The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  "But then, in a terrible disaster, our island continent sank beneath the waves, destroying most of the Saedran civilization. The only members of our race who survive today are descendants of those sailors who were away from home at the time of its catastrophe." She looked up at the rapt face of the former soldan-shah. "According to legend, some of the native Saedrans survived by transforming themselves into a race of mer-men who now make their home beneath the surface. One day, we will find that lost sunken land and be reunited with the rest of our race."

  When she was finished, Imir poured himself a third glass of wine and refilled hers. "Very fantastical! You Saedrans don't actually believe that, do you?"

  "Why, yes, Imir, we do." Sherufa's voice was clipped.

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  He looked embarrassed. "I meant no offense, my dear. To an outsider your Saedran religion seems strange."

  "And have you ever considered how the church of Urec appears to outsiders?"

  He chuckled heartily, but then noticed that she was serious. He decided to change the subject. "Speaking of Saedrans, my dear, whatever happened to that chartsman you cared for? Did you ever convince him to serve aboard our ships? I should have checked long before now, but there was all that messy business with Villiki and Ur-Sikara Lukai. What was the young man's name... Aldo something?"

  "He left some time ago, aboard a Uraban ship. I haven't heard from him since," she answered quickly, sure that Imir knew she wasn't giving him the complete answer. "Was I supposed to be keeping track of him?"

  She grew quite self-conscious as Imir stared at her features, into her eyes; he didn't seem at all interested in what she'd just said. "Things have changed, Sherufa. I'm no longer soldan-shah, but I would still make a very good husband. And I've certainly had bad luck with my wives of late. I know I've asked you before, but won't you reconsider? We're quite well matched."

  Sherufa leaned forward and put her hands over his. "I know the arguments in your favor, Imir, but if I wanted a husband, I'd have married a Saedran man years and years ago. I like being alone. I like being a scholar. I like living my own life, following my own interests. I am a better person by myself than I would be with a man."

  She pressed a palm to her sternum. "Maybe it's something missing in my heart, but I've never felt the need to have babies. All the children in the neighborhood come to me, and I'm their surrogate grandmother. I have the love of my people--that's all I could ever want."

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  Imir looked crestfallen, and she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. "We are well matched, you and I, but you're already giving me what I want most. I want you as a friend, Imir. A close friend."

  Imir took his defeat with good grace, finished off his wine, and stood. "I suppose I could use a few good friends, too. Think of more stories, please. I'll be back to see you next week." He paused at the doorway, as if something else had just occurred to him. "Oh, and I'll ask Omra to send someone else I think you'll find intriguing--another foreign stranger. The man speaks no known language, and it is said he walked across the Great Desert."

  She had heard of the fellow, but had thought the reports must be exaggerated. "And what shall I do with him?"

  "He is an enigma in the form of a man," Imir said. "Help us understand who he is."

  80

  Gremurr Mines

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  A pall of smoke and a constant racket hung over the mines at Gremurr. Around the shallow harbor, tall, stark cliffs of gray rock were laced with a verdigris of copper ore and pocked with numerous shafts like termite burrows. A maze of docks, wharves, and chutes had been built for slaves to unload ore and pile heavy cargo into barges on the Middlesea shore.

  The air rang with the endless clink of picks, the rumble of metal wheels on tracks, angry shouts of slave masters, and groans of workers. Conical smelters belched black smoke. Connected to a polluted stream that ran down a sheer rock gully from above,

  water wheels spun conveyors that hauled coal endlessly to the furnaces.

  Tukar could barely hear himself think. Outside his small "palace," under the meager shade of a green awning, he tried to concentrate on his next move on a xaries board. Across from him, burly Zadar, who supervised all the slave teams, completed his move and straightened. His smoke-reddened eyes never entirely stopped watching the Gremurr works for any sign of trouble. Though Tukar was theoretically the nobleman in control, Zadar kept the mine complex running efficiently.

  The daily xaries game had become a ritual between the men. For exiled Tukar, it was a way to bring a hint of civilization to this desolate place. For his own part, Zadar enjoyed the young man's company and relished the opportunity for intelligent conversation.

