A Secret Atlas

by Michael A. Stackpole

  But any desire to do so faded as a woman detached herself from the shadows of a stone throne and approached. Tall and very slender, with long raven hair that fell to the tops of her breasts and half hid the gold pectoral she wore, she looked at him with large eyes harboring more sadness than reverence or curiosity. The loincloth she wore was entirely black, though woven with a raised pattern and decorated with gold buttons.

  After several steps forward, she stopped and looked him up and down. Her gaze lingered on his green robe, where dragons were embroidered in gold over the breasts. Her dark eyes tightened for a moment, then an expression of resolution came over her face.

  “It is as you foretold. It is centenco. You have returned.” She bowed her head. “Tell me, Lord Tetcomchoa, how do we save the world this time?”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  2nd day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

  9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Opaslynoti, Dolosan

  As he pulled on the protective clothing he’d been given, Keles Anturasi wondered if there was something truly wrong with him. Storm season had broken hard in Ixyll. The wild magic had begun to build to the west, raising huge walls of grey dust shot through with purple and black lightning. Even with the storms fifty miles off, the thunder cracks sent a shiver through his chest. Pressure built, and bits of rock and thaumston began to glow.

  Opaslynoti became a hive of activity rivaling the Anturasi workshop when Qiro was in a rage. Half the people took to securing their homes and property against the oncoming storm. Canvas tarpaulins covered every door and window, fastened as tightly as possible. Each of them had the same mottled mushroom-grey-and-brown pattern that marked the clothing Keles had on—though only his outer layers were made of that same stiff fabric. Anything loose was taken inside or lashed down. While the young worked feverishly, older citizens with eyes that glowed to mirror the coming storm would chuckle and note that this “blow” would be the worst they’d ever seen.

  The rest of the population—both workers from below and prospectors, traders, and free-miners—rushed around setting up traps. These consisted of almost anything, from funnels and old lobster pots restrung with wire, to tall poles hung with metal cable across the presumed path of the storm. Each device was guaranteed to harvest as much of the magic as possible and charge up a supply of thaumston. Eventually the storm would sweep past them and refill the Well, but those who didn’t want to pay for having their thaumston dipped took this chance at getting their samples in place.

  The only difficulty with traps was that they needed to be tended. If one left samples out too early and didn’t watch them, someone else might appropriate them. Getting out after the storm had passed and claiming one’s samples quickly was a good idea as well. But both were fraught with danger, as the storms could come on too quickly or double back and catch the unwary in the open. While the protective clothing did help—or so he had been assured—it would be as effective as a wet nightshirt in a blizzard if caught in a storm.

  Up until the storms had started, fierce headaches had prostrated Keles. His body had been wracked with pain, and while plenty of folks offered opinions as to why that was—the most imaginative being that a southern wind from Irusviruk had blown the stink of the Viruk over him—nothing anyone tried had managed to alleviate his condition. Almost with the first ripple of distant thunder, however, the shooting pains in his head ceased, and he felt better than he had since Rekarafi had carved his back up.

  But the advent of storms seemed to have nearly the opposite effect on everyone else. For the citizens of Opaslynoti, he assumed it was because they were suddenly so busy. Those who erected traps were also preparing to venture into Ixyll as soon as the storm passed, so the anticipation of the race also heightened tension.

  Some people who had been warped by the wild magic reported pains—and more sinister complaints. One man whose body was covered in tiger fur sprouted claws and had to be caged. A pregnant woman gave birth to a crystal egg—although her child seemed to be doing fine inside it. An old dray horse shed its skin like a snake, which made for quite a mess, but old-timers put all the unusual stuff down to the natural cycles of the storms. The last time storms had raged this strongly, Qiro Anturasi had been born—and thaumstoneers reported that the cycle had been building for a while.

  Moraven and Ciras seemed the most affected among Keles’ group. Both of them grew a bit more distracted and cross, as if the storms were affecting their ability to concentrate. Borosan likewise became snappish, because the fluctuations in background energy made all of his little devices function oddly. He was disassembling them all rather quickly—at least the ones that could move on their own—and feeling frustrated because the new ideas he came up with could not be tested until well after the storms had passed.

  Tyressa and Rekarafi were weathering things the best, but that still did not make them good company. The Viruk kept mostly to himself, refusing repeated efforts by the arena owners to fight another gyanrigot. They offered fortunes in gold and thaumston, and he rejected them all. While none of the men trying to employ him could understand, Keles had an inkling of how Rekarafi felt. After all, they were the offspring of slaves who wished to visit upon him the final indignity: fighting against toys for the amusement of people he would have whipped for such insolence millennia ago.

  Tyressa, however, baffled him. While the others had gone to the arena to watch Borosan’s thanaton fight, she had stayed with Keles and cared for him. She had applied cool cloths to his fevered brow and sung soothing songs. It made her hardly seem Keru at all. He’d found himself feeling utterly lost when she went away for even as long as it took to refill the water basin, and her voice admonishing him to sleep was the only thing that eased his pain.

