A Secret Atlas

by Michael A. Stackpole

  He frowned. “I knew I should not have agreed to meet her, but something in that note touched me. She’d always been immature and selfish, but there was something different in that missive. I resolved to meet her and left the house early so her family would suspect nothing. I went to meet her at the appointed time but got delayed. I arrived perhaps a quarter hour late, but really thought nothing of it.”

  Nirati snorted. “Majiata was never punctual. You should still have been early.”

  “That’s what I thought. I waited for an hour, then just assumed she had decided to go back on whatever she had been thinking. I returned to the house and went to sleep. The next morning I got up and out early to meet the people who had delayed me the night before, and that is when I ran into the constable.”

  “What happened then, my lord?”

  He shook his head. “You do not want to know.”

  Her flesh crawled at the tone in his voice. “I have to know. You’re not alone in feeling guilty.”

  “I don’t think you know what you are asking.”

  “But I’m still asking.”

  “Fine.” His spine straightened, but he refused to look at her as he spoke in a flat tone. “Whatever, whoever, did this to her met her in the street. She probably knew him and went with him willingly, or he was strong enough to carry her off. He took her to a rooftop where she could easily see the southern sky and the three moons chasing each other through the constellations. It would have been beautiful. I keep reminding myself of that, hoping, somehow, that such beauty was the last thing she knew.”

  The strain in his voice suggested Junel knew his hope was forlorn.

  “On the roof, her clothing was cut from her. She didn’t fight much if at all. The constable said she would have had cuts on her forearms if she had. ‘Defensive wounds,’ he called them. He also said she might have scratched her attacker and they’d find skin under the fingernails. She had such long nails.”

  He snorted. “Of course, to do that, they’d have to find her hands.”

  Nirati’s mouth dropped open. She’d heard no inkling that Majiata’s hands had been taken. She knew of no reason anyone would do that. Her stomach began to roil.

  “He cut her throat, nice and clean, almost severing her head completely. It surprised her, for she died with that shocked look on her face. Then he opened her from throat to groin and dressed her out as a hunter might a deer. He hollowed her out, and spread her organs out around her. And, as I said, he took her hands.”

  Nirati clapped a hand to her mouth. “No, that is too horrible.”

  “Horrible. Odd how a word fails, isn’t it?” Junel exhaled slowly. “The constable said it would have taken an ax to take her hands off like that. Or a bite. And the cutting, that was one knife, maybe two. Or talons. Even then they were thinking Viruk, I guess.

  “When I saw her, I dropped to my knees and vomited. Had I been on time, he might not have gotten her. If I had not decided that our union would be useless, she might not have felt the need to meet me away from the house. If, if, if . . .”

  His lean body again bowed forward. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes and began to sob, repeating that one word over and over.

  Nirati rose and crossed to the bed, gathering him in her arms. He slumped across her thighs, his body convulsing with silent sobs. She hugged him hard, despite the stink. She stroked greasy hair and hushed him, holding on until his body slackened and his breathing came more regularly.

  Then she shifted him off her and laid him back in the bed. She got up and swung his legs around. She pulled the thin blanket over him and stroked his face. In sleep he seemed a bit more peaceful and this brought the hint of a smile to her face.

  Poor Junel. Compassion for him filled her, but fury at Majiata ran countercurrent to it. Majiata’s death tortured Junel, and it was not right. Majiata had been unworthy of such honest feelings—and, were she alive, would have only thought of how she could profit from them. If there was something good to be taken from her death, it was that she would no longer be around to torment Keles.

  I hope he does not learn of her death for a long time. I’ll talk to Grandfather about that. Keles, however, is not my immediate problem.

  Stooping, she scooped up the ale bucket and carried it down to the common room. The innkeeper’s wife, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman, accepted it from her. “Shall I just fill it for him as before?”

  “No.” Nirati kept her voice firm. “You’ll bring him soup when he’s awake, something that isn’t heavy, and watered wine. I want you to go up there and wash him, too.”

