The Edge of the World (37 page)

Adrea blinked unresponsively, pretending not to understand. Lukai let out a loud disgusted sigh, muttering in Uraban. “She
is as stupid as a stone.” She raised her voice in rough Tierran. “Figs! Bring them. We command it.”

Adrea hurried toward the door of Villiki’s chambers.

“When Omra returns from Yuarej in three days, Cliaparia will insist on spending the night with him,” Villiki said. “Can you
do your part by then?”

The sikara chuckled. “Oh, that will be a simple matter. She has already asked Fyiri for assistance. I had Fyiri tell Cliaparia
that this new love potion must be added to every dish of food.”

Adrea slipped through the door, ostensibly to fetch figs from the kitchens. She had heard everything she needed to know, and
it gave her a spring in her step and hope in her heart. She had a weapon.

This was going to be a dangerous game. Villiki would murder her if she discovered what Adrea had in mind—but Adrea would take
the gamble. She did not intend to be caught. These women had much to learn about the lengths to which a desperate Tierran
mother would go. Their schemes were amateurish in comparison.

On the day the wedding party was due to arrive from Iboria, Anjine was glad to see excitement in her father’s face for the
first time in years. Though he had previously seen only a small plate painted with Ilrida’s likeness (in the pose of a young
female crewman on Aiden’s ship, naturally), Korastine was infatuated with her. Destrar Broeck had described his daughter with
any proud father’s lack of objectivity, and the king trusted him.

This was not strictly a political marriage, Anjine knew; Korastine honestly wanted to be happy. After her mother’s death,
he often asked Anjine to sit next to him by the fire and read aloud from the Book of Aiden. When he thanked her with tear-filled
eyes, she could see the heavy hunger of loneliness within him.

While they waited for the wedding ship to pull into the harbor, Anjine helped to finish the banquet preparations inside the
castle, inspecting the platters of roast sturgeon, the herbed root vegetables, soups made from dried peas, and dozens of sweet
quince tarts. Her cat, Tycho, insisted on following her, wanting her attention—as well as some of the fish. Her two handmaidens,
Smolla and Kemm, fussed about with colors and banners and flowers.

The flagstoned floor of the banquet hall had been swept clean, and lace-edged linen tablecloths were spread out on the long
plank dining tables. The tables were set with a wedding gift from the Corag destrar, new pewter goblets that bore the specific
crest of each destrar.

The Iborian wedding ship arrived on schedule, trailed by a raft of valuable pine logs. A runner came to inform King Korastine
that the passengers had disembarked and were making their way through the Royal District. Her father came to fetch Anjine,
grinning and anxious. Side by side, the two emerged through the castle’s arched gates, where they waited to receive the wedding
party.

Tumblers and jugglers rushed out for an impromptu show, followed by musicians with flutes and tambourines. Nothing about their
performance was coordinated, but the diversions were colorful and entertaining. Each of the entertainers longed to be singled
out as a court performer.

But King Korastine had eyes only for Ilrida as she approached, holding the arm of her bearlike father. The destrar’s ethereal
daughter looked captivating and sweet, halfway between Anjine’s age and Sena’s. Korastine went forward to greet his bride-to-be,
bowing deeply.

Behind them, Anjine saw a familiar but barely recognizable face—Mateo, tall and mature. His dark hair had recently been shorn,
and his Iborian-style uniform looked a bit small for him. Why, he looked grown up! Anjine realized that she herself had flowered
into womanhood since she had last seen her best friend. She was no longer an eleven-year-old girl, and he not a young boy.
The gulf of years and puberty had changed them greatly.

Anjine drew herself up to look as regal as she could, while Mateo stood at attention at the head of the soldier-trainees,
his face unreadable. Their eyes met and locked, and Anjine could no longer contain herself. Her lips curved in a grin, just
as Mateo smiled, showing her a flash of his boyhood again, and it warmed her heart.

The group moved inside the castle amidst a welcoming chatter. While the party members were escorted to their rooms by castle
retainers, the returning soldiers set off for their barracks in the Military District, where many of them would be fitted
with the uniforms of the city guard for one last year of service. Mateo had already written her that he’d decided to opt for
enlisting in the city guard, anxious to stay closer to home.

