A Secret Atlas (41 page)

could have swallowed them.”

Ciras frowned. “Perhaps it feeds as a spider does. It injects poison into prey and when

they dissolve, it drinks.”

“Or,” Moraven said quietly as he stood, “it suckles at the breast of something a good bit

larger.”

A low vibration ran through the ground, as if a big rock had plummeted from the top of the

tower and struck the courtyard. Another vibration shook the stone, and another, coming

faster and stronger. Unbidden, the image of something
much
larger slithering up a narrow passage, its coils slamming into the walls, came to Keles’ mind. He looked toward where

the ramp should have come out and dug for an arrow at his right hip.

Time slowed, and every sensation registered with indelible clarity. Fingers still tingling

from serpent blood brushed soft feathers and closed on hard wood. The jade thumbring

refused to warm. The silver broadhead rasped against the quiver’s hide, then the bow

groaned as he nocked and drew the arrow. His right shoulder began to burn, and the tip of

the arrow quivered as Moraven’s blade hissed from its scabbard and Ciras sprang to his

feet.

Borosan’s
thanaton
came rolling out of the fog first, striking sparks from the garrison building and the outcropping. Just beyond the narrowest point, its four legs sprang out

with loud clicks. A curved panel slid from front to back over its dome, and a heavy

crossbow emerged, twisting and locking down. Two delicate arms set a quarrel in place,

while another heavy arm cocked the bow. The
thanaton
crouched, its knees rising above

the dome.

The monster came on quickly, a black shadow undulating through the mist. It reared up as

the fog parted, giving Keles a good view of a golden-scaled, blunted, wedge-shaped head.

He saw no eyes and only slit nostrils in its face. The creature’s lower jaw dropped,

revealing serrated ivory teeth. It hissed, and panic froze Keles in place.

The
thanaton
did not register fear. It shot, hitting the snake in the throat at close range.

The bolt pierced the creature’s flesh, muting the hiss for a heartbeat, but clearly it was

more from surprise than damage. The bolt might as well have been a wasp’s sting to an

elephant.

The snake’s head darted forward and the rising hiss cut off abruptly. Crystal-clear venom

streamed from within its mouth and splashed over the
thanaton
. The crossbow’s wooden

stock immediately burst into flame and the stones beneath the mechanical hunter began

to smoke. Pieces of the
thanaton
began to melt, with springs and wires pinging as they

snapped. First one leg then another twisted and rotted away, with Borosan’s agonized

screech giving voice to what his creation might have been feeling.

Keles loosed his arrow, and the shot went far better than he would have expected. He

allowed himself a flash of pleasure at how well his brother’s gift worked, because the shaft

flew directly where he’d aimed. His joy vanished, however, as it skipped off the snake’s

flat head and raked back through the black mane. It hadn’t so much as dented a scale

and, with a sinking feeling in his guts, he realized that even it if had, it would have hurt the snake less than the
thanaton
’s bolt.

His arrow did have one unexpected result, however. As it sped through the mane, it

transfixed a snake the size of the one Ciras had killed. Two more, then three and four,

then up to a dozen of them emerged from that thicket of fur, all of them hissing madly and

spitting venom as their mother had. To make things worse, his arrow had not actually

killed the snake he’d hit, and the way they were writhing and springing free, he doubted he

could hit another.

Keles suddenly found himself detached, as if he were standing back, watching himself

draw another arrow and letting fly. The observer cataloged all the details of the beast,

drawing conclusions and, he hoped, somehow communicating them to his grandfather or

brother, even as he died. The snake’s young clearly nested in the mane and likely took

nourishment there. The mother, blind—by design he assumed, since he could see no

scarring—relied on them for gathering food, which she then devoured and fed to them. He

could only hope the snakes had some sort of natural predator, for if that clutch grew and

reproduced, stemming the tide of their expansion would be difficult.

Moraven, Ciras, and Tyressa flew into battle. The Keru hurled her spear and stuck the

mother through the lower jaw. The spear’s head lodged in the snake’s upper palate and

clearly caused her pain. The viscous venom already had the spear smoking, mixing with

the black blood dripping from the shaft. Drawing her sword, the Keru closed fearlessly,

intent on wounding the beast even more.

The two
xidantzu
attacked with a spare economy of effort that should not have surprised Keles. Their command of their bodies and weapons so surpassed anything he had seen

before—including Moraven’s fight in Asath—that he could do little but marvel. Swords

beheaded several of the smaller vipers, then warriors leaped past writhing bodies to strike

at others.

For the barest of moments, Keles believed they might actually win the fight. The smaller

snakes had begun to fall and all three of the attackers had drawn within range of the

largest snake’s belly. His own second arrow had stuck it in the mouth. It had not done

nearly the damage of Tyressa’s spear, but the viper had reacted to the pain.

Then one of the smaller snakes whipped its tail around, sweeping Tyressa’s legs from

beneath her. As she went down, Moraven leaped to her side and slew the snake that had

dropped her. To his right, however, another of the small vipers breathed venom in a vapor

that sent Ciras reeling back. His sword clattered to the ground as he spun away, hands

over his face, coughing heavily. Keles loosed a third arrow at the snake chasing Ciras and

missed, dooming the young swordsman.

Then Borosan stepped up and whipped his arm forward. The mouser spun through the air.

The small snake struck at it, catching the ball in its mouth. Suddenly the legs sprang out,

thrusting up through its skull. The snake flopped, writhing, but that proved to be only a

momentary benefit, as the small snakes were truly the least of their worries.

Moraven stooped to help Tyressa up. The mother rose above him as the undissolved

pieces of the spear fell away. Whether the snake intended to spit venom or just lunge to

devour them, Moraven Tolo and Tyressa were dead.

