The Map of All Things (14 page)

31
Nunghal Ship

When the Nunghal lookout sighted land, he shouted until he was hoarse. From the starboard rail, Asaddan saw nothing more than a smudge of gray uncertainty on the horizon, another mirage or perhaps a line of storm clouds.

Though the bulky vessel had been moving along at a good clip for days now, their supplies were low, water barrels nearly empty, and tempers short. The seafaring Nunghal-Su were accustomed to long voyages, but only in familiar waters. It had been more than a month since the last known landmark.

Ruad took his place next to Asaddan at the prow, crossing his arms over his sharkskin vest. “Well, we have made it here, friend… wherever
here
might be. This land is not on any of our charts.”

Asaddan still couldn't make out a coastline, but the lookout's enthusiasm and certainty could not be denied. “We can hunt fresh food on land. My stomach longs for the taste of meat again, and I am sick of eating fish. No wonder your clan members are always thin and sallow-looking.”

The shipkhan let out a rude snort. “At least fish don't stink the way your buffalo herds do.”

“That is open to debate.”

After turning the rudder and setting the accordioned sail to make the best possible speed, the Nunghal crew guided the ship toward the mysterious shore. The details of cliffs and coves soon became more apparent, and barely submerged reefs made a milky froth of the water.

Ruad held a spyglass to his eye, examining the coastline. “I see a settlement, maybe even a large city.” He passed the spyglass to Asaddan, who spotted an unlit lighthouse on a spire of rock, as well as whitewashed wooden buoys floating near underwater hazards. He also made out pale buildings crowded close to each other, like stone tents at the largest clan gathering.

As the gray-sailed ship picked its way through the reefs toward the strange city and its harbor, they encountered seven feluccas, shallow-draught boats with a single mast and large sail that extended so far out to the side that the vessel looked sure to overbalance and capsize. Brown-skinned men aboard the anchored feluccas wore only loincloths as they dove over the sides, swimming deep. When they broke the surface, sputtering water and flinging dark hair from their eyes, they reminded Asaddan of otters at play as they waved a friendly greeting at the Nunghal ship.

“Better anchor here before those reefs rip our hull open,” Ruad said. “We'll take the ship's boat to meet with the divers and find out where we are. Asaddan, you'll translate, since you are the only one aboard who speaks the language.”

“If they are indeed Urabans,” Asaddan said.

Concealing swords by the gunwales, he joined the shipkhan and four burly sailors as they rowed over to where the divers trod water alongside their feluccas. Asaddan cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hello! Do you understand me? Do you speak Uraban?” Remembering the traditional blessing, he added, “Do you follow the Map?”

One of the divers shouted back, “Yes, we follow the Map.” The accent was so strong that Asaddan had difficulty comprehending it. “Welcome, strangers!”

One man dove deep and remained submerged for so long that Asaddan feared he would drown. Then, with a surprising splash, he popped up right next to the ship's boat, smiling as he lifted a handheld net to spill rough oysters into their boat. “A gift for you, strangers.” He barely sounded out of breath at all. “I'd wager at least two of these hold milk pearls.”

Ruad nudged Asaddan. “What is he saying?”

“He says these oysters have pearls in them.”

“Now that's a fine start, but find out where we are. Ask them the name of this place.”

Asaddan said, “What is the name of this city? We have had a long voyage. Can you tell us where we are?”

The man found this outrageously funny. “How can you make a journey and not know where you are or where you should be?”

Asaddan sniffed. “Not all journeys have an obvious destination. We are where we are, and we will be wherever we go.”

“Then you've arrived.” The diver laughed. “Welcome to Lahjar.”

32
Calay

Returning from the somber at-sea funeral for King Korastine, Anjine stood beside her brother at the stern of the escort ship. Black smoke from the pyre vessel rose high into the cloudless sky as it continued to burn, drifting far away.

“If he's with my mother now, do you think he's happy?” Tomas asked, sniffling. “I'm not happy that he's gone.” Though he struggled to fulfill his role as the prince of Tierra, he looked incredibly young.

Anjine wondered if her little brother remembered Ilrida's funeral, a similar pyre barge set adrift out on the Oceansea. “Death is not a happy thing, but it happens, even though we almost never expect it.” She forced a wan smile. “At least our father lived long enough to see the launch of the
Dyscovera
.”

Tomas brightened, making a visible effort. “If the ship reaches Terravitae, do you think Captain Vora will find Father there waiting?”

