A Secret Atlas

by Michael A. Stackpole

  The room contained items from the entire world, and if sold in the market could have ransomed a prince. But here they lay, piled haphazardly, languishing beneath a coat of dust as if they were nothing. More, Qiro was free to roam amid it all, while his visitor remained caged.

  Lord Phoesel finally found his tongue. “Thank you for receiving me, Master Anturasi . . . Grandmaster Anturasi. You have no idea how much I appreciate this favor.”

  Qiro sat on the throne, and ran his fingers through striped monotreme fur. “I agreed to meet you as a favor to my granddaughter. Let us have no mistaking why and how you are here. Were it up to me, you would never have been admitted to my presence.”

  Majiata’s father had started to stand, but quickly went to his knees again and bowed deeply. “I have offended you somehow, Grandmaster. What can I do to make amends?”

  “You have offended me, and I don’t know that you can make amends.”

  “Surely I can do something. What was it that earned your ire?”

  Qiro smiled slowly and Nirati felt ice trickle through her belly. She’d intervened with her grandfather for Lord Phoesel as a favor to Junel. But Qiro did not like how Lord Phoesel had used Nirati to get to him, and the man would be made to pay.

  “My dear Lord Phoesel, you made a contract with the House of Tilmir to supply charts for the Gold Crane. Your ship was bound to Nysant—following curiously close in the Stormwolf’s wake.”

  “Grandmaster, my ship was not following the expedition. Gold Crane will sail west to Aefret.”

  “Regardless, you made a contract with a house that rivals mine. A house of inferior cartography.”

  The man bowed deeply. “Yes, Grandmaster, I have discovered this, and this is why I am here. I hoped I could obtain from you new charts and have them put aboard the Swift. It will sail after Gold Crane.”

  Qiro examined a fingernail. “That might be possible. There will be the matter of payment.”

  “Yes, Grandmaster. I will have to pay Tilmir something, but I will yet be able to pay you your customary rate.”

  The corners of Qiro’s mouth curled up. “It will be thirty percent of your total return. Your expenses are not my concern.”

  “Th-thirty percent?” Lord Phoesel shook his head. “But you normally take only fifteen, and that after expenses.”

  “This is an emergency, Marutsar, and you know it. Your Silver Gull was using Tilmir charts and ran into a shoal off Miromil. If you can refloat the ship, it will not be before next spring. There are other hidden dangers out there, and you can’t afford to lose Gold Crane.”

  “But this is extortion!”

  “Hardly. I am doing you a favor.”

  “A favor?” Lord Phoesel came up on one knee, color darkening his face. “After all our families have meant to each other, this is a favor?”

  Qiro shot to his feet, pale eyes blazing. “Do not attempt to manipulate me. I see so much more than you do, than you are capable of seeing. I see the world. I see beyond the trinkets here to what is true.

  “You are a fool, Marutsar Phoesel, for you do not recognize a favor when I am doing you one. There are things out there, things not indicated on any Tilmir chart—nightmare things that will swallow your ships whole. I know that. I’ve known that for years. I knew you shipped without my charts. You’ve asked others and you know I have granted no one else an audience such as you have now. That is the favor. You have already made one mistake; do not compound it.”

  Lord Phoesel struggled. He clearly wanted to scream at Qiro, but merely clenched his fists in impotent rage. Fear started him trembling and his restless gaze darted around the room. So much of the world’s riches lay there about him, and the lack of charts kept them from his grasp as effectively as the bars.

  He came back down to his knees. “Thirty percent?”

  “I feel generous, yes.”

  Lord Phoesel’s head came up. “The Crane would be lost?”

  Qiro canted his head to the left. “It might yet. Pray it remains becalmed at Nysant while your Swift sails south. There should be enough time.”

  The merchant nodded slowly. “I shall have the papers drawn up immediately for your signature. Once they are signed, I will have my charts?”