  In the five years since his banishment from Olabar, Tukar had accepted his situation. It had taken him a long time to recover from seeing his mother stripped and turned out into the streets, but Villiki had deserved her punishment. His father would have been well within his rights to execute her.

  Tukar hadn't whined about his situation or fallen on his knees to beg forgiveness. He understood that if forgiveness were ever to come from his brother, he needed to earn it. Omra knew him well enough to understand that his mother's plans and ambitions had never been his own.

  In the meantime, Tukar tried to ensure that the mines remained productive and profitable. The wife his father and brother had chosen for him was pleasant enough, though if he had any sons, they would have little future. Still, his life could have been much, much worse.

  When Tukar first arrived at Gremurr and saw the harsh conditions, the dirty smoke, and the miserable slave laborers, he had

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  been anxious to make improvements. But he had been as naive as he was untrained. At first glance, Tukar was shocked to watch the slaves being abused and whipped, their lives worth less than the ore-rich rocks they chiseled from the mountainside.

  Work master Zadar had advised against abrupt, unnecessary changes, but Tukar insisted. He wanted to be good to the poor slaves. He had announced sweeping reforms, sure that the laborers would react like household servants and court functionaries at the palace and work harder to show their gratitude.

  He had been so foolish.

  Exactly as Zadar had predicted, instead of showing gratitude for the improvements, the slaves had actually produced less. Escape attempts increased dramatically, and more than a dozen men vanished into the rugged mountains.

  "Showing kindness is seen as weakness. When you show kindness, the slave workers no longer respect you," Zadar had explained.

  Tukar sensed that the work master had lost respect for him, as well. To his credit, Tukar realized his error and approached Zadar, recognizing the man's knowledge and talent. "I made a mistake. You would earn my gratitude if you could help me restore Gremurr to its former production levels."

  The burly work master had been surprised and pleased. "Grant me the freedom to do what I must, my lord, and our next shipment will go to Olabar without delay."

  Relentless search parties had scoured the mountains and captured most of the escaped slaves (two men had already died of exposure). Although the effort they expended was greater than the benefit of retrieving a handful of workers, Zadar insisted that its psychological impact was vital. He chopped off the left hand of each escapee, which provided a valuable example for the others. Work hours were increased and rations temporarily cut, so

  that when the slaves once again received their full allotment, each meal seemed to be a feast.

  As Zadar had promised, the next shipment departed from Gremurr on time in a large, dirty barge riding low in the Middle sea from its heavy load of metals. Soldan-Shah Omra never even knew there had been a problem.

  Tukar came to realize that Zadar's general treatment of the slaves was not unnecessarily cruel or harsh. The work master might have been gruff and inflexible, but he had the mind of a businessman. Though he possessed little compassion for the workers as human beings, he understood their value. "No farmer would survive if he
treated his animals badly and they died. The only way to get the maximum work out of these people is to ensure that they are strong enough, well enough fed, and well enough behaved."

  Over the years, Tukar and Zadar became more than lord and subordinate, but partners and friends. They relied upon each other. The work master refined the routine to perfect efficiency. Since he delivered raw metals, finished swords, and armor as expected, Tukar was able to obtain any additional materials or personnel he needed through polite requests to Soldan-Shah Omra

  Tukar made his next move on the xaries board, surprising his opponent. "That's innovative!" Zadar studied the board, brow furrowed. "You are quite a masterful player, my lord."

  "My mother always beat me at xaries."

  "She won not because you were a bad player, but because she wanted to make you lose," Zadar said. Years ago, after playing this new opponent, Tukar had been surprised, then embarrassed, then simply annoyed to learn that Villiki had defeated him all those times only because she'd been cheating.

  Zadar studied the pieces, cautiously touched his sikara, then

  tipped the piece over in defeat. "Now that you know the rules of the game, you have become a worthy opponent."

  Tukar drank from a small cup of tea at the edge of the table. "I admit I like it better this way."

