The Edge of the World (39 page)

Hannes watched these people furtively for more than a day, but the community was so small and tight-knit it was hard for him
to remain unobtrusive. The sikara invited him to join them for their sunset services, but he begged off, pretending to be
polite, knowing what the woman really wanted.

The sikara sang out her call in a reedy voice that projected far. The fishermen had tied up their boats and joined their families,
and everyone came to the church building that was made of clay, stones, and driftwood. The sikara announced that she would
provide the Sacraments that night.

Hannes knew what he had to do.
Improving the world, by the Grace of Ondun
.

When everyone had entered the church and the old woman began intoning memorized passages from Urec’s Log, Hannes stole one
of the barrels of lamp oil from the storage tent and broke it open. When the unison prayer began, he used it to cover the
noise of his actions as he barricaded the door from the outside.

He splashed the fragrant oil around the windows, the door, and soaked the driftwood and porous walls. With his flint and steel,
he set a spark that caught on the lamp oil, and his eyes glowed as he watched the eerie blue ignition corona race across the
oil’s surface, all over and around the church like holy fire. Hannes stepped back from the rising heat and listened to the
crackle of the flames.

The blaze grew more vigorous at the door and windows, climbing the structural walls, until it reached the sun-dried wooden
roof. From inside he could hear cries of alarm that changed to frantic screaming as the people tried to get out. But with
the lamp oil and the dry wood, the structure went up like a torch. In addition to the barricades he had made, flames sealed
off the windows and the small back door.

The fire grew so bright that it reminded him of Ishalem. Hannes rubbed the waxy skin on his arm and cheek. His old burns were
tingling again, but this time he realized that it no longer hurt.

The Urecari church had become a roaring inferno, and by contrast the screaming seemed faint, almost ethereal. Hannes thought
it sounded like a choir singing praises to Aiden.

As the fire reached its crescendo and began to fade, he ate some of the stored food and sat back to watch. In this one act,
he had exterminated virtually an entire Urecari village, cleansing the world of these heretics.

Improving the world, by the Grace of Ondun
.

Yal Dolicar played the role well, having bought fine clothes with a goodly portion of the money he had pocketed from his last
success. People were more inclined to throw money at a man who looked respectable.

Wearing a dyed purple waistcoat and black breeches, a belt with a large silver buckle, and a wide-brimmed hat to complete
the disguise, Dolicar strolled down the gangway of a newly arrived ship in the Merchants’ District of Calay. Assessing the
men for hire sitting around the docks, he held a coin between thumb and forefinger, flashing it so that it glinted in the
sun. “I need a porter to carry a very precious package.”

A broad-shouldered man strode forward, knocking the others aside, and reached for the coin, but Dolicar deftly pocketed it.
“
After
the job is finished. I’ve been cheated before.” On the deck of the ship, where his belongings were stashed, sat a small oak
chest held shut with iron hinges and leather straps. “There, my good man. Carry it for me. I need to go to the market square.”

The porter wrapped his arms about the chest and lifted it with no sign of strain. His footsteps were heavy as he clomped down
the gangway, following Yal Dolicar, who strolled along, head held high. Dolicar had worked these docks many times before and
knew the best places to set up. With his beard shorn and hair tucked beneath the hat, no one would recognize him.

A mason’s cart loaded with cut stone groaned by, pulled by a plodding ox. A cobbler had set up a stand where he patched holes
in boot soles or mended leather stitching. Laughter and shouts came from a crowded tavern in which a halfhearted brawl was
taking place. Iborian furs were for sale, Corag metal-work, long coils of Eriettan rope, woven baskets, rolls of ribbon, and
swatches of lace.

Dolicar told the porter to set his burden down at a corner of the market square outside a wine merchant’s shop, where four
stained, empty barrels sat waiting to be scrubbed and refilled. The empty barrels provided a ready table for Dolicar’s wares.
He paid the man, who took his coin and walked off, not in the least bit curious about what the chest contained.

