The Edge of the World (47 page)

The court doctors bathed her with sweet-smelling liquids and burned herbs and incense, to no effect. Though King Korastine
was a devout Aidenist, he begged Sen Leo na-Hadra to send the best Saedran apothecaries and physicians, and the scholar did
so. After seeing Ilrida, the men were not baffled by her condition, but neither could they help. “We have seen this malady
before, Majesty,” the somber physicians said to the king. “The muscles spasm, the jaws lock, the fever increases.”

“Give her your best medicines,” Korastine pleaded. “Give her anything. Cure her.”

The four Saedrans were reluctant to pronounce their assessment, but one of them summoned the courage and shook his head. “There
is no cure, Majesty. Sometimes the patients recover—we don’t know why. A few of them find the strength.”

“My wife is strong,” Korastine insisted.

The apothecaries gave Ilrida powders to send her into deep sleep, but still her condition worsened. Seeing her father mad
with fear and grief, Anjine led the Saedrans out to the private corridor as the prester-marshall engaged in another round
of prayers. She faced them, demanding to know the truth. “How long does she have? How much hope is there?”

The Saedrans regarded one another soberly, then turned to her with large, weary eyes, and she
knew
. “This type of sickness is very often fatal, and always tragic, Princess.”

Anjine had dreaded to hear it, but she thanked them and went back in to stay at her father’s side. Grief-stricken, Korastine
bowed his head with a greater sadness and despair than more than ten years of war had been able to inflict upon him.

Tomas called and called for his mother, but the servants kept him out of the sickroom. Finally, however, Anjine relented and
brought the boy to Ilrida. She didn’t want him to see his mother like this, but—facing the truth in a way that her father
seemed incapable of doing—Anjine knew the boy would want to say goodbye. And Ilrida, wherever her delirious mind might be
now, would be comforted to have Tomas at her side.

The boy ran to his mother, shocked at what he saw, not understanding at all. Anjine tried to hold the tears back, clamped
her lips shut, and stood trembling, but they flowed freely down her face after all.

Korastine leaned over the bed to embrace Ilrida’s spasming shoulders, sensing that she had only moments left. He refused to
let go, holding her against him as she died in his arms.

The
Dolphin’s Wake
limped back to Calay Harbor, storm battered, its sails threadbare, its hull planks badly in need of caulking. The people
who watched maritime traffic come and go in the Merchants’ District greeted the ship’s return with cheers of surprise and
calls of disbelief. Runners bolted up and down the docks and into the district, calling out the news that the
Dolphin’s Wake
had returned. The trading ship had been gone for well over a year and was presumed lost at sea.

Aldo na-Curic often lingered in the district to look at the exotic wares on newly arrived ships, reminding himself of the
amazing things he had seen. He watched the
Dolphin’s Wake
pull up and was one of the first to call out her name. As a chartsman, he had sold his services to Captain Osmuc three times
over the years, but those had been normal trading voyages, nothing as extensive as the apparent ordeal the ship had suffered.

Ropes were thrown and planks laid across to the dock; people streamed aboard the battered ship, greeting the weary yet happy
crew. The gaunt men’s clothing was ragged, but nothing could erase the delight on their faces.

The man they called captain was Francosi, who had been first mate when the ship sailed. “Captain Osmuc died two months into
the voyage,” Francosi explained. “Not the way I expected to be promoted… but that was a year ago.”

“You got the crew home,” Aldo said, pushing his way forward. “That’s what a real captain does.”

The former first mate recognized him. “It’s our Saedran chartsman! By Aiden’s Compass, I would have loved for you to be aboard
with us. We’ve desperately needed your services.”

Aldo would rather have been out on an amazing voyage than home in the Saedran District, whiling away the days. “What happened
to your own chartsman?” He searched his memory. “Sen Lioran, correct?”

“Now, that’s a long tale,” Francosi said, raising his voice, “and I’m sure these fine gentlemen will be treating me and my
crew to pints of ale at the taverns so they can hear it again and again.” Many of the listeners cheered and offered to buy
the first pints. The last members of the crew staggered out onto the docks, searching for loved ones, looking so thin and
frail that a gust might blow them over. “But you, my chartsman friend—come aboard the
Dolphin’s Wake
. I have something for you and you alone.”

