“It’s work, Mistress, and it must be done. If we don’t do our work, no one can have any fun.”

A sharp cracking cut off any reply. Dunos spun. Even in the twilight there was no missing the puff of dust as mortar split on the Dragon Bridge. Soldiers hurried to where a piece of stone railing had shifted. More mortar crumbled and a piece fell into the river.

Ranai stood and peered over the river wall. She gasped.

Dunos leaped up and caught the edge with his good arm. His feet scrambled against the stone and he got his belly on top of the wall. He balanced there, staring down at the river.

Something was not right. His left arm itched, and that didn’t feel anything like tickling. “There are little waves everywhere.”

“There are. And there’s a tingle. Xingna, a trickle of it.”

He looked up at her. “What does it mean?”

“Faster water.” Her eyes slitted. “The river is narrowing.”

He slid back to the ground. “I’ll go find Master Tolo. There will be a lot of work for everyone now.”

TheNewWorld

35th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Shirikun, North Moriande

Free Nalenyr

Cyron knew the answer the second the piece of paper touched his hand. “The rate of closure is constant, then. Eight feet an hour.”

Prince Eiran, who had slipped seamlessly into his role as Cyron’s deputy, nodded. “Prince Nelesquin gave the Empress a week. In nine days the river walls will touch. We’ll be fighting everywhere.”

Cyron closed his eyes. In three days, the largest ballistae and trebuchets would be able to shoot across the gap. In six days, archers could exchange arrows. In a week, warriors would be sword to sword. He could see it all, including the fires, the wounded, the dead.

He set the paper down and raked a hand through his hair, scratching where his scalp tingled. “This changes everything. Tonight, in darkness, have a work crew slip out and undercut the river’s north bank just west of the city. I want the river flooding the western approach. The increased flow means they won’t find a ford downstream. Send another team east. I want every bridge cut and every ferry on the north side of the river.”

A clerk blew on a sheet of rice paper, bowed, and hurried from the room.

“They’ll be building siege towers.” The image appeared in Cyron’s head. The towers would be solidly constructed, but out of material salvaged from the south. Beams from buildings, pieces of furniture, planking from floors or bits of wagons would be hammered together. At best, they’d have ramps that extended twenty-four feet, so the kwajiin could cross three hours before the river walls touched.

“I want the range from the river wall to each siege engine paced off exactly. Get Borosan Gryst to measure the distances with his gyanrigot. I want ranging shots taken so we know where those stones will land.”

Eiran frowned. “Wouldn’t barrels of oil be more effective? It would burn up the towers.”

“I don’t want to burn the rest of my city. We’re not using fire. We will, however, need sand to put out fires. We will need work crews-they can use the sand piles to block streets. We want to channel the kwajiin into killing areas. Count Derael has worked out how best we can trap them. Get his charts and coordinate placement of ballistae, spring engines, and barricades.”

Two clerks, one working logistics and the other on fire precautions, bowed and withdrew. As they passed through the doorway, a replacement for the first clerk appeared and dropped into place at a desk. As she did, heat poured through Cyron.

His vision faded, yet he continued to see. Each of the clerks became a bright spot, a star in the night sky of his vision. Little white lines connected them with others, creating three-dimensional constellations, with himself in the middle. Energy pulsed from him to them, and from them out to the others. Stars shifted. People rearranged themselves, resources were re-ordered, and what had begun as a tangled skein of lines and points resolved itself into a flexible and resilient matrix binding North Moriande together.

Cyron heard no sounds, but he knew he was speaking because energy pulsed out of him. Clerks rose and departed, sharing that energy with others. New clerks appeared and locked into place in the matrix. More orders were communicated and more people moved.

Because the pattern appeared so clearly, Cyron changed his orders. He reemphasized some things, or set up redundant systems. He found bottlenecks and alleviated them. He ordered water to be brought in smaller casks to combat stations. He demanded carts be requisitioned so meals could be brought to soldiers at their posts.

He reached out and the city seemed to fit him like a formal robe. There was so much there, but it all had to be perfect. He smoothed a wrinkle here, tightened a lace there, folded, and tucked. In the rush of things it took him a moment to realize he had his left arm back and was using it with the skill of a musician teasing notes from a necyl.

I am whole again.

He laughed and his joy poured through the matrix. A prince born of princes, it was assumed his talent had been for governance. He had done well in his post, but the thing he did best was organizing. His father had begun the program of exploration, but Cyron had formalized it, set goals, and encouraged it even before he’d reached the throne.

I was a minister without a ministry, working at my talent without ever realizing it.

He began to work faster. Clerks came, but before they had spoken or handed him a report, he knew their questions, had found solutions and communicated them. Some clerks looked at papers and found marginal notes they’d not seen before, then acted on them. Others suddenly remembered a fact he’d mentioned. Upon checking, they found a solution.

The matrix pulsed with life-his life-and energized him in return. The sheer joy of seeing things work, of watching them unfold and simplify, provided him with the same deep satisfaction as hearing a bird sing, or watching a sunset.

“Highness.”

Eiran’s voice reached him. Cyron blinked, and the world returned. The room had emptied of clerks and the day had passed into twilight. “Where is everyone?”

“They are off on the missions you gave them.” The Helosundian prince shook his head. “I was here for it all, but I never noticed time passing. I heard every word…”

“You heard it? I was speaking?”

Eiran hesitated. “I remember hearing, but that is the only way I can understand what has happened. You did not stop and there was no problem for which you could not find a solution. Some so elegant that we would never have thought of them ourselves. Organizing militia by neighborhoods and using those neighborhoods as rallying points was brilliant.”

Cyron nodded. “That’s where they will run to when the line breaks. It was right.”

“The whole thing was right, Highness.” Eiran jerked his head to the south. “With your plan in place, and you in command, Nelesquin’s invasion is finished before it begins.”

Pravak Helos hated premonitions. He’d never been inclined to trust them back before the Turasynd expedition. Whenever he felt good about something, it always went wrong. And when he felt bad about it, it just went worse.

The only things worthy of trust were his skill with swords and his strength. He’d come to the study of xingna through his mastery of the sword, though he’d never devoted himself to it fully like some of the others. He’d learned minor magics-things to keep his blades sharp or to heal small cuts. But he’d refused to be seduced by magic, as others had, keeping himself grounded with his continued study of the sword.