A Secret Atlas (38 page)

Exasperation colored his every word. “No, no, why won’t you listen to me? The
bundles
of sticks should be closest to the stake and angled up. Point them at my knees. The kindling

goes under them. You hold that other, bigger wood back because it will take much longer

to burn, and it’s mostly hardwood. It will burn slowly. You want softer wood, so it will burn

hotter. Listen to me. Do you want your fire to be efficient or not?”

The response from the crowd indicated their wishes ran to the contrary. His exhortations

just made them work harder, piling things higher and in a most haphazard manner. Plead

though he might with them, they refused to pay him any heed. “Save your breath for

screaming, you fool!” one man shouted.

“Told you we should have gagged him first,” remonstrated another.

Moraven spurred his horse forward and raised his voice. “Good people of Telarunde, my

companions and I are curious. What are you doing?”

“They’re building a wholly inefficient fire. This will take an hour to do what could be

accomplished in tens of minutes, with less wood wasted!”

The swordsman held a hand up. “If you don’t mind, Master Gryst, I understand your

thoughts in this matter. My wish is to learn how you came to be lecturing these good

people on how to build a fire.”

An older man, the one who had extolled the virtue of a gag, squinted up at Moraven. “I’ll

tell you and gladly. He come here and said he’d kill the monster in the mountain. He put

one thing here, another there, and another until he had things all over, then he put them

together into something round as a cookpot and pointed it at the fortress and sent it rolling

off like it was a hound after a fox. He said that would take care of it and we all celebrated.”

He pointed at a longhouse toward the north edge of town. The northernmost third of the

thatched roof was missing, and Moraven guessed much of the back wall was gone as

well. “We were sitting in there, thanking him and praising the gods for our good fortune,

when the monster came and ripped the longhouse open. It grabbed a man or three—full-

growed men, not boys like in the fields—and hied off for its lair. Now he said it would take

time, and we gave him time, but a deadline was set, and now this fire will be set.”

Moraven shook his head. “I would not light the fire yet, were I you, for Borosan Gryst kept

faith with you.”

The old man’s face screwed up sourly. “You’re not from around here, and we don’t like

being tricked by strangers. We already have been tricked once. Speak plain. We’ve wood

aplenty.”

The swordsman gave Gryst a hard stare that silenced him. “The device he employed

works in many ways. It went to the fortress. It found the beast. It realized the beast was

more than it could deal with, so a message went out to me. I have come with my

companions to help it complete its work.”

The villagers around the old man watched as he tried to figure out whether to believe

Moraven or not. Flickers of emotion stole over his face, and for a second Moraven thought

he’d won. Then the man’s expression darkened and he opened his mouth to speak.

He never said a word, however, for Keles Anturasi slid from the saddle and pointed toward

the fortress. “Without a doubt, that’s the Fortress of Xoncyr. It’s just like the other one said.

That’s where his sister is.”

The old man blinked. “What other one?”

Tyressa rode up and leaned forward in the saddle. “The other creature we destroyed.

Borosan here is our scout. You can’t imagine we’d have come without a scout, can you?

We’d have been here faster, but the last one was her older brother, and his bride had just

laid a clutch of a dozen eggs, so both were very determined.”

The villagers began to murmur among themselves, but the old man refused to be fooled.

“You don’t look like you’ve been in no fight.”

Ciras spoke softly. “It was not the fight that delayed us. It was laying to rest the five of our comrades who were slain. We were once nine.”

The invocation of nine had the desired effect. Some people grabbed the old man and

others started tearing apart the bonfire. One even asked Borosan if there was an efficient

way to remove wood, and he happily offered advice.

Moraven looked down at the village’s leader. “If you would show us the destruction done

and let us confer with our comrade, we will determine how best to proceed.”

“Yes, of course.” The old man held his hands up. “You wait right here. I’ll get everything

ready for you.”

As the old man ran off, Keles came closer and looked up. “We get Gryst and go, right?”

Moraven shook his head. “We bought Master Gryst’s freedom with a promise.”

Keles’ eyes grew wide. “You’re not joking, are you? You’re going to go up there and kill

whatever that monster is?”

“Me, no.”

The cartographer smiled. “Good to hear that.”

“No, I’m not going to do it, Keles.” Moraven smiled. “We’re
all
going to do it.”

5th day, Month of the Rat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron sat on his throne, again encumbered by the suffocating robes of state.

Between him and the doorway ran a red carpet, edged in purple, but barely wide enough

this time for one man to walk down it. A stretch of blond wood remained visible between

its edges and the pillars, which was why the two ministers who knelt on either side of it, at

his feet, were allowed to be in the center of the chamber. Had either of them or their robes

even accidentally touched the carpet, he could have ordered their deaths.

He did not smile as he recalled the story of an emperor who had once combed a hated

and grasping minister’s robe to find purple fibers on it. Whether or not they had been there

or planted by the Emperor himself in the bristles of the brush used, no one knew. Cyron

doubted he would ever go to those lengths to rid himself of an annoyance, but some days

he found himself sorely tempted.

His own Minister of Harmony, Pelut Vniel, knelt at his right hand. As befitted the man’s

lineage and station, his blue robe had studious dragons coiled back and breast, while

purple trimmed each hem. Vniel was not his most senior minister, but had risen to the

powerful position of Harmony through his wiles and the fact that he seldom remonstrated

with the Prince about matters of form over substance. This meeting, however, had been

one of those times and had set Cyron’s temper slowly boiling.

