The Map of All Things (13 page)

28
Calay, Military District

When the skinny young woman came nosing around the barracks, asking where she might find Mateo Bornan, her arrival caused a stir in the Military District. She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Her skin was much too pale and covered with a coppery splatter of freckles; her hair was red and wild, as lustrous as a frayed old paintbrush. She was not attractive by any stretch, nor would she be—definitely not the sort of young woman the subcomdar was often seen with.

“Let me see Mateo Bornan.” She actually stamped her foot on the ground when the soldiers regarded her with amusement. “In private. I need to talk with him.”

Mateo had just arrived back from upriver, where he had escorted a group of fresh Uraban captives to the Alamont prisoner camps. Returning to Calay, though, he had heard the news of the king's death. Mateo's next sad duty would be attending Korastine's funeral.

When informed of the redheaded girl's presence outside the barracks, he said, “Send her away. We have too much else to do. The king is dead.” With a quick salute, the young guard left to give the girl a gruff dismissal.

As couriers spread the news around the five reaches, destrars would rush to Calay so they could attend the old king's final ceremony and be present for Anjine's formal coronation (although she had been the de facto ruler of Tierra for several years now). Mateo longed to go to Anjine—as a friend. She had always been able to talk with him about her greatest concerns, her inner doubts, her dreams. They were childhood friends, bound by years of memories and shared experiences. But this was a time of vulnerability for her. Perhaps he shouldn't allow himself to get closer. She would be the queen now, and he was just a soldier….

When they were children, politics hadn't mattered much—though Anjine's mother had never been keen on the close friendship between the princess and a lowborn boy taken into the castle. She had tried to separate the pair, and they had rebelled, finding surreptitious ways to run off, creating imaginary identities for themselves and having their own adventures out in the city. Later, as Anjine assumed the formal mantle of princess and he became a career soldier rising through the ranks, Mateo had needed to distance himself from her. Social expectations came into play.

Once Anjine was queen,
his
queen, the gulf between them would be even vaster. She couldn't just cry on Mateo's shoulder; the loss of her father wasn't just a skinned knee. She was
Queen Anjine
. The words formed a lump in Mateo's throat as he thought them.

If nothing else, he would be first to bend his knee and swear loyalty to her, offering his heart and life alike, for her… and for Tierra.

King Korastine had been a patient and loving mentor to him, practically a father. The king's wisdom, benevolence, understanding, and generosity had also made him a great ruler in times of prosperity, keeping his people on an even keel. But he was not molded from the right stuff to face a never-ending war. The violence, repeated tragedies, and simmering hatred had ruined him. Now perhaps Korastine would find peace; he certainly deserved it. But that only meant more heartache and backbreaking responsibility for poor Anjine.

He would help her however he could. He could not let her be ruined too.

The young guard returned once more, flustered. “I'm sorry, sir, but the girl won't leave. She even gave one of the troops a black eye when he tried to move her against her will. She calls you a fool if you won't listen to her.”

Despite his sad thoughts, an intrigued smile quirked Mateo's lips. “She gave one of
my
soldiers a black eye?”

“Yes, sir. Shall we lock her in the stockade?”

“Do you think you can?” Mateo gave a small chuckle. “Better send that soldier back to training if he can be bested by a girl! How old did you say she was?”

“Looks to be fifteen or so.” The rest of the sentence was weighted with unspoken meaning:
Much too young for you
. And certainly too old for her to claim to be his daughter.

“All right, she's sparked my interest. Let's see why she feels the need to cause so much fuss.”

The girl came in looking indignant. Her clothes were rags, and her face needed a good scrubbing; she seemed to be a stranger to regular meals. As Mateo inspected her, she flashed a hot glance at the soldier who had escorted her in. “I said I needed to speak to the subcomdar
alone
.”

The soldier gave Mateo an uncertain look. “Will you be all right, sir?”

“I'll try not to let her give
me
a black eye.” Doubtful, the soldier left and closed the door behind him. Sitting back at his desk, Mateo regarded the redheaded teenager with some amusement. “What's your name, girl? We haven't been introduced.”

“Tira.”

“And your last name?”

Her bony shoulders bobbed once. “Don't have one.” In response to his skeptical frown, she let out an impatient sigh. “You'll understand soon. I don't have a family that I remember. That was all pounded out of me. They try to make you forget, especially fond memories. They scour everything away, everything but the mission.”

