The ocean remained choppy for three days, and the rocking of the ship made many of the recruits sick. Broeck urged them to
come out in the open, but they huddled belowdecks, vomiting and groaning. When the weather calmed as they sailed past Erietta
Reach, the recruits finally emerged on deck looking gray and shaken, breathing gulps of fresh salt air in an attempt to recover.
Unafflicted by seasickness, Mateo preferred to be out in the cold open breeze, rather than in the close vile-smelling hold
below.
Kjelnar, who had also accompanied them aboard the wedding ship, kept an anxious watch on his raft of logs. After the days
of rough seas ended, he lowered a rope ladder over the side and dropped down onto one of the floating logs. From there, he
skipped from one floating trunk to another, inspecting the chains that held key logs together. Mateo watched him incredulously,
knowing that any slip would bring the shipwright between the logs, where he would be crushed. But Kjelnar did not slip.
During the storm, some of the outlying pines had broken loose and drifted free, and Kjelnar barked instructions for Iborian
workers to lower the ship’s boat over the side and row out to retrieve them. Not only were these pines valuable, but any rogue
logs would pose a sailing hazard for future ships. Besides, he intended to use all the wood for constructing new warships
in Calay Harbor. After what he had seen the Urecari do to Prester-Marshall Baine and his crew in Ishalem, Kjelnar did not
ever want to stop building attack ships.
Ilrida stood on deck all day long, her pale blue eyes wide with wonder. Broeck’s daughter was twelve years Mateo’s senior,
yet she seemed more innocent than he was, having lived a sheltered existence in Calavik… possibly because the destrar was
afraid of losing her, as he had lost his wife in a snowstorm.
Broeck told Mateo to keep her company, which Mateo did awkwardly, since he was not fluent in the northern dialect. “Talk to
her in Tierran,” the destrar suggested with a shrug. “She’ll have to learn it sooner or later.”
And so the young man stood with her on the open deck, telling her stories, describing Calay. He talked about the kitten he
had given Anjine as a going-away present. He also shared snippets from Anjine’s letters about how she had raised Tycho as
a veritable feline prince. Most important, Mateo told Ilrida how kind and generous King Korastine was. He described how Korastine
had given his word to Mateo’s dying father and had never turned from his vow. “He will be a good husband, I promise you.”
Looking wistfully at the coast, Mateo smiled. “And wait until you meet Anjine. She will make you feel at home. I’m sure you’ll
be great friends.” He told her the stories of the things the two of them had done together as younger children. He laughed
aloud at the memories.
Ilrida smiled at him, but Mateo could tell by her puzzled expression that she didn’t understand much of what he said. Still,
she seemed to enjoy his company and his voice, and he knew she picked up some basic words. Telling these stories had increased
Mateo’s own homesickness. He watched the coastline and knew they were almost home.
Under house arrest in Olabar, Aldo na-Curic was considered a particularly valuable captive. The barred windows of his small,
sparsely furnished cottage afforded him a view of the soldan-shah’s palace and the nearby Urecari church. He still didn’t
know what would happen to him or what the Urecari wanted from him. Two guards were posted outside the main door, another in
the rear, although Aldo had made no attempt to escape. Where would he go?
Each day, as he paced his room, his thoughts knotted as well as his stomach, he listened to the sikaras sing their call to
the sunset services. He heard a cacophony of merchants shouting to customers who were bidding against one another, which made
Aldo conclude that he must be near the main souks. He missed his parents, his brother and sister, and stern old Sen Leo.
No one seemed surprised that Aldo could speak passable Uraban, and he concluded that Saedran chartsmen were so rare here on
the foreign continent that they seemed like sorcerers. As he brooded in his locked home, Aldo considered how to use that perception
to his advantage. Maybe he could bargain his way home, or at least to freedom.
After a week of not-unpleasant captivity, during which Aldo realized he was more curious than terrified about his future,
he resigned himself to learn what he could from his strange situation. Even in Sen Leo’s large library, descriptions of Olabar
and the Uraban interior were sketchy at best, the details unverified. After his ordeal, if he did get away, Aldo was determined
to return to Calay with a useful report. It would make all his tribulations worthwhile if he could sketch in another blank
area on the great Mappa Mundi.
