The Map of All Things (15 page)

34
Olabar Harbor

Word of the
Al-Orizin
's quest spread across the five soldanates. Would-be crewmen, curiosity seekers, and fortune hunters streamed to the capital city and volunteered their services. Taking his captain's duties seriously, Saan insisted on vetting all the candidates himself.

So far, though, he'd found only a few men that he considered acceptable.

After interviewing dozens of sailors, he could easily spot the dreamers, those wide-eyed men more enamored with the
idea
of such a voyage than with the reality (and with little, if any, experience). He knew full well that such volunteers would sail away with great enthusiasm and sparkling eyes, blowing kisses to their loved ones, eager for a great adventure… but after a few days of hard work and bad weather, they would be worthless. “Ballast with mouths to feed,” Saan called them.

On a dangerous voyage like this, some captains would accept any crewmen, even prisoners. While Yal Dolicar was technically a prisoner, Saan felt he had a spark of persistence, determination, and perhaps creativity that most other men lacked.

So he kept looking, but he wasn't desperate yet. The
Al-Orizin
wasn't ready to sail, and he had found twelve men already. He needed a crew of forty-five, but could make do with forty, if he had to. Saan had decided he'd rather have fewer good men than a full complement of mediocre ones. They would depend on one another for their lives, so he refused to relax his standards.

His mother had told him, “A wise man does not trust his weight to a rope that is already frayed.” When he asked if that was a quote from Urec's Log, she had looked away, mumbling that it was just an old saying. Saan supposed that the line came from the Book of Aiden, but he didn't press his mother. Istar—
Adrea
—had been raised on the deceptions of Aidenist presters and still hadn't forgotten all of their teachings.

He set up a recruitment pavilion out on the sunny docks, surrounded by the bustle of ships and cargo haulers, the creak of oars and rigging, the chatter of sailors and merchants. Hour after hour, men came in full of bluster and departed looking dejected.

A large shadow appeared on the flapping silk walls as a burly man stepped through the pavilion entrance. “You are Captain Saan? My name is Grigovar, and I deserve to be part of your crew.” His voice had the rich musical accent of far-off lands.

“I'll be the one to decide that.” Saan sized up the man, liked what he saw. Grigovar had dark skin and thick black hair, enormous muscles, and a leather vest that seemed too small for his broad chest. A round gold earring dangled from one ear.

The man crossed his arms. “It's your choice, sir, but if you turn down my service, then you aren't a wise enough captain to be in charge of this voyage.”

Saan wasn't sure whether to laugh or be offended. “Well, I am looking for confident sailors, but I need more than brave talk. I need experience, strength, and common sense.”

Grigovar flexed his muscles. “Do I look like a poet?”

“I don't need a poet. What is your accent? Is that Lahjar I hear?”

“I am one of the famed reef divers.” He slapped his chest. “My lungs can hold a breath for six minutes. By diving deeper than my fellows, I made myself wealthy from the bushels of milk pearls I harvested off the coast of Lahjar.”

Though he was already more impressed by this man than by any candidate so far that morning, Saan pretended to be dubious. “If you possess such riches, why would you want to sign aboard the
Al-Orizin
?”

“I want to see the world.”

“Why?”

The reef diver scratched his thick hair. “You've heard the saying, ‘From Lahjar to Kiesh'? From one side of the world to the other. I started at Lahjar. I had already made up my mind to see all the soldanates, to make my way to Kiesh at the far end of Abilan, but then I learned of your voyage. Now, I enjoy your city of Olabar. Your women are beautiful and, better still, they find
me
exotic and attractive. But I've had enough women and enough wealth. It's time for something more. The
Al-Orizin
can take me to Kiesh… and beyond.”

“Why not settle down, take a wife, have children?”

Grigovar rocked back on his heels. “I'd rather have good drink and listen to an amusing joke.”

“You'll not be drunk aboard my ship.”

“I drink. I'm not a drunk. Diving deep for pearls puts enough pressure on my skull. No need to add a hangover on top of it.”

Saan stood up from behind his small table. “One more question—did you bring along any companions from Lahjar? I could use more crewmen like you.”

“One of me is worth ten of your other crewmen,” Grigovar said.

“Then welcome aboard.”

* * *

It took the better part of a week, but Saan did gather forty-two crewmen—enough for him to announce that he was ready to sail. Then he received an unexpected and unwelcome visitor.

In a swirl of red robes, Sikara Fyiri appeared at the boarding ramp with her dark cinnamon-brown hair blowing loose in the breeze. Standing atop a crate as he supervised the loading of supplies, Saan looked at the haughty woman and greeted her with exaggerated cheer. “Good morning, Sikara! Have you come to bless the
Al-Orizin
before our departure?”

