The Map of All Things (44 page)

105
The
Dyscovera

From the deck high above the crystal waters, Criston Vora watched the sleek people frolic around the sunken city as if humanity had been shaped for the oceans instead of land. Their skin, while pale, had an iridescent sheen like an abalone shell; it caught the light before the young men and women dove underwater again and swam deep. A few minutes later, a new group of dolphins appeared beside the boat, chattering and splashing, but Criston saw no sign of the mer-people anymore. He couldn't believe they had changed their forms so swiftly, but his sense of wonder made all things seem possible.

The discovery of this undersea city pointed out to Criston how many mysteries and wonders remained in the sprawling seas. The rush of exhilaration reminded him of the fresh thrill of discovery he had sought for most of his life. That was why he had gone to sea in the first place.

Another group of the water people had gathered only a few feet above the wavetops on the balcony of the highest spire. A regal-looking man emerged to stand in the bright sunshine. He was bare-chested, with broad shoulders and a pale, thick beard tinged with a watermark of green. Criston realized that, from the undersea perspective, this pinnacle was immensely tall, a fitting place from which an important man could survey his domain.

The bearded man shouted across the water, and while Criston could not distinguish the words, the meaning was clear. “We'll take a boat. Prester Hannes, I want you with me. These people may know of Aiden or Holy Joron. Sen Aldo, if they don't speak Tierran, perhaps you can understand them.”

The prester gave a skeptical and uneasy frown. “The chartsman seems to think they are of Saedran descent.”

“We all came from Terravitae, in the beginning,” Criston said.

“We have a common origin,” Aldo said, his eyes shining. “Many common things. And if they are descendants of the first Saedrans…”

“Can I go, Captain?” Javian piped up, seeming as full of wonder as Criston himself felt. “I can row as well as any other sailor.”

“Then come along.” Criston was already moving toward the ship's boat. “Kjelnar, you have command of the
Dyscovera
. Let's see what these people know of Terravitae.”

“May the Compass guide us,” Hannes said, keeping his voice low.

Sleek young swimmers gathered around the small boat as it was lowered. They laughed and splashed, watching the clumsy men make their way into the rocking craft. Watching the watery people swim closer, Aldo settled onto the wooden seat. He could not deny that he detected a hint of Saedran characteristics in their features—the set of the brow, the curve of the jaw.

Javian grasped the oars and began to row, but before he could go far, the mer-people gathered around, gripped the sides of the boat, and propelled them with strong kicks of their legs. Laughing, the cabin boy lifted the oars out of the water and held them up. Aldo held on for the ride as four dolphins splashed along beside them. Once they delivered the representatives from the
Dyscovera
, the escort swimmers and dolphins darted away.

The regal, bearded man rose from his ornate chair on the open balcony just above the ocean surface. He spoke in a deep rumbling voice that seemed designed for underwater communication, though with a heavy accent and an ancient and formalized manner. “I am called by the name of Sonhir, and I rule these children of the sea. My people. Hail and welcome to you strangers from a far-off land, in the name of Ondun, creator of us all.”

“The accent is definitely Saedran,” Aldo whispered.

“I can understand him—mostly,” Criston said, also lowering his voice. “Reminds me of the language in old books.”

Prester Hannes pulled out his fishhook pendant, laid it prominently over the fabric of his shirt, and opened the Book of Aiden in his lap. A cloud of skepticism crossed his face as he raised his voice, speaking before anyone else. “Anyone can speak the name of Ondun, but not everyone
believes.
”

“You are free to believe as you choose,” Sonhir retorted. “As we do.”

Aldo spoke quickly before Hannes could take over the conversation. “Greetings, King Sonhir. Allow me to present Criston Vora, captain of the exploration ship
Dyscovera.
We sailed from far-off Tierra in search of new lands and new people.”

“I am greatly impressed with your ship,” the mer-king said. “A tremendous effort to do a simple thing.”

“Our quest is not simple, sir,” Criston said. “It is perhaps the greatest effort mankind has ever mounted.”

King Sonhir seemed amused.

The prester lifted his fishhook pendant. “We come on behalf of Aiden and Sapier. If you do not know the Word and the Truth, we will enlighten you.”

Sonhir's gaze barely skated over Captain Vora's and he pretended not to understand Prester Hannes; he seemed most interested in Aldo. “I sense in you a kindred spirit, young man. What brings you here with these people?”

Aldo wished Sen Leo could have been here, both to see this and to advise him. “I am Sen Aldo na-Curic, the Saedran chartsman of our voyage.”

