TheNewWorld
Chapter Forty-six
34th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Anturasikun, South Moriande
Imperial Nalenyr
“Stop saying he’s a clever boy!” Nelesquin upended a desk in Qiro’s tower, scattering papers and brushes. “He bleeds in the river and my army vanishes. Twelve hundred warriors in gyanrigot armor, Keerana among them! The best of the best were in those suits, and they are gone! And all you can say is that he is a clever boy?”
Qiro’s arms remained hugged around himself, and he chuckled. “Far more clever than I had imagined. More clever than his father, by far. No, Ryn never could have figured this out. It was very good.”
“No, Master Anturasi, it was very bad!” Nelesquin balled a fist and took a step toward the cartographer, but his left leg didn’t want to move. Weakness seized him. He leaned heavily against a table and discovered his fist would not unclench.
Qiro did not notice. “Keles really doesn’t understand the power. He has little experience, but he always was sensitive. He always tried to shield his brother from me. But now he’s hit on something and he’s feeling his way through it. It’s remarkable, actually, that he was able to do what he did. And, if we asked him, I doubt he would know how he did it himself!”
Nelesquin snarled and smacked his fist against his thigh to loosen it. “He’s probably dead.”
“No, I would know.” Qiro tapped his temple. “I would feel it if he died. He’s very weak now, but his mind still functions. They’re dosing him with xunling root and tzaden — flower tea. He will recover.”
“So he can do this again.” Nelesquin pointed north. “He’ll fill that bridge with mist and my soldiers will never make it across.”
“Fear not on that account, Highness. I won’t let that happen.”
“Won’t let it happen? Why didn’t you stop it in the first place?”
“Because I didn’t know what he had done.” Qiro sighed with a schoolmasterish air that made Nelesquin want to choke him. “Keles was in Felarati, then he came south. He passed by the new channel I cut. But I acted in haste when I did that. Instead of piling the earth up on either side, I made it go away.”
“Away?”
“Out of this reality. I am uncertain if it ended up in one of the Hells or in some other place entirely. But Keles must have been close enough to get a sense of the void into which the earth vanished.” Qiro stroked his chin and glanced at the map of the world. “Keles, in his urgency to get rid of the dari armor, must have picked up on the idea that it was not really part of this world. It had been formed in a pocket world-another creation entirely, much as his sister’s paradise, Kunjiqui, was.”
“I remember.” Nelesquin slowly flexed his fingers. “So the dari are there, then. Bring them back.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand, Highness.” The cartographer paused for a moment, then smiled patronizingly. “The world, as I have drawn it, is a chessboard. Keles and I each understand the board on one level or another. My mastery is much greater than his, of course, but he has learned much. In our game we have the ability to shift aspects of the board-but only aspects that have not been identified. While each of us is capable, the board remains the same.”
“Then how did he make the dari disappear?”
Qiro smiled, proudly. “He sensed the alien nature of the dari armor and sent it to a place where it would be at home. This is why I cannot bring it back. I do not know where that place is.”
Nelesquin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You cannot bring it back. I accept this. Make me more dari, then.”
Qiro opened his hands. “I cannot do that either, Highness, and you know that. Our resources have been exhausted.”
“Your answer does not please me, Qiro Anturasi.”
“And your tone does not please me, Prince Nelesquin. Have you forgotten that we are united in this campaign to destroy Nalenyr?” Qiro snorted. “There are things I can do for you, and I am doing them.”
“If you could rip a channel from the Dark Sea to the ocean, you can build me more bridges.”
“I could, but that would be rather inelegant. I shall do something else for you instead.”
“Yes?”
“The world in which the dari armor was created still exists. Have your Durrani round up all the fertile women in South Moriande. Bring them there and get children upon them. You’ve given Cyrsa nine days. In that time, you shall have thousands of troops ready to die for you.”
“I want them to kill for me.”
“I have no doubt they will.”