Curious, Aldo walked up the plank to the deck. Many people bustled around him, but the captain would speak only with Aldo.
“We set course for far Lahjar, the most distant city in the known world.” Aldo’s eyes sparkled. Few reports had been written
of that mysterious, exotic city on the southern edge of Uraba, below which the silty, shallow waters grew so hot that they
boiled each day at noon. “Sen Lioran guided us. We arced far out to the west, in open waters, heading into unknown territory,
but our chartsman knew of certain currents.”

In prior times of uneasy but unrestricted trade, Tierran ships would work their way down the coast from Khenara, to Tenér,
to Ouroussa, and finally to Lahjar. Sen Lioran had taken a different, more efficient route.

“We caught a brisk southerly flowing stream that brought us around and swept us back toward Lahjar before we sailed off the
edge of the world. It was about then that a rogue wave unexpectedly swept Captain Osmuc off of the bow and to his death. Nothing
we could do.” He shrugged. It had been a long time ago for him.

One week later, the
Dolphin’s Wake
had reached the distant city. The natives had marveled at their pale skin and light brown hair, and promptly bought all the
exotic items from the five reaches, exchanging them for items that would be just as valuable back in Tierra.

“We headed back for home with our cargo hold full. As we sailed far out to open sea to catch a northerly current that Sen
Lioran insisted was there, the men hauled up a sea turtle in their nets. And on its shell, they found strange etched drawings,
lines cut deeply into the hard plate. When Sen Lioran saw the drawings, he grew very excited. He said this was one of the
most important discoveries of our time. Our men were more interested in eating meat other than fish for a change, but I let
Lioran keep the shell.”

Francosi led Aldo into a small cabin with many obvious Saedran trappings, where he removed a bundle wrapped in old scraps
of sailcloth and handed it to a curious Aldo. “Before long, though, our chartsman had far more important concerns—powerful
abdominal pains in his right side. He developed a fever, he began to vomit, and his condition grew worse.”

“Sounds like his appendix,” Aldo said. “A burst appendix.”

“Yes, and he died. But before he became delirious at the end, Sen Lioran made me swear—made me take the fishhook in my hands
and
swear
—that if I made it home, I would find a Saedran chartsman and present the turtle shell to him.” He tapped the package.

Aldo pulled away the sailcloth wrappings to reveal the old hemispherical shell, turned it over to see the play of curved lines,
the drawing of continents and islands.
The world
.

Recalling all too clearly the fake chart that Yal Dolicar had sold him, Aldo approached the object with skepticism. This,
however, was different. Sen Lioran, an accomplished chartsman, obviously believed in its veracity, and now in his mind, Aldo
matched up the lines of reefs, the known shoals, the convoluted outlines of distant islands, places that no one but a Saedran
was likely to know. He held the map against his chest, barely able to contain his excitement. The map was real.

Smiling, the captain said, “Before he died, Sen Lioran also told me that I should ride the northerly current for eleven more
days, and then strike due east. We eventually found the coast again, though we were still below the Edict Line, and Urecari
vessels pursued us. Fortunately, we escaped them in a fog bank and kept working our way northward. Now we’re home.

“The map is yours. If nothing else, it’s what I owe your people.”

“Sen Lioran was right,” Aldo said. “This may be the most important discovery of our time.”

Prester Hannes made his way to Inner Wahilir and the city of Sioara, the gateway to Ishalem and his way back to Tierra. Though
weary, he was pleased with what he had accomplished in his years of doing Ondun’s work. Now, however, he was eager to report
to Prester-Marshall Baine all the progress he had made.
Improving the world, by the grace of Ondun.

The soldanates of Inner and Outer Wahilir were ruled by cousins, Soldan Huttan and Soldan Attar. Though their lands split
the isthmus in half, east and west, and thriving commerce passed between them, Hannes had learned that the cousins hated each
other. Both men, apparently, had been in love with the same woman and tried to woo her, but she had died before she could
choose between them; the cousins accused each other of poisoning her rather than let the other soldan win.

