A Secret Atlas (32 page)

Nirati snorted. “Majiata was never punctual. You should still have been early.”

“That’s what I thought. I waited for an hour, then just assumed she had decided to go back

on whatever she had been thinking. I returned to the house and went to sleep. The next

morning I got up and out early to meet the people who had delayed me the night before,

and that is when I ran into the constable.”

“What happened then, my lord?”

He shook his head. “You do not want to know.”

Her flesh crawled at the tone in his voice. “I have to know. You’re not alone in feeling

guilty.”

“I don’t think you know what you are asking.”

“But I’m still asking.”

“Fine.” His spine straightened, but he refused to look at her as he spoke in a flat tone.

“Whatever, whoever, did this to her met her in the street. She probably knew him and went

with him willingly, or he was strong enough to carry her off. He took her to a rooftop where

she could easily see the southern sky and the three moons chasing each other through

the constellations. It would have been beautiful. I keep reminding myself of that, hoping,

somehow, that such beauty was the last thing she knew.”

The strain in his voice suggested Junel knew his hope was forlorn.

“On the roof, her clothing was cut from her. She didn’t fight much if at all. The constable

said she would have had cuts on her forearms if she had. ‘Defensive wounds,’ he called

them. He also said she might have scratched her attacker and they’d find skin under the

fingernails. She had such long nails.”

He snorted. “Of course, to do that, they’d have to find her hands.”

Nirati’s mouth dropped open. She’d heard no inkling that Majiata’s hands had been taken.

She knew of no reason anyone would do that. Her stomach began to roil.

“He cut her throat, nice and clean, almost severing her head completely. It surprised her,

for she died with that shocked look on her face. Then he opened her from throat to groin

and dressed her out as a hunter might a deer. He hollowed her out, and spread her

organs out around her. And, as I said, he took her hands.”

Nirati clapped a hand to her mouth. “No, that is too horrible.”

“Horrible. Odd how a word fails, isn’t it?” Junel exhaled slowly. “The constable said it

would have taken an ax to take her hands off like that. Or a bite. And the cutting, that was

one knife, maybe two. Or talons. Even then they were thinking Viruk, I guess.

“When I saw her, I dropped to my knees and vomited. Had I been on time, he might not

have gotten her. If I had not decided that our union would be useless, she might not have

felt the need to meet me away from the house. If, if, if . . .”

His lean body again bowed forward. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes

and began to sob, repeating that one word over and over.

Nirati rose and crossed to the bed, gathering him in her arms. He slumped across her

thighs, his body convulsing with silent sobs. She hugged him hard, despite the stink. She

stroked greasy hair and hushed him, holding on until his body slackened and his breathing

came more regularly.

Then she shifted him off her and laid him back in the bed. She got up and swung his legs

around. She pulled the thin blanket over him and stroked his face. In sleep he seemed a

bit more peaceful and this brought the hint of a smile to her face.

Poor Junel.
Compassion for him filled her, but fury at Majiata ran countercurrent to it.

Majiata’s death tortured Junel, and it was not right. Majiata had been unworthy of such

honest feelings—and, were she alive, would have only thought of how she could profit

from them. If there was something good to be taken from her death, it was that she would

no longer be around to torment Keles.

I hope he does not learn of her death for a long time. I’ll talk to Grandfather about that.

Keles, however, is not my immediate problem.

Stooping, she scooped up the ale bucket and carried it down to the common room. The

innkeeper’s wife, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman, accepted it from her. “Shall I just fill it for

him as before?”

“No.” Nirati kept her voice firm. “You’ll bring him soup when he’s awake, something that

isn’t heavy, and watered wine. I want you to go up there and wash him, too.”

The woman frowned. “He’s a grown man. He can be doing for himself.”

Nirati’s nostrils flared. “Have you any idea who I am?”

The woman bit back a quick response. “I don’t suppose it would make a difference if I did.”

“It might. I am the granddaughter of Qiro Anturasi. If I let it be known that the Jandetokun

Inn is favored, you will prosper. If I let it be known you have displeased us, this place will

fail. If need be, I could even ask the Prince to shut you down. You understand this, I see,

but you need not fear, because I am asking you for a favor, so I shall do you one in

return.”

“Y-yes, my lady?”

“Do as I ask with the Desei count and you will be blessed. Any bills,
reasonable
bills, for his care will be paid immediately and in gold.”

“Or spices?”

“If you wish, yes, we have some influence there.” Nirati kept a smile from her face, though

it was clear she and the woman understood each other. “I want him sober, fed, cleaned,

and groomed. I shall come back daily to see the progress and settle accounts.”

The woman nodded. “I understand, my lady Anturasi. Been in this business long enough

to know how to dry someone up.”

“Good. One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“If anyone else asks after him, you don’t know where he has gone. You’ll even complain

about accounts left unpaid.”

“Do I keep any money they give me to settle them?”

“Yes. And I will pay you to know who asks for him.” Nirati nodded to the woman and

accepted a bow in return. “Your cooperation will be rewarded.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The woman’s voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ll do what you ask,

but why? He’s just a Desei. Why help him?”

Nirati let her question rattle around inside her skull, but found no answer the woman would

understand. In fact, she did not even understand her first thoughts. She just smiled and

replied in another whisper, “It’s an investment in the future. He owes me a dance or three,

and it’s not a debt I shall let go unpaid.”

20th day, Month of the Dog, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Stormwolf,
Nysant

Cartayne

Jorim Anturasi used the slight rise and fall of the
Stormwolf
as a means to quiet his mind.