  81

  Abilan Soldanate

  Mounted on a compact dun mare, Saan turned his blue eyes to watch the military preparations on the trampled field below. In the years since the Ishalem fire, Uraban breeders had produced superior horses. Beside him, astride a larger, muscular mare, Omra regarded the blond-haired boy that he had raised as his own and felt a strong wash of feelings, even if the ten-year-old looked so different from any other Uraban. Saan was keenly interested in the cavalry maneuvers, and Omra could tell that the boy saw more than just an exciting show of running horses and shouting men. He saw wheels turning in Saan's mind as he mentally arranged groups of soldiers like pieces on a xaries board. Thinking tactically. The boy often surprised him. Saan turned to him. "When will they truly go to war, Father? Are they ready yet? "

  "The world is a very large place, Saan. Bringing an army strong enough to conquer Tierra would take years of supply preparation, and possibly a year's march just to transport them." "Is that why King Korastine hasn't sent his armies here to destroy Uraba?"

  "Probably. Unless he is reluctant for some other reason."

  Omra tightened his grip on the reins when the mare shifted. "Let's watch them train for a while longer."

  Istar had told her son at least part of his origins, but Omra himself did not refer to the boy's Tierran heritage, though it was obvious. He did not want to think about it himself, nor did he care whether the sikaras muttered or the other soldans worried. He had neither encouraged nor discouraged Saan from calling him "Father," but at the moment, the soldan-shah had no other heir.

  When he had agreed to accept and help raise Adrea's son, Omra had not expected to become attached to him. From what he had seen of Villiki's schemes for her son, Tukar, and knowing the palace politics and the soldans jockeying for prominence, Omra found it refreshing that the boy had no agenda at all.

  At the Olabar palace, in a solarium that had been converted to a war room, Saan often studied the charts spread on tables. These were tactical maps, emphasizing terrain and roads, focusing on what the soldan-shah liked to call "military geography." The boy had a sharp mind and an intelligence enhanced by bright curiosity. Because of his fascination with far lands he had never seen, Saan quickly developed a good understanding of Uraba, the coastlines of both the Middlesea and Oceansea, and the known parts of Tierra.

  On the training field below, fifty horsemen prepared to face a charge from a rival party. One group carried a set of red pennants, the other yellow, and when the pennants were lowered, the horses galloped toward each other. The two groups slammed together with a great clamor; then the riders swirled around and passed through, to re-form ranks instantly before spinning and taking up positions once more. They raised pennants to salute the soldan-shah, who watched them from the hill overlooking the field.

  Saan's expression was appraising and satisfied. "When they do ride, Father, our cavalry will be invincible against the Tier ran armies."

  The following day, he and Saan rode out to the mock Tierran village hidden in an isolated valley not far from Olabar, where the young inhabitants spoke an unfamiliar language and pretended to worship Aiden. Saan's brow furrowed as he gazed down at the streets, the town square, the kirk, the half-timbered homes. He watched the indoctrinated children and teenagers as intently as he had studied the cavalry maneuvers. "I remember being here." "Oh? You were only five years old."

  "Does that mean I should have forgotten?" Saan smiled.

  When the mysterious Teacher came to greet them, the masked figure made Saan flinch, but he summoned his courage and stood straight--clearly for Omra's sake. Regarding the young man, the Teacher asked in a neutral voice muffled behind the silver mask, "Have you brought me another subject, Soldan-Shah?" "No!" Omra's sudden reaction surprised him. "This one is mine, Teacher. You already had a few days with him, long ago."

  The masked instructor was taken aback by the vehemence. "Ah, now I remember--the slave girl's son? All these Tierrans look alike." "He's my adopted son." Omra's pulse was racing, and he felt a hint of what the boy's mother must have felt when Saan was snatched away from her and sent to this place. The Teacher bowed deferentially. "I meant no offense."

  "Can I play with them?" Saan asked. "There aren't many boys my age around the palace."

  "No, stay here. Those children have another purpose."

  The Teacher turned his silver mask toward the small town. "As you commanded, Soldan-Shah, thirty of our best ra'virs have been dispatched northward. By now, many should have made their way into Tierra, even to Calay, where they will remain quiet and hidden... until it is time."

