The New World (42 page)

Red rain spattered the river.

Magic pulsed with each heartbeat, each wave of it stronger than the one before. A million scorpions scuttled over Nelesquin’s flesh. Vast amounts of magic surged through him, shocking him.

A red mist rose from the river, stinking of copper. It washed over the barge, infusing blood into the white parts of the Prince’s robe. Nelesquin staggered, crashing to his knees. Kaerinus and Qiro fell with him.

The mist swept past them and thickened. It swirled up into the clouds, then pulled them down as well. The clouds took on the red-brown of dried blood. Nelesquin expected lightning as the clouds descended on the River Road, but none flashed.

And the only thunder was that of the poles crashing through and sinking Nelesquin’s elevating platform.

The clouds lifted again, then parted, allowing a shaft of sunlight to sweep the southern shore.

The
dari
armor had vanished.

Virisken started forward. Kaerinus interposed himself between the swordsman and Nelesquin. “There is yet a truce here.”

Virisken nodded and righted the Empress. Behind them Cyron gained his feet.

She remained kneeling, but began speaking before Nelesquin had time to gather himself. “Your advantage is gone. Do you wish these fraudulent negotiations to continue, or shall we speak of something substantive?”

Her offer tempted him, and he might have agreed to an arrangement, save for two things. He
did
know her art, and knew she could be quite persuasive. No doubt she would take any advantage she could.

The other thing, however, was the note of unease in her voice. She had not known what Keles was going to do. None of them had. It surprised them, and the sheer power of it frightened them. She might pretend to be in a strong position, but he had taken Tsatol Deraelkun without
dari
. So the rest of Moriande would fall.

He levered himself into a kneeling position. “This changes nothing. A week. I give you a week to consider surrendering the rest of Moriande. It is half a city against an empire. If I am forced to take it, Moriande will be destroyed and, like you, will be forgotten well before my Imperial reign ends.”

Chapter 46

“S
top saying he’s a clever boy!” Nelesquin upended a desk in Qiro’s tower, scattering papers and brushes. “He bleeds in the river and my army vanishes. Twelve hundred warriors in
gyanrigot
armor, Keerana among them! The best of the best were in those suits, and they are
gone
! And all you can say is that he is a
clever boy
?”

Qiro’s arms remained hugged around himself, and he chuckled. “Far more clever than I had imagined. More clever than his father, by far. No, Ryn never could have figured this out. It was very good.”

“No, Master Anturasi, it was very
bad
!” Nelesquin balled a fist and took a step toward the cartographer, but his left leg didn’t want to move. Weakness seized him. He leaned heavily against a table and discovered his fist would not unclench.

Qiro did not notice. “Keles really doesn’t understand the power. He has little experience, but he always was sensitive. He always tried to shield his brother from me. But now he’s hit on something and he’s feeling his way through it. It’s remarkable, actually, that he was able to do what he did. And, if we asked him, I doubt he would know how he did it himself!”

Nelesquin snarled and smacked his fist against his thigh to loosen it. “He’s probably dead.”

“No, I would know.” Qiro tapped his temple. “I would feel it if he died. He’s very weak now, but his mind still functions. They’re dosing him with
xunling
root and
tzaden
-flower tea. He will recover.”

“So he can do this again.” Nelesquin pointed north. “He’ll fill that bridge with mist and my soldiers will never make it across.”

“Fear not on that account, Highness. I won’t let that happen.”

“Won’t let it happen? Why didn’t you stop it in the first place?”

“Because I didn’t know what he had done.” Qiro sighed with a schoolmasterish air that made Nelesquin want to choke him. “Keles was in Felarati, then he came south. He passed by the new channel I cut. But I acted in haste when I did that. Instead of piling the earth up on either side, I made it go away.”

“Away?”

“Out of this reality. I am uncertain if it ended up in one of the Hells or in some other place entirely. But Keles must have been close enough to get a sense of the void into which the earth vanished.” Qiro stroked his chin and glanced at the map of the world. “Keles, in his urgency to get rid of the
dari
armor, must have picked up on the idea that it was not really part of this world. It had been formed in a pocket world—another creation entirely, much as his sister’s paradise, Kunjiqui, was.”

