The Road to Hell - eARC

by David Weber

  “Really,” Jathmar said beside her, lifting the hand he held to press its back against his cheek. “What are you thinking, Shay?”

  “I’m thinking that looking up at those stars, knowing where we are at this moment, only makes me feel even farther from home,” she replied after a moment, and felt his cheek move against her hand as he nodded in understanding.

  The ship upon whose deck their chairs stood was slicing through the water at ridiculous speed, and doing it in an unnatural silence. The night was full of the voice of the wind, the rush and surging song of the sea as they drove through it, yet here aboard the ship there was none of the vibration and pulse beat of the machinery they would have felt and heard aboard a Sharonian vessel moving at anything like a comparable rate. Jathmar’s Mapping Talent had weakened in step with their marriage bond, but it remained more than strong enough to let him estimate speeds with a high degree of accuracy, and at the moment their modestly sized ship was moving at well over twenty knots—probably closer to thirty, as rapidly as one of the great ocean liners of Sharona. The wind whipping over the decks certainly bore out that estimate, yet there were no stokers laboring in this ship’s bowels to feed its roaring furnaces, no plume of coal smoke belching from its funnels, no thrashing screws churning the water to drive it forward. There was only somewhere down inside it one of those “sarkolis” crystals which Gadrial had tried so hard to explain doing whatever mysterious things it did to drive the vessel forward.

  Yet for all the differences between this vessel and any Sharonian ship, these were waters Shaylar had crossed before, often. They’d cleared the Strait of Junkari, between the long, hooded cobra head of the Monkey Tail Peninsula and the thousand-mile long island of Lusaku just before sunset. Now they were well out into the South Uromathian Sea, sailing between the Hinorean Empire on the Uromathian mainland and the vast, scattered islands of western Lissia. Shaylar’s mother had been born little more than two thousand miles—and forty-one universes—from this very spot, and Shaylar had sailed these waters many times on visits between Shurkhal and the island continent of Lissia, sixty-five hundred miles from the place of her own birth. But they weren’t traveling to visit friends or family this time. They were halfway between their entry portal in Harkala, which the Arcanans called Shehsmair, and the next portal in their endless journey, located in the Narash Islands, which the Arcanans called the Iryshakhias. And there they’d leave the universe of Gryphon behind and enter yet another universe called Althorya.

  Even with Jathmar at her side, holding her hand, there were times when Shaylar felt very, very tiny and far, far from home. And the fact that all of those many universes, all those stupefying thousands of miles, lay across an identical planet made it no better. In fact, it made it worse.

  “I know what you mean,” Jathmar said after a moment, his beloved voice warm and comforting as the ship sliced through phosphorescent seas in its smooth, eerie silence, like some huge, stalking cat. “It seems like we’ve been traveling forever, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s because we have!” Shaylar’s laugh was tart but genuine.

  “Yes, but Gadrial says we’ve only got about another month to go. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the end of the trip, though.”

  “I’m not either, but one way or the other, at least we’ll finally know what’s going to happen to us,” Shaylar said. “I know Jasak and Gadrial genuinely believe Jasak’s father will be able to protect us, but I don’t know, Jath. Shurkhalis have their own honor code, you know that. And you know how seriously we take it on a personal level. But it’s probably been broken more times than I could count when it came up against the realities of politics and diplomacy. I find it hard to believe the Arcanans can be that different from us, so even if the Duke’s as determined to protect Jasak’s shardonai as he and Gadrial both believe he’ll be, can he?”

  “Unfortunately, I only know one way to find out.” Jathmar’s voice was grimmer than it had been. “That’s why am not looking forward to the end of the trip. But you’re right—one way or the other, we’ll know in about a month.”

  “What do you think is happening back home?” Despite the weakened state of their marriage bond, Shaylar tasted his half-amused recognition of her bid to change the subject…and his willingness for it to be changed.

  “I’d imagine everyone’s running around like chickens with their heads cut off,” he said tartly. “Probably at least some of them are trying to do something constructive, though. If I had to guess, Orem Limana and Halidar Kinshe are up to their necks in it! And I’d also guess they’re in the process of begging, buying, or stealing a real army from someone to back up the PAAF.”

