A Secret Atlas (57 page)

shoulders, then raised his rump, thrusting his face forward. He snapped his jaws open and

shut, and the machine responded by clicking its claws. Like him, it leaned forward slightly.

Then, in a blurred burst of speed, it charged.

Rekarafi leaped up and forward, his powerful legs propelling him well above the claws and

beyond their grasp. As they closed noisily on emptiness, he soared above even the tail

and its spike. As he began to descend, he extended his right foot and twisted in the air.

His left hand whipped around behind him as he turned and caught Skorpe’s tail, right

beneath the thickened bulb from which the stinger sprouted. With a flick of his wrist, the

Viruk flipped the
gyanrigot
over onto its back. Planting his left foot, he completed his turn as his left hand stretched and locked on the tail. His right foot came down at the point

where tail met body and snapped the appendage clean off.

Contemptuously he smashed the tail against the
gyanrigot
’s lifeless hulk.
“Nesrearck!”

Utter silence greeted his victory, but the Viruk did not seem to care. He strode to the wall

and pulled himself over it as easily as he’d vanquished Skorpe. He let spectators flee

before him, laughing almost gleefully.

Ciras frowned. “How did . . . what did . . . I don’t understand.”

Moraven smiled. “He found the weakness. The
gyanrigot
looked like a scorpion, so

Borosan struck at its head with a shot that would have killed a scorpion. It failed.

Therefore, whatever drove Skorpe was not located in its body. The bulb on the tail, on the

other hand, was far from damaged, and never used the way it should have been.”

“I see that now, Master.”

“Then you should also see something else,
Lirserrdin
Dejote.” Moraven pointed at

the
gyanrigot
and the men dragging it from the arena. “Disgust and dismissal prevent you from understanding your enemy.
Gyanrigot
may never be something you have to fight, but by understanding them and their limitations, you can be certain they will never defeat you.”

2nd day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

The sun had reached its zenith, but Prince Cyron still could not shake the dream that had

awakened him nine hours earlier. He seldom had nightmares, and never believed in the

prophetic powers of dreams, but this one disturbed him. As he recalled flashes of it, his

mouth went dry and his head began to pound.

He had been the dragon and had lain in twisted coils on the ground—a rocky, desolate

ground that had cracked beneath the sun or the impact of his fall, he could not be certain

which. Every bone in his body felt equally cracked, and when he tried to move, the grating

pain of fragments locking and shifting clawed through his brain. The frustration of his

being crippled pained him even more than the agonies of movement.

His body lay rent and bleeding. Looking down his length he could see limbs impaled on

stone spikes. Black blood welled up around them and flowed over him. He thought of the

Black River and tried to remember Desei geography, to see if he, the dragon, lay with his

spine shattered on the banks of the Black River, or if there was some other symbolism he

was missing. It struck him as ironic that he was the master of the world’s greatest power

because of the Anturasi charts, and yet his knowledge of geography had become so poor

he could not identify where he lay in the dream.

While the significance of the land escaped him, none of the rest of it did. A massive hawk

landed on his chest and dipped its sharply hooked beak into his entrails. It tore at him,

supping on liver. Its left wing had two feathers clipped, but that had not hindered the bird.

Down below it, a dog lapped at black blood. At his tail the Virine bear nibbled lazily.

Those symbols needed no translation, but two others did. Swarming around him and the

bear, a living carpet of black ants moved steadily forward. Mindless and relentless, they

devoured everything, and somehow he knew the desolation surrounding him was

something they had caused. They attacked the bear and it yowled as white bones

appeared, picked clean of meat and sinew. The dog barked and retreated, and the hawk

took wing.

The black ants approached from his tail, but he could not study their progress too closely

because of the vultures seated on his snout. He could snap his jaws at them, but never

quickly enough to catch and crush one. They, in turn, struck at his eyes and ears. They

tore bits from his tongue. The vultures blinded him. They made him deaf. They silenced

him so he could not even scream as the ants ate him alive.

“Are you well, Highness?”

Cyron blinked and let the world swim back into focus. He sat on his throne, with Pelut

Vniel kneeling off to his right. Both men wore white mourning hoods, though far enough

back on their heads that conversation was not precluded. “Yes, Grand Minister, I am well.”

“I know, Highness, that Grand Minister Lynesorat’s death is a surprise, for we had all

expected a great many more years from him. And the proper waiting period would have

been observed before I was elected to serve you in the capacity he did, save that his

widow’s request and dire times superseded convention.”

Cyron nodded.
Yes, best you think I am truly mourning than believe I am lost in

ruminations about a dream.
“I have no fear, Grand Minister, that you will serve well in his stead. Serve greatly, even, for you know me better than he did. And you are more attuned

to the needs of state.”

The man bowed and pressed his forehead to the floor before coming back up. “My only

wish is to free you from the mundane so those decisions that only you can make become

your primary concern.”

And there are many of those, to be sure.
Vniel undoubtedly referred to the Helosundian problem, which had become a tangled knot. Prince Eiran had taken Cyron’s orders to

heart and was actually winning the loyalty of his people. As he stepped into his

responsibilities, the possibility of assassination increased. Pyrust would never do it, but

Eiran’s Helosundian rivals might, as well as Naleni malcontents.

But Cyron had a more pressing concern. Qiro Anturasi had continued to generate charts,

but reports from the
Stormwolf
and the Ixyll expedition had become short and terse. To

make matters worse, reports came from along the coast of raiding by ghost ships. His

navy had been unable to find, much less engage, the ghosts. Merchants didn’t want to

send ships out without protection, and the resulting disruption in trade threatened to

destabilize his government. Without money, he could not move forward. And, eventually,

he would fall prey to Deseirion.