  Omra placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "If it weren't for your mother, Saan, you would have been one of these ra'virs, dispatched on a mission, rather than living with me in the palace. But I want you in Olabar. You're too important to waste here." Omra would never have said that in earshot of Cliaparia, but he was the soldan-shah and he made his own priorities.

  Saan watched the group of Tierrans, who looked so similar to him, but did not seem dismayed about the fate he had nearly suffered. "If joining them is what I needed to do for the glory of Urec, and for you, then I would do it."

  Omra felt his heart swell again. "Of course you would."

  82

  Calay

  Holding Tomas's hand, Anjine led the boy through the castle's main gates and down the cobblestoned street. His mother spent an hour every morning at prayer in her private kirk, so they knew exactly where to find her.

  Aidenist presters traditionally performed their services at sunrise, but Ilrida preferred to go slightly later, when the risen sun sent golden light through the kirk's narrow windows. Up in her native Iboria, during the short days and long nights of winter, devotions were held later in the day.

  Because Tomas could not sit still for an hour inside a kirk,

  Anjine cared for the boy each morning while Ilrida prayed. His mother spent the afternoon playing with him or taking him on walks around the Royal District or down to the docks. At times, King Korastine would join them, although the king's presence turned what should have been a pleasant stroll with his family into a crowded royal procession. For the most part, Korastine spent private time with his beloved wife and son in the royal wing, where he could be a doting father and husband instead of a king.

  Anxious to see his mother as they approached the kirk, Tomas pulled ahead, yanking Anjine's arm, but she kept a firm grip on his hand. The boy jumped into the air and wanted to dangle in his half-sister's embrace; Anjine let him burn off some of his energy, since he would have to be quiet when they entered the holy place.

  Past the fishhook anchor and the wooden obelisks, the kirk's wooden
door stood ajar to let the sunshine in. Ilrida was the only person inside her private chapel. Only twice before had KorasI ine allowed large groups to use the kirk, when two of Ilrida's Iborian ladies-in-waiting had married Galay guards. His silver haired queen had been so happy to see her native friends get husbands of their own, though Ilrida told them in halting Tierran I hat no husband could be as good as hers.

  As Anjine and Tomas entered the wooden kirk, she put a cauI ioning finger to her lips, and the boy mimicked her, striving to I >e as silent as his sister. They found Ilrida kneeling on the riser, hands extended beneath the pinewood altar. Her silvery hair hung down to the small of her back, combed so straight that it shimmered like blowing snow. Her face was turned toward the charred wood relic from the burned Arkship, her eyes closed, I ler expression beatific, her pale lips moving quietly as she con I inued her earnest prayers.

  In the years since leaving the northern reach, Ilrida had learned to speak passable Tierran, though the language still fit her like a poorly sized, incorrectly cut garment. When Ilrida breathed out a word of closure, Tomas pulled his hand free from Anjine's grip and bolted toward the altar, yelling, "Mother!"

  Startled by the noise, Ilrida jerked her hands from beneath the altar, then hissed with sudden pain and looked down at a deep scratch on the back of her hand. One of the iron nails protruding from the bottom of the pine altar had traced a line from her knuckles to her thumb. Ilrida saw the blood welling in the scratch and put her hand behind her back so that Tomas wouldn't be upset. Seeing Anjine's look of concern, Ilrida smiled gamely as she gathered her boy in her arms. "Just a scratch. Come, Tomas. Let us go to the kitchens and find a snack."

  The boy ran out of the kirk into the sunlit streets again, and the two women followed at their own pace.

  A week later, Ilrida lay on her sickbed, coated with oily sweat and writhing in pain. Anjine was at her side, unable to do anything. King Korastine knelt at the bed, clasping Ilrida's uninjured hand, squeezing his eyes shut as if he couldn't bear to see his wife in such agony.

  The scratch from the rusty nail had become infected and swollen; foreboding tendrils of black and green extended up Ilrida's pale arm. Her facial muscles were drawn back in a terrible rictus, her cheeks rigid, her jaw locked. She didn't seem to know where she was. Delirious, she had not spoken a word of Tier ran in the past four days. Anjine could only pray that wherever Ilrida's mind had gone, she had escaped from the pain racking her body.