The New World Page 30

  Dunos had an excuse for believing that—he was but a child of ten years. Adults who believed it had never fought, or had never had to make a life-or-death choice—at least never one that affected them directly. A minister might quarantine a village so some fever would burn itself out, but he did so at a distance, never having to hear the moans of the dying or see the haunted faces of survivors. If you have not seen blood, you do not know war. If you do not know war, you cannot make the right decisions in war.

  But then, having seen war was no guarantee you’d make the right decisions either.

  We threaded our way through the city. The crowds thickened and we had to force our way to the bridge. I felt trapped by bodies pressing in around me. Any second an arrow would find me. A war machine would pluck me up and crush me like Master Jatan.

  And, though I fought it, panic won. I shoved my way through the crowd. I was strong and they were weak. Heedless of protests, I reached the bridge and sent my people across. I ran after them and once safely behind the first line of ballistae, I turned, drawn by the screams rising from the south shore.

  The kwajiin skirmishers appeared on the rooftops. They nocked arrows and shot, not even bothering to aim. People wailed and surged toward the Dragon Bridge, but Naleni guards had overturned wagons and set them on fire. Still people tried to climb around, and one man even tossed a young boy through the flames. The child landed, miraculously unburned, but broke a leg. Dunos darted out and dragged the child to safety.

  Along the River Road, people scrambled over the wall and leaped into the river. At least one man made the mistake of standing when he topped the wall. Two kwajiin arrows lodged in his chest. Some people hit the water badly and never came up again. Bodies bobbed and floated eastward. Other people struck for the northern bank, swimming furiously. Many exhausted themselves, slowly sliding below the grey water.

  Kwajiin archers reached the River Road to the east. They set up in a simple line. If swimmers had made it to the middle of the river, they were safe, but those just setting out had a choice of drowning or dying with arrows in their backs.

  Then the gyanrigot arrived. A mantis kicked aside the burning wagons. Two ballistae shot. They were not small machines. They’d been loaded with timbers as thick around as my thigh and capped with triangular steel points half a yard long. The first blew through the mantis’ chest, knocking the gyanrigot back several steps before it exploded like a crushed barrel.

  The second shaft glanced off the mantis, then whirled into a human soldier. The blade decapitated one cleanly and the shaft broke nine more. A cheer rose from behind us. I helped reload the ballistae. We could kill another couple here, then the ballistae line behind us could kill a few more. The ballistae on the north shore could sweep that half, killing even more.

  Even so, we couldn’t stop them all. If they came, they’d win through.

  But they did not come. The gyanrigot melted back into the city and kwajiin warriors took up positions commanding the foot of the bridge.

  The war for Moriande was half-over, and we had been soundly defeated.

  The green light in Qiro’s tower suggested decay to Nelesquin. The conditions within the tower certainly agreed. Tzaden vines had broken through windows and proliferated wildly. The workshop was a shambles. The weight of vine and fruit had collapsed desks and drafting tables. Charts had been crumpled by grasping vines and curtained partitions had been ripped down.

  Yet as Qiro preceded him into the jungle, it seemed he noticed none of the destruction. He drifted through it, irritated only by the occasional vine that tugged at his ankle. The plants shrank from his curses.

  Nelesquin stopped at the chamber’s heart. “I will, of course, assign people to clean this up.”

  Qiro spun. “No, under no circumstance shall anyone enter.”

  Kaerinus, who had trailed in their wake, left off sniffing a tzaden flower. “Does this mean I should leave, my lord?”

  Qiro nodded, but Nelesquin forestalled that command with a flick of his hand. “No, not yet. When you do go, you can tell Pravak we have found his left hand.” Nelesquin kicked the thing free of a tangle of vines, but more grew to trap it.

  Kaerinus bent and retrieved the bones. “Most aggressive, these vines. They render your tower quite uninhabitable.”

  Qiro laughed aloud. “That doesn’t matter. The tower is mine again.”