“I remember.” Nelesquin slowly flexed his fingers. “So the
dari
are there, then. Bring them back.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t understand, Highness.” The cartographer paused for a moment, then smiled patronizingly. “The world, as I have drawn it, is a chessboard. Keles and I each understand the board on one level or another. My mastery is much greater than his, of course, but he has learned much. In our game we have the ability to shift aspects of the board—but only aspects that have not been identified. While each of us is capable, the board remains the same.”

“Then how did he make the
dari
disappear?”

Qiro smiled, proudly. “He sensed the alien nature of the
dari
armor and sent it to a place where it would be at home. This is why I cannot bring it back. I do not know where that place is.”

Nelesquin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You cannot bring it back. I accept this. Make me more
dari
, then.”

Qiro opened his hands. “I cannot do that either, Highness, and you know that. Our resources have been exhausted.”

“Your answer does not please me, Qiro Anturasi.”

“And your tone does not please me, Prince Nelesquin. Have you forgotten that we are united in this campaign to destroy Nalenyr?” Qiro snorted. “There are things I
can
do for you, and I am doing them.”

“If you could rip a channel from the Dark Sea to the ocean, you can build me more bridges.”

“I could, but that would be rather inelegant. I shall do something else for you instead.”

“Yes?”

“The world in which the
dari
armor was created still exists. Have your Durrani round up all the fertile women in South Moriande. Bring them there and get children upon them. You’ve given Cyrsa nine days. In that time, you shall have thousands of troops ready to die for you.”

“I want them to kill for me.”

“I have no doubt they will.”

“All the troops in the world will avail me nothing if they cannot cross the river. I can take them outside the city and lay siege to it, but that will take too long.”

“Fear not, Highness, for I am no more patient a man than you are.” Qiro bent and rooted about in the maps Nelesquin had scattered. He pulled one from the pile, eyed it carefully, then nodded. “I think this will do nicely.”

Nelesquin frowned. “It is an old map of Moriande.”

“It is a beginning.” Qiro smiled, then nipped the pad of his index finger. A bright red droplet welled up. “And now, if you will forgive me, I must go to work.”

Pelut Vniel huddled beneath a heavy canvas shroud, which reeked of vomit and dead fish. The small boat’s rocking did nothing to quell his queasiness. The butterflies in his stomach grew bolder with every creaking pull on the oars.

Such nervousness surprised Vniel, for he’d not felt it in many years—perhaps not even since he took his first ministry exams. Once he had entered the bureaucracy, he had been supremely confident. He appeased those who could destroy him, destroyed those who would appease him, and carefully worked connections that allowed him to rise to Grand Minister of Nalenyr.

But Prince Cyron had changed all that. He’d isolated Vniel and pared away his power. Granted, he’d made the bureaucracy more efficient, and those reforms did have their uses. But Cyron had made one mistake: he fought to preserve his nation. He had forgotten that the bureaucracy was bigger than Nalenyr, that it assured the continued stability of the world.

Pelut acted for interests beyond Nalenyr’s. He’d researched Prince Nelesquin. He’d known all of the folktales, of course, but he looked beyond them. Certain histories from before the Time of Black Ice had praised the Prince for his battles against pirates and his campaigns to preserve the Empire’s integrity. Had Cyron been one-ninth the man Nelesquin had been, Nalenyr would have long since recreated the Empire.

The new Empire was precisely what the bureaucracy needed, so Pelut had actually given thought as to whether or not he should betray Nalenyr. He set aside his personal dislike for Prince Cyron. He viewed things rationally and dispassionately. Moriande had to fall eventually—and probably sooner rather than later. Its conquest would effectively unite the Empire. Helosunde and Deseirion had made their stand in Nalenyr. Once the forces here were crushed, their annexation would be but a formality.

Cyron will not look to the future, so I must
.

Keles Anturasi’s disappearing Nelesquin’s
gyanrigot
warriors had given Pelut pause. That raw display of power inspired hope, but the aftermath killed it. Keles had collapsed. And though Cyron’s physician, Geselkir, cared for him, the young cartographer was reported to be very sick: feverish and delirious. What he had done once he likely could not do again.