Fyiri regarded him coldly. “I have come to join your crew. The ur-sikara chose me to serve on your voyage.”

“Really?” It took all of his effort to mask his automatic scowl. “I don't recall asking for a sikara aboard.” Though he considered himself a devout believer in Urec's Log, Saan had nothing but disdain for the women who had so often targeted him and his mother with their scorn.

“And we did not ask your opinion. This is a voyage to seek the Key to Creation, perhaps even to find the original home of holy Urec. You must allow a high-ranking priestess aboard. The church's mandate is clear.”

Saan considered challenging her, or asking the soldan-shah to intervene, but that might cause more problems than it solved. Once the
Al-Orizin
sailed, Fyiri would be greatly outnumbered and her influence would be marginal. “If you come along, don't expect any special treatment.”

“I expect what is my due—a private cabin and the respect of your men.”

Saan mentally rearranged sleeping quarters. Briefly, he considered having Fyiri share a cabin with Sen Sherufa, but dismissed the idea. He was too fond of Sen Sherufa to do that to her. The two women would be as compatible as oil and vinegar—with Fyiri definitely more vinegar. “I can find you a room, but you'll have to earn the respect of my men for yourself.”

As the remaining crates of supplies came aboard, Kel Rovic and two guards led a prisoner to the docks. Though Yal Dolicar's legs were in chains, he walked with as much of a jaunty step as he could manage. The stump of his right arm was bound up in white gauze, ending abruptly where his hand had been.

Rovic warned, “Keep him locked in the brig until you're well out of the harbor, Captain.” Saan found it amusing to hear his old friend refer to him as “Captain.”

“I won't give you any trouble,” Dolicar said. “Trust me. Truly, Captain, I am grateful for this exciting opportunity.”

Saan showed the prisoner aboard. “You're in good spirits, considering your circumstances.”

“I try to make the best of a situation. Could have been much worse.” Dolicar held up the stump of his right arm. “Your minister of punishment was adept at his work, his blade was sharp, and your Olabar physicians know how to tend an amputation.” Standing there in his chains and tattered clothes, with his wrapped wrist, the charlatan actually smiled. “I would have preferred not to lose my hand, but I'm lucky to be alive. I owe my life to you, Captain.”

He frowned at the stump, where blood seeped through the bandages. “Losing my hand limits my ability to be a good sailor and fighter, but all is not lost. I sent word out—your guards were very accommodating.” He nodded at Kel Rovic. “I commissioned an assortment of tools. I'll have a hook like many sailors wear, and a carved wooden hand for situations that require a bit more decorum, and even an attachment with a built-in dagger, in case you need me to fight.”

Saan was impressed at how thoroughly the man had thought his situation through. “I appreciate your good humor. You will have to practice doing things with your left hand now.” He motioned for Rovic to take the prisoner belowdecks, where he would be held until after they sailed away.

Before he ducked into the hatch, Dolicar called in a conspiratorial whisper, “It's not so bad.” He raised his stump. “After all, I was never right-handed.”

35
The
Dyscovera

One uncharted sea looked much like another, but Criston knew that at any time the curve of the horizon could reveal mysterious shorelines, rugged continents, exotic islands—or the edge of the world itself. So far, though, he saw only water stretching out in all directions… day after day after day.

After leaving the escort of Soeland ships, the graceful carrack continued westward, chasing the sunset into waters that no living man had ever seen. As captain, he had chosen a different course from the wide-ranging path the
Luminara
had sailed on her disastrous voyage.

Each morning at dawn, Prester Hannes summoned every member of the crew to listen to his sermons. He was grim andfiery, quite unlike the soft-spoken and avuncular Prester Jerard from the
Luminara
. But Hannes had been shaped by thepainful experiences he'd endured, and Criston felt close to the man, understood him. He himself was very different fromthe optimistic young sailor who had climbed aboard the
Luminara
nearly two decades ago….

Hannes shouted into the clear, moist air and inflamed the sailors, but out on the open sea, the men had no place to vent their anger. Rather, the prester had to content himself with focusing their energy and determination on finding Terravitae and forming an alliance with Holy Joron to crush the enemy. Prester Hannes continued to remind the crew how much was at stake on this mission. “Though we sail far beyond the eyes of mortal men, do not assume we are safe. Always remain alert for Urecari treachery.”

Impressionable Javian was alarmed to hear such talk, but Criston let the prester spew all the invective he liked. He could never forgive or forget what the Urecari raiders had done to Windcatch, his old mother, or his beloved wife Adrea and their unborn child….

