The Key to Creation (28 page)

Torin Rief was a quiet man who liked to plan his conversation rather than let words just spill from his mouth. From an early age he had studied warfare, and his fascination had rapidly become practical instead of theoretical. He’d fought against the Curlies in several engagements, one on land, two aboard patrol ships. The enemy had wounded him and cut off two of his fingers, but he had killed many of them to make up for it.

Rief rarely saw his wife and three children—of late, he didn’t want to. She had gotten pregnant and given birth to a son, their first, but Rief had been out on campaign, sleeping in military camps, when the child was conceived. He knew how to count months as well as any other person.

She tried to tell him that the baby was a miraculous blessing from Aiden, insisting that she had not been unfaithful to him, but he rebuked her for embarrassing him with such silliness. Rief did not publicly call her an adulteress, or denounce the son as a bastard; he merely went off on a new campaign, knowing he would be at Ishalem for many months.

He could not stop wondering whether the other two children were his. He let her keep his name and her counterfeit honor, knowing that he had made far worse sacrifices in the name of the war. She might have her lovers and her shame, but he would have Ishalem and history.…

The crews went about their familiar daily work, exchanging and embellishing stories about their previous engagements against the Curlies. The recountings grew more extravagant and more unbelievable as the days passed. Comdar Rief listened with a wry smile that he kept to himself: if such tales were true, then he had a crew of titans who would surely sweep away the enemy with a mere glance.

Every Tierran mainsail in the fleet was painted with the Fishhook, a sinuous curve tipped with a deadly barb. He liked to think that the hook’s point was sharp enough to gouge out the Eye of Urec that all Uraban sails displayed.

During the voyage, Rief thought of happier days when merchant ships had sailed back and forth, trading with exotic foreigners, when pilgrims went freely to Ishalem. Even in those good times, though, the Urecari had been hiding their hatred; they did not want a life of peace and harmony with their rivals, never believed in showing tolerance toward the followers of Aiden.…

When the fleet reached the Edict Line marked on their navigation charts, Rief gave orders to tack eastward toward Ishalem, and announced to the crew, “We’re in enemy waters now.” The men peered over the side into the blue Oceansea, as if expecting to see an obvious change.

From the lookout nest, the young man called down, “There’s a ship on the port horizon, sir. A colored sail—the Eye of Urec!” His voice cracked, not with excitement but with the embarrassing changes of puberty.

Rief shaded his eyes, trying to spot the vessel. “Change course. Let’s do a little hunting before we reach Ishalem.”

The seventy-three Tierran ships struck out toward the lone foreign vessel. The men gathered their swords and knives, sharpening the edges for a heated battle, though it became obvious that the target was merely a fishing boat, not any kind of military threat. “Capture it anyway,” Rief said.

Standing next to him, the first mate mumbled, “And what if that vessel carries one of the fiery Urecari weapons, sir? The thing that destroyed Destrar Tavishel’s fleet?” Damnably, his voice was loud enough for others to hear.

Rief made a scornful sound, but already a chill had gone down his spine. “Why would a fishing boat carry such a devastating thing?”

“Could be a decoy, sir. Maybe they mean to lure us close to a ship that looks helpless.”

As he heard the sailors mumble, Rief realized that others had formed the same speculation. He was a cautious man, and he did not forget Tavishel’s hubris. If nothing else, the Soeland destrar’s disastrous failure provided a warning, an example, for the comdar. “Proceed with caution. Look sharp.”

As the Tierran vessels closed in on the Uraban fishing boat, the foreigners aboard waved their hands. They looked panicked, obviously unable to get away.

The first mate considered. “They seem to be surrendering, Comdar.”

“Yes, they
seem
to be, but it could just be a ruse. I’m not going to take the chance. Archers, light your arrows!”

Five of his men strung their bows and dipped their arrows in pitch, while bowmen aboard adjacent warships scrambled to get their own weapons, anxious to participate. “Loose your arrows when ready.”

Two of the archers were so eager that their smoking arrows fell short and plunged into the water, but most of the shafts struck the foreign boat.