On the main caravan road from the Middlesea shore to the Oceansea coast, a line of guards stopped all travelers at the border,
requiring them to transfer their goods to a second caravan that would lead them across the adjacent soldanate for a substantial
fee. No caravan from Inner Wahilir was allowed to pass through Outer Wahilir, and vice versa. In recent years the soldan-shah
had stationed his own troops at the crossing point to prevent a civil war from breaking out.

Prester Hannes did not want to be seen, inspected, and questioned by Uraban border guards. So he found another way.

Weary and footsore, looking like any other traveler who wanted to avoid paying the high toll, Hannes protected the handful
of coins he had hoarded. On the outskirts of Sioara near the wide main road that led up into the Wahilir foothills, he lurked
about until he spotted five men who looked like a group of thieves planning a large and risky job. Their intentions were obvious;
they all needed an illicit guide. Just as he did.

Before long, a solicitous man was drawn to like-minded fellows as iron is pulled toward a lodestone. “I know a secret trail,”
the guide offered with a smile. “I can find invisible paths, dense trees, sheltered canyons—and a pass known only to me. I
will lead you across to the Oceansea.”

“That’s all we need,” said one of the gruff men.

“Oh, you’ll need more than that, but it is all I can give you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Provided you can pay.”

“How much?” someone asked.

“Ten
cuars,
” the guide replied with a straight face.

“For the group?”

“Apiece.”

While the others groaned and complained, Hannes stayed silent, standing apart from these men. He drew out his coins. It would
cost most of what he had in his purse, but he didn’t care. He could always obtain more. “I will go.”

The guide chuckled derisively at the hesitant men. “If a beggar can afford it, then you men can! Or maybe you don’t want to
go badly enough?”

“I’ll go, even if I am the only one,” Hannes insisted, hoping the others would indeed go along, though he did not relish the
idea of close company. However, if he were alone with the guide, a servant of Urec, the man might lead him into the wilderness,
murder him, and take the rest of his coins. Hannes could not make his own way through the mountains, and he didn’t dare get
caught by the soldan’s guards. Stories of the “shadowman’s” deeds had spread throughout Uraba for years.

Despite their complaints, each of the five men agreed to the price. Smiling, he told them where to meet at dusk, when they
would set off into the Inner Wahilir foothills. The guide’s name was Yal Dolicar.

When it was Cliaparia’s evening to dine with Omra, she guarded her time jealously, always searching for some way to engage
her husband’s attention.

Not only did the soldan-shah continue to pine for his first wife, who had been dead for more than a decade, but Omra lavished
time and attention on his other wife, a former slave girl and a
Tierran
at that! He doted on the woman’s son more than he paid attention to Cliaparia’s daughter,
his
own daughter, who was of noble blood.
Uraban
blood.

When Cliaparia was alone—which was too often—she sometimes stood before a looking glass, trying to imagine how Omra could
find fault with her, which part of her beauty was not flawless. Oh, he cared for her as a husband should, according to the
ancient rule that Fashia had laid down when she granted Urec leave to take other wives: A husband must care for them equally.

But there was no law that he must
love
them equally.

She had tried virtually everything over the years, but she still hadn’t given the soldan-shah a son. Neither had Istar, thankfully.

Cliaparia made herself beautiful for the evening; three hand-maidens fixed her hair, applied her makeup, added her jewelry.
The burning incense would ignite desire in a man, according to her sikara friend Fyiri, who had access to the chemicals, perfumes,
and drugs that the church considered effective. After the disastrous poisoning incident with Villiki and Lukai, however, Cliaparia
had been afraid to try any more potions.

It had been five years since Omra’s marriage to the Tierran slave, and nearly eleven since he had wed Cliaparia. Once again
the nobles and his advisers were urging him to take another wife, to increase the odds of having an heir. Despite numerous
wives, the soldan-shahs in Omra’s line had never been particularly successful in producing offspring. With his three wives,
Imir had fathered two sons and a few daughters, and
his
father had sired only one son and a daughter.