by Various
“Shar, you’re a rich woman now.” Shar’s eyes narrowed to golden slits. “You could try to find your family’s Sky Realm. With your reputation, any of the Sky Realms would—”
“One day perhaps, but not today. If this is about guilt…”
“For such can be the burden of the moral, spiritual man,” Omen offered philosophically. “Riddled with guilt and nettled by regret, Indris has never been comfortable with losing his friends. His instinct is to say yes, when he should say no.”
“So we’re going to leave Amnon, neh?” Shar strummed her sonesette. “Where are we going?”
“I was thinking of Ankha.” He knew better than to argue with her. It was as useful as asking a storm to stop. “Or Faroza. Tanjipé, maybe? Anywhere but here. We came too close this time.”
“No arguments from me.” Hayden put his rifle down and picked up several scrolls that lay curled on the table. “We’ve got offers of paid work from your ghost friends in the Sussain, from nahdi companies in Ygran and Tanis. There’s even an expedition off north, to the Spines.”
“The Dragons? Let’s not. I was thinking of something more relaxed.” Indris wrinkled his nose. “We’ve more than enough money, so why not enjoy ourselves?”
“The Floating Palaces of Masripur,” Shar suggested wickedly. Masripur, a Tanisian city on the northern shores of the Marble Sea, was known for its libertine sensibilities. Almost anything could be bought there if the price was right. It was one of the most popular cities for nahdi. The caste-merchants of Masripur who profited from war were some of the wealthiest people in southeastern Īa.
“What about Ariskander?” Shar asked.
“What about him?” Indris replied. “He’ll be busy enough trying to maintain order in Amnon without me adding to his troubles.”
Shar caught her bottom lip between sharp teeth, white against the blue of her lips. “And Far-ad-din?”
“We’ve done all we can for Far-ad-din. He invited us here to scout the Rōmarq and report what we found. He knows as much as we do about the tomb robbers in the wetlands.”
“Far-ad-din is more than our employer!” She poked him in the ribs with a calloused finger. Indris yelped with the sharp pain. “Serves you right! If that was all he was, we’d have run rather than fight for him at Amber Lake.”
“For the love of…” Indris’s eyes widened in surprise as the others looked in his direction. “What? My father-in-law needed our help. We helped. I owed Far-ad-din at least as much.”
“Because he helped raise you as a child, or because you married his daughter and she—”
Indris felt an old pain at the mention of Anj-el-din. Her fate felt like one of the ancient questions his Sēq Masters posed their students to unearth the secrets of the past. Who was Anj-el-din and where did she go? He fought down the melancholy he knew would settle on him if left alone. “A little of both, I suppose. We fought to give Far-ad-din a chance to survive. If he’d bothered to escape when I advised him to, things would’ve been much simpler.”
“You should at least find somebody else to tell what you found.” Omen reached down to gently remove a cat that had started to scratch at his wooden leg. “Treasure hunters in the Rōmarq? Far-ad-din tried very hard to dissuade the smuggling of relics. Who knows what kinds of unpleasantness have been dragged from the swamp?”
“If you’d have come with us, maybe you’d know?” Indris offered reasonably.
“All that water and mud…” Omen fluted, tones low. “The damp might have settled in my legs. Could have caused rot. Highly inconvenient.”
“Face it, Omen. Like me, you hate the idea of the place.” Hayden tapped his fingers on the table. “I reckon no person whole and right in the head would set foot there. Shar’s right, though. Them treasure hunters could be bad business. From time to time, I listen to your talk about them ancient places. You said yourself no good would come of people playing with what the Time Masters or the Seethe—or even the Avān, at the height of their power—left lying about.”
Indris walked to where Omen stood in the balcony doorway. The garden below was quiet. An elderly man reclined in the sun, his back to an apple blossom tree. His head lolled forward, open palm upward in his lap, the book he had been reading facedown on the lush grass. Purple-and-gold lotus flowers emerged from the banks of a muddy pond fed by the overflow of a small fountain. They seemed too vivid, their colors brilliant in the striated light that speared through alabaster screens on the wall above. Sacred to the Seethe, it was the petals of the lotus flower for which their great Petal Empire had been named. Cats prowled and played with each other or batted large paws at the distraction of carp in the deep pond. They turned triangular faces in his direction, eyes half-closed in pleasure, tails raised in greeting. Everywhere he went… cats. The sensitive animals sensed Indris’s presence in the ripple of his Disentropic Stain. Cats were more attuned to the creative forces of disentropy than most animals. It was as if they could actually sense the warmth of the creative nimbus that flowed across all living things.