On the morning of his sixteenth day, after being fed a lovely breakfast of papaya and fire-roasted eggs, Aldo was surprised
when a quartet of flatulent-sounding Uraban horns blasted a fanfare in the street outside his house. The guards yanked open
the door for a bald, plump man who wore orange robes, decorative golden chains, and a bright yellow sash tied across his belly.
“I am Imir, Uraba’s soldan of soldans,” he said. “Welcome to my lovely city of Olabar. It is not often we have Saedran charts-men
as our guests.”
The soldan-shah’s words took Aldo aback, and he could not stop himself from blurting, “Your guest? My ship was attacked, my
crewmates killed by Uraban pirates, and I was kidnapped. We were just peaceful traders!”
Imir’s expression turned sour. “Your captain was a black marketeer running cargo in our territory south of the sacred Edict
Line. You’re no fool, Saedran. If a Uraban ship were to sail north and secretly trade with Tierran coastal villages, King
Korastine’s navy would attack us, capture or kill our crews, and sink our ships.” He took a seat at the small table, sliding
aside the dishes that held the remnants of Aldo’s breakfast. “We could just as easily have let you join the others, but you
can help us.” His full lips curved in an ingratiating smile. “We’ll make it worth your while.”
Aldo was too upset to be tactful. “My services aren’t for sale.”
“Of course they are. And I am your new customer. We need to have a conversation, you and I.” A servant hurried in from the
street, carrying an ornate silver tea set and left again just as quickly. “As a Saedran, you have no stake in the religious
clash between Urecari and Aidenists. Why show them any more loyalty than you would to me? I wish to hire you as a chartsman.
Help our merchants and sailors, maybe even our navy. As a Saedran chartsman, you should be objective.”
Flustered, Aldo sat at the table. Imir regarded the tea service as if wondering whether to wait for some servant to fill their
cups, then picked up the silver pot and splashed steaming minty liquid into the cups, serving himself first. “Although Uraba
has plenty of wealth, we do not have a large population of Saedrans. Very few are chartsmen. You know about Tierran waters,
the coastline, the cities, the winds, the currents. You’d be very much appreciated among us. Why not settle down here? We’ll
find you a wife, pay you well, give you anything you need.”
Aldo reached forward to take his cup of tea, unconvinced. “I’d rather go home to my own family.”
Imir’s brow wrinkled. “You already have a wife? You seem quite young.”
“I have a mother and father, a sister and a brother.”
The soldan-shah made a quick, dismissive gesture. “They will be fine without you.”
“They must be worried sick about me! Everyone knows what the Urecari do to their enemies.”
Imir slurped his tea, burned his tongue, and quickly set his cup down on the table. “You aren’t the only one who has endured
tragedies, young man. Tierran pirates have attacked coastal villages in Outer Wahilir. They sank our ships, stole our cargoes.”
He stopped himself and sighed. “Ah well, I thought you might be intractable, so I brought someone who can tell you more about
us and our lands, and our needs.” He signaled to the guards at the open door.
A broad-hipped woman stepped tentatively into the house, wearing a Saedran-style dress and traditional scarves tied at her
neck. In her late forties, with curly sepia hair that fell to the small of her back, she had generous lips, kind eyes, and
a studious demeanor.
With a warm smile and a bow in her direction, Imir said, “This is my dear friend and companion, Sen Sherufa na-Oa, one of
Olabar’s most prized scholars and a chartsman, though an untraveled one. I’m one of the few who recognizes both her intelligence
and talents. I cannot fathom why men do not line up at her door with marriage proposals.”
“I turned them down,” Sherufa said. “I’ve got too many other things to do.” She turned her attention to Aldo. “However, I
am delighted to see a fellow Saedran chartsman. I may not have made voyages of my own, but I have read plenty of books. We
can learn much from each other.”
“I’m more interested in what you can learn from him, my dear.” Imir leaned forward to kiss Sen Sherufa on the cheek, and she
flushed. The guards studiously turned their backs, staring into the street as though an invasion might be about to happen.
“I’ll leave you two alone.” He pulled out a chair for Sherufa. “Have some tea, get to know each other. Offer him anything…
within reason. He could be very useful to us.”