While the
Dyscovera
sailed smoothly along under high white clouds, Criston sat at the table in his cabin and marked the ship's charts. After a brisk knock, Javian pushed open the door, his face flushed with worry. “Sir, there's trouble brewing!”

Only a few steps behind the cabin boy came big Kjelnar, clearly angry. “It's a decision for you to make, Captain. It shouldn't have been a problem at all, if you ask me. One of the crewmen, sir—a man named Mior. The men don't like him. They're suspicious.”

Criston frowned irritably. “A crewman isn't required to be liked, just to do his work. Haven't these others ever sailed before?”

Kjelnar kept his voice low. “Even so, Captain, there could be something to their suspicions. Mior is quiet, keeps to himself, has secretive habits.”

He followed the two out onto the deck, where he saw his sailors milling about uneasily. In the hot afternoon sun, the other crewmen had stripped to the waist as they worked on deck, but the one named Mior remained fully clothed in shirt, pants, and headband. He must have been abominably hot in such garments.

“He never shows his skin, and that's passing strange, especially in this weather,” Kjelnar grumbled. “Some of the crew think he has scars from the lash on his back, and he's ashamed of them.”

“Or that he has fern tattoos, showing his allegiance to Urec,” Javian interjected.

Criston rested his fists on his hips as he observed. “Has he actually done anything wrong?”

“He completes his tasks like any other sailor, better than some. He causes no trouble, but still…” Kjelnar rubbed his face. “Nagging questions make the men uneasy, and uneasy men are more difficult to control.”

Growing angry, Criston walked with a determined gait across the deck. “Then we'll put an end to this now, for good.” Some of the sailors turned away, cowed, while others raised their voices in a cacophony of indignant shouts.

Mior stood apart, glowering at them, his back to three large barrels.

Criston regarded the thin young man, who seemed only a year or so older than Javian. “I will have no secrets among my crew. We'll face unknown perils together. We must trust one another.”

But Mior stood rigid, shaking his head. “No, Captain. A person has a right to privacy, even on a crew. Why should these men care how I dress?”

“You're right, they shouldn't care.” Criston swept a stern gaze across the men, showing his own disapproval before he turned back to Mior. “But they do. And once the question has been raised, it can't be taken back. Considering what the
ra'virs
have done over the years, the crew has good reason to be suspicious. It's a small thing, and you are
all
ridiculous to argue about it.” Criston raised his voice sharply, looking at them again, then back at Mior. “Including you. Will you take off your shirt?”

“No, Captain. Please don't make me.”

“It's the fastest way to put an end to this distrust.” Impatient, Criston gestured to two of the men. “Off with the shirt. We'll all see if he's hiding scars or fern tattoos—and then everyone can get back to work!”

Mior struggled even after the captain's command, and the open defiance concerned Criston even more. But when the cloth ripped and the fabric fell away from the white unblemished skin, they saw no lash scars, no tattoos… only a pair of small, rounded breasts.

36
The
Al-Orizin

The soldan-shah decreed a day of rejoicing and prayer for the
Al-Orizin
before their departure. Plumes of colored smoke wafted from every Urecari church as sikaras burned prayer strips begging Ondun to keep His watchful eye on the ship; some even remembered to include Captain Saan in their words.

Under bright sunshine on the day of sailing, Saan stood at the prow wearing a golden fern pendant that little Omirr had given him; his sisters had made a hand-painted silk Eye of Urec pennant, which now flew from the top of the mainmast. The crew gathered on the deck waving at the audience, blowing kisses. Sikara Fyiri stood at the ship's stern resplendent in scarlet robes, as if demanding to be the center of attention, but the other sailors crowded in with their exuberance, particularly the muscular reef diver Grigovar.

The shackled but grinning prisoner Yal Dolicar was released from the hold below, and a blacksmith came aboard. With a loud clang, he struck the bolt from the shackles and freed the man, then carried the chains back off the
Al-Orizin
. Dolicar rubbed his sore ankles with his one hand, then straightened and waved as vigorously as any other crewman, holding up his beautifully carved wooden hand.

Old Imir strode up the boarding ramp, walked straight to brown-robed Sen Sherufa, and swept her into his arms for a wet, enthusiastic kiss. The crowds whistled and cheered. Saan couldn't tell if the Saedran woman was startled more by Imir's unexpected act or by the catcalls that erupted from the hundreds of observers. Sherufa blushed furiously but didn't pull away too quickly. Imir laughed as she extricated herself and still managed to pat her rear before he bounded back to the docks.

Soldan-Shah Omra stood on the dock with his two wives, three daughters, and two young sons. Saan waved to his mother with such confidence that some of the worry actually faded from Istar's expression. He had already said goodbye to his family, taking special care to speak earnestly with Omirr. “You are the zarif, brother. Help our father take care of Uraba until I come back.”

