The ambassador bowed deeply and the warrior hung his head. “Prince Cyron, I profoundly regret the difficulty my consort has caused. How is the young Anturasi?”
“Bleeding.” Cyron turned from her and looked at the Desei noble. “What is your woman’s problem?”
“She was almost as the Anturasi is now.”
“Turn, girl. Look at me.”
The woman turned, never leaving the safety of the man’s arms, then bowed very low. “Forgive me, Highness.”
“Forgive you what, child?”
“Someone jostled my arm, Highness, and wine spilled on my gown. It is ruined. I reacted.”
The girl started to straighten up again, but the Prince growled. “Keep your head low. This is a celebration where you are a guest, not a hostess. You are far too young to be a doyenne of etiquette, and certainly not sufficiently schooled in it to be disciplining those who might have done something accidentally. You turned and you struck someone much your superior. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Highness.”
He glanced at the ambassador again. “It falls to me to set a punishment that will be meted out in the morning. I will accept your comments on it, Ierariach. I would sentence her to five lashes with a whip for her slap and the offense it did you.”
The Viruk thought for a moment, and a moment longer when a whimper from the girl stole the first opportunity to speak. “I would not have her back scarred when what she did to me shall not leave scars.”
“You are most gracious, Ierariach. Your compassion does you credit.” Cyron looked at the girl again. “Stand tall, girl.”
She came up from her bow, her face a ruin of eroded cosmetics. “Thank you, my lady.”
The Prince untied the loose sash around his waist and kicked it away. “She may be gracious, but I am not so inclined. Your slap will not leave scars, but Keles Anturasi will have four, if he lives. So, you will have four lashes in the morning, then four for every year of his life if he dies.”
The girl moaned and collapsed to her knees. “But that would be a hundred. I could die.”
The Prince squatted and took her chin in his left hand, raising her face. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “No, child, I will see to it that you do not die. You will live a cripple, your back a mass of wormtrack scars. Do not doubt for an instant that I will order it done. I will retain the greatest jaecaitsae to lash you, and if you live to be eighty-one, you will relive your punishment every moment of every day.”
He wiped melted cosmetics off on her robe, then stood and looked at her escort. “You will see her home now. Tell her parents that all entreaties for mercy have fallen on deaf ears. Any more that I hear will be an irritant.”
“As your Highness wishes.” The man scooped the girl in his arms. He carried her well past the Viruk warrior’s reach and out of the ballroom.
The Viruk ambassador raised a hand. “I, too, shall retire, as my attire is no longer suitable for a celebration. I would, however, demand of the Prince his accounting to my consort for the hurt done Keles Anturasi. Rekarafi will be punished.”
Cyron looked up into the warrior’s dark eyes. “You struck to protect the ambassador, did you not?”
The warrior nodded.
“Had you followed through with the blow, clawing your fingers forward, you would have torn his back open and severed his spine, wouldn’t you?”
Again the warrior nodded, his eyes narrowing a bit.
“You blunted what could have been a killing blow.”
The ambassador answered before the warrior could nod. “His actions still were negligent, Highness. Punishment should be exacted.”
“I say this to you, Ambassador.” Cyron let his light eyes half close. “I will punish the girl who offended you. To you shall fall the task of the appropriate punishment for Rekarafi.”
Ierariach bowed graciously. “Your Highness is as wise as he is equitable. If I may be of any aid to the Anturasi, ask and anything within my power is yours.”
“Noted. Thank you.” The Prince returned the bow. “It saddens me you will not be staying longer.”
“Yes, Highness, me as well.” Ierariach came up from her bow, then looked into the room’s upper corner. “And to you, Qiro Anturasi, joy of the Festival, health, longer life, and more prosperity. Forgive us this incident.”
The Viruk’s address first drew Cyron’s attention to Qiro Anturasi’s presence, though he should have sensed it just from the heat of the man’s anger. Qiro had chosen robes of the finest gold silk and had them embroidered with purple stars. On his breastbone he wore a solar medallion, and gold specks sparked in his hair and on his forehead and cheekbones. There, in the east, Qiro shone like the sun, his pale eyes ablaze.
Cyron bowed low in his direction, then straightened. “When this dynasty was but your age, Qiro Anturasi, it was a provincial domain with no true understanding of its own geography. Now, at twice your age, Nalenyr again ventures to realms that never existed before you placed them on maps. You are our most important citizen, and with you and your future goes our prosperity and happiness. We celebrate your birthday with all due respect and adoration.”
The anger in Qiro’s eyes abated slightly, but Cyron knew something was still wrong. He had no idea what it could be, but the feeling of difficulty only increased as Qiro began to speak. His voice remained even, though slightly tight, and filled the large room with ease.
“Prince Cyron, you are far too kind to suggest I might have had so strong and pivotal a role in Naleni history, for I am a simple scribbler on parchment. It is my family—my brother, nephews, grandnephews, and even great-grandnephews—who bring the charts to life. Some might see me as a gold mine, but they are the miners, and what would one be without the other?
“But I have not forgotten my own grandchildren. Nirati is my joy. She brings light into my life with songs and riddles and gentle admonishments when, as set in my ways as I am, I can be harsh.”
