Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (15 page)

 
          
He
dreamed, though of what, he could not remember when sunlight woke him, save
that he had been on board a ship and frightened. He rubbed his eyes, grunting
as a fist pounded on his door and servants—still silent—entered with his
breakfast and kettles of hot water. He bathed, careful not to wet his bandages,
and dressed, wondering if he should set clothes aside against his departure,-
deciding against such preparation for fear it might alert his father to his
intentions.

 
          
In
the spring-warm light of the new day Varent's words felt no less alarming, nor
any less appealing, and he ate his breakfast deep in thought, wondering when he
might get the chance to explore the palace archives.

 
          
Two
guards still stood patiently beyond his door, and two others in the garden
below. He had no visitors, save the healer, who pronounced herself satisfied
with his recuperation, and the servants who brought him food. That night he
slept frustrated, his enforced isolation strengthening his determination to aid
Varent, as much for the sake of rebellion as to thwart Azumandias's monstrous
plan.

 
          
For
three more days he remained confined to his chambers, then was summoned to appear
before his father. His bruises were healed by now, paling memories of the
beating, and the bandages removed. He dressed carefully, hoping to impress with
a sober demeanor, and went, excited and more than a little nervous, to the
interview.

 
          
Bylath
waited alone in his own quarters and Calandryll was grateful that Tobias was
not present: facing the Domm was difficult enough without his brother's mocking
grin to spite him.

 
          
He
stood in silence as his father sprinkled sand over the ink of a document and
pressed his seal to the wax. Bylath was dressed for the hunt, his manner
impatient as he shoved the scroll aside and turned cold eyes to his younger
son.

 
          
"I
trust you've learned your lesson. Or must I set a watchdog on you?"

 
          
Calandryll
examined the floor beneath his feet, suppressing a grin of excitement.

 
          
"Well?"
Bylath demanded.

 
          
"I've
learned my lesson."

 
          
He
composed his features in an expression of subservience, meeting his father's
eyes.

 
          
"I
hope so." Bylath rose, leathers creaking, and walked to the window.
"There will be no more of these escapades."

 
          
"No,"
agreed Calandryll.

 
          
Bylath
nodded; grunted. "Very well—you're free within the palace. But you will
not leave here, do you understand?"

 
          
"I
understand," he said dutifully.

 
          
"The
gatemen have orders to turn you back, should you attempt to leave. And if you
do .. ."

 
          
The
Domm's features hardened, the threat of severe punishment implicit in his eyes:
Calandryll shook his head.

 
          
"I'll
not attempt to leave."

 
          
"Good.
Perhaps I may enjoy a day's hunting without wondering what fresh disgrace
you'll inflict on our name."

 
          
"None,"
he promised; sincerely.

 
          
Bylath
nodded again.

 
          
"So
be it. You may leave me. But tonight I expect you to attend the dining
hall—without dramatics!"

 
          
"No,
I promise," Calandryll said. "Thank you."

 
          
His
fatner waved a hand, dismissing him, and he tinned, marching across the tiles
to the door, struggling against the shout of triumph that threatened to burst
out.

 
          
He
resisted the impulse to hurry directly to the archives and went instead to the
balcony overlooking the palace's great entry hall. Tobias was there, dressed in
brown hunting tunic, a dirk on his waist and Nadama on his arm. She was lovely,
the moss green of her tunic and loose pantaloons complementing the rich auburn
of her hair, her eyes sparkling as she answered some jest of his brother's.
Tobias threw his head back, laughing, and saw Calandryll, murmuring something
to Nadama. She, in turn, looked up, her smile knifing his heart so that his
hands tightened on the balustrade, the knuckles blanching. What will she think
when I return? he wondered. She'll not laugh at me then. He forced himself to
smile, and saw Tobias bow mockingly. Then Varent appeared, dressed in motley, a
cap rakish on his black hair. He saw Tobias laughing and looked to where
Calandryll stood, raising a hand in greeting, dark eyes alive with their shared
secret. Calandryll answered his wave and nodded, and the ambassador ducked his
head, engaging Nadama in conversation.

 
          
Bylath
came striding along the balcony then, favoring Calandryll with an admonitory
glance.

 
          
"Remember
what I told you."

 
          
"Yes,
Father," he returned, and watched the Domm go down the wide stairway,
gathering the hunting party about him as he went out to where the horses stood
in readiness. Calandryll waited until the clatter of hoofbeats had receded,
then hurried to the archives.

 
          
There
were two repositories within the palace, one a spacious chamber lined with
shelves on which rested those documents, parchments, scrolls and books used
with some regularity, either for the purposes of governance or for pedagogic
reasons, and consequently frequented by the palace librarians, scribes and
scholars, its contents indexed and ordered. The other was located in the
cellars, near Gomus's gloomy chamber, and seldom used. Here were placed the
antique documents, deemed useless by the pragmatic Bylath, the old maps and
mold- ering books accumulated over the years by successive Domms, the material
of no immediate importance, stored randomly. To Calandryll it was a treasure
house filled with wonders and he had passed happy hours delving among the
alcoves and cobwebbed shelves.

