A Secret Atlas (15 page)

the Three Pearls.”

“You didn’t like that duty?” Moraven raised an eyebrow, then pulled the lid from the jug

again. “I spent last evening there myself and quite enjoyed it.”

“How could you? The Three Pearls is one of the most notorious houses of prostitution in

Moriande—nay, even the whole of Nalenyr.”

“More like all nine of the Principalities.”

“Even worse, then,” Ciras snarled. “Not even a house of entertainment, just a house of

whores, coming in from trolling the streets, finding men and women of dubious character,

questionable sobriety, and soon to be diminished wealth. They saw me there, teased me,

touched me, and whispered all manner of lewd and lascivious suggestions. One even

served her customer right there in front of me, moaning, groaning, and making other

noises ill suited to the human throat.”

Moraven sipped some of the soup and let its warmth spread through him. “I know she did

that. I paid her to do so.”

“You
paid
for my humiliation?” Ciras’ eyes narrowed and anger crept into his voice. “Was that your aim, then, to humiliate me? Or did you have me stand guard there so the

brothel’s owner would reward you for my service?”

“And, if that were true?”

“That would be reprehensible.”

“Would it? Why?” Moraven sprang to his feet and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “If

I am your Master and hire you out, am I not entitled to your wages?”

Ciras hesitated. “Yes, but—”

“But what? Is it wrong that I collect your wages in congress with gutter whores if I so

choose? You would let me take food from a farmer for your service. Why not what others

have to offer?”

“But, Master, you are
serrcai
!”

“Meaning?”

“You are better than that! You are better than that just as I am better than sitting vigil in a graveyard while the whole of the city is celebrating the Harvest Festival. My family is Tirati

nobility. We have money. On the second night of Festival we throw a huge ball for the

richest and wisest and most celebrated. Had you come to Tirat, you would have been

honored at that ball, Master. You would have been given anything you desired. You would

not have had to settle for gutter whores. We would have bought you the finest courtesan

on the island. We would have brought one from the mainland for you. My family would

have done that. They would have.”

Moraven again arched an eyebrow. “But not now?”

“After how I have been treated in your service? Why would they? You have disgraced

them, me, and yourself. I had never imagined I could be so poorly used. I trusted Master

Jatan and he turns me over to you, a jokester who consorts with poxed gutter whores

while paying them to tempt me with their foul bodies. You are worthy of respect, or should

be, but I can find nothing but contempt for you.”

Moraven drank again, then set the jar down. “You may stop now.”

“Stop? Why would I? You asked if I had questions, so I have them.” Color flooded Ciras’

face. “Why did you have me guarding a whorehouse? Of what possible use was that? And

why have me here standing vigil over the grave of a poet who hated what I am?”

“Stop. Now.” Moraven held his right hand out, palm up. “Sit.”

The edge in his voice drove Ciras to his knees. He bowed his head and laid his hands on

his thighs. “As you wish, Master.”

Moraven dropped to his knees as well and kept his voice low. “The use of what I have

required from you, and what I
will
require from you, is that these things allow me to learn about you. The more I know about you, the better I will be able to correct your errors and

make you into the
serrdin
you should be.”

He moved the jug of broth closer to Ciras. “Drink. You are hungry and thirsty. But slowly. It

is hot.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Let me tell you what I have learned so far, Ciras.” Moraven let the man drink and lick

away the droplet of broth hanging from his lower lip before continuing. “You have a

romantic view of being a swordsman. I have little doubt you have killed—probably bandits

and thieves who were besetting good folk. They probably even deserved to be dead. You

see yourself as part of a grand heroic tradition of the sort exalted in songs, poems, and

stories, rendered in statuary and in paintings. You know the works of classical Imperial

authors, like Jontze and Viron Dunnol—more the latter since he was himself
serrcai
. You

cling to the Nine Virtues, eschew the Nine Vices, and intend to pass the Eighty-One Tests

of an Imperial
serrcai
. How many have you already passed?”

Ciras barely looked up, but pride infused his words. “Thirty-one, Master.”

“More than one a year.” Moraven smiled. “And more than I have.”

“What?” Ciras all but dropped the jug of soup. “Master!”

Moraven’s eyes narrowed. “Still your tongue, for when it is working your ears are not.”

He waited for the man to fall silent again, then continued. “You wonder at the postings I

gave you. They were exercises in becoming a swordsman. They encompassed rules—

those you imagined, and those that exist without your comprehension. And they had

grander lessons attached to them. You failed the lessons and followed only the rules you

acknowledged. Let me explain.

“The rules you acknowledged were those you have accepted from your reading and

previous training. You accept that, as your Master, I can give you an order and you feel

honor-bound to abide by it without question. I told you, last night, that I wished you to

‘stand watch here.’ You took the words to mean you were to be rooted to this very spot—

one that was cold, subjected you to ridicule, and left you hungry.”

Ciras frowned, but did not voice a question.

Moraven smiled. “Very good. You were hungry, yet you sat here in a place where people

bring food to the dead. You are in a place of plenty, yet you were wanting.”

“But, Master, the food is an offering to the dead, and to the gods. To take it would be—”

“Would be what? Didn’t you see vermin come and nibble at sweetcakes and fruit?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did the gods smite them? Did revenants rise to protect those offerings?” Moraven

lowered his voice. “The priests of Grija are seldom skeletal, though they serve the god of

Death. Do you think all that food is burned as sacrifice?”

“No, but . . . It is
wrong
.”

