The Map of All Things (5 page)

7
Southern Ocean, Position Unknown

The tall masts and weathered deckboards creaked as the Nunghal ship swayed in gentle swells. The gray sailcloth sighed and strained as the easterly breeze pushed them along, forcing the helmsman to shift his tack to keep them angling northward. The waves of the open sea rocked the vessel from side to side, rolled it up and down.

Up and down.

Side to side.

Up and down.

Endlessly.

Amidships, gripping the rail with his powerful hands and bunching his arm muscles, Asaddan struggled not to be sick—again. He longed for solid ground that did not lurch and sway under his boots. In the month since their departure from the clan gathering, he had spent more time retching than sleeping.

With a good-natured chuckle, the wiry shipkhan of the vessel, Ruad, came up behind him; he wore no shirt beneath his sharkskin vest. “Cousin, you'll miss the scenery if you spend all your days heaving. We're in waters no man has ever seen.”

“The water looks the same to me.” Asaddan whistled his sibilants through the gap of his missing front tooth; he groaned as his stomach lurched again.

“That's the way I feel about your grassy plains.” Amused, Ruad spread his arms expansively. “It's not even a rough sea.”

“If it was a bad storm, I'd be distracted enough to keep my guts inside me.” Asaddan stared at the endless ripples of water, the shattered yellow reflection of the sun. He fought down another wave of nausea.

With uncharacteristic sympathy, Ruad lowered his voice. “It's just teasing, cousin—my little revenge for how your clans pestered me mercilessly for
my
clumsiness in riding horses, herding buffalo, and tracking game.” The shipkhan drew a deep breath of the salty air. “Ah, I am glad to be back on deck again, where I belong!”

As punishment for wrecking his ship in a storm, which had cost the lives of most of his crew, Ruad had spent a year exiled from the sea among the nomadic Nunghal-Ari. Now he was a joke among his fellow seafaring Nunghals, but he hoped to regain his clan's respect. “We'll go to those fantastic places on the other side of the Great Desert.
If
the oceans take us there.”

“They will… but it's the long way around,” Asaddan said. “You've looked at the maps. There can be no other answer.”

After being lost in the sandy wasteland beyond the Nunghal grazing lands, Asaddan had stumbled upon Uraba, a land no Nunghal had ever seen. He had met the soldan-shah, become a sensation at the Olabar court, and eventually convinced his new friends to lead an expedition across the Great Desert. Since that time, Asaddan had made three additional journeys by sand coracle to visit his friends in Uraba.

After hearing Sen Sherufa's theory that a well-provisioned ship could reach Uraba by way of the southern ocean, Asaddan had proposed a scheme. The captain was still considered a great embarrassment to his clan, but if they could complete such a spectacular journey and discover a new route, Ruad's name would be written in gold leaf in all the Nunghal logbooks.

So at the end of the recent clan gathering, Ruad, Asaddan, and a hardy volunteer crew set forth in search of a new route to Uraba. Unaccustomed to long sailing voyages, Asaddan began puking his guts out within the first day. He had never felt so pitiful, not even during his crossing of the Great Desert on foot. Determined to pull his weight as a crewman aboard the Nunghal ship, he had intended to scrub decks, haul nets, even scramble up a swaying cable ladder. Surrounded by the dizzying openness of the deep sea, he prayed to his gods that they would soon reach the distant Uraban city of Lahjar.

Now the wrenching knot in his stomach tightened, and he vomited over the rail. He coughed and spat the foul taste out of his mouth. Though Ruad tried to restrain himself, he couldn't help laughing.

As Asaddan watched the greenish-pink stain disperse, he noticed a metallic glimmer beneath the waves, a sheen of silver scales that went on and on, then disappeared again. His queasiness forgotten, he shouted, “Ruad, look there!”

Off to the port side of the ship, a large serpent rose from the sea. Water sheeted from its armored hide, and a beard of long spines and seaweed hung from its jaws and chin. Dark blue scalloped fins undulated along its fluidly bent neck.

Ruad did not look at all afraid. “Ha, there's something to keep you distracted, cousin! Silver and blue—never seen one like that before. Must be these northerly waters.”

The creature's hinged jaw dropped open, displaying long teeth that could rip a hole in the hide of the largest whale. The serpent emitted a mournful hoot, then a deeper roar; a plume of silvery steam blasted from its blowhole.

“Will it attack?”

