“You have no garments? No belongings?” she asked.
“I didn’t have much chance to pack while the Urabans were attacking my ship,” he said with a bitter edge in his voice.
“I’ll put out the call. Don’t worry. We’ll find everything you need. We take care of our own.”
Sen Sherufa certainly seemed warm-hearted, charming, and well liked, though she had never married. When he asked her about
it, she said, “I spent too much time with my nose in books, documents, and chronicles. I rarely looked up long enough to take
notice of a potential husband, and I never felt the need to have children.”
Aldo chuckled. “You don’t need a family of your own. Everyone here treats you like a favorite aunt.”
Inside her home, Sherufa showed him her library, the valued books she kept on her shelves. Aldo studied the spines and read
the titles. Sen Sherufa owned quite an eclectic mix of tomes, and he knew he could offer her a great deal of information…
if he decided he could trust her.
“Because I kept to myself, always studying, but never flaunting my knowledge, no one discovered until relatively late in my
life that I had the perfect recall,” Sherufa explained. “Belatedly, I memorized maps, constellations, and stories. My mind
is full of details about things I’ve never seen, places I’ve never visited.” She smiled—wistfully, it seemed. “When the soldan-shah
learned of my skills, he brought me into his palace.”
“Why did he need a chartsman in the palace?” Aldo slid another volume back onto the shelf and removed the next one, which
was not a proper book at all but merely a ledger of all the merchant ships that had come into port over a five-year period.
“Imir wanted to hear my stories. He would sit back with his eyes closed, a goblet of wine in his hand, and ask me for one
tale after another after another.” She took a seat, turning her chair so she could look at him. “I’m good at recounting other
people’s adventures. I just don’t wish to have any of my own.”
“It’s not the same,” Aldo said in a low voice. “I promise you that.”
“Maybe so, but so it is.”
“And that’s how you came to be friends with the soldanshah?”
Sen Sherufa’s gaze was distant. “He wanted to take me as his wife—his fourth, I believe—but I refused.”
Aldo didn’t know whether to be more surprised that the soldan-shah wanted a Saedran wife or that Sen Sherufa had turned him
down. “Was he angry with you?”
“Oh, Imir still maintains his hope, and I let him keep that hope, but my calling is elsewhere. Because I remain a virgin,
the sikaras find me laughable, but what does their derision matter to me? They’d have no respect for a Saedran woman even
if I were promiscuous!”
Aldo could see how Imir would find her attractive, though Sherufa did not bother to make herself traditionally beautiful.
Her skirts were trimmed with color and fitted just tightly enough to show some of her generous figure, but not in a seductive
way. The fact that she was exotic and unattainable had probably made her even more intriguing to the soldan-shah.
“Imir grants me anything I ask of him… but then, I’ve never made any difficult requests. He knew that I’d love to speak with
another chartsman. I think he was more glad for your capture because it would put the two of us together, and make me happy,
than because of any strategic knowledge you might have.”
“But he does expect you to pump me for information.” It wasn’t a question.
“Maybe.” Sen Sherufa walked into the kitchen, where she poured them each a drink from a water pitcher in which floated sliced
lemons and flower petals. “He wants you to tell me stories, so I’ll have more tales to entertain him.”
“I’d like to learn something as well,” Aldo said cautiously. “We can exchange information. Do you have… any maps of Uraba?”
“Maps.” Sen Sherufa’s eyes lit up. She met Aldo’s gaze as she handed him a glass. “Oh, you mean the Mappa Mundi?”
“You know of the Mappa Mundi? The great project?”
“I’m a Saedran, am I not? A chartsman, even if I don’t travel—I told you that. Because we are so isolated, I’m sure my poor
map is quite out of date. I have little opportunity to gain more information.”
Aldo’s heart pounded. “Now you have that opportunity. We both do.”
Sherufa went to one of her cupboards and furtively removed a stack of fired clay plates and bowls to expose a wooden backing.
“Nobody else knows about this… well, not many. Since I’m the only scholar and chartsman here, I keep my own copy so that I
can make tentative additions and corrections as I read my books.”