“All the troops in the world will avail me nothing if they cannot cross the river. I can take them outside the city and lay siege to it, but that will take too long.”
“Fear not, Highness, for I am no more patient a man than you are.” Qiro bent and rooted about in the maps Nelesquin had scattered. He pulled one from the pile, eyed it carefully, then nodded. “I think this will do nicely.”
Nelesquin frowned. “It is an old map of Moriande.”
“It is a beginning.” Qiro smiled, then nipped the pad of his index finger. A bright red droplet welled up. “And now, if you will forgive me, I must go to work.”
Pelut Vniel huddled beneath a heavy canvas shroud, which reeked of vomit and dead fish. The small boat’s rocking did nothing to quell his queasiness. The butterflies in his stomach grew bolder with every creaking pull on the oars.
Such nervousness surprised Vniel, for he’d not felt it in many years-perhaps not even since he took his first ministry exams. Once he had entered the bureaucracy, he had been supremely confident. He appeased those who could destroy him, destroyed those who would appease him, and carefully worked connections that allowed him to rise to Grand Minister of Nalenyr.
But Prince Cyron had changed all that. He’d isolated Vniel and pared away his power. Granted, he’d made the bureaucracy more efficient, and those reforms did have their uses. But Cyron had made one mistake: he fought to preserve his nation. He had forgotten that the bureaucracy was bigger than Nalenyr, that it assured the continued stability of the world.
Pelut acted for interests beyond Nalenyr’s. He’d researched Prince Nelesquin. He’d known all of the folktales, of course, but he looked beyond them. Certain histories from before the Time of Black Ice had praised the Prince for his battles against pirates and his campaigns to preserve the Empire’s integrity. Had Cyron been one-ninth the man Nelesquin had been, Nalenyr would have long since recreated the Empire.
The new Empire was precisely what the bureaucracy needed, so Pelut had actually given thought as to whether or not he should betray Nalenyr. He set aside his personal dislike for Prince Cyron. He viewed things rationally and dispassionately. Moriande had to fall eventually-and probably sooner rather than later. Its conquest would effectively unite the Empire. Helosunde and Deseirion had made their stand in Nalenyr. Once the forces here were crushed, their annexation would be but a formality.
Cyron will not look to the future, so I must.
Keles Anturasi’s disappearing Nelesquin’s gyanrigot warriors had given Pelut pause. That raw display of power inspired hope, but the aftermath killed it. Keles had collapsed. And though Cyron’s physician, Geselkir, cared for him, the young cartographer was reported to be very sick: feverish and delirious. What he had done once he likely could not do again.
All of his considerations left but one path open for Pelut Vniel. Cyron had waged war against the bureaucracy, and Pelut would have to fight back. He saw no other choice, yet betraying his nation did not come free of anxiety. It had to be done, of that he had no doubt, but… if I fail…
He peeked from beneath the canvas. “Why so long, boatman?”
“I’ll get you there, Grandfather.” The man s
aid the word without a hint of respect. “Must have been rain in the uplands. The river’s running a bit faster than usual this time of year.”
The man grunted and pulled harder at the oars. The south shore lights bobbed. Pelut ducked beneath the canvas again, returning to the close and fetid sanctuary in the bottom of the boat. Bilgewater sloshed. He fought to keep his gorge down.
The thing that most frightened him was not the chance of being discovered. He’d already laid the groundwork to suggest he was undertaking an independent mission of peace to save lives and reunite families. He’d made inquiries, ordered reports, all of which would back up this contention. If Nelesquin killed him, or if he was discovered and killed by Cyron’s troops, the fiction would redeem him in the eyes of his people. His effort would be thought good-hearted, if misguided.
The prospect of meeting Nelesquin scared him. Pelut would have one chance to read him, find his weakness, and exploit it. There was no doubt that the man was vain-the manner in which he’d come to the negotiation that morning made that quite clear. Were Nelesquin stupid, vanity would be the way into his mind; but intelligent men always suspect treachery from flatterers. While they believe they deserve the flattery, they also know it is a means to an end. If they spy out the end and do not like it, their retribution is often swift and harsh.
