The Map of All Things (7 page)

11
Corag Mountains

On their third day in the rugged Corag mountains, Prester Hannes and his companion found a place to make camp as night set in. The two men had climbed through an open cirque, over a stony pass, and down into another hanging valley. The patches of snow in the high meadow were still too thick for spring flowers to penetrate.

The place reminded Hannes very much of where he'd nearly frozen to death.

Drifting ice glazed the beautiful turquoise lakes. Late in the afternoon, Raga Var caught two small fish, which would supplement the snow grouse he had shot with his arrows. Food for another night—and the two men would push onward. Hannes believed they were close to their destination; he would know when he saw it.

After the abrupt sunset, the temperature fell like a descending ax blade. With instinct born of long practice, the scruffy scout found a good spot amid the talus boulders. Without speaking to his companion, Raga Var gathered dead leaves, dry moss, and a few twigs to start their fire.

Hannes unslung his pack and extracted a blanket, spreading it out on the hard rock so he could have a warmer place to sit. The prester had little need for conversation, and the scout had even less. Hannes liked it that way.

Soon their meal was roasting over the low flames. The blaze did little to warm them, but Hannes didn't care; he could endure any amount of discomfort. He finally broke the silence. “How much farther do you think we need to go?”

Raga Var shrugged his bony shoulders beneath the patchwork furs. “Never been this far before. Never seen these crags.” He withdrew the spitted trout and grouse from the flames, poked the blackened skin with his finger, and decided the meat was done enough to eat.

“Can we find our way through to the Middlesea?”

Another shrug. “If such a way exists.”

“It exists.” Hannes had crossed over the mountains after hisescape from the Gremurr mines, though he'd nearly died from frostbite and exposure. The cold had cost him two fingers and three toes. He retrieved the other roasting fish for himself, though Raga Var had not offered it. The men ate in silence, then divided the snow grouse between them.

Absently, Hannes touched the waxy scars on his cheek from the Ishalem fire. He had survived and spent years afterward inthe accursed lands of Uraba. After killing a woman who tainted him with Urecari sacraments, he quietly wrought havoc across the soldanates, before being captured and sent to work in the Gremurr mines. But by the power of Ondun and Aiden, Prester Hannes had escaped through the mountains, wandering lost until at last a quiet hermit named Criston Vora had saved him.

Now, years later, Hannes was determined to rediscover the path he had taken—a route that could lead Tierran crusaders to the Uraban beachhead on the shore of the Middlesea. He had pleaded his case with Prester-Marshall Rudio, who sent him to Corag on his quest. In the cliff city of Stoneholm, Hannes had hired this odd and silent guide who came highly recommended by Destrar Siescu himself.

With the spring thaw and the guidance of Raga Var, Hannes was certain he could find a route for Aidenist armies through the trackless mountains to reach the Middlesea. Such a discovery would change the war forever.

After the small meal, Hannes wrapped himself in his blankets and said his prayers before sleep. Raga Var moved about a while longer, gathering the feathers he had plucked from the snow grouse and keeping them in a pouch; later, he would use the feathers to fletch arrows or insulate his clothes.

Despite the hard rock against which he lay, Hannes slept soundly. A righteous man, untroubled by nightmares, he awoke at sunrise, refreshed. He broke the skin of ice on the pot of drinking water and splashed his face, bracing himself against the frigid slap. Then he drew out a razor-edged dagger and began to shave.

Raga Var watched Hannes with interest. The scrawny scout had a patchy beard that extended from cheekbones to collarbones; his hair was long and matted, his eyebrows thick. “I wouldn't put such a sharp knife so close to my throat. Why do you do that to yourself day after day?”

“For the glory of God.”

“How do you know God wants you to scrape your face?”

“Because I have seen paintings of Aiden. He alone among the brothers was clean-shaven.”

Raga Var frowned. “But how do you know what he looked like? There was no painter aboard Aiden's ship.”

“I do not question my beliefs.”

Finished, Hannes wrapped his blanket and his few belongings in his pack, and the two men set off once more. Since they had eaten all the food the previous night, there was no breakfast, but Raga Var foraged along the way, always keeping his bow ready in case he spotted game.