  The Anturasi patriarch frowned. “My lord, please do not insult me. I trust you. Think of the association of our families, after all. The charts are already drawn up and await your departure. Swift can leave within the hour. The papers you may have here by week’s end.”

  “You are most kind, Grandmaster Anturasi.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” Qiro’s eyes narrowed. “And, Marutsar, I am sorry about your loss.”

  The kneeling man nodded. “The Gull, yes, quite a tragedy.”

  “I meant your daughter.”

  Blood drained from the man’s face and Nirati feared he’d be sick. He bowed deeply, pressing his forehead against the floor, then came back up, but not fully. “Thank you, Grandmaster. May prosperity continue to smile on the House of Anturasi.”

  “It will, my lord. It most definitely will.”

  Majiata’s father slunk from the chamber on hands and knees. Nirati made to follow, but her grandfather raised a hand. She waited, and when Lord Phoesel opened the outer cage door, gold bars again slid down over the small doorway.

  Nirati raised her chin. “Something you would have of me, Grandfather?”

  The old man sat on the throne and smiled warmly this time. “You did this as a favor to your Desei friend. Is he worth it?”

  The question surprised her. “I think so. We have become close.”

  “I understand he is working by brokering shipments, arranging transport, and administering trade agreements. He would find any connection to us of value.”

  “He would, Grandfather, but he has asked me for nothing for himself. He feels sorry for Lord Phoesel.”

  Qiro’s eyes glittered. “And you risked my ire for him. He must be special, indeed. To have survived Pyrust’s wrath and escaped south speaks well of him. Is he involved in intrigues?”

  Nirati frowned. “He has met with some of the inland lords and has helped them invest in ships. I know he has warned them against trading with anyone using charts that are not of Anturasi manufacture. That is the extent of things.”

  “Does he please you, Nirati?”

  She hesitated, trying to hide a smile, but then let it blossom fully. Junel had been charming and very well mannered, enjoying her company as much as she enjoyed his. He had not been insistent about anything, so when they had come together intimately, it felt natural. Their trysts had the quality of a romance story about them, and just remembering his caresses puckered her flesh.

  “Yes, Grandfather, he does.”

  “Good. This pleases me as well.” Qiro nodded slowly. “I will ask you only one thing, Nirati.”

  “What, Grandfather?”

  “You are very dear to me. I know there are those who say you are not part of this family because you have no talent at cartography. But if you are happy, so am I, and so are your brothers. If you are ever unhappy, you will let me know, won’t you?”

  “If that is what you wish, Grandfather.”

  “It is.” He opened his arms. “I sit here amid the treasures of the world, but that which I love most dearly stands there, behind those bars. I would tear the world asunder were someone to hurt you. Remember that you are the world’s most precious treasure, Nirati. If someone is going to win you away from me, please let him be worthy of you.”

  She bowed deeply. “Yes, Grandfather. Thank you.” She wanted to straighten up, run from the tower, and find Junel; but when she looked into her grandfather’s eyes, that desire drained away. He watched her with the patience she’d not seen since she was a child.

  “May I ask another favor from you, Grandfather?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me spend the day with you. I want to visit the workshop again. I want to see your work, and see where my brothers have gotten. It’s been so long—too
long—since I have done that.”

  “Yes, Nirati, I would like that.” He stood, smiling proudly. “Come to the workshop and I will share my world with you.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  25th day, Month of the Rat, Year of the Dog

  9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  736th year since the Cataclysm

  Stormwolf, in the South Seas

  After two more weeks of sailing, the Stormwolf finally found one of the islands from the Soth chart. It had a small harbor into which they sailed—and none too soon, for a savage storm came whistling up out of the southwest. The island was an extinct volcano covered with jungle, barely more than three miles across, but it still protected the fleet. Only one of the smaller ships, the Mistwolf, broke her moorings and was driven aground.

  In some ways the ship’s grounding was a gift of the gods, for the crews quickly scavenged bits to repair storm damage done to the other ships in the fleet. The supplies it had carried were redistributed, and the ship refloated. With only one mast it could not continue the grand voyage, so Captain Gryst outfitted it with a skeleton crew and sent it back north toward Nalenyr, bearing word of what they had seen and done so far.

