A Secret Atlas (16 page)

so that with each shuffled step, he crushed one beneath his feet. On his robe’s skirts,

breasts, and, no doubt, back, a gigantic hawk bore a clawed worm in its talons, asserting

the supremacy of Deseirion over Nalenyr.

Cyron found the display as ill-mannered as he did bold—but at least he had refrained from

giving the worm a red mane matching Cyron’s dead brother’s hair. Another might have

taken Pyrust as crude or stupid for wearing such a garment during this particular Festival,

but to do that would be to underestimate Pyrust. Regardless of Naleni money and

weapons being placed in the hands of Helosundian rebels, the Desei maintained their grip

on the conquered Principality. Cyron doubted, despite the peerlessness of his Keru

guards, that Helosunde would ever again be free, which meant Pyrust would be coming

for Nalenyr sooner rather than later.

But while Pyrust was a formidable opponent, he did have flaws. The greatest among them

was his belief in prophetic dreams. Cyron had long since gotten past such superstitious

nonsense, but he still listened to court astrologers and soothsayers. It appeased the

ministers and that made his life easier.
Now, if Pyrust would just do the same, all could be
well.

As Pyrust stepped onto the carpet, his ministers filed into the room and took their places.

Cyron’s followed suit, as if each side were a well-practiced dance troupe. The Prince knew

each of them was watching the others, evaluating, guessing, and cataloging nuances that

would later be turned to advantage during negotiations. Had they put a fraction of this

energy into actually making the vast bureaucracy function, all the Principalities would be

years ahead of where they currently were.

When Pyrust reached the halfway point of the carpet, Cyron stood and laid the horsehair-

tipped wand of state on the arm of his throne. A minister twitched when he did that,

disappointing Cyron. He’d half hoped the man’s heart would seize and he could put

someone in that position who had not been old when his grandfather ruled.

While Pyrust’s face had remained a stone mask, his step faltered for a heartbeat when

Cyron put his wand down. One of the Desei ministers saw that and stiffened, evening the

score in the protocol duel. Pyrust came on, lengthening his stride ever so slightly, kicking

Helosundian dogs as he came, then stopped at the last pair of pillars and bowed.

“On this occasion of your dynasty’s anniversary, Prince Cyron, I and the Desei wish you

all prosperity, longevity, and joy.”

Pyrust held the bow deeply and long enough to impress Cyron.
I could almost believe he

is sincere.

He waited for his northern counterpart to straighten up, then he bowed—not nearly so

deeply. To do so would have been unseemly given the location and circumstance of their

meeting. He did hold the bow as long as Pyrust’s, however, and the eldest Naleni minister

did begin to grey about the face.

“You are most welcome, Prince Pyrust.” Cyron looked at his ministers. “I would have a

chair brought for the Prince.”

The oldest minister grimaced, and a hand stole to his chest. The two most subordinate

ministers did stand and shuffle to the door to take a small seat from a Keru guard. They

conveyed it to the front of the hall and set it up at the line of pillars at the right. Bowing

deeply to both Princes, they retreated with tiny steps, but managed to move quickly

regardless.

Pyrust turned his back to his own ministers and hazarded a smile. “A campaign chair. How

thoughtful.”

“Your Highness is known for being comfortable in one.” Cyron nodded slightly. “I would

have made it a saddle but bringing a horse in here would have had its difficulties.”

Pyrust did sit, though stiffly. “So I understand.”

Cyron sat and arranged his robe around his legs so the flat central panel was in clear

display. It showed a hawk being savaged by a dog. It continued the insult his remark

about the horse had started, since legend had it that Pyrust’s grandfather, when he took

the Helosundian capital, had ridden into the palace’s reception hall and smashed his face

against a rafter, spilling him from the saddle. Much was made of that as an ill omen for the

Helosundian occupation.

“I was pleased you accepted my invitation to visit during the Festival this year. I hope you

will find it a pleasing experience.”

“Far more so than some, but I am glad you find amusement at your own Festival.”

The Naleni prince frowned, which deepened the slight groan from his ministers. “I am not

sure I understand.”

Pyrust smiled wolfishly. “You clearly enjoyed terrifying that girl last evening. You had her

whipped this morning as well.”

“I did enjoy the former, but not the latter.” Cyron’s eyes tightened. “You have seen her

type before—born into privilege, but with no sense of the responsibility that comes with it.

How would you have handled things?”

“You know the answer to that. I would have had her whipped right then and there. No

chance for appeal. I would let everyone understand the severity of her offense and the

justice of her punishment. Punishment delayed serves little purpose.”

“Perhaps, but that was not my thinking.”

“What
were
you thinking?”

The younger man smiled. “I was thinking to give her a chance to learn from her

experience. I gave her eight hours to think about the lash tasting her flesh. Had she

become contrite, had she apologized—had she come to accept her punishment this

morning and admitted the justice of it—I might well have forgiven it in the spirit of the

Festival.” He shrugged. “She was not contrite. Her kin came and demanded I forgive her

in the name of the Festival. I offered them the chance to take her place, but none wished

to do so.”

The Desei prince frowned. “We may think you Naleni are degenerate, but I would not have

imagined that your sense of morality had decayed such that even her father would not

take her place.”

“No, but I did mention that my
jaecaitsae
would add a lash for every year she had lived, and that made the total unacceptable. Her escort, however, did make the offer. He was

one of yours, so perhaps you are right about us, or you are just morally superior.”

Pyrust snorted. “You say that only because he has been exiled, so is no longer one of

mine. Had he truly been, you would have said it was a sign of intellectual morbidity.”

“Or true love.”

“Often the same thing.”