“Many believe Far-ad-din was a traitor,” Indris said softly as he stared out over the garden. I’m going to miss this place, he thought. Anj and I made some good memories here… “But Corajidin had him removed for his own purposes. He risked a lot to get his hands on whatever it is he’s searching for in the Rōmarq.”
“I remember too well our people’s fascination with the Rōmarq,” Omen intoned. “It has long been a lure for those seeking out the works of those older, or wiser, than themselves. Yet always it led to suffering. It is not a wholesome place—those brackish waters, its flooded cities, its memories of sunlight and laughter. No, the Rōmarq clings to its secrets, as dearly as people have sought to unearth them.”
“We’ve done what was asked of us and more,” Indris murmured. “Now it’s time to move on.”
Despite their resentment of the Seethe, neither the Avān nor the Humans were ignorant to the inventiveness of their former masters or those who had come before them. Avān history spoke of three great empires: the Haiyt Empire of the Time Masters—the Rōm as they were known—who romantics said had ruled Īa for ten thousand years; the Petal Empire of the Seethe, which had lasted for a more believable four thousand years; and the empire of the Avān, ruled by its frighteningly powerful Awakened Emperors, which had lasted a mere millennium before the Humans tore it down. The one thing all three empires had in common was the Rōmarq.
Yet it was Fiandahariat, one of the reputed homes of the great Avān mystic, Sedefke, that Indris feared had been discovered. In all their years, the Sēq had never found it. Never had the chance to cleanse it of temptation to others. So it remained a potential vault of Haiyt Empire and early Awakened Empire history. Relics. Texts. Weapons. There was no way of knowing what was there, though Indris and Shar had reported to Far-ad-din the hive of activity the ruins had become.
Indris saw the disappointment on Shar’s sharp features, in the way she seemed to throttle the neck of her sonesette. He hoped it was not his throat she was imagining.
“Shar, Amnon has been occupied. Even though Ariskander is benign, others aren’t. Believe me when I say any people who can leave will be safer elsewhere.” Indris forced a smile. He pointed a finger to the southwest. “The Rōmarq is only a few kilometers in that direction. Do you really think, with Far-ad-din gone, Corajidin will pass up a chance to dig up what he can, as quickly as he can? There are others better equipped to deal with what’s going on here. We have to trust that Ariskander and Vashne will do the right thing.”
Shar’s expression became fierce. “So it all comes to nothing? You have to let Ariskander know about the tomb raiders in the Rōmarq. At least let him finish what we started.”
“I reckon Shar’s right, Indris.” Hayden nodded. “Seems we ought to tell more folks what we’ve seen.”
“It is the proper thing to do,” Omen said. “Otherwise, what point in anything we have done?”
“Fine. I’ll tell Ariskander.” Indris
surrendered to the moral compasses of his friends, as he so often did. “Can we leave then?”
“You know I’m right,” Shar said. She skipped forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Why not listen to me in the first place? It’ll save you time and trouble in the long run.”
“So you’re fond of reminding me.”
• • •
The Torchlight Society brought those of like mind, those who sought knowledge for its beauty, its lessons, and its legacies, together. More than a score of attendees stood in earnest discussion or sat at their ease on well-upholstered chairs in the salon set apart from Indris’s private chambers. The long sails of ceiling fans slowly swept back and forth, cooling the air. Scrolls, sandwiched between sheets of glass, hung from the ceiling by chains. Each of the scrolls was inscribed with writing or illustrations. Some of the inventions were easily identifiable: the Disentropy Spool, a cylinder capped with mushroomlike domes of clockwork gears and cogs; the ghostly net of the Wind Loom, a sail woven from air; the broad, shallow bowl of the Scholar’s Chariot; the Entanglement Bowl that allowed people to speak to each other from across vast distances; the steel frame and glass panes of the Seer’s Window. There was even an illustration of a Havoc Chair, one of Sedefke’s inventions from his militant years. It was rumored Indris’s mother had once owned a copy of The Awakened Soul, Sedefke’s treatise on how he had guided the first Avān monarchs and scholars in their understanding and mastery of Awakening. If his mother had owned the book, Indris had never seen it. It would be worth many times its weight in gold and gems.
