The Map of All Things (3 page)

3
Olabar Palace

In the high tower room, the soldan-shah's First Wife Istar—who had been called Adrea, a lifetime ago—sat with her daughters, ostensibly studying verses in Urec's Log. The blue silk curtains were drawn aside, and hot Olabar sunlight gleamed on the polished marble of the open balcony.

From the milling crowds in the square far below, the penetrating voice of Sikara Fyiri wafted upward. Her words were as sharp as a gull's beak, but even gulls weren't so malicious or persistent. “Did Urec not teach us that a mirage can be as deadly as physical danger? He warned us not to trust in
strangers
.” Fyiri grew more strident. “Do not fail to recognize the stranger you have let into your own house and into your bed.”

Clearly a reference to the First Wife and her role in the Olabar palace. Istar kept her temper in check, pretending to be aloof. The sikaras were never so bold when Omra was present in the city.

Leaning over the cool stone table, Istar pointed to ornate letters on the page, correcting her youngest daughter's mumbled pronunciation. The three girls—Adreala, Cithara, and Istala—were disturbed from their studies by the sikara outside.

Because he spent so much of his time in Ishalem, Omra designated advisers in his absence to monitor the Uraban treasury, agriculture and trade, military preparations, the navy. As the soldan-shah's First Wife, Istar had spent many years at his side listening to complaints of injustices; now he let her handle many of his day-to-day duties at court. Since she was a mere woman, though—and a foreigner at that—many Uraban nobles, priestesses, and commoners were disturbed to see her influence. They circulated rumors that Istar was an Aidenist witch who had cast an unholy spell on the soldan-shah. Utter nonsense. She was more concerned with her daughters' education.

Twelve-year-old Adreala, the eldest, paced around the tower room, bored with the poetry in Urec's Log; she preferred stories of adventures to lyrical verse. She and her little sister, Istala—two years younger—would soon begin schooling in the main church of Olabar, entering the ranks of acolytes at the same time.

Adreala took after her mother, showing a hint of Tierran skin tone; her hair was a lighter brown than Istala's, her figure more wiry. The girl felt no great desire to become a sikara; she had dreams of doing other things in her life besides studying and preaching.

Istala was the other side of the
cuar
coin: olive-skinned, her hair a true blue-black, her demeanor studious. The ten-year-old loved to listen to the priestesses and their music. She perused Urec's Log on her own, wrote out prayers, and burned the paper strips in hopes that Ondun Himself would see the smoke.

The crowd roared outside, incensed by something Sikara Fyiri had said, and Istar glanced up from the thick tome. The third girl in the room, Cithara, at eleven years old, was harder and more moody than her two half-sisters. She turned away from the open balcony with a sniff. “You should not listen, Mother Istar. Sikara Fyiri spreads poison against you.”

Despite the knot in her stomach, Istar did not let herself show any distress in front of the girls. “I am proof against her poison. She can talk all she wants.” She took the girl's hand and drew her back to the table and their studies.

Cithara was the daughter of the soldan-shah's late wife Cliaparia, whom Istar had stabbed to death in broad daylight. Covered with blood, staggering through the souks, Istar had been horrified at herself, but she had felt no guilt. Cliaparia had killed her baby son… Criston… the soldan-shah's heir.

Six years ago, when Omra had rushed back from his conquest of Ishalem, the soldan-shah easily found proof of the other woman's crimes. His rage had been thunderous. He dispatched proclamations to all the soldanates absolving Istar of all blame in the killing. “I would have executed Cliaparia myself. Istar was merely meting out the soldan-shah's justice.”

Omra had wanted to exile Cliaparia's little daughter—his own daughter—though the girl was much too young to bear any responsibility. But when Istar had looked at the child, something changed inside her. She had caught a glimpse of her humanity again, much as she had upon finding the long-lost note in a bottle from her beloved Criston Vora. “You cannot punish the girl for the sins of her mother,” she had insisted.

