25th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Thyrenkun, Felarati
Deseirion
Despite the roaring fire in his chambers, Prince Pyrust wore his cloak. He found the room uncomfortably warm, but the visitor he expected would be half-frozen and exhausted. The warmth would be welcome, and he had every hope Keles Anturasi would feel welcome as well.
The Prince had made the decision to meet Keles in his personal chambers rather than any place more grand. Pyrust suffered no illusions about the Naleni cartographer and where his loyalties lay. In their previous meeting, Pyrust had made overtures to him, and Keles had politely but firmly rebuffed them. Pyrust actually respected him for that display of familial and national loyalty.
The fact that Deseirion’s need would require that to be crushed was another matter entirely.
A gentle knocking came at the door. Pyrust glanced in that direction. “Enter.”
The door opened silently. Pyrust almost didn’t recognize the young man framed in the doorway. Since they’d met he’d acquired a puckered scar on his forehead. He’d lost weight on his long journey. Exhaustion rimmed hazel eyes with red.
Though he was clearly tired, Keles’ eyes still sparked with intelligence and surprise. He even half made to bow, but caught himself with a hand before he sagged against the doorjamb. As it was, he grimaced when his right shoulder hit the doorway.
Pyrust crossed the distance between them and took his left elbow and shoulder, steadying him. “I did ask them to convey you here as fast as possible. If you were hard used, I will have the men beaten. Killed even.”
Keles shook his head slowly. “I’ve no love for them. They murdered a friend of mine, but they did their duty.”
Pyrust guided him to a seat beside the fire. Keles slumped in the blocky wooden chair. He cradled his right arm against his chest and his head lolled toward the left. He stared into the flames. “You know I will not work for you.”
“You made that clear in Moriande.” Pyrust walked to a sideboard and poured two pewter goblets of dark wine. He brought both and offered them to Keles. “It is customary for us to welcome guests with wine. Rice and cheese will follow. You may choose which goblet you prefer.”
Keles looked up at him, then reached out with his left hand and took the goblet from the Prince’s half hand. “If I am a guest, will I be permitted to leave when I desire?”
Pyrust stared down past his wine. “You know that is not possible. Nor will you be allowed to communicate with your family. I know you can reach your grandfather and brother through your mind. I could have you drugged to prevent that, but I would prefer to have your word that you will not attempt it.”
Keles drank, then frowned. “You would accept my word?”
“I would.” Pyrust set his goblet on the mantel over the hearth. “You are a smart man and you know the way of the world. If your grandfather learns you are here, Cyron will threaten war. And, quite likely, blood will flow before you are returned to Moriande. On the other hand, news of your presence here will slowly be communicated through the ministries. They will inform Prince Cyron in a manner that demands diplomacy. We will negotiate, and what he would have had to win through blood, he will pay for in time—time you will spend here.”
“What good will that do you?” Keles pulled himself upright and gingerly rested an elbow on the chair’s arm. “I’ve said I won’t work for you.”
“I hope I can convince you otherwise.” Pyrust smiled. “You think I want the Anturasi charts of the world? Everyone does—and if they were offered to me, I should not spurn them. Those charts have allowed Naleni ships to sail far and wide, reaching new nations and new trading partners. Those charts have brought Nalenyr a prosperity that may let Cyron buy the provinces back into an empire.”
“And you’d like to stop that.”
Pyrust nodded, his green eyes narrowing. “I have never hidden my ambition to become the Emperor. Ambition, however, is hardly a virtue that is easily sated. Believe me when I tell you that I do not desire the Anturasi charts of the world, nor will I ask you for them.”
“I am too tired for that to make any sense.” Keles slowly shook his head. “If it is not that, what do you want?”
Quicker to the question than I would have imagined. Pyrust took Keles’ wine and placed it on the mantel. “Please, come with me.”
Keles stood. Pyrust removed his cloak and settled it around the young cartographer’s shoulders. Gently taking his left elbow in hand, the Prince guided him to the chamber’s external wall, opened the door, and ushered him onto the south balcony.
The sun had just set, leaving the cloudy sky streaked with grey. Around them, from the Prince’s tower to the Black River and beyond, Felarati stretched out. Pyrust knew the city well and loved it, but he saw it as it truly was, not colored by romance or nationalism.
“Tell me what you see, Keles Anturasi. Tell me about my city.”
Pyrust could feel the tremor running through Keles’ body. The cartographer slowly studied the city, starting with the western precincts, following along the Black River, and ending east, at Swellside, where fog was already beginning to grow like fungus over dark buildings.
“I will compare it to Moriande, and you know it will suffer.” Keles looked at him. “And you know that is not just national pride talking.”
Pyrust nodded solemnly.
“Felarati has grown without much planning. It started near the bay, on the north side. The south was farmland and benefited from spring flooding. As the population grew, you constructed levees and buildings, but you still have flooding there and the sewer system is constantly in disrepair.”