She slid out the thin boards so she could unfasten a broad sheet of yellowed paper. On it, Aldo saw the outlines of the world,
intricately detailed landforms, the coastline, rivers and hills, Uraban villages, the boundaries of all the soldanates. In
one quick glimpse, Aldo learned more about Uraba than he had ever known before.
The northern half of the map, however, showing the continent of Tierra, was both sketchy and inaccurate. Some features of
the coastline were exaggerated, others nonexistent, particularly in the isolated reaches of Iboria and Soeland.
Aldo drank in the lines and markings, reading the Saedran characters, committing every detail to memory. He followed the outlines
of the Middlesea, and was surprised by the especially thorough mapping of the northern coast, which was blocked from Tierran
exploration by the rugged Corag mountains, as he had seen himself. Aldo marveled as he meshed these details with what he already
knew.
The soldan-shah had hoped Sen Sherufa would make Aldo want to stay in Olabar and offer his services. Seeing this version of
the map, however, produced the opposite reaction. He felt a fiery determination to get back to Calay. He
had
to bring this knowledge to Sen Leo!
But he also had an obligation to Sherufa, to share his knowledge with the ultimate goal of completing the Mappa Mundi. Aidenist
and Urecari politics did not matter to them.
“I can help you fill in the blanks,” he said. “Together you and I can make the most complete map of the world that Saedrans
have ever produced.”
Though Adrea averted her gaze, as a slave should, her heart was determined. She carried a lacquered tray bearing a bowl of
cool yogurt mixed with mashed mango to the zarif’s chambers. Few people in the palace recalled that Zarif Omra had shown her
favor years ago during the raid on Windcatch, and he had paid no special attention to her since then.
Now, though, she prayed that he remembered. She was risking everything.
She walked forward with silent grace, maintaining the appearance that she belonged here. It would be a long while before anyone
noticed that she had abandoned her regular tasks.
Having just returned from an expedition to the Yuarej soldanate where he inspected military encampments and staging fields,
Omra now sequestered himself in a private chamber to look over military maps and tally his troops, ships, and weapons. Adrea
knew that Cliaparia planned to hold a private feast for him that evening. The zarif’s wife would oversee the preparations
and had given very specific instructions to the kitchen staff. This would be Adrea’s one chance.
She entered with the tray and set it on the low table beside his desk. Without looking up, Omra merely gestured her away as
he scribbled his figures, added his sums, but she remained, her throat working, her lips moving as she tried to remember what
it felt like to
form words
and speak openly after so long.
Omra glanced at her, his dark eyes narrowed with impatience; then he paused as recognition flickered across his face. After
five years, he still remembered her.
Before he could say anything, Adrea astonished him by speaking in perfect Uraban. “There is a plot to kill you, Zarif Omra.
You will die tonight, unless you listen to me.” Her voice sounded completely foreign to her, but it strengthened with every
word.
Omra stared at her and stroked his dark, pointed beard. “So you
can
speak, after all.”
“More importantly, I can listen. A slave overhears things. I know all about the plot.”
Omra seemed more amused than frightened. “Very well, tell me.”
Adrea shook her head. “Not yet. I will reveal what I know only if you grant me something in return.”
His brows lifted in amusement. “Really?” He laughed. “I remember how scrappy you were when we captured you. I suppose I shouldn’t
be surprised that your spirit was never broken, no matter how well you’ve cooperated during your time here.”
“I require something from you, Zarif,” she repeated coldly. “If you don’t agree, then they can kill you, for all I care. You
have the blood of my friends—my family—on your hands.”
Intrigued now, he leaned back, pushing his papers aside. “Then why bother to save me at all?”
“Because I
do
have a great love for my son. He has been taken away, and I want him back. You can help me. I want your guarantee that he
will stay with me. Is that worth your life?”
He crossed his arms, regarding her, but Adrea didn’t flinch.
“Tell me what you know,” Omra said. “Then I will decide.”
“No. Your word first.”
