The Map of All Things (24 page)

56
Windcatch

On the morning Prester Ciarlo left Windcatch to find his long-lost sister, young Davic watched him turn his back on the kirk and bid farewell to the villagers. Though they understood the prester's calling, the people were sad to see him go on such a dangerous errand.

Ciarlo had tears in his eyes as he hugged the boy he had taken under his wing. “I'll miss you, Davic.”

“And I will miss you.” He pressed his face against the prester's shoulder. “How can I thank you? You taught me about Aiden.”

Ciarlo smoothed the boy's hair. “Yes, and if I can do the same for the Urabans, there will be peace in the world, and even Ondun will be happy. You'll be safe here. Give my blessing to Prince Tomas when he arrives in a few weeks.”

“I will. I promise.” Davic had no intention of staying that long.

After the prester departed, Davic remained at the kirk for the rest of that day, doing his familiar chores. A lonely old woman invited him to live with her, but he shook his head. Fishermen brought food. A baker gave him several loaves of bread, two of which weren't even stale. “You sure you'll be all right, young man?”

“Aiden will watch over me.”

The baker wiped a smear of flour from his cheek. “I understand, but you can always come to me, or anyone else in town, if you want companionship.”

Davic waited until nightfall, counting down the hours, and finally as darkness set in he made his own preparations. He gathered the preserved food in the parsonage, stuffing it into a satchel; he took all the coins from the collection box.

He still had Ciarlo's letter to Prester-Marshall Rudio, requesting that a replacement prester be sent to Windcatch. After making sure that no one was watching, Davic stood before the kirk and in a burst of anger tore the paper into many small pieces, scattering the scraps into the cold night winds.

Moving methodically now, he carried the heavy Book of Aiden that had sat on its pedestal for years, the volume that Ciarlo himself had saved from Urecari raiders during their sacking of the town. Davic threw it on the dirt in front of the kirk, then went back inside to retrieve all the other holy texts. He had been taught everything he needed to know, long before arriving at Windcatch.

Carrying a candle from inside the kirk, he knelt before the pile of books and set fire to the volumes, fanning the blaze until the paper was consumed in cheery flames. He watched the words disappear into ash and was not sorry to see it.

He would have liked to set fire to the kirk and burn the structure to the ground, leaving only smoke and a pile of ashes, but such a blaze would have attracted too much attention from the village, and people would have rushed up to extinguish the flames, to “help” him. Davic did not want anyone to notice… not yet. This small blaze was sufficient to destroy the heretical books.

He intended to be far away from Windcatch by daybreak. The nosy Aidenists would come to look for him before long, but he doubted they'd search too hard even after they discovered what he had done. Nevertheless, he would use all of his skills to hide his trail.

He regretted not having taken the opportunity to stab Ciarlo in his bed; he'd had plenty of chances. He hoped the Teacher wouldn't be too disappointed in him. The news he had to deliver was vital to the Urabans.

Taking his pack, supplies, and stolen money, Davic headed south into the night, picking his way by moonlight toward Ishalem.

Part III

57
Peliton, Erietta Reach

After the queen and her party departed early from Erietta, Jenirod listened to the muttering amongst the staff and functionaries in his father's offices. At first, he assumed some government matter must have called Anjine back to Calay, but slowly it dawned on him that the all-important betrothal meeting must not have gone as well as he'd imagined. Puzzled, he relived that first day over and over again, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what he'd done wrong.

The horse cavalcade had been one of the finest in Erietta's history, his own performance impeccable. He knew he cut a handsome figure on his horse. All his life, women had swooned whenever he showed off; they would blush and giggle, making him feel giddy. Not so with Queen Anjine. He had never met a woman who made him feel so insignificant.

From his first glimpse of Anjine in the stands, he realized that she was a beautiful woman with a fine figure, smooth skin, lovely hair; she would certainly bear many strong children. He supposed she must be intelligent too, not to mention wealthy and powerful—more than acceptable as a bride. He had certainly been satisfied.

But he must have done something wrong. Jenirod grappled with the inexplicable idea that the queen apparently found
him
deficient in some way. Ever since she and her retinue had left Peliton, Destrar Unsul had moped about, avoiding him. It was such a fantastic turnabout to think that the bookish destrar might be disappointed in
him
. Jenirod knew he had to get to the bottom of this. Though he had never particularly understood his father's odd interests, he wished the man would just
explain
to him what had gone wrong.

Unsul met him out in the stables, an obvious, weary weight on his face and shoulders. “You should be at your instruction. The court tutors say you've left classes. Now, of all times, why can't you pay attention to what is important?”