The soldan-shah strode out, leaving the two Saedrans together, and Sen Sherufa seemed as embarrassed as Aldo. “This is interesting,”
she said.
“And unexpected.” Aldo cautiously studied her to see if he could read any hidden agendas. “I have nothing against you, ma’am,
but after watching them capture my ship and murder my captain and crew, I am not… objective about the Urabans.”
“Oh, you’ve got nothing to fear from me.” Sherufa picked up the soldan-shah’s half-finished cup of tea and drained it. “And
Imir is right in one respect—Saedrans don’t have to choose between Aidenists and Urecari. We do have a lot to learn from each
other.”
Saan was gone.
On his fifth birthday, her son was seized and taken away, exactly as Ur-Sikara Lukai had threatened. The priestess arrived
with six palace guards, all of them armed, as if they expected her to resist, but Adrea knew how useless that would be. Turning
her head aside, Adrea bottled up her tears and allowed herself one last wordless embrace with her son before they pulled the
surprised and upset Saan away with them.
“He will be taken care of,” Lukai promised in heavily accented Tierran. “He will serve the followers of Urec. Be proud of
him.”
With great effort, Adrea held her tongue and kept her expression stony. Ur-Sikara Lukai swirled her red gowns and followed
the guards ushering the boy away. Adrea could hear the echoes of Saan crying down the halls…
In the following days, from the blank expression on Adrea’s face, no one in the Olabar palace could have guessed the depths
of her fury. For more than five years of slavery, she had endured in silence, remained in her place, and performed her duties—all
to keep her son safe.
Now, given the slightest opportunity, she would have poisoned them all, from the soldan-shah himself to the lowliest Uraban
servant. She considered stealing a knife from a serving tray and going from room to room in the dead of night, slaying as
many Urabans as she could before someone stopped her.
Only the slender hope of doing something for Saan restrained her. Without Adrea, the boy would be utterly lost. She needed
to find some way to fight back, or he would be forever trapped in his fate.
She had failed him, and she had failed her beloved Criston. Saan might even be turned into a soldier against Aidenists—unless
she could find a way to free him. If anything happened to Saan, if she learned that he’d been harmed in any way, then nothing
would stop her. Adrea
would
kill them all.
For now, she would bide her time, always alert, playing the role of the silent servant.
Adrea entered Villiki’s quarters carrying a tray with the evening meal: skewers of roasted songbirds smothered in honey and
sesame seeds and a salad of bright flower petals. She was tempted to spit on the food before bringing it to Imir’s scheming
wife, but if she were caught doing that, she would be severely punished. Adrea was not afraid to surrender her life if it
meant freedom for Saan, but she wouldn’t do it for an empty gesture. No, she would act only when she was certain she could
accomplish something.
Inside the chamber, Villiki and Ur-Sikara Lukai lounged on cushions, facing each other across a low table. Intent on their
conversation, the two women began to eat without so much as acknowledging Adrea. She unobtrusively went on with her work,
tying back the silk hangings around Villiki’s bed, preparing Villiki’s pillows for evening, watering each of Villiki’s eleven
potted ferns, whose fronds unfurled in a perfect embodiment of the Urecari religious symbol. The two women continued to speak
in low tones, hushed but intense, and quickly forgot her presence.
“It will be easy to administer the poison,” Lukai said.
Bending over a potted fern, Adrea froze, then forced herself to keep going through the motions of her task.
“Cliaparia’s so desperate for his affections that she continues to buy aphrodisiacs, hoping to ensnare Omra’s love.” The ur-sikara’s
tone was rich with scorn. “She’ll administer our poison without even realizing it. She’ll think it’s another love potion.”
Villiki lounged back on her cushion, chuckling in her rich, deep voice. “Wonderful! That way, Cliaparia will be blamed for
Omra’s death since she will give him the poison, an added benefit. But we’ve got to move soon. Any day now, she could claim
to be pregnant, and then Tukar’s challenge to become heir would be even weaker.” She snorted. “And it is weak enough as it
is.”
The two women ate their meal, crunching the delicate bones of the skewered birds. Villiki looked up and took notice of Adrea.
“You, slave! Bring us some figs.”