The Map of All Things (8 page)

14
Saedran District, Olabar

When Olabar came into view over the low hills, the skyline looked so beautiful that Imir thought the caravan had taken a wrong turn and found the way to mystical Terravitae.

He had been away for half a year, but it seemed like ages. The Nunghals were not a particularly cultured people, and their women were not the most attractive in the world. (Sometimes, in fact, Imir had trouble telling the difference between one of the old wives and one of the shaggy buffaloes from their herds.) He couldn't wait to see his people, his city… and Sen Sherufa.

After the four-day trek from Desert Harbor, the officials at the palace would want to receive him with a flurry of celebrations and social gatherings, but the first thing Imir wanted to do was visit Sherufa before he got caught up in all that nonsense. He had his priorities.

At the moment, though, he smelled of horse and dust and sweat, and that wouldn't do for the Saedran woman. He had to make himself presentable first. As the caravan dispersed into the merchants' quarter, Imir slipped off his borrowed mount. He paid a young boy three
cuars
to procure new clothing for him while he went to the crowded public baths. By the time the boy returned, Imir was cleansed, freshly shaved, his cheeks, scalp, and skin oiled with a touch of perfume (but not too much). His new clothes fit him rather well, and he realized that he had become leaner during the months of traveling—leaner and more handsome, he hoped.

Walking through the Saedran District, he passed apothecaries, bookshops, and candle makers, until he arrived at the familiar door of Sherufa's home. Tucked under his arm, he carried packets of documents and annotated sketches from the land of the Nunghals; he knew she would consider them finer gifts than any jewelry he might have brought her.

Answering his knock, she pulled open the door, taken aback at first, then surprised and delighted. “Imir! I must have lost track of the days. Are you early, or late?”

He would have preferred a hug and a kiss, an excited exclamation of how much she'd missed him while he was away… but that was not, and had never been, in Sherufa's nature. He kissed her on the cheek, though, and couldn't stop grinning as he entered her dwelling. “I was on the first sand coracle to arrive, and I hurried directly here.”

Imir placed his packet of papers on the main table that served as both her desk and dining surface. “For you, my dear, I had Khan Jikaris send out riders in all directions. The men kept notes of the terrain, sketching any particular cartographic points of interest.”

When Sherufa spread out the brown-edged sheets and bent over to look at the lines and landscape markings, her shoulder brushed against his. Imir intentionally pressed a bit closer; she was too preoccupied to notice… or maybe not.

He continued, “Also, at the clan gathering on the seacoast, I purchased copies of Nunghal-Su charts so you could compare all the details.”

Sherufa slid one map aside, stared at the next, then the next. The notations were in the Nunghal language, crude letters with a variety of spellings. “This is the most complete information on the southern continent that any Uraban eyes have ever seen. Thank you, Imir!”

It had been such a long time since he'd talked with her. “After I looked at these charts and spoke to the mapmakers, many of them talked about your idea that the coastlines connect. If a ship sailed far enough, it would eventually find Lahjar.”

“
Might
find Lahjar. And remember, that was Saan's idea as well,” Sherufa reminded him.

“Oh, the boy doesn't care about the credit.”

“And you think I do? Do I appear to be a vain person?”

He lifted his chin. “You're a person who should be honored, among both your people and mine.” Sherufa snorted and gazed back down at the charts, but he could see that her lips quirked in a smile.

“In fact,” Imir continued, “when I left the clan gathering, our friend Asaddan had convinced Ruad to attempt the voyage.”

“Asaddan always loved to tell stories.”

“I don't think it was a story, my dear. If they had the determination, they certainly had the wherewithal. Who knows, someday they may show up on our doorstep.”

Sherufa noted a few small inconsistencies among the documents. “I'll read the written descriptions in detail later.” She leaned over to kiss him on his newly shaven cheek. “Thank you, Imir. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I always think of you. Whenever I see something you may not know, I collect it and bring it back to you.” He spread his hands to indicate the maps, then gathered his courage. “You see, I have given you the entire world.
Now
will you consent to be my wife?”

Sherufa was not surprised by the question, since he had asked her repeatedly before. “The entire world is not yet mapped, Imir. Ask me later, when it is.”

15
Ishalem

It was a bloody and difficult fight, but once the
ra'vir
assassins struck the Tierran commanders, ripples of shock destroyed the Aidenist formations from within. Omra's cavalry and swordsmen had rushed through the gap in the wall and into the confusion, slashing with their curved scimitars. Thousands strong, disciplined and in well-trained formations, the soldan-shah's army caused disproportionate slaughter on the enemy.