Mateo perked up. “What mission?”

Tira squared her shoulders and met Mateo's gaze straight on with her greenish brown eyes. “I'm a
ra'vir
.”

The information took him completely by surprise. Mateo stared, ready to call for the soldier again, but the girl interjected, “A former one. Captured eight years ago from my home, brought down the coast of Uraba with many other children, marched overland, and trained for years.”

Behind the desk, Mateo's hand strayed toward the dagger at his belt. He could call for guards at a moment's notice, but he let Tira continue to talk. “Explain yourself. How do I know you're not a
ra'vir
anymore.”

“Urecari raiders captured a lot of us. Our training was ruthless, rigorous, relentless. Most children don't survive long—not the right material or not susceptible to the Teacher's manipulations. Some of the failures are sent to the soldanates as slaves. The rest are killed for their failings. The ones who complete
ra'vir
training are the best of the best, hardened warriors in the cause of Urec. They want to destroy anyone who worships the Fishhook. I was one of them.”

Mateo remained silent, waiting.

“After three years, the Teacher sent me back to Tierra. Alone—most
ra'virs
are. Don't know where any of the others might be. We were encouraged to scatter. The Teacher ordered us to inflict damage and keep you in terror.” She lowered her chin, swallowed hard. “I heard what happened at the Ishalem wall.”

The reminder made Mateo's anger flare. “And you expect me to believe you?” With the king's death still raw in his mind, he thought of how
ra'virs
had burned the Arkship in Calay harbor, destroying Korastine's dreams of sailing to Terravitae.

The redheaded girl shrugged again, made no apology. “Never found the right time or place to strike… but I did find friends. Aidenist friends, kindhearted Tierrans, good people, devout and sympathetic folks who helped me without knowing a thing about me. Even though I thought it was burned out of me, and the Teacher taught me to hate Aidenists, I started to remember my family. My real family. The raiders that captured me murdered my parents first. I remembered that I loved them, how kind they were. I remembered being a Tierran… but I can't forget that I'm a
ra'vir
. So I hid. I worked. I stayed alive. But I did nothing else.”

Mateo leaned forward. “Why did you come to me? And why now?”

Her milky skin flushed a bright red. “On the streets, I recognized a young man. I'm sure he was from my childhood village—probably escaped the raid somehow.” Tira sniffed. “He was living the life I could have had.” She shook her head. “When I heard about those Tierran soldiers killed at the Ishalem wall, I should have felt glad, but I didn't. It felt wrong.”

Fascinated, Mateo realized that he could neither turn away this potential boon, nor entirely trust her. At least not yet. “You say you can't identify any other
ra'virs
? So how can you help me?” The few captive
ra'virs
he'd interrogated had been no help at all.

“We don't have a secret sign or code, but I have suspicions about a few people.” She gave him a winsome smile. “And I know a way you can root them out.”

29
Lillotha, Yuarej

“It appears that I am to lose everything, my love,” Soldan Andouk said to his first and only wife. A courier riding an exhausted horse to the capital of Yuarej soldanate had delivered the soldan-shah's summons. “Honestly, I didn't expect Omra to take so long to act against us. It's been years since Cliaparia's… crimes.”

He had been about to say Cliaparia's
death
, but that wasn't the part the soldan-shah would react to. He had unequivocally forgiven Istar for murdering Andouk's dear but treacherous daughter. Cliaparia had deserved to be killed.

Sharique tucked her feet beneath her as she curled up beside him on the bedcushions. She stroked his hair, kept her voice gentle. “Have faith, husband. Perhaps Omra has something else in mind. His letter makes no mention of revenge for what our daughter did.”

Soldan Andouk was a thin, rabbitlike man, who had good reason to be nervous. He shook his head, unconvinced. His eyes were weary, his shoulders bowed by the invisible weight on them. “I suppose I should give thanks for these last six years, though I have not enjoyed them. The soldan-shah could have sent his men here to execute us at any time. How can a man forgive the murder of his firstborn son?”

“This is a summons for
all
First Wives,” Sharique pointed out. “It is not targeted at you, or me. I think someone else must have offended him.”

Leaning back in their bed, Andouk let out a long sigh. Torches burned in their holders outside the stone archway. The faint buzz of insect song in the forested hills, normally a peaceful sound, now grated on his nerves.