  “Probably,” Shaylar agreed. “Ternathia’s, do you think?”

  “Well, I hope to all the gods not Chava Busar’s!”

  “The rest of Sharona couldn’t be crazy enough to count on Chava, no matter how panicky they’re feeling,” Shaylar reassured him.

  “You’re right about that,” Jathmar acknowledged. “Besides, when it’s time to kick someone’s ass, you send the best there is, and that’s the Imperial Ternathian Army.”

  “But can they get themselves organized in time?” Shaylar fretted. “I know it’s going to take the Arcanans, even with those dragons of theirs, a long time to move entire armies up to Hell’s Gate. I mean, look how long it’s taken us to get this far.” She waved her free hand at the vast, open stretch of saltwater. “But it’s going to take Sharona time to move armies, too, and first they’re going to have to agree who’s in charge! Do we have—do they have—enough time to do that?”

  “I’m afraid there’s only one way to find out about that, too, love,” Jathmar said, his soft voice almost lost in the rush of water and the endless voice of the wind. “I’m betting they will, but there’s only one way to find out.”

  * * *

  Sir Jasak Olderhan stood on the open bridge wing, his back to the wind whipping over the bow as UAS Zukerayn drove northeast across the Dynsari Sea. Gadrial Kelbryan stood beside him, her crossed arms resting on the bridge railing—a little high for comfortable leaning for someone her size—as they both gazed aft. Jasak’s eyes were on the deck chairs of his shardonai, visible in the light spilling from the cabin scuttles, but his attention at the moment was on Chief Sword Otwal Threbuch as he stood beside him and finished his informal report.

  “So that’s about the size of it, Sir,” the chief sword said. “The crew’s fair buzzing with rumors, but they don’t know shit—begging your pardon, Magister—about anything that’s happened since we left.”

  “I see.”

  Jasak’s dark eyes glittered in the reflected light of the starboard running light, but his expression masked whatever he might be thinking. On the other hand, Otwal Threbuch had known him literally since boyhood and Gadrial had come to know him entirely too well over the last few months. He doubted he was fooling either of them.

  “And that other little matter?” he said after a moment, and Threbuch chuckled harshly.

  “I don’t think Lady Nargra-Kolmayr’s going to be having any more problems, Sir,” the chief sword assured him, emphasizing the “Lady” just a bit. “I sort of passed the word that anyone who gives her any more lip’s likely to fall down two sets of ladders next time.”

  “‘Next time’?” Jasak asked, turning his head to gaze mildly at the noncom. “Was there an accident I hadn’t heard of?”

  “Might’ve been one, at that, Sir. Maybe even two, now that I think of it. I’d have to ask Trooper Sendahli to be certain. He’s been discussing several small matters with the crew since we came aboard. Just to be friendly, you understand.”

  “Yes, I believe I do understand, Chief Sword. I think that’ll be all for now.”

  “Of course, Sir.” Threbuch came to attention, and saluted Jasak, and then nodded courteously to Gadrial. “Magister,” he said, and turned on his heel and strode away.

  “Do you think Jugthar’s really been knocking crewmen down ladders?�
� Gadrial asked as she watched the tall, fair-haired Threbuch disappear.

  “Jugthar?” Jasak snorted. “No, I don’t think he’s been knocking them down ladders. Throwing them down them is more his style.”

  Gadrial’s laugh was frayed by the wind of Zukerayn’s passage, but she felt confident Jasak wasn’t exaggerating very much, if at all, where Jugthar Sendahli was concerned. The dark-skinned Mythalan was a garthan, a member of the Mythalan slave caste who’d escaped Mythal’s oppressive society and found refuge and respect alike in the Union of Arcana Army. And not just in the Army, but in the 2nd Andaran Temporal Scouts, the hereditary command of the dukes of Garth Showma. There were very few things Sendahli would have refused to do for Sir Jasak Olderhan—up to and including murder, Gadrial suspected—and he’d become very attached personally to Shaylar. The tiny Sharonian woman seemed to have that effect on anyone who spent much time in her company. And even if that hadn’t been the case, she and Jathmar were Jasak Olderhan’s shardonai, members of his family by both custom and law in Andara, and gods help the man who offered insult to a member of the Olderhan family in Sendahli’s presence.

