Moraven drank again, then set the jar down. “You may stop now.”
“Stop? Why would I? You asked if I had questions, so I have them.” Color flooded Ciras’ face. “Why did you have me guarding a whorehouse? Of what possible use was that? And why have me here standing vigil over the grave of a poet who hated what I am?”
“Stop. Now.” Moraven held his right hand out, palm up. “Sit.”
The edge in his voice drove Ciras to his knees. He bowed his head and laid his hands on his thighs. “As you wish, Master.”
Moraven dropped to his knees as well and kept his voice low. “The use of what I have required from you, and what I will require from you, is that these things allow me to learn about you. The more I know about you, the better I will be able to correct your errors and make you into the serrdin you should be.”
He moved the jug of broth closer to Ciras. “Drink. You are hungry and thirsty. But slowly. It is hot.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Let me tell you what I have learned so far, Ciras.” Moraven let the man drink and lick away the droplet of broth hanging from his lower lip before continuing. “You have a romantic view of being a swordsman. I have little doubt you have killed—probably bandits and thieves who were besetting good folk. They probably even deserved to be dead. You see yourself as part of a grand heroic tradition of the sort exalted in songs, poems, and stories, rendered in statuary and in paintings. You know the works of classical Imperial authors, like Jontze and Viron Dunnol—more the latter since he was himself serrcai. You cling to the Nine Virtues, eschew the Nine Vices, and intend to pass the Eighty-One Tests of an Imperial serrcai. How many have you already passed?”
Ciras barely looked up, but pride infused his words. “Thirty-one, Master.”
“More than one a year.” Moraven smiled. “And more than I have.”
“What?” Ciras all but dropped the jug of soup. “Master!”
Moraven’s eyes narrowed. “Still your tongue, for when it is working your ears are not.”
He waited for the man to fall silent again, then continued. “You wonder at the postings I gave you. They were exercises in becoming a swordsman. They encompassed rules—those you imagined, and those that exist without your comprehension. And they had grander lessons attached to them. You failed the lessons and followed only the rules you acknowledged. Let me explain.
“The rules you acknowledged were those you have accepted from your reading and previous training. You accept that, as your Master, I can give you an order and you feel honor-bound to abide by it without question. I told you, last night, that I wished you to ‘stand watch here.’ You took the words to mean you were to be rooted to this very spot—one that was cold, subjected you to ridicule, and left you hungry.”
Ciras frowned, but did not voice a question.
Moraven smiled. “Very good. You were hungry, yet you sat here in a place where people bring food to the dead. You are in a place of plenty, yet you were wanting.”
“But, Master, the food is an offering to the dead, and to the gods. To take it would be—”
“Would be what? Didn’t you see vermin come and nibble at sweetcakes and fruit?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did the gods smite them? Did revenants rise to protect those offerings?” Moraven lowered his voice. “The priests of Grija are seldom skeletal, though they serve the god of Death. Do you think all that food is burned as sacrifice?”
“No, but . . . It is wrong.”
“Very good, Ciras. This speaks well of your character that you are willing to endure discomfort when something runs against your moral code.” Moraven nodded encouragingly and bade him drink more soup. “You must remember, however, there are times when circumstances require you to deal with things in ways different from those you might have intended. Rare is the transgression that cannot be repaired afterward. In fact, all but one can be fixed.”
“And that one?” Ciras closed his eyes and crimson burned his cheeks. “Forgive me, Master. Here I sit at the focus of the answer.”
“Yes. Why did I have you sit here last night, in a graveyard, when all about you could hear the sounds and see the lights of Festival? Because those who are here once enjoyed Festival. What you and I do can take that away from them.”
“If you will forgive me, Master, that makes sense. Why, then, the House of Three Pearls?”
“I would have hoped that would have been obvious, too.” Moraven sighed. “There you saw the ardor that burns at the core of all people. Each of the Nine Virtues denies a drive that the Nine Vices embody. Lust is one—which in a house of entertainment is renamed desire and therefore acceptable. The point is that people have drives—urges that they may or may not be able to control. If they can control them, it may only be for a little while. You controlled yours that night, but you were under no directive to do so. I told you ‘stay here,’ nothing more. Had you asked for a bed, they would have put you in the same small room I slept in last night.”
The swordmaster raised a finger. “At the Three Pearls you saw the strength of lust. Here I hoped you might truly reflect on the truth beneath Jaor Dirxi’s poetry. He did ridicule warriors, but did so because of his terror of them. He and many others were terrified in that day and age that warriors would dominate the world, and that Cataclysm after Cataclysm would be unleashed. Many a warlord and bandit prince had second thoughts about actions they intended, for fear Jaor’s sharp wit would lampoon them.
“So, these two nights were for you to learn that people will do much to defend or to obtain the objects of their desire, and that their fear of death will prompt them to many things, including acts of courage. All to avoid death. Without understanding those lessons, you will not understand people. Without understanding people, you will never be able to separate those you must kill from those you need not.”
Ciras’ expression softened, then he nodded.
“One more thing, Ciras.”
“Yes, Master?”
“You mentioned your family.”
“Yes.”
