Map’s Edge

by David Hair

  Across the bridge, in what appeared to be a fortified gatehouse, he saw the distinctive silhouettes of long flintlocks, which suggested Vyre’s people were inside. So Vyre and Solus had clearly got their people into the city while this tribe – who must surely be some unsuspected remnant of the Aldar Age – were slaughtering the Bolgravians. He pictured a surprise attack at night against men who’d run out of gunpowder and been taken from behind. It was difficult to believe and harder to stomach.

  That leaves me as the only empire man here.

  His assignment was to find and kill Raythe Vyre, a mission he’d been working on for two years now. Duty demanded that he find a way into the city and split the man’s black heart.

  But that no longer made sense – not because he didn’t believe he could still do it, but because the stakes were so high that any kind of failure would be unacceptable. He’d heard the tales about Rath Argentium, and now he believed. Moreover, for a patch of warm land to exist this deep into the ice, the istariol lode here must be immense, the kind of power that could change history.

  I can most likely kill Vyre, but if I fail, no one will report this place back to my masters – they will never know of this motherlode until the istariol turns up in the hands of our enemies. That cannot be permitted.

  Given that, his course was clear: he must leave this place and report back to his Ramkiseri masters, which would mean retracing his footsteps: thirty miles or more following the river south, right to the edge of this patch of unfrozen land where it lapped against a glacier, down that glacier for another fifty-odd miles to where it re-melted in northern Verdessa, then more than a hundred miles through the wilds to Rodonoi, the imperial garrison port. From there he’d have to sail for hundreds of miles more to Sommaport on the Magnian coast – and finally, ride another two thousand miles to reach someone with the rank to deal with this.

  It would be a journey of insane proportions.

  But Vyre did it, to bring his people here. I can do no less.

  He didn’t believe in Deo or Gerda, so he didn’t bother with prayer. He believed in empire, the innate destiny of Bolgravia, and his own superiority. So he turned his back on the incredible panorama of the mythic city, faced south and took one step, then another: one injured man, starting on the long road home.

  PART 1

  Across the Divide

  1

  Who are these people?

  ‘Who are these people?’ Raythe Vyre wondered, gazing from the gatehouse tower in awe at the stone bridge and across the far side of the ravine that was protecting his small group of travellers from annihilation. Below him, behind a hastily thrown-up barricade of two wagons and some broken timbers, stood a thin line of mercenaries and hunters aiming flintlocks and bows, while dozens more were in position in a variety of vantage points. Behind them were the women and children and old folk of the caravan, readying ammunition, arrows, bandages and stretchers, and setting up water stations.

  There’s just three hundred of us – and we don’t even know if this is the only way into the city.

  For now, all he could do was use his spyglass to try to work out exactly what they faced. These were like no other people he’d ever seen, and he considered himself widely travelled. The fighting men were dark-skinned, with distinctive features, sporting black markings on their faces. Those he presumed to be officers had curved metal swords and elaborate leather and metal helmets, while the rest wore patterned leather breastplates which left their arms bare. Their weapons were mostly bows or long wooden spears. Right now, they were all singing, a warlike chant that involved a lot of thigh-slapping and pulling faces.

  The only women present were mostly clustered about the throne of their ruler, some of them mounted on the phorus birds. They wore brightly coloured robes and masks with red and black patterns lacquered around the eyes, cheeks and chin. Their hair was elaborately coiled and piled high and they each carried a multi-coloured fan – he thought they might be using them to signal each other. They reminded him, chillingly, of mosaics he’d seen of Aldar women.

  ‘I count two thousand, give or take,’ said Jesco Duretto. The tall, handsome Shadran was cradling a long flintlock, a light breeze teasing the black hair that framed his finely chiselled olive-skinned face. ‘And there’s nothing but smoke coming from the Bolgrav camp. I reckon these folk have killed the Bolgies for us.’

  ‘They might have killed them, but not for us,’ Raythe replied, returning his spyglass to a small figure kneeling before the queen’s throne. At the sight of that slender fair-haired girl, his heartbeat skittered.

  It was his daughter, Zarelda.

  Feeling his anguish, Cognatus, his familiar, perched unseen on his shoulder in parrot form, shrilled angrily.