The soldan-shah was puzzled, for Istar had more reason than anyone else to hate Cliaparia and her family. But she stood firm, and he relented. Instead of letting the girl be exiled, she raised Cithara as one of her own daughters. Though Omra still didn't understand her motives, the arrangement had worked well for the past six years. The three girls were inseparable.

Outside in the square, Fyiri continued, “Ondun will keep His back turned from us as long as we remain tainted, as long as there are those among us who hide behind masks and whose thoughts are never truly known.”

Another veiled reference to Istar. She found it ironic, actually. Masks? With her golden-brown hair, light skin, and blue eyes, Istar could never pretend to be one of them. She had never wanted to be here in the first place; she was born to be a village wife with a Tierran sailor for a husband. But Omra had taken all that from her more than eighteen years ago. Now this was her only life, and she had made the best of it.

“Don't worry, Mother,” Istala said in a quiet voice, speaking for herself and her sisters. “When we all become sikaras, we will never hate you, no matter what they try to teach us.”

With beautiful cushions piled about her, Istar sat on the dais in the throne room. Acting in the soldan-shah's stead, she waited to receive Soldan Huttan's emissary from Inner Wahilir.

Beside her, a fluted silver pot filled with hot water, fresh mint leaves, and honey was accompanied by a single eggshell ceramic cup. Istar would not waste social pleasantries on the emissary. She had met Ualfor once during a banquet with Omra, but she doubted he had even noticed her; he was a man who saw only the “important” people in a room.

As Soldan Huttan's mouthpiece, Ualfor was delivering a proposal to annex certain border lands on the edge of Yuarej soldanate, areas that Huttan claimed were ignored by Yuarej and already settled by the people of Inner Wahilir. Istar would accept the document on the soldan-shah's behalf, but she did not intend to render any decision.

Ualfor sauntered in, head held high, a clean white olba wrapped around his dark hair. He smelled of sandalwood and cloves, the scent preceding him by several steps, but when he saw Istar sitting on the dais, the emissary stopped abruptly. “I have been dispatched by Soldan Huttan to speak with the soldan-shah. I have an important petition, for his eyes alone.”

“I am his eyes here today.”

The emissary clutched a scroll, his grip so tight that he wrinkled the fabric. “I cannot trust a matter of such import to a…”

“To one of his wives?”

“When will the soldan-shah return? Tell me.”

Istar was put off by his tone and how he presumed to command her. “I do not set the soldan-shah's schedule, and neither do you. By Omra's command, I sit here in court, to receive—and decide—such matters in his absence. You may deliver your document to me, or you may go home with your task uncompleted. It matters not to me.”

The emissary turned to two of his retainers who had entered after him. He struck one on the side of the head, berating the man for making him look like an uninformed fool. Without bidding Istar farewell, Ualfor stalked out of the throne room. She could barely keep herself from chuckling in the face of such childish behavior.

That night, alone in her spacious bedchamber, Istar lit five beeswax candles and sat cross-legged on the floor beside a low table of polished mahogany. She contented herself with a solitary game of glass spheres and beads. Hearing a soft voice, she looked up to see doe-eyed Naori, Omra's other wife. “Excuse me, Lady Istar—might I speak with you?”

Istar gestured toward the table. “You're always welcome here, Naori.”

In stark contrast to the murderous Cliaparia, Naori was sweet and gracious. From the day the soldan-shah had married the girl, Istar and Naori had gotten along well. Immersed in the Uraban culture, Istar had long ago surrendered preconceptions of monogamy, as the Aidenists preached. She had never wanted to wed Omra in the first place, and in her heart—as well as in the eyes of Ondun—she was still married to Criston Vora. Naori was no threat to her, nor to her children. The younger wife had given the soldan-shah two sons, Omirr and Irec, who would be the heirs of Uraba.

Naori arranged her silk skirts so she could kneel at the low table. Istar rearranged the beads and glass spheres, setting up the game for two players, but the other woman looked deeply troubled. “Ur-Sikara Erima came to me again in the church at sunset services. While I was praying, she whispered dangerous things in my ear.”