The boat bumped against the quay. Cool air rushed over him as the canvas was peeled back. Pelut quickly mounted the ladder to the dock. He looked in vain for the agent who was to meet him. Then he felt the gentle flutter of a butterfly’s wings against his cheek. He turned and bowed.
Kaerinus shook his head. “No time for formalities. Follow me.”
Though the route they took through the riverside district seemed fairly direct, Pelut quickly found himself confused. This especially discomfited him, as he’d lived his entire life in Moriande and knew it very well-including the nether regions given over to Black Myrian’s control. He’d even met with a Desei agent in an opium den, arranging the failed assassination attempt against Prince Cyron.
The vanyesh brought him to a darkened doorway between a teahouse and a tavern. They ascended the stairs and entered a small room lit with a single lantern. As the door closed behind him, the light brightened, revealing Nelesquin eying him suspiciously.
Pelut bowed low and held it for even longer than protocol required. Instead of rising, he sank to his knees and pressed his face to the floor.
Nelesquin grunted. “So courtesy has not died in Moriande.”
Pelut shook his head. “Imperial Highness, I shall not waste your valuable time. I am your man, ready to serve you.”
“Sit up.”
Pelut did as he was bid.
Nelesquin, arms crossed, towered above him. “One pledged to me would do anything I asked of him. Is this true of you as well?”
“Ask, Imperial Highness.”
The Emperor’s expression tightened. “You are direct. It is a rare quality among bureaucrats. It pleases me. I would have you please me further.”
Pelut said nothing.
“And you know when to keep your mouth shut-another rare quality. I will have a use for you, Pelut Vniel; but you must prove your loyalty.”
“Of course, Imperial Highness.”
“So, I shall be direct with you.” The Prince’s expression hardened. “I want Prince Cyron dead. Make that happen, and you shall find a high place in my Empire.”
Dunos giggled. He’d never seen a butterfly quite like the one walking up and down his left arm. It was black and green. The geometric designs on its wings shifted shape with each beat. That wasn’t what made him laugh, though. Its journey up and down his arm-over the top of his robe and ring mail- tickled.
“Dunos?”
The boy smiled and held his hand up. “Hi, Ranai. It tickles.”
“What tickles?”
“The butterfly, see?”
“I don’t see it, Dunos.”
He glanced at his arm. The butterfly had gone, though he could still feel the tingle of its steps. “Well, it was here.”
“I’m sure.” The swordswoman smiled and joined him at the river wall. “What are you doing here?”
Dunos shrugged. Her voice had that mother tone to it, so he knew he had to answer. “Well, Master Tolo told me to find Master Dejote. I saw him here a couple of days ago. He’s not here. I decided to wait. And then there was the butterfly.”
“I didn’t see the butterfly, but I think it’s a good thing you’re exercising your arm. Does it feel better?”
The boy shrugged again. “I guess.” He brought his hand across his belly to the dagger at his right hip. “Easier to draw. My grip is tighter. We don’t have to tie the dagger into my hand anymore.”
“Well, we might still do that, just in case.” Ranai squatted down. “I remember you from the road, you know.”
“When you were going to rob me and my father and my grandfather?”
“Yes. You were the only one willing to step up to fight my companions and me.”
“And Master Tolo.”
“And Master Tolo.” Her eyes grew distant, as if the memory was years old, not months. “You remember he sent me south, to study at Serrian Istor?”
“Yes. And he sent me to Serrian Jatan with the robes of the man you’d killed.”
“True. The reason I ask is this. At Serrian Istor, I helped train boys just like you.”
Dunos’ face lit up. “You want to train with me? You’ve never wanted to before. We can do it right here. I’m good at Tiger and Dragon, you know.”
She held her hands up. “Slow down. Yes, I will train with you, but not just now.”