“Are they here?”
Ciras shook his head. “In Moriande? No, Master.”
“Do they know you are here?”
“No.”
“Do they have influence here?”
“Not really.”
Moraven flowed to his feet, drew his sword, and let the quivering blade slap the underside of Ciras’ chin. “Could they prevent me from killing you this instant?”
The young man swallowed hard. “No, Master.”
“Very good.” Moraven resheathed his sword. “All you are, Ciras, is what you are: what you can do, how you can make the world better. Money, rank, family—even your past—are immaterial. We are each of us utterly alone in the world. If we cannot find within ourselves the strength to deal with the challenges the world presents us, all the strength from outside will not save us.”
Ciras nodded and appeared on the brink of asking another question when two guards in the Prince’s livery approached, leading an elderly man wearing the formal robes and wispy beard of protocol functionary. Moraven stood as the old man mounted the little hill.
The functionary bowed. “Have I the honor of addressing Moraven Tolo?”
“I am he.” Moraven returned the bow, making it of a depth and duration suitable for the Prince himself.
The old man drew an ivory paper scroll from his sleeve and handed it to the swordmaster. He held out a small bronze stamp so Moraven could check its design against the red wax seal, then he broke it and read.
“Minister, there must be some mistake.”
The old man shook his head. “No, serrcai, there is no mistake. You will report to Wentokikun on the sixth night of Festival. There you will display your skills in a duel.”
“But I made no offer to do anything of the sort.”
“It does not matter. The display of your skills was offered to the Prince as a gift to honor the dynasty’s anniversary.”
Mora
ven smiled. “A gift? Who offered my services so?”
The old man’s head tilted to the side. “The Lady of Jet and Jade.”
“Ah, of course.” Moraven smiled warmly. “Her request is my command.”
Chapter Twelve
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
Wentokikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
The confining weight of the layered robes of state struck Prince Cyron as heavier than the lamellar armor he donned for battle. He would have gladly traded the purple robes—embroidered as they were with a menagerie of the gods’ earthly avatars, dragons ascendant—for his armor. Having the dragon mask shielding his face would have been a grand bonus, for a single slip of expression could be his undoing. Much better the cut of a sword than so simple a mistake.
The doors to the long reception chamber opened slowly. Eight pillars, each depicting one of the gods of the Zodiac, neatly divided the room into three equal parts. The Dragon Throne on which he sat represented Wentiko—the ninth star sign—and clearly subordinated all the other gods. A wide red carpet trimmed in purple ran from the edge of the throne dais to the door. Only those of royal blood were permitted to walk the wide carpet between the pillars. For a commoner to set foot on it would be an offense before Heaven and against the Prince, resulting in dire catastrophes that his astrologers and ministers could catalog with precision. The trespasser would have to be killed to prevent them—and in any number of horrible ways which his ministers could also enumerate.
The ministers would be witness to all, but from their positions on the reed mats in the outer thirds of the room. His own functionaries would take up positions at the right side of the room, and his visitors would be opposite them, also at their Master’s right hand. They would be matched in number, ordered equally by age, so everything remained in harmony and balance.
Aside from the fact that I hate their Master and he hates me.
Cyron kept his face utterly impassive as Prince Pyrust of Deseirion centered himself in the doorway. He was likewise hampered by ceremonial robes, with dark blue predominating. His had been embroidered with a far simpler motif that involved Hawks and only two other of the gods. Dogs, which were the symbol of Helosunde, rimmed the hem of his garment so that with each shuffled step, he crushed one beneath his feet. On his robe’s skirts, breasts, and, no doubt, back, a gigantic hawk bore a clawed worm in its talons, asserting the supremacy of Deseirion over Nalenyr.
Cyron found the display as ill-mannered as he did bold—but at least he had refrained from giving the worm a red mane matching Cyron’s dead brother’s hair. Another might have taken Pyrust as crude or stupid for wearing such a garment during this particular Festival, but to do that would be to underestimate Pyrust. Regardless of Naleni money and weapons being placed in the hands of Helosundian rebels, the Desei maintained their grip on the conquered Principality. Cyron doubted, despite the peerlessness of his Keru guards, that Helosunde would ever again be free, which meant Pyrust would be coming for Nalenyr sooner rather than later.
But while Pyrust was a formidable opponent, he did have flaws. The greatest among them was his belief in prophetic dreams. Cyron had long since gotten past such superstitious nonsense, but he still listened to court astrologers and soothsayers. It appeased the ministers and that made his life easier. Now, if Pyrust would just do the same, all could be well.
As Pyrust stepped onto the carpet, his ministers filed into the room and took their places. Cyron’s followed suit, as if each side were a well-practiced dance troupe. The Prince knew each of them was watching the others, evaluating, guessing, and cataloging nuances that would later be turned to advantage during negotiations. Had they put a fraction of this energy into actually making the vast bureaucracy function, all the Principalities would be years ahead of where they currently were.
When Pyrust reached the halfway point of the carpet, Cyron stood and laid the horsehair-tipped wand of state on the arm of his throne. A minister twitched when he did that, disappointing Cyron. He’d half hoped the man’s heart would seize and he could put someone in that position who had not been old when his grandfather ruled.