Though Anjine didn't believe it, she wouldn't dash her brother's hope. “There's no telling what the
Dyscovera
might find, or what miracles Holy Joron could perform.”

Up at the bow, in his finest military uniform, Mateo stood proudly with the heads of the city guard and the royal guard, along with a solemn contingent of soldiers, all of whom had come to see the dead king on his final voyage. Mateo's hair blew in the salty breeze, and his face was pale.

He had loved King Korastine greatly, and Anjine knew that to a certain degree, Mateo felt the loss as keenly as she did. He was like a brother to her, a son to Korastine, but he was also well trained as a soldier, and he performed his duty to perfection now. Anjine looked longingly at her friend, standing so far away, but since the loss of the king he had increased his distance from her, treating her more formally. Perhaps that was for the best. She had to turn her attention to the kingdom's other leaders and advisers.

All of the destrars attended the funeral aboard the escort vessel: Broeck from Iboria, Tavishel from Soeland, Shenro from Alamont, Siescu from Corag, and Unsul from Erietta; even Sazar, the leader of the rivermen—who considered himself a destrar, in duties if not in title—had come. Now that she considered Unsul more closely, she saw that the destrar was indeed the man her father had described—quiet and intelligent, with weak eyesight and a gracious personality. No wonder Korastine had suggested the man's son as a worthy marriage prospect.

Of all the destrars, Broeck was as close to a friend as Anjine had. Tomas's grandfather said to her, “You are queen now, Anjine. While we're here in Calay, you should call a council of the destrars to discuss the matters that lie before us. Siescu and I must finalize our plans for crossing the mountains to invade the Gremurr mines, and we may need laborers from the Alamont labor camps to build the road.”

Anjine's voice was hard. “The destrars will cooperate. Not a one of them has any love for the Urecari.”

“Yes, my Queen.” Broeck nodded his shaggy head and stepped back respectfully to give her and the boy a moment of privacy.

My Queen
. The words suddenly struck Anjine, and she had to grip the rail and close her eyes to stop herself from sobbing out loud. Responsibility and
fear
welled up inside her.
Queen
.

For the past several years, she had served as Tierra's ruler in many capacities, writing proclamations that her father then signed. Throughout her life, Korastine had taught her how to wear the crown, but now that he was gone, she felt the gulf of knowledge she did not possess. It had never been so apparent to her before, and there were so many questions she'd never thought to ask.

As the deck swayed in a gentle swell, she reached out, wrapped her arm around Tomas, and squeezed him tightly. Her brother trembled, grappling with his emotions; he tried to be brave, tried not to show his grief—but failed.

The ship passed the comforting guardians of the two lighthouses at the harbor mouth, and Anjine looked back out to sea. Most of the smoke had been borne away on the winds, as the blazing pyre ship dropped below the horizon.

Anjine thought of the nights she had left her father alone to read his books, to dream of what lay out there unexplored. Korastine must have been so lonely. How she wished that she'd spent more time with him talking about important things—political decisions, family connections, trade and taxes… even unimportant conversations about the weather, or which flowers to plant in the castle courtyard. Everything, anything.

Had her father lived another thirty years, she would still be wishing for more time with him. There would always be things they should have said to each other. But Anjine was queen now. She had to be strong.

Turning away, she walked to the prow to stand silently next to Mateo during the ship's entry into the harbor. He stayed close, saying nothing, but they shared a deep and silent grief. They didn't need to speak the words aloud. If so many others hadn't been there watching, she would have clasped Mateo's hand, just for the closeness. Instead, the two remained formal, a guard and a princess. No, a queen.

She looked toward Calay, her city, her kingdom. King Korastine's spirit may have found his way to Terravitae, but she still had a land to rule.

The city of Calay observed a period of mourning for seven days after the funeral, but Anjine could not allow herself such a personal luxury. Broeck had made a good suggestion, and she used the opportunity to call all five destrars for an important strategy meeting inside the castle.

Prester-Marshall Rudio joined them at the long pine table, along with newly promoted Comdar Rief and the subcomdars of the army and navy, as well as Sen Leo na-Hadra. Mateo, though, had departed immediately after the funeral, riding out to the military camps.

After the prester-marshall delivered his invocation for the meeting, Anjine spread out the mountain maps of Corag Reach, which showed the potential route down to the Middlesea shores. Though little had actually changed in the way she conducted a meeting, Anjine felt strange, too aware that this was her first session as the queen of Tierra, instead of just a surrogate for her father. It made a difference that her father was not at her side. Anjine would have to fill the void with her own advisers; she would have to make her own decisions.