After the Tierran forces retreated in disarray, the Uraban wounded were brought back into the city where their injuries could be tended by healers; the Tierran dead and injured were left where they lay on the bloody battlefield outside the wall. Fading moans continued throughout the night, while great cheers rang in the streets of Ishalem as the followers of Urec celebrated their victory.

The next dawn, Omra stood atop the wall again to stare at the churned battleground. He had not slept, not even cleaned himself. He did not feel his numerous cuts and bruises, did not care about the drying red stains on his skin and clothes; his olba had come unwound and hung in loose scraps down his neck. He would leave the myriad enemy corpses to rot on the blood-soaked Pilgrims' Road. Hungry seabirds had already begun wheeling in from the Oceansea, contemplating their feast.

When the shrouded Teacher joined him, Omra spoke to the blank silver mask. “You have done Uraba a great service. Name your reward.”

The Teacher bowed slightly. “The blessings of Urec are my reward. The spilled blood of evil Aidenists is my reward. Their cries of pain and screams of fear throughout the night… yes, those are my reward.”

“And nothing else?” Omra wasn't surprised. The Teacher had always needed little, asked for little, yet performed a great service.

The stranger's identity was secret even from Omra. Years ago, Kel Unwar had delivered mysterious letters written in a firm, unstylized hand, proposing a new method to infiltrate and destroy the 'Hooks from within. “Soldan-shah, I believe you should read these,” he had said. “The letters were brought to me by an unknown man. I don't know why he chose me as his conduit… but perhaps you should hear his ideas. This could be our path to victory.” Omra—only the zarif at the time—had read the suggestions with interest, then amazement.

With Unwar acting as intermediary, Omra had arranged a meeting in a darkened section of Olabar on a moonless night, and the masked figure told him the story of the
ra'vir
bird, which laid its eggs in another bird's nest, and later the hatchlings would kill their rivals. “We can do that with children, my Lord. Tierran children… malleable minds that we make our own. We need only the material to work with.”

And the Teacher had been absolutely right. The turmoil and fear wrought by the secret infiltrators caused as much damage as an outright military assault.

Now, on the wall in the brightening morning sunlight, the face behind the silver mask remained silent for a long moment. He contemplated the proffered reward, then said, “Yes, Soldan-Shah, there is something I would like. Allow me to create a new, larger training camp for
ra'virs
here, not far from Ishalem.”

Omra did not hesitate. “I'll have Kel Unwar divert work teams immediately. I leave for Olabar tomorrow, but you shall have whatever you desire.”

“Even before the workers finish the wall?”

“We'll whip the Tierran slaves hard enough to do both jobs.”

The Teacher nodded slowly. “That is their purpose in the world.”

Reaffirming Kel Unwar as the provisional governor of Ishalem in his absence, Omra took the swiftest dromond across the Middlesea, eager to return to his palace, his wives, and his children. Home.

When he arrived in the capital, priestesses set braziers upon the stone steps of the main church, adding chemical dusts to the coals so that bright smoke rose up with tempting scents and unusual colors. Ur-Sikara Erima herself emerged to deliver the triumphal sermon, expressing great passion as she spoke with the lilting twang of her Lahjar accent. “For truly we are blessed, for truly Ondun sees our great soldan-shah as another son following in the footsteps of His favorite, Urec.”

As he made a slow procession back to the minarets of the palace, Omra let his people applaud him, but when he entered his own chambers, he focused his attention on his family. Sweet Naori came to him first, leading their two young sons, overjoyed to have him home. She embraced him but expressed no interest in the politics or the battle.

Omra called his three daughters—Adreala, Cithara, and Istala—who greeted him formally, though he could see by the sparkle in their eyes how glad they were to have him home and safe. Next, Saan bounded in, his straw-colored hair and blue eyes giving him an entirely non-Uraban appearance. “I never had any doubts you would hold Ishalem, Father. The city belongs to us, not the Aidenists.”

Omra swept him into a hug. It always amazed him that Saan was a man now. “You will hear plenty of stories about what happened on the battlefield. The soldiers are already spinning tales up and down the docks, looking for someone to buy them cups of wine.”

“I'll buy you a cup of wine, Father, if you tell
me
your stories.”

“Later.” He took a seat on his cushions, relaxing. “I want to know what's happened here in my absence.”

