The New World

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Then a claw swept through, severing his connection to the dragon. Pain such as he had never known ripped through him. Part of him remembered that it was all illusion, but even that knowledge was drifting away. A key piece of his essence grew dim, losing itself in the void.

  The talon made another circuit and Jorim screamed. He could feel his throat ripping itself to pieces as Taichun vanished. More pain, molten and surging, pummeled him as Tetcomchoa disappeared. His blood burned like acid. His body shivered.

  His mortal form, stiff and cold, was pulling him in.

  Grija’s claw raked through his essence again and again. Each tendril parted with the twang of a tendon ripping free. Light exploded before Jorim’s eyes. Panic pounded through him. He’d lost who he was, what he was. He did not know himself anymore.

  The part of him that was a god had vanished.

  And his body accepted him again. Spasms wracked him and bowed his back. His arms fought. Fabric tore. His arms flailed, his legs kicked, then he landed hard on a solid surface. Sparks exploded before his eyes as his head hit. He struggled to suck in breath and finally succeeded in one grand wheeze.

  He rolled onto his side and coughed. He tore at the cloth over his face. It ripped, freeing him. He inhaled again, hot air filling his lungs. He coughed explosively, tasting brimstone. Then he felt the heat of the stone and remembered that his body had been preserved in a barrel of oil. The rags binding him still reeked of it, but of the barrel there was no sign.

  A low wail sounded from behind him. “Oh no, what have you done?”

  Jorim rolled over and sat up. “Who? Grija?”

  The god of Death looked every inch a starved cur. A thick black collar circled his neck, and a pair of black chains ran from it into infinity. The chains weighed him down, keeping his head low.

  “What have you done?”

  “I’ve done what you helped me do.” Jorim tore away the rags binding his legs. “I’ve returned to my body.”

  “No, no, no, say you have not. I told you not to.”

  “You did nothing of the sort.” Jorim stood over him and raised a fist. “You agreed to let me return.”

  Grija cowered. “That was not me. That was Nessagafel in my place.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  Grija wailed like an orphaned child.

  Jorim almost slapped him. He dropped to a knee and lifted the chains. They didn’t seem heavy at all, but Grija was barely able to move. “You have to tell me what happened.”

  “It was all your fault, you and the others.” Grija curled a lip back in a snarl, but it had no power or menace. “You all mocked me. You defied me worst of all. I punished you, but you did not care. The others laughed at me for it. I couldn’t abide that, you know, I couldn’t. No one admired me. No poems praised me. No songs favored me. All I got was fear. You cannot live on fear, Wentoki, you cannot.”

  Jorim shook the chains and Grija yelped. “I need to know what you did.”

  The god of Death looked through him. “You had all given Nessagafel to me and here he slept. You helped bind him and once he was gone, you chose to follow him, to become mortal, to live as he had lived. The others watched you, watched Men, enjoyed their antics, but could I? No. All I got was the shrieking souls coming here after they died. The dead are not peaceful. I do not visit torments upon them out of need. To torture one, all I need do is catch him in a mirrored sphere so he can watch the failures that shaped his life. Then, eventually, I release them so they live again. If they succeed, they dwell with you in the heavens. If they fail, they are mine again.”

  Grija’s eyes focused. “But you know who did not scream or complain? Nessagafel. He knew peace, so I would steal here, to the Ninth Hell, the one we reserved for him and him alone. I would stay here, bask in his peace, and he began to speak to me. I talked back. He said we were wrong to kill him. He was not going to unmake everything. He wasn’t going to destroy us, not all of us anyway. Just some. Chado and Quun. They killed him. I convinced him that we were innocent, brother, you and I. We would have been fine.”

  Jorim sensed the lies, but it really didn’t matter. He had sought to reenter his body so he could lead the way to Anturasixan and trap Nessagafel forever. Grija had resisted that plan—knowing Wentoki would insist on it. Whatever Grija had been planning had failed, and Jorim needed to know what his brother had intended.

  “You meant for me to be trapped in my mortal form again, didn’t you? Why?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Jorim threw the chains down. Their weight choked Grija and forced him to the ground.

  “Don’t lie to me. You wanted me to be mortal again. Why?”

  Grija flashed fang. “I needed your essence. I needed the strength.”

  “Then this thing with Nirati was a lie?”

  “Yes, a ruse, and you fell for it. And Tsiwen, too. Not so wise, is she?”

  Jorim stomped on the chains, again smashing Grija’s face against the ground.

  The death god raised his muzzle, black blood oozing from his nose. “With your essence, brother, I could have controlled our father. He could have unmade some things and remade others. I would have been first among the gods. Then you would have feared me.”

  “What use has Nessagafel for my essence?”

  Grija laughed madly. “You helped imprison him here. Your essence was the key to his restraints. With it he regains his freedom. To acquire it, he replaced me.”

  “But he wasn’t quite you.” There had been something off about Grija. “There was no simpering, no fear.”

  “I do not simper.”

  Jorim growled and Grija shrank back. “If our father could replace you, why hadn’t he done that earlier?”

  “He had plans, brother, and they have come to fruition. He was never strong enough to rip your essence from you. You gave it freely.”