“And how much is my word worth, if it is given only to a slave?”
“The word of the soldan-shah’s son should be worth a great deal to whomever it is given.”
“Very well, then I give you my word.” He smiled thinly. “But I will decide whether to
keep
my promise after you reveal what you know.” He seemed to be toying with her, but not in a cruel way. He was amused by her
boldness.
Dismayed, but knowing this was the best promise she was likely to get, Adrea had to push forward. So she explained how Villiki
intended to poison him that evening, how the drug was to be administered in a “love potion” his wife, Cliaparia, would put
into the food. She watched Omra’s expression darken, for her words had the ring of truth.
“I know of Cliaparia’s love potions, because they often make me ill. I also know how much Villiki wants her own son to take
my place.” Omra fell silent as thoughts rushed through his head, colliding, making him more and more angry. “Which priestess
was she scheming with?”
“Ur-Sikara Lukai.” She answered without hesitation, without regret. Though the lead priestess had taken too much pleasure
in tearing Saan away from her, Adrea did this not for revenge, but for her son.
He nodded. “And is Cliaparia involved? Does she want me dead?”
“I saw no evidence of that. What would she have to gain? I think the others mean for her to be blamed, if their poisoning
plot succeeds.”
The zarif rose, his expression dark. “It’s best you leave now. I must speak with my father.”
But Adrea made no move. She waited, silent and expectant. Preoccupied as he was, it took Omra a few moments to remember her
request. He took a breath and nodded. “Yes. If this is true, then it is indeed worth the price of your son.”
Improving the world, by the grace of Ondun
.
Prester Hannes had lived those words all his life: the Rule of Rules that God had given his sons, and that they in turn had
given their followers. Such a task would never end, and all good Aidenists had to look for ways to follow the rule, to please
Ondun.
But for all his contemplation on that command, Hannes had never before understood the breadth of the charge. He hadn’t felt
the genuine meaning of that instruction—
improving the world
—until now. It had become his mission in life.
After so many years in Olabar, preying upon the enemy in small ways, he slipped out of the capital city and made his way along
the southern coast of the Middlesea, following a path that would eventually take him back to Tierra. But he was in no hurry.
He had work to do on the way.
The Urecari were willful heretics. Before the burning of Ishalem, Aidenist missionaries had traveled across the isthmus to
Urecari settlements to spread the word. But these people knowingly followed the wrong path, stubbornly refused to listen.
Why, then, should Prester Hannes have any sympathy for them? Though the Book of Aiden was widely available, they ignored the
truth, and so they had to face the consequences. The world could not be pure again while so many followers of arrogant Urec
lived, and Ondun would not return until the blight was removed.
It was so obvious.
After walking for days on a stony road across an open grassy landscape, Hannes arrived at a small coastal village. The locals
were tanned, the men shirtless, and they all moved about in an unhurried fashion, gathering mussels and oysters from beds
along the breakwater. Fishing boats plied the calm shallow seas, their crews spearing sharks or netting sardines. In evenings,
with a festive air they roasted their catch in great ember-filled beds, with smoky dry-seaweed fires right on the beach.
At the small church in the center of the village, the old half-blind sikara spotted Hannes as he entered town at dusk. She
moved forward, favoring her left leg, and asked him to join them in the communal meal on the beach. He hesitated at first,
but he was very hungry and finally came forward to accept a pile of black mussels from the ash bed. The shells yawned open,
and as soon as they were cool enough to touch, he slurped out the rubbery meat.
He explained that he came from Olabar, but refused to answer more, though the sikara pressed him for details. She offered
him shelter, saying that he could sleep in the church if he wished, but Hannes was not willing to do that. In this temperate
climate, he would be comfortable sleeping outside.
He was sure that the compassion of the half-blind priestess was just an act, and he detected a buried hauteur beneath her
manner. Like any sikara, she probably wanted to corrupt him. As Asha had done. He kept his distance.
The village housed its consumable stores inside a large permanent tent. Salt and spices were sealed in clay jars. Casks of
lamp oil were stacked high.