“A Saedran!” The figures swimming in the water nearby chattered with great excitement. “The Lost Saedrans have come home!”

“Our son has returned to us.”

“One of them, at least.” Sonhir raised both hands and stepped to the edge of the balcony, looking down at the drifting rowboat. “We welcome you back among us, Sen Aldo na-Curic. Our orphaned siblings have wandered from the sea far too long.”

Despite his skepticism, Aldo had no choice but to accept that parts of the fantastical Saedran origin tale were true—the sunken continent, the survivors adapted to a life in the sea. “We tell tales of your people, but the details may have been lost over the course of time.” In a steady voice, Aldo recounted the legend as he knew it, while the young swimmers around the boat chuckled.

The mer-king gave him an indulgent smile. “In the telling, your story is so garbled! You make it sound as if what happened to us was a tragedy. Have you forgotten that we Saedrans discovered a way to transform ourselves—to live in the sea as well as on land? What does it matter if our cities are built in the dry air or submerged beneath the surface?”

Aldo had a hard time grasping the idea. “You can transform yourselves?”

“So you can breathe underwater?” Criston asked.

“Is it not more miraculous to breathe invisible air? Water at least can be seen and felt.” Sonhir laughed again, returning his attention to Aldo to the clear exclusion of the others. “Alas, your legend also lacks a key fact—that we Saedrans
sank our land intentionally.
”

Prester Hannes frowned, not sure he had heard the answer correctly. Taken aback, Aldo asked, “You caused the island to drop beneath the waves
on purpose
. But why?”

“Why?” From the balcony, Sonhir extended his arms. “Look at you, little helpless creatures aboard a floating boat. We are unhindered by such restrictions. We have all the seas as our domain. The entire ocean floor is Saedran land. What more could we want?”

Dolphins splashed next to the rowboat, making Hannes glower as he wiped spray from his face. The dolphins dove again and human-looking swimmers took their places seconds later.

Sonhir's voice grew more sonorous. “Our people have returned to the cradle that Ondun made for us, while the rest of you are exiled on land. But we rejoice that you have come. We welcome back our lost children.”

Prester Hannes could no longer restrain his angry words. “We are not your lost children.” He held up his copy of the Book of Aiden. “Ondun first created the lowly creatures of the seas before He made mankind. By returning to the sea, you and your people have not advanced—you have
regressed
! You Saedrans have become lowly creatures once more.”

A dark expression crossed Sonhir's face, but Captain Vora interceded. “Prester, please do not challenge these people. We're trying to learn from them and have them help us. Let the chartsman talk to them.”

“But if they are damned, Captain, we risk—”

The captain lowered his voice, “I have already risked plenty for the voyage of the
Dyscovera
, and these Saedrans will never lead us to Terravitae if you offend them.”

Sonhir crossed his arms over his bare chest. “We would prefer to converse with Sen Aldo na-Curic. Dispatch him to us alone, and we will have much to discuss.”

The captain turned to Aldo, anxious to cool the situation. “Chartsman, I delegate you to be our representative. You are the best person for the job. For now, it's time we rowed back to our ship.”

Sonhir was easily mollified; he didn't seem interested in the other men from the ship anyway. “Return to us on the morrow.”

As Javian took up the oars once more, Prester Hannes chewed on his very beliefs, barely containing his resentment. Criston cast a stern gaze toward the prester. “Patience, my friend. If we find Holy Joron, even you will be satisfied.”

106
Farport, Soeland Reach

The worst of the hurricane struck the Tierran coast from Erietta southward, barely grazing the islands of Soeland Reach. And Soelanders did not let such weather deter them from their activities.

When he finally learned what the abhorrent Curlies had done to Prince Tomas, Destrar Tavishel swiftly set course for home. His mood was black with the need for vengeance. Though the news inflamed his rage, Tavishel did not shout in anger or smash things. Instead, he locked himself inside his cabin, where he could think. And they tried to place the blame on
his
actions? Those animals would have found another reason to cut off the boy's head even if he and Jenirod hadn't struck the heathen fountain.

The queen's retaliation of dumping a thousand Urecari heads was a good start, but not enough. He had ideas of his own. By the time his patrol ships anchored at Farport, he already had rough drawings completed. He was not an engineer like Destrar Unsul of Erietta, but the concept was plain. He would find someone to build it.

Once in port, Tavishel halted all unnecessary work, and his carpenters spent weeks building mangonels—compact but powerful catapults—from any suitable wood, cutting down the island's remaining tall trees or commandeering fresh Iborian wood from the lumberyards. Nothing had a higher priority.

