Qiro kept his voice even, but it came with an edge. “I reconsidered.”
“Reconsidered the device, yes, but not how you treated me. What is it about me?” Jorim opened his hands and flung his arms wide. “Do you think me stupid? Do you think me . . . I don’t know what. Why couldn’t you tell me I was right?”
“Because, Jorim, your being correct this once hardly excuses all the times you have been lazy and sloppy in your duty to me and this family.”
“Oh, we’ve trod this path before!” Jorim smashed a fist into an open palm, tearing a scab from a knuckle. “You shame me and I am to be contrite. It doesn’t matter that you never were going to admit your error!”
“It was not an error, Jorim. Do you want to know what I thought when you came to me? Do you?” Qiro raised an eyebrow. “Consider carefully before you answer.”
Jorim sucked on the bleeding knuckle for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I want to know.”
“I thought, ‘It is another of his lazy schemes, to get out of work and excuse his inattention.’ Your survey of Ummummorar was adequate, but only barely so. You went, you explored, you discovered things, but your work was hasty. You allowed yourself to be distracted. I saw your face, just now, when the Prince thanked you for the specimens you provided to his sanctuary. That’s good for you, but not for us.”
Jorim licked at his split lip. “You mean you.”
“I mean us. How does your brother benefit? Your sister? Your uncle and cousins? How do they benefit?”
“I do what I do for the world.”
“You little fool, I am the world!” Qiro spun and Keles flinched as the old man’s gaze met his in passing. “The world does not exist, does not exist until I place it on the map. You bring animals and plants back from places that are nothing and nowhere until I show their proper location. The Cataclysm left us buried in black ice. When the dark blizzards came, people died. The world became naught but snow-choked valleys. Small communities huddled within ruins of once vast Imperial cities. Our world shrank until I began to grow it again.”
Qiro thrust a trembling finger at Jorim, but his gaze included Keles. “You are my eyes and ears and feet and hands. You exist to serve me, give me information, not to indulge your whims picking flowers and trapping animals! And, worse, disgracing us here in Moriande by engaging in common street brawling. You stand there with bloody evidence on hand and face of all I have said.”
Jorim’s hands knotted into fists and his face flushed scarlet. As veins began to rise in his neck, Keles stepped between the two of them. He pressed his right hand flat against Jorim’s breast and felt the rage trembling through his brother.
“Stop it, both of you.”
“Don’t try to protect your brother, Keles. He has gone too far.” Qiro snorted. “I shall see to it that this is a problem no longer. From now on, he shall go nowhere.”
Keles held his left hand palm up toward his grandfather. “Stop it. You don’t mean that. You’re not that stupid.”
“What?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear what I said.” You never heard it from me before, but perhaps it is time you did. Keles looked at Jorim. “Back away. Calm down.”
“This is not your fight, Keles. It’s been coming for a long time.”
“I think you’ve done enough fighting for now, Jorim.”
A jolt ran through his younger brother. Tears began welling in his eyes as betrayal weighted his words. “You, too, Keles? Nothing I do is good enough. I am lazy. I don’t do my work. I am distracted. I have no discipline. I’m not like you.”
“Jorim.”
The younger man hesitated, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before the rage drained from him. “I didn’t mean that last.”
“You should have, Jorim. You should be more like your brother.”
Keles felt anger beginning to burn hotly in his chest. He turned to his grandfather. “No, he shouldn’t be. I should be more like him.”
Qiro straightened up. His voice became a rime-edged whisper. “And exactly how do you mean that, lyrkyrdin Keles?”
A fluttering started in his belly. Was it in a cold rage like this that you sent our father off on his last journey? The use of his formal title emphasized how much he had yet to learn, and reinforced just how angry his grandfather was.