  Once he’d recovered, though, she’d vanished. He expected she was sleeping, but when he looked around to thank her for his care—and to offer anything he could to repay her—he could not find her. Only that morning he’d learned that she’d wandered Opaslynoti and—though she would say nothing of it to him—had located the bandits.

  When the others came to visit him, they tried to be cheerful, but all seemed somewhat anxious that he be able to continue with their mission. Though Moraven Tolo had not been as adamant about his mission in the Wastes as Ciras had, Keles had noticed the swordmaster had not forgotten it. Throughout the journey, Moraven had paid attention to sites that were rumored to be old battlegrounds and possible burial sites. Deathbreathers were an anathema to everyone. Any cache of weapons that had been used in battles long ago would be a threat to the Nine.

  In Ixyll they would find what Moraven sought, and quite likely have to battle Desei agents to secure the weapons. Keles still intended to do survey work in Ixyll, but realized that Moraven’s quest had become more important. I will do what I can to help him.

  Still, the advent of the storms revitalized Keles and emptied his head of the throbbing pains that had plagued him throughout the journey. He couldn’t hazard a guess as to why that was, though he did suppose that the wild magic might have somehow reignited the Viruk magic and completed his healing. He moved more easily, and was able to think more clearly.

  He wasn’t certain why being in proximity to the wild magic should make him feel better. It clearly had the opposite effect on Moraven—though Keles figured that was because he was a Mystic. The whole concept of someone reaching that level of skill was easy to understand when it came to something as obvious as sword fighting or archery, but what would it mean in other pursuits? What would someone who was that gifted at math be able to do? Could they do things more quickly, or perhaps do more complex things? Singers, writers, artists—even cooks and farmers and courtesans—were easy to figure out. What of mapmakers, however? Could they become that good, and what would it mean?

  He and his brother had spent some time wondering what that would be like, but they
had always focused on other aspects of their art. Keles had always wanted to be very exact, which was why the Gold River survey had been perfect for him. Jorim liked discovering things. For him, what the land contained defined it better than any measurements.

  Perhaps it was not possible for a mapmaker to know jaedunto, but that prospect did not daunt him. In some ways it was a relief, since the obvious candidate for jaedunto would be Qiro. While he did not wish his grandfather dead, the idea that magic might extend the man’s life so Keles’ sons and grandsons and great-grandsons might also labor under him was a bit terrifying.

  Of course, I need to survive this survey and return to Moriande before it will be possible for me to worry about my children and theirs.

  The protective clothing he’d been given for venturing into Ixyll was interesting, and explained some of the changes he’d seen in prospectors and free miners. It came in two layers, inner and outer. The inner layer often was of silk or cotton, while the outer was heavy canvas and sometimes quilted. All of the fabric had been boiled in thaumston mud until the grey dust impregnated the fabric. This made it stiff and chafing, so often folks wore a third layer of untreated material against the skin, and Keles gladly followed their lead.

  The inner layer consisted of stockings, trousers, and a shirt with long sleeves that had flaps covering the backs of the hands. Some people took to wearing silken gloves over that. A silken coif went over the head, covering everything from collarbones up, save for a narrow strip around the eyes. Breathing through that fabric brought an earthy smell with a sour tinge, as if urine were used in the dyeing. Most people wore normal leather boots to complete the inner layer.

  The outer layer started with stiff canvas boots laced tightly over whatever footgear had been donned. Heavy canvas trousers, which came up to the low ribs and were held up by suspenders, tucked into the overboots. Another canvas coif covered the silken one, again leaving the eyes clear. A heavy robe went over that and belted in tightly, then mittens were pulled on and tied down at midforearm. Keles’ mittens had a bilateral split in them, allowing two fingers to a sleeve, so he could nock and draw an arrow. Moraven and Tyressa just wore full mittens since it would not hamper their sword work.

  The eyes, of course, were difficult to protect, and that explained why so many folks first reflected changes in that region. To safeguard the eyes, everyone wore a gauzy material slightly more dense than insect netting. It allowed a fair amount of vision, but reportedly became very hot in the summers. Many went without it, and the residual magic worked on them over the years.

  In some ways, wearing the outfits was deemed unnecessary by many who saw the survey party getting ready—and Rekarafi seemed to set great store by these opinions. He chose to wear nothing more than the inner layer, and probably would not have worn that save for a certain amount of protection against the winter’s cold. The experts in Ixyll noted that for a quick survey they’d not need the protection, and that if they were caught in a magic storm, all the protection in the world would not help them. Those who agreed with that latter point were often lumpen creatures, which made Keles gear himself up all the more completely.

  While others sought the safety of deep caves, levels, and rooms as the first storm came in, Keles ventured to the surface and watched it arrive. He did not do so alone, for plenty of free miners waited until the last minute to make sure their traps were left untouched. Rekarafi joined him as well, which he had not expected; but he took some comfort in the Viruk’s presence.

