The Map of All Things (33 page)

79
Olabar, Main Urecari Church

Despite her secret influence within the church, Villiki felt imprisoned, and while her hatred gave her focus, it did not grant her freedom. Many years had passed since she had been stripped, exiled, disgraced—but the people of Olabar had not forgotten her. Certainly not Omra. Certainly not Kel Rovic or the palace guards. Certainly not the Tierran slave woman who now called herself the soldan-shah's First Wife.

Villiki had not forgotten either.

Oh, she had comforts in her lavish quarters deep underground. She had exotic food and fine Abilan wines, treasures, clothes, comforts. But she was neither happy nor free.

By the light of several large bright candles scented with cardamom oil, Villiki sat at her desk and opened the twinned counterpart of the ship's journal aboard the
Al-Orizin
. She perused the earlier entries Sikara Fyiri had written in her cabin far away on the other side of the world. Why had she stopped? Something must have happened.

A priestess guard rapped at Villiki's door, disturbing her. “Your forgiveness, my Lady. Ur-Sikara Erima has come to speak with you. She begs your indulgence.”

With an annoyed sigh, Villiki closed the journal and concealed it. The ur-sikara was wrapped firmly around her finger, but the woman asked far too many questions, required too much assistance. Villiki longed for the days when her predecessor Ur-Sikara Lukai—a strong, like-minded woman—had served the church. Erima was… far less than that.

The tall, dark-skinned woman entered the underground chamber and stood before Villiki's desk with a deferential bow, but her dark eyes sparkled with a sheen of anxiety. “I came because I was anxious to see you, my Lady, and to serve the church.”

Of course you did
. Villiki began to calculate just how many innat seeds it would take to keep Erima complacent.

When this woman from distant Lahjar had been chosen to take the place of Ur-Sikara Lukai, Erima had been viewed as an acceptable compromise among the factions within the church. Every priestess formed alliances and rivalries, but because she came from so far away, Erima was seen as separate from the core of church politics, far from squabbling partisan sikaras. Though considered a safe choice, the Lahjar candidate was a lukewarm alternative and spoke with a thick accent. People considered Erima unambitious, a bumpkin from a far-off and uncivilized land.

By rights, Villiki should have been ur-sikara herself, but that would never be possible. She had been forced to cement her influence in some other way.

As Erima waited, tense, a few droplets of sweat appeared on her brow. “I am ready to deliver the sermon you wish, as soon as it is written. Shall I summon the faithful so that they may anticipate a major address at this evening's sunset services?”

Villiki pretended not to know what the other woman really wanted. Just to emphasize Erima's subservience, she shuffled some papers on her desktop, moved items around to no real purpose, while the ur-sikara waited. Finally, with a sigh, Villiki reached into a drawer and removed a pouch made of soft calfskin. Slowly and tantalizingly, she undid the tie and spread open the pouch, drifting her fingers through the tiny dark seeds inside. With her fingertips, she pulled out a few and dropped them into the palm of her other hand. “I suppose a few more innat seeds will help you to concentrate so you can give a more passionate address.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Erima's gaze was fixed on the seeds. “Most assuredly so!” She was too anxious; perhaps Villiki had accomplished her goal too well.

“But if you consume too much, you might not be focused enough.” Villiki reconsidered, then dropped two of the seeds back in the bag, to Erima's profound disappointment.

Before Villiki had first secretly offered them, Erima had never experienced the rush that innat seeds released in the body. Villiki had cautiously consumed only one or two, to demonstrate their safety, and the new ur-sikara had liked them… far too much. Villiki was magnanimous, giving Erima frequent doses of the seeds, so that the other woman was now thoroughly addicted. Villiki paid substantial bribes to the guards and priestesses to ensure that Erima did not find an alternate supply of the drug. She had to come here to beg, in order to satisfy her longing. That was the way it should be.

“I want you to appreciate what you have, Ur-Sikara. I want you to revel in the sunshine, enjoy your freedom to walk in Olabar.” She tied the pouch again, put it away. “Every time you do so, think of me here, unable to see the light of day.” On some nights, when it became unbearable, Villiki dressed like an old poor priestess and slipped out to walk the streets of Olabar. She kept her disguise close, but rarely risked using it.

Erima continued to stare at the seeds in her hand. “Someday I will secure a pardon for you, my Lady. Soldan-Shah Omra cannot rule forever.”

“And I won't live forever, either!” Villiki tapped several sheets of paper on which she had written another invective-laden speech. “Here is what I want you to tell the people. You may have these few seeds now, and once I hear your degree of passion in delivering the sermon, I will calculate your reward.”