  The woman frowned. “He’s a grown man. He can be doing for himself.”

  Nirati’s nostrils flared. “Have you any idea who I am?”

  The woman bit back a quick response. “I don’t suppose it would make a difference if I did.”

  “It might. I am the granddaughter of Qiro Anturasi. If I let it be known that the Jandetokun Inn is favored, you will prosper. If I let it be known you have displeased us, this place will fail. If need be, I could even ask the Prince to shut you down. You understand this, I see, but you need not fear, because I am asking you for a favor, so I shall do you one in return.”

  “Y-yes, my lady?”

  “Do as I ask with the Desei count and you will be blessed. Any bills, reasonable bills, for his care will be paid immediately and in gold.”

  “Or spices?”

  “If you wish, yes, we have some influence there.” Nirati kept a smile from her face, though it was clear she and the woman understood each other. “I want him sober, fed, cleaned, and groomed. I shall come back daily to see the progress and settle accounts.”

  The woman nodded. “I understand, my lady Anturasi. Been in this business long enough to know how to dry someone up.”

  “Good. One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “If anyone else asks after him, you don’t know where he has gone. You’ll even complain about accounts left unpaid.”

  “Do I keep any money they give me to settle them?”

  “Yes. And I will pay you to know who asks for him.” Nirati nodded to the woman and accepted a bow in return. “Your cooperation will be rewarded.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” The woman’s voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ll do what you ask, but why? He’s just a Desei. Why help him?”

  Nirati let her question rattle around inside her skull, but found no answer the woman would understand. In fact, she did not even understand her first thoughts. She just smiled and replied in another whisper, “It’s an investment in the future. He owes me a dance or three, and it’s not a debt I shall let go unpaid.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  20th day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

  9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  736th year since the Cataclysm

  Stormwolf, Nysant

  Cartayne

  Jorim Anturasi used the slight rise and fall of the Stormwolf as a means to quiet his mind. He sat on the deck in his cramped cabin, legs crossed, spine straight. His personal logbook, containing measurements and hastily sketched maps, as well as time lists, lay open before him. In the dim light of a single candle he could make out enough to let it serve as a boost to his memory. Most things he held in his mind, however, which was where they needed to be so he could send them to his grandfather.

  He regulated his breathing and relaxed, which was harder than he imagined because of the impatience that kept coming from Qiro. Each day, as close to Naleni noon as possible, Jorim had composed himself to send information. The experience had never been a pleasant one, but of late it had been even less so. Qiro had changed, and not for the better.

  When Jorim had first learned telepathic communication with his grandfather, things had flowed easily, much the way the massive Stormwolf rose and fell rhythmically at anchor. His grandfather had been welcoming and gentle, prompting recollections or details in a wordle
ss manner. Jorim always sought to communicate as much as he could. He’d been eager to please his grandfather, and reveled in any encouragement he’d gotten.

  But now Qiro regarded any lack of information as an act of conspiracy. His gentle prompts had become sharp jabs. The few times Jorim had been too exhausted to muster a defense, his grandfather had raked through his mind, leaving a blinding headache in his wake.

  Even when his grandfather invaded his mind, Jorim had little worries about his secrets being betrayed. Numbers communicated very easily. Subjective concepts, such as beauty, or even a color, did not get conveyed as precisely. Even when he had worked with Keles, there had been mistakes, despite their closeness. The emotional and generational gap with his grandfather meant Qiro could get less from him, and also meant the old man cared very little for Jorim’s personal adventures.

  The old man just wanted more data for his maps.

  With this lot, he would get quite enough. The Stormwolf did not travel alone. With it were a dozen other ships, which carried food and water, fodder for the cavalry horses on board, as well as other necessary supplies like lumber, cables, and sailcloth. As they approached the island of Cartayne, the fleet had been split and lesser cartographers had taken measurements as they sailed north and south. The two halves of the fleet converged at the western port of Nysant, and Jorim had worked all night combining the information into an accurate chart of the island, complete with soundings of a southern harbor and the route to it through a reef.