Keles pointed to the factories spewing smoke in the middle of the city. “You can see that the water above those factories is cleaner than that below, which means the people living closer to the sea have poor water. You have a lot of sickness there. Upriver is not much better, because of the silt in the river. If it were flooding into fields, once again your land would be more fertile, but now it is wasted. The air stinks of smoke and sewage. The city is dark, and the people clearly suffer from melancholy.”
Pyrust raised his chin. “Is that all you can tell me?”
Keles frowned again, then continued his survey. “Your development of the riverside is insufficient to handle the sort of trade the Anturasi charts would bring to you. I already know the Black River is not navigable for any significant distance. We were constantly riding overland between one river station and another to get here. Your ability to get wealth to and from the interior would be limited to cart traffic. Even if those factories can turn out gyanrigot capable of moving freight, the cost of taking it very far would eat up any profit.
“And I will tell you this, Highness. I kept my eyes open as I moved through your nation. Your people work hard, but they are living skeletons working a harsh and unforgiving land.” Keles hesitated for a moment. “Yet, as little as they had, they offered us everything once they learned I was bound for your court. Your people have nothing, still they love you and would do anything for you.”
“Perhaps they fear what will happen if they displease me.”
“Some certainly, but most I saw spoke of you with great affection. Some even call you Little Father. How is that possible when you have so much here and they have so little?”
“You really mean to ask me how I can care so little for them when they care so much for me.”
Keles nodded.
“Come back inside.” Pyrust waved Keles past him to the chair by the fire. He waited for his guest to resume his seat, then clasped his hands at the small of his back. He looked into the flames, then began speaking in a low voice.
“You know the Desei are a hard people. We survive on pride. We have always been a frontier people, eschewing the comforts of the south. The south is weak—this we tell
ourselves again and again—and yet we harbor secret dreams that someday we shall know the pleasures of its existence.
“I am seen as a hard man—cruel to the point of barbarism. It’s convenient for the southern princes to characterize me thus. It serves me to let them. While none of them truly believes I can mount an invasion, they fear what I would do to an invading army. Their image of me keeps their ambitions in check, and this simplifies my life enormously.”
Pyrust walked to the hearth and passed Keles his cup of wine, then recovered his own. “The truth of the matter is less than the illusion. I have dreams, Keles, in which I see how my nation can change. All these things you pointed out—things you saw in an instant—haunt my nights because I feel the devotion of my people and yet find myself powerless to save them.”
He sipped wine, relishing the dry taste. “What you said of the southern shore is correct, but how do I deal with it? If there were a solution, I could implement it, but solutions elude me. If you were me, what would you do? What would you do if you could do anything at all?”
Keles blinked, then pursed his lips. “Anything?”
“Your fantasy.”
“I would return it to farmland. A mile to the south, in the hills, you could build housing and put a sewer system in place. An aqueduct could bring water from further upriver.”
“I would have to move the factories as well?”
Keles nodded. “They’re fouling the river. You could divert part of the river to feed a small lake. They could draw water from it. I’m not sure that would work, but it could be explored.”
Pyrust smiled. “Very well. It shall be done. I shall start tomorrow.” He pointed his goblet toward the balcony. “You’ll come back here tomorrow evening and you will see how your plan is working.”
“What? You can’t do that!”
Pyrust frowned. “Of course I can, my friend. This is my realm. What you have said will improve it. All of it will be done.”
“No, no, no. Wait!” Keles winced as he pointed to the south. “You would have to make sure drainage was right. You have to have a plan that will work with the land.”
“Ah, you see, Keles, that might be the way it would be done in Nalenyr, but there you have the luxury of having those who can draw such plans. If we had such people, do you not think we would have done this sort of thing?” Pyrust slowly shook his head. “This is why I brought you here, Keles Anturasi. You saw—the Anturasi charts would be worthless to my people because we could not profit from them. But you did the Gold River survey. You know how my city can be changed to benefit trade and the people. That was what I asked you about in Moriande.”
Keles’ head came up. “It’s true, you did.”
“Please understand, Keles, that my dream for Deseirion is not that it become the new Imperial capital, but that it becomes a nation the new Emperor would welcome in his Empire. The changes you have described bring me much closer to that reality. We may not have the skills to accomplish it as efficiently as you would in the south, but my people are strong and willing to endure hardship for their prince and their nation.”
“But if you do things quickly, without sufficient planning, it will make for unnecessary hardship. Can’t you see that?”
Pyrust shrugged. “I see the hawk fly, but I do not have wings. Therefore, I walk, even though my feet may complain. The journey, though swifter by wing, must begin regardless.”
Keles glanced into the fire, then up at Pyrust. “How long will you hold me here?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Then I’ll make you a deal. Four months. I’ll do some surveys, I’ll draw some plans, I’ll teach some people.”
“That’s what you offer me. What must I offer you?”
“You’ll abide by my plans and my timetables.”
“Are these things subject to negotiation?”
Keles nodded. “I won’t be unreasonable. I’ll give you my best estimates. You’ll return me to Moriande for the Harvest Festival.”
Pyrust raised an eyebrow. “And if your work is incomplete?”
“I will grant an extension of my time here. Another two months.”
Pyrust closed his eyes for a moment, then glanced down at Keles. “Can you transform my nation in six months?”