Across from him knelt Helosunde’s Minister of Foreign Relations, Koir Yoram. Even

younger than the Prince himself, Koir had the fiery spirit of a refugee who wished nothing

more than the complete liberation of his homeland and the restoration of his nation. The

fervency with which he wished this left him trembling whenever he was given news he did

not like hearing. Much had happened since the Festival that did not please him and, Cyron

was certain, he’d badgered his Master into letting him approach the throne with demands.

Pelut had given vent to his irritation in explaining things to Cyron—less to reveal his true

feelings than to show Cyron why this audience was necessary. Bureaucrats evidenced

odd patriotism because they fought more to protect the structures that kept them in place

than they did to defend their nation against predation or outrage. Koir’s request for an

audience had come far too abruptly and on too high a level to be tolerated.

Cyron had finally consented to the audience because it was expedient. He was more than

happy to fund Helosundian military options, for it was better to shed the blood of

mercenaries than that of his own people. The difficulty was that these mercenaries didn’t

think of themselves as such. They actually thought they were a nation and should have a

say in their own affairs. Moreover, they saw themselves as full allies of Nalenyr, not

paupers begging alms, and therefore entitled to advise the Prince and consent on any

policies that affected them.

Pelut Vniel’s hands pressed flat against his thighs. “You will find, Minister, we never

intended to keep news of rice shipments to Deseirion hidden from you. Reports were

communicated to your subordinates. We apologize that the incorrect cover obscured their

true nature, causing them to be set aside. New reports, updated reports, have since been

sent, with the correct covers and under my seal.”

Koir bowed his head. The man’s green robe had gold hounds embroidered on it, but

nothing to indicate that these dogs lived at the sufferance of the Naleni Dragon.
And to

think that purple fibers would show up so brightly against that emerald silk.
Koir had dressed to show disrespect and all three of them knew it, but they also knew that to take

notice and react would be a victory for him.

“Minister, your attention to detail pleases us. The question we have concerns this aid

being given to our mutual enemy, at a time when he is most weak. For the first time in

enneads we are poised to drive him from Helosunde. The grain makes his soldiers

stronger. And at the same time you have slowed delivery of supplies to us. We do not

understand this strategy.”

Cyron consciously controlled his breathing. The Helosundians had yet to agree on an heir

to the last Prince—whose only talent, it seemed, was siring children on everyone but his

wife.
Then again, I’ve met his widow and found her so disagreeable that I would sooner

become a monk than lie with her.
The bureaucrats had formed a committee to decide

which of the Prince’s bastards should lead Helosunde, as much to preserve their positions

as to remove any claim to legitimate rule on her part. This embittered the widow even

more, making a political marriage to her yet more unthinkable in Cyron’s mind.

The Naleni Minister of State kept his voice low. “The shipments of grain are not to the

Desei troops. They go to the people.”

“But, Minister, you would acknowledge that Pyrust draws from his people’s stores to feed

his troops.”

“Of course. We assumed this would happen. Pallid Desei rice fills the bellies of troops,

while our golden rice goes to the Desei people. Do you suppose they do not know where it

comes from? They do, and they know whom to thank when their elders and their children

survive. They will see Nalenyr as the land of gold.”

“Which will prompt them to join Pyrust when he commands them to move south to take

what you give. They will pour through Helosunde to get it. We will be unable to stop them,

for our warriors are hobbled. Our requests have been reasonable.”

Pelut nodded thoughtfully. “Reasonable, yes, but for offense, not defense. You are

planning an attack against Meleswin.”

Koir’s lower lip trembled, betraying his surprise at both the information Pelut possessed

and his willingness to deliver it bluntly. By rights there should have been much more time

wasted peeling back layer after layer of motivation until Koir expressed his desire to drive

the Desei from what had been Helosunde’s third largest city.

“Our agents have learned that, in response to demands made upon him by your own

Prince Cyron, Pyrust will withdraw his troops from Meleswin. We plan to take the city

back, freeing our people.”

Cyron knew that for a lie. Meleswin had long ago spawned a twin Desei city on the north

bank of the Black River. Since its conquest, the Helosundian population had been driven

from it and the Desei leaders had transplanted their own people. Meleswin was now more

a Desei city than a Helosundian one. Any conquest of it would result in a bloodletting that

Pyrust could not help but respond to.

“Minister Yoram, the court has given as much study as possible to this situation.” Pelut

pressed his hands together. “It is believed that any strike against Meleswin is ill-advised.

We cannot support it.”

Koir did not even attempt to control his outrage. “You mean to say you will not
permit
it.”

“That is your choice of words. Mine were chosen with care to their meaning.”

“Might I remind the minister that Helosunde is a sovereign state with every right of self-

defense and every right to pursue its national self-interest. Reestablishing its power over

territory stolen by greedy interlopers is but one of the ways in which we defend ourselves.

Moreover, the stronger we are, the less of a threat the Desei pose to you.”

With a flick of his wrist, Cyron snapped open the fan in his right hand. A golden dragon on

a field of purple unfurled on the crescent and hid his face from his eyes down. “ ‘And the

Master said, “The dog awaits his master’s pleasure and is rewarded. Impotent barks breed

only displeasure.’ ”

Koir stiffened sharply, and Pelut covered his shock as well. Had the meeting gone as

scripted, Cyron would have said nothing, remaining impassive and unmoved throughout.

By hiding behind his fan he was not to be noticed, and though they both heard his

Urmyrian quote, manners demanded they had to deny he had spoken. At the same time

they were required to heed him.

The Helosundian’s blue eyes blazed furiously, but he said nothing for as long as it took

Cyron to close the fan. “Helosunde sees its duty to Nalenyr to be as sacred as it is to its