Each day since Anjine's departure, Jenirod had been forced to endure hours of instruction from the cultural ministers she had left behind. He grudgingly studied courtly manners, learned how to hold delicate eating implements, memorized insipid phrases that supposedly demonstrated good breeding.

Unsul shook his head. For several years now, the man had withdrawn from his eldest son, concentrating instead on the younger three. “Your behavior was rude and embarrassing. The queen left those teachers here for you so you can learn to be a better husband.”

“A better husband?” Jenirod laughed. “Queen Anjine is not a wilting flower. Why should she care about such nonsense?” He couldn't imagine his own mother paying any heed to that when she chose a husband. Jenirod missed her very much; his mother had been the right kind of woman, a spectacular rider, someone who knew how to put on a show to please the people.

Jenirod saddled up a spirited young stallion that needed the extra energy run out of him. “I'm tired of that. I need to go for a ride.”

Unsul said, “No one questions your horsemanship. You need to improve your statesmanship. Understand your place, learn the politics, grasp the subtleties you will need at court in Calay.”

This wasn't at all what Jenirod wanted to hear. “With manners and dances and pretty phrases? Shall I write her poetry? Love letters scented with lavender? I can't accept that Anjine would want to turn a man like me into a… a gelding! There must be some other way to win her over.”

Jenirod swung into the saddle and went tearing off down the dirt roads and up into the hills, leaving his father standing at the stable door. At the top of a grassy hill, he pulled the horse to a halt and looked at the windmills that pumped water during the dry season. When he settled in Calay, it was going to be difficult for him to ride off his own energy, and unless the queen warmed up to him, he certainly wouldn't be riding off that energy in the bedchamber.

He dismounted near some bushes so he could take a piss, still pondering his situation. When he finished, he went back and scratched the horse's head, looking into the animal's large brown eyes. “What could she possibly want from me, eh, boy?”

Queen Anjine was a tough woman who had endured hardships and made difficult decisions. She had sent armies into war and recently lost many thousands of fighters in the disaster at Ishalem. But
she
had proven her mettle. Maybe she would let Jenirod lead a new offensive, so he could do it right.

No matter what his father said, he knew he was worth a lot more to her, and to Tierra, with his own skills. He had been born to lead, and people respected his presence, his panache.

A brisk wind rustled the drying grasses and shrub leaves. The horse snorted, jerking his head around, ears swiveling for danger. The answer suddenly occurred to Jenirod: yes, Queen Anjine was a woman of substance, of action. She was not the sort who would swoon at a fine uniform or a complicated trick in a horse cavalcade. Of course not! Queen Anjine needed real, concrete reasons to accept him.

In Calay, she was surrounded by hundreds of show-offs and flowery talkers, and in her eyes, Jenirod was probably just another such buffoon, a man who could fire arrows accurately at a gallop and vault on and off a horse's bare back without so much as a stumble. But such a man added nothing to the worth or defense of Tierra. Anjine would want more from her husband.

Jenirod needed to do something profound to change her impression, to make the queen appreciate his strength and bravery, his manliness, his military prowess. She must want him to make his mark and demonstrate how valuable he would be against the evil Urecari.

Why hadn't she just said so outright? Women often had trouble communicating what they really wanted.

He mounted again and let the stallion have his head, running freely back toward Peliton and the stables.

Brusquely informing his father that he was leaving, Jenirod gave no explanation other than, “You and Queen Anjine will both be proud of me when I return triumphant.” Her etiquette teachers would just have to find something else to do in the meantime, or go back to Calay.

Jenirod packed up his gear and rode off downriver. It was a two-day trip to the coastal town where Destrar Tavishel and his Soeland patrol ships regularly stopped to resupply. Jenirod passed herds of grazing cattle, spent his nights in small villages where he told stories to the ranchers. Their daughters flirted with him and he smiled at them, but because he was betrothed, he remained faithful to Anjine, no doubt disappointing all the young women.

At the seaside village, Jenirod boarded his horse at a livery, paying a stable boy to care for the animal while he was gone. He asked around until he learned that Destrar Tavishel's ships were due to return in four days' time.

When the sails were sighted, the town's bells rang and the shopkeepers prepared their wares. The Soeland destrar had a standing order, so that the necessary supplies were packed and piled at the docks, ready to be loaded as soon as his ships docked. While he was on patrol, Tavishel was not a man who liked to be delayed.

