Map’s Edge

by David Hair

  ‘After the rebellion failed it was them or someone else just like them. I needed protection, and old Elgus was the best bet. He’s decent to me, mostly. And I know he’d value a sorceress-healer in his camp.’

  Oh, so this is recruitment. ‘I’d prefer to stay clear of rivalries,’ Kemara replied.

  ‘Honey, those rivalries won’t stay clear of you. Not now we know what you are.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘We saw, those who knew what to look for. You’ve been hiding your light, but you and Raythe were hand in hand on that beach, calling down the lightning. You’re a praxis-sorcerer.’

  She thinks it’s praxis? That was a relief. ‘It doesn’t mean I want any greater role than I have.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. You’re a player now and you’ll have to pick a side.’

  ‘Well it won’t be Osvard’s side, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about Osvard. You’re too valuable now for Elgus to let him harm you – well, unless you chose Vyre’s side when things get dirty.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You sleeping with him?’

  Kemara snorted. ‘I don’t even like the man.’

  ‘You’ll come to: the only explanation for the power you generated to wreck that frigate is a meld, and that means you’ve got a real bond. You’re going to end up joined at the hip, believe me.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘It’s not so bad: he’s got a certain charm and he’s a survivor, so betting against him is no sure thing.’

  She sounds a little too admiring, for Rhamp’s lover. And how does she know so much about Vyre?

  ‘Are you saying I should or shouldn’t back him?’ Kemara asked.

  ‘I’m just saying that he’ll want you on-side and he’ll be persuasive. You’ll need to look at what’s real.’ Tami stroked Kemara’s cheek, presumptuously familiar. ‘Pick the winning side, Healer.’

  Then she was gone, leaving Kemara perplexed. Did she just urge me to back Vyre, or betray him? Does she back Rhamp . . . or is she biding her time before she knifes him?

  In the shadows, Buramanaka cackled, enjoying the dilemma. She banished the mizra-spirit, too flustered to deal with it right then, and took a few moments to pull her own customary mask of self-sufficiency back over her face so she could deal with another round of dressings, poultices and blood. Bodies were seven-tenths liquid and the world was full of ways to spill it.

  When she got to the imperial sailor, she found him awake, lying on his stomach with his head twisted so he could watch her. He had a plain face, flat and whiskery. She’d had to shave the back of his skull to get to the head wound that had almost killed him and his back was a mess from the burning splinters that had lacerated him, flaying his skin and laying the muscles bare – and then immersed in saltwater? No wonder he’d blacked out for a turn of the world. She’d cleansed and stitched his wounds and he’d live, but for now just existing had to be agony.

  ‘You’re awake,’ she noted.

  ‘Aye,’ he mumbled, wincing and going rigid as he tried to roll onto his side.

  ‘Be still,’ she advised. ‘I’ve got a paste on your skin to soothe it and stimulate regrowth.’

  ‘Gerda on high,’ he moaned, ‘what happened?’

  ‘When the ship’s powder-kegs exploded, wooden splinters were blasted into your back and you were knocked out,’ she told him. ‘You ended up in the water, but you were face up and breathing, and somehow, you washed ashore before you drowned. You’re the luckiest prick in Shamaya.’

  He moaned, then managed a breathless chuckle. ‘Never had it called that before.’

  She snorted. ‘You’re lucky it didn’t get ripped off. What’s your name, sailor?’

  ‘Moss Trimble.’

  ‘That’s a Pelarian name, but you don’t look it.’ He had olive skin and a face that belonged further east.

  ‘My father was Pelarian, but my mother was Krodesh, from the Bolgravian steppes. I grew up in Pelaria, fought in the war, lost, ended up at sea.’

  ‘Pressganged?’

  He winced again, although he hadn’t moved this time. ‘Aye.’

  It was the way he said it that convinced her. ‘Must rankle, having to serve the Bolgies,’ she said sympathetically.

  ‘Aye.’ He looked around, taking in the wagons and tents, then finishing back at her. ‘I saw you,’ he whispered. ‘You and a man – you and he – the ship . . . Holy Gerda—’

  ‘Hush,’ Kemara said. ‘That was all Lord Vyre. He’s a praxis-mage. I was just standing there.’