The scout picked his own path and moved at a good pace. He knew portions of the Corag mountains intimately—the passes, valleys, peaks, and glaciers. On this trip, Prester Hannes had pushed him farther than he had ever explored, and Raga Var seemed eager to learn a new landscape.

Throughout the day, the two men walked in companionable silence, climbing over rocks, switchbacking up steep grassy hillsides into the tundra. The rocks, cliffs, and peaks began to look familiar, but Hannes said nothing, not wanting to get either of their hopes up.

When two black crags loomed before them, the prester felt a powerful sense of déjà vu. The men picked their way through a notch between the peaks, and an expansive view opened up before them, another series of valleys—and beyond that, the wide deep blue of a great body of water: the Middlesea.

The scout scratched his bushy beard and stared. “I have led you where you wanted to go, Prester.”

Hannes clutched the cold black rockface next to him for balance. “You… and Aiden.” He sent a silent prayer of thanks. “I need to see more.”

He didn't rest at the top of the pass but pushed forward with renewed vigor. As they descended the rugged valleys and the Middlesea filled their view, Hannes smelled a stink in the air and recognized a smoky pall rising from the mines and smelters of Gremurr. But he had to be sure.

The two men reached the top of a defile and looked down a canyon carved by rushing seasonal streams. Ahead was the shore, the natural harbor. Shaft openings honeycombed the gray cliffsides, and Hannes could make out the antlike figures of slaves carrying buckets of rock. Out in the water, wide barges rode low, heavily laden with metals and finished weapons.

Filled with hatred, Hannes stared for a long time, then finally nodded at Raga Var. “Now we know the way. I have to return to Calay and make my report to the prester-marshall and the king.”

12
Gremurr Mines

As administrator of the Gremurr mines, Tukar held a position of some power and importance. Nevertheless, he remained an exile from his home in Olabar. He was comfortable enough, yes, but his situation was not so different from that of the workers and soldiers.

The decree of the former soldan-shah, his own father, was clear. Tukar was lucky he hadn't been executed for his mother's treachery.

So he made the best of his circumstances. Though the mines were above the Edict Line on the Middlesea coast, and therefore technically in Tierran territory, this outpost provided vital metals and weapons for the war effort. Since being sent here, Tukar had tried to make amends, prove his loyalty, and make the mines an example for all of the faithful; he owed it to his brother Omra, the soldan-shah of all Uraba.

He had grown accustomed to his eyes burning from the constant haze of black smoke, which even the Middlesea breezes could not sweep away. He no longer noticed the sulfurous stink from the smelters, the soot from the coke ovens, the rock dust that always made his mouth taste gritty. This was his life now, and Gremurr was his home, the place where he had a family. It wasn't so bad.

Even so, Tukar had not forgotten the fresh smells of the Uraban capital city, the perfumes of the palace, or the fine meals he'd once eaten.

Now, Workmaster Zadar led the weekly inspection tour of the slaves and facilities. Bald and stocky, his body a solid lump of muscle, Zadar was hard on the laborers, though not unfair. They would never love him, but they respected him. He fed the workers enough to keep them strong, and maintained harsh conditions to keep them cooperative.

For the past month, the workmaster had been particularly proud of their ambitious new rolling mills designed to manufacture heavy iron sheeting to armor Urecari warships. Inside the factory, Tukar heard the clanging of metal and the shouts of men pouring molten iron from a crucible into molds. In adjacent smithies, captives chained to anvils hammered on swords, while others stood inured to the spray of sparks from grinding wheels. In the oppressive heat, soot-covered Aidenist slaves hauled still-warm sheets of iron and stacked them into piles; their bare skin glistened with sweat.

Tukar nodded in satisfaction. “Good work, Zadar. Those plates will make our warships invincible.”

The workmaster wiped a bare palm across his forehead. “The iron sheets are here, my Lord, but the war galleys are on the Oceansea, on the other side of the isthmus.”

“Caravans can carry them overland from Sioara,” Tukar said.

“As easy as that?” Zadar gestured toward the rolling mill. “It takes two men just to lift a single plate. How many sheets do you think a horse can carry, on a cart, over rough roads? And how many plates are needed to cover the entire hull of a single war galley? And how many warships does our navy possess?”