“Depends on its mood.” Ruad whistled, and the men on deck rushed to their stations. “Load the port cannons!”

Wiry Nunghals pulled on ropes and opened a pair of gunports in the hull. Crewmen scrambled down the deck ladders and raced to take up positions behind two bronze cylinders that were loaded with firepowder, tamping material, and projectiles.

Asaddan backed away from the rail, wishing he had a longbow, spear, or harpoon. “Looks like it's going to charge.”

“That it does. Light torches and fire those cannons!”

The creature hurled itself forward with a speed that reminded Asaddan of a spotted plains viper slithering off of a hot rock.

The Nunghal crewmen touched their torches to the fuses, and two explosions rocked the ship, sending a shudder like thunder through the decks. One of the heavy balls missed the target, and a splashing plume of water appeared far behind the serpent. The other projectile struck home.

The silvery monster snapped in half like a felled tree, its neck severed just below its bearded jaw. With a series of splattering noises, shredded flesh and scales rained down on the water, some striking close to the ship. The serpent's lifeless head, mouth agape but no longer threatening, floated for a moment then capsized. Slowly, the rest of the silver-scaled creature rose to the surface.

Ruad placed his hands on his narrow hips and studied the chunks of meat floating around the hull. “Leave it for the sharks. I've never been fond of sea-monster meat.” Asaddan continued to stare, but the shipkhan clapped him on the back once more. “Shall we keep sailing northward? It can't be far now.”

Asaddan realized to his surprise that he no longer felt seasick.

8
At the Edge of the Great Desert, Missinia Soldanate

In five years, the settlement at the edge of Missinia's sandy wasteland had grown from a camp to an actual village. Most of the workers still slept in tents, but a permanent administrative dwelling now housed Soldan Xivir and his son Burilo. Deep wells had been dug to provide water for the crews working on the sand coracles, for the merchants and adventurers who flew them, and for the suppliers who brought Uraban goods to be sold at outrageous prices to Nunghal clans on the other side of the Great Desert.

Imposing taxes and tariffs on any goods carried aboard the sand coracles, Soldan Xivir had transformed a rough camp into a civilized town with necessary services, and the road from Desert Harbor to Arikara was well traveled. He was quite proud of his operation.

Once each year, at the seasonal turning of the prevailing winds, intrepid explorers inflated silken balloon sacks fastened to wicker coracles and flew them across the sea of sand. The previous year, nine such vessels had braved the crossing; this year, twelve had launched.

Even priestesses had made the passage, hoping to spread the word of Urec. The Nunghal nomads had listened politely, but showed no desire to change their own beliefs, much to the sikaras' consternation. The Nunghal khan Jikaris had asked a frustrated priestess to become one of his wives. Pragmatic, she had agreed to be his lover on the condition that he convert to the Urecari faith, but Jikaris responded that while the offer was tempting, he didn't find her quite
that
attractive. He preferred his own rough, open churches and his own version of tales of the sailor Sons of God and unexplored lands.

In the past four years, eight Uraban sand coracles had been lost during the hazardous crossing. In one terrifying incident, the wicker basket of a loaded coracle had caught fire from the brazier that kept the silken balloons inflated. As flames engulfed the basket, some men had thrown themselves overboard to their deaths; others climbed up the ropes, clinging to the balloon sack, where they were roasted alive. The burning sand coracle had crashed onto the dunes like an angry meteor.

However, because of the potential for riches and adventure, many merchants still braved the crossing. Each year, the colorful vessels departed from Desert Harbor like a fleet of sailing ships. Six months later, the winds would reverse and blow the sand coracles home. The camp town swelled again with eager caravan leaders and representatives of merchant families ready to receive the unusual Nunghal merchandise.

Any day now, the first sand coracles were expected to come back.

Since the flatlands offered no high points for lookouts, Soldan Xivir had erected a tall wooden tower at the edge of Desert Harbor. All day long, anxious observers stood on the upper platform, scanning the skies with spyglasses, alert to glimpse the first colorful balloon.

Just after noon, a spotter shouted out, “Two coracles! Red and orange balloons!”

Men rushed out of tents, and three eager caravan leaders scrambled up the wooden steps to crowd the observation platform. Soldan Xivir marched out of his headquarters building and turned to the portmaster. “Go, look in your records to see who owns the red and orange coracles.”

The small-statured man did not even need to check. “Why, my Lord, the orange vessel carries the former soldan-shah himself. The red balloon belongs to the Gahari family.”