Raising his hands, Omra shouted above the crowd noise, “Urec will guide you! Let his eye on your sail see only untroubled waters and brisk winds to carry you to your destination. Follow the Map and find what all men are meant to find. Find the Key to Creation!”

When Omra finished his speech, two sailors withdrew the boarding ramp, and dockworkers loosed the ropes. Saan and his crew threw long rolls of ribbon toward the crowd, keeping hold of one end as the ship drifted away from the main dock. The colored streamers shot out like the tails of falling stars, and the gathered people ran forward to catch them. They held the ribbons that grew tighter and tighter as the
Al-Orizin
moved off, until finally the ribbons snapped. One young man held on even when his ribbon didn't break, and he was pulled off the dock into the water, to uproarious laughter.

As the ship began to sail away, Saan stared at the broken fabric strands, then looked up and waved farewell to his family again.

The crowds diminished on the docks as the
Al-Orizin
headed out into the deep Middlesea, her colorful sails dwindling in the distance. And Istar was left behind again. She remained on the lonely dock long after most people had dispersed, keeping her three daughters close. None of the girls spoke now, having yelled themselves hoarse as the ship launched.

Istar felt herself crumbling inside, shaking. She had prepared for this, but she had not expected how the emotions would overwhelm her. She had thought those feelings long buried, but she had been fooling herself. They were not forgotten.

First Criston… and now Saan.

For the past five years, she had carefully kept her secret from the soldan-shah, an old waterstained letter written in the familiar hand of her first love, her
true
husband in the eyes of Ondun and Aiden. Though she had long ago surrendered to affection and appreciation for Omra, she had always reserved a special part of her heart and her dreams for Criston. That letter had saved her in more ways than one; she read and cherished it whenever she needed to. Even when Omra was away, Istar was never truly alone.

On that last day in Calay, when Criston and his fellow crewmen had waved from the decks of the
Luminara
, she had given him a lock of her hair… golden strands that symbolized the bonds of sympathetic magic, and of their love. He had vowed to write her letters and seal them in bottles along with strands of hair so that they would be drawn back to her. And he had done exactly as he promised.

But she had been taken from him, thrown unwillingly into a different life, a life that she had
accepted
. But Istar—
Adrea
—had never forgotten.

Each time she studied the already memorized words Criston had written aboard the
Luminara
, so long ago, she felt as if she were cheating on Omra. But Criston didn't know where she was—or whether she was even alive—just as she had no idea if he had been lost at sea like his father… or if he had found someone else to love.

Now Istar barely recognized her own life. Once she had made her desperate bargain and married Omra to protect her young son, the soldan-shah had treated Saan as his own and accepted Istar as a true First Wife. But she had never forgotten about her fishing village of Windcatch… or that horrific day when Omra and his Urecari raiders had ended her world. The letter anchored her to those other days….

Once, she had carelessly left the door to her palace chambers unattended, considering herself alone as she pored over the letter. Cithara had come in to ask her to play a game with the girls. Istar had tried to hide the brittle, waterstained pages, but not before the quiet girl had seen the Aidenist writing. Cithara had stared, wide-eyed, her expression full of questions. When Istar was clumsy in making excuses, Cithara had merely said, “Don't worry, Mother Istar, I didn't see anything.”

Since that bloody day in the souks down by the docks, Istar had made it known to all Saedran merchants and arriving traders that she was interested in seeing any letters found in bottles. Twice, men had brought her possibilities, but they were obvious forgeries and certainly not written by Criston. She had no further word from him.

After long consideration, she had shown the letter to Saan and again told him the full story of her past life. Having been raised in the Olabar palace and taught only the religion of Urec, her son had difficulty understanding her wistful memories of Tierra. He knew the facts, realized that his mother had been taken against her will, but saw only that her life had been much improved from what it would have been as a poor fisherman's wife. Omra was agood husband and a good father, and she could not argue withthat.

Now that the
Al-Orizin
had sailed away, however, she regretted not telling Saan more about what his real father had done, how their son was unwittingly following in Criston's wake. How similar they were! Young Saan was so brave, happy, incredibly handsome and strong, chasing after a true dream in his heart. Just as Criston had.

She understood perfectly well the political reasons why Omra had sent the young man away; not only did it make pragmatic sense, it was something that needed to be done… and something Saan
longed
to do.

But as she stood on the dock and looked toward the horizon, no longer able to see the ship, Istar couldn't help thinking about the day that her brave young Criston Vora had sailed away in the
Luminara
, leaving her behind.