 
          
A
low-roofed doorway granted ingress to this elder reliquary, hinges creaking a
protest as he swung the door open, pausing to fetch a lantern from the adjacent
corridor before descending the steep stone stairs that went down into the
shadowed bowels of the palace. He heard things chitter a protest as he lit the
ancient lanterns set in rusted sconces along the walls, their radiance exposing
a cavernous vault, buttressed with low arches festooned with spiders' webs, the
niches piled high with the forgotten memorabilia of Secca's past, the shelves
and the trunks littering the floor dusty grey.

 
          
Calandryll
moved down the vault, careless of the dust that settled on his face and
clothes, the design Varent had shown him bright in his mind's eye. There was no
particular organization down here, save that imposed by time itself, no index
to guide him; no catalog to which he might refer, but still he thought he could
without much difficulty locate that area in which the documents collected by
Thomus would be found. That Domm, he remembered, was the fourth to hold power
in Secca: he walked purposefully toward the farther reaches of the vault.

 
          
Yes—he
was right: when he checked the ancient scrolls in one grimy alcove they bore
the seal of Thomus.

 
          
So,
where might the chart be found? He began to rummage among the relics.

 
          
It
was hard to resist the impulse to examine each aged document, but he was
anxious to complete his search before his father returned. He might not get
another chance before Varent must depart for Aldarin, and if he was to
accompany the ambassador, he must find the map. He ignored the books, forcing
himself to think sensibly despite his excitement. A map would most likely be
rolled, perhaps contained within a protective cylinder, and so he turned to an
alcove where tubes of cracked and aging leather were stacked one upon another
in a great careless mass.

 
          
He
started at the top of the pile, lifting the first cylinder down and extracting
its contents. Dust tickled his nose and he sneezed noisily, the exhalation
arousing more clouds so that his eyes watered and he rubbed grimy hands over
his face. Gently, careful of the parchment's age, he unrolled a blueprint of
the city's sewage system: he replaced it in its tube and set the cylinder on
the floor. The next contained a street plan; after that an architect's drawing
of the palace's west wing; then a chart of the farmlands abutting the city
walls; a map of the harbor; a design for a temple never built; a fanciful
structure of incomprehensible purpose. The pile at his feet grew. His hair was
thick with dust, his shirt streaked with grime. Some tubes emitted only
blackened flakes that fell like ashes to the floor,- others spilled the
long-dried husks of dead insects. Calandryll began to wonder if he would ever
find the chart Orwen had drawn.

 
          
He
cleared the alcove and hurriedly replaced the cylinders, fearing that someone might
discover his search. A second proved equally disappointing, but halfway down
the third pile he found a map marked with the chartmak- er's seal.

 
          
He
stared at it, comparing the design with his memory of that drawn on thin air by
Varent. As best he could tell, this was the one, though how it helped their
purpose he could not discern. He wiped his hands on dirtied breeks and carried
the chart closer to a lantern, smoothing it with infinite care against his
thigh. The paper was very old, oiled but still dangerously brittle, the ink
dulled, and he feared that it might dissolve at his touch. It was, so far as he
could tell, a map of the world as it had stood at the time of Thomus. Neither
Kem or the Jesseryn Plain were shown, and Lysse was depicted in exaggerated
size, the great jut of land containing Eyl and Kandahar and the Jungles of Gash
a diminutive nub; of Gessyth there was no sign. Confused, he rolled the map
again and prepared to return it to its cylinder.

 
          
As
he did so, he noticed a second scroll inside the tube, like a lining against
the leather interior. He set the first map down and began to work the other
loose. It was not drawn on paper, but on some finer material, thinner and more
supple, that lacked the coarse, brittle quality of the other parchment. It was
a hide of some kind he realized as it slid from the cylinder, a creamy yellow
inscribed with fine lines and the ornate script of the Old Tongue. Orwen's seal
was drawn in still-bright scarlet at the right- hand bottom comer. The scale of
the domains was still disproportionate, but now Gessyth occupied as much space
as Lysse. At the head of the skin the chartographer had written: A Mappe of the
Worlde Drawne by Orwen for the Domm Thomus, Favored of Dera.

 
          
Calandryll
licked his lips, and spat as his tongue encountered a heavy furring of dust.
His inclination was to examine the chart in detail, but he resisted the
temptation, fearing to linger overlong and risk discovery: there would be time
to study the thing later. Careful of the brittle parchment, he rolled the one
map and set it back inside the protective tube. The other he slipped beneath
his shirt, against his skin, then set about returning the littered cylinders to
the alcove.

 
          
When
that task was completed and he was satisfied that even if his exploration
should be discovered no one could tell what, if anything, he had taken, he
walked back down the vault, extinguishing the lanterns as he went.

 
          
He
emerged filthy, thankful that the passage leading to the depository was empty,
and hurried to his chambers. Inside, he set the map almost reverentially on a
table and looked at himself in the mirror. Excited brown eyes stared back from
a mask of grime surmounted by a lank mop of near-black hair. His shirt and
breeks completed the picture, and the brown leather of his boots was hidden
beneath a mantle of sediment.

 
          
A
glance at the window showed a sky darkening toward evening, threatening the
return of the hunting party: he disrobed, piling his soiled clothes in a
cupboard before tugging the bell cord to summon a servant.