She did not try to color her words or soften the pain of their recent setbacks. “We failed to capture Ishalem. That loss wounded us deeply, and we must learn from it. Our first and highest priority is to seize the Gremurr mines from the Urecari. The enemy believes the Corag mountains to be impassable. They aren't aware that we know the mines exist, even though they are in our territory.”

These men had all heard Broeck's plan to cross the mountains and attack Gremurr from the rear. His nephew Iaros sat beside him, his large mustache bristling. The young man held his silence with difficulty; he fidgeted, eyes bright, as he listened.

Pale and gaunt Destrar Siescu of Corag pounded a fist on the table. His translucent skin showed the faint purplish lines of blood vessels. “The mines must be
ours
.”

Destrar Shenro seemed particularly incensed. “And think of all those poor Aidenist slaves they keep in pens, like animals.”

The Corag destrar looked at the drawings of his mountains, nodding and mumbling to himself. Though it was a warm spring day, Siescu wrapped himself in furs, even inside the castle chamber. “My scout confirms the route, and I dispatched him with some of our mining engineers to assess the challenge. Given sufficient workers and equipment, we could hack out a path to get our army through the tightest places.”

“It will need to be a wide road for the beasts,” Broeck said.

“We will make it as wide as need be, but we'll require more slaves.” Siescu looked around meaningfully.

“I will contribute as many as you like,” Destrar Shenro said. “I recently lost four hundred of them, but I still have far more Curlies than I need.”

Contemplative, Destrar Unsul said, “It's not simply a question of
having
the slaves, but of feeding, clothing, and guarding them. We're sure to lose some during the labor in the mountains. We will need replacements.”

Destrar Tavishel stroked his square-cut beard; perspiration glistened from his shaved head. Unlike the Corag destrar, the leader of the windy island reach seemed overheated in the chamber. “My ships will increase their raids and bring as many captives as you need. If we venture far enough south, the followers of Urec are there for the taking.”

At the head of the table, Anjine remained stern and strong. “When we strike Gremurr, the Urecari cannot know we are coming. Our greatest challenge is a practical one—how to get a large army, with all of our weapons, mounts, and armor, over the mountain passes and carry out a massive attack, while maintaining complete secrecy?”

“Raga Var will lead you,” Siescu promised with a predatory smile.

“We can do it,” said Shenro, “provided we find a way to flush out the infiltrators in our military.”

Anjine answered with a smile that showed confidence, but no warmth. “We have a way,” she said, thinking of Mateo's plan. “We will find them and purge them from our army.”

33
Military Camp, Alamont Reach

As night settled over the training camp near Bora's Bastion, comforting fires burned brightly; off-duty soldier-recruits sat around the blazes, telling stories of their home reaches. Mess tents served generous portions of porridge, bread, and cheese—the bounty of Alamont. The first-year recruits were exhausted from vigorous practice sessions, while the more hardened ones enjoyed the quiet time with their comrades. In recent months, however, the campfire groups had grown smaller, the cliques tighter, as suspicions spread like rot through their ranks.

Mateo felt the dark mood, like jagged cracks in a pane of windowglass. An army whose soldiers mistrusted their comrades was already defeated….

After the former
ra'vir
Tira had explained the suffering the Teacher inflicted on captive Tierran children—pummeling them, torturing them, and forging the ones he didn't murder into fanatical tools of assassination and sabotage—Mateo had a much better idea what drove those traitors. He even felt a hint of sympathy for them. It wasn't their fault that the evil Curlies had turned them all into venomous snakes that slithered back into the Aidenist fold.

But he also recalled what they had done to the Tierran military commanders at the Ishalem wall, how they had burned the Arkship, how they fostered a general fog of anger and suspicion among the entire Tierran populace—and his sympathy faded. They had to be found and stopped.

During the past few weeks, he had kept the
ra'vir
girl's revelation secret from all but Anjine and a select few of his commanders, letting everyone else imagine his romantic or paternal connections to her. Only his most trusted men were aware of the scheme the girl had suggested. He was confident. He knew there were more
ra'virs
in his army. Having confessed and helped Mateo, Tira felt frightened for her life.

Inside his command tent now, he sat in a canvas chair behind the field table. Whale-oil lamps shed a glow as bright and welcoming as any fire; having grown up in Calay, Mateo didn't mind the fishy smell the oil exuded. Placing his elbows on the hard planks of the table, he regarded the young recruit who sat across from him. Mateo kept a firm sense of authority about him, and the trainee viewed him with respect.