Anjine whispered in her father’s ear, pulling his attention from Ilrida. “May I have Mateo help me with preparations for this
evening? The city guard can get by without him for an afternoon.”

The king was startled, as if he hadn’t realized who the young man was. “Mateo! Welcome back to us. Military service has certainly
matured you!” He embraced the young man. “Go with Anjine. I’m sure the two of you have much to talk about.”

The pair slipped away from the hubbub of visiting dignitaries. Mateo looked around him, as if seeing the castle’s familiar
halls and chambers for the first time. “So much has changed in Calay. When was the old Tinkers’ Bridge torn down?”

“It collapsed when a barge full of cut limestone hit the pilings,” Anjine said. “People have had to walk all around the bay
or take ferry boats for months, but it’ll be rebuilt in the next year.”

Mateo continued in a rush of words; he seemed to have so much to say. “And when our ship sailed in, I saw that the military
barracks have expanded all the way up the spit of land. Looks like they’ll soon edge out part of the Butchers’ District. And
I’ve never seen so many warships on patrol at the mouth of the harbor!”

“With good reason.” Her voice turned hard. “You know what the Urecari have done to our villages.” She led him into a west-facing
upper room where afternoon sunlight streamed in to warm the velvet-upholstered window seat. There she found Tycho sprawled
out to sun himself. The cat lifted his head, glanced at Mateo, and gave a curious meow, obviously not remembering the young
man from so many years ago. Nevertheless, Matteo went over to scratch Tycho’s chin.

“It’ll be different now,” Mateo said. “While I’m serving in the city guard, at least we can talk in person, so we don’t have
to write so many letters.” She had enjoyed his letters, though… read each one dozens of times.

“Unless you go out on a patrol boat. Some of the city guard are being assigned as crew.”

“Makes sense. There’s more trouble on the sea than in Calay.”

She hoped, though, that he would stay here in the city.

The two fell into an awkward silence. They hadn’t seen each other for five years—during which Mateo had served in all five
reaches, and Anjine had learned more about politics and leadership than most
men
learned in a lifetime. There was so much to tell that neither of them could think of how to begin.

In the weeks after the wedding, Queen Ilrida adapted to her new life and happily settled in as the wife of the king. Korastine
adored the Iborian princess from the moment he first saw her, and Anjine was glad to see that her father seemed young again,
as if a hard decade had melted off his face.

Destrar Broeck remained in Calay for as long as he could make excuses to do so, but eventually he had to head north before
the weather changed. Kjelnar remained behind with the new shipment of logs, and King Korastine put him in charge of the entire
shipbuilding district for constructing naval ships.

Anjine took her new stepmother under her wing, making sure Ilrida felt welcome and comfortable. Although the Iborian woman
was full of wonder and definitely wanted to please, she had great difficulty speaking the Tierran language. Anjine knew that
while children acquired languages easily, many adults were not so adept at it. She asked Smolla and Kemm to work with Ilrida
on her letters (secretly hoping that the two handmaidens would learn something as well). Anjine longed for more intelligent
conversation in the castle.

Right away, she helped Ilrida memorize a few key words and phrases, and sat with the other woman in her own rooms; while her
Iborian ladies-in-waiting snipped lace or sewed garments, she told stories about Queen Sena, assuming that Ilrida would want
to know more about Korastine’s first wife. The Iborian ladies were already fitting into their new home, a few even flirting
unabashedly with the castle guards.

One day, when Anjine joined her in a private drawing room, Ilrida reverently opened a locked wooden chest, rustled among fabrics
and garments, and withdrew an object that she obviously valued greatly. The pale Iborian woman held up a round icon in a frame
the size of a small plate. The image had been assembled from minute pieces of colored tile and polished stone, a detailed
mosaic of a bearded man, his head surrounded by a golden halo, his face filled with peace and compassion.

“Holy Joron… is my favorite story,” Ilrida said. The words sounded rough and unnatural when she spoke them, but she seemed
proud of her ability to communicate. She had worked hard to memorize the names of the tales.

“You like the story of Holy Joron and the land of Terravitae?” Anjine asked.

