A Secret Atlas (2 page)

duty,
grandmother
.” She offered the honorific to shock Conoursai, and was rewarded with an offended hiss. “But, as we are not the Prince’s troops, we must be highwaymen. Will

you pay tribute and be honored or suffer as victims?”

Matut moaned. “This is how it began last time.”

Moraven patted him on the shoulder. “This has long been known as a place where people

stop in awe to look at the city. Bandits sneak up unawares.”

The little boy stooped and picked up a rock. “I’ll fight them.”

“No need, brave one.” Moraven Tolo moved again to the fore, slipping effortlessly past

Conoursai. He motioned to the two farmers to stay back. Taking a position in the center of

the road, he bowed toward the bandits.

“I am
xidantzu
. I wish harm to come to none. These people are under
my
protection. It will cost you nothing to walk away.”

“Xidantzu.”
The woman spat contemptuously and plucked at her overshirt. “The last

wandering meddler coming through here gave me this and those he protected gave us

their gold.”

Moraven’s eyes sharpened. The scarlet overshirt had bats on the wing woven into it. He

knew the man to whom it belonged. “Did you steal it, or was Jayt Macyl slain?”

She gestured with her sword to the west, then swung the blade in a short arc. “There are

pieces of him all along here. He was Sixth Rank only. I am Pavynti Syolsar, and I am

ranked Superior.”

He considered for a moment. Jayt Macyl had indeed been a swordsman of the Sixth

Rank. Her defeating him might well make her Seventh Rank, or just someone who had

gotten lucky. He was tempted, given her relative youth, to believe it was the latter, but he

also knew appearances could be deceiving.

“I am Moraven Tolo of the School of Jatan.”

The bandit woman snorted. “Macyl was of
Serrian
Jatan. This holds no fear for me.”

Moraven shook his head. “Macyl studied under Eron Jatan. My Master was his

grandfather.”

Her face slackened slightly. “Phoyn Jatan?”

“Yes. I am somewhat older than I appear.” Moraven did his best to ignore the murmurs

coming from his traveling companions. “If you still wish to fight, name your terms.”

“I am not afraid of you.” Pavynti’s brown eyes narrowed. “To the death, of course.”

He nodded. “Draw the circle.”

That stopped her for a moment. It also brought gasps from his traveling companions and a

joyous shout from Dunos. His father cut that short by clapping a hand over the boy’s

mouth as he dragged his son back. Most of the company likewise retreated, putting the

crest of the hill between themselves and the combatants. Those who did not drew little

circles around themselves or dug out previously hidden talismans against magic, and one

farmer slid off a horsehair bracelet, which he held up to one eye so he would be safe as

he watched the fight.

“The c-circle?” Pavynti’s expression tightened.

“You heard me correctly.” Moraven slid his sword, still in its wooden scabbard, from his

belt. “It would be best.”

Shaken, she began to toe a line in the roadway’s dirt. Her companions, understanding the

import of his request, acted. The archer loosed an arrow and the giant bellowed and

began to charge. By the time the giant had passed Pavynti, the archer’s second and third

missiles were also in the air.

Moraven Tolo twisted his right shoulder back, letting the first shaft pass harmlessly wide.

The second tugged at his overshirt’s sleeve, passing through it, but missing flesh. He slid

forward a half step, letting the third arrow pass behind him, then ran at the giant, clutching

his sword midscabbard in his left hand.

The giant’s mallet rose above his head and his mouth gaped in a horrid display of

misaligned, yellowed teeth. Black eyes shrank. Veins throbbed in his forehead and neck.

His incoherent war cry took on the bass tones of a water buffalo’s challenge. The mallet,

its haft bending beneath the incredible power of the stroke, arced up and smashed down

at Moraven.