  How Zar could be there, Raythe had no idea; in fact, he had nothing but questions. Was this ruined city actually deserted? Who had lived and who had died in last night’s chaos? Were any Bolgravs still alive out there? And maybe most importantly: where had these people come from – and what would they do?

  ‘Is Foaley back?’ he asked Jesco. The hunter had set off at first light with a group of scouts to determine the state of the city.

  ‘Just now. He’ll be up in a minute,’ Jesco replied, looking at the warriors and shuddering. ‘This is the strangest place I have ever seen, bar none.’

  Raythe followed his gaze, past the ruins of tall stone buildings, many with strange curves and crenulations; they looked somehow more akin to art than architecture. Above them was the greatest wonder of all: a huge rock that floated above the city, tethered in place by four giant chains, every link longer than a man. And atop that, mostly hidden by the bulk of the floating rock, was a fortress.

  ‘Rath Argentium,’ Raythe breathed. ‘The royal seat of the last Aldar king. I never believed it was real.’

  Jesco pointed to the citadel above. ‘They say that when he realised that his reign was doomed, Tashvariel the Usurper locked himself and his courtiers in the banquet hall and for three days and nights they ate and drank and screwed until they were utterly sated, then they took their own lives, rather than yield. They say he murdered his lover Shameesta before he died, and that he haunts the place still, raging against the gods—’

  ‘Enough with the ghost stories.’ Raythe grimaced. ‘It’s scary enough as it is.’

  The song of the warriors ended suddenly and Raythe’s people stirred, anticipating attack. But another song began, this one mournful. ‘It’s got a beauty to it,’ Jesco remarked. ‘I wonder who they are?’

  ‘The women wear Aldar-styled masks. I believe these must be the remnants of the survivors of the fall of the Aldar.’

  ‘Then why aren’t they in here?’

  ‘No idea.’ Raythe turned as boots thumped on the stone steps behind them and Cal Foaley, a lupine hunter with weather-beaten skin and tangled grey hair, his flintlock slung over one shoulder, appeared.

  ‘Boss, all the scouts are in.’

  ‘And?’ Raythe answered, matching Foaley’s gruff tone.

  ‘Everyone’s accounted for, except your daughter and Banno Rhamp. We lost six, with thirteen wounded, in the hill-fort engagement with the Bolgies. All the gear we could carry is inside, including some larger items people managed to haul over in their handcarts. We’ve got enough powder and shot for half a hundred volleys, and about as many arrows. We’ve food for a week, but no fuel for fires and very little water. But we’ve found steps to the river below and Varahana’s already organising water containers. My cousin Skeg swears he’s seen fish, too – big ’uns, he reckons.’

  ‘Do we have any way of catching them?’

  Foaley grinned wolfishly. ‘Skeg was a fisherman – he’s onto it.’

  ‘Excellent. So what about the city? Is it secure? Is it empty? Are there other ways in?’

  ‘Gan Cobyn’s already ridden the outer wall. There was another bridge on the far side, but it fell down ages ago; this bridge is now the only one, and the rivers completely encircle the place – i
t’s actually an island. The cliffs are sheer, with only half a dozen manmade stairs carved into them, for drawing water, I reckon.’

  ‘Station guards above each set of steps down to the river,’ Raythe ordered. ‘The only advantage we have is that we’re inside and they’re outside. Let’s not lose that.’

  ‘Ahead of you, boss. I’ve put some of Rhamp’s mercenaries at each vulnerable point.’ His tone said exactly what he thought of Sir Elgus Rhamp and his mercenaries.

  ‘About them—’ Jesco began.

  ‘Later,’ Raythe interjected.

  Jesco and Foaley both scowled, then the hunter went on, ‘Most of the houses might look wrecked, but there are enough intact to shelter us, many times over. Kemara’s set up her infirmary a block behind us and Gravis Tavernier has found what he reckons is an old inn – it’s got ovens and furnaces he thinks he can get working. And Matty Varte has found an old garden – it’s run wild, for sure, but there’s fruit and veg; some we recognise, others we don’t. At any rate, there’s enough food for the short-term, if they’re safe to eat.’

  Raythe grinned at him. ‘That’s encouraging. Show them to Mater Varahana – she’s a scholar and might know what’s safe to eat. How’re Vidar and the other wounded doing?’

