One night he had asked a one-eyed soldier named Tuok where they were. Tuok shrugged. "We’ve gone beyond the limits of our maps, young lord." Miro frowned, he had no idea