  “I don’t like what we saw out of them when we first came aboard, though, Jasak,” the magister said more seriously after a moment.

  “I don’t, either,” he admitted. “But, frankly, what concerns me more is that no one aboard this ship seems to’ve heard anything else.”

  “Wouldn’t the Army keep as many details as possible secret?” she asked. “I mean, wouldn’t mul Gurthak be thinking about the security aspects of it?”

  Jasak looked at her, one eyebrow raised, and she shrugged. Like Jasak—and with even more personal reason—she profoundly distrusted Commander of Two Thousand Nith mul Gurthak, the senior officer for the nine-universe chain from Esthiya through Mahritha. His position as governor made him responsible for dealing with the immediate repercussions of the disastrous first encounter between the Union of Arcana and Sharona, and Gadrial would have vastly preferred for that command to have belonged to some stiff-necked, conservative, autocratic, unimaginative, honor-bound Andaran—indeed, almost any Andaran—instead of mul Gurthak.

  “First, there’s not a lot of reason to worry about ‘security’ as far as the Sharonians are concerned,” Jasak pointed out. “It’s not like they’re going to overhear any idle chatter this side of Hell’s Gate. Second, nobody’s ever managed to put together a security system that actually prevented at least some information leakage along the way. And third, if he didn’t make any effort to keep to the initial news from leaking, why the sudden silence about what’s happened since?”

  “Since the Sharonian counterattack, you mean.” Gadrial’s voice was suddenly harsher, its timbre hammered flat by remembered, shattering grief.

  “Exactly,” Jasak replied grimly. “The whole reason Otwal and Jugthar had to ‘reason’ with Zukerayn’s crew in the first place was how angry they were at the news about the way Thalmayr managed to get his arse reamed and”—he looked at her squarely—“get Magister Halathyn killed. If anyone was interested in keeping a lid on things, trying to throttle back any temptation towards hysteria, they should’ve kept that news under wraps. For that matter, the news that we’ve got negotiators sitting down face-to-face with the Sharonians would go a long way towards calming things down, I think. But nothing. Not a word. And the lack of any additional information’s only causing people to obsess over what they have heard about. Worse, it’s letting the inevitable initial consternation—and anger—set more and more deeply into their minds without anything to counterbalance it.”

  “So you do think it’s deliberate?” she asked so quietly it was difficult to hear her over the wind and the steady sluicing sound of water around the ship’s hull.

  “Yes.” Jasak’s voice was flat and he turned to look back along the ship’s length toward Shaylar and Jathmar’s deck chairs once more, thinking about the hard, hating looks the crew had directed towards the Sharonians. Thinking about the anger and the fear behind those looks. “I know I just said it’s hard to prevent rumors and partial information from leaking, but I’ll concede that it’s possible mul Gurthak’s sending security-locked hummer messages past us without any leakage. Possible he’s keeping the Commandery and the Union Council fully informed. Graholis, it’s even possible the negotiations’ve broken down and the Sharonians have started attacking again! But the fact that he isn’t doing a single thing to dispel any of the rumors fanning the uncertainty and panic…I just can’t convince myself that could be anything but deliberate, Gadrial.”

  “You’re scaring me again, Jasak.”

  “Sorry about that.” He smiled crookedly at her. “But what’s that old saying about misery seeking companions?” He inhaled deeply and looked out over the phosphorescent sea. “I don’t see any reason I should be the only one I’m scaring.”

  * * *

  At that very moment, almost twenty-four thousand miles away from Zukerayn’s decks, an exhausted hummer struck the perch of a palatial hummer cot on a private estate in Mythal. The winged messenger’s beak struck the button to sound the chime announcing its arrival, exactly as it had been programed to do, then settled back to await the result. Its brain was scarcely up to complex reasoning, and even if it had been, it had no way to know what information had been uploaded to the tiny sarkolis crystal embedded in its body. And because of those two things, it never occurred to it to wonder why a hummer bearing private dispatches from the Governor of Erthos had been sent to a private citizen who had no official connection whatsoever with the Union of Arcana’s military, government, or judiciary.