“Very good, Ciras. This speaks well of your character that you are willing to endure

discomfort when something runs against your moral code.” Moraven nodded

encouragingly and bade him drink more soup. “You must remember, however, there are

times when circumstances require you to deal with things in ways different from those you

might have intended. Rare is the transgression that cannot be repaired afterward. In fact,

all but one can be fixed.”

“And that one?” Ciras closed his eyes and crimson burned his cheeks. “Forgive me,

Master. Here I sit at the focus of the answer.”

“Yes. Why did I have you sit here last night, in a graveyard, when all about you could hear

the sounds and see the lights of Festival? Because those who are here once enjoyed

Festival. What you and I do can take that away from them.”

“If you will forgive me, Master, that makes sense. Why, then, the House of Three Pearls?”

“I would have hoped that would have been obvious, too.” Moraven sighed. “There you saw

the ardor that burns at the core of all people. Each of the Nine Virtues denies a drive that

the Nine Vices embody. Lust is one—which in a house of entertainment is renamed desire

and therefore acceptable. The point is that people have drives—urges that they may or

may not be able to control. If they can control them, it may only be for a little while. You

controlled yours that night, but you were under no directive to do so. I told you ‘stay here,’

nothing more. Had you asked for a bed, they would have put you in the same small room I

slept in last night.”

The swordmaster raised a finger. “At the Three Pearls you saw the strength of lust. Here I

hoped you might truly reflect on the truth beneath Jaor Dirxi’s poetry. He
did
ridicule warriors, but did so because of his terror of them. He and many others were terrified in

that day and age that warriors would dominate the world, and that Cataclysm after

Cataclysm would be unleashed. Many a warlord and bandit prince had second thoughts

about actions they intended, for fear Jaor’s sharp wit would lampoon them.

“So, these two nights were for you to learn that people will do much to defend or to obtain

the objects of their desire, and that their fear of death will prompt them to many things,

including acts of courage. All to avoid death. Without understanding those lessons, you

will not understand people. Without understanding people, you will never be able to

separate those you must kill from those you need not.”

Ciras’ expression softened, then he nodded.

“One more thing, Ciras.”

“Yes, Master?”

“You mentioned your family.”

“Yes.”

“Are they here?”

Ciras shook his head. “In Moriande? No, Master.”

“Do they know you are here?”

“No.”

“Do they have influence here?”

“Not really.”

Moraven flowed to his feet, drew his sword, and let the quivering blade slap the underside

of Ciras’ chin. “Could they prevent me from killing you this instant?”

The young man swallowed hard. “No, Master.”

“Very good.” Moraven resheathed his sword. “All you are, Ciras, is
what
you are: what you can do, how you can make the world better. Money, rank, family—even your past—are

immaterial. We are each of us utterly alone in the world. If we cannot find within ourselves

the strength to deal with the challenges the world presents us, all the strength from

outside will not save us.”

Ciras nodded and appeared on the brink of asking another question when two guards in

the Prince’s livery approached, leading an elderly man wearing the formal robes and

wispy beard of protocol functionary. Moraven stood as the old man mounted the little hill.

The functionary bowed. “Have I the honor of addressing Moraven Tolo?”

“I am he.” Moraven returned the bow, making it of a depth and duration suitable for the

Prince himself.

The old man drew an ivory paper scroll from his sleeve and handed it to the swordmaster.

He held out a small bronze stamp so Moraven could check its design against the red wax

seal, then he broke it and read.

“Minister, there must be some mistake.”

The old man shook his head. “No,
serrcai,
there is no mistake. You will report to

Wentokikun on the sixth night of Festival. There you will display your skills in a duel.”

“But I made no offer to do anything of the sort.”

“It does not matter. The display of your skills was offered to the Prince as a gift to honor

the dynasty’s anniversary.”

Moraven smiled. “A gift? Who offered my services so?”

The old man’s head tilted to the side. “The Lady of Jet and Jade.”

“Ah, of course.” Moraven smiled warmly. “Her request is my command.”

3rd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

The confining weight of the layered robes of state struck Prince Cyron as heavier than the

lamellar armor he donned for battle. He would have gladly traded the purple robes—

embroidered as they were with a menagerie of the gods’ earthly avatars, dragons

ascendant—for his armor. Having the dragon mask shielding his face would have been a

grand bonus, for a single slip of expression could be his undoing.
Much better the cut of a
sword than so simple a mistake.

The doors to the long reception chamber opened slowly. Eight pillars, each depicting one

of the gods of the Zodiac, neatly divided the room into three equal parts. The Dragon

Throne on which he sat represented Wentiko—the ninth star sign—and clearly

subordinated all the other gods. A wide red carpet trimmed in purple ran from the edge of

the throne dais to the door. Only those of royal blood were permitted to walk the wide

carpet between the pillars. For a commoner to set foot on it would be an offense before

Heaven and against the Prince, resulting in dire catastrophes that his astrologers and

ministers could catalog with precision. The trespasser would have to be killed to prevent

them—and in any number of horrible ways which his ministers could also enumerate.

The ministers would be witness to all, but from their positions on the reed mats in the

outer thirds of the room. His own functionaries would take up positions at the right side of

the room, and his visitors would be opposite them, also at their Master’s right hand. They

would be matched in number, ordered equally by age, so everything remained in harmony

and balance.

Aside from the fact that I hate their Master and he hates me.

Cyron kept his face utterly impassive as Prince Pyrust of Deseirion centered himself in the

doorway. He was likewise hampered by ceremonial robes, with dark blue predominating.

His had been embroidered with a far simpler motif that involved Hawks and only two other

of the gods. Dogs, which were the symbol of Helosunde, rimmed the hem of his garment