Ducking low, Moraven moved inside the mallet’s arc. He plunged the hilt of his sword into

the giant’s middle. Planting his right hand on the lower part of the scabbard, he pivoted the

sheathed blade into the man’s groin. As the bellow rose into a squeak, Moraven lifted and

twisted, flipping the giant over his shoulder. The man smashed down on his back and

bounced once. Another spin let Moraven crack the giant in the head with his scabbard as

a fourth arrow flew past.

Completing the spin, Moraven let the sword shoot forward until the hilt filled his right hand.

He tightened his grip, deliberately letting momentum bare the blade. The heavy wooden

scabbard flew off in a flat arc and cracked the archer’s left hand. As the swordsman

intended, it crushed fingers against the bow and knocked the fifth arrow flying. The archer

screamed, dropping his weapon, and turned away with his broken hand nestled beneath

his right armpit.

Moraven Tolo’s sword came up, the silver blade pointing straight at Pavynti’s throat. “Have

you finished that circle yet?”

She threw her sword aside and dropped to her knees, then fell to her belly with her face in

the dirt. “
Jaecaiserr,
forgive this wretched one for her arrogance.”

“Which arrogance was that, Pavynti? Claiming ranks you do not have? Believing those

who travel to the capital are your prey?” Moraven let his voice get cold and deeper. “Or

the dishonorable arrogance of letting your friends attack me before we could engage in

our duel?”

“All of them, Master.”

“Up. Remove that overshirt. Take up your sword.”

Disbelief widening her eyes, the woman rose, dusted the overshirt off, then removed it.

Hesitantly she leaned over to pick up her sword, and a little circular silver talisman fell

forward, dangling on a rawhide thong. She slowly straightened. “Do I continue drawing the

circle?”

He shook his head. “Scorpion form, the first.”

Pavynti blinked, then moved into that stance. He nodded then called another form, and

another. She flowed through them quickly enough, doing best with Crane and Eagle, least

well with Wolf and Dog. He kept her at it for a full nine minutes, which was all the time it

took for his traveling companions to crest the hill again. The two farmers positioned

themselves to thump the giant soundly if he regained consciousness.

When she was dripping with sweat, he called a halt, and she dropped to one knee. He

could tell she was tempted to stab her sword into the ground and hang on to the hilt, but

she knew better than to show that level of disrespect to her weapon. Breathing heavily,

she glanced up. “What else would you have of me, Master?”

“The answer to a question.”

“Yes?”

“You have Jayt’s overshirt, but not his sword. What became of it?”

The flesh around her eyes tightened. “I am a bandit, Master, but not a barbarian. The

blade was sent on to his family, for their shrine.”

Moraven said nothing, but crossed to where the archer cowered and kicked the bow into a

tangle of thornbushes. Resheathing his sword, he slid it back into his overshirt’s sash and

waved the archer further from his weapon. By the time he turned around again, Conoursai

had advanced and raised her quirt to lash the bandit.

“Don’t do that.”

The merchantman’s wife sputtered indignantly. “She was going to kill us all. She should be

punished. You should kill her.”

Moraven slowly shook his head. “A life broken can be mended. A life taken cannot.”

“Then break her.” The woman gestured imperiously, though not quite as confidently as

before. “Have the farmers thrash the giant and the archer.”

“They struck at me, not you. Their fate is in my hands.”

“By what authority?”

Moraven frowned, then looked past her to where Dunos had collected Macyl’s overshirt

and neatly folded it. “Why can you not be like the child? As it is said, ‘One action

accomplishes more than ten thousand words.’ ”

“Her action was to slay us.”

“No, her action was to show respect to a fallen foe. Her words, as yours, are nothing.

Now, be silent, lest I be forced to act.” He turned from her scowl and eyed the archer.

“How much have you stolen from the Festival pilgrims?”

“Not a prince’s ransom. Not even his petty spending.”

“It is still too much. You and your giant will take all you have stolen and go to the Festival.

You will give alms to the beggars until you have nothing, then you will leave for the west.”

“But there are Viruk and Soth there, and wildmen. The chances of our survival . . .”