Qiro began to pace, and Cyron instantly recognized the strong stride and quick turns as those of a caged predator growing slowly more agitated. “At my age, it is customary to cede the family business to the next generation. My son is long gone, so it would fall to his sons to inherit the mantle I wear. Either of them is worthy, for while my brother and his progeny are the miners of gold, my grandsons are the prospectors that find new veins to be mined. Without them, the mine would soon be exhausted.”
He gestured casually toward the dance floor. “Jorim is more than a cartographer. He is an explorer and adventurer. He brings back more than maps. He brings animals and flowers, fruits, medicines, spices, and anything else he can stuff into a holdall. He also brings back foreign customs, which then become the fashion or serve to outrage the fashionable. I gather, for him, either outcome is acceptable.”
Mild laughter greeted that comment, which Qiro acknowledged with a nod. “I would have preferred to have Jorim here with me, training to replace me, but a grand expedition must be undertaken. Prince Cyron has graciously built and outfitted the Stormwolf for a long voyage of discovery. There is no one better suited to serve on that ship. To Jorim I grant passage. Not only will this ship return to Moriande with untold riches of cargo and tales, but the knowledge of the world it provides will solve many mysteries.”
Cyron lifted his head and straightened his back, hearing his vertebrae pop into place. His sense of unease began to spike. The first part of the speech had been delivered as if scripted, but Qiro had deviated quickly from it. The prince suspected that Qiro meant to reduce Jorim to servitude and captivity within Anturasikun, punishing him for the gods alone knew what offense. And if Jorim had not been intended to get the Stormwolf in the first place, it would have gone to Keles.
Qiro smiled slowly as he stopped his pacing. “I had thought Keles would perhaps enjoy remaining in Moriande to help me with my work, but now I see he is a young man, full of fancies and a sense of romance that leads to adventure. There is another trek I have long contemplated. I wished mysel
f to go again, but was never granted permission to do so. Highness, you and I have discussed it many times, but had decided it was an expedition that could never take place.”
The old man clasped his hands at the small of his back and began lecturing the guests as he had often lectured Cyron. “As we all know, before the Cataclysm, the Empire traded with nations far to the west along the Spice Route. This route wended its way from the Empire through the provinces of Solaeth and Dolosan, through Ixyll and beyond. It was into Ixyll that Empress Cyrsa—for whom our own prince is named—led the Turasyndi hordes and destroyed them, unleashing the Cataclysm. This, common wisdom held, closed the Spice Route forever. But over the centuries the chaos of excess magics has receded. It is all but unknown in Solaeth and rare in Dolosan.
“Keles, my strong, brave grandson, will recover from his wounds. Of this I am certain. He is too strong-willed for mere scratches to do him in.” Qiro nodded confidently as people applauded—politely and sparingly—and the Prince could not determine if they applauded the journey, the idea of Keles’ survival, or for fear Qiro would see they were not applauding.
“Once Keles is well, he will survey the Spice Route with the same skill he surveyed the western reaches of the Gold River. He will go into what, for over seven hundred and twenty-nine years, has been a realm of the unknown. He will conquer it, or be consumed by it, and I have no doubt which it shall be.”
The old man clapped his hands, then took a cup of wine from the arm of his chair. Raising it, he took a moment to let his gaze sweep over the crowd. “Knowledge is our victory over the world, and is worth any price we could possibly pay.”
The Prince had no cup, and was glad for it. He locked eyes with Qiro and knew instantly that the old man intended that Keles should die. Cyron hoped it was reasons and conflicts that had long lain hidden within the Anturasi clan that bred such hatred, for the alternative betokened a madness in the old man that Cyron did not know how to battle.
If you are killing Keles because his wounding upstaged your entrance . . . The Prince shook his head. It couldn’t be that. Not even the gods could be that capricious.
Qiro inclined his head toward the Prince, then drank.
No, no god could be that capricious. But a man who thinks he is a god could be so with ease.
Chapter Eleven
3rd 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 made his way through the graveyard in the shadow of Grijakun. The area had been sculpted with small hills and hollows, and had copses of trees and hedges that screened many a mausoleum from another. He passed the resting places of poets and priests, merchants, nobles, and warriors. Each had offerings placed in front of them: some had food, many had candles, and others had piles of faetsun—the fanciful paper money that the priests would later gather and burn. As smoke it would rise to the Heavens, and as ash sink to the Hells, so their recipients would have it to spend in the afterlife.
He carried with him a small jug that had been swaddled in cloth to keep its contents warm. While summer had not yet passed into autumn, the night had been cool. As he expected, he found Ciras Dejote sitting cross-legged in front of the tomb where he’d left him, his sword still sheathed across his thighs. The younger man made to rise when Moraven deliberately trod upon and snapped a stick, but the serrcai motioned for him to remain seated.
“It has been a long, cold night.” Moraven squatted and placed the jug before Ciras. He pulled the lid off and the steamy scent of spicy chicken broth filled the air. “Would you share my breakfast?”
The younger man shook his head, though his stomach’s growling told the truth. “Please, Master, eat. If there is anything left over, then I shall partake.”
