The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He explained that he came from Olabar, but refused to answer more, though the sikara pressed him for details. She offered him shelter, saying that he could sleep in the church if he wished, but Hannes was not willing to do that. In this temperate climate, he would be comfortable sleeping outside.

  He was sure that the compassion of the half-blind priestess was just an act, and he detected a buried hauteur beneath her manner. Like any sikara, she probably wanted to corrupt him. As Asha had done. He kept his distance.

  The village housed its consumable stores inside a large permanent tent. Salt and spices were sealed in clay jars. Casks of lamp oil were stacked high.

  Hannes watched these people furtively for more than a day, but the community was so small and tight-knit it was hard for him to remain unobtrusive. The sikara invited him to join them for their sunset services, but he begged off, pretending to be polite, knowing what the woman really wanted.

  The sikara sang out her call in a reedy voice that projected far. The fishermen had tied up their boats and joined their families, and everyone came to the church building that was made of clay, stones, and driftwood. The sikara announced that she would provide the Sacraments that night.

  Hannes knew what he had to do. Improving the world, by the Grace qfOndun.

  When everyone had entered the church and the old woman began intoning memorized passages from Urec's Log, Hannes stole one of the barrels of lamp oil from the storage tent and broke it open. When the unison prayer began, he used it to cover the noise of his actions as he barricaded the door from the outside.

  He splashed the fragrant oil around the windows, the door, and soaked the driftwood and porous walls. With his niit and steel, he set a spark that caught on the lamp oil, and his eyes glowed as he watched the eerie blue ignition corona race across the oil's surface, all over and around the church like holy fire. Hannes stepped back from the rising heat and listened to the crackle of the flames.

  The blaze grew more vigorous at the door and windows, climbing the structural walls, until it reached the sun-dried wooden roof. From inside he could hear cries of alarm that changed to frantic screaming as the people tried to get out. But with the lamp oil and the dry wood, the structure went up like a

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  THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 311

  torch. In addition to the barricades he had made, flames sealed off the windows and the small back door.

  The fire grew so bright that it reminded him of Ishalem. Hannes rubbed the waxy skin on his arm and cheek. His old burns were tingling again, but this time he realized that it no longer hurt. The Urecari church had become a roaring inferno, and by contrast the screaming seemed faint, almost ethereal. Hannes thought it sounded like a choir singing praises to Aiden. As the fire reached its crescendo and began to fade, he ate some of the stored food and sat back to watch. In this one act, he had exterminated virtually an entire Urecari village, cleansing the world of these heretics. Improving the world, by the Grace qfOndun.

  66

  Calay

  Yal Dolicar played the role well, having bought fine clothes with a goodly portion of the money he had pocketed from his last success. People were more inclined to throw money at a man who looked respectable. Wearing a dyed purple waistcoat and black breeches, a belt with a large silver buckle, and a wide-brimmed hat to complete the disguise, Dolicar strolled down the gangway of a newly arrived ship in the Merchants' District of Calay. Assessing the men for hire sitting around the docks, he held a coin between ihumb and forefinger, flashing it so that it glinted in the sun. "I need a porter to carry a very precious package." A broad-shouldered man strode forward, knocking the others

  aside, and reached for the coin, but Dolicar deftly pocketed it. "After the job is finished. I've been cheated before." On the deck of the ship, where his belongings were stashed, sat a small oak chest held shut with iron hinges and leather straps. "There, my good man. Carry it for me. I need to go to the market square."

  The porter wrapped his arms about the chest and lifted it with no sign of strain. His footsteps were heavy as he clomped down the gangway, following Yal Dolicar, who strolled along, head held high. Dolicar had worked these docks many times before and knew the best places to set up. With his beard shorn and hair tucked beneath the hat, no one would recognize him.

  A mason's cart loaded with cut stone groaned by, pulled by a plodding ox. A cobbler had set up a stand where he patched holes in boot soles or mended leather stitching. Laughter and shouts came from a crowded tavern in which a halfhearted brawl was taking place. Iborian furs were for sale, Corag metalwork, long coils of Eriettan rope, woven baskets, rolls of ribbon, and swatches of lace.