  Did I? His memories of being a god weren’t fading. In sensing the changes in Grija, had he clung to them more tightly?

  Grija peered at him closely. “You’re more than mortal, aren’t you?”

  Jorim looked down over his body. It showed no sign of decay or the traumas he’d suffered before death. “I’m not sure what I am. Not a god. Perhaps a user of magic—unless Nessagafel healed me. Why would he do that?”

  The craven god whimpered. “For his own terrible reasons.”

  Jorim stood. “We’re in the Ninth Hell, you said. Wangaxan?”

  “Yes, and there is no escaping it.”

  “Ha!” Jorim looked around. A side from his brother there was nothing. “Nessagafel escaped. If he can do it, so can I.”

  “You will have cause to reconsider that statement, Jorim Anturasi.” Nessagafel materialized as a Viruk. “After all, this place was meant to imprison gods. What chance has a mortal of escaping it? Especially when I have no intention of letting you get away.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  33rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Wentokikun, Moriande

  Nalenyr

  Though the stump of his arm itched fiercely, Prince Cyron had no time to scratch it. It had been itching for a while, but he’d not really noticed…which surprised him. Less than a month previous, the way that arm had been sucking the life from him had been the center of his existence.

  The unhealed wound was a metaphor for the world. The invasion from the south, the invasion from the north, Qiro Anturasi’s disappearance, and the revolt of his western provinces had torn him apart. They had distracted him, made him incapable of anything but surrender. He had been as dead as the flesh the maggots devoured in his wound.

  But now… Cyron laughed as a junior minister handed him a sheaf of figures detailing the inventory of arrows, bows, and bowstrings in Moriande’s nine armories. He had thousands of bows, and hundreds of thousands of arrows, but fewer than two thousa
nd bowstrings.

  He raised the papers in his right hand. “What’s more likely to break? A bow or a bowstring? What is worse, a wet bow or wet bowstring?”

  The clerks and minor ministers remained hunched at their tables, nodding to acknowledge his question. They’d become used to the outbursts but, at first, they had been completely disturbed by them. None dared answer.

  But circumstances had changed.

  A clerk turned. “Strings, Highness. How many do we need?”

  “Two per bow.”

  “I shall arrange for three, Highness, and settle for two and a half.”

  Cyron gave the man a curt nod. The clerk wrote out an order and a runner—wearing a broad, bright red sash around his middle—took it and sped from what had once been Cyron’s private receiving room. He would carry the order to another room in the Dragon Tower, where it would be duplicated and distributed to every bowyer in the city and beyond. They’d sell him everything they had and produce more, quickly.

  Cyron set the archery inventory on a table and another clerk removed it to be sorted and filed for immediate retrieval. Yet other clerks would pore through the files, reading everything, noting anomalies and similarities, and they would be brought up to him. He’d make a quick decision, more orders and reports would be written, and the process would cycle on.

  The standing bureaucracy hated Cyron from the first. Some of it was a holdover from before, but his appointment as the Imperial Grand Minister made things worse. He compounded them. Instead of passing orders down through Pelut Vniel and the other high ministers, Cyron had demanded a staff of low-ranking clerks. He wanted men and women who had not yet become entirely beholden to their superiors. This meant he raised up many clerks who had not formally been recognized by their ministries. Cyron catapulted them ahead of others who had labored far longer.

  Thirty clerks filled the room; their counterparts were scattered in a half dozen rooms throughout the castle. When a project demanded more resources than immediately available, a clerk would leave to handle that problem and another would replace him. While waiting to be called into the First Chamber, the others would engage in the review process.

  This turned the bureaucracy completely on its head. Previously, it had acted as a filter. It distilled information so that the Prince only learned what the bureaucracy felt he should know. Ministers hoarded information, concealing it from their fellows and superiors. Because information was power, it flowed none-too-freely.

  Cyron shook his head. The bureaucracy had enshrined inefficiency by stifling the creative power of those working in it. Innovations died at roadblocks. Problems were sequestered and buried so no shame could come to the minister whose responsibility it was to find a solution. This allowed problems to fester—even simple ones.

  Cyron expanded distribution of information and encouraged solutions. With every fact passed up to him, he demanded analysis and solutions. The bureaucracy would have previously made decisions on their own, but Cyron relished having options. If he chose to ignore them, so be it; but he had hundreds of people concocting solutions that might never occur to him.

  Pelut Vniel tried to stop Cyron. The Prince had gotten everything he asked for and more. Ministers buried him beneath an avalanche of information. It came in jumbled and confusing—the mess begged for ministers to sort it all out. Vniel magnanimously allowed Cyron to take as many clerks as he wanted—especially those with no experience—to deal with the information.

  Cyron had turned the tables on them. He’d started by drafting plans based on the data he’d been given, then forwarded them to the ministers for their opinions. They’d taken their time getting back to him, but he’d anticipated that. He’d acted without their advice, tweaking things when they did respond, but mostly moving ahead with his plans. When they protested that he had ignored their input, he noted that their belated comments agreed with his actions.