  The storm chose to break out of Ixyll and flow down into the canyon just before sunset. The sun’s illumination backlit the towering clouds of dust it stirred up, adding purple-and-red tones to a tableau shot through with black lightning. Keles wanted to liken it to a normal thunderstorm, but the lighting shot horizontally as well as vertically. And while it sometimes resembled the standard jagged fork pattern, it also sometimes swirled through and around dust columns, wreathing them with fire. The discharges of energy built, thunder cracks echoing sharply as the storm approached the curtain, then the curtain evaporated and the storm poured into the valley.

  “I suggest we leave now, Keles.”

  Keles nodded, and Rekarafi led him back to the stable dome where the others waited. Tyressa’s wanderings had turned up several groups she assumed might be the bandits. With Ciras’ aid, she narrowed it down to one, then set about learning all she could. They had stabled their livestock at another dome, but were preparing to head into Ixyll the moment the storm passed Opaslynoti.

  As nearly as could be determined, they had no map to provide them direction, which gave Keles heart. He himself was setting out lacking anything more definite than his knowledge of old tales and a variety of rumors in which he set little store. Jorim would have been able to ferret out the truth from the locals, or at least could have mined their stories for a useful fact or two. Keles settled for having a variety of stories from which he could draw correspondences.

  Even in the dome, their protective clothes took on an unearthly blue glow—quite faint and the color of flameheart. Their horses, with canvas boots and caparison, shied uneasily as wind howled and dust rasped against the dome’s shell. Borosan held some device in his hand, the purpose of which Keles could not discern, but the gyanridin watched it intently, then looked up.

  “It’s building beyond any scale I have ever heard of.”

  Keles glanced at him. “Old-timers said the cycle was reaching a peak this year.”

  “Yes, but it scales up arithmetically. This is building geometrically. It’s bad. It’s really bad.”

  Suddenly the wind’s shrieking tightened to a painful squeak, then became inaudible. Its high-pitched vibration shook Keles’ teeth, but he felt no pain. He glanced up at the dome, expecting to see it vibrating, but instead it had become transparent. A sheet of dust washed over it, obscuring the heart of the storm for a moment, then cleared again.

  Keles studied the storm, barely aware of Ciras clawing at his coifs as he doubled over and vomited. Above him, the heavens opened and revealed a silvery ball shot with black highlights, spitting out lightning and deep crimson tongues of flame. The surface roiled, becoming a network of eggshell fractures. A piece of the mirrored ball would break away, then sink beneath a viscous, bloody fluid that would then turn black. Lightning would leap away, and suddenly the surface appeared smooth again.

  Then the boiling of the ball’s surface stopped and a round hole opened in it. Keles had the impression of an eye dilating in surprise. It watched him closely, then the pupil focused. Bloodred fluid filled the hole, then burned brightly before a jet of flame shot out and splashed over the dome.

  The flame hit hard enough to shake the ground and topple Keles. Thunder blasted through the valley, and pieces of the dome’s interior began to fall. Keles looked up, found the dome opaque again, and quickly mapped the spiderweb of cracks in his mind. Just the inner surface spalling off. There was no threat of the dome’s collapse—and no hope of survival if it did.

  The dying echoes of that blast took with them the wind’s howling. The dome’s doors no longer rattled, the shuttered windows ceased clattering, and dust slowly floated to the ground. Tyressa calmed horses, Moraven knelt at his retching aide’s side, and Borosan again studied his device. He smacked it once with his hand, then shook his head.

  “The storm is over. It can’t be, but it’s over.”

  Keles strode purposefully to the nearest door and threw it open.

  The storm had ended, no question of it, but the dome itself glowed brightly enough to put the dying sun to shame. Thaumston dust covered everything, drifting into corners and against the door like snow. Even more impressive, the Well had been filled—and a rainbow riot of color splashed at the edges of the lowest level, threatening to flood the residents out.

  Over on the other side of Opaslynoti, two dozen horsemen led a string of packhorses out and began the trek north. Among them would be the bandits looking for more weapons, corpses, and thaumston. What
they had already stolen they’d likely cached, so if Moraven and Ciras could not find them and stop them in Ixyll, they had one more chance to deal with them—provided they could track them back to their hiding place.

  But we’ll stop them.

  Then Keles’ head came up. Did I think that? That was the sort of thing Jorim would think. Keles’ job was to find a route through Ixyll and, if possible, find burial sites others had been despoiling. Adventuring was not for him.

  But why not? Ryn was his father as well as Jorim’s; the same blood ran in their veins. Perhaps I’ve allowed myself too narrow a focus. Maybe what I need and what the world needs is what Jorim does, and what our father did before him.

  With that insight burning anew in his mind, he turned back and smiled at the others. “Our competition is already heading into Ixyll. If there is something out there, we’ll find it first, I guarantee you.”

  Moraven nodded. “We may need more haste than your survey requires.”

  “No matter, Master Tolo.” Keles waved a gloved hand to the northwest. “As you have labored to get me this far, it will be a pleasure for me to get you to your goal. I do believe it takes precedence—and, though my grandfather would not like it, I am completely at your service.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  3rd day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

  9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Anturasikun, Moriande