The New World Page 26

  “Haste will make it more difficult for Nessagafel to find you.”

  Jorim looked around quickly. It did strike him as odd that Nessagafel hadn’t come after him. The irregular flow of time might have meant he wasn’t missed yet. He couldn’t count on being that lucky.

  “Perhaps he’ll come hunting and get trapped along the way. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  The Viruk bobbed his head in agreement. They hurried on through the town. A couple of the taverns had doors, but while they looked inviting, the travelers continued past. As they progressed toward a luminous silver sea, the establishments became bigger and more spectacular. They found themselves irresistibly drawn to the largest, since it alone allowed access to the sea.

  Jorim paused, reading the sign over the open door. “‘The Broken Crown.’ It conjures images. I’m not sure I like them.”

  “In Viruka it is ‘Nesdorei.’” The magician’s dark eyes glittered. “It means the place where the mighty have fallen, and not in a good way. It is the spot where the arrogant have been brought low.”

  “I’m going to have to study Viruka. Lots of nuance there.”

  “Viruka’s time is long past. The world no longer welcomes nuance.”

  “A pity, but you’re right.” Jorim stepped back. “After you.”

  The palatial Broken Crown was immense in every respect. Whole trees had been stripped of bark and transformed into pillars whose branches supported vaulted ceilings. The golden wood floor appeared seamless, as if a single log had been peeled into a continuous surface. Along the walls, and down the center, massive stone hearths blazed. Rough wooden tables—some set with benches and others with heavy chairs—packed the floor. The vast hall defied any attempt to count tables.

  Meat roasted on spits. Servants bearing trays groaning beneath the weight of cups of ale and wine or steaming platters of meat wandered through the endless hall. Occasionally a servant would pause, pass his burden to a patron, then slip into that patron’s place at a table.

  “It would appear, Wentoki, that those condemned for using others are made to serve them.”

  “That’s part of it, certainly.” Jorim drifted forward, trying to recognize some of the patrons. A couple of the crests seemed familiar. They marked minor tyrants or ministers who had thrived on corruption. Often as not, the patrons wore no crest at all, marking them as anonymous abusers, murderers, and pedophiles whose crimes had gone unnoticed by anyone save the gods and their victims.

  “Trying to find an acquaintance probably isn’t the most intelligent strategy.”

  “I agree.” Talrisaal’s eyes narrowed. “I would also suggest we do not sit down, do not take a tray, nor partake of food or drink. We can pass through, but if we become involved, we could be trapped.”

  “Agreed.”

  Jorim’s wanderings brought him close enough to a hearth. The warmth proved inviting, and the scent made his stomach rumble. He began to smile, then he got a look at what the servants were roasting.

  A patron stripped off his clothes and bent over. Another thrust an iron skewer through him. The spike completely transfixed him, emerging with a gush of blood at an angle from the man’s neck. Other spikes secured him tightly to the skewer. Two servants carried him to a set of hooks, then bound him up like a suckling pig. Two more people, grimy and glowing with sweat, hefted the man into the hearth. His flesh began to sizzle as he slowly rotated on the spit.

  Jorim didn’t know that man, but the one next to him, the man whose flesh was blackened save where cooks had sliced off long strips, looked familiar. “Count Aerynnor?”

  The roasted man thrust his hands toward the sound, cracking flesh at elbow and shoulder. “Who’s there?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m innocent. I didn’t murder any of them. Not my family, not Majiata, not Nirati, none of the others! Help me.”

  “Nirati?” Jorim’s stomach knotted. “Nirati Anturasi?”

  “Not her, not her. I’m innocent!”

  Jorim’s eyes narrowed. He’d accepted that his sister was dead but hearing that news as Wentoki had stripped it of all emotion. It was just a fact—one tempered by her still being “not-dead.” He’d never even wondered about the circumstances of her death. An accident or illness he could have understood. He’d even assumed that much.

  But murder?