  Foaley looked down. ‘Vidar’s the worst – he’s at death’s doorway. The other injuries are mostly minor, except Fossy Vardoe, who took a bayonet in the chest. Kemara reckons he’ll make it, though.’

  ‘I’ll visit them when I can,’ Raythe said, then he stopped as the latest song ended. ‘Hold on, what’s this?’

  There was a ripple of movement among the warriors across the ravine, who were forming up behind a figure wearing a long cloak of what on closer inspection turned out to be red, green and brown phorus feathers. As they started advancing onto the bridge, Raythe leaned over the battlements and called down to the men aiming weapons at them, ‘There’s a small group moving onto the bridge. Don’t shoot unless I order it.’

  He watched the tribesmen advance, training his spyglass on their leader: surprisingly, a young woman, with lustrous black hair and strong, attractive features. Her face had similar markings to the men: war-paint? Or even tattoos?

  ‘It’s an embassy,’ he called again. ‘Don’t shoot.’

  ‘Aye, we hear you,’ a gruff voice called from below: Sir Elgus Rhamp.

  They all watched in silence as the group crested the apex of the bridge and stalked towards them. They were holding their spears in a strange way that made Raythe wonder if that was what they actually were: the thick hafts were shaped, and the men held them close to the bronze heads, which was odd. They looked apprehensive, but the young woman appeared completely calm.

  ‘All right, listen,’ he called out, ‘Jesco’s going to fire one shot in the air, as a warning. It is not a signal to open fire – is that understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ the voices chorused.

  Raythe nodded to Jesco, who pointed his flintlock skywards and pulled the trigger. The hammer dropped and sparked and the gun shot flame and a ball into the sky, the sound reverberating throughout the valley, making the circling birds scatter.

  The men on the bridge visibly flinched, looking round in alarm, which confirmed Raythe’s suspicion that they’d never seen a gun before. But the woman spoke to them sharply and kept walking. A low murmur rose from his men below and he couldn’t blame them. She was an impressive sight; her feather cloak blowing out behind her revealed just a beaded kilt and bodice, leaving her waist and calves bare. She had the shapely limbs of an athlete.

  ‘Do I shoot again?’ Jesco asked, reloading swiftly.

  ‘Wait,’ Raythe said. When she was a hundred yards from the gatehouse, he called out, ‘That’s far enough—’ although he had little hope he’d be understood.

  But to his surprise, the woman halted, and a moment later something flashed from her hand and became a bird that circled above him, unseen by anyone else, shrieking at Cognatus.

  Something passed between the two spirits, then Raythe heard a whisper in his ear.

  ‘Are you . . . Rat Weer?’

  He blinked in surprise. ‘I am Raythe Vyre,’ he shouted back. ‘Do you speak Magnian?’

  He saw the woman mutter to herself, then she called back, her words slow and awkwardly pronounced, but understandable, ‘I do not speak Maneeyan, but my familiar does.’

  Below him, Raythe’s gunmen hissed, ‘She’s a sorcerer.’

  Or a witch, Raythe thought grimly. The Aldar used mizra, not the praxis. These people clearly had memories of the Aldar, judging from the masks the women wore. This isn’t a conversation I want to have in front of my men, he decided.

  ‘May I approach you?’ he called.

  She frowned, shifted her weight from foot to foot, then called, ‘Ae.’

  He descended to the barricade, admonished his men not to shoot anyone without his express command, then, feeling very exposed, he clambered over and walked out onto the span.

  The girl came to meet him, stopping ten yards away. Up close she was a picture of vitality, with an expressive, ever-changing face. She wrinkled her nose at him.

  I wonder what kind of legend I’ve stepped out of, in her people’s mythology?

  ‘What’s your name?’ he called.

  Disturbingly, she ignored him, instead focusing on Cognatus, and again, something passed between it and her own familiar, a lizard sitting on her head. He was troubled by her skill – he had no idea what she doing or how she could get Cognatus to comply – but she was nodding in satisfaction.

  In Magnian Common, she said, ‘I am Rima.’

  His heart thumped: had she just pulled the knowledge of his language out of Cognatus?