Istar pushed the game pieces away. “What did she say?”

“She said that”—Naori swallowed hard—“she said that you and Saan are going to kill my two sons, so you can rule Uraba. The ur-sikara mocks me for trusting you.” When she shook her head, dark ringlets waved from side to side.

Istar rolled her eyes. “Why would I be so foolish? Even if I managed to put Saan on the throne, he would never be safe. He'd be assassinated within a month. We both know the Uraban people—not to mention the sikaras—would never tolerate him on the throne.” Mere logic would not comfort Naori, though. Istar forced herself to remember Cliaparia's treachery. She reached out to pat the younger woman's hand. “I have felt the pain of losing a child. I would not do that to you
or
my son.” She lowered her voice. “Or to our husband. I love Saan. Omra loves him. I want him safe and
alive
.”

Istar arranged the pieces once more and pushed the blue spheres closer to Naori, encouraging her to pick them up. The game would distract her from the ur-sikara's poisonous accusations. “We are all part of the same household. I love you, Naori, and I have helped raise your sons. Omirr will make a fine soldan-shah someday.” She meant it sincerely. “I want your sons, and mine, to grow up and prosper.”

4
Olabar Harbor

Saan's little brother loved the colorful ships in the Olabar harbor, the merchants who hawked exotic items from far-off soldanates, and the fishermen who dumped their catch into marketplace tubs. As seabirds wheeled overhead, he kept a firm grip on the six-year-old's pudgy hand and led him through the bustling crowds. “Let's go sit out at the end of the docks.”

Zarif Omirr was a scrappy boy with his playmates in the soldan-shah's palace, but he minded Saan. The boy knew full well that bad behavior would result in a day of lessons in his stuffy rooms rather than exploring the city.

The two walked to the end of the wharf and sat on the weathered planks, letting their feet dangle above the water. The low tide had left seaweed and barnacles exposed on the pilings. The brothers wore plain clothes, since Saan did not want to draw attention to himself or to the young zarif.

Back in the palace, advisers complained that Saan was endangering the soldan-shah's heir every time he took the boy into the city. (Naturally, the complainers weren't worried that
Saan
might encounter an accident, since they had never considered him to be Omra's real son.) For years now, however, Kel Rovic, the captain of the palace guard, had trained Saan in self-defense and a variety of fighting techniques. Saan was handy—maybe even a bit cocky—with both a curved sword and short dagger, and he could protect Omirr as well as any uniformed guard. The zarif also had basic training in simple defensive maneuvers.

While his little brother sucked on a hard lump of date-sugar bought from a merchant stall, Saan pointed to the bright green sail of an approaching ship. “That one's a merchant vessel, probably from Kiesh. And that one”—he pointed to a blocky and much dirtier vessel that was tying up at a far pier—“an ore carrier from Gremurr, just sailed across the Middlesea.”

“I like the red sails best,” Omirr decided.

“Those are from Sioara.” Saan himself had traveled west to Sioara and all the way east to Kiesh, and many points in between, but never all the way to Ishalem, where the soldan-shah had been for the past month. Since he had no place in government activities, Saan wanted to be a sea captain. Someday, he was sure his father would grant him any ship he wished, and then he'd sail far from here.

Omirr grew restless as soon as he finished his sugar lump. Saan playfully yanked the boy back to his feet and swung him by his arms. “Enough for today. Come on.” The two wound their way back through the crowded souks, heading home to the palace. In midafternoon, the crowded buildings cast lengthening shadows.

Navigating the convoluted alleys was more of a challenge than threading the sand shoals off the coast of northern Abilan, but Saan had grown up here in Olabar. He knew the meandering spice merchants' street, the threadmaker's alley, the streets filled with goldsmiths, jewelers, woodcarvers, and potters. They passed booths with henna painters and tattoo artists, rug weavers, ceramic makers, bone carvers. Winding past the noisome tannery district, the two held sprigs of fresh mint to their noses to mask the smell, and then Saan took the boy on a zigzag course to streets filled with vendors of dates, olives, and palm wine, as well as fishmongers and men with caged pigeons or chickens. It was an endless fascinating parade of sounds, colors, and smells.