  If only that was true.

  Trimble nodded, then muttered, ‘What’s going on? Me and the crew, we didn’t even know why we were out here. Where are you people going?’

  ‘Out of the empire. Want to come?’

  He stared, blinked, and slowly nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah, I really do.’ He reached out and stroked her hair. ‘I like red hair,’ he breathed. ‘Most beautiful thing there is.’

  She forgave him the familiarity: for patients, healing was often one of the most intense things they’d ever gone through, matters of life and death, mortality and meaning. Men got emotional over it, and over her. She often had to remind herself of that, because to her, it was just work.

  ‘You get yourself better, sailor. You’ve got a long road ahead before you’re recovered.’

  And so have I.

  *

  ‘All right,’ Raythe shouted, ‘roll the wagons.’

  The call went down the line and one by one they began to move, the big team-drawn wagons and the little mule-carts and everything between. He waved to Zarelda, who was driving theirs, then trotted over to where Elgus Rhamp remained on foot, surrounded by most of his mercenaries.

  ‘Sir Elgus, any questions?’

  The knight reached up and scratched between Raythe’s horse’s eyes. ‘No questions. We’ll wait here half a day, then follow you once we know that the imperials haven’t landed troops behind us.’

  Raythe leaned forward. ‘Don’t let Osvard near Kemara Solus again. Warn him, the next time has consequences.’

  ‘Can’t blame him that time – the boy needed medical attention.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. Tell him.’ Raythe glanced at Banno, went to speak and thought better of it. He saluted and cantered away.

  Cal Foaley had found them a way forward – not a road, but open plains just half a mile inland. The land was stony and bleak, but it was flat; now he and the hunters were flanking the caravan. It promised to be a slow trek forward, but as yet there were no enemies in their path.

  If we can head northwest fast enough, there’s some chance we can evade whatever force the garrison sends after us, provided I can erase our trail quickly enough.

  He made his way along the column, stopping at each wagon. Gravis Tavernier was unhappy – he was out of beer and grumbling about the barter economy that was growing in the caravan, undermining good coin. ‘My girls are giving themselves away for food, then gobbling the take and cutting me out of my share,’ he complained. ‘You gotta fix it, Raythe.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be a grand thing if they all repented, left whoring behind and found Deo.’

  The brewer spat out a wad of redleaf. ‘Gerda’s tits, they better not!’

  Raythe gave him a hard smile. ‘If I hear they’re being mistreated, I’ll free them myself. Safe travels, Gravis.’

  He moved on to Mater Varahana’s wagon. One of the Sisters was driving while Varahana taught her little class, but as soon as she heard his greeting, the mater leaped up and walked towards him. ‘Raythe, a word?’ she called, adding, ‘It’s good to be moving again.’

  ‘It is.’ He smiled. ‘How can I help, Mater?’

  ‘It’s about Kemara, of course,’ Varahana replied, stroking the down on her scalp. ‘I understand that she’s reconsidering cauterising her powers?’

  She could only have had that from Kemara herself. ‘So I understand,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Then she’ll get properly trained?’

  Ah, of cour
se, we’re back to this . . . Admitting that Kemara was a mizra-witch was out of the question, but clearly Varahana had sensed something awry. ‘I trust so.’

  ‘But she helped you at the beach, didn’t she?’ the mater asked, training her perceptive gaze on him. ‘I’ve seen sorcerers at war, Raythe – I’ve seen you fight – and you’ve never done anything as destructive as that before.’

  ‘We melded,’ he admitted.

  He didn’t need to explain more, for he saw several emotions flickering across Varahana’s face, from shock to awe, via a flicker of jealousy. ‘Are you really that close to her?’

  He laughed. ‘We can barely be civil to one another.’

  ‘But I thought a meld required . . . ahem . . . closeness?’

  ‘Not always. Sometimes a pairing can be very alike – if they meld it’s usually only for a narrow band of spell-types – say, wielding fire, whereas opposite pairs fill in each other’s gaps, and that’s a lot rarer, but far more powerful.’