  Then he turned around and buried them with reports, requests, and other make-work. Those ministers who complained he was not giving them anything substantive to do were rewarded with serious tasks. If they delivered solid product, he continued to use them. If they did not, he neutered them with flattery and marginalized them.

  Pity stupidity isn’t lethal. The bureaucracy had practiced stupidity in a manner calculated to harm the nation. Primarily they neglected maintenance. The armories were a prime example. The first inventory had indicated there were twice as many arrows, but there had been no physical inventory—the number had been derived from adding up old records, some of which came from Imperial days. Weapons disbursed in time of emergency weren’t counted as they went out, and few enough came back. As a result, a prince could look at the numbers and feel secure about his nation’s preparedness.

  But when an enemy came to call, he would be in serious trouble.

  That worked in the bureaucracy’s favor and Cyron understood that. A secure prince promoted stability. An aggressive prince might consider going to war, but his ambitions would be blunted when the true numbers were produced. The bureaucracy would promise him weapons, and would procure them; but their counterparts in other nations would then prepare for war themselves. A stalemate would ensue and stability would be preserved.

  The Prince did not doubt that there were other benefits to the bureaucracy. When arrows had to be produced in haste, prices rose. Bowyers who wanted part of a government contract would willingly reward bureaucrats for favoring them. Likewise for those paid to transport the arrows and those whose warehouses stored them. The wastage inherent in that system could easily enrich bureaucrats, so motivation to change it didn’t exist.

  On top of that, he had other clerks going out to see if bribes were still being paid. Those who pointed out corrupt officials were given rewards and the officials were fined. Cyron functioned under no illusions that his system would eliminate corruption—he just wanted to make it less profitable.

  It was too early to determine if his efforts would pay off. Senior ministers complained as if they were feeling pinched. Most feared substantial punishments if past corruption was revealed. While reports of the same had come in, Cyron did not act on them. He didn’t promise that he would not act on them, however; he would wield that club when necessary.

  And it would be. The only minister unsullied by corruption was Pelut Vniel. Rumors abounded, of course. The assassination attempt that had cost Cyron half his arm must have been sanctioned by Vniel. Count Nerot Scior had been identified as the man behind the plot, and there seemed little doubt that the assassin’s wage had come from his purse. The man had fled Moriande for the westron counties, but he never would have dared try to usurp the Dragon Throne if some sort of accommodation with the Grand Minister had not been reached.

  So far, Cyron’s only effort against Vniel had been his general assault on the bureaucracy. Fractures were already beginning to appear as the ministers, one by one, began to cooperate with Cyron. Copies of all missives flowed to Vniel’s office, but unofficial transcriptions of consultations did not. Cyron assumed that simple knowledge of these consultations would annoy Vniel. With any luck, Vniel’s quest for knowledge would distract him and keep him from causing trouble.

  A runner bowed before the Prince. “Highness, the Empress suggested that within the hour she would be prepared to hear your report on preparations for attack.”

  “Tell her I shall be with her shortly.” The Prince nodded to the man, then glanced at the shaft of sunlight pouring through the doorway overlooking his animal sanctuary. It fell on the backs of two clerks who both set their brushes down simultaneously. The man handed a sheaf of pages to the woman, who gathered them into a folio. She stood and presented them to Cyron.

  “The latest reports, Highness, including lists of matériel on its way south and the readiness of the troops gathering here at Moriande.”

  He did not take the folio from her. “You will come with me, Minister Tamirsai. You will hold the papers so I may consult them.”

  “As you wish,
Highness.” The woman smiled. It was, of course, a great honor to be presented to the Empress. Cyron regularly rewarded clerks for good work by having them take papers to the Empress. Tamirsai worked diligently and was well deserving of the reward.

  Tamirsai had also received training from the Lady of Jet and Jade, though none of her fellow clerks were aware of this. She acted as the Empress’ eyes and ears—one of many such agents in a cadre about which Cyron knew very little—and probably less than he thought he did. While the information she bore would be of great value to the Empress, awareness of any subterfuges among Cyron’s staff would be more so.

  “Very well, let us proceed.” Cyron waited for her to pass in front of him. “We shall return as quickly as possible, doubtless with new orders. I shall need the figures for stored grain and a survey of wells by the time I get back. Do your work well, and you, too, shall soon know the Empress’ favor.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  34th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Plains of Tsengui, Nalenyr

  We took heart in the way the skies opened up and rain poured. Water flowed into the battlefield, expanding the swamps. The clouds came in, dark and ominous, hiding the Virine mountains. They also kept Nelesquin’s fliers close to the ground. Prince Pyrust ordered a watch kept and, save for grazing runs the hellbats made over the swamps, or the occasional arrow launched from on wing, they did nothing.

  The marsh’s expansion caused us to shift our battle formation. Count Vroan took the opportunity to initiate a realignment of our positions. One of the Desei militias shifted to the left flank to cover the swamp. The Desei Hawks came next, occupying the center, but the Naleni troops moved to the right. Vroan’s westrons still held the right flank, but our lines had shifted from an east–west axis to a northeast–southwest position. This actually put Vroan’s troops closest to the enemy, but he still had the stream to guard his flank.