The two men thought Saan didn't see them as they darted out from a blind alley that smelled of garbage, but he spotted the figures out of the corner of his eye. The pair tracked them with painfully obvious furtiveness, stopping at occasional intervals, pretending to peruse spices or jars of olives, then moving on, casually closing the gap.

Saan picked up the pace, careful not to let the little zarif notice his concern. With his free hand, he touched the fighting dagger in its sheath at his waist. If these men were cutpurses seeking an easy target, they would be in for a surprise. He kept his attention on them, letting Omirr pull ahead.

Despite his alertness, Saan failed to see that it was a double-ruse, a trap.

While he worried about the men behind them, he didn't notice the other two lurkers in the opposite alley. As he and Omirr passed the opening, the hidden men sprang out, knives already drawn. The first man grabbed the boy's arm, clamped a hand over his mouth, and yanked him away so fiercely that his sleeve ripped. Omirr let out a muffled squawk as the kidnappers retreated deeper into the alley.

The narrow passages between the clay-brick buildings connected with other alleys in a winding labyrinth, and Saan knew the men could easily lose themselves—with the zarif—in moments. He drew his dagger, throwing all caution aside, and bounded into the alley to rescue his half-brother.

Just around a sharp corner, Omirr squirmed, but the first man kept a firm hold on him and a hand over himself; he was the smaller of the two, dressed in a green Khenara vest. His fellow cutthroat was tall, with a brown olba tied around his head and a brown sash at his waist. The taller man turned to face Saan.

Most men in such a situation would exhibit caution, study their opponent, take stock of the situation. Saan, though, wasted no time with threats or testing. Yelling like a wild animal, he charged toward the man with the brown olba and slashed hard. The knife felt fluid in his hand; his arm danced back and forth like an embroiderer's needle.

The brown olba was knocked askew as the tall man pressed hard to defend himself with his own dagger. With his left hand, he drew a second curved blade from his sash, standing between Saan and his companion. Still struggling, Omirr yelped, but could not break the captor's grip.

Steel blades clanked together once, twice. Saan withdrew, jabbed with the point, and slashed with a quick reverse to lay open the tall man's forearm along the inside of his elbow. An alarming fountain of blood sprayed from the open artery, drenching his linen tunic and his brown sash. The man backed away in shock. “He cut my arm!”

The shorter man holding Omirr had no olba, his dark hair loose and sticking out in all directions. “You
let
him cut you, idiot.” The scrappy zarif grabbed at the man's Khenara vest, popping off two brass buttons that clinked on the alley floor.

Now the pair of decoy stalkers blocked the mouth of the alley with drawn knives. One of the men was as large as a hill bear. They closed in.

Saan glanced over his shoulder at the two new opponents and made a rude sound. “It takes four of you to best one man and a little boy? You must not have a high opinion of your own fighting skills.”

The man with the Khenara vest wrapped his forearm tight around Omirr's throat. “It'll take two of us to dispose of your body, and two to cut up the boy here and leave him to be found. After you vanish, it'll be obvious that you killed your own brother out of jealousy, then fled Olabar.”

Laughing, Saan pretended not to be concerned. “And I suppose the sikaras are ready to start those rumors?”

At the mouth of the alley behind him, the bear-sized man let out a low chuckle. “And everybody will believe them!”

His wiry companion jabbed him with an elbow. “Nobody said anything about priestesses.”

Nobody had to
, Saan thought,
but now I know
. The man with the cut arm continued to wail as if he'd received a mortal wound.

Little Omirr thrashed, barely able to breathe in the chokehold. “Cowards! Let me have a knife and watch how I defend my brother!”

The man in the vest yanked his arm tight against the boy's throat. “I'll give you a knife soon enough.”