  ‘And that’s you and Kemara, I’m guessing.’ Varahana surprised him by stroking his arm. ‘I hope you and she find a way to work together. But if she wants to keep her powers, she has to knuckle down and train.’

  ‘Absolutely. Although being this caravan’s healer is a full-time task on its own.’

  ‘My Sisters have been learning alongside her,’ Varahana replied, ‘and they will step up, if Kemara needs to spend more time with you.’ She tilted her head into half-profile. ‘Do you think I should shave again, or let my hair grow?’

  ‘You’re beautiful either way, Mater.’

  ‘Darling man,’ she purred, pecking his cheek. ‘See you in camp tonight.’

  She swayed back to her waiting class-on-wheels, while the children tittered and the Sisters frowned.

  They probably think I’m corrupting her, Raythe mused, wondering if he was.

  When he’d first met Varahana during Colfar’s hopeless crusade, she’d been elegant, witty and charming, and out of reach, bonded to the Church, although refusing to buckle. She’d been an ideal friend when he’d so recently lost Mirella. They’d kept in touch since, enough that she had come to Teshveld when he did. Some nights, they’d been more than a little tempted.

  But Mirella has that part of me . . .

  Setting that aside, Varahana was right: he couldn’t shirk dealing with Kemara and her magic. So he nudged his horse back down the column, seeking her cart. She had to deal with all manner of health complaints every morning, so she was invariably the last to leave camp.

  Sure enough, she was right at the back and he didn’t find her until late afternoon. Four of the most seriously ill patients were crammed onto the bed of her cart: three of theirs and the sailor, Trimble. He’d half-expected trouble over the man, but he was vocal in his dislike of the empire and the initial antagonism towards him had quickly dissipated.

  The healer saw him coming and hurried off; when he called after her, she shouted, ‘I need to pee,’ which put paid to following her. So he joined the four wounded men, chatted to his people for a bit, then turned to the stranger.

  ‘What’s your name, sailor?’

  His bland face was covered in a thick stubble now, and he chewed redleaf nervously. ‘Trimble, Lord. Moss Trimble.’

  Fear was the most common reaction to a known sorcerer, especially in the empire, so his unease was understandable. ‘The name’s Vyre. Raythe Vyre.’

  ‘Milord.’

  Raythe confirmed Kemara’s report that he was a pressganged half-Pelarian – or at least, he reiterated it, rather than proved the tale. But when he asked, ‘Tell me, was there a man aboard named Toran Zorne?’ he saw Trimble flinch.

  After a moment, the sailor said, ‘Aye.’ He looked around, as if checking to see if anyone was listening – they all were, of course – then added, ‘Zorne ordered the captain round like he was a cabin boy.’

  Of course, a Ramkiseri agent outranks even a naval captain, Raythe thought. ‘What did he look like?’

  Trimble chewed a few moments, then said, ‘Dark hair, pale. Prissy about his appearance: had to be perfectly shaved, perfectly combed. Creepy, he was.’

  ‘Odd. I’d pictured someone quite different,’ Raythe remarked. Strange, to be hunted by a man yet never know what he looks like. ‘So he died when the ship exploded?’

  Trimble chewed some more, then said, ‘Right by the captain, he was. Guess he’s dead.’

  ‘We found no other survivors except you – how did that happen?’

  ‘I have no friggin’ idea,’ the sailor answered. ‘Got thrown into the sea.’ His eyes trailed to the returning Kemara Solus. ‘Fine-looking woman, that. I like me a redhead.’

  ‘That one’s got sharp teeth and a sour tongue,’ Raythe snorted. ‘Best of luck with your wounds. I’m told you’ll heal with time.’

  ‘Hope so, milord, ’cause me back hurts like buggery.’

  ‘I thought sailors liked a bit of buggery,’ Kemara threw in, getting a general laugh. ‘Lord Vyre, are you here for your headlice or the cock-pox?’

  The four patients chuckled again and Raythe found himself colouring. ‘Neither, Mistress Kemara. I have a wart that needs burning off and thought you could do it with your gaze. A word, please?’

  She looked set to make some excuse, but instead muttered, ‘Sure, let’s get it over with,’ and stalked away out of her patients’ hearing. ‘Well?’ she asked as Raythe caught her up.