Dunos frowned. If she didn’t want to train with him right then and there, why mention it?
“Dunos, do you remember before the invaders came?”
He nodded. “Like when I found the glowing rock and it hurt my arm?”
“Yes, but not exactly.” Ranai went to a knee and rested her hands on his shoulders. That meant she was serious, so he had to listen. “Do you remember playing with friends and, you know, just having fun?”
She jerked her head in the direction of the Dragon Bridge. A half dozen ragged children capered and shrieked as Naleni Dragons made faces and roared at them. A couple of the boys started wrestling, and two of the girls whispered to each other.
“I remember.”
“Don’t you sometimes just want to go and have fun?”
Dunos’ eyes widened. “I have fun all the time. I really like killing vhangxi. It’s like cleaning fish, sort of, but they’re stinkier.”
“Dunos, killing is not supposed to be fun.”
Oh, this is going to be one of those talks. “I know that, Mistress Ameryne. It’s not fun. It is satisfying.”
That didn’t wipe the concern from her face. This puzzled Dunos, because the word “satisfying” usually worked with adults. She wanted some other answer, but she wasn’t very good at telling him what it was. Most adults were. If he said the right things, they would go away happy.
“Dunos, when I was your age, I didn’t worry about fighting and killing. I had fun. Just like those kids over there.” Ranai studied his face. “You’ve been through a lot. Don’t you ever just want to have fun?”
He rested his hands on her shoulders so she had to listen. “Yes, I want to have fun. I remember the days before. Before the invaders, before I hurt my arm. I had fun. I ran around like them.” He smiled at the playing children. “I had lots of fun.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“But, Mistress, I also had work to do. I hauled water. I swept up. I cared for horses and mules and oxes.”
“Oxen, Dunos.”
“Oxen. I collected eggs from our chickens. I fed the hogs. I helped butcher one once. That wasn’t fun. I did lots of things to help my family. Some of those were fun. But I still had work, just like I do now.”
“But this is butchery, Dunos.”
“It’s work, Mistress, and it must be done. If we don’t
do our work, no one can have any fun.”
A sharp cracking cut off any reply. Dunos spun. Even in the twilight there was no missing the puff of dust as mortar split on the Dragon Bridge. Soldiers hurried to where a piece of stone railing had shifted. More mortar crumbled and a piece fell into the river.
Ranai stood and peered over the river wall. She gasped.
Dunos leaped up and caught the edge with his good arm. His feet scrambled against the stone and he got his belly on top of the wall. He balanced there, staring down at the river.
Something was not right. His left arm itched, and that didn’t feel anything like tickling. “There are little waves everywhere.”
“There are. And there’s a tingle. Xingna, a trickle of it.”
He looked up at her. “What does it mean?”
“Faster water.” Her eyes slitted. “The river is narrowing.”
He slid back to the ground. “I’ll go find Master Tolo. There will be a lot of work for everyone now.”
TheNewWorld
Chapter Forty-seven
35th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Shirikun, North Moriande
Free Nalenyr
Cyron knew the answer the second the piece of paper touched his hand. “The rate of closure is constant, then. Eight feet an hour.”
Prince Eiran, who had slipped seamlessly into his role as Cyron’s deputy, nodded. “Prince Nelesquin gave the Empress a week. In nine days the river walls will touch. We’ll be fighting everywhere.”
Cyron closed his eyes. In three days, the largest ballistae and trebuchets would be able to shoot across the gap. In six days, archers could exchange arrows. In a week, warriors would be sword to sword. He could see it all, including the fires, the wounded, the dead.
He set the paper down and raked a hand through his hair, scratching where his scalp tingled. “This changes everything. Tonight, in darkness, have a work crew slip out and undercut the river’s north bank just west of the city. I want the river flooding the western approach. The increased flow means they won’t find a ford downstream. Send another team east. I want every bridge cut and every ferry on the north side of the river.”
The New World ви-3 Page 33
