Rhapsody smiled. “Someday I would like to learn about such measures,” she said, rising and gathering her skirts in preparation of leaving the Hall. “Though I understand that the Sea Mages are very guarded when it comes to their magic.”
The ambassador nodded noncommittally. “I would be honored to tell you a little about it, given your status as a Namer, m’lady,” he said, offering her his arm. “Your vow of speaking the truth and guarding the ancient lores makes you one of the few people outside of Gaematria with whom it would be appropriate to discuss such things. When you are feeling up to it, perhaps we can take a walk in the gardens and do so.”
“Thank you; that sounds very appealing,” Rhapsody said, taking his arm.
“And perhaps in return you can tell me a bit more about the Bolg king,” Jal’asee continued, starting across the floor of the Great Hall. “He is one of the two men with whom you traveled along Sagia’s roots to this land from Serendair, is he not?”
The Lady Cymrian jerked to a halt in shock. She pulled her arm away, shaking. Other than Ashe, no living soul knew of how she and her two friends from the old land had escaped the death of the Island of Serendair, to arrive here, on the other side of time.
“How—how did you know that?” she asked, her voice trembling. She had been caught by surprise so deeply as to be unable to cover gracefully; the nausea of her pregnancy and the exhaustion she was routinely fighting prevented her from it.
Jal’asee smiled at her.
“Because I saw you leave,” he said.
5
Dusk was coming, taking the remaining light of the afternoon sun with it.
Talquist, regent of the vast, arid empire of Sorbold, had been scribbling notes and poring over balance sheets throughout the latter part of the day in the back of his opulent coach, the shade of the window up to allow him both fresh air and illumination in the course of his task. Now, with the approach of night, he paused in his work for a moment, taking care to blot the last of his writing before allowing himself to stare out the window at the sunset.
For all that he had modestly chosen to remain regent for a year, even when the Scales of Jierna Tal had weighed in his favor and selected him as emperor, Talquist did not deny himself any of the luxuries of the position that would soon be his. He had been nibbling all day upon the bounty of the shipping trade from which he had arisen as the hierarch of the western guilds: sweetmeats from Golgarn, flaky pastries layered in honey and cardamom, roasted nuts and delicate wine from the Hintervold, where the frozen grapes were pressed through ice to make an incomparable nectar. He had worked in the trade of the shipping lanes of the continent all of his life, and as a result he had developed a taste for and access to the finer things, even when he was a mere longshoreman. Once he became First Emperor of the Sun in a few months, he would have even better gastronomical delicacies to look forward to. The kitchens of the palace of Jierna Tal were considered among the finest in the world.
The splendor of nightfall over the Sorbold desert was impossible to ignore, even for so focused a man as Talquist. The air, normally static and dry to the point of bringing blood from the nose, took on a sweeter, moister aspect for a moment, as if tempting the sun to return in the morning. The winds had quieted, leaving that air clear as well; the firmament of the heavens was darkening to a cerulean blue in the east, with tiny stars glimmering through the cloudless veil of night. In the west was a swirling dance of color, fiery hues that tapered away to a soft pink at the outer edges, wrapped around a blazing ball of red orange flame descending below the distant mountains.
Talquist sighed. There is such beauty in this land, he thought, the fierce pride of his nation welling in his heart. She is a harsh land, this dry, forbidding realm of endless sun, but her riches are undeniable.
The clattering of the hooves of the horses in his escort, fifty strong, roused him from his musings. Talquist reached for the platinum tinderbox, removed the flint and steel, and struck a spark to the wick of the lamp of scented oil on his table. A dim glow caught, then expanded, bringing warm light into the deepening darkness of the coach’s velvet interior.
Three more days until we reach Jierna Tal, Talquist thought, his eyes returning to the detailed ledger before him. The thought made him itch; he was eager to return to the grand palace with the parapets nestled deep in the mountains of central Sorbold after so much time on the western coast, attending to business there. An unfortunate accident at the time of his selection by the Scales had taken the life of Ihvarr, the hierarch of the eastern guilds, Talquist’s friend, cohort in trade, and only real competition. Talquist had quickly absorbed Ihvarr’s network of miners, carters, tradesmen, and store owners, which required extensive oversight, and he himself had always had the shipping concerns, which needed even more. But the heavy workload didn’t bother him, because Talquist was an ambitious man.
The sound of a horse approaching broadside of his coach drew his attention away from his books. Talquist looked out the window to see one of his scouts riding up, signaling for the coach to slow. He tapped the interior window at the base of the coachman’s seat.
“Roll to a stop,” he ordered, then leaned out the window.
“What is it?” he called.
The soldier, attired in the emperor’s own livery, reined his horse to a halt as well.
“M’lord, there is a caravan ahead approaching the mountain pass, four wagons.”
“Yes?”
“They appear to be traveling under cover of darkness to avoid detection. The wagons are full of what appear to be captives.”
Talquist leaned farther out the window, his brows drawing together in displeasure.
“Captives?”
“Yes, m’lord. They are bound and blindfolded; probably were brought ashore to the south along the Skeleton Coast.”
Talquist nodded angrily. Slave trade was increasing by leaps and bounds in Sorbold; the sale of human prisoners into the mines and fields had been on the rise since the death of the previous ruler, the Empress of the Dark Earth, whose demise had led to his ascension. Renegade slavers who attacked villages or caravans and impressed their captives into fieldwork or sold them were one of Talquist’s greatest irritations.
“Where do they appear to be going?” he asked.
The soldier removed his helmet and shook the sweat from it. “Based on their route, I would hazard they are headed for the olive groves of Baltar,” he said.
“Intercept them,” Talquist ordered. “Divert my procession; I want to see who is smuggling slaves in my realm and put a stop to it personally. I’ll batten down in here; tell the coachman to go full out.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Talquist lowered the shade and put out the light, seething with anger.
Evrit rubbed his tongue futilely inside his mouth, hoping to generate spit, but there was none to be had.
Five days with his eyes blindfolded and his hands bound before him had made him somewhat more aware of things around him: the cooling of the air with the coming of night, the stench of the waste in the wagon, the moans of pain and whimpers of fear among his fellow captives, especially those of his young sons, whose voices he could recognize even when no words were spoken. He tried to listen for any sign of his wife, who had been thrown, struggling, into another wagon, but the endless clatter of the horses and the clanking and groaning of the wagons made it impossible.
Selac, the younger of his two boys, had ceased making sounds some hours before. Every time the wagon noise lessened, Evrit had called to him, his ragged voice all but unrecognizable, but had received no reply. He prayed that the boy had merely fallen asleep or unconscious rather than trying to remain upright in the stench and the thirst, but could not rid his mind of the thumping sound that occurred every time the wagons slowed for the daily feeding and watering of the captives. He had counted five such sounds. The whipping sands of the desert wind stung against his skin, serving as a fine substitute for the tears of fear that could not come from his eyes for lack of water and the blindfold.