As the two men closed in from behind, Saan made up his mind in a flash. He had been taught never to hesitate, never to let an opponent guess what he had in mind. He hurled himself at the bear-sized man, the one who seemed the greatest threat. Another fighting lesson: Kel Rovic had taught him to concentrate on the most formidable opponent when he himself was freshest and strongest.

Saan had no qualms about killing anyone who threatened his little brother. Using a single stroke before the big man could realize his suicidal audacity, he stabbed the thug in the gut: no finesse, just pain. While the bearish man doubled over, Saan's second jab struck beneath his left ear, through the neck. It was a mortal wound, though the man would be a long time thrashing and moaning in the dirty alley.

While his wiry companion gaped at his fallen comrade, Saan engaged him fiercely, slicing, parrying. The wiry man's own knife was an awkward storm of clumsy attacks and defenses, but by sheer luck, he cut Saan across the chest, and a long line of blood soaked into his tunic.

Seeing his brother wounded, Omirr spat and struggled; his captor struck him hard in the face, cuffed him again, and bright blood spurted from the boy's nose. The casual brutality against the zarif enraged Saan further.

He faked a slash at the wiry man's eyes, then used the opening to land a ferocious kick to his opponent's crotch. When he doubled over in pain, Saan stuck his knife in the man's throat, yanked it back out. Then he rounded on the zarif's captor. Omirr's battered face and the blood streaming out of his smashed nose made Saan come forward like an angry bull. “You hurt my little brother.”

The man held his knife against the boy's neck. “Stop, or I'll kill him right now!” But the look in Saan's foreign blue eyes made him more frantic. “You hear me? I'll cut him right now if you don't—”

Saan slowed, but did not stop. “Omirr, do you remember what Kel Rovic taught you?”

The zarif had been trained well enough. The boy stomped on the man's instep and used the instant of surprise to slip out of his chokehold. Saan grabbed the boy and pulled him away, then kicked the thug's knee. Hard. The kneecap crunched, and the man collapsed sideways with a sharp grunt. A moment later, Saan had thrust his knife through the kidnapper's heart.

Only the whimpering man in the brown olba remained, shocked at the amount of blood flowing from his wounded arm. Wailing, he scrambled headlong out of the alley, nearly tripping over the dead bodies of his coconspirators.

The battle had lasted only a few minutes, and people clustered in the merchants' street, a few venturing into the alley to look at the slain men. Such assaults were not uncommon in the dark underbelly of the souks.

Saan grabbed his little brother and hurried him out of the alley, eager to get away before a well-meaning shout identified the sons of the soldan-shah. His chest was bleeding, though the knife wound wasn't deep. Flushed, terrified, and excited, little Omirr cupped a hand to his face to catch the red droplets from his bloody nose. Both of them were covered in blood—most of it from their attackers, three of whom lay dead in they alley behind them.
Three dead. I just killed three men
. There was no time to think about it now.

“I want to go home,” Omirr said as his shock began to wear off.

In spite of his own pounding heart, Saan pasted an aloof grin on his face to dispel the zarif's fear. “Ha! Those four weren't much of a threat once you and I stood up to them. I'm proud of you.”

Saan moved at the best speed the boy could manage, choosing large open streets, working his way back to the palace. “You were very brave. Maybe Kel Rovic should induct you into the palace guard right away.”

“I'm the zarif, not a palace guard!”

“Too bad. A zarif doesn't get much practice with swords, but a palace guard carries one every day.”

As soon as Saan glimpsed the graceful arches and spires of the palace, he felt great relief. Handmaidens came to greet them, startled to see the torn clothes, the bloody nose, the cut on Saan's chest. “What have you two gotten into now? You're lucky your mothers don't see you this way.”

Saan pretended that nothing serious had happened as he passed Omirr to the alarmed women. “Better clean him up before he goes back to Naori.”

The boy was already babbling about killers and knives and fights, but Saan slipped away before the handmaidens suspected he might be telling the truth. Turning the corner, he put on a burst of speed. He had to report to Kel Rovic, one of the few men in the palace that Saan could really trust.