Path of Revenge by Russell Kirkpatrick

wiped away.
    It was the face of a violated young girl, a face Mahudia had not seen for a decade, since a certain alley one late summer afternoon when she and Palaman had driven the last of the youths away. The day they found Lenares, saw her for the first time, naked, dirty and unresponsive, answering only to her inner voices, perhaps unaware—they had never been sure—of what the youths had been doing to her. Of how they had ruined her.
    Years passed before they found a way through the seemingly impervious casing around the girl. They had no intention of training her as a cosmographer, not then. She was clearly subnormal, a thin, troubled waif who spent her uncommunicative days collecting plants and making piles of them in her room. Leaves, roots, stems, petals, branches everywhere. Palaman had hoped, though, to use her as a servant. Money was tight; the Emperor seemed to have forgotten about the cosmographers, and their stipend was reduced every year by some court functionary. But Lenares proved little use as a servant. Even when she understood what was required of her, she was apt to wander off on errands of her own devising, offering no apology and indifferent to the beatings that followed.
    Palaman, the head of their order, died without seeing Lenares bloom. Mahudia tried to look after the difficult girl, but without Palaman there seemed little point. One day, no different to any other day, she had taken the girl with her when she taught the acolytes’ class. They were studying ilm al-raml geomancy, the ancient technique of discerning the nature and activities of the gods from the shape of the physical landscape, and as usual the new recruits struggled with the simplest locational task. Mahudia turned away from them as she did every year, affecting disgust, and made to point at the map of Elamaq spread across the wall.
    To her astonishment, one of the girls piped up. ‘Marasmos.’
    The newly-appointed Chief Cosmographer spun around. ‘Marasmos, ma dama,’ she corrected testily, trying to cover her shock with brusqueness while raking the class with her stare. Who had spoken? Nobody ever got the answer right. Was this a lucky guess?
    ‘Marasmos, ma dama,’ came the voice again. She jerked her head around but could not locate the speaker. Which of her pupils…
    ‘It was Lenares, ma dama,’ one of the girls—she had forgotten which one, all the faces blurred after a while—said to her.
    ‘Lenares Lackbrain,’ another girl muttered, and a few of the class laughed. Their laughter stopped short at the look on their teacher’s face.
    ‘Lenares, did you speak to me?’ Shock gave way to a heady exhilaration. Could it be possible?
    ‘You asked what project could only be undertaken because of the expanding influence of the Son,’ the blessed girl said in an animated voice, startlingly different to her usual monotone. ‘The Amaqi under Emperor Pouna III diverted the Marasmos River todeprive the Marasmian people of their major water source. The river was harnessed to allow the city of Talamaq to grow, and now waters the Third of Pasture. A year later an Amaqi army led by Pouna the Great destroyed the weakened Marasmian kingdom, eliminating the last resistance to Amaqi domination of Elamaq. Ilm al-raml geomancy was crucial in this success. I think cosmographers calculated the movement of the Son closer to Talamaq, and moved the river to follow Him. Am I right? Can I see the calculations? Have they been kept?’
    Complete, stunned silence met this discourse. Mahudia could not have been more shocked if the cosmographers’ pet goat had spoken to her. Less, actually, as there was at least historical precedent for talking goats, if the legends were to be believed.
    ‘You have the date of the river damming wrong,’ the girl continued. ‘It was a year later than you told us. It must have been. Check your notes. The Son could not have come closer to Talamaq on the date you said.’
    Having finished her revelation,