Authors: Michael A Stackpole
retain the greatest
jaecaitsae
to lash you, and if you live to be eighty-one, you will relive your punishment every moment of every day.”
He wiped melted cosmetics off on her robe, then stood and looked at her escort. “You will
see her home now. Tell her parents that all entreaties for mercy have fallen on deaf ears.
Any more that I hear will be an irritant.”
“As your Highness wishes.” The man scooped the girl in his arms. He carried her well past
the Viruk warrior’s reach and out of the ballroom.
The Viruk ambassador raised a hand. “I, too, shall retire, as my attire is no longer suitable
for a celebration. I would, however, demand of the Prince his accounting to my consort for
the hurt done Keles Anturasi. Rekarafi will be punished.”
Cyron looked up into the warrior’s dark eyes. “You struck to protect the ambassador, did
you not?”
The warrior nodded.
“Had you followed through with the blow, clawing your fingers forward, you would have
torn his back open and severed his spine, wouldn’t you?”
Again the warrior nodded, his eyes narrowing a bit.
“You blunted what could have been a killing blow.”
The ambassador answered before the warrior could nod. “His actions still were negligent,
Highness. Punishment should be exacted.”
“I say this to you, Ambassador.” Cyron let his light eyes half close. “I will punish the girl
who offended you. To you shall fall the task of the appropriate punishment for Rekarafi.”
Ierariach bowed graciously. “Your Highness is as wise as he is equitable. If I may be of
any aid to the Anturasi, ask and anything within my power is yours.”
“Noted. Thank you.” The Prince returned the bow. “It saddens me you will not be staying
longer.”
“Yes, Highness, me as well.” Ierariach came up from her bow, then looked into the room’s
upper corner. “And to you, Qiro Anturasi, joy of the Festival, health, longer life, and more
prosperity. Forgive us this incident.”
The Viruk’s address first drew Cyron’s attention to Qiro Anturasi’s presence, though he
should have sensed it just from the heat of the man’s anger. Qiro had chosen robes of the
finest gold silk and had them embroidered with purple stars. On his breastbone he wore a
solar medallion, and gold specks sparked in his hair and on his forehead and cheekbones.
There, in the east, Qiro shone like the sun, his pale eyes ablaze.
Cyron bowed low in his direction, then straightened. “When this dynasty was but your age,
Qiro Anturasi, it was a provincial domain with no true understanding of its own geography.
Now, at twice your age, Nalenyr again ventures to realms that never existed before you
placed them on maps. You are our most important citizen, and with you and your future
goes our prosperity and happiness. We celebrate your birthday with all due respect and
adoration.”
The anger in Qiro’s eyes abated slightly, but Cyron knew something was still wrong. He
had no idea what it could be, but the feeling of difficulty only increased as Qiro began to
speak. His voice remained even, though slightly tight, and filled the large room with ease.
“Prince Cyron, you are far too kind to suggest I might have had so strong and pivotal a
role in Naleni history, for I am a simple scribbler on parchment. It is my family—my
brother, nephews, grandnephews, and even great-grandnephews—who bring the charts
to life. Some might see me as a gold mine, but they are the miners, and what would one
be without the other?
“But I have not forgotten my own grandchildren. Nirati is my joy. She brings light into my
life with songs and riddles and gentle admonishments when, as set in my ways as I am, I
can be harsh.”
Qiro began to pace, and Cyron instantly recognized the strong stride and quick turns as
those of a caged predator growing slowly more agitated. “At my age, it is customary to
cede the family business to the next generation. My son is long gone, so it would fall to his
sons to inherit the mantle I wear. Either of them is worthy, for while my brother and his
progeny are the miners of gold, my grandsons are the prospectors that find new veins to
be mined. Without them, the mine would soon be exhausted.”
He gestured casually toward the dance floor. “Jorim is more than a cartographer. He is an
explorer and adventurer. He brings back more than maps. He brings animals and flowers,
fruits, medicines, spices, and anything else he can stuff into a holdall. He also brings back
foreign customs, which then become the fashion or serve to outrage the fashionable. I
gather, for him, either outcome is acceptable.”
Mild laughter greeted that comment, which Qiro acknowledged with a nod. “I would have
preferred to have Jorim here with me, training to replace me, but a grand expedition must
be undertaken. Prince Cyron has graciously built and outfitted the
Stormwolf
for a long voyage of discovery. There is no one better suited to serve on that ship. To Jorim I grant
passage. Not only will this ship return to Moriande with untold riches of cargo and tales,
but the knowledge of the world it provides will solve many mysteries.”
Cyron lifted his head and straightened his back, hearing his vertebrae pop into place. His
sense of unease began to spike. The first part of the speech had been delivered as if
scripted, but Qiro had deviated quickly from it. The prince suspected that Qiro meant to
reduce Jorim to servitude and captivity within Anturasikun, punishing him for the gods
alone knew what offense.
And if Jorim had not been intended to get the
Stormwolf
in the
first place, it would have gone to Keles.
Qiro smiled slowly as he stopped his pacing. “I had thought Keles would perhaps enjoy
remaining in Moriande to help me with my work, but now I see he is a young man, full of
fancies and a sense of romance that leads to adventure. There is another trek I have long
contemplated. I wished myself to go again, but was never granted permission to do so.
Highness, you and I have discussed it many times, but had decided it was an expedition
that could never take place.”
The old man clasped his hands at the small of his back and began lecturing the guests as
he had often lectured Cyron. “As we all know, before the Cataclysm, the Empire traded
with nations far to the west along the Spice Route. This route wended its way from the
Empire through the provinces of Solaeth and Dolosan, through Ixyll and beyond. It was
into Ixyll that Empress Cyrsa—for whom our own prince is named—led the Turasyndi
hordes and destroyed them, unleashing the Cataclysm. This, common wisdom held,
closed the Spice Route forever. But over the centuries the chaos of excess magics has
receded. It is all but unknown in Solaeth and rare in Dolosan.