  Chapter Six

  December 12

  Fear was far from the public mind in Whitterhoo, a farm town with a train stop in south New Farnal on Sharona. Winter wheat was ready to be harvested, and one of their very own heroes was running for election. Things were a bit different for the “hero” turned neophyte politician in question, of course, and Darcel Kinlafia was only too well aware of how far outside of what his fiancée called his “comfort zone” he was. If he’d had a moment to think about it he would have said he owed it to his old Chalgyn Consortium crew to do exactly what he was doing now, but politics, he was discovering, could be more terrifying than any mere gun battle.

  Fortunately, he was too busy to be scared at the moment.

  Darcel shook the sweaty hand of the first constituent on the overflowing train platform and was rewarded with a beaming grin. He matched her enthusiasm, delighted to see the crowd had waited through the morning’s thunderstorm to see him. His home region in southern New Farnal still felt blessedly solid under his feet even days after the long steamship crossing from Tajvana, but the weather hadn’t given him a gentle welcome. The days broke warm and heated his supporters past comfort, and the rains battered his campaign events with squalls.

  “Dearest Gods, it’s hot again.” Voice Istin Leddle wiped sweat from his forehead as he joined Darcel on the train platform.

  “Good growing weather!” Darcel answered and put a tanned arm around his campaign coordinator. “He’s from Bernith.” He explained to the crowd. “They grow ice there this time of year.”

  “That’s why we ship them wheat!” a man at the back of the crowd called out.

  “You’ll get used to it.” Darcel patted Istin on the shoulder.

  The young man smiled gamely but didn’t exactly agree as he used his gangly height to clear a path towards the rented auditorium. A few interns joined his efforts including one of the newest volunteers, Kelahm something. Darcel couldn’t quite remember his name.

  Kelahm was brown-haired and brown-eyed just like Darcel himself, and rather below average height for a Ternathian. A late addition to the campaign, he always seemed to be exactly where he needed to be at any given moment, and he was always ready to help with any task, yet somehow he always faded into the background. It wasn’t that his personality was colorless, exactly. He was simply one of those people who seemed…muted, somehow. Darcel w
orked hard to avoid the trap of taking volunteers for granted, which seemed to afflict many politicians, and he felt obscurely guilty about the way Kelahm disappeared into the backdrop, even for him. It didn’t seem to offend Kelahm, but Darcel made a mental memo—again—to get to know the other man better.

  A warm, much more memorable presence brushed his mind and Darcel felt his fiancé before he saw her. Alazon Yanamar, former Privy Voice to Emperor Zindel and the exquisite slender, dark-haired woman of his dreams, hopped out of the train car and stepped to his side. He didn’t know how she’d justified spending this week on the campaign trail with him. Precious few Voices in Sharona had her Talent; fewer still had developed the political sense she’d earned in her years working at the emperor’s side; and none of them had been Emperor Zindel’s Privy Voice.

  Darcel’s heart thumped again in astonishment that this amazing woman was here with him. They were soul mates in the magical way two Talents could sometimes find themselves perfectly matched with one another, yet that was only part of what made her so amazing to him. He still found the notion of himself as a politician profoundly absurd in many ways, but that choice wasn’t up to him any longer. One way or the other, however preposterous it seemed, he had a political career to launch. Alazon had decided to help him do it, and to his amazement, Emperor Zindel had agreed to let her. As a Voice himself, Darcel knew how incredibly valuable someone with her strength of Talent—and the brainpower to go with it—was to any leader, far less the man who was about to become Emperor of Sharona, yet Zindel hadn’t even blinked when she informed him she intended to resign to help Darcel’s campaign. Of course, there was the little question of whether or not he intended to allow her to remain resigned after the elections, and Darcel strongly suspected that both Alazon and Ulantha Jastyr—her protégée and long-term assistant who’d “replaced” her as Privy Voice—knew her resignation was actually only a leave of absence. In fact, what he truly suspected was that Zindel himself had engineered the entire thing, although he knew, as only a Voice bonded to another Voice could know—that Alazon hadn’t realized it when she initially offered her resignation. She’d expected the emperor to fight her decision, not support it, and she still seemed a bit bemused that he hadn’t.