Although the panicked Uraban fishermen flailed colored rags in an attempt to signal, the rain of arrows hammered into the sails, the deck, the rigging. As the fire caught and spread, another wave of arrows peppered the boat. Either through intent or by happy accident, dozens of shafts skewered the pitiful Uraban fishermen, pinning them to the deck as smoke began to rise.

“Enough—stop wasting arrows!” Rief called. The fishing boat was already ablaze. There would be no taking of prisoners or confiscating cargo.

The first mate pursed his lips. “It seems they don’t have the weapon that destroyed Destrar Tavishel.”

“I suppose not. But it was a good exercise anyway.”

The Tierran fleet sailed away as flames consumed the fishing boat, leaving a tall smoky stain in the sky. Though they were still far out at sea, lookouts in the high lighthouses on the Ishalem coast could probably see it. The Curlies would know that something bad had happened.

Rief ordered the ships forward, closing in on Ishalem.

Off the Coast of Khenara

Soldan Vishkar had never considered himself much of a sailor, and certainly not a commodore to lead a fleet of ships, whether designed for battle or for hauling cargo. In fact, he still had difficulties imagining himself as soldan of Outer Wahilir, though he understood why Omra had selected him for the role.

And now the soldan-shah had given him another mission, one even more important than building the new church in Ishalem. Vishkar would do the best possible job, not out of ambition, but because Omra had asked it.

After weeks of sailing down the coast, Vishkar was impressed with the number of ships he had gathered. The ragtag fleet was a motley assortment of large fishing vessels, cargo ships, and military patrol craft. When he stopped at coastal towns and spoke with the harbormasters and the captains of any ships in port, Vishkar was not aggressive or pompous. He merely brought out Omra’s decree and informed them in a businesslike manner that he was commandeering their vessels in the name of the soldan-shah.

He hoped this imposing fleet would be sufficient to scare off further Aidenist attacks and protect the vulnerable canal across the isthmus. He didn’t really want to face a major naval battle, since his swordfighting skills were rather rusty.

Accompanying him, more for their own amusement than out of military necessity, were the seven remaining Nunghal ships. More than ninety of the foreign vessels had sailed home with their powerful cannon and firepowder, leaving only these adventurous few behind.

Even the adventurers, however, had little interest in Uraba’s war preparations or the growing defensive fleet. Now that Vishkar had reached far Lahjar, the southernmost city in the land, the seven shipkhans told him they would catch the seasonal winds and sail home.

As the Uraban fleet turned about for the long voyage north to Ishalem, the shipkhans came aboard his flagship to say farewell. Crowded around his table, they ate fresh fruits and skewers of spiced lamb (which Vishkar preferred to fish). He laughed when the Nunghals laughed. They presented him with ivory carvings and a sharkskin vest that barely fit him (and also made him look silly, though the Nunghals gave approving whistles).

Because they had given him gifts, he was required to reciprocate. He ransacked his bureau and found two bronze armbands, a medallion, a bottle of pungent perfume (which made him sneeze anyway), an orange scarf with silver bangles, and a leather-bound book with blank pages that he had always meant to use as a journal. He had no idea what the Nunghals would do with the book, but they seemed to admire it. Though the shipkhans kept ledgers, he wasn’t certain they had a written language.

Most of the Nunghals were not hampered by their inability to speak the local tongue. They had adopted the Uraban system of numbers quickly enough, which let them haggle prices. They used hand gestures and signs, offered objects for trade, and picked up a few key words to get their points across. They learned how to request food items, women, and general services, doggedly repeating mispronounced words until someone understood and gave them what they wanted. The seven shipkhans made no attempt at proper grammar or expanding their vocabulary.

Vishkar valued words, however, and saw the beauty in the Uraban language. He was proud of several long-form poems he’d written, though he would never read them aloud to the foreign visitors. He doubted the Nunghal clans even had such things as poets.…

“We say farewell,” one of the shaggy captains stated, then bowed.

“I am very sorry to see you go,” Vishkar said. “Very sorry. We will miss your ships and your cannon.”

“You have ships.” A second shipkhan gestured vaguely, indicating the numerous vessels around them, outside the captain’s cabin. “We sold Ishalem four cannon.”