  Nelesquin surveyed the wreckage. “It is not much of a prize, Master Anturasi.”

  “If you believe that, you are a fool.” He walked to the far wall and sank a hand deep into the vines. “Behold the world.”

  With seemingly no effort at all, Qiro pulled and a whole tapestry of vines fell away. They revealed a white wall with a map of the world drawn on it.

  Nelesquin’s mouth went dry. As the son of the last Emperor, he had been privy to what was known of the world. While they had traded with the lands beyond Ixyll, little was known of their culture and nothing of their political structure. Fleets had sailed south and west, trading at islands or a few seaports, but those distant ports defined the edges of the known world.

  “It’s beautiful.” Nelesquin walked toward it, his blue eyes shining. “That’s Aefret? It’s much larger than I could have imagined. And Tas al Aud, I didn’t think it was that far west.”

  Qiro turned slowly, his fingers intertwined and pressed against his breastbone. “Yes, Prince Nelesquin. This is the world. My world. It is the place I have created. You see there, Anturasixan, my continent, wrought by my hand and my will.”

  The cartographer pointed toward the top of the map and the blue line running above the Helos Mountains. “There is the Imperial canal connecting the Dark Sea with the ocean. No, not a canal, a river. Yes, a river. The River Nelesquin. There, my lord, I name it for you. I made it. I name it for you now.”

  A chill ran up the Prince’s spine. “You are most kind, Master Anturasi.”

  Qiro spread wide his arms and turned to the map again. “You have returned to me my tower. I am not ungrateful.”

  “I am pleased that you are pleased. And you have given me a great gift.”

  “What is that, Highness?”

  “The world, of course.” Nelesquin smiled broadly as he studied the map. “We shall restore the Empire once the pretender is destroyed. And then, well, look at how much we have to conquer. Your name shall be exalted in all the lands, Master Anturasi. My legions will bring all this under control.”

  Qiro turned, a thin smile on his lips. “But it is already under control. This is my world, Prince Nelesquin.”

  “I understand that, Master Anturasi, but it shall be my Empire. Look there, where your knowledge of Aefret ends. I will push into those lands, and you will add them to your map. I will bring you more of the world.”

  “You will bring me more of what is already mine?”

  “Yes, Master Anturasi.” Nelesquin smiled indulgently. “And I have given an order that the gates of gold are to be ripped away. You are prisoner here no longer.”

  “You are most kind, Prince Nelesquin.” Qiro gave him an odd smile, then returned to studying his map.

  Nelesquin led Kaerinus out of the tower. He paused, catching his companion by the sleeve, fighting the fatigue washing over him. “He is too dangerous. He will have to be destroyed.”

  Kaerinus nodded. “And you shall destroy him, my lord.”

  “But not until I am whole. Hurry, Kaerinus, find what I need.” Nelesquin raised his head. “If I am to be Master of the World, I must be whole. The sooner I am, the sooner our new campaign begins.”

  Keles hugged his arms around himself. “You have tried everything, Master Geselkir?”

  The rotund man wiped sweat from his brow with a square of stained silk. “There is nothing more…”

  “Perhaps the Viruk ambassador. She healed me.”

  The Prince’s physician shook his head. “I consulted her and even begged her to use magic, but she said that too much damage had been done. The sword split her spine and rupt
ured her bowels, poisoning her blood.”

  “But the xunling root, it helped.”

  “But a body can only take so much of it, Keles. It numbs because it is poison.” Geselkir patted Keles’ shoulder. “We have tried everything.”

  Keles grabbed the man’s sleeve. “There must be something more.” Tears leaked from his eyes.

  “You should say good-bye.”

  Keles nodded, his throat thick. He swiped at tears, then entered the darkened chamber. Tyressa, her flesh as pale as her hair, lay on a bed. The only light came from a candle on the table next to her. The xunling roots stood sentinel against the walls. Rekarafi huddled in the far corner, his face hidden in shadows.