This young man, Rickar Fenn, came from one of the smaller islands in Soeland Reach. Having heard gruff Destrar Tavishel's accounts of battles at sea, Fenn was anxious to fight the Curlies. At the end of his training, he hoped to be assigned to one of the Soeland patrol ships; in the meantime, though, the young man had to learn how to fight alongside the rest of the Tierran army, wherever the battles might take him.

When Mateo called him into the command tent, Rickar Fenn was nervous, but he relaxed as their conversation continued. The young man finished the proffered cup of wine. “I swear to help you root out the evil followers of Urec, sir, wherever they may be.”

“That's what I am personally asking every soldier.” Mateo took the smallest sip from his own goblet; he had already spoken to eleven young men so far, and he had many more meetings scheduled before he could retire for the night. He couldn't drink too much. “I'm glad we've had this chance to get to know each other. Dismissed. Now, would you please send in…” He paused to look down at his list of names. “Dawson Orin, from Erietta.”

“Yes, sir.” The trainee hopped to his feet and pushed the tent flap aside. On his way out, Fenn walked with a jaunty stride; if nothing else, the recruit's enthusiasm would boost morale in the training camp.

Mateo set the bottle of wine on the side of the table, turned the label out of view, and set an empty goblet next to it. Within moments, the next young man poked his head inside. He had shaggy brown hair and a thin face. “Excuse me, Subcomdar? Dawson Orin, reporting as you requested.”

“Come in. I'm trying to meet as many of my troops here in Alamont as I possibly can. We'll all depend upon each other in days to come.”

Self-consciously, Dawson ran his fingers through his hair and brushed the front of his uniform tunic. He took the indicated seat across from the field table as Mateo studied his ledger book. “So, you come from Erietta Reach, near Peliton?”

“Nearer the coast than the river, sir. There aren't many towns worth the name, so I had to put something on my recruitment papers. I was eager to join the army, of course.”

“Of course. Would you care for a glass of wine? I want this to be an informal conversation.”

The young man's eyes lit up and he nodded, amazed by his good fortune. “Yes, sir, I'd like that very much.”

Mateo handed him the empty goblet. “This is your second year in the army, is it not? Or your third?”

“Second, sir. I was first assigned to Corag Reach, and then Alamont. Next year, I'll be home in Erietta.”

Before pouring, Mateo casually turned the wine bottle so Dawson could see the label. He topped off his own glass, inspected the bottle, and smiled. “This wine was confiscated from a Uraban ship in our waters. Tavishel took the whole crew prisoner, appropriated their cargo. It's what the Curly merchants deserve, if they try to trade above the Edict Line.” Mateo shook his head. “I just opened the bottle this evening. The wine is quite good, though I have no idea where it's from.”

He extended the bottle to pour for Dawson, but the young man's eyes were fixed on the incomprehensible Uraban lettering. He raised his hand abruptly. “On second thought, sir, maybe I shouldn't. I'm exhausted after a long day of training.”

“Come now, how often do you get a chance to talk with your commander like this, and enjoy the spoils of Uraba?” Mateo poured wine into the goblet. “Drink up.”

In numerous camps across Tierra, his loyal field commanders were doing the same thing, meeting with their troops, having similar conversations.

The young man stared. “I'm afraid I can't, sir, I… I've decided not to have any drink until I've completed my prayer cycle for the holidays.”

“Only a moment ago, you were glad to share a cup with me.”

“My apologies, sir. I-I appreciate your generosity.”

“Of course you do.” Mateo whistled sharply, and the quietly waiting soldiers—all survivors of the Ishalem battle—burst in through the back flap in the tent. “Arrest him. He has already condemned himself in my eyes.”

Dawson sprang to his feet. “I don't understand!” He thrashed his arms as the soldiers grabbed him. “What is this, sir? I'm a loyal recruit, I—”

“No one else here can understand Uraban scribblings, but you recognized that this mark here”—Mateo tapped his fingertip against the brown glass—“denotes ‘slow poison.'”

Out of the twelve recruits Mateo had interviewed so far, only Dawson Orin had reacted to the writing on the bottle, believing the confiscated wine to be deadly. Yes, Tira had been right….

As the guards pulled the young man toward the tent's rear flap, so that other camp members could not see him, Dawson spat a stream of incomprehensible words, Uraban curses, which were cut off as soon as the men wrestled a gag into his mouth.

“We've caught a spy.” Mateo sighed, but he did not feel triumphant. “And now, alas, our army is also decreased by one.”