“We could always use more. Of both.”

“Want sailing home,” said the third captain. “We again trade next year.” He scratched his head, searching for words. “Not come for…war.”

And then it was time for them to go. Vishkar reached out to shake their callused hands formally, but the Nunghal shipkhans enveloped him in vigorous bear hugs, one after another after another. He waved farewell as the Nunghals climbed into boats and rowed back to their gray-sailed ships.

When they were gone, Vishkar stood alone on the deck of his flagship for a long time, watching as the seven exotic vessels raised their spars and stretched the accordioned sails.

Antos, the captain of the flagship, stood beside Vishkar. The man was short with enormously muscled arms. He shook his head as he watched the Nunghals go. “We don’t need them, Soldan. They were undisciplined anyway, and this navy must be a fighting force that can defeat the ’Hooks.”

Vishkar grunted. “When battle plans are reinforced by a hundred Nunghal cannons, ship movements require little finesse.” He didn’t have the tactical background to be a good naval commander, but he would have to learn. “But we will follow the Map and fight our own battles.”

Captain Antos was satisfied with the reply.

Olabar

Whenever he visited the Uraban capital, Asaddan marveled at the whitewashed buildings and tiled roofs, the bustling bazaars and the church minarets. He was pleased to return to the familiar marketplace and the stalls where vendors sold olives, lemons, and honey pastries.

“So this is fabled Olabar.” Ciarlo adjusted the hood that covered his face. He looked with interest at the market stalls: candlemakers, rug weavers, potters, food merchants with sizzling skewers, fabric dyers, tanners, spice merchants, threadmakers. “This is also the home of the church of Urec, where the sikaras preach their hatred.”

“It is, but not everyone listens. There are many good people here.”

“Then those are the ones who need to hear my message.”

Ciarlo touched his chest to draw out the fishhook pendant he had fashioned from scraps of material, but Asaddan put out a large hand to prevent him. “Remember what I told you! Have a care, unless you want to end up being stoned, or hung from a hook, or whatever these people do to heretics.”

“I am not the heretic. They are.”

“That depends upon your point of view. Now be quiet and follow me. I have many friends in the city—including the soldan-shah. We will be safe here.”

After helping Ciarlo escape from the
Moray
during the night, Asaddan had hidden him in an alley near a tailor’s shop several streets up from the harbor. He pounded on the door until a red-eyed proprietor appeared, wondering what sort of clothing emergency might occur at such a late hour. Asaddan asked to purchase several sets of clothes, and though the shopkeeper was puzzled, his questions vanished when the Nunghal gave him gold coins.

Weary and sore, Ciarlo had huddled in the alley shadows wearing the filthy clothes of a galley slave, still injured from his harsh treatment. Asaddan pushed the pile of new garments into his hands, and the Aidenist changed into traditional clothes, wrapping himself up and pulling a hood over his light hair and pale skin. Asaddan gave him a quick inspection. “Good enough. We have to get out of here as soon as we can. Lean on me, and we’ll move at your pace.”

Hurrying was problematic, though. Ciarlo’s arms were stiff, his hands and wrists swollen and abraded, his legs weak. He had spent weeks, perhaps months, chained to a bench and prevented from walking. As Asaddan guided his companion through the streets, he expected to hear shouts and alarms. Once the
Moray
sailors discovered that their captives were gone, the search would spread out in all different directions.

Asaddan needed to find some other solution. He led Ciarlo inland along a rutted dirt road and came upon a small cottage set back from the path. Inside a rickety corral stood an old gray mare, hoof cocked, half asleep. She was not a sturdy beast, obviously not accustomed to carrying riders, but the mare would do. With Ciarlo off his feet, they could travel faster.

Asaddan knew that if he roused the family and offered them money for the horse, they might raise an alarm. Instead, as quietly as he could, he helped his companion up onto the placid horse, then crept to the closed cottage door and left several
cuar
coins on the step, more than enough to pay for a replacement horse.

Holding the halter rope, Asaddan hurried into the night with the mare jogging alongside him. Hunched over, Ciarlo threaded his fingers through the mane and hung on.