While Pyrust’s face had remained a stone mask, his step faltered for a heartbeat when Cyron put his wand down. One of the Desei ministers saw that and stiffened, evening the score in the protocol duel. Pyrust came on, lengthening his stride ever so slightly, kicking Helosundian dogs as he came, then stopped at the last pair of pillars and bowed.
“On this occasion of your dynasty’s anniversary, Prince Cyron, I and the Desei wish you all prosperity, longevity, and joy.”
Pyrust held the bow deeply and long enough to impress Cyron. I could almost believe he is sincere.
He waited for his northern counterpart to straighten up, then he bowed—not nearly so deeply. To do so would have been unseemly given the location and circumstance of their meeting. He did hold the bow as long as Pyrust’s, however, and the eldest Naleni minister did begin to grey about the face.
“You are most welcome, Prince Pyrust.” Cyron looked at his ministers. “I would have a chair brought for the Prince.”
The oldest minister grimaced, and a hand stole to his chest. The two most subordinate ministers did stand and shuffle to the door to take a small seat from a Keru guard. They conveyed it to the front of the hall and set it up at the line of pillars at the right. Bowing deeply to both Princes, they retreated with tiny steps, but managed to move quickly regardless.
Pyrust turned his back to his own ministers and hazarded a smile. “A campaign chair. How thoughtful.”
“Your Highness is known for being comfortable in one.” Cyron nodded slightly. “I would have made it a saddle but bringing a horse in here would have had its difficulties.”
Pyrust did sit, though stiffly. “So I understand.”
Cyron sat and arranged his robe around his legs so the flat central panel was in clear display. It showed a hawk being savaged by a dog. It continued the insult his remark about the horse had started, since legend had it that Pyrust’s grandfather, when he took the Helosundian capital, had ridden into the palace’s reception hall and smashed his face against a rafter, spilling him from the saddle. Much was made of that as an ill omen for the Helosundian occupation.
“I was pleased you accepted my invitation to visit during the Festival this year. I hope you will find it a pleasing experience.”
“Far more so than some, but I am glad you find amusement at your own Festival.”
The Naleni prince frowned, which deepened the slight groan from his ministers. “I am not sure I understand.”
Pyrust smiled wolfishly. “You clearly enjoyed terrifying that girl last evening. You had her whipped this morning as well.”
“I did enjoy the former, but not the latter.” Cyron’s eyes tightened. “You have seen her type before—born into privilege, but with no sense of the responsibility that comes with it. How would you have handled things?”
“You know the answer to that. I would have had her whipped right then and there. No chance for appeal. I would let everyone understand the severity of her offense and the justice of her punishment. Punishment delayed serves little purpose.”
“Perhaps, but that was not my thinking.”
“What were you thinking?”
The younger man smiled. “I was thinking to give her a chance to learn from her experience. I gave her eight hours to think about the lash tasting her flesh. Had she become contrite, had she apologized—had she come to accept her punishment this morning and admitted the justice of it—I might well have forgiven it in the spirit of the Festival.” He shrugged. “She was not contrite. Her kin came and demanded I forgive her in the name of the Festival. I offered them the chance to take her place, but none wished to do so.”
The Desei prince frowned. “We may think you Naleni are degenera
te, but I would not have imagined that your sense of morality had decayed such that even her father would not take her place.”
“No, but I did mention that my jaecaitsae would add a lash for every year she had lived, and that made the total unacceptable. Her escort, however, did make the offer. He was one of yours, so perhaps you are right about us, or you are just morally superior.”
Pyrust snorted. “You say that only because he has been exiled, so is no longer one of mine. Had he truly been, you would have said it was a sign of intellectual morbidity.”
“Or true love.”
“Often the same thing.”
“Alas.” Cyron did allow himself a smile. “She was led to a public square, stripped to the waist—which I think bothered her more than the threat of a lashing—then whipped. The jaecaitsae, on my instruction, did inflict enough pain with the first lash that she passed out. The other three were lighter, and only one left a small mark, tracing the line of a shoulder blade. She will never see it, but her handmaidens will.”
“You think that is justice?”
“It is enough justice for me. There was nothing that could change her into a productive citizen, so she serves as an example. I could have hoped for more, but I will settle for that.” Cyron nodded once. “I know you would have been more ruthless, but I did what I thought was best. Our opinions clearly differ on that. And they will into the future, I am quite certain.”
“You speak frankly.”
“In my court, that is welcome.”
Prince Pyrust nodded, then slapped his hands on the arms of the campaign chair. “As you have made me feel comfortable and permit me some familiarity, my brother, I would suggest we drop all pretense. You know I had no choice but to come to celebrate your dynasty, for your father came to Felarati to celebrate a similar anniversary twenty years ago.”
“My brother came with him.”
“I recall having met him.” Pyrust’s eyes tightened slightly. “A brave man, your brother.”
But not your superior. You measure me by him, and find me lacking. It is dangerous to disabuse you of that notion, but far more so to let you maintain it.
A Secret Atlas Page 11