Indris turned at the sound of a rough-edged laugh. Femensetri stood beside Gulenn, the graying inventor and artist. Almost two decades ago, Gulenn had invented the Portrait Glass used to permanently store images of people and things in wafers of serill—the drake-fired glass of the Seethe. Beside Gulenn was his latest project, a version of the Portrait Glass that could show moving pictures. Indris had marveled at the clitter-clatter of the exposed mechanism and the spinning barrel of crystal wafers that projected the flickering image of Gulenn’s young son, at play in a garden, on the wall.
The images reminded Indris of happier times in his life when he had thought, wrongly, that he had escaped the clutches of turmoil. Though life had been hard, had been dangerous, he had not cared. To come home to the smile on the face of the woman he loved had helped wash away the regret of the time spent apart. The times when he was knee-deep in the mire, the blood of friends and enemies indistinguishable on his hands. Life had not been perfect, it never was, though it had been good for a long time. Both he and Anj had defied their Sēq Masters when they’d married. Had fallen in love, contrary to instructions. The masters had warned Indris no good would come of it, had said it would end in heartbreak at the very least. As his thoughts turned to his nameless lover from last night, guilt rose anew. He fought it down. Anj had been gone long enough for him to know she would never be coming back.
“We truly live in an age of invention.” Indris blinked, snapped from his reverie. Ziaire stood in the doorway, magnificent in her layers of pearlescent white and ivory silk. She bestowed a dazzling smile upon Shar, who grinned in response. “I trust I’m not intruding?”
“Of course not.” Indris offered the lady a chair. Femensetri caught Indris’s eye, lifted her chin by way of hello. Indris sketched a bow to his former teacher. Both Shar and Ziaire viewed the exchange with wry grins.
“It must have been pleasant for you to see Femensetri after so long.” Ziaire carefully adjusted the folds of her kilt. “She speaks of you often, mostly kindly. I feel as if I know you intimately.”
“Ten years is a long time to hold a grudge.” Indris shrugged. The idea of the famous nemhoureh knowing him intimately was somehow daunting.
“Indris, she’s not the woman you knew. You’re no longer her pupil.”
“Please.” Indris held his hand up. “That chapter of my life is long closed. If I’m very fortunate, I’ll be able to leave Amnon without picking at old wounds. Let’s leave the scars as they are, neh?”
“As you will.” Ziaire leaned back as a servant put down an iron pot, steam streaming from the spout. The pots were followed by glazed clay cups, the glaze rippling with hints of blue and green. They reminded Indris of wavelets on the beach, advancing and retreating. The refreshing smell of apple tea assailed his nostrils.
Without a word, Femensetri seated herself beside Ziaire, the two women as different from each other as the black and white they wore. The Scholar Marshal poured tea for herself. With a faint smile, Shar poured for Indris, Ziaire, and herself. The four of them gave their attention to their drinks. Indris felt the warmth of it in his belly, trickling out to infuse his limbs. With the scented steam of the tea in his nostrils, he was filled with a sense of comfortable well-being.
“What is Nehrun playing at?” Femensetri eyed Indris over the lip of her cup, the mindstone a black-faceted nothing in her brow. “Why, in all the names of the Ancestors, did he throw his support behind Corajidin? Idiot!”
“Why not ask him?” Indris gibed.
“You should know these things,” Femensetri countered. Indris snorted by way of response.
Femensetri pointed her finger at Indris in a semiserious warning. “Quiet, you. Doesn’t the cockerel realize the dangerous waters he’s trying to swim? He needs to use the brains his parents gave him. I’m already ruing the day he becomes the Rahn-Näsarat. Stupid boy has no appreciation of what he’s inheriting. I’ve seen his like for thousands of years. It’ll end in tears, one way or another, unless he smartens up.”