Erima backed away. “Thank you, my Lady. It shall be done exactly as you say.”

After the ur-sikara departed, the inner-circle priestess guards ushered in the young girl. Cithara was quiet and shy, with beautiful features that would someday blossom into a seductive loveliness just like her mother's. However, with Villiki's careful instruction, Cithara would not make the poor decisions, and would not be left defenseless, as Cliaparia had been. Only a weak and unskilled woman could have allowed her husband's love to fade, especially when competing against a worthless Tierran slave like Istar.

The girl bowed. “I am here for my lessons again, Lady Villiki.”

“I'm pleased with the progress you are making, child. Have you read the passages in Urec's Log that I pointed out to you?”

“Yes, I studied them carefully. The words of Urec cannot be questioned.”

Villiki folded her hands before her on the desk. “Yes, and I am the one to interpret them for you.” Cithara always seemed so attentive, so interested.

Each afternoon, Villiki spent hours grooming the girl, turning Cliaparia's daughter into a special weapon, an operative who could live right under the soldan-shah's nose. She had already told the girl what sort of woman Istar truly was. Even though the former slave had adopted Cithara and pretended to love her as much as she loved her own two daughters, she was still a
Tierran
woman, an Aidenist. And Aidenists always lied.

“This story will be painful for you, child, but you must hear the truth. Urec's Log tells us that we mustn't be afraid of the truth.”

Cithara sat cross-legged on a rug on the hard stone floor and listened attentively.

“You know that
Istar
murdered your mother while your father was away conquering Ishalem for the glory of Ondun.
Istar
followed your mother to the docks and stabbed her once, twice, three times.” Each time she said the woman's name, she added a heavy emphasis. “Poor Cliaparia could do nothing to defend herself.
Istar
pushed her dying body against the nets and fishhooks, then dumped her into the water, like nothing more than a bucket of fish guts.”

Cithara sat stony-faced, troubled by the story. Villiki leaned farther over the desk. “And that isn't her only crime, you know. When she was just a slave girl, she lied and conspired against me and Ur-Sikara Lukai. She arranged for Lukai's poisoning, and she worked a spell on the former soldan-shah so that he banished me.

“You and I have reason to hate Istar more than anyone else, my dear child. She was just a slave, and an Aidenist at that… and now she fancies herself the soldan-shah's First Wife. But you can help me change all that. You can save us all.”

Cithara nodded, listening with rapt attention.

80
The Great Desert

With Desert Harbor in disarray and the sand coracles nothing more than smoldering shells, Imir tried to restore some kind of order. Workers shoveled sand onto the fires, but the silk balloons had been consumed, the reinforced wicker baskets charred, all the trade goods destroyed. Surviving merchants fell to their knees, clutching their heads and wailing.

Two dozen guards, traders, and camp workers were dead and many more injured. The bodies of several hideously ugly bandits, their faces disfigured by ornamental scars and tattoos, were piled off to one side like garbage. Furious, Soldan Xivir muttered, “Apparently, we have more bandits to kill!” He ordered the bandit corpses propped up on crossbars so that desert vultures could come in and feed.

Burilo was not convinced. “I doubt that will be a deterrent, Father. We've wiped out their leaders and their camps many times, yet they come back to prey upon us. The bandits won't fear a handful of rotting corpses.”

Xivir's face contorted with disgust. “No… but
I
will appreciate it.”

Imir stalked among the permanent structures and tents, calling out for Adreala. He had seen her when the raid first began and hoped that she had found someplace to hide. With a sinking dread, he prodded all the mutilated bodies lined up on the ground. He bellowed her name, but she did not answer, and a thorough search by all the guards revealed no sign of her.

Finally, one of the traders called him over. The smaller man sat hunched and sweating, while the camp surgeon used a needle and tough silk thread to sew up a bleeding gash on his shoulder. The trader winced, but the surgeon paid no attention, sticking the needle in and tugging on the thread. “My Lord, I saw—I saw the girl! After one of the bandits wounded me, I fell and tried to scramble out of the way. I remember seeing a rider snatch up your granddaughter and throw her across his horse. He was the ugly one with red dye in his hair and black paint on his face.”

Xivir's face flushed with fury. “That was Norgo himself.”

“Why would the bandits take her? She's just a girl!” Imir looked around, demanding explanations from all those listening, but he didn't have to press for an answer. He could make his own guesses. “Xivir, mount up everyone who can ride. We are going in pursuit of the bandits
now
.”