Years earlier, he and Sharique had reached the pinnacle of happiness when their lovely but far too ambitious daughter was chosen as a new wife for Zarif Omra. Andouk had thought the fortunes of Yuarej were improving, a new sun rising upon the small and peaceful soldanate. But he'd been oblivious to schemes Cliaparia worked to gain power in the Olabar palace. Even asa girl, she had been power-hungry. He had been blind to his daughter's flaws.

And someone had to pay for it.

Devastated to learn of Cliaparia's murder, Andouk had at first cried out for revenge, but he quickly learned the truth of the matter. After that, Andouk was a broken and shamed man, living in fear that armed soldiers would arrive one day to seize him and his wife.

Now this unexpected and ominous summons…

Sharique read the document herself, again and again. She was an educated woman, though she remained silent at court, advising her husband only in his private chambers. The two kept to themselves, tending the business of the soldanate. Far from relishing his position as soldan, however, Andouk longed for the peaceful, unremarkable life of a normal man. Taxes on the silk trade, which supplied so much fabric to the war effort, allowed them a comfortable existence.

As a consequence of his quiet lack of ambition, wealthy merchants grew wealthier; Andouk had no doubt that they were cheating him of taxes, altering numbers in their ledger books. They had made him irrelevant, a figurehead. And he didn't have the power, influence, or stamina to call them to account. So long as the Uraban army and navy received its required goods, the soldan-shah did not interfere with the running of any individual soldanate.

Year after year, Soldan Andouk brushed aside the small slights. Not wanting to spark a confrontation or draw attention to himself, he remained in mental retreat from what his daughter had done. But, like slivers being whittled away from a piece of wood, each affront he ignored exposed more egregious behavior. By establishing settlements on the northern border of Yuarej, however, his rival Soldan Huttan was practically declaring war. Andouk had sent repeated complaints to Olabar, to no effect.

And now Omra had commanded that all soldans send their First Wives to the palace. As hostages? As sacrifices?

The sikaras and nobles had long pressured Andouk to take additional wives who would give him sons and heirs. But Sharique was his only wife, because he wanted no one else. She satisfied his needs. After Cliaparia's treachery, Andouk wasn't sure he
wanted
other children…. He did enjoy his visits with his granddaughter Cithara, but since the girl was raised by Istar, Andouk was sure he had lost her, too.

He looked over at his beloved. “What am I to do?” Perhaps he should just abdicate, move into a home in a small village somewhere, run a mulberry grove for the silkworms.

Sharique lifted her chin and looked as brave as Andouk wished he could feel. “You are going to send me to Olabar, and I will stand proudly before the soldan-shah, for I am the wife of the Yuarej soldan.” She kissed him. “Don't worry, husband. You are a good man, and I believe the soldan-shah is too. Urec will watch over us all.”

30
Olabar Palace

The new clothes had cost him a fortune, not to mention the requisite jeweled rings, the tourmaline clasp for his cloak, and the strand of milk pearls that hung from his neck like a badge of office. In Tierra, only women wore pearls, but Urabans considered them a sign of importance and wealth for men as well. His dark hair was cut in the latest fashion, and his brown eyes and tan skin allowed him to pass as either Tierran or Uraban, which had served him well.

Every detail was part of Yal Dolicar's disguise.

For days, he had liberally spent money around Olabar in order to build up his mystique. Dolicar had to ensure that his fame preceded him when he appeared before the soldan-shah. Over the years he had developed many innovative ways to part people from their riches, but this was his most ambitious scheme yet.

He had to deliver every part of his story with the weight of absolute veracity. Soldan-Shah Omra was not a man who would be easily duped.

Dolicar had handed his petition to the court chamberlain, along with a hefty bribe, explaining that he had an item of tremendous historical interest (and value) that the soldan-shah simply must see.

It was midmorning by the time the crier summoned him into the audience chamber. Yal Dolicar gathered his robes, manufactured a demeanor of both supreme importance and humility, and walked into the immaculately appointed room. Advisers and ministers stood around the perimeter, regarding him incuriously; he was the ninth supplicant so far this morning.

Omra sat on a dais from which he dispensed orders and justice. On his left sat his First Wife Istar, the unmistakably Tierran woman who caused so much consternation among the sikaras, and on his right sat a handsome young man with blond hair and blue eyes, also obviously Tierran. His adopted son Saan. Yes, Dolicar had done his research.