“I noticed he was not too keen on volunteering to search the Rōmarq for Far-ad-din.” Ziaire grinned wickedly over the lip of her cup.
Indris frowned. The Rōmarq wetlands were home to many unclean things. When the floods had come and Seethe cities had been sluiced clean, not everything had been killed that should have been. Legend had it one of the Torque Mills—the factories the Seethe had used to create new life from the strands of old—had fallen into the marshes, twisting, merging, changing anything that came nearby. “There were a lot of Fenlings on the west bank of the Anqorat during the battle. Far-ad-din knew he was defeated—his escape into the marshes was a calculated risk. We didn’t expect anybody to be in a hurry to go after him.”
“Only somebody very desperate would retreat from a battlefield into a tribe of Fenlings,” Ziaire mused. “I’m at a loss to understand why Nehrun would side with Corajidin, though.”
“Because he’s an ambitious little turd,” Femensetri muttered.
“Only tragedy can come of Far-ad-din’s leaving.” Shar rubbed one of the feathers braided into her quills, then cast it away to banish the ill omen in her words. “Much in Amnon will wither without a tender hand to nurture it.”
“No doubt that’s the point.” Femensetri scratched herself. “I’ve tried scrying the Rōmarq to find him, but there are so many disentropic eddies, surges, and sinks out there it’s impossible to see anything. It’s a cursed stew of raw energy.”
“Shar’s right. Sorrow will come from Far-ad-din’s absence, though Ariskander is the only logical choice to govern in the interim.” Ziaire caught Indris’s gaze, her eyes large green pools. “Both Ariskander and the Asrahn need men of your talents.”
“The Asrahn and the Sēq benefited from my service for a long time,” Indris replied. “Yet when I was captured by the enemies of our people—the one time the government or the Order could’ve shown gratitude for my former services, the one time I needed their help—I was abandoned to the slave pits of Sorochel for almost two years. Forgive me if my cup doesn’t brim with cooperation. One good thing to come out of that was meeting Shar. Her friendship and loyalty are two things in this world I never question. The other was to measure out my trust in nobles, bureaucrats, and my former teachers in small amounts.”
“You’ll allow your personal feelings to cloud your duty to your people, after Vashne pardoned you?” Femensetri’s tone was sour. “I trained you
better, boy.”
“Tried slavery, have you?” Indris rolled his cup in his hands, intent on the way the dregs of tea swirled against the glaze. Being a knight of the Sēq Order of Scholars had not been an easy life. There had been light, laughter, and pleasure in service. But as the years wore on it became filled with pain, with horror. Revolts to be started and wars to be stopped. Murders in the dark. The deaths of enemies and too many friends. There were mornings in Sorochel when he had been sorry he had lived through the night. He remembered the acid burn of salt-forged shackles, unable to think clearly, to free himself. When he had escaped, the memories of what had come after still plagued him. He raised his head to look at Femensetri. “Until you have, you don’t know what you’re saying. Besides, there are other reasons I don’t want to linger here.”
“Your wife?” Ziaire’s expression was flooded with sympathy. “Did you ever discover what… I’m sorry, Indris. Wasn’t there anything you found admirable in serving your country?”
“I’ve given up on finding improbable solutions to impossible problems made by other people.” Indris shook his head. “The Asrahn and the Teshri brought war to the doorstep of innocent people. Ariskander tried to stop it, and for that I applaud him. But perhaps those who govern Shrīan need to learn to deal with consequences.”
“Indris!” Femensetri grasped his wrist. “Perhaps you’ve the right to—”
“Perhaps?” Indris jerked his arm from Femensetri’s grip and stood.
“Please!” Ziaire implored them both. “This is much bigger than—”
“It’s always bigger than the people who suffer, isn’t it?” He held his hands up as he backed away. “So many people, it all becomes abstract, this accounting of lives. But I remember the faces, the names, of people who suffered. There was always somebody to miss them. Somebody who loved them. All the people I… Ladies, I suddenly find myself remembering something that needs doing. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, though you’ll excuse me for not seeing you out?”