“Very well.” Moraven sat and replaced the lid on the jug. “Do you have questions for me?”
“No, Master.”
“No? Your mouth lies better than your belly. We met on the first night of Festival. I agreed to take you on as a student. You were most eager, yet you have no questions?”
“No, Master.”
“Again, no? You came all the way from Tirat to find a swordmaster. You were given to my care when it was the serrian Jatan you wished to enter. No questions?”
“No, Master.”
Moraven let any pleasure drain from his face and voice. “If you have no questions, I can teach you nothing. You might as well return to Tirat. Do you not wonder why you were given to me?”
The younger man hesitated, then nodded. “I do wonder.”
“And?”
“And I assumed Grandmaster Jatan sought the best for me, so put me in your charge.”
“Very good.” Moraven lounged back against the corner of the tomb of a poet. “Have you come to question that assumption?”
“No. Yes.” The man’s shoulders shifted uneasily. “I am certain you know what you are doing.”
“No, you are not, but that’s good. Neither am I.”
Ciras blinked away shock, then looked down to hide his reaction. Moraven gave him a moment to compose himself. When the man’s head slowly came back up, the swordmaster continued, letting the hint of a smirk tug at the corners of his mouth. “If you have questioned dicaiserr Jatan’s decision, then you have questioned other things, too. What have you questioned?”
Ciras opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The drowsiness that had marked him before evaporated. “Master, I mean no disrespect.”
“But?”
Ciras opened his hands to take in the whole of the cemetery. “Why am I here?”
“Why do you think you are here?”
“I don’t know. You told me to wait here. I have waited. I have not stirred an inch. I have been vigilant. I have looked for ghosts and thieves and those who would steal relics, and I have seen nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Of course I have seen some things.” Ciras set his sword aside and stood. He wavered for a moment, resting his hand on the tomb, then shook his legs and took a few halting steps. “I saw kin and admirers bring offerings to those whose monuments are here. Most were quiet; some laughed.”
Moraven let his smile broaden. “Laughed, did they? Why would they do that?”
The younger man’s eyes widened. “Do you not know where you put me?”
“Tell me.”
Ciras prodded the tomb with a toe. “This is the monument to the poet and playwright, Jaor Dirxi. Do you know who that is?”
Moraven shrugged. “I might remember a poem or two.”
“He is famous for his satires about warriors. His poems ridicule what we are and do. His plays make us into buffoons. Some think them funny. They turn the natural order on its head. They exalt farmers over swordsmen; they equate fighting off locusts with defending the Empire from barbarian hordes. Save that a Naleni princess was his lover, he would not be here and his work would be forgotten.”
“And you didn’t like them laughing at you, a warrior, standing vigil at his tomb?”
“No, I did not.” Ciras stopped his pacing and stared down at Moraven. “But I preferred that to the humiliation I received last evening when you bid me stand vigil in the courtyard of the Three Pearls.”
“You didn’t like that duty?” Moraven raised an eyebrow, then pulled the lid from the jug again. “I spent last evening there myself and quite enjoyed it.”
“How could you? The Three Pearls is one of the most notorious houses of prostitution in Moriande—nay, even the whole of Nalenyr.”
“More like all nine of the Principalities.”
“Even worse, then,” Ciras snarled. “Not even a house of entertainment, just a house of whores, coming in from trolling the streets, finding men and women of dubious character, questionable sobriety, and soon to be diminished wealth. They saw me there, teased me, touched me, and whispered all manner of lewd and las
civious suggestions. One even served her customer right there in front of me, moaning, groaning, and making other noises ill suited to the human throat.”
Moraven sipped some of the soup and let its warmth spread through him. “I know she did that. I paid her to do so.”
“You paid for my humiliation?” Ciras’ eyes narrowed and anger crept into his voice. “Was that your aim, then, to humiliate me? Or did you have me stand guard there so the brothel’s owner would reward you for my service?”
“And, if that were true?”
“That would be reprehensible.”
“Would it? Why?” Moraven sprang to his feet and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “If I am your Master and hire you out, am I not entitled to your wages?”
Ciras hesitated. “Yes, but—”
“But what? Is it wrong that I collect your wages in congress with gutter whores if I so choose? You would let me take food from a farmer for your service. Why not what others have to offer?”
“But, Master, you are serrcai!”
“Meaning?”
“You are better than that! You are better than that just as I am better than sitting vigil in a graveyard while the whole of the city is celebrating the Harvest Festival. My family is Tirati nobility. We have money. On the second night of Festival we throw a huge ball for the richest and wisest and most celebrated. Had you come to Tirat, you would have been honored at that ball, Master. You would have been given anything you desired. You would not have had to settle for gutter whores. We would have bought you the finest courtesan on the island. We would have brought one from the mainland for you. My family would have done that. They would have.”
Moraven again arched an eyebrow. “But not now?”
“After how I have been treated in your service? Why would they? You have disgraced them, me, and yourself. I had never imagined I could be so poorly used. I trusted Master Jatan and he turns me over to you, a jokester who consorts with poxed gutter whores while paying them to tempt me with their foul bodies. You are worthy of respect, or should be, but I can find nothing but contempt for you.”
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