“Despite only being ranked Superior, I have gone everywhere you have sent me. I have learned everything you deigned to teach me. I have been good and dutiful. My reward for all this was to be posted to the Stormwolf, and yet you never chose to tell me of the dual clocks? Had you decided I would go before you knew of them, thereby exposing me to the risk of being lost or of bringing back inaccurate data, or was I just not important enough to be told of this discovery? I should have been doing the geometry and preparing to use the device.”
“So you believe I think you are untrustworthy.”
“Is there another conclusion I should draw from this?” Keles took a deep breath. “I don’t think you trust any of us.”
“Meaning?”
Jorim answered. “Meaning that you are eighty-one years old. Meaning that Ulan is not, by disposition and training, capable of taking over for you. Neither are his sons or grandsons. Meaning that our father, who could have taken over for you, is long gone. Meaning that Keles, who is best suited to taking over for you, is being sent away and not trained to be able to do what you do. You complain that what I do is not good for us, but you do the same thing.”
“Keles is not ready to take my place. You are even further from it.”
“Oh, you may chain me to a desk here, but I never imagined you would train me.”
“Ah, so you do have some inkling of your limitations. Good.” Qiro’s eyes narrowed. “You may think it is time for a younger generation to supplant me, but I have forgotten more than you will ever know.”
“But what if you forget everything without our ever learning it?”
“Stop, again, both of you.” Keles looked at his brother. “I’ll speak for myself, thank you.”
“Then speak.” Qiro and Jorim both looked up as their words echoed each other.
“I will.” Keles straightened. “It’s a simple fact, grandfather, that Jorim is better suited to the Stormwolf expedition than I am. True, I have spent more time at sea than he has, but only a little. You are sending the Stormwolf into the unknown, where new plants and animals and people will be discovered. I don’t care that you don’t care about those things; the Prince does, the nation does, and Jorim is better prepared to bring that information back than I am. I can do the surveys and the math, but he can discover things. You are not so foolish as to let your anger with him jeopardize what will be the most important voyage of a lifetime by letting it go without him, are you? Your anger comes from the fact that the two of you are so alike, it’s disgusting and obvious to anyone but you.”
“Is that so? Then what would you do?” Qiro half turned and gestured at the map. “Would you take over for me? Would you do my work, wipe my mouth, wipe my ass, usher me into my dotage?”
“No, dicaikyr, I would learn from you. I would do whatever you asked to guarantee that your work lives forever.”
“Oh, of course, Keles, why did I think differently?” Qiro’s voice rose dramatically. “You’d learn from me until that merchant-whelp coaxed you to give her family our secrets. You cannot fool me.”
Keles’ cheeks burned hotly. “Majiata is no longer an issue. She has been sent away, for the good of the family.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Keles found his hands had knotted and forced them open. “I have no desire to supplant you. I know I could not supplant you. I merely wish to become capable of keeping your work alive.”
The old man nodded slowly. “We shall see, we shall see.”
Jorim was about to make a comment, but Keles grabbed the breast of his overshirt and jerked him toward the curtains. Bowing low, pulling Jorim down with him, Keles spoke softly.
�
��Your wisdom is unquestioned, Grandfather. We serve at your whim and will.”
They straightened up and Qiro inclined his head a little toward them. “Words in which you will find fulfillment or damnation, Keles. I pray you have the wisdom to know which is which.”
Chapter Six
1st day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
736th year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
Moraven Tolo drifted through the throngs of revelers with the ease of smoke wending through the leaves of a tree. Where others might have seen people in a riot of finery, wearing masks to disguise themselves, donning gaudy feathers to brighten their costumes and layering on cosmetics, he saw flows of energy. The crowd moved slowly at times, and in strong surges at others. By shifting his shoulders or twisting his hips, he passed through the masses with barely a notice.
He worked his way past the crowds and deeper into the city not because he felt no kinship with those celebrating. He did enjoy the Festival and had enjoyed it in Moriande many times before. Even if Master Jatan had not sent word to him, Moraven would have made the trek in this very special year. A sense of urgency, which fascinated him since he had long since thought he’d conquered that sort of thing, had been growing in him.