All of his considerations left but one path open for Pelut Vniel. Cyron had waged war against the bureaucracy, and Pelut would have to fight back. He saw no other choice, yet betraying his nation did not come free of anxiety. It had to be done, of that he had no doubt, but . . .
if I fail . . .

He peeked from beneath the canvas. “Why so long, boatman?”

“I’ll get you there,
Grandfather
.” The man said the word without a hint of respect. “Must have been rain in the uplands. The river’s running a bit faster than usual this time of year.”

The man grunted and pulled harder at the oars. The south shore lights bobbed. Pelut ducked beneath the canvas again, returning to the close and fetid sanctuary in the bottom of the boat. Bilgewater sloshed. He fought to keep his gorge down.

The thing that most frightened him was not the chance of being discovered. He’d already laid the groundwork to suggest he was undertaking an independent mission of peace to save lives and reunite families. He’d made inquiries, ordered reports, all of which would back up this contention. If Nelesquin killed him, or if he was discovered and killed by Cyron’s troops, the fiction would redeem him in the eyes of his people. His effort would be thought good-hearted, if misguided.

The prospect of meeting Nelesquin scared him. Pelut would have one chance to read him, find his weakness, and exploit it. There was no doubt that the man was vain—the manner in which he’d come to the negotiation that morning made that quite clear. Were Nelesquin stupid, vanity would be the way into his mind; but intelligent men always suspect treachery from flatterers. While they believe they deserve the flattery, they also know it is a means to an end. If they spy out the end and do not like it, their retribution is often swift and harsh.

The boat bumped against the quay. Cool air rushed over him as the canvas was peeled back. Pelut quickly mounted the ladder to the dock. He looked in vain for the agent who was to meet him. Then he felt the gentle flutter of a butterfly’s wings against his cheek. He turned and bowed.

Kaerinus shook his head. “No time for formalities. Follow me.”

Though the route they took through the riverside district seemed fairly direct, Pelut quickly found himself confused. This especially discomfited him, as he’d lived his entire life in Moriande and knew it very well—including the nether regions given over to Black Myrian’s control. He’d even met with a Desei agent in an opium den, arranging the failed assassination attempt against Prince Cyron.

The
vanyesh
brought him to a darkened doorway between a teahouse and a tavern. They ascended the stairs and entered a small room lit with a single lantern. As the door closed behind him, the light brightened, revealing Nelesquin eying him suspiciously.

Pelut bowed low and held it for even longer than protocol required. Instead of rising, he sank to his knees and pressed his face to the floor.

Nelesquin grunted. “So courtesy has not died in Moriande.”

Pelut shook his head. “Imperial Highness, I shall not waste your valuable time. I am your man, ready to serve you.”

“Sit up.”

Pelut did as he was bid.

Nelesquin, arms crossed, towered above him. “One pledged to me would do anything I asked of him. Is this true of you as well?”

“Ask, Imperial Highness.”

The Emperor’s expression tightened. “You are direct. It is a rare quality among bureaucrats. It pleases me. I would have you please me further.”

Pelut said nothing.

“And you know when to keep your mouth shut—another rare quality. I will have a use for you, Pelut Vniel; but you must prove your loyalty.”

“Of course, Imperial Highness.”

“So, I shall be direct with you.” The Prince’s expression hardened. “I want Prince Cyron dead. Make that happen, and you shall find a high place in my Empire.”

Dunos giggled. He’d never seen a butterfly quite like the one walking up and down his left arm. It was black and green. The geometric designs on its wings shifted shape with each beat. That wasn’t what made him laugh, though. Its journey up and down his arm—over the top of his robe and ring mail—
tickled
.

“Dunos?”

The boy smiled and held his hand up. “Hi, Ranai. It tickles.”

“What tickles?”

“The butterfly, see?”

“I don’t see it, Dunos.”

He glanced at his arm. The butterfly had gone, though he could still feel the tingle of its steps. “Well, it was here.”