“Alas.” Cyron did allow himself a smile. “She was led to a public square, stripped to the

waist—which I think bothered her more than the threat of a lashing—then whipped.

The
jaecaitsae,
on my instruction, did inflict enough pain with the first lash that she passed out. The other three were lighter, and only one left a small mark, tracing the line of a

shoulder blade. She will never see it, but her handmaidens will.”

“You think that is justice?”

“It is enough justice for me. There was nothing that could change her into a productive

citizen, so she serves as an example. I could have hoped for more, but I will settle for

that.” Cyron nodded once. “I know you would have been more ruthless, but I did what I

thought was best. Our opinions clearly differ on that. And they will into the future, I am

quite certain.”

“You speak frankly.”

“In my court, that is welcome.”

Prince Pyrust nodded, then slapped his hands on the arms of the campaign chair. “As you

have made me feel comfortable and permit me some familiarity, my brother, I would

suggest we drop all pretense. You know I had no choice but to come to celebrate your

dynasty, for your father came to Felarati to celebrate a similar anniversary twenty years

ago.”

“My brother came with him.”

“I recall having met him.” Pyrust’s eyes tightened slightly. “A brave man, your brother.”

But not your superior. You measure me by him, and find me lacking. It is dangerous to

disabuse you of that notion, but far more so to let you maintain it.

Cyron smiled. “Let us cast aside pretense. I want you to know I do not see your

attendance here as any acknowledgment of my nation’s superiority, even though my

dynasty is nearly twice the age of yours. I also thank you for the gift of the fine woods and

carvings that you had sent to us.”

The northern Prince stiffened. “I would hope you do not read the wrong thing into the

simplicity of our gift.”

“I do not.” The Desei had sent fine hardwoods, well seasoned, that the Prince’s artisans

drooled over, and the finished goods that arrived had won admiration from all who saw

them. Cyron had even kept a small traveling chess set for himself before distributing the

rest of the works among his ministers and friends. The only difficulty with the Desei gift

was its overall size, for they should have offered much more than they did.

Cyron leaned forward. “You are aware that Erumvirine sent a million
quor
of rice to us as a gift?”

Pyrust’s eyes hardened. “News of their largesse runs rampant throughout Moriande. Even

the deaf and the dead know of it.”

“And news of your lean harvest is likewise known.” Cyron deliberately chose the word

“lean” because the truth was so harsh it could have whipped flesh from the bone. It had

been a dry year, and the Black River had not flooded, so the rice crop all but failed in

Deseirion. With a
quor
being enough rice to feed a man for a year, the Desei harvest had left them with barely half a
quor
per person.

“It is my intent, Prince Pyrust, to honor the Erumvirine gift by distributing their black rice

among my people.”

“Your people, then, will be fat and happy.”

“Happy, indeed, for that is what I wish for them.” Cyron pressed his hands together, palm

to palm, and rested his chin on his fingertips. “I intend to take a million
quor
of our gold rice and send it north, to Deseirion.”

Pyrust covered his surprise well, but only with suspicion. “Why would you do this?”

“I would have thought my motives transparent.” Cyron exhaled, straightening up. “Your

people will suffer this winter and some will die. If your harvest next year is as bad—which

my astrologers suggest is quite possible—you will have one choice. That will be to move

south with troops and take what you want and need from my nation. The thing of it is that

after a year of famine, your army will be weaker, so you will have to move now, this year,

and within the next month, or the disaster cannot be averted. A fool would wait until next

year, and you are not a fool.”

“You say I am not a fool, but you seek to bribe me with food.”

“I don’t think a wolf is a fool, but if food cast out to it will keep it from entering my home, I will feed it.”

Pyrust’s face closed for a moment, then he nodded. “You put me in a difficult position.

Food is what my nation needs immediately, and you offer it. Not freely; I expect a price of

some sort. Since you are also not a fool, I know that price will be dear. But you also know

the inequality of food is not the overwhelming disparity between our nations. I have

dreamed of what is. As you explore and trade with the rest of the world, you grow more

wealthy. If I let you bribe me with food and gold, I will grow dependent on you; and then

when you cut me off, my nation collapses.”

“I will not dispute your reading of the future, Prince Pyrust, but I will maintain it is but one future of many.”

“Ha! You wish to reunite the Principalities into an empire just as much as any other prince.

Only you would buy us instead of take us.”

Cyron raised an eyebrow. “Peaceful consolidation of an empire is a vice?”

The northern ruler hesitated. “It’s not the way of things. Your brother knew that. Your

action reduces the rest of us to slaves. It destroys our spirits.”

“And being conquered doesn’t?”

“Those who survive a war of conquest are cowards. Those with spirit will have died in the

defense of their nation.”

The Prince of the Naleni nodded. “Let me explain things to you carefully, then. I will ship

grain north, but only at intervals. If your army invades, the warehouses and way stations

will be burned. I will draw you south with my army while my fleet burns Felarati. The

Helosundians have far more people under arms than you imagine, and as you move

south, they will move in behind you, cutting off your supplies. Your army will starve. Once I

have crushed your army, I will move north with food and win over your people, establish a

Helosundian regent for Deseirion, and unite all three realms under my banner.”

“It sounds good when you say it, my brother-prince, but crushing my army will take more

than a long march and rebels running through mountains.” Pyrust held his hands up. “But

the future you outline
is
possible. It will profit neither of us. This leaves me asking what you will demand for the rice?”

“My ministers will meet with yours, but what I want is a cessation of the Helosundian

campaign. I want you to withdraw your troops from the field.”

The Desei leader thought for a moment, then nodded. “You could have gotten more from

me. A pact of nonaggression for five years.”

Cyron shook his head. “You would not honor it, nor would I have trusted you to.”