  Dolicar told the porter to set his burden down at a corner of the market square outside a wine merchant's shop, where four stained, empty barrels sat waiting to be scrubbed and refilled. The empty barrels provided a ready table for Dolicair's wares. He paid the man, who took his coin and walked off, not in the least bit curious about what the chest contained.

  Other people began to show interest, though, as Dolicar produced a long-shafted key from one of his pockets with a flourish and made a great show of working the lock, then unfastening the strap buckles. He pretended not to notice his audience pressing closer, concerned only with himself. He lifted the chest's lid and surveyed his treasures, intentionally blocking the view; then he looked up in feigned surprise to see so many eager onlookers.

  "Ah! Would you like to see? Come close."

  Refuting his own invitation, Dolicar stood with his back to the open chest, hiding the contents. With painstaking care, he reverently pulled on a pair of thin calfskin gloves as if to imply that touching the objects in the chest with his bare fingers would be a sign of disrespect.

  "I am a pilgrim, just returned from the ruins of Ishalem." He raised his voice so that more people approached. "This chest contains relics I obtained at great peril to myself, for the evil Urecari have a habit of stringing up pilgrims by fishhooks." He heard the gasps, noted the shudders. He knew exactly how to play a crowd.

  Bending over the chest, Dolicar removed a lump of charred wood and held it in both hands as if it were a sacrifice for the altar. "These blackened remnants come directly from the Holy Arkship--Aiden's ship, burned by the followers of Urec. Only these few scraps remain, and I've brought them here, so that good Aidenists may give them a proper home."

  The people stepped back with awe. Dolicar set the first piece of wood on a barrelhead and picked up a smaller one, then a third gnarled chunk. He had seven in all, as well as ten small glass bottles filled with gray ash. "I gathered these relics and hurried back home. My five companions were killed on the journey, and only I escaped. Trust me"--he swept his gloved finger around at the onlookers with an intense, passionate gaze--"these precious objects belong in Tierra."

  Of course, he had said exactly the opposite when he made his way through the soldanates of Uraba, but the Urecari were less generous--or perhaps just less gullible--than the followers of Aiden. Here he didn't even have to encourage the onlookers to begin bidding. They dug into their pouches and pockets for coins. He made a great show of distress to part with such hard won holy trophies, but in the end he sold them all, leaving him

  self with an empty trunk and a fat purse. Even after running out of the real artifacts, he could always sell his ash and his charred wood as quickly as he could manufacture it.

  67

  Olabar Palace

  ¦

  Soldan-Shah Imir felt only deep sadness upon learning of the plot. He had expected as much from Villiki, though he had tried to convince himself that she would never do something so dangerous, so fatal. After Omra reported Adrea's information, the soldan-shah demanded that the slave girl be brought discreetly before him for confirmation. He chose Rovik, the kel, or captain, of his palace guards to deliver her. Loyal and tight-lipped, Kel Rovik stood outside the door, discouraging any eavesdroppers. When the young woman repeated her story, Imir felt a pang in his chest, knowing that he
had lost another wife, this time to stupidity and ambition. "I must have proof," he said finally, his voice thick, "though I do not want it. I have to know. This is my wife we are talking about." "Proof is easy enough to come by, Father. Cliaparia awaits me in our quarters, and the meal will be served soon."

  The soldan-shah had a heavy heart. By now he felt much too old to search for other wives. How he wished that Sen Sherufa had agreed to marry him... especially now. They could have been quite a pair.

  Pretending that nothing was afoot, Omra returned to his chambers. Though Cliaparia constantly tried to win his heart, ho

  felt no genuine affection for her. She had given him no children, but that was primarily his own fault, since he took her to his bed so rarely. His father lectured him about his duty to continue the dynasty and suggested that he take an additional ; wife to increase his chances of having an heir. But as yet, Omra had found no one who interested him. He still could not forget Istar

  Maintaining a bland expression, while he entered his room, E" Omra observed Gliaparia as she sat across from him on a mound of plush cushions. She had lined her eyes with dark kohl. Fragrant--too fragrant--incense burned in the corner of the room. Solicitous as always, she smiled and tried to be seductive. "What can I do to please you?"