Sinking to his knees on the floor of polished driftwood tiles, he spread his arms forward in full obeisance. “My Lord Soldan-Shah, I have brought you an artifact of great magnificence.”

“So my chamberlain says.” Omra leaned forward on the dais as Dolicar extracted a long leather case dyed blood-red and carved with intricate designs. Dolicar had spent as much to create the extravagant container as on the supposed relic inside, but the investment would pay off. He untied a string, removed the cap, and pulled out a weathered-looking parchment with ragged edges. Part of the paper was stained, and the bottom left corner had been burned off. It appeared to be very old, very ornate, and very important.

Still on his knees, Dolicar unrolled the parchment on the polished wood. The map showed strange islands and open seas, embellished with waves and fanciful creatures, tentacled monsters and fanged serpents. The labels were written in archaic and indecipherable script. (Yal Dolicar had no idea what the words were supposed to say, since he had just made them up.)

“My Lord, this was found in a hidden cave in the cliffs above Lahjar.” His breathy voice dripped with awe. “The original Map of Urec—lost so many centuries ago! As soon as I discovered the relic, I rushed here to deliver it to you alone. I suffered great tribulations crossing Uraba, and arrived here all but penniless… save for this great treasure of history, and of our faith.”

At Omra's gesture, Kel Rovic took the map from Dolicar's hand and carried it to the dais. As the soldan-shah stared at the parchment, his expression darkened, which Dolicar found extremely odd. “And you found this map yourself ? In a cave yousay?”

“Yes, in the ruins of an ancient city. Some of the structures had been looted by bandits, but this was untouched. It is a true relic.”

“Someone with great talent created it.” Omra looked up. “Most unfortunate that it is a forgery.”

Gasps rang around the court, and Dolicar goggled. “Soldan-Shah, certainly you—”

“
Certainly
I know that this is a fake and that you are trying to cheat me.” He summoned Kel Rovic. “He is to be executed.”

As guards came forward to seize him, Dolicar sprang to his feet. “My Lord, why do you say such things? This map is no forgery!” The guard captain slid his curved scimitar half out of its sheath, and Dolicar squawked, “If there has been a falsification, then I swear I've been cheated as well. When I bought the map from a merchant in Lahjar, he assured me that—”

Omra's expression remained cold. “Bought it? You told me you found it yourself.”

“I did—I mean, the men took me to the place where it was found. I had every reason to believe it was real. Look at the drawings, the letters. You must admit there's a chance—”

“There is no chance, none at all. This map is a forgery.” The soldan-shah sat back, revealing his own secret. “I already have the real Map.”

Dolicar knew he was doomed.

As an enthusiastic Imir marched her to the throne room, Sen Sherufa bustled alongside, curious. He had practically dragged her from her home that morning, insisting that Omra wanted to see her. “He has an incredible announcement to make. I want you to hear it.”

Other supplicants were waiting for their names to be called, but Imir whisked her past them without a second glance. As he pushed his way into the presence of the soldan-shah, tugging on her arm, she dug in her heels on the slippery floor. “We should wait, Imir. It isn't our turn.”

“I was the soldan-shah, my dear. I never learned how to wait.”

The throne room was in the midst of a commotion, the guards struggling with a man who wailed and thrashed, pleading for his life. Sherufa was astonished to recognize him, though his clothing was different and years had passed. The prisoner spotted her too and cried out, pointing wildly. “That woman—the Saedran woman! She can vouch for me! Sen Sherufa na-Oa knows that I am true to my word.”

Irritated, Omra snapped to Kel Rovic, “Cut out the man's tongue if he will not be quiet.”

The prisoner clamped his mouth shut, but continued to point urgently toward Sherufa.

Imir, scandalized at the man's audacity, put a protective arm around Sherufa, but she stood straight and said calmly, “Yes, Soldan-Shah—long ago, I asked this man to deliver a message to a… far-off friend.” She didn't want to reveal that she had paid him to deliver secrets to her fellow chartsman, Aldo na-Curic,
inCalay
.

“And I did exactly as I was told! I went straight to the Saedran District. The house belonged to a man named Biento na-Curic, and he was the most famed painter in all of—”

Sherufa cut him off in alarm. “I have already said I know who you are. But I know nothing about the trouble you've caused now.”

“There, that settles it.” Though puzzled by her behavior, Imir pushed her toward Omra on his dais, wrapped up in his own excitement. “Tell Sen Sherufa your announcement, my son.”