“. . . Are better there than here.” Moraven smiled. “Chances are excellent I shall never see

you again if you go west.”

The archer thought for a moment. “It
is
very crowded here. West, then.”

Conoursai snorted with outrage, but said nothing. Moraven continued to ignore her and

turned to Pavynti. “And now your fate must be decided.”

“My lord’s will be done.”

“You will go to the town of Derros, south, on the Virine coast. You will present yourself at

the School of Istor. You will tell the Grandmaster I have sent you to join his school. He will

see to your training. When he releases you, you will be
xidantzu
for nine years. You will wander and entertain bandits as you have been entertained.”

“Yes, Master.” Again she put her belly to the dirt in a deep bow.

“Care for your companions tonight, then go tomorrow. This is my will.”

The farmers, between the two of them, lifted the mallet and broke the haft. The others in

the group started forward again, following the farmers and allowing Conoursai to join

them. All of them gave Moraven wide berth. Moraven moved past the bandits, but did so

slowly, waiting for the old man and his kin, who were bringing up the rear.

Moraven smiled at the boy. “When you get to Moriande, you will deliver that overshirt to

Macyl’s family. They will honor you for it. Ward it well.”

“I will.” Dunos nodded, then narrowed his eyes. “Are you really a Mystic?”

“Dunos, hush.” Alait settled his hand on the back of the boy’s neck. “Don’t be offended,

Master. He is just a boy.”

“I’m not.” Moraven crouched again, looking the boy eye to eye. “I have studied many years

and am blessed with skill. I am
jaecaiserr,
but you cannot believe all the stories.” He reached out and caressed the boy’s lifeless left arm. “If I could use my magic to heal you

with a touch, I would have done so on the eve we met. My magic is not for healing, to my

regret. Others have that skill, and you will find them in Moriande.”

The boy nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Master.” He looked up at his father, and the two of

them moved on.

Matut reached out a hand and rested it on Moraven’s shoulder as he rose. “A moment

more of your time, Master.”

The swordsman nodded and let the two younger men get further down the road. “What is

it, grandfather?”

The old man kept his voice low. “In this place, when the bandits stopped us nines of nine

years ago, a young man of our company challenged them. He told them to draw a circle,

and they did.”

“And what happened?”

“He slew them all. An autumn breeze works harder stirring leaves than he did slaughtering

them. He did not wear your name, but he did bear the crest of the black tiger hunting.”

“That would be something hard to forget.”

“I never have.” The old man sighed. “If my eyes were good, I could see that you are the

same man, untouched by the years. Why didn’t you kill them this time?”

“As you agreed, grandfather, that was something hard to forget.” Moraven’s blue eyes

gazed again toward Moriande. “I haven’t forgotten, and I
have
learned.”

36th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles Anturasi leaned against the marble balustrade in the elevated garden at

Anturasikun. The stone felt cool beneath his hands and he knew, almost by touch, where

it had been quarried and how long it had taken to reach the capital.
Solaeth, shipped over

the Dark Sea, then down the Gold River.
He smiled to himself, his hazel eyes bright in a handsome face with sharply sculpted cheekbones and a nose that had been broken once

when he was a child. He’d known many a happy day in the garden, and knew today would

be happier still.

He looked over the city, casting his gaze to the southeast and toward the Imperial Palace.

Through his mind flashed half a dozen routes for getting from the Anturasi stronghold to

the Prince’s demesne. He could travel through the wide streets that now thronged with

Festival visitors, or wend his way through warrens, alleys, and places where, were he

wearing his own Festival finery, he would have been prey. He had traveled them all since

he was a child, learning the city fearlessly—or at least fearing it less than incurring his

grandfather’s wrath if he did not.

That was an Anturasi’s lot in life. His family had shown a talent for cartography, which was

all but useless in the Time of Black Ice. It didn’t matter that you knew how to get from one

valley to another when you had no idea what sort of horror you might find there. As the