  Such a large question, he thought. Such a broad topic. "Is there food? I've had a long trip."

  She brightened. "I chose the greatest delicacies and made a special tea."

  He did not ask questions, could not bear to. "Have them served."

  Gliaparia called for servants to bring in numerous small dishes filled with special treats that she imagined he would like. When the slaves departed, he sat cross-legged on his cushions, looking at the dishes. The food did indeed look delicious. She waited for him to take the first bite, as was traditional. But he didn't move. "You prepared these yourself? "

  She faltered, then nodded. "I was there in the kitchens. I assisted. Nothing was done without my direct guidance."

  Still he did not reach forward. "Please eat first."

  "But..." she began in confusion; then a shy smile lit her face. "You do me great honor, my husband." She leaned across the (able and stretched her hand toward a bowl of olives in front of Omra.

  "Stop!" He pushed her hand away from the bowl, let out a heavy sigh, then raised his voice. "Guards! I need you."

  Cliaparia's pleased smile faded to a look of hurt as armed, muscular men rushed into the room, hands on the hilts of their curved swords.

  Omra said in a flat voice, "Is my father nearby?"

  "Yes, Zarif. He waits in the next chamber."

  "Have him come in. Also call for Villiki and Tukar, as well as Ur-Sikara Lukai. Tell them they are urgently needed, but do not tell them why. If they refuse to come, drag them." The astonished guards rushed off.

  "How have I displeased you?" Gliaparia was distraught. "And what need do we have for guards tonight?"

  "My food is poisoned."

  Cliaparia gasped, but before she could respond, the soldanshah entered with sweat glistening on his shaved scalp. His skin looked gray and his expression sagged, as though doubts consumed him.

  Gliaparia finally found her voice. "Husband, what is this accusation you make? I could never poison your food--I love you!"

  "I did not accuse you. Be silent now. Not a word." His look made her slump back into her cushions, where she )s>at like a statue, her kohl-lined eyes wide with fear.

  Within moments, Villiki and Ur-Sikara Lukai ran into the zarif s quarters flushed and breathless, followed by a befuddled looking Tukar. The two women, wearing manufactured expressions of distress, ground to an awkward halt as they saw Omra glowering at them, alive and unharmed. They recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. All the proof Soldan-Shah Imir needed had been in their faces. They had arrived fully expecting to see Omra writhing on the floor, his tongue swollen, his skin blotched. The slave girl had been right.

  I

  Tukar was genuinely confused. "Has something happened? Why did you send guards for us?"

  "Is it not enough that I wish you to dine with me?" Omra gestured to the bowls of untouched food out on the table.

  Neither of the women made a move, though Tukar took a seat. Villiki said, "We should not interrupt your private meal with your wife." "I insist. This special feast should be shared."

  Villiki took a step backward. "I have already eaten," UrSikara Lukai protested.

  Tukar sat at the table and inspected the dishes as if to choose the most appetizing one, oblivious to the throbbing tension in the air. When he reached out for a cube of bright orange papaya, Villiki bit back a hiss. Before his half-brother could eat, Omra stopped him and stated in a loud and clear voice, "My food is poisoned, Tukar. We have uncovered a plot to kill me." The other young man dropped his piece of papaya and wiped the juice from his fingers onto a cushion. In a panic, Gliaparia vehemently denied any involvement, but Omra already knew his wife had been duped.

  Ur-Sikara Lukai looked strong and stony before him, while Villiki acted indignant. "And how do you know this? Who is the poisoner?" "It might be you," Zarif Omra suggested, and Villiki drew back with a shaky gasp. "Or Ur-Sikara Lukai. It is clear you both are reluctant to taste my food." "Who dares accuse me?" the priestess said.

  The old soldan-shah, his face dark with wrath, clapped his hands, and Kel Rovik escorted Adrea in. She did not avert her gaze from Villiki and the Ur-Sikara, but looked satisfied, proud, "/accuse you," Adrea said in perfect Uraban. "Both of you."

