Nelesquin snarled and smacked his fist against his thigh to loosen it. “He’s probably dead.”
“No, I would know.” Qiro tapped his temple. “I would feel it if he died. He’s very weak now, but his mind still functions. They’re dosing him with xunling root and tzaden — flower tea. He will recover.”
“So he can do this again.” Nelesquin pointed north. “He’ll fill that bridge with mist and my soldiers will never make it across.”
“Fear not on that account, Highness. I won’t let that happen.”
“Won’t let it happen? Why didn’t you stop it in the first place?”
“Because I didn’t know what he had done.” Qiro sighed with a schoolmasterish air that made Nelesquin want to choke him. “Keles was in Felarati, then he came south. He passed by the new channel I cut. But I acted in haste when I did that. Instead of piling the earth up on either side, I made it go away.”
“Away?”
“Out of this reality. I am uncertain if it ended up in one of the Hells or in some other place entirely. But Keles must have been close enough to get a sense of the void into which the earth vanished.” Qiro stroked his chin and glanced at the map of the world. “Keles, in his urgency to get rid of the dari armor, must have picked up on the idea that it was not really part of this world. It had been formed in a pocket world-another creation entirely, much as his sister’s paradise, Kunjiqui, was.”
“I remember.” Nelesquin slowly flexed his fingers. “So the dari are there, then. Bring them back.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand, Highness.” The cartographer paused for a moment, then smiled patronizingly. “The world, as I have drawn it, is a chessboard. Keles and I each understand the board on one level or another. My mastery is much greater than his, of course, but he has learned much. In our game we have the ability to shift aspects of the board-but only aspects that have not been identified. While each of us is capable, the board remains the same.”
“Then how did he make the dari disappear?”
Qiro smiled, proudly. “He sensed the alien nature of the dari armor and sent it to a place where it would be at home. This is why I cannot bring it back. I do not know where that place is.”
Nelesquin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You cannot bring it back. I accept this. Make me more dari, then.”
Qiro opened his hands. “I cannot do that either, Highness, and you know that. Our resources have been exhausted.”
“Your answer does not please me, Qiro Anturasi.”
“And your tone does not please me, Prince Nelesquin. Have you forgotten that we are united in this campaign to destroy Nalenyr?” Qiro snorted. “There are things I can do for you, and I am doing them.”
“If you could rip a channel from the Dark Sea to the ocean, you can build me more bridges.”
“I could, but that would be rather inelegant. I shall do something else for you instead.”
“Yes?”
“The world in which the dari armor was created still exists. Have your Durrani round up all the fertile women in South Moriande. Bring them there and get children upon them. You’ve given Cyrsa nine days. In that time, you shall have thousands of troops ready to die for you.”
“I want them to kill for me.”
“I have no doubt they will.”
“All the troops in the world will avail me nothing if they cannot cross the river. I can take them outside the city and lay siege to it, but that will take too long.”
“Fear not, Highness, for I am no more patient a man than you are.” Qiro bent and rooted about in the maps Nelesquin had scattered. He pulled one from the pile, eyed it carefully, then nodded. “I think this will do nicely.”
Nelesquin frowned. “It is an old map of Moriande.”
“It is a beginning.” Qiro smiled, then nipped the pad of his index finger. A bright red droplet welled up. “And now, if you will forgive me, I must go to work.”
Pelut Vniel huddled beneath a heavy canvas shroud, which reeked of vomit and dead fish. The small boat’s rocking did nothing to quell his queasiness. The butterflies in his stomach grew bolder with every creaking pull on the oars.
Such nervousness surprised Vniel, for he’d not felt it in many years-perhaps not even since he took his first ministry exams. Once he had entered the bureaucracy, he had been supremely confident. He appeased those who could destroy him, destroyed those who would appease him, and carefully worked connections that allowed him to rise to Grand Minister of Nalenyr.
But Prince Cyron had changed all that. He’d isolated Vniel and pared away his power. Granted, he’d made the bureaucracy more efficient, and those reforms did have their uses. But Cyron had made one mistake: he fought to preserve his nation. He had forgotten that the bureaucracy was bigger than Nalenyr, that it assured the continued stability of the world.
Pelut acted for interests beyond Nalenyr’s. He’d researched Prince Nelesquin. He’d known all of the folktales, of course, but he looked beyond them. Certain histories from before the Time of Black Ice had praised the Prince for his battles against pirates and his campaigns to preserve the Empire’s integrity. Had Cyron been one-ninth the man Nelesquin had been, Nalenyr would have long since recreated the Empire.
The new Empire was precisely what the bureaucracy needed, so Pelut had actually given thought as to whether or not he should betray Nalenyr. He set aside his personal dislike for Prince Cyron. He viewed things rationally and dispassionately. Moriande had to fall eventually-and probably sooner rather than later. Its conquest would effectively unite the Empire. Helosunde and Deseirion had made their stand in Nalenyr. Once the forces here were crushed, their annexation would be but a formality.
Cyron will not look to the future, so I must.
Keles Anturasi’s disappearing Nelesquin’s gyanrigot warriors had given Pelut pause. That raw display of power inspired hope, but the aftermath killed it. Keles had collapsed. And though Cyron’s physician, Geselkir, cared for him, the young cartographer was reported to be very sick: feverish and delirious. What he had done once he likely could not do again.
All of his considerations left but one path open for Pelut Vniel. Cyron had waged war against the bureaucracy, and Pelut would have to fight back. He saw no other choice, yet betraying his nation did not come free of anxiety. It had to be done, of that he had no doubt, but… if I fail…
He peeked from beneath the canvas. “Why so long, boatman?”
“I’ll get you there, Grandfather.” The man said the word without a hint of respect. “Must have been rain in the uplands. The river’s running a bit faster than usual this time of year.”
The man grunted and pulled harder at the oars. The south shore lights bobbed. Pelut ducked beneath the canvas again, returning to the close and fetid sanctuary in the bottom of the boat. Bilgewater sloshed. He fought to keep his gorge down.
The thing that most frightened him was not the chance of being discovered. He’d already laid the groundwork to suggest he was undertaking an independent mission of peace to save lives and reunite families. He’d made inquiries, ordered reports, all of which would back up this contention. If Nelesquin killed him, or if he was discovered and killed by Cyron’s troops, the fiction would redeem him in the eyes of his people. His effort would be thought good-hearted, if misguided.
The prospect of meeting Nelesquin scared him. Pelut would have one chance to read him, find his weakness, and exploit it. There was no doubt that the man was vain-the manner in which he’d come to the negotiation that morning made that quite clear. Were Nelesquin stupid, vanity would be the way into his mind; but intelligent men always suspect treachery from flatterers. While they believe they deserve the flattery, they also know it is a means to an end. If they spy out the end and do not like it, their retribution is often swift and harsh.