  Aerynnor’s denial trivialized her death. He’d done it, else he’d not have been roasting. The utter lack of remorse in Aerynnor’s voice chilled Jorim’s blood. He was well and truly deserving of his punishment.

  The person beside Aerynnor had been carved to the bone. Servants dumped the bones into a pile. The skeleton began to move and collect itself. Several more servants rushed food and drink to it. The skeleton quaffed ale and gobbled down great hunks of meat. Instead of splashing to the floor, the masticated victuals flowed over the bones, sheathing them in muscle and flesh. The transformation revealed the skeleton as female.

  Again whole, with lustrous long, dark hair, she picked up the robe the most recent patron had discarded. At her touch it became a brilliant green silk, bearing a gold tiger crest. She cinched it around her waist with a golden sash, then moved through the crowd and joined a table.

  “It would appear, Talrisaal, they serve and serve again.”

  The Viruk pointed after the woman. “No one seems particularly distressed at either serving or roasting. It is not much of a punishment.”

  “True.” Jorim cut through the tables and made his way to the table where the woman had taken a seat. Based on her crest and the style of embroidery, she was some minor Moryth princess. There were stories about a branch of the royal family who indulged in unnatural vices with peasants and later murdered them. The princess sat with others of royal blood, one of whom was well known in Nalenyr.

  Prince Araylis?

  Prince Cyron’s older brother had a breadth of chest and robustness of features not found in Nalenyr’s current ruler. He bore no sign of the sword cut that had split his skull, though he did sound a bit nasal. He wore a robe with the Naleni crest and an Imperial crown hovered above the dragon.

  “If only I had been more patient. I think that is it, really. The Desei were weak and would have grown weaker had I waited. Pyrust could not have held his throne much longer. I could have done it. I could have forced him out of Helosunde and brought that realm fully under my control.”

  Jorim frowned. He’d been a child when Araylis died. He’d worked on some of the maps the Prince had carried on his campaign. Curiously, the campaign had only ever been praised as one in which the Prince would free the Helosundians from the shackles of Desei domination. There was no hint of taking Helosunde for Nalenyr.

  “No, no, patience would have availed you nothing.” The man who spoke wore a brown robe with a white hawk in flight. “The battle goes to the swift. I made my mistake in waiting. I wanted your dynasty to fall apart in civil strife. I wanted you weakened, but it did not happen. If only I had struck when your grandfather first took the throne. Quick, decisive action would have won me your nation.”

  Another woman focused on a reality only she saw. “If only I had not forced peasants to grow blue lilies. Then that child would not have been stung by the bee and died. And his parents would not have started the rebellion. My family would yet rule…”

  “No, that’s not right.” Prince Araylis wiped spittle on his sleeve. “If only I had been patient. That would have been the thing. The Desei would have weakened…”

  Jorim slowly backed away. Doing so, he picked up other snippets of conversation. Everyone had a complaint. Each one of them had a regret—some trivial, some monumental—which they cited as their undoing.

  But Prince Araylis was wrong. Impatience hadn’t killed him. Arrogance had. The same arrogance that told him that he could take Helosunde was what told him he could defeat Prince Pyrust. No matter how long he waited he’d probably never have been able to defeat his Desei rival.

  Jorim turned to Talrisaal. “T
he punishment here is not serving or even being roasted alive. It’s reliving your failures over and over, for all time.”

  “Does it fit the crime?”

  “I suppose. These people went through life without second-guessing themselves. They believed in their infallibility. They acted based on it.” Jorim shook his head. “Forced to relive mistakes without finding a solution. I can’t imagine.”

  One of the servants, bowed by the weight of a sloshing tray of cups, cackled. “If you can’t imagine, you’ll be back here soon enough. As you serve, you see what fools they all are. What a fool you were. And there is no escape.”

  Talrisaal pulled Jorim back. “Do not engage him. He would trade places with you, much as they all seek to foist blame on others.”