The soldan of Missinia felt a wave of relief to know that Imir—his brother-in-law—would soon be returning. He shaded his eyes, looking up. “Prepare a traditional reception feast, and you'd better make it an extravagant one.”

Drifting along with painstaking slowness, the airborne vessels took two more hours to arrive at Desert Harbor. Gentle breezes delivered the orange balloon well in advance of the second coracle. High above, the figures in the wicker basket doused the central brazier and let the silk balloon sack deflate. As the coracle descended, the men threw coils of rope down to ground workers who had pounded stakes into the patchy grass.

When the basket was anchored, former soldan-shah Imir swung himself over the coracle's side and dropped to the ground, where he swayed unsteadily on knees unaccustomed to solid land. “What a pleasure to be back on Uraban soil again!”

Xivir came forward to embrace him, sending up a flurry of brown dust and grit from the other man's dirty traveling clothes. “Welcome home.”

“Please tell me you have a bath and food—most importantly a bath.”

Burilo came up to shake his uncle's hand. “We have already drawn water from the wells, my Lord. Cauldrons are heating it over a fire.” Xivir's son was Omra's age—the two had been boys together—and Burilo had already proven himself to be a good administrator, a wise man, and a fitting soldan-in-training to rule Missinia.

The three men walked toward the bath tent. “Was your journey successful?” Xivir asked.

“Oh, yes.” The older man's eyes sparkled. “More than I had hoped, more than you can imagine.”

When the second coracle drifted in half an hour later, caravan leaders and representatives of the Gahari merchant family swarmed forward with slate boards to tally the goods. Curious camp workers unloaded the cargo, while traders squabbled over the division of the profits.

Imir had made the desert trek three out of the past five years, and by now he had grown quite fond of the nomadic people; he knew their culture, their customs, and had even learned to speak passable Nunghal (though Khan Jikaris teased him for his silly accent).

Given the freedom to travel, and relieved of political responsibilities, the former soldan-shah felt more content now than when he'd ruled all of Uraba. He did not miss the press of advisers and emissaries with their accompanying rivalries, nor the tragedy of scheming wives and assassination attempts. His only disappointment on these trips was that Sen Sherufa na-Oa did not accompany him. The Saedran scholar would have been a great companion during his explorations—not only because she spoke the native language far better than he, but also because Imir was quite fond of her company. However, while she encouraged him to bring back any information about the unknown southern half of the continent, Sherufa didn't personally enjoy the rigors of traveling.

Nevertheless, Imir clung to hope….

Entering the shade of the bath tent, he gulped down a flask of cool well water, then savored a cup of good Missinian wine. Burilo directed servants to pour buckets of heated water into a wooden tub, while a young woman added aromatic herbs and oils.

With a groan and a sigh, Imir shucked his filthy travel clothes, let them fall to the ground, and nudged them away with his toe. “No need to wash the garments—just burn them.” He sank into the steaming tub of water with a contented sigh, closed his eyes, and slid his entire head beneath the surface, scrubbing the dirt from his stubbly gray hair and beard. Traditionally, Imir kept himself clean-shaven when in Uraba, but never bothered once he boarded a sand coracle.

He spluttered to the surface again, shaking his head and spraying water from his lips. Burilo and Soldan Xivir pulled up tripod stools with leather seats and waited to hear more of his travels.

Imir's eyes were hard, and his expression had changed from a smile of delight to a predatory grin. “You'll be happy to know that we spotted two bandit camps as we flew over, and I noted their positions.”

Burilo looked eager. “We will raid them and crush them, as we've done before. They've been a thorn in our sides for far too many years. In fact, the bandits harassed Desert Harbor only a week ago, but we drove them off.”

Soldan Xivir shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “We interrogated one of the captives. Before he died, he told us the name of their new leader: Norgo. Each time we kill one, another springs up. More severed heads for my growing collection back in Arikara, I suppose.” He placed his hands on one knee. “But enough of that. You said that your mission was more successful than you had dreamed. What did you mean by that?”

Imir enjoyed the relaxation of the warm water, though he was anxious to join the first caravan back to Olabar, given his vital news for Omra. He blew air through his lips again. “After years of pleading, I finally convinced Khan Jikaris—well, a great deal of gold convinced him—to give me what I wanted.” He smiled enigmatically. “I have the recipe and process for making
firepowder
. Now we can blast the Aidenists from the face of the world!”