Jenirod greeted the gruff captain as he strode ashore, introducing himself as the future husband of Queen Anjine. Tavishel was a stern-looking man with a square-cut gray beard, shaved head, and leathery skin from time spent in the harsh winds of the open sea. He looked Jenirod up and down. “You rode a long way to greet me.”

“Not to greet you—I want to join you. I'd like to propose a mission in the name of the queen.”

“A mission?” Tavishel crossed his arms over a muscular chest, his skeptical gaze sizing up the younger man.

Jenirod drew a deep breath, sure he would not be found lacking by the Soelander. “You sail your patrol ships in a great circle from Calay up to Erietta, west to Soeland, and back south below the Edict Line. Let me suggest something more than a patrol. Before I marry the queen, I want to demonstrate my prowess to her—to give her a victory against the Curlies as my wedding present.”

Now Tavishel was interested. “Oh? Such a victory could be a wedding gift from Soeland Reach as well. What did you have in mind?”

“It's got to be meaningful and spectacular, a raid that destroys something of great importance to the Urecari, so they feel the hurt as much as they've hurt us.”

Tavishel nodded with a sly smile. “I know just the place. I've been eyeing it for a long time. I merely needed an excuse.”

“I hope I've given you one. I'd like to be off as soon as possible—time moves swiftly past us.”

The Soeland destrar stroked his beard, already formulating the plan. “After we reprovision, we can set off with tomorrow's tide.”

58
Gremurr Mines

When he left Ishalem, Omra was so pleased with the progress of the canal and the potential alliance with the Nunghals that he ordered the captain to sail to the Gremurr mines. The soldan-shah had complete faith in what he was doing, and it was foolish to wait to construct his armored war fleet. He wanted to be ready with his ships as soon as Kel Unwar completed the excavation.

He also wanted to visit his half-brother. Omra had not seen Tukar in the fourteen years since his exile. He hated the political reasons that had forced him to remain estranged from his poor brother, but treacherous Villiki was long gone.
Omra
was the soldan-shah, and he could make his own decisions. Tukar should have been pardoned years ago.

During the voyage, Omra opened several record scrolls and studied the columns of numbers, assessing just how many tons of iron and steel the mines had produced under Tukar's management. This one operation was responsible for more vital metals than all five soldanates combined—and right under the noses of the Tierrans.

It was ironic that when Ondun created the world, He had placed so many valuable metals on Tierran lands, while leaving Uraba nearly barren—no doubt to challenge the resourceful and intelligent descendants of Urec's crew. Though Tukar had gone to the rugged northern coast in disgrace, Omra was certainly satisfied with the work his brother had done in the intervening years. Now he had to find some way to show his appreciation.

The thought of his estranged brother made Omra ponder how Aiden and Urec must have felt about each other, separated for so long on their voyages. Over the many centuries, their followers had experienced a great schism, but how did the brothers
themselves
actually regard each other? And what about Joron, the brother who had remained behind in Terravitae?

It was time for Tukar to come home.

Soon the Middlesea coast came into view, hazed with smoke and the sharp brimstone smell of refineries. When the soldan-shah's dromond arrived at the docks, flying the unfurling-fern banner, the Gremurr workers and guard staff were astonished. Soldan-Shah Omra had never set foot here before—had never, in fact, touched Tierran soil at all.

Tukar and his bald workmaster raced down to the docks, trying to adjust their already clean clothes on their way to greet the important visitors. Workmaster Zadar fitted a formal sash across his chest, looking worried. Tukar, however, wore a wild grin as he trotted along the dock.

Omra disembarked to stand before his brother and found himself at a loss for words. Tukar looked much older, his features roughened by the hard years here, but Omra could still remember him as a boy. As Tukar opened and closed his mouth like a fish trying to sing, Omra embraced him. “Brother, it has been too many years!”

Zadar looked relieved that the soldan-shah had not come to express his displeasure. The mine guards and Uraban soldiers stood in awkward ranks, clearly unaccustomed to military drills. Only a skeleton crew of armed guards remained with the slave workers, who had paused in their labors to stare at the spectacle, until cracking whips forced them back to their tasks.

Tukar blurted, “I haven't seen you since… I wanted to apologize for what my mother did. I had nothing to do with it.”

“I know that. Even without the letters you wrote to me, I know that.” Villiki had always schemed for her son's benefit, willing to kill Omra so that Tukar could advance. But her plot had failed. “She can no longer harm us. It is time for me to meet your wife and son.”