“Not much, certainly nothing so exciting as an invading Aidenist army.” But the young man's bright gaze flicked away for a moment. “Well… there was one incident, an attack on me and Omirr. Thugs in the souks. But we fended it off. Considering what the men said, I suspect the sikaras put them up to it, though I have no proof.”

After Saan described the attackers, the conversation, and the knife fight in the alley, Omra could barely contain his fury. He lurched up from the cushions again. “Someone raised a hand against my son!” He caught himself and added, “
Two
of my sons.”

Saan shrugged. “There were only four of them, and Omirr did his share of fighting too. Remember, Father, enemies have tried to kill me many times. I'm ready for them.”

Omra paced, clenching his jaw. “At least the Aidenists attack us openly. If this is some sikara plot…” He let out a long sigh. “I cannot challenge the church without proof.”

“Three of the men are dead, and the one who escaped was never found. If he is involved with the sikaras, I doubt we'll see him again. They've probably sent him away to Kiesh by now… or we'll find his body floating in the harbor. Kel Rovic is investigating. Maybe he'll find something.”

Troubled, Omra sent him away and called for Istar, the person he most wanted to see. Always attuned to his thoughts, Istar detected his mood as soon as she entered the room. She settled in, crossing her legs on a broad cushion, and reported on her meetings with Finance Minister Samfair, Protocol Minister Faan, and Trade Minister Usthra, all of whom tolerated her well enough. Then, with a tone of amusement, she recounted how the stuffy Inner Wahilir emissary had refused to present her with his document from Soldan Huttan, even though she was Omra's court surrogate while he was in Ishalem.

Saan's news had stripped away his feelings of peace and anticipation, and at this further affront, the soldan-shah felt his face grow hot. Going to his writing desk, he snatched a cut piece of rough paper. “By treating you with disrespect, they insult
me
.” His words were hard and sharp, like the jagged edge of a spear head. “That, at least, I can stop—I have the power. I will show them what it means to ignore you.”

Istar leaned closer as he wrote furiously. “There's no need to overreact.”

“I am reacting
properly
, not excessively.” He finished his decree with a flourish, set aside the quill, and sealed the inkpot. “This is my summons, to be delivered to all five soldanates. Each soldan is hereby commanded to send his First Wife here to the Olabar court, where all will see the consequences of insulting me—and you.”

Istar was troubled. “What is it you plan to do? I want no blood shed over this, Omra.”

He merely dusted the fresh ink with powder, tipped a candle over the document to spill drops of wax, then pressed his signet ring into the hot wax to make his mark. “Do not question me, Istar. This is my command. My people have no choice but to obey.”

16
Calay

Back from Windcatch, Criston and Javian returned to Shipbuilders' Bay and the
Dyscovera
. Broad-backed men filed aboard carrying crates of cured meats, dried fruit, wrapped biscuits, medical supplies, bottles of wine, kegs of heavily hopped beer, cages of chickens, sacks of grain, and many casks of fresh water.

Kjelnar greeted them from the prow, shirtless as usual. “I was hoping we wouldn't have to sail without you, Captain! We're about ready, Aiden willing.”

“Well then, let's see if the ship meets with my approval, Shipwright.”

He walked the deck, climbed down a wooden ladder into the cargo hold, checked the bunks and hammocks where the crewmen would sleep stacked together like dried apricots, then inspected the brick oven in the galley. Following with undisguised pride, Kjelnar pointed out all that he'd completed during Criston's brief absence.

As cabin boy, Javian would have his own closet-sized room adjacent to the captain's cabin; it was barely large enough for him to stand up in, with a hard shelf for a bed, and another for his reading and studies. Criston had made it a condition of Javian's service that the boy continue his education in letters and mathematics, as well as the Book of Aiden.

At the navigator's station, alongside a traditional magnetic compass and the Captain's Compass whose needle always pointed to Calay, stood Aiden's Compass. The ancient relic would show them the way to Terravitae. Although its needle remained inert and motionless, as it had for centuries, Criston had faith that once they neared the land of Holy Joron, the sympathetic magic would register again.

Criston extended his hand, taking Kjelnar's grip in his own. “I can't say that I have ever seen a more perfect ship, Shipwright. When I first imagined the designs for sailing vessels and carved my wooden models, even my dreams were not as excellent as the
Dyscovera
actually is.”

Javian beamed. “And now the greatest captain and the greatest crew will make this greatest mission a success.”

Kjelnar's chest swelled. “If faith could float boats, boy, our ship would fly.”