“Keles, my strong, brave grandson, will recover from his wounds. Of this I am certain. He
is too strong-willed for mere scratches to do him in.” Qiro nodded confidently as people
applauded—politely and sparingly—and the Prince could not determine if they applauded
the journey, the idea of Keles’ survival, or for fear Qiro would see they were not
applauding.
“Once Keles is well, he will survey the Spice Route with the same skill he surveyed the
western reaches of the Gold River. He will go into what, for over seven hundred and
twenty-nine years, has been a realm of the unknown. He will conquer it, or be consumed
by it, and I have no doubt which it shall be.”
The old man clapped his hands, then took a cup of wine from the arm of his chair. Raising
it, he took a moment to let his gaze sweep over the crowd. “Knowledge is our victory over
the world, and is worth any price we could possibly pay.”
The Prince had no cup, and was glad for it. He locked eyes with Qiro and knew instantly
that the old man intended that Keles should die. Cyron hoped it was reasons and conflicts
that had long lain hidden within the Anturasi clan that bred such hatred, for the alternative
betokened a madness in the old man that Cyron did not know how to battle.
If you are killing Keles because his wounding upstaged your entrance . . .
The Prince
shook his head.
It couldn’t be that. Not even the gods could be that capricious.
Qiro inclined his head toward the Prince, then drank.
No, no god could be that capricious. But a man who thinks he is a god could be so with
3rd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
736th year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
Moraven Tolo made his way through the graveyard in the shadow of Grijakun. The area
had been sculpted with small hills and hollows, and had copses of trees and hedges that
screened many a mausoleum from another. He passed the resting places of poets and
priests, merchants, nobles, and warriors. Each had offerings placed in front of them: some
had food, many had candles, and others had piles of
faetsun
—the fanciful paper money
that the priests would later gather and burn. As smoke it would rise to the Heavens, and
as ash sink to the Hells, so their recipients would have it to spend in the afterlife.
He carried with him a small jug that had been swaddled in cloth to keep its contents warm.
While summer had not yet passed into autumn, the night had been cool. As he expected,
he found Ciras Dejote sitting cross-legged in front of the tomb where he’d left him, his
sword still sheathed across his thighs. The younger man made to rise when Moraven
deliberately trod upon and snapped a stick, but the
serrcai
motioned for him to remain
seated.
“It has been a long, cold night.” Moraven squatted and placed the jug before Ciras. He
pulled the lid off and the steamy scent of spicy chicken broth filled the air. “Would you
share my breakfast?”
The younger man shook his head, though his stomach’s growling told the truth. “Please,
Master, eat. If there is anything left over, then I shall partake.”
“Very well.” Moraven sat and replaced the lid on the jug. “Do you have questions for me?”
“No, Master.”
“No? Your mouth lies better than your belly. We met on the first night of Festival. I agreed
to take you on as a student. You were most eager, yet you have no questions?”
“No, Master.”
“Again, no? You came all the way from Tirat to find a swordmaster. You were given to my
care when it was the
serrian
Jatan you wished to enter. No questions?”
“No, Master.”
Moraven let any pleasure drain from his face and voice. “If you have no questions, I can
teach you nothing. You might as well return to Tirat. Do you not wonder why you were
given to me?”
The younger man hesitated, then nodded. “I do wonder.”
“And?”
“And I assumed Grandmaster Jatan sought the best for me, so put me in your charge.”
“Very good.” Moraven lounged back against the corner of the tomb of a poet. “Have you
come to question that assumption?”
“No. Yes.” The man’s shoulders shifted uneasily. “I am certain you know what you are
doing.”
“No, you are not, but that’s good. Neither am I.”
Ciras blinked away shock, then looked down to hide his reaction. Moraven gave him a
moment to compose himself. When the man’s head slowly came back up, the
swordmaster continued, letting the hint of a smirk tug at the corners of his mouth. “If you
have questioned
dicaiserr
Jatan’s decision, then you have questioned other things, too.
What have you questioned?”
Ciras opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The drowsiness that had marked him
before evaporated. “Master, I mean no disrespect.”
“But?”
Ciras opened his hands to take in the whole of the cemetery. “Why am I here?”
“Why do you think you are here?”
“I don’t know. You told me to wait here. I have waited. I have not stirred an inch. I have
been vigilant. I have looked for ghosts and thieves and those who would steal relics, and I
have seen nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Of course I have seen some things.” Ciras set his sword aside and stood. He wavered for
a moment, resting his hand on the tomb, then shook his legs and took a few halting steps.
“I saw kin and admirers bring offerings to those whose monuments are here. Most were
quiet; some laughed.”
Moraven let his smile broaden. “Laughed, did they? Why would they do that?”
The younger man’s eyes widened. “Do you not know where you put me?”
“Tell me.”
Ciras prodded the tomb with a toe. “This is the monument to the poet and playwright, Jaor
Dirxi. Do you know who that is?”
Moraven shrugged. “I might remember a poem or two.”
“He is famous for his satires about warriors. His poems ridicule what we are and do. His
plays make us into buffoons. Some think them funny. They turn the natural order on its
head. They exalt farmers over swordsmen; they equate fighting off locusts with defending
the Empire from barbarian hordes. Save that a Naleni princess was his lover, he would not
be here and his work would be forgotten.”
“And you didn’t like them laughing at you, a warrior, standing vigil at his tomb?”
“No, I did not.” Ciras stopped his pacing and stared down at Moraven. “But I preferred that
to the humiliation I received last evening when you bid me stand vigil in the courtyard of