Vniel frowned. “You are preoccupied, Highness?”

The Prince hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I have a concern, yes. Tell me what you

know of prophetic dreams.”

A little shiver ran through the minister, but otherwise he masked his reaction. “There are

those who set great store in the symbolism. Prince Pyrust, as well you know, is one. I had

not thought you believed in such, Highness.”

“I do not, Minister. Have no fear for my sanity.”

“I had none.” The man smiled. “Was it a dream of yours, Highness, that concerned you?”

Cyron half closed his eyes and waved the suggestion away. “Hardly. I merely wondered if

Prince Pyrust ever suffered nightmares?”

“I can inquire, Highness.” Grand Minister Vniel let his smile broaden. “I do think, however,

that Prince Pyrust will soon have news that disturbs his sleep. It is likewise my hope that

this news will allow you to sleep that much more soundly.”

“Thank you. I hope you are correct.” Cyron gave the man a slight smile and hoped it

covered the trickle of ice running up his spine.
You’re one of the vultures, aren’t you? I

hear what you say, I see what you want me to see, and what I say goes through you.
A

sense of peace came over him as that bit of the mystery cleared up.

Now, who are the ants and from whence do they come?
His eyes sharpened.
And when

they come, can I stop them?

2nd day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Thyrenkun, Felarati

Deseirion

Sweet grey smoke drifted up over the soothsayer’s face. The dim light allowed the

incense’s cherry glow to impart some color to his wrinkled features, but mostly it made his

face a spiderweb of black. His eyes—half-closed, milky white, and all but sightless—

glistened wetly in the smoke. Leathery skin hung somewhat loosely, as if he had once

been corpulent but had wizened through years untold.

Pyrust sat there patiently, cloaked in the darkness of a hood. The soothsayer had only

been told that he was one of the Prince’s advisors. Pyrust had even donned a glove with

two filled fingers to disguise his maiming. The incense’s scent calmed him even as the

smoke made his eyes tear. He kept his breathing shallow when the smoke drifted over

him, then sucked in fresher air when the opportunity arose.

The soothsayer’s voice sank deep, resonating with a strong timbre. “Beware, Hawk-

Prince, the howls of the bitch in heat. She would rob you of all flight. Lairing in a den of

earth, she would keep you from the nest and from soaring, as a Hawk must do. The Hawk

thinks he understands her yapping, but his ears are made for better things.”

The skeletal man reached beneath the small table between them and produced a brass

bowl and an egg. The seer moved the egg through the smoke, letting the grey vapor

wreath it. He held it up with his fingertips, then opened his hand and let it rest in his palm.

With his other hand, he grasped the edge of the bowl. He cracked the egg with one hand

and emptied its contents.

“There! See? See?” The old man cast aside the eggshell and held the bowl up with both

hands so Pyrust could peer into it. The hanging candles above and behind him did cast

enough light to show him a yellow yolk shot with blood. Pyrust recoiled and the old man

lowered the bowl.

His voice returned to a whisper. “That egg was laid by a chicken in Thyrenkun. The

chicken drank the urine of Princess Jasai. Her evil humors are thus revealed. It is a sign

the Prince cannot be allowed to ignore. To heed her brings disaster.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“I would disagree.”

“You saw the egg. It is a sign from the gods.”

“Hardly. The gods would never resort to base trickery.” Pyrust shook his head. “You are

old, slow. I saw the blood bladder in your left hand.”

The old man blinked. “I need use no trickery to see the future.”

“No? You do, however, when you are messenger to ministers.” Pyrust lowered his hood.

“You know who I am.”

The man bowed his head. “Highness.”

“I shall give you one more chance to read the future.”

“Yes, sire?”

Remorselessly, Pyrust drew a very sharp, thick-bladed dagger. He thrust it into the man’s

belly, then ripped to the left before pulling it free. “Read your entrails.”

The soothsayer sat there, his intestines a steaming tangle of white in his lap. “I see

Death.”

Pyrust laughed. “I almost regret killing you.”

The man’s head jerked up, as if caught in a spasm. His face contorted, then he began

speaking in a growled voice, his words bitten off sharply. It was not the voice he had used

before. It sounded like nothing that should have come from a human throat.

“The gates of my realm gape wide for your commerce, Prince Pyrust. You will offer me

more and varied fare than any before you. Shrink not from this duty, and your desires will

know fruition.”

The soothsayer flopped back, gurgled, then lay still.

Pyrust sat there, the bloody dagger dripping onto the small table.
My realm?
The month of the Wolf: Grija, the god of Death.
Did the god of the Dead speak through this dying seer?

My ministers made him a tool. Why should a god not do the same?

The Prince shook his head. The world knew he set store by prophetic dreams precisely

because he wished the world to believe it. As men came to accept that as true, they

presented things to him in the form of dreams. It made spotting their attempts at

manipulation that much easier. He often abided by what they told him, and he often

manufactured a dream to explain some other decision or victory. Already people knew

he’d dreamed of Princess Jasai before the battle at Meleswin.

“Are the gods as deceived about me as men, or did Grija speak to me?”

The dead man did not answer, but the Mother of Shadows appeared at his right hand and

bowed. “The gods seldom speak. When they do, their requests are difficult to ignore. They

are even more difficult to abide.”

Two other forms in black emerged from behind her and dragged the soothsayer’s body

away. In no time, any evidence of the murder would be erased, and those who suspected

anything would remain silent or pass through Grija’s gates themselves.