Tukar struggled with the math, feeling deflated. He had been excited to see the added output with the new rolling mills, but he hadn't bothered to consider the difficulties of transporting the armor plates away from Gremurr. “It's like a game of
xaries
. I was seeing only one move ahead, while you looked farther.”

Zadar brushed aside the compliment. “And the soldan-shah needs to see many more moves beyond that. I don't envy your brother at all.”

Tukar's brow furrowed as he tried to think of a brilliant solution to offer Omra, but Zadar pulled him away from the working area, chuckling. “Come, it's not a problem for you to solve. I merely pointed it out to keep you distracted during today's game.”

Tukar brightened. Their daily match of
xaries
was a highlight for him. Over the past decade, he had become an excellent opponent, seeing strategic nuances on the board that his wicked mother had never taught him. But Villiki's goal had always been to demean him, while Workmaster Zadar wanted a challenging opponent.

The two men left the dirty industrial area and followed the gravel path up to Tukar's residence. The hints of comfort and finery in his home here were nothing like what he had left behind in Olabar. Outdoors in a red-and-green-striped silk pavilion, Tukar's dear wife Shetia had spread out a tray of fruit and skewers of roasted songbirds for them. He smiled adoringly at her.

Shetia was quiet and shy, not unattractive, though she wasn't one of the gorgeous noble daughters he might have married. After so many years, however, Tukar wasn't sure he would have wanted it any other way. His kind, loving Shetia never complained about being sent away to this hot and dirty place. She was the twelfth daughter of a wealthy merchant from Lillotha, and considering her own prospects she had married reasonably well. Tukar treated her with respect, even a touch of love and sweetness. She made him content.

Their nine-year-old son, Ulan, ran toward them from the main residence. He grabbed his father's sleeve. “May I play a game with you today? You said I was good enough to challenge Workmaster Zadar!”

The other man looked at Tukar in surprise, his lips quirking in a curious smile. Tukar said, “Yes, I am teaching the boy
xaries
. He was even good enough to defeat me once.”

“Twice,” the boy piped up.

Zadar teased, “On the other hand, my Lord, defeating you is no great challenge.”

Tukar sent the boy away with a fond pat. “You and I should practice a bit more together, Ulan. Let me enjoy my conversation with Zadar for the afternoon. Go play with your puppy.” Dejected for a moment, the boy went back to his mother, and the pair retired into the residence. Soon, however, the sounds of barking and a child's laughter changed the mood.

Tukar knew it was unkind to raise Ulan in a place like this, where there were no other children. So when a recent supply ship arrived, and the captain's dog gave birth to a litter of puppies, Tukar took Ulan to see them. Isolated at the Gremurr mines, the boy had never played with a dog before, but he was instantly smitten. After negotiating with the captain, Tukar presented his son with one of the puppies—a bouncing brown energetic mass of fur.

Tukar recalled how much pleasure his own puppy had given him long ago in the Olabar palace… for a few weeks until his mother took it away. Villiki did not want him to waste his time with such things. Later, though, Tukar had tended the hounds once owned by the soldan-shah's wife Asha. He wondered what had happened to them since his exile here….

A breeze rustled the silk fabric of the pavilion. Tukar, sitting across the game board from Zadar, touched the carved jet and jade, planning his opening move. The bald workmaster ate one of the skewered birds, crunching the bones. Tukar moved his first piece, and the workmaster responded quickly. The ebb and flow of the game was automatic to them.

They talked about their work. He countered the workmaster's offense with a move his mother had taught him.

Thinking of Villiki, he shook his head. “I cannot forgive my mother for trying to poison Omra and bringing disgrace to the entire royal family. But I miss my father, and Omra, too.” He moved another piece, sipped his warm tea. “Things could have been so different. Now I wonder if I'll ever leave here.”

“You could ask the soldan-shah to reconsider your sentence.”

Tukar shook his head. “No, I couldn't do that, although one day… one day I hope to see the new Ishalem that Omra has built.”

13
Nunghal Ship, Position Unknown

Under the beating sun, Asaddan sprawled on the hot deck, inhaling and exhaling fiery air, wondering when it would ever end. He stared blearily at the sagging ropes of the ship's rigging, at the limp gray sheets of the sails. The air rippled with heat, as if the sky itself had become a giant magnifying lens.