  Keles approached the bed quietly and drew up a chair. Tyressa looked so innocent, so beautiful. Gone was the wariness and ferocity that had always been a part of her.

  She’d been dressed in a black silk robe, embroidered in gold with the rampant hound crest in which all Keru were laid to rest. A white sheet covered her to just beneath her breasts. Her breathing came regularly, but shallow and rasping.

  He took her hand in both of his and shuddered. Her flesh was so cold. He looked at his hands, now healed in part because of her ministrations, and held on more tightly. He closed his eyes, searching for a way to summon the magic to make her whole.

  Her hand tightened on his, briefly. He looked at her. Her blue eyes fluttered open, but only halfway.

  “No, Keles. Your magic won’t work.”

  “Tyressa…”

  “You make things whole. I already am.” Her eyes closed for a second. “I have outlived Pyrust. I served my Prince and kept you safe.”

  Keles nodded, determined not to cry.

  “And I have been loved.”

  Keles’ tears fell on their hands.

  “Do not cry, Keles.” Again she squeezed his hand weakly. “I became Keru because hatred filled me. There was no room for love in my heart. You made me whole.”

  “You can’t die.”

  “I must. Kianmang awaits. There are Hells for warriors who only know hate.” Tyressa struggled for breath. “I will know paradise because of you.”

  “Tyressa, I love you.” He held on tight. “Don’t leave me.”

  “You will be cared for, Keles. Better than I could have managed.”

  Her grip slackened as the Viruk’s hands clasped Keles’ shoulders. “Come.”

  “But…”

  “Her niece is here.”

  Keles nodded and stood. He wiped away his tears, then bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Good-bye, Tyressa. To Kianmang swiftly.”

  Keles let himself be led from the room. He tried to look back, but Rekarafi’s broad body eclipsed his view. He nodded to a red-eyed Jasai as they passed in the doorway, then attempted to shrug off the Viruk’s hands. But Rekarafi directed him through a doorway and onto a balcony that overlooked Moriande to the south.

  Keles refused to look at him. “Why wouldn’t you let me stay?”

  “She did not want to have you see her die.”

  “She shouldn’t die alone.”

  “Jasai will be with her. Prince Eiran, too, if he comes quickly enough.” The Viruk came up beside him and looked out over the city. “She was a warrior. She would not have you think of her otherwise. We will mourn her, you and I, then I will avenge her.”

  “I already tore him apart.”

  “But you didn’t kill him, Keles. You do not kill. But I know the one who did this to her. He also maimed Ciras Dejote. That I did not kill him when I had the chance long ago is an error I shall soon remedy.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  31st 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

  Shirikun, North Moriande

  Free Nalenyr

  Cyron Komyr stared at the wall-mounted map of his divided capital. Despite a few scattered fires, it had not been significantly damaged by flames. Eight bridges had come down with a minimum of casualties, though too many of his people had been trapped on the far side.

  A semicircle of tables surrounded him. Reports of all types lay on them, some scrolled, some bound into folios, some just notes scribbled onto scraps of paper. He’d perused them all, had Eiran sort them into piles, and sent his clerks out for more.

  He scratched at his stump as he studied the map. It was hardly a remarkable specimen—certainly not an Anturasi chart—which he had marked up with numbers and symbols and ideograms of his own invention.

  He turned from the map and frowned at the Empress and Virisken Soshir. “The news is not as dire as could be expected. The kwajiin came straight north. Other troops secured the wings. A few Dragons, some militia, and xidantzu put up a spirited defense of Wentokikun. They repulsed two assaults by Virine Bears. Kwajiin were diverted to kill them, but failed to get them all. Nelesquin has made his headquarters in the Bear Tower. There are scattered pockets of resistance in the south. Black Myrian and his family of bandits are contesting control of the docks. A small boat went across last night. I hope to have word back tonight.”

  The Empress nodded and would have spoken, save for a quick knock on the door. A clerk stood there and bowed deeply, extending a folded and sealed note through the door. Eiran crossed and took it, then delivered it to Cyron. He pressed the paper against his thigh, then broke the seal with his thumb.