Other people began to show interest, though, as Dolicar produced a long-shafted key from one of his pockets with a flourish
and made a great show of working the lock, then unfastening the strap buckles. He pretended not to notice his audience pressing
closer, concerned only with himself. He lifted the chest’s lid and surveyed his treasures, intentionally blocking the view;
then he looked up in feigned surprise to see so many eager onlookers.

“Ah! Would you like to see? Come close.”

Refuting his own invitation, Dolicar stood with his back to the open chest, hiding the contents. With painstaking care, he
reverently pulled on a pair of thin calfskin gloves as if to imply that touching the objects in the chest with his bare fingers
would be a sign of disrespect.

“I am a pilgrim, just returned from the ruins of Ishalem.” He raised his voice so that more people approached. “This chest
contains relics I obtained at great peril to myself, for the evil Urecari have a habit of stringing up pilgrims by fishhooks.”
He heard the gasps, noted the shudders. He knew exactly how to play a crowd.

Bending over the chest, Dolicar removed a lump of charred wood and held it in both hands as if it were a sacrifice for the
altar. “These blackened remnants come directly from the Holy Arkship—Aiden’s ship, burned by the followers of Urec. Only these
few scraps remain, and I’ve brought them here, so that good Aidenists may give them a proper home.”

The people stepped back with awe. Dolicar set the first piece of wood on a barrelhead and picked up a smaller one, then a
third gnarled chunk. He had seven in all, as well as ten small glass bottles filled with gray ash. “I gathered these relics
and hurried back home. My five companions were killed on the journey, and only I escaped. Trust me”—he swept his gloved finger
around at the onlookers with an intense, passionate gaze—“these precious objects belong in Tierra.”

Of course, he had said exactly the opposite when he made his way through the soldanates of Uraba, but the Urecari were less
generous—or perhaps just less gullible—than the followers of Aiden. Here he didn’t even have to encourage the onlookers to
begin bidding. They dug into their pouches and pockets for coins. He made a great show of distress to part with such hard-won
holy trophies, but in the end he sold them all, leaving himself with an empty trunk and a fat purse. Even after running out
of the real artifacts, he could always sell his ash and his charred wood as quickly as he could manufacture it.

Soldan-Shah Imir felt only deep sadness upon learning of the plot. He had expected as much from Villiki, though he had tried
to convince himself that she would never do something so dangerous, so
fatal
.

After Omra reported Adrea’s information, the soldan-shah demanded that the slave girl be brought discreetly before him for
confirmation. He chose Rovik, the kel, or captain, of his palace guards to deliver her. Loyal and tight-lipped, Kel Rovik
stood outside the door, discouraging any eavesdroppers.

When the young woman repeated her story, Imir felt a pang in his chest, knowing that he had lost another wife, this time to
stupidity and ambition. “I must have proof,” he said finally, his voice thick, “though I do not want it. I have to know. This
is my wife we are talking about.”

“Proof is easy enough to come by, Father. Cliaparia awaits me in our quarters, and the meal will be served soon.”

The soldan-shah had a heavy heart. By now he felt much too old to search for other wives. How he wished that Sen Sherufa had
agreed to marry him… especially now. They could have been quite a pair.

Pretending that nothing was afoot, Omra returned to his chambers. Though Cliaparia constantly tried to win his heart, he felt
no genuine affection for her. She had given him no children, but that was primarily his own fault, since he took her to his
bed so rarely. His father lectured him about his duty to continue the dynasty and suggested that he take an additional wife
to increase his chances of having an heir. But as yet, Omra had found no one who interested him. He still could not forget
Istar…

Maintaining a bland expression, while he entered his room, Omra observed Cliaparia as she sat across from him on a mound of
plush cushions. She had lined her eyes with dark kohl. Fragrant—too fragrant—incense burned in the corner of the room. Solicitous
as always, she smiled and tried to be seductive. “What can I do to please you?”

Such a large question,
he thought.
Such a broad topic
. “Is there food? I’ve had a long trip.”

She brightened. “I chose the greatest delicacies and made a special tea.”

He did not ask questions, could not bear to. “Have them served.”

Cliaparia called for servants to bring in numerous small dishes filled with special treats that she imagined he would like.
When the slaves departed, he sat cross-legged on his cushions, looking at the dishes. The food did indeed look delicious.
She waited for him to take the first bite, as was traditional. But he didn’t move. “You prepared these yourself?”