While the storm churned the Oceansea and then petered out as it moved inland, Soeland work crews anchored the broad-based mangonels to the decks of the patrol ships. Tavishel had seen what such devices could do against solid barriers, and he saw no reason why the small catapults could not be used from his sturdy ships, provided his men reinforced the top decks and anchored them securely enough. The Soeland carpenters added so many thick support beams underneath the main deck that the crewmen had trouble moving about below.

During the refit project, Tavishel barely spoke to his second wife, who was a stranger to him anyway. He slept only a few hours each night, eager to sail for the isthmus as soon as the modifications were completed. His anger was not a capricious thing that faded easily. Even so, he did not want to delay.

From his stone house overlooking the rugged port, Tavishel listened to the sounds of hammers, saws, and winches. Since he never took his meals in the dim, echoey dining room, Tavishel's wife brought him a tureen of chowder in his study. Though they spoke little to each other under any circumstances, she joined him for the meal. He dutifully complimented his wife's cooking, but she seemed like a faint shadow to him. His original wife and children still felt more real….

Burnet, his master carpenter, summoned him down to the docks. “The first mangonel has been completed and installed, Destrar, and is ready to be tested. I've anchored and reinforced the throwing arm and base, but no one quite knows what will happen until we use it.”

“We shall see for ourselves. I'll gather a skeleton crew, and we can head out to deep water for a test.”

His men loaded the decks with hundreds of small whale-oil casks, which could be set aflame then hurled from a catapult basket to smash into enemy fortifications. The whaling season had just ended, and their oil stockpiles were at their peak; this year, Soeland Reach would not be selling all of the harvest to Calay and other Tierran ports.

When the catapult ship sailed out of Farport, the water was choppy, the breeze scouring and cold. Goosebumps prickled the destrar's shaved scalp, more from anticipation than chill.

Groaning and laughing with the strain, the bearded Soelanders cranked their winches, tightened ropes against the pulleys, and drew down the catapult's throwing arm. The metal wheel clanked, one tooth at a time, until the bent and resilient wood quivered with pent-up energy. A redheaded sailor hefted a small keg of whale oil, set it into the catapult's basket, and used his flint and steel to strike a spark on a wadded rag thrust through the bung hole. As soon as the rag smoldered, the redheaded sailor scrambled backward.

Tavishel did not wait. “Launch, before the whale oil explodes.”

The master carpenter released the throwing arm, and the mangonel swung upward with a great groan and crack. The keg of whale oil sailed through the air, reached the top of its arc, and tumbled toward the water. It caught fire midway down, and when the flaming keg struck the water, it shattered, spilling ignited oil across the waves.

“Imagine if that were to fall onto Urecari rooftops,” Tavishel growled to Burnet. They could anchor off the coast of Ishalem, out of arrow range, and bombard it for days, if necessary.

His crews had much to learn about this method of warfare, but those skills would come with practice. Once all ten ship's catapults were installed, Tavishel would float empty barrels out on the waters and have his crews practice hitting their targets. While sailing the refitted ships down to Ishalem, he would drill his crews repeatedly. Fortunately, the flaming oil made absolute accuracy unnecessary. He simply needed to hurl the barrels into the city. Anywhere.

The master carpenter knelt on the deckboards, where the body of the catapult had been anchored, and ran his callused fingers along a fresh crack in the wood. “We're not ready yet, Destrar. Even with the additional crossbeams, the force of the release is going to cause damage. We can use each catapult four, maybe five times before we destroy the deck.”

Tavishel frowned. “That won't be enough. What is the solution?”

“Iron crossbars, I believe. Thick plates to distribute the stress to the ship's ribs and deckboards. I'll make it work, Destrar.”

He squared his shoulders in resignation. “Well even if you cannot… four or five shots of flaming barrels, coming from ten ships, would spread enough whale oil and fire to bring Ishalem down again.” Tavishel showed his teeth as he actually smiled. “I want to sail soon. Can your work be done in a week?”

Burnet remained silent as he did mental calculations. “I'd need extra men.”

“You will have every person on the Soeland islands, if you need them.”

“Then I'll be done within a week.”

Tavishel had seen the site of the holy city when it was merely a barren, burned wasteland—a terrible place, bleak and hopeless. But a blackened scar was preferable to having it possessed by Urecari heretics. “If we soak the earth with enough blood, even Ishalem will become a fertile place again.”