The converted warehouse building at the harbor's edge smelled of sawdust, shellac, paint, and tar. The window shutters were open to fill the interior with sunshine. More than a dozen Saedrans toiled in a flurry of finishing touches on the replica; the team of intense craftsmen, led by the famed model-maker Burian na-Coway, would light lamps and work far into the night in order to complete the project in time.

Four feet long from bowsprit to stern, the
Dyscovera
's sympathetic counterpart was larger and more precise than any of the ship models that sat on shelves in the naval war room at Calay Castle. Sen Leo na-Hadra, the aged but brilliant Saedran scholar, paced around the detailed construction. Burian kept sheet after sheet of notes, constantly measuring, jotting down numbers, and sending runners back to the actual vessel in Shipbuilders' Bay with measuring strings to verify his notes.

When he saw the captain enter, Sen Leo's eyes burned with a new kind of fire. He snapped at his craftsmen, “Back and forth you go! I want every man here to study the real
Dyscovera
at least once an hour. Any flaw you note must be reproduced here. Every rigging rope, every knot.”

The old scholar formally introduced Criston to Sen Aldo na-Curic, who would act as the
Dyscovera
's navigator, chronicler, and cartographer. Criston shook Aldo's hand. “Are you ready for the voyage, Chartsman? We set sail in less than a week.”

The dark-haired Saedran crossed his thin arms. “Captain, I've been ready all my life. I became a chartsman just before the departure of the
Luminara
, and I was chosen to serve aboard the great Arkship, before she burned. Oh yes, Captain, I am ready.”

“Sounds to me like you're bad luck,” Javian said with a hint of skepticism. Criston nudged the boy into silence.

With balls of string, like the toy ribbons children used during Landing Day celebrations, two Saedran riggers laid down the ropes and tied the shrouds on the model
Dyscovera
, exactly mimicking the ones on the great vessel.

Strands of sympathetic magic wove through the world and connected all things, because—according to the Book of Aiden—every speck of creation had been touched by the hand of Ondun. Therefore, if a model were built with scraps of wood from the same planks that made up the real vessel, if duplicate rigging ropes were strands from the actual ropes, if the paint and shellac came from the same pots, then the two counterparts were inseparably connected. If anything should happen to the
Dyscovera
herself, this model would reflect it, here inside this building in Calay.

“We will do our part, Captain Vora,” said the model-maker, looking up from his notes. “Your job is to sail the ship where it needs to go.”

Back home in the Saedran District, Aldo na-Curic joined his family for a boisterous meal and an evening of discussions, games, and fellowship. Aldo's wife, Lanni, one of Sen Leo's daughters, greeted him at the doorway with a quick embrace, then ran back to the kitchen to help his mother prepare the meal. Aldo's little son and daughter—aged three and two, respectively—hurried up to him, clinging to his legs. He threw the girl into the air and swung her around, then repeated the process with the boy.

By the time he returned from the
Dyscovera
's voyage—
if
he returned—the children would be much older. He hated to miss key years of their childhood, but he would not turn down the chance for this voyage. If Aldo discovered the rest of the world, found Terravitae, and helped the Saedrans in their age-old quest to complete the accurate Mappa Mundi—the Map of All Things—then his son and daughter would forgive him.

Aldo's sister, Ilna, who still had no husband though she was well past the age to marry, called them to the table. Ilna was an attractive young woman, though somewhat flighty, and the na-Curic family had enough funds for a reasonable dowry, but she was extremely picky about her suitors.

Aldo's parents, Biento and Yura, unveiled the baked fish with sprigs of herbs and preserved lemons. Lanni passed around a basket of fresh-baked rolls. Aldo took one for himself and reached for a pot of butter, while the children fought over the jam and honey.

Aldo's father called for them all to stop. “Before we partake, we must express our thanks. Tell us what you're grateful for. Ondun may be far away, but we all know He is listening.” In the subsequent pause, Biento scanned their faces, then said, “I am grateful for the opportunity my son has been given. He will be the most famous Saedran chartsman in history.”

Aldo blushed. Lanni spoke next. “I am grateful for my husband and everything he has given me, including these wonderful children.”

Aldo's younger brother, Wen, who wanted to be a chartsman himself but didn't have the fortitude or patience to memorize vast libraries of data, said he was thankful for his new job as a journeyman clockmaker.

When it was his turn, Aldo felt a lump in his throat. “I am grateful for such a wonderful family, and the happy memories you've given me. I will draw upon you for strength when I am far, far away.”

As he looked around at his family, their faces made blurry by his own tears, Aldo realized he would miss them very much.

Biento began to serve the fish.