Even wandering lost in the Great Desert hadn't been quite so hot as this.

Around him, the Nunghal-Su crewmen lay fanning themselves, dumping buckets of seawater onto their parched skin for a few moments of coolness, although the water itself was murky and warm. Each day when the sun was high overhead, Asaddan expected the water around the ship to boil and cook them like clams in a pot.

Most of the men were drearily silent, some moaned, and a few whispered a mixture of prayers and complaints. Asaddan had discussed the predicament with Ruad in private, acknowledging that the entire crew was afraid; it had been much too long since they'd sighted land. No one knew where they were going, and worse, the ship had come to a standstill in the doldrums.

Fights broke out as the men squabbled over small patches of shade on deck. Some miserable sailors sulked in the dark cargo hold below, although the stifling heat down there was even worse than in the open air. Their water barrels were nearly empty, tainted with greenish scum and wriggling insect larvae.

This was not at all the paradise Asaddan had promised them during the clan gathering many weeks ago.

A shadow fell across Asaddan, who opened his eyes to see a concerned Ruad standing before him. When the shipkhan squatted next to him, Asaddan groaned, “Could you stand up again, cousin? Your shadow was blocking the sun. Make yourself useful.”

Ruad made a rude response and continued to crouch beside the larger man. “The sailors are complaining. They already accuse me of losing another ship and another crew.”

Asaddan shaded his face with his hand. “And what solution do they offer? To turn around? What good would that do? We're not moving anyway.” He let out a fatalistic chuckle. It had been a week and a half since they'd seen clouds, two weeks since the last rainfall, five days since the wind had died completely, leaving them stranded on an ocean as smooth as glass. “I doubt we'll ever catch a breeze again.” Sweat trickled between his squeezed-shut eyelids and stung. “At least I haven't been seasick for days.”

“We Nunghal-Su say that God is holding His breath. But even God has to exhale sometime—and when He does, we'd better be prepared.”

With another groan, Asaddan turned his head away. Thick strands of seaweed floated on the lethargic currents around the ship. With boathooks and ropes, the men had hauled up some of the strands, but the brown seaweed was inedible, despite the cook's best efforts. Even the fish they caught in these waters looked monstrous, spiny, misshapen. And they tasted foul.

Asaddan heaved himself into a sitting position. Ruad went to the side of the ship and hauled up one of the dangling wooden buckets. He doused his companion without warning, and Asaddan spluttered and rubbed the matted hair from his eyes. In the oppressive heat, many of the sailors had shaved off their hair and beards to keep themselves cooler, but he refused to do so, as a matter of pride.

His skin cooled for a few moments, but the evaporating water left a sparkle of salt-dust that itched and burned. When he took a deep breath, he imagined a blacksmith filling bellows with hot air. “If we keep sailing northward, we get closer and closer to the sun. Is there a chance we might sail into the flames?”

Ruad showed little reaction. “How would I know? No one has ever sailed this far before. But since we know the Uraban lands are to the north, it can't be all fire.”

Asaddan gazed around him, fearing that the sails, the ropes, the wood of the deck itself would combust. All of them could roast, and no one would ever know what happened to them. He said, “It's the price, and the excitement, of exploring the unknown. I have to believe there's a way out of this. Sen Sherufa was a wise woman. I knew her well and trusted her. And Saan… ah, that boy was clever!”

“I thought so, too.” Ruad squinted in the bright sunlight. “But now I begin to doubt their idea. Maybe we made a mistake by believing them.”

Asaddan motioned for the shipkhan to lower his voice. “The crew is thinking that already. They should not hear it from us as well.”

Ruad gazed toward the prow, as though he could will the ship forward. “Just how long are we going to wait here?”

“As long as it takes. We don't have much of a choice.”

The two men fell silent, keeping their hopes and fears to themselves.

Then, as they stared and waited, a breeze tickled the fabric of the sails. Asaddan raised his nose and sniffed. The crew began to stir, also sensing the movement. The canvas luffed, then sagged again, but after a few tense movements it bulged outward once more. The breeze was tentative, but better than anything they'd felt in a long time.

Gradually, the wind caught the sails and pushed the ship forward.