  ‘I know you don’t want to talk about this, but I need to understand. You say the mizra isn’t evil and that you have it under control, but you and I might need that meld again. We can’t leave it up to chance.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘We need to practise it.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’

  ‘No, I don’t, you’re right – so enlighten me. Do you have a familiar – or is it a “demon”, as the Church styles mizra-spirits? Did you really fail your tests? Have you actually been cauterised at all? Is anything you’ve told us about your past true?’

  Kemara glowered up at him. ‘Says the man who’s never told me his tale.’

  ‘Fine, let me rectify that right now. I was an Otravian noble, supporting the king. When the Mandarykes seized power, my wife defected and they tried to arrest me. I stole back my daughter and ran. We joined Colfar and I commanded one of his divisions – and that was a bloody disaster, as you know. I’m worth about a million argents to bounty-hunters, if you’re lucky enough to meet one you can trust to share the reward.’

  ‘So you’re a freedom fighter in exile.’

  ‘Call it that if you like. Otravia was a constitutional monarchy with an elected parliament; now we’re an oppressed imperial province with a puppet government which rules by decree. Where once we were liberal and progressive, now we’re turning citizens into serfs, burning books and hanging dissidents. I want my country and my life back, in that order.’

  Her pugnacious face softened a little. ‘Tell me that you’ll not vanish with the istariol, if this mission succeeds.’

  ‘You have my word . . . as a Vyre.’

  ‘Your line were always called “the uncrowned princes of Otravia”, weren’t they? Your father was Premier.’

  He balled his fists, not wanting to think of all he’d lost. ‘Aye. The Mandarykes beheaded him for “corruption”, then stole our property and lands for themselves.’

  ‘And took your wife. You must really hate them. I bet you feel that the sacrifice of this whole caravan of people would be a small price to pay to bring them down?’

  ‘I’ve certainly not forgiven them, but I’m a Vyre and an Otravian and whether you believe me or not, honour matters to me. I’ll take my share and no more, and I’ll give my blood for the people I’m travelling with – even Elgus, and that’s more than he’d do for me.’

  She harrumphed and fell silent, then said, ‘All right. I’ll take you at your word.’

  That was a big, big concession for her, Raythe realised. �
��Thank you, that means a lot.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Sure it does.’

  ‘No, I mean it. That meld we shared—’

  ‘Is all we’ll ever share.’

  He coloured. ‘I presumed nothing more.’ Damn, but she’s difficult. ‘But what of you? You used mizra. In any civilised place, or so-called, at least, you’d be on a bonfire.’

  To her credit, she didn’t splutter something stupid like ‘I don’t know what you mean’ or ‘You must be mistaken’. Instead she faced him and admitted, ‘Yes, but I destroyed my own familiar, and that almost killed me. I swore I’d never use it again – not because the mizra is evil or wrong, because I don’t think it is, but because it’s too dangerous. The Church had invigilators on my trail. But back at the beach, I had no choice.’

  ‘If you’ve got no familiar, what spirit did you channel when we melded at the beach?’

  She hung her head. ‘Something latched onto me in that Aldar rath. It followed me out.’

  The dead Aldar . . . He stiffened, remembering the mask. I knew I should have destroyed it.

  ‘Kemara, mizra almost destroyed our world. Tell me why I shouldn’t be petrified of you.’

  She glared at him. ‘Isn’t it simpler just to burn the witch and have done?’

  ‘Of course not – quite apart from magical considerations, you’re a valued member of this expedition.’ He glanced about, seeing a few curious folk observing them, and dropped his voice, although no one was close enough to hear them. ‘What we did was impossible. We melded two forms of opposed sorcery and instead of it imploding, it became greater than either of us. By rights we should both be dead, but instead we saved the entire caravan. Isn’t that worth exploring?’

  She looked up at him, her hard but handsome face creased with uncertainty. Finally she sagged and said, ‘Fine. I was a trainee sorceress, a sworn novice in Ferrea. But my manifestation didn’t go right. I chose the wrong familiar and when the matron tried to intervene, my new familiar lashed out through me and I almost killed her.’

  ‘Holy Gerda,’ Raythe breathed. ‘What happened next?’