  “What a terrible place.”

  The Viruk nodded. “Being roasted and carved must be the most acute punishment, but I would suffer beneath the rest as well.”

  “I hope all their victims know pleasures equal to the pains down here.”

  “We must move on, Wentoki.”

  “True. The door is over there. I’ll meet you.”

  The Viruk regarded him curiously. “What are you going to do?”

  “Magic will work here, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, this will only take a minute.”

  True to his word, Jorim rejoined the Viruk and they marched to the sea. They waded into it and dove down, heading for the Sixth Hell. It was only as the waters closed over his head that the screams of Junel Aerynnor left Jorim’s ears. The man had asked for help, and Jorim had been glad to oblige. The healing spell had taken immediate effect, returning his flesh to pink and sealing the wounds left by the carving knife.

  And it would continue working, forever, so Nirati’s murderer would spend eternity on a spit, screaming out his innocence for any who cared to listen.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  27th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

  Nirati knew not how many days had passed in the real world since she had made her decision to save Jorim. In her realm, days passed at a whim. Time could even be reversed—at least, she believed it could. She seemed to recall reliving a number of days. She grew so frustrated at the end of each that she wished they had never taken place.

  In Kunjiqui, her wishes were law.

  But there were some things she could not wish into existence. She’d told Takwee that they would not travel into the Underworld alone. She needed an army and set out to raise one. The task should have been easy, since Nelesquin had created his army on Anturasixan and sent it off to invade the Nine.

  More important, he had left her some of his creatures. As he worked with Qiro to create lands that were conducive to breeding fierce warriors and terrifying weapons, some creations were not quite what he wanted. Nelesquin and her grandfather had simply wiped those lands away and started over, but Nirati had collected the orphaned strays, like Takwee, and made a home for them. Because it gave her so much pleasure, Nelesquin had taken to giving her larger and larger populations of creatures to house in what he called the Land of Lost Toys.

  Hopeful, she had gone there, seeking to replicate the Durrani. She concentrated on the things she knew. Proto-Durrani—small, brutish men with blue skin and heavy muscles—took well to riding deer with golden horns. They used their mounts to herd other creatures, including the giant and quite docile hammer-headed rock-throwers.

  A whole race of emerald-furred apes with bats’ wings flew down from the mountains. They called themselves the Nighfor. They imitated the formations Nirati put her troops through. Within four or five generations, they understood commands and had become very loyal. They couldn’t use bows, but spears suited them, and they were very good at dropping rocks on things.

  Other creatures, like her long, reptilian wolves, also developed a rudimentary intelligence. They seemed to flock by instinct and sprinted quickly. They had a nasty bite and were happy to hunt as long as the day was sunny and warm.

  In fact, all of her troops were happy to do whatever she required of them. She’d found shrines built in her honor, with flowers and sacrificial offerings. She became as devoted to them as they were to her. As their eldest died and were laid to rest, she would come to ease their passing and promised loved ones they would be reunited in the Underworld.

  All the creatures would indeed lay siege to the Underworld at her command. The problem was, she didn’t know how to command. While she could breed creatures as well as Nelesquin, she had no clue as to what generals did. Like every other young girl of Nalenyr, she’d watched plenty of military parades and learned all about the Keru when she was younger. Parades and drills were useful for establishing discipline, but did nothing to teach creatures how to attack and use strategy or tactics. As for killing…Nirati really didn’t like the idea of killing much.

  Her army was made up of innocent creatures who would do whatever she might ask—but there are just some things that should not be asked.

  Nirati found herself firmly stuck between two unacceptable alternatives. She could let Jorim remain trapped in the Underworld, or she could lead inexperienced and insufficiently trained creatures into a war that she had no skill to execute. Either would be a disaster, but doing nothing would not work either.