From the right of the dais, Saan smiled at Sherufa; he too seemed ready to burst with news he was anxious to share. She, Saan, and Imir had formed a strong friendship during their arduous journey over the Great Desert and through the lands of the Nunghals.

Omra raised his voice so his words would carry throughout the room. “We were getting to that, Father. I was about to explain myself to this man.” He scowled at Dolicar, who swallowed hard. “Your map is a forgery because
I
have Urec's original Map. It was discovered in a vault beneath the Aidenist kirk in Ishalem.” He clapped his hands, and within moments the actual relic was brought into the throne room, and Omra revealed it at last for the amazed spectators.

“This map—the
true
Map—shows the way to Terravitae, as well as the location of the fabled Key to Creation, which even Urec could not find. I have chosen my son Saan to undertake a new expedition.” He reached over to place his hand on the young man's shoulder. “If he can find the Key, then we will become invincible in our struggle against the Aidenists.”

Now the muttering became excited, intrigued. Imir blurted out to Sherufa as he squeezed her in a hug. “And you, my dear, will go with them as their chartsman and see mysterious lands with your own eyes! The greatest voyage in the history of Uraba. You'll thank me for years to come.”

Sherufa was astonished that the idea would enter his mind, and the thought of such a long and dangerous expedition made her heart quail. “No… no, I am not the best choice. There are better, younger, and more eager Saedrans. I've already seen my share of the world.”

Imir clucked at her. “Oh come now, my dear. You always encourage me to take notes about new and uncharted places. I know your fascination. This is your chance to expand the boundaries of the known world. What more could any Saedran desire?”

Sherufa couldn't think of a reply. How could he be so oblivious to her desire to stay at home, to read only the adventures that
others
had undertaken? Or maybe he was wily after all. Could this be a ploy to get her to marry him so that she could stay home?

But Imir dispelled that idea as he continued, bubbling with excitement. “How I wish I could go with you, my dear. The adventures we'd have! But alas, I have other obligations.” He grinned wolfishly. “Soldan Xivir and I are going to hunt down the desert bandits once and for all.”

From where the guards held him, Yal Dolicar shouted, “I'll go! Take me with you on the voyage! I have seen much of the world, both Uraba and Tierra! No one is as well versed in foreign lands. I journeyed to every reach in Tierra before the war began and to all the soldanates in Uraba. I have knowledge and experience that would be crucial to the success of such a long and dangerous voyage.”

Sherufa decided to speak on his behalf, although reluctantly. “I have reason to believe this man is indeed well traveled as he claims.” Dolicar would not have known the name of Aldo's father unless he had actually traveled from Olabar to Calay.

Though Soldan-Shah Omra frowned at the charlatan's continued protests, Saan apparently saw something worthwhile in his earnest charisma. “There's truly no telling how he got that map, Father. What if he was tricked himself? He wouldn't be the first person to buy a false chart from an unscrupulous merchant.”

Omra remained skeptical, but Saan continued. “You yourself said that I will need an experienced crew aboard the
Al-Orizin
. Sen Sherufa and I can't do it ourselves! The voyage will be long and difficult, with no guarantee of a safe return. And if it is this man's fate to die, should he not die out there instead of here at court?”

Yal Dolicar fell to his knees once more. “Such wisdom in a young man! I will be a fine sailor—I have much experience aboard ships.”

Omra was displeased but resigned. “I could never deny anything you request, Saan. This is your decision, and you will have to live with it. The captain of a ship must abide by his choices.” The soldan-shah tapped his fingers together in contemplation. “Still, this man tried to cheat me, and he must face some punishment. I will not have you talk me out of that.” He dismissively gave the order to Kel Rovic, “Cut off one of his hands. That'll be enough to remind him never to handle stolen goods again.”

Dolicar wailed, trying to escape, but the guards held him firmly. “No, not my hand, not my right hand! No!”

As he was dragged away, Sen Sherufa stood numb next to a grinning Imir. “I appreciate the gesture, Imir—I truly do—but I'd rather stay home and study maps. And if you aren't going along on the voyage to watch over me…”

He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “Ah, you'll miss me, I know. Never fear, I will be thinking about you as well. And when you come back home, my dear, you'll have many new stories to tell me.”

Omra spoke to everyone in the throne room. “Send the announcement across all of Uraba. The
Al-Orizin
will set sail as soon as Saan gathers the rest of his crew.”