He sat on the deck in his cramped cabin, legs crossed, spine straight. His personal

logbook, containing measurements and hastily sketched maps, as well as time lists, lay

open before him. In the dim light of a single candle he could make out enough to let it

serve as a boost to his memory. Most things he held in his mind, however, which was

where they needed to be so he could send them to his grandfather.

He regulated his breathing and relaxed, which was harder than he imagined because of

the impatience that kept coming from Qiro. Each day, as close to Naleni noon as possible,

Jorim had composed himself to send information. The experience had never been a

pleasant one, but of late it had been even less so. Qiro had changed, and not for the

better.

When Jorim had first learned telepathic communication with his grandfather, things had

flowed easily, much the way the massive
Stormwolf
rose and fell rhythmically at anchor.

His grandfather had been welcoming and gentle, prompting recollections or details in a

wordless manner. Jorim always sought to communicate as much as he could. He’d been

eager to please his grandfather, and reveled in any encouragement he’d gotten.

But now Qiro regarded any lack of information as an act of conspiracy. His gentle prompts

had become sharp jabs. The few times Jorim had been too exhausted to muster a

defense, his grandfather had raked through his mind, leaving a blinding headache in his

wake.

Even when his grandfather invaded his mind, Jorim had little worries about his secrets

being betrayed. Numbers communicated very easily. Subjective concepts, such as

beauty, or even a color, did not get conveyed as precisely. Even when he had worked with

Keles, there had been mistakes, despite their closeness. The emotional and generational

gap with his grandfather meant Qiro could get less from him, and also meant the old man

cared very little for Jorim’s personal adventures.

The old man just wanted more data for his maps.

With this lot, he would get quite enough. The
Stormwolf
did not travel alone. With it were a dozen other ships, which carried food and water, fodder for the cavalry horses on board,

as well as other necessary supplies like lumber, cables, and sailcloth. As they approached

the island of Cartayne, the fleet had been split and lesser cartographers had taken

measurements as they sailed north and south. The two halves of the fleet converged at

the western port of Nysant, and Jorim had worked all night combining the information into

an accurate chart of the island, complete with soundings of a southern harbor and the

route to it through a reef.

Reaching out with his mind, visualizing Anturasikun and his grandfather’s sanctum, he

reached the old man easily. Qiro began to devour his information with the fervor of a

starving man falling on a haunch of venison. For a heartbeat Jorim actually saw an image

of the world on the wall and watched Cartayne sharpen in definition.

He braced for a mental assault, but his grandfather broke the link with a swift finality.

Jorim slumped back against the bulkhead and bumped his head—not enough to injure

himself, but sufficient to shock him back to full consciousness. Sitting up, he rubbed the

back of his head.

I hope everything is all right.
The quick termination of their link could have meant his grandfather had collapsed. His heart might have failed, or he might have suffered a brain

tremor.
He might even have been murdered.
Jorim dismissed the latter instantly, since

Uncle Ulan would never have the nerve to kill him, and would permit no one else close

enough to do so. The Prince’s precautions would keep assassins out, so the old man was

safe from anything other than natural disaster or the vengeance of the gods.

He just as easily dismissed the idea that his grandfather was ill. Jorim felt certain he would

have gotten some hint of pain, shock, or panic through the link before it was broken. His

grandfather’s ego was such that he’d not have been able to conceal his dismay at being

prey to mortal afflictions.

But it surprised Jorim that his first reaction was concern for the old man. He would have

expected to feel some sort of relief, or even glee, for he had long since ceased to like his

grandfather. He didn’t respect him much either, save in the area of mapmaking. Outside of

that, Qiro Anturasi was a creature worthy only of contempt.

A knock on the cabin door prevented him from examining his feelings further. “I’m not hurt.

The thump you heard was nothing.”

The door opened and Anaeda Gryst stood there. “I’m glad to hear that. We’re going

ashore.”

“I thought . . .” Jorim scrambled to his feet and scooped his logbook up as her eyes

narrowed. “As ordered, Captain Gryst. Let me lock this away first.”

“Be quick about it, and bring your sword.”

He opened his sea chest and deposited the log, then drew out a simple sword. Single-

edged, running just shy of a yard from hilt to point, the blade resided in an unadorned

wooden scabbard. The hilt was long enough to let him use the blade two-handed, but the

sword was light enough that he could duel with it easily as well. Jorim had not studied

swordsmanship at a
serrian,
but the Prince had seen to it that the Anturasi heirs knew enough to protect themselves. Jorim had gotten better on his own and might have been

Fifth Rank if tested by a school in the capital.

“Do you expect trouble, Captain?”

“If I did, you’d see our cavalry mounted and ready to escort us.”

Jorim shut the chest and locked it. “I notice you’re unarmed.”

She smiled slowly. “The people we’ll see already know how dangerous I am. Your sword

will win you a modicum of respect. That will be enough for the moment. Come, we’ve not a

moment to lose.”

He followed her from his cabin up to the main deck, and then down netting to where a

small boat bobbed beside the
Stormwolf
. Five sailors—four oarsmen and a coxswain—

waited for them. Captain Gryst sat in the stern, leaving Jorim the bench at the bow, which

he didn’t mind taking. The oarsmen pushed off the ship, then began the half mile pull in

toward the shore.

Nysant had, ages before, been a Viruk outpost. Little could be seen of what once had

been strong fortresses because stones had been stolen from them and mud buildings

grafted to their walls like hornets’ nests. The squat human buildings mocked the former

grandeur. Their imprecise angles and slouching forms dragged on Viruk architecture,

much as the human slaves must have dragged on the last of their Viruk masters.

When the heart of the Viruk Empire sank beneath the Dark Sea, the Cartayne colony had