  “I need a general.” Nirati frowned as she stared out at the silver ocean into which the land’s azure river poured. A wave crashed and flowed up the beach to wash her feet. As it retreated, the sand buried her to the ankles. She twiddled her toes, laughing at the sensation, then remembered something.

  Her grandfather, exhausted and quite insane, had shaped a small army of mud. He’d placed his little warriors in boats and sent them off. They were meant to free Keles from the Desei capital. He’d even shaped a leader for them, taking a single hair from Nirati’s head to complete the creation.

  Nirati smiled and dropped to her knees, piling up handfuls of wet sand. Takwee and her two Nighfor bodyguards fell in and helped. They heaped wet sand into an oblong six feet in length and three high.

  Nirati plucked Takwee from atop it and patted it all smooth. She began by generally outlining the shape of a tall, well-muscled man. She’d studied a little bit of sculpting in her long quest to discover her talent, but took heart in the fact that her grandfather’s mud soldiers had been quite crude. She worked on the details, right on down to individual finger-and toenails.

  She saved his face for last. She sought in vain for any image of the Emperor Taichun—the man who had created the Empire. The few surviving pictures had been idealized and melded easily in her mind with images of Jorim. She knew of other generals from stories, but had no clear images of them. She could conjure up an image of Prince Araylis, but she remembered that he’d died with his head split in two and didn’t think he’d be very useful that way.

  Nirati knelt and closed her eyes. She laid her hands on the empty face. Instead of trying to imagine a specific person, she concentrated on the traits a great general ought to possess. A strong jawline, certainly. High cheekbones, strong brow, and high forehead. A nose with a bump, perhaps having once been broken. And eyes, set not too deeply.

  As she cut the eyebrows in with a fingernail, her entire body tingled. She focused on her need, her desire, for a warrior who would lead her army and save her brother. It had to work.

  Then a huge wave hit. It caught her in the back, breaking on her. The water knocked her sprawling on top of her sand general, then the undertow plucked her away. Nirati tumbled down the beach. She clawed at the sand. It melted from between her fingers. A second wave drove her into the sand. Grit ground beneath her teeth. She sputtered, then inhaled water. She started coughing and the retreating wave sucked her into the silver waters.

  She struck toward the surface, but the boiling water rolled her over and o
ver. Hair wrapped her face and throat. Her lungs burned. She coughed. Precious air bubbled out. She thrust a hand toward the surface. She felt air, but also felt herself slowly sinking.

  Then a hand closed on her wrist. Her savior dragged her from the depths and held her dangling childlike. Nirati coughed some more, sucked in air, then vomited all over herself. She gasped and struggled as he lowered her into the water, washing her off before hauling her free again.

  Finally, she swept hair from her face. She recognized the man holding her aloft. His face—it had the strengths she’d sculpted, and much more. The eyes, a green of a deeper hue than Nighfor fur, glowed intensely. His gaze flicked from her face to the two charging apes.

  The beasts stopped abruptly, snarled, and retreated up the beach.

  He set her down, then looked at his left hand. He flexed it, studied it, and flicked his thumb against the ring on the fourth finger. He smiled, quite pleased. “I’ve lost my beard, but regained two fingers. It’s a bargain I’ll take.”

  Nirati covered herself with a gown of seaweed. “Welcome to Anturasixan, Prince Pyrust.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  30th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Moriande, Nalenyr

  I dropped to a knee before one of the shrines to Cyron and tossed a beggar a silver coin. From within his dirty robes, he produced a small wedge of incense and lit it. The self-appointed priest of Cyron began mumbling a prayer, making up in fervency what it lacked in coherence.

  The shell-shaped shrine was like nine thousand others scattered throughout Moriande. It had the requisite picture that looked a lot like the Prince and a couple of toy soldiers standing vigil. My priest had a small finger bone purported to be from Cyron’s lost arm. This hardly made the shrine unique—if only a ninth of the enshrined bones had actually come from Cyron, the man’s left hand would have once sprouted at least eighty-one fingers.