Then a keening screech of contempt and ecstasy filled the fog and echoed from the

fortress walls. Something angular and dark descended through the mist and slammed into

the back of the viper’s head, jolting the creature. The attacker disappeared immediately

into the mane. The viper’s head rose, nose high in the fog, to smash into the tower. It

wriggled side to side as if trying to scrape off whatever had landed. It hissed furiously for a moment, then squeaked piteously. A shudder rippled through its entire length, cracking its

tail against the tower’s base. The body slackened for a second, then, as if it were a piece

of cable falling, it crashed to the courtyard, cracking ages-old mortar.

Keles went down, groaning inwardly as his arrows clattered onto the stone. Rising to his

knees, he grabbed one and tried to fit it to the bow. His hands trembled and his stomach

began to roil. The arrow fought him, refusing to be nocked. He glanced down, guiding it

into place, then looked back at the head of the viper, five yards distant and twice his

height.

Something rustled in the mane, then stood. Steaming viper blood drenched it and ran from

elbows and hunched shoulders. A hot light burned in its eyes, then it raised clawed fingers

to the sky. It shrieked again, this time triumphant, then lowered its hands. It moved

forward, then crouched on the viper’s golden brow.

“Keles Anturasi. Very good.” The scars on Keles’ back began to burn as he recognized the

Viruk. “The journey has been long. I have come for you.”

14th day, Month of the Rat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Even though Nirati had not liked Majiata, she hated seeing the hopeful look on Lord

Marutsar Phoesel’s face. A small, slender man, he wore a nicely trimmed moustache and

goatee which, like his hair, had been dyed to hide signs of age. His black robe had gold

cranes embroidered on breast and back, and a narrow gold sash had been wrapped twice

around his middle to keep it closed. Many people considered him handsome and

charming—stories abounded about his legion of mistresses—but knowing Majiata had

sprung from his loins killed any appeal as far as Nirati was concerned.

She quickly amended that thought.
That she had come after Keles at her father’s

prompting is what makes him hideous in my eyes.

Lord Phoesel’s only concession to mourning was the white undertunic he wore. It was

visible at throat and cuff, and suggested to many that he was holding his grief deep inside.

Nirati felt the man just thought he did not look particularly good in white. And while she did

not really mourn Majiata, she would have thought her father might make more of a show

of it.

The man hesitated for a moment as he came into the antechamber to Qiro Anturasi’s

receiving room. When Marutsar met with Qiro before, Qiro had received him in a different

room—one much lower in the tower and less intimate. This room, with its stark white walls

and bare wooden floor, mocked the finery of the halls leading to it.

The room had only two adornments, and neither seemed appropriate. Most notable was

the semicircular cage of golden bars that ran from floor to ceiling. It extended to the middle

of the room and covered the far wall from corner to corner. Built into that wall was a

doorway, similarly barred with gold, only four feet in height.

Nirati, waiting inside the cage, welcomed Lord Phoesel through the door. “If you please,

enter and wait over there by the other door.”

The man nodded and looked around as he entered. “I have not been here before.”

“Few have.” Nirati moved behind him and pulled the cage door shut. It closed with a click.

Another click echoed it, and the small golden door slid up into the wall. “My grandfather

will see you now.”

Lord Phoesel approached the low doorway and stooped. He peered in, then glanced back

at her, consternation on his face. She said nothing, so he started forward in a crouch, then

yelped as his forward foot missed the step down. He sprawled forward on his belly.

As my grandfather intended.

Nirati sank to her hands and knees and crawled through, then rose inside the far room.

The circular cage extended out on this side of the wall, the circle trapping visitors. She

bowed to Qiro, then waved a hand toward Majiata’s father, who had risen no further than

his knees. “You know Lord Phoesel.”

Qiro, who was studying a gold-plated human skull he’d brought back with him from the

Wastes, nodded. “We have met before.” The old man stared into the skull’s empty eye

sockets, then returned it to the small pedestal upon which it normally resided. He smiled

and looked down at the merchant, but said nothing.

Lord Phoesel remained on his knees, his head craning back to take in all the treasures

displayed around him. While Nirati and he were the only things inside the cage, all around

it, an arm’s length past the bars, lay wooden casks and ironbound chests. Huge tapestries

and paintings covered the walls. Weapons had been stacked in the corners. The scent of

spices filled the room, wafting from dozens of containers piled high in pyramids. Jewels

glinted from half-open boxes and split sacks had spilled out a glittering carpet of gold

coins.

The skull, while a unique piece of art, was not the most unusual artifact. The heads of

countless animals, from four-horned oryxes and sable tigers to the gaping jaws of a Dark

Sea shark, had been mounted and hung. Hides of rich, thick fur covered the throne

centered against the back wall, and plumage of unimaginable delicacy decorated

ceremonial masks, armor, and fletched quivers of arrows.

The room contained items from the entire world, and if sold in the market could have

ransomed a prince. But here they lay, piled haphazardly, languishing beneath a coat of

dust as if they were nothing. More, Qiro was free to roam amid it all, while his visitor

remained caged.

Lord Phoesel finally found his tongue. “Thank you for receiving me, Master Anturasi . . .

Grandmaster Anturasi. You have no idea how much I appreciate this favor.”

Qiro sat on the throne, and ran his fingers through striped monotreme fur. “I agreed to

meet you as a favor to my granddaughter. Let us have no mistaking why and how you are

here. Were it up to me, you would never have been admitted to my presence.”

Majiata’s father had started to stand, but quickly went to his knees again and bowed

deeply. “I have offended you somehow, Grandmaster. What can I do to make amends?”

“You
have
offended me, and I don’t know that you can make amends.”