  Ur-Sikara Lukai laughed out loud, a scornful bray. "A slave girl? Who can trust the word of a slave girl? I didn't even know she was capable of speech."

  "The charge is easy enough to prove or refute," Imir said coldly. "Villiki, I know you and what you're capable of. UrSikara Lukai, you bring shame upon the church of Urec, if the slave girl speaks the truth. I believe that the two of you plotted to murder my son with this food, and that is why you refused to eat it, even before he suggested that it might be poisoned."

  "My position in the church is proof enough that I could never be responsible for such a plot." A bit of perspiration sparkled on Lukai's face.

  Imir looked like a changed man, as if something inside him had broken... or turned to stone. "When the life of my son and heir is at stake, I'm afraid I need more proof than that. If you did not poison the food, then the food is safe. Eat it and prove yourselves innocent."

  "That proves nothing. Perhaps your precious slave girl poisoned your dinner," Villiki said. "Or your wife."

  "The slave girl was under guard all afternoon, and both my wife andyour son plainly were willing to eat. They suspected no danger, so they are guiltless."

  "If you are innocent, you can eat without fear," Imir said. He waited.

  They all stood frozen in intense silence. Tukar looked at his mother with an expression of mingled disgust and panic.

  Finally, playing her part with all the composure she could muster, Ur-Sikara Lukai methodically took a sample from each enameled dish and ate, glaring first at the soldan-shah, then Omra, and finally at Adrea. She poured a cup of the tea, drank it with a flourish, stood back, and looked defiantly at the soldan-shah.

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  THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 319

  The truth would have come out whether or not Villiki and Lukai cooperated, of course. Soldan-Shah Imir could have made a household slave eat the food as a demonstration, and if it was poisoned, Ur-Sikara Lukai would have been executed after a long session of torture. She understood exactly what she was doing; Omra saw it in her eyes.

  Within moments the priestess began to choke and vomit. After a few minutes she collapsed in spasms on the floor, and Zarif Omra said, "I believe the evidence is incontrovertible."

  Cliaparia clung to her husband's arm. "I knew nothing of this! I was not involved!"

  "We know." Omra roughly brushed her aside.

  Tukar looked almost as sick, as if he too had consumed poison. "Mother, what have you done?"

  Vi
lliki threw herself at the soldan-shah's feet, but Imir turned his back on her. "I wash my hands of you, Villiki. You are no longer my wife." He had dreaded the words that he knew he must speak, but his voice was steady as it boomed the pronouncement so that all the guards could hear. Criers would carry it through the streets. "You may keep none of your possessions. You are to be stripped naked and turned out into the street with nothing."

  Villiki shrieked in desperate horror. The guards grabbed her and methodically ripped her clothes, tore away the silks, snatched off her jewels. Soon, she knelt pathetic and naked on the tiled floor next to her ruined garments, debased and shamed.

  Now the soldan-shah turned to Tukar with one more terrible duty to do. It seemed clear that the young man had not been involved, but the murder had been planned for Tukar's benefit. Imir could not allow such a threat to continue. He had to be the soldan-shah, not a father. He had to harden his heart--to the breaking point, if necessary. The compassionate part of him said

  it was unjust, but the leader in him knew that as soldan-shah he denned justice in his own way. As he did now.

  "Tukar, my beloved son, the life you once knew is forfeit. From this day forward, I order you exiled to the Gremurr mines. You will spend your life there. Your mother wanted you to be a leader. You may rule in that hell."

  Tukar reeled, as if someone had struck him with a club.

  The guards dragged Villiki sobbing from the room and out of the palace. Imir could hear her wailing for a long time afterward as they drove her into the streets of Olabar. After Tukar was also led away, handlers came forward to drag the ur-sikara's corpse out of the room.

  Throughout all this, Adrea simply stood, looking vindicated. She clung only to the fact that now she would have Saan returned to her.

  When the crisis had passed, the soldan-shah stood before Omra and hung his heavy head. "I am broken and weary to the base of my soul. What sort of ruler am I, who cannot even control his own household? How can I protect my land in times like these, when I cannot protect my own son?" He had expected to wait a few more years, but now he knew it had to be tonight.