Ilrida smiled and nodded. “He wait for Ondun.”

“I know many Joron stories—the Silver Waterfall, the talking storm, and the lost flock of sheep in the whispering grove. Let
me tell them to you to help you learn our language.”

Ilrida listened with rapt attention as Anjine related the familiar descriptions of the calm animals, the orchards laden with
fruit, the streams so full of fish that a person could cross by stepping on the backs of trout. She didn’t think Ilrida’s
eyes would ever stop sparkling.

Though he was released to accompany Sen Sherufa na-Oa, Aldo found it hard to believe he was no longer a prisoner. He glanced
about furtively as Sherufa guided him through Olabar’s Saedran District, sure there must be eyes watching him, to inform Soldan-Shah
Imir of his every move. If Aldo bolted toward the harbor and stowed away on a ship bound for the far shores of the Middlesea,
would they cut him down in these strange, foreign streets?

But nobody paid him any particular attention. The guards were gone.

Aldo couldn’t believe it. “I won’t be going back to the prison house?”

Sherufa’s brow furrowed. “Why, no. Imir released you to me. He wants me to talk with you and learn from you.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Imir trusts me.” She chuckled. “Besides, if you run, where could you go? You’re on a different continent,
among strangers. Since you’re a chartsman, I assume you are an intelligent and logical person. Your best choice is to stay
here with me. I always have a spare room. Everyone in the district knows it, and I’ve had more than my share of unexpected
guests.”

“Other captives like me?”

She laughed. “Oh, no! More often it’s angry wives who stay with me to leave their husbands with a cold bed for a few nights.
Sometimes it’s out-of-town travelers with nowhere else to stay. They’re always welcome, so long as they’re courteous and can
offer some interesting conversation.”

Sherufa strolled ahead of him as though this were any other day and she had simply gone to the market—to pick out a Saedran
chartsman rather than fresh fish or a sack of grain.

“Is there a library here?” he asked. “I’d like to study your volumes. They must be different from the ones that Sen Leo used
to teach me.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a Saedran District without a library, now, would it?” She shrugged and he sensed that she was slightly
introverted and quite a bit more curious about him than she wanted to show. “All of the volumes belong to me, however, so
you can read them from my own shelves. I’d love to share them with someone. Chartsmen are rare here, and the soldan-shah needs
them for his warships. Most are taken overland to the Oceansea. Chartsmen don’t stay here in Olabar—except for me.”

The streets and dwellings around Aldo had a familiar look of Saedran architecture and decorations: apothecary shops, alchemists,
portrait painters, physicians and astrologers, all of the usual professions. The people wore familiar garments, as well.

“I have the perfect memory, and I’ve studied records, charts, and tales of the Traveler, but I’ve never actually left Olabar.
I prefer to travel in my imagination, safe at home.”

Remembering the dreams from his youth, Aldo could not understand a person uninterested in seeing the wonders of the world.
Why, he had practically begged Sen Leo for his first assignment. But perhaps Saedrans were different here in Uraba, surrounded
by an altogether different culture.

Seeing Sherufa in the street, groups of children ran toward her, calling out together in a good-natured harmony, asking for
sweets. Aldo didn’t know what to do, but the children were uninterested in him. From pockets hidden in the folds in her skirt,
Sherufa brought out wrapped candies and tossed them into the air with flickering birdlike movements. The children jumped and
scrambled to catch them. She beamed contentedly.

Aldo’s people kept a culture unto themselves, and the Saedrans in Uraba were as insular as they were everywhere else. Here,
they lived in the shadow of Urecari churches rather than Aidenist kirks, but their situation was similar. It was true—as the
soldan-shah had declared—that Saedrans had neither Aidenist nor Urecari sympathies. The goal of all trained Saedran scholars
was to complete the Mappa Mundi. By fulfilling that destiny, his people would be allowed to return to their sunken homeland
that had vanished long ago.

They reached the door of a small stuccoed house with a tile roof, her residence. On her stoop, someone had left a basket of
bread and three fresh eggs tucked into a folded cloth. She picked up the food without wonder or surprise and opened the door
to her home, stepping aside so Aldo could enter first, as an honored guest. He had nothing of his own.