He smiled to himself. He enjoyed the spectacle and had a taste for grand things. On the road, wandering from spot to spot, he seldom had a chance to indulge it—which, he admitted, was good for the development of his soul and his art. Even so, he envied the celebrants and wondered how it had been, centuries before, back when the Empire still existed. He knew without a doubt that the Festivals had been even more ostentatious and delightful then, and if instead of traveling through Moriande’s streets he could have traveled back in time to those ancient days, he would have gladly embraced the opportunity.
The Harvest Festival—save in years of famine—was always a phenomenon of excess. The hard work of the spring and summer gave way to bellies filled with freshly harvested produce and coffers brimming with money earned from selling surplus. Wines that had been laid down years before were bottled; the finest brewers vied to produce the best beers; and luxuries brought to the capital on trading ships added an element of the novel which delighted everyone. Add to all of that the influx of exotic visitors, entertainers, and merchants, and the eye could not rest for such chaos and commotion.
The crowd parted as one man juggled and another blew long tongues of flame high into the sky. Children shrieked in delight and one small dog barked from beneath the legs of its master. The scent of sizzling, well-spiced meat easily overrode the bitter stink of stale beer, and laughter accompanied it all. Here and there a steely gaze might flash in his direction, but he acknowledged none of them. While any of them might be the man who had wounded him so long ago, the Festival was not a time to battle over ancient incidents.
Moraven weaved his way along the crowded street and found the alley he had been seeking. At the mouth, high up on the wall he discerned a symbol—to almost anyone else it would have appeared to be a triangular crack in the plaster—which told him where he could find Phoyn Jatan. Moraven was uncertain why he had been summoned so soon, but he chose not to question his Master’s judgment in the matter.
While some celebrants were making their way up the alley toward the street, Moraven made it through without incident. The alley opened onto a small courtyard, and another alley to the east led to a smaller street with only a few Festival-goers. The swordsman made his way along it, then entered the gate in a tall wooden palisade.
The wooden walls surrounded a small, two-story inn with a sizable courtyard in front. The sign in front had a juggling dog depicted on it and Moraven smiled. Jatan’s Master had referred to Prince Nelesquin as a juggling dog. Moraven doubted the inn’s owner knew the significance of the name, and appreciated his Master’s sense of humor.
A dozen young men and women clad in the black trousers and shirts of student swordsmen lounged around the courtyard. Geias waited among them, but gave no sign that he recognized Moraven beyond the most cursory of nods. The rest affected to pay him no mind, but he caught their wary glances and heard the hissed beginnings of whispers as he mounted the trio of steps to a short porch. He sat on the bench beside the door, drew off his boots, and took a pair of slippers from a servant. He surrendered his sword to another servant, then ducked his head through the low doorway and passed beneath the stairs to the second floor.
He straightened up again in the common room, and was not so tall that he bumped his head on the low rafters. Directly across from him stood the door into the back and the sleeping rooms. To the left of it sat the bar; the tavern keeper was drawing a draft of rice beer into a small bottle. He placed two cups on a serving tray and a young girl bore it to the table in the other corner.
The two people there watched Moraven carefully. The larger of them could have been a twin to the giant on the roadway save that he wore a patch over his left eye. The other—a whipcord-lean woman with long black hair braided with a red ribbon into a long queue—looked him up and down, then gave him a quick nod. He bowed in their direction briefly—in the manner of xidantzu acknowledging fellow wanderers—then smiled as he turned to the man seated at a table at the base of the stairs.
“Bless the Nine Gods, Eron, you look well.” Moraven bowed to him and held it as the man rose and returned it. “Those must be yours down there.”
“The finest serrian Jatan has to offer.”
“Then I have passed through the midst of the finest swordsmen in the world, not the least being your son.”