  Reaching out with his mind, visualizing Anturasikun and his grandfather’s sanctum, he reached the old man easily. Qiro began to devour his information with the fervor of a starving man falling on a haunch of venison. For a heartbeat Jorim actually saw an image of the world on the wall and watched Cartayne sharpen in definition.

  He braced for a mental assault, but his grandfather broke the link with a swift finality. Jorim slumped back against the bulkhead and bumped his head—not enough to injure himself, but sufficient to shock him back to full consciousness. Sitting up, he rubbed the back of his head.

  I hope everything is all right. The quick termination of their link could have meant his grandfather had collapsed. His heart might have failed, or he might have suffered a brain tremor. He might even have been murdered. Jorim dismissed the latter instantly, since Uncle Ulan would never have the nerve to kill him, and would permit no one else close enough to do so. The Prince’s precautions would keep assassins out, so the old man was safe from anything other than natural disaster or the vengeance of the gods.

  He just as easily dismissed the idea that his grandfather was ill. Jorim felt certain he would have gotten some hint of pain, shock, or panic through the link before it was broken. His grandfather’s ego was such that he’d not have been able to conceal his dismay at being prey to mortal afflictions.

  But it surprised Jorim that his first reaction was concern for the old man. He would have expected to feel some sort of relief, or even glee, for he had long since ceased to like his grandfather. He didn’t respect him much either, save in the area of mapmaking. Outside of that, Qiro Anturasi was a creature worthy only of contempt.

  A knock on the cabin door prevented him from examining his feelings further. “I’m not hurt. The thump you heard was nothing.”

  The door opened and Anaeda Gryst stood there. “I’m glad to hear that. We’re going ashore.”

  “I thought . . .” Jorim scrambled to his feet and scooped his logbook up as her eyes narrowed. “As ordered, Captain Gryst. Let me lock this away first.”

  “Be quick about it, and bring your sword.”

  He opened his sea chest and deposited the log, then drew out a simple sword. Single-edged, running just shy of a yard from hilt to point, the blade resided in an unadorned wooden scabbard. The hilt was long enough to let him use the blade two-handed, but the sword was light enough that he could duel with it easily as well. Jorim had not studied swordsmanship at a serrian, but the Prince had seen to it that the Anturasi heirs knew enough to protect themselves. Jorim had gotten better on his own and might have been Fifth Rank if tested by a school in the capital.

  “Do you expect trouble, Captain?”

  “If I did, you’d see our cavalry mounted and ready to escort us.”

  Jorim shut the chest and locked it. “I notice you’re unarmed.”

  She smiled slowly. “The people we’ll see already know how dangerous I am. Your sword will win you a modicum of respect. That will be enough for the moment. Come, we’ve not a moment to lose.”

  He followed her from his cabin up to the main deck, and then down netting to where a small boat bobbed beside the Stormwolf. Five sailors—four oarsmen and a coxswain—waited for them. Captain Gryst sat in the stern, leaving Jorim the bench at the bow, which he didn’t mind taking. The oarsmen pushed off the ship, then began the half mile pull in toward the shore.

  Nysant had, ages before, been a Viruk outpost. Little could be seen of what once had been strong fortresses because stones had been stolen from them and mud buildings grafted to their walls like hornets’ nests. The squat human buildings mocked the former grandeur. Their imprecise angles and slouching forms dragged on Viruk architecture, much as the human slaves must have dragged on the last of their Viruk masters.

  When the heart of the Viruk Empire sank beneath the Dark Sea, the Cartayne colony had begun to wither. The Viruk had brought Men and Soth slaves to populate the place and work it. Gemstone mines and plantations in the interior had provided a lot of wealth for the Empire, but with no home market, the economy collapsed. The Viruk retreated, not caring what happened to their slaves.