  Shaking it open, he studied it for a moment, then handed it to Eiran. “The developing-situations pile, please. Majesty, you were going to say something?”

  “Count Derael provided a realistic view of our ability to hold Nelesquin’s forces back. Within the city we are well defended. If Nelesquin were to send his war machines west, cross the river, and come back on the north side, we would face a repeat of yesterday’s assault.”

  “I have taken steps to deal with it.” Cyron rubbed at his eyes. “The gyanrigot are a significant problem. They can overwhelm our defenses, but they cannot hold territory. They must have support troops, and we can kill those. The gyanrigot are not invulnerable, either.”

  Virisken nodded. “So you don’t believe he has the troops necessary to conquer the north?”

  “Not right now.” Cyron jerked a thumb at the map. “Prince Pyrust stripped his nation and put weapons in the hands of everyone who could carry them. Similarly, I am arming as many of my people as we can. The kwajiin may be formidable, but they’re not immortal. With every citizen armed, taking the whole of Moriande will be difficult.”

  “He had Virine soldiers and troops from the Five Princes fighting for him.” The Empress’ eyes narrowed. “Can he bring more up?”

  “It will take the better part of a month.” Eiran fished through a pile of papers and glanced at a sheet. “He has to feed his army in the interim. There’s not enough food in the south to do that.”

  Virisken’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  The Naleni Prince patted a stack of folios nearly a yard tall. “It’s all in here. Erumvirine shipped us a million quor of rice, and we shipped nearly that much north to Deseirion. We left minimal stores in the south. He has a week, two at the outside.”

  Even as he spoke, Cyron began to revise his assessments. It was as if just touching the ledgers and inventories refreshed his memory. He could see the stores shrinking as they were consumed. Every theft, every grain nibbled by a rat, every bit of waste; it all came to him easily. Heavy rains or abnormally hot days would alter things in different ways. Even the way the kwajiin ate and what they needed was different, or could be. I have to find out about that.

  He looked up at the Empress and the swordsman, and found them regarding him curiously. “What?”

  The Empress smiled. “I believe your assessments. You will send a messenger to me if you have cause to revise them.”

  “Of course, Highness.”

  Another sharp rap on the door panel presaged its opening. The s
ame clerk appeared at the door and bowed deeply. He shuffled into the room and handed the folded paper to Cyron before withdrawing.

  Cyron glanced at it, then extended it to the Empress.

  She stared at the wax seal. “Nelesquin’s crest.” She slipped a thumbnail beneath the seal and broke it. She carefully unfolded the message, then read it aloud.

  “Greetings, Cyrsa, harlot who would be Empress. I possess the Imperial capital and everything south of the Gold River. I will soon possess it all, but war against my own wearies me. Three days hence, I would meet with you on a barge in the middle of the river to discuss terms. Please send your reply to conclude negotiations.

  Yours truly,

  Nelesquin

  Emperor”

  Virisken smiled. “If he had the troops to take the north, we’d not have gotten a message. Refuse to meet him.”

  “No, I will meet him.” The Empress looked at Cyron. “How much preparation will three days buy you?”

  Cyron’s head immediately filled with figures and images, orders to be written and reports that would come back. “A great deal, Highness.”

  “Enough to keep the north safe?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  She nodded. “Then figure out how much more time you need. We shall find a way to charm it out of Nelesquin. I want the middle of that river to be as far north as he ever gets.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  32nd 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

  Wandao (The Sixth Hell)

  Jorim’s quest to win through the Nine Hells almost ended in Wandao, the Sixth Hell. It had been given over entirely to the torment of bullies—from the abusive father and spouse, to the aging shrew who emotionally tortured and manipulated everyone she knew. They had all been regressed to the age of nine—the point at which they should have grown out of such behavior—though their voices and vocabularies betrayed the age at which they died.