Michael Stackpole - The New World

Keles refused to look at him. “Why wouldn’t you let me stay?”

“She did not want to have you see her die.”

“She shouldn’t die alone.”

“Jasai will be with her. Prince Eiran, too, if he comes quickly enough.” The Viruk came up beside him and looked out over the city. “She was a warrior. She would not have you think of her otherwise. We will mourn her, you and I, then I will avenge her.”

“I already tore him apart.”

“But you didn’t kill him, Keles. You do not kill. But I know the one who did this to her. He also maimed Ciras Dejote. That I did not kill him when I had the chance long ago is an error I shall soon remedy.”

31st day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Shirikun, North Moriande

Free Nalenyr

Cyron Komyr stared at the wall-mounted map of his divided capital. Despite a few scattered fires, it had not been significantly damaged by flames. Eight bridges had come down with a minimum of casualties, though too many of his people had been trapped on the far side.

A semicircle of tables surrounded him. Reports of all types lay on them, some scrolled, some bound into folios, some just notes scribbled onto scraps of paper. He’d perused them all, had Eiran sort them into piles, and sent his clerks out for more.

He scratched at his stump as he studied the map. It was hardly a remarkable specimen-certainly not an Anturasi chart-which he had marked up with numbers and symbols and ideograms of his own invention.

He turned from the map and frowned at the Empress and Virisken Soshir. “The news is not as dire as could be expected. The kwajiin came straight north. Other troops secured the wings. A few Dragons, some militia, and xidantzu put up a spirited defense of Wentokikun. They repulsed two assaults by Virine Bears. Kwajiin were diverted to kill them, but failed to get them all. Nelesquin has made his headquarters in the Bear Tower. There are scattered pockets of resistance in the south. Black Myrian and his family of bandits are contesting control of the docks. A small boat went across last night. I hope to have word back tonight.”

The Empress nodded and would have spoken, save for a quick knock on the door. A clerk stood there and bowed deeply, extending a folded and sealed note through the door. Eiran crossed and took it, then delivered it to Cyron. He pressed the paper against his thigh, then broke the seal with his thumb.

Shaking it open, he studied it for a moment, then handed it to Eiran. “The developing-situations pile, please. Majesty, you were going to say something?”

“Count Derael provided a realistic view of our ability to hold Nelesquin’s forces back. Within the city we are well defended. If Nelesquin were to send his war machines west, cross the river, and come back on the north side, we would face a repeat of yesterday’s assault.”

“I have taken steps to deal with it.” Cyron rubbed at his eyes. “The gyanrigot are a significant problem. They can overwhelm our defenses, but they cannot hold territory. They must have support troops, and we can kill those. The gyanrigot are not invulnerable, either.”

Virisken nodded. “So you don’t believe he has the troops necessary to conquer the north?”

“Not right now.” Cyron jerked a thumb at the map. “Prince Pyrust stripped his nation and put weapons in the hands of everyone who could carry them. Similarly, I am arming as many of my people as we can. The kwajiin may be formidable, but they’re not immortal. With every citizen armed, taking the whole of Moriande will be difficult.”

“He had Virine soldiers and troops from the Five Princes fighting for him.” The Empress’ eyes narrowed. “Can he bring more up?”

“It will take the better part of a month.” Eiran fished through a pile of papers and glanced at a sheet. “He has to feed his army in the interim. There’s not enough food in the south to do that.”

Virisken’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

The Naleni Prince patted a stack of folios nearly a yard tall. “It’s all in here. Erumvirine shipped us a million quor of rice, and we shipped nearly that much north to Deseirion. We left minimal stores in the south. He has a week, two at the outside.”

Even as he spoke, Cyron began to revise his assessments. It was as if just touching the ledgers and inventories refreshed his memory. He could see the stores shrinking as they were consumed. Every theft, every grain nibbled by a rat, every bit of waste; it all came to him easily. Heavy rains or abnormally hot days would alter things in different ways. Even the way the kwajiin ate and what they needed was different, or could be. I have to find out about that.

He looked up at the Empress and the swordsman, and found them regarding him curiously. “What?”

The Empress smiled. “I believe your assessments. You will send a messenger to me if you have cause to revise them.”

“Of course, Highness.”

Another sharp rap on the door panel presaged its opening. The same clerk appeared at the door and bowed deeply. He shuffled into the room and handed the folded paper to Cyron before withdrawing.

Cyron glanced at it, then extended it to the Empress.

She stared at the wax seal. “Nelesquin’s crest.” She slipped a thumbnail beneath the seal and broke it. She carefully unfolded the message, then read it aloud.

“Greetings, Cyrsa, harlot who would be Empress. I possess the Imperial capital and everything south of the Gold River. I will soon possess it all, but war against my own wearies me. Three days hence, I would meet with you on a barge in the middle of the river to discuss terms. Please send your reply to conclude negotiations.

Yours truly,

Nelesquin

Emperor”

Virisken smiled. “If he had the troops to take the north, we’d not have gotten a message. Refuse to meet him.”

“No, I will meet him.” The Empress looked at Cyron. “How much preparation will three days buy you?”

Cyron’s head immediately filled with figures and images, orders to be written and reports that would come back. “A great deal, Highness.”

“Enough to keep the north safe?”

“Quite possibly.”

She nodded. “Then figure out how much more time you need. We shall find a way to charm it out of Nelesquin. I want the middle of that river to be as far north as he ever gets.”

32nd day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Wandao (The Sixth Hell)

Jorim’s quest to win through the Nine Hells almost ended in Wandao, the Sixth Hell. It had been given over entirely to the torment of bullies-from the abusive father and spouse, to the aging shrew who emotionally tortured and manipulated everyone she knew. They had all been regressed to the age of nine-the point at which they should have grown out of such behavior-though their voices and vocabularies betrayed the age at which they died.

In this Hell of children, the copper ants and thorned vines with which Nessagafel had tortured Jorim abounded. Again and again, the children kicked over the anthills. When the ants erupted in copper geysers, the children would run screaming through nettles, brambles, and the vines. Thorns would tear at them and burrs would thicken their hair. Eventually they would stumble and fall. Screaming and thrashing, they would sink beneath a wave of ants.

Clean piles of bones dotted a landscape which-aside from these grim monuments and the abundance of anthills-appeared quite pleasant. Plants would arise from amid the skeletons, flower, then produce a strange fruit that resembled a cocoon. It would fall to the ground and a child would emerge to begin the cycle anew.