  Jorim had been tempted to send Shimik back with the Mistwolf for the Prince’s amusement, but the crew’s attachment to the Fenn stopped him. At least that is what he recorded in his report on the matter, further noting that he would continue to study the creature and its adaptive capabilities. The truth of the matter was that he was quite fond of Shimik and had no desire to be parted from the little beast.

  Shimik continued to develop in response to life on the ship. Since he spent so much time in the hold hunting rats, his fur darkened to a deep mahogany. His fingers lengthened and developed bony ridges along their length and the backs of his hands—where he had previously shown evidence of rat bites. He also became leaner and could ascend the ship’s ratlines with the best of the sailors. He continued his comedic antics to the delight of all, but he also could have his grim moments—as if mimicking Captain Anaeda. Oddly enough, she did not seem to think he was mocking her, and more than once he’d found the two of them hunched over a chart, studying things.

  While none of the other storms that blew up from the south were as savage as the one they’d weathered at what they called Byorang—Storm Island—the fleet found itself regularly lashed by strong winds and driving rain as they continued. The seas became heavy enough that even the Stormwolf rose and fell like a toy. At those times, Anaeda reminded him that he needed to use two hands—one for himself and one for the ship—lest he be lost overboard. For the most part he kept to his cabin, since the clouds and rain made attempting any positional reading of the stars impossible.

  When he did venture out, he did not go far, and just watched the water in all its myriad forms. He witnessed an elemental struggle, with wind and water doing their best to destroy the vessel of wood. He watched other ships rise to the crest of waves, then disappear over them, never knowing if behind the curtain of water they had been shattered, or if they would reappear once more.

  Sheets of rain assaulted the Stormwolf. Heavy droplets exploded against the deck, drumming loudly, opening holes in the rivers that washed over the deck. Waves crashed against the bow, dark water fragmenting into foam. The sails remained taut as the wind filled them. Masts creaked under the strain, and Anaeda was constantly bellowing orders to hoist one sail, or furl another. A good gust could have ripped them apart or snapped a mast, but to run without sails would be to surrender all ability to steer. The wind would blow the ship broadside to the towering waves and that would be the doom of any ship, even one as big as the Stormwolf.

  Most of the crew handled the storm well, but the same could not be said of the passengers. Iesol spent most of the time frightfully sick. When calm did descend, he labored feverishly to get caught up with all his work, which left him exhausted and even less able to tolerate a lively sea. Others remained in seclusion, but kept the cooks busy preparing concoctions to fight seasickness.

  The nastiest of the storms hit them on the twentieth day of the Month of the Rat and lasted for three long days. It broke around noon on the twenty-third, and the clouds vanished so quickly that one had to wonder if there had ever been a storm at all. As per orders, the fleet sailed south, cutting back and forth to the west and east every three hours, and pretty soon seven of the nine remaining tenders rejoined the Stormwolf.

  Two ships had not rejoined the fleet by the twenty-fifth, and all aboard assumed the Moondragon and Seastallion had not survived the storm. But as dawn broke on the twenty-fifth, a lookout perched up among the starcombers saw a ship to the east. Anaeda ordered the Stormwolf to come about.

  Jorim watched from the bow with a sinking feeling in his stomach. One of the crew had identified the ship as the Moondragon, and if he was right she had lost two of her four true masts. The remaining two only had scraps of tattered sails fluttering from yardarms, and cables snapped in the breeze. As they drew closer, he saw no signs of life on board and took as a good sign that none of the ship’s boats remained on the deck.

  He commented about that when Captain Gryst joined him, but she shook her head. “That’s not really a hopeful sign. It’s possible they thought the ship was going to sink. But putting out in boats in such a storm was as suicidal as remaining on a sinking ship. Yes, there; take a look at the aft, at the rudder.”