Burilo turned an awkward look at the wreckage of the camp and the number of wounded, but he did not argue. He ran to fetch horses, while Soldan Xivir looked at his notched scimitar and cast it aside. “Bring me a new sword and one for the soldan-shah—and make sure they're sharp! All capable men, arm yourselves. We will ride these bandits into the sand and bury them!”

The knot in Imir's stomach pulled even tighter. He didn't let his despair show, but he knew very well that if they did not rescue Adreala within the first day or so, there might not be anything left to save.

By midmorning, the winds had picked up, stirring the loose sand and dust. The riders raced out of Desert Harbor before breezes erased the trail.

* * *

The bandits rode through the heat of the day and into the deepening dusk. Adreala never ceased struggling, never stopped trying to escape, although if she did manage to roll off the bandit leader's horse, she would surely die out here in the middle of the empty dunes. She didn't care.

Norgo had lashed her hands together in front of her; her wrists were raw and bleeding because she kept trying to break the bonds. Six times, she managed to get an elbow or foot into position where she could deliver a sharp blow to Norgo. Each time, in response, he slapped the side of her head.

Still, Adreala did not give up. Finally in disgust, Norgo struck her again, much harder. “You refuse to learn, girl!”

She wrenched herself around and spat at him, but the saliva flew past his face. “You are not my teacher.”

Norgo looked at where she'd spat. “Not good to waste water out here.” Then he laughed, slapped her again with a hint of playfulness, and rode on.

Though the bandits had spread out, they knew their common destination. After dark, the riders converged on a seemingly unremarkable hollow in the dunes. There was no spring here, no rocks, just sand.

Norgo dumped Adreala off the horse and she fell unceremoniously into the dust. It knocked the wind out of her, but she refused to cry out. She pulled her knees up to her chest and sat in a defensive posture, wary, watching.

The bandits camped under the light of the moon; they built no fire. After the horses were hobbled, Norgo squatted down and spoke with his men. Though they had lost some of their comrades at Desert Harbor, the bandits were satisfied they had inflicted much more pain and damage on the enemy.

The men ate stringy dried meat from their saddlebags, sipped from a waterskin they passed around, offering nothing to Adreala. Finally, Norgo approached her holding the waterskin. “Now, who are you, girl? You must be somebody important. Why were you at that camp?”

She refused to answer.

He jiggled the waterskin, tempting her. “Tell me your name, and I will give you a drink of water.”

Adreala's throat was parched, her stomach rumbled, but she worked hard not to show her desperation. “My name is worth more than a sip of water.”

He sloshed the water enticingly. “The value of a sip of water increases out here in the desert. Before long, you may think the price is not so high.”

“Before long, I'll be rescued—and you will be dead in the sand with vultures pecking out your eyes!”

Norgo sat back and laughed. The other bandits guffawed as well. “Then we'd better make use of you in the meantime. But what can you do for us? You're unskilled, scrawny… probably lazy, too.”

“That's why I told you to leave her behind, Norgo,” one of the men said. “Better off carrying another waterskin.”

“You'll never know what I'm worth,” Adreala said. “I'm not staying with you.”

“You don't have much choice, brat.” Norgo grinned. “I think you'll learn to like it out here in the desert. Ah, the freedom!
We go where we want, take what we want. All this land is ours!”

“It's only sand.” Adreala remained defiant, but her voice cracked because she was so thirsty. “You broke the commandments of Urec's Log. You have slain other Urecari. You stole from Ondun Himself by stealing the blessings He bestowed upon the people in Desert Harbor.”

At this, Norgo and the others laughed louder. The black paint on the leader's face was beginning to peel and streak from his sweat. “My gods are the winds and the sand, girl—not some old ship's captain. I believe in what I can see and do.”

Adreala was shocked. Though she felt no great calling to become a sikara, as her little sister did, she had never heard such outright blasphemy. Even the Aidenists believed in God. “You will die for what you have spoken and done.”

Norgo gave her a dismissive gesture, then drank greedily from the waterskin in front of her, before sealing it and tossing it back to his comrades. “My people were here, eking out an existence in the Great Desert, long before any ancient ships came. We have nothing to do with your Urec or Ondun. To us, they don't exist.”

Norgo's statement astonished her. She expected Ondun Himself to rise up from the sands to swallow these bandits because of the hateful words they spoke. She sat back against the dune and waited for divine intervention.

A capricious night breeze blew grains of stinging sand into her face, but she had expected much more of a response. Adreala was disappointed.