“I can blaze a trail. You’ll have to make the journey.”
“Done.” The Prince raised his cup. “You will have the best of my nation while you are my guest. If you have a need, it shall be fulfilled. If you have a desire, it shall be granted. And you will always have my nation’s gratitude.”
Keles smiled, raised his goblet, then drank.
Pyrust nodded to the servants who opened the door and brought in trays with cheese and rice. “Eat and drink, Keles. We wish you to feel very much at home.”
“Thank you, Highness.”
Pyrust smiled, hiding it behind his cup. Yes, enjoy our fare, Keles Anturasi. From this day forward, and for the rest of your life, Deseirion shall be your home. You give us your thoughts now, but soon you will surrender your secrets. This is how it must be.
Chapter Eleven
26th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Wentokikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Prince Cyron sat on the Dragon Throne, making no pretense of polite pleasure as Grand Minister Pelut Vniel approached with shaved head bowed. The Prince had endured two weeks of meetings in which Vniel had told him there was nothing to worry about—a continuance of his previous behavior. Though the Prince pressed him for more details, Vniel had not been forthcoming. Then he surprised the Prince by asking for a meeting in the audience chamber.
This cannot be good.
The Prince had not donned formal state robes for the meeting. He couldn’t abide the suffocating folds of silk, and relished the freedom of more utilitarian garb. He had chosen black silk trousers and robe, with an overshirt of gold. Dragons had been embroidered on the robe and overshirt—in gold thread on the black, and the reverse on the gold. A gold sash held everything in place and the Prince had refrained from wearing a sword.
I might have been tempted to use it.
Vniel shuffled forward with his head lowered. His gold robes flowed out and obscured his body. The man could have been a snake slithering forward, but Cyron dismissed that image. It would have made Vniel too close to a dragon, and this Cyron would not grant him.
Finally, the man knelt—though coiled would have more accurately described his motion—and bowed deeply enough that his forehead touched the floor.
The Prince answered with a nod. “What is it you have to report? Have you come to the bottom of the embezzlement of grain shipments north?”
“Would that what I have to report were so trivial, Highness.” The man’s voice wavered, and that further surprised Cyron. He had no doubt Vniel could be a consummate actor, but he was also an egotist and fear was not a big part of his repertoire. “I have grave news.”
Does he know Qiro Anturasi is gone? “Tell me.”
Vniel’s head came up and he visibly paled. “News has trickled north from Erumvirine. The nation is under attack. Hideous creatures, worse than the demons of the Nine Hells, have launched themselves from the ocean. Poisonous toads that fly and odd ape-things have attacked. They are pushing inland from the coast toward Kelewan.”
Cyron’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Poisonous flying toads?”
“Your tone mocks me, Highness, but what benefit would there be in bringing you such a fanciful story were it not true?” Vniel actually sounded offended. “You have accused me of hiding information, so my credibility has suffered. Were this not true, my credibility would be utterly destroyed, and you would have me removed. And I would deserve it.”
Cyron leaned forward, scrubbing his left hand over his jaw. “What proof is there?”
“Of the creatures? N
one other than stories from refugees. But something is happening in eastern Erumvirine. None of the wood harvested near Derros is reaching Kelewan. Market taxes from that region have not been brought to the capital. A squad of troops sent to determine what delayed them has not reported back.”
“Signs that something is wrong there, certainly, but is it an invasion? There are many other explanations. The eastern lords could be in revolt. There could be a plague . . .” Prince Cyron’s recital tailed off as he recalled a dream he’d had, in which a dragon lay shattered and a carpet of black ants devoured a bear as they made their way north to feast on him. The dragon was the Naleni national symbol, and the bear represented Erumvirine.
And the ants?
The Prince shivered. Qiro Anturasi’s map added a new continent, home to monsters. If they had launched an attack, they might have made landfall in Erumvirine. It would have made more sense for them to have sailed directly up the Gold River, especially if Qiro was bent on avenging his granddaughter’s murder. But while an error in navigation might have put them in Erumvirine, Cyron refused to countenance that as a possibility. There is no way troops associated with Qiro Anturasi could have ever made an error in navigation. Either they were not associated with him at all, or they had a purpose in taking Erumvirine first.
He glanced at the minister and saw hope blossoming in Vniel’s eyes. “You would know if it was a revolt because the bureaucrats would know. So, you really don’t know what it is, do you?”
Vniel slowly shook his head. “I only know what I have told you, Highness.”
Cyron sat back in his throne and felt as if a hundred quor of rice had just landed on his chest. As much as he had hated the bureaucrats, they had always protected society. No matter how depraved a ruler might become, they insulated the people in the same way they insulated the ruler. They provided stability and assured that when destruction came, it would only go so far.
But now even they didn’t know what was going on. The invasion—or whatever it was that was eating up eastern Erumvirine—was beyond their control. They had for so long used their tools of deception and diversion to control events that they knew no other way of doing things. They were not prepared to handle emergencies; they’d just done everything they could to prevent them. And this they had taken to be one and the same thing, which it was not.
Cartomancy Page 8