  Jorim squinted. “What rudder?”

  “Exactly. It’s gone. They survived the storm, then put the boats out with cables to help steer the ship.”

  “If that’s true, then where are the boats and where are the crew?”

  She sighed heavily. “I don’t know.” She turned and barked an order. “Lieutenant Minan, lower my boat. Master Anturasi and I will be crossing to the Moondragon. Give us a squad of soldiers and send over another boat with a crew that can get her cleaned up.”

  Minan started barking orders. By the time they crossed to midship, the captain’s boat had already been lowered. Anaeda descended the netting first, then Jorim followed, with Shimik scrambling down headfirst after them like a squirrel. Anaeda noticed the Fennych’s presence but did not comment on it, and Shimik remained quiet as the soldiers boarded and sailors began rowing them to the Moondragon.

  Jorim saw no other significant damage to the smaller vessel as they approached. Anaeda had the sailors take them around the ship once, then come in close to where the boarding net hung on the ship’s port side. Soldiers went up first, and once the nine of them signaled all was clear, Anaeda ascended. Shimik clung to Jorim’s back for the trip, then leaped off and scampered across the deck and down into the bowels of the ship.

  Captain Gryst strode across the deck and back into the cabin that belonged to Captain Calon, with Jorim only a step behind her. The cabin looked to be in order, showing no storm damage. “They got through the weather and were able to reorganize.”

  She went to the small desk against the port bulkhead and opened the logbook to the last page. “Heading, estimated speed, and continued damage reports on the morning of the twenty-fourth. Calon had the boats out, but only two of them. No indication the other two were lost in the storm. No sign of panic, and she’d not have left this log on board if she abandoned the ship.”

  Jorim glanced at the oil lamp swinging from a slender chain next to the captain’s bunk. “The oil’s all gone. It’s cold, but probably was burning since yesterday.”

  “Yes, you can’t get much more than a day’s worth of oil in one of those, and it would have been filled in the morning watch.” Anaeda closed the logbook and tucked it under her arm. “Let’s go forward and check the galley.”

  Lieutenant Minan and the crew arrived as they were making their way to the galley. Captain Gryst assigned them to clearing the deck of debris and getting ready to hoist sails. They fell to the tasks with some muttering. Jorim gathered, based on half-heard comments and wide-eyed glanc
es, that none of the sailors liked being on a ship where not one of their comrades remained.

  “Captain, this ship had how big a crew?”

  “Two hundred.” She ducked her head and descended steps to the galley. The cooking fires had died, and a huge black kettle contained a congealed mass of rice with a wooden spoon stuck into it. She grabbed it and tried to wrench it free, but only managed to snap it in half.

  She stared at the broken handle for a moment. “Whatever happened, it happened yesterday morning. Let’s keep looking.”

  Jorim turned and moved past the stairs into the long area below the main deck. A hundred empty hammocks swayed there, as gently as they would have with sailors occupying them. Blankets hung from some; others had fallen to the floor. At first glance it looked as if the sailors had just been called to their stations and would soon be back to stow their bedding, set up tables, and enjoy a hot breakfast.

  Jorim toed one of the blankets, but the fabric moved stiffly and clung to the floor. “I don’t like this.”

  Anaeda turned. “Blood?”

  “I think so.”

  She nodded. “I agree. You can smell it.”

  Anaeda threaded her way through the hammocks to the ship’s aft. There she looked into one cabin after another. The wooden latches and doorjambs had splintered, and the cabins showed signs of a fierce struggle. The junior officers’ cabins were liberally splashed with blood. The one that had been home to a priest of Wentiko had a bloody robe on the floor that had been clawed to pieces.

  She crouched beside the robe and Jorim examined the hatch. “Look, right here about where a shoulder would hit if someone was forcing the door . . .” He reached up and tugged off a scale the size of his little finger’s fingernail. “It’s from a fish, but no fish I’ve ever seen.”

  Anaeda stood. “Not many fish I know of with claws. Let’s keep looking.”