  ‘I’m Raythe Vyre,’ he said. ‘I seek a truce. We don’t want to fight you.’

  Her lips moving, she silently translated his words, then said, ‘The city is tapu.’

  ‘Tapu?’ It wasn’t a Magnian word.

  She scowled, conferred with her familiar, then clarified. ‘Sacred and forbidden. You must leave.’

  ‘We’re not leaving,’ he replied firmly. ‘I wish to speak with your ruler.’

  She lifted her chin and said, equally firmly, ‘She who leads us is Shiazar, Great Queen of Earthly Paradise, Guardian of Death’s Threshold, Empress of the Tangato and Serene Divinity of Light. You are not worthy to speak to her.’

  Raythe doubted that even the Emperor of Bolgravian claimed that many titles. ‘I am Lord Raythe Vyre, Earl of Anshelm, in Otravia. I have met with rulers of larger nations than your own. Let me speak with your queen.’

  ‘We have your daughter,’ Rima announced – for a young woman, she clearly had no shortage of self-confidence. ‘You do not set the terms.’

  ‘The life of one is not worth more than those of the many,’ he retorted. ‘Do not threaten my daughter.’

  Rima glared, but mellowed her tone. ‘Your daughter is not threatened. She has been adopted by my tribe.’

  What? Raythe was momentarily stunned. ‘She’s on a leash at your empress’ knees.’

  ‘No unknown may bear weapons before the throne – her magic is a weapon. The cord resists sorcery; it is necessary for any sorcerer with unproven loyalty.’

  Raythe was impressed: such artefacts took skill to make. They might have primitive weapons, but that doesn’t mean their sorcery will be backward, he reminded himself. ‘Release her, and we can talk.’

  Rima shook her head. ‘A sorcerer is sacred. She must serve Her Serene Majesty. She will learn our ways and live as one of us.’

  ‘No, she will not.’

  Rima lifted her chin again. ‘The alternative was to put her to death. Would you prefer we had done so?’

  ‘I warn you—’

  ‘Do not “warn”. You have come as thieves to a sacred place, to steal that which belongs to us. Go home, never return, and give thanks that your daughter’s gift of service has obtained this for you. You have three days.’

  With that, Rima turned on her h
eel and walked gracefully away, as if three dozen flintlocks weren’t trained on her back – although Raythe suspected she didn’t even know what a flintlock was. The more he replayed her words in his mind, the more they revealed – about her and her people.

  ‘Wait,’ he called.

  She turned, head held high. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Was my daughter alone?’

  The girl pulled a thoughtful face, then said, ‘Her husband is with her. He is also safe.’

  Husband? Raythe went to speak, then realised that Zar wouldn’t claim to be married for no reason. His face impassive, he asked instead, ‘What is required for me to meet Queen Shiazar?’

  Rima considered. ‘Her to desire to meet you. Perhaps it may occur.’ Then she turned again, and strutted away.

  ‘She’s a heck of a woman,’ Cal Foaley breathed when Raythe got back to the barricade.

  ‘Wild and wonderful,’ Jesco agreed admiringly.

  Raythe stared after her as the men began to relax and chatter. ‘Right,’ he said eventually, ‘we need a leaders’ meeting. Cal, take charge here.’

  Foaley saluted offhandedly and sauntered away.

  Jesco plucked urgently at his sleeve. ‘Listen, before we do, you need to know that last night Elgus Rhamp tried to change sides, then covered it up when the Bolgravian attack failed. You’ve got to deal with him, once and for all.’

  Raythe considered Jesco’s words, then breathed in his friend’s ear, ‘It’ll have to keep. For now, we need every man, and if I turn on Elgus, his men will defend him. But when the time comes . . .’

  *

  Sir Elgus Rhamp stared along the bridge, quietly simmering. This expedition was cursed. I should have cashed in Raythe Vyre back in Teshveld.

  But the promise that had drawn him was hanging over his head: five hundred yards above the highest ridge of this mountain-city, tethered to the ground by massive chains, was a floating rock riddled with istariol, enough wealth for many lifetimes, which meant the mines below would also be full of the blessed, cursed stuff. The scouts said this city was built on the slopes of what had once been a mountain, until the rock above broke away. Now the middle was like a hollow volcano: a miraculous place.