  Nysant had become, over the centuries, a center of commerce. The trade winds made it easy for ships from the east to reach the city, and the coastal currents allowed them safe passage back home. Along the way they filled their holds with a variety of things that fetched high prices in their home ports. Until Naleni fleets had begun to travel to the west themselves, Nysant had been the source of western treasures. It yet served the same role for a number of the other Principalities, and ships from the Five Princes all rode anchor in the harbor.

  Jorim and Captain Gryst climbed a ladder to a wharf and headed inland. Just beyond the normal thicket of dockside warehouses, they entered a free marketplace where wares from the world over were touted by hundreds of loud voices. Textiles and spices, exotic animals and enslaved peoples all were offered for sale. Captain Gryst stayed well away from the slave pens, where half-naked ebon-fleshed men from Aefret stood chained in a line on an auction block. The auctioneer—a mongrel of dusky skin and muddled features—solicited bids with a combination of flattery and abuse, all in the local cant. Jorim caught words here and there, and liked the lyrical flow of his voice, though the practice of trading human flesh did not appeal to him at all.

  They continued on past stalls with fruits and vegetables, squawking yard fowl and collections of odd trinkets. Captain Gryst led him out through the eastern edge of the bazaar and turned north. They plunged into a dim world of twisting alleys. Despite his skill at cartography, Jorim quickly became lost, and he gained the impression that she wanted it that way.

  Finally, she stopped before a small shop and entered through a doorway hung with a ragged blanket. He found himself in a small room with a carpeted floor that had been strewn with thick pillows. The carpet had come from Tas al Aud and would fetch a fortune in Moriande—likewise the beautifully embroidered pillows.

  That she sat in the midst of a fortune did not seem to make any impression on the tiny, wizened woman facing them. She drew on a long pipe and exhaled sweet smoke that drifted into a low-hanging cloud. Captain Gryst bowed, then sank to her knees, drawing some of the smoke down with her. Jorim likewise bowed, instinctively holding it long enough to convey great respect, then knelt a step behind and to the right of Captain Gryst.

  The old woman smiled toothlessly. “I am pleased you have returned, Anaeda. Your absence has been mourned.”

  “It grieved me
as well, Grandmother.” Anaeda bowed her head again. “I came when word reached me that you wished to see me.”

  “Would that you thought to come sooner, for my home is yours. But the Stormwolf demands more attention than I do.” The old woman pointed the pipe stem at Jorim. “He is not your bodyguard. Your lover, perhaps?”

  “An associate, Grandmother.”

  The woman snorted smoke out her nose, then clamped the pipe firmly in teeth. “You will be more forthcoming, I know.” She shifted a pillow and withdrew from it a bamboo case corked at each end. She opened one end and withdrew a scroll, which she spread out on the carpet. She used her bare feet to hold two corners down, leaving it to Anaeda and Jorim to secure the corners nearest them.

  Jorim fought to conceal his reaction, but Anaeda did not. She gasped, then chuckled. “This is wonderful, Grandmother.” She turned to Jorim. “What do you think?”

  Jorim rubbed his free hand over his chin. The rice-paper scroll measured two feet by four and clearly depicted the southern reaches of the Principalities, stretching west to Aefret. Cartayne figured prominently at the center of the map; but from their voyage so far, he knew it to be shown about three hundred miles too far west. To the south of it, however, a string of islands curved gently east to the mythical Mountains of Ice at the bottom of the world. Those islands had appeared on no chart he’d ever seen, and one of them had a city indicated. The others all had fanciful images of strange people and creatures—as did the interior of Aefret over on the left side of the map. He suspected those were more decorative than informative, but he’d seen nothing like them before, and they intrigued him.

  Of course, they’re likely as much fable as the Mountains of Ice.

  He glanced up at the old woman. “Where was this found?”

  “It was drawn from voyages.”

  Jorim knew better than to contradict her. “It was drawn from many voyages. Voyages that took place many years apart.”