dante said. "We must have some recourse."

  "Yes," Yata agreed. "You can wait."

  "Until?"

  "Either he is released, or you stop caring about him."

  Dante bit back a curse until he realized that, according to local tradition, he was being unholy. "You stupid pantless son of a bitch. It's vital that we speak to an authority and clear up what's surely been a misunderstanding. Otherwise, there will be grave repercussions for future trade between Mallon and Tanar Atain."

  "No one here has the authority to countermand the law," Yata said mildly. "The capital of Dara Bode answers only to itself."

  "Naran had a ship," Blays said. "The Sword of the South. Do you know what became of it?"

  "It was informed that it should leave. It complied."

  "Where was it headed?"

  "That wasn't any of our business."

  "We're not here to cause trouble." Blays planted himself in front of Yata. "Not for you, not for Naran, and certainly not for ourselves. If there's anything more that you can tell use, please contact us at the piers. We're with a vessel called the Finder of Secrets."

  He all but dragged Dante out of the room. Yata watched them go. Once they were outside, Blays struck southwest in the general direction of the docks.

  "Well, that's good news, isn't it?" Blays said.

  "Good news? Which part? That Naran's locked in a cell in the capital? That we don't know why? Or that we can't talk to him or anyone about it?"