In Tukar's private residence, Shetia worked with their only household servant, an old man named Firun, striving to prepare the best meal with the supplies she had on hand. She managed a worthy fish dinner made with a few local spices and berries picked from bushes in the canyons; old Firun served the meal with as much formality as he could muster.

Rummaging through his possessions, Tukar found an old sealed bottle of brandy, which he presented with great ceremony. “It's the best I have, Omra. I'll share it with you.”

The soldan-shah smiled and relaxed on the cushions. “If we like it, I'll send you a case on the next ship from Olabar.”

Tukar flushed with embarrassment. “I didn't mean to beg. I have everything I need—”

Omra waved aside his brother's concerns. “It will be my pleasure.”

After Shetia's merchant father had paid a significant fee so that she could marry Tukar, Omra had never taken the time to meet her. As he got to know the woman, he found her pleasant and certainly devoted to his brother. Their son Ulan, his nephew, was both energetic and shy, and he seemed awestruck once he realized who the visitor was. The boy made a point of showing the soldan-shah his puppy, and Omra laughed as the dog licked his face. Shetia took her son and the puppy away so the two men could talk.

As they relaxed together, Tukar peppered his brother with bashful questions about things he remembered from Olabar—the tangerine trees in the palace garden, the silk merchants who brought colorful cloth from Yuarej, the old man who made the best grilled lamb down in the marketplace. Omra could hear the wistfulness in his brother's voice.

Firun shuffled in bearing a serviceable but plain silver pot of steeping tea. Shetia poured the tea while Omra described his remarkable project to dig a canal across the isthmus. Tukar was astounded. “Cutting the two continents apart? It cannot be done!”

“Kel Unwar believes he can succeed, and I've seen the excavation so far. You haven't witnessed the explosive power of Nunghal firepowder.” He paused as another thought occurred to him, and he made a mental note to ship some of the explosives here, where they could also prove useful in blasting rock for the mines. The workmaster would have to show the mine prisoners how to mix the chemicals here.

Tukar bit his lip, deep in thought. “If such a canal could be dug, if ships could sail directly from the Middlesea to the Oceansea, then all of the armor plates we produce could be delivered directly and immediately.” His face lit up and he stared at Omra.

The soldan-shah said, “
That
is why I came to Gremurr,
brother—to give your workmaster a new mission. We can armor Uraban warships right here, at the mines, and then sail them directly through the canal to the Oceansea. When we return to Olabar, I will send several large ships up here, so their hulls can be plated with Gremurr iron.”

“We have one large vessel in the docks right now,” Tukar pointed out. “We could start with that one!”

Omra had seen the sturdy vessel when his dromond pulled up to the docks. The cargo ship could just as well be used for carrying soldiers and weapons. “Agreed. That will be my first great armored warship to sail through our completed canal at Ishalem.”

“But what if Kel Unwar doesn't complete his task? All of that metal will have been wasted.”

“He will not fail. Judging by his progress already, he will be done before the year is out. When your ship is fully armored and done, Zadar can rechristen her the
Golden Fern
and send her to Olabar.”

“The
Golden Fern
, that is a good name.” Tukar bobbed his head, but he looked a little hurt. “Zadar is a fine supervisor, but… do you not trust me with this job?”

Omra finished his tea and sat back, content, utterly unable to hide his growing grin. “Certainly, brother. But you won't be here. You're coming back with me to Olabar. It is time you took your place in the palace again.”

The expression of joy on Tukar's face nearly overwhelmed him. He opened and closed his mouth several times. “I never thought… I had stopped dreaming of it. My wife and son deserve to be there. They have been so patient with me.”

Omra felt a sweet warmth fill his chest. “I think we should open that brandy and celebrate.”

But Tukar paused and sat back down. He swallowed hard, nodded slowly to himself, and came to what must have been a very difficult decision. “Not yet, Omra. Yes, I long to go back to Olabar. I will be very happy there… but my first duty is to Uraba. These mines are my responsibility, and you have just brought us a tremendous new task. I will go home across the Middlesea, and bring my family with me—but only after I see the armored war fleet to its completion.”

“That is not necessary. I will make certain all the arrangements are made.”

Tukar shook his head. “I insist. It is one final way for me to show my loyalty. Those ironclad vessels will destroy the Aidenists. Then Shetia and Ulan, and everyone else in Uraba, can have peace at last.”

Omra saw that his brother would not budge. “I admire your dedication. All right, see this mission to its end, and then come back to the palace. We will have fine quarters waiting for you there.”

“I won't let you down, brother.” Tukar snapped his fingers to call his servant back. “Meanwhile, we can open the brandy.”