She faltered, then nodded. “I was there in the kitchens. I assisted. Nothing was done without my direct guidance.”

Still he did not reach forward. “Please eat first.”

“But…” she began in confusion; then a shy smile lit her face. “You do me great honor, my husband.” She leaned across the table
and stretched her hand toward a bowl of olives in front of Omra.

“Stop!” He pushed her hand away from the bowl, let out a heavy sigh, then raised his voice. “Guards! I need you.”

Cliaparia’s pleased smile faded to a look of hurt as armed, muscular men rushed into the room, hands on the hilts of their
curved swords.

Omra said in a flat voice, “Is my father nearby?”

“Yes, Zarif. He waits in the next chamber.”

“Have him come in. Also call for Villiki and Tukar, as well as Ur-Sikara Lukai. Tell them they are urgently needed, but do
not tell them why. If they refuse to come, drag them.” The astonished guards rushed off.

“How have I displeased you?” Cliaparia was distraught. “And what need do we have for guards tonight?”

“My food is poisoned.”

Cliaparia gasped, but before she could respond, the soldan-shah entered with sweat glistening on his shaved scalp. His skin
looked gray and his expression sagged, as though doubts consumed him.

Cliaparia finally found her voice. “Husband, what is this accusation you make? I could never poison your food—I love you!”

“I did not accuse you. Be silent now. Not a word.” His look made her slump back into her cushions, where she sat like a statue,
her kohl-lined eyes wide with fear.

Within moments, Villiki and Ur-Sikara Lukai ran into the zarif’s quarters flushed and breathless, followed by a befuddled-looking
Tukar. The two women, wearing manufactured expressions of distress, ground to an awkward halt as they saw Omra glowering at
them, alive and unharmed. They recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. All the proof Soldan-Shah Imir needed had been in
their faces. They had arrived fully expecting to see Omra writhing on the floor, his tongue swollen, his skin blotched. The
slave girl had been right.

Tukar was genuinely confused. “Has something happened? Why did you send guards for us?”

“Is it not enough that I wish you to dine with me?” Omra gestured to the bowls of untouched food out on the table.

Neither of the women made a move, though Tukar took a seat. Villiki said, “We should not interrupt your private meal with
your wife.”

“I insist. This special feast should be shared.”

Villiki took a step backward. “I have already eaten,” Ur-Sikara Lukai protested.

Tukar sat at the table and inspected the dishes as if to choose the most appetizing one, oblivious to the throbbing tension
in the air. When he reached out for a cube of bright orange papaya, Villiki bit back a hiss.

Before his half-brother could eat, Omra stopped him and stated in a loud and clear voice, “My food is poisoned, Tukar. We
have uncovered a plot to kill me.” The other young man dropped his piece of papaya and wiped the juice from his fingers onto
a cushion.

In a panic, Cliaparia vehemently denied any involvement, but Omra already knew his wife had been duped.

Ur-Sikara Lukai looked strong and stony before him, while Villiki acted indignant. “And how do you know this? Who is the poisoner?”

“It might be you,” Zarif Omra suggested, and Villiki drew back with a shaky gasp. “Or Ur-Sikara Lukai. It is clear you both
are reluctant to taste my food.”

“Who dares accuse me?” the priestess said.

The old soldan-shah, his face dark with wrath, clapped his hands, and Kel Rovik escorted Adrea in. She did not avert her gaze
from Villiki and the Ur-Sikara, but looked satisfied, proud. “
I
accuse you,” Adrea said in perfect Uraban. “Both of you.”

Ur-Sikara Lukai laughed out loud, a scornful bray. “A slave girl? Who can trust the word of a slave girl? I didn’t even know
she was capable of speech.”

“The charge is easy enough to prove or refute,” Imir said coldly. “Villiki, I know you and what you’re capable of. Ur-Sikara
Lukai, you bring shame upon the church of Urec, if the slave girl speaks the truth. I believe that the two of you plotted
to murder my son with this food, and
that
is why you refused to eat it, even before he suggested that it might be poisoned.”