Eron, whose white forelock gave him the look of someone perhaps five years further into middle age than Moraven, smiled. “They were only the finest for the moment you were at their heart.”
“You are too hard on your students.”
“And you always depreciate your own skill.”
“That I have to take with good grace from your grandfather, but not you.” Moraven closed the distance between them and shook Eron’s hand. “Have we time to get caught up, or is the Master waiting?”
Eron glanced up the stairs. “Both. My grandfather awaits, and I will join you. Step lively; it is about time for you to see this.”
His curiosity piqued, Moraven mounted the stairs quickly. He took one step away from the top to allow Eron to come up, then snapped a bow at Phoyn Jatan. The swordmaster was seated at a table next to the window overlooking the courtyard. Moraven made the bow deep and held it long, only coming up when the old man wheezed out a cough.
Moraven smiled and drew from a sleeve another small bottle of wyrlu. “It is an honor to be in your presence again, jaecaiserr Phoyn Jatan.”
Phoyn shifted in the large chair, resettling cushions. “I see you have not idled away the day, Moraven. More from Erumvirine?”
“I was told this was from Ceriskoron, though the bottle has the markings of a potter in Gria.” Moraven looked at the table where three empty cups stood. “I see you anticipated me.”
The old man smiled weakly. “ ‘It is the wise student who addresses the needs of the Master.’ ”
Eron seated himself across from Jatan. “He slept very well last night and told my wife of a magic tonic he had from a bhotcai. Were it not the Festival, she would not have chosen to believe him.”
Moraven took the seat facing the courtyard and poured out three equal measures. “The joy of the Festival to you both.”
“And you.”
All three men drank, then Moraven refilled the cups, but they remained on the table. “I had not expected you to summon me now.”
Jatan nodded slowly. “I had anticipated calling for you after the fourth day, but this morning something happened at the serrian. I may have to lay another burden upon you, Moraven.”
The swordsman laid his hand on the older man’s sleeve and was surprised to feel how slender and light the man’s arm seemed. �
�As your Master told you, ‘It is a burden if not viewed as a challenge. Only a fool accepts burdens.’ ”
Phoyn glanced at Eron. “You see, he remembers even the old lessons.”
“He was your best pupil, Grandfather . . .”
Moraven frowned. “Now who is discounting his own skill, Eron? I hardly think . . .”
The old man’s hand rose to silence Moraven. “It is good the old lessons are remembered, for I teach no more. Eron is the dicaiserr of serrian Jatan. Geias will continue our school. They teach well, and will be blessed if they find another student like you.”
Moraven would have protested, but the look Phoyn gave him silenced the words. The old man had been a master swordsman for longer than Nalenyr had existed as a nation. True blood ran in his veins, conferring on him the same longevity as it did with Moraven and Eron, but it was his mastery of the magic of swordsmanship that had preserved him. While anyone looking at Phoyn and Eron might guess that Eron was his grandson or even great-grandson, if there were fewer than nine generations between them Moraven would have been greatly surprised.
Before Phoyn could continue, a young man in a pristine pair of white silk trousers, shirt, and overshirt trimmed in red entered the courtyard. A red sash closed the overshirt and supported a sword in a scarlet scabbard. His boots were mostly white leather, but had red and yellow scraps sewn on them in a flame motif. Red embroidery at the sleeves and along the breasts of his clothes continued that pattern. Clean-limbed, with an aristocratic cast to his features, the young man paused just inside the gateway and planted his fists on his hips.
He looked around as Eron’s students hastily assembled. Into their belts were thrust wooden practice swords. The young man nodded, then looked up toward the window. His eyes tightened, and disdain stained his words.
“Again I am shown students when I have come for a master.” His nostrils flared for a moment, then he let his arms slacken and he bowed precisely, though neither too long nor too deep. “I am Ciras Dejote. I come from Tirat, from serrian Foachin. I have been taught all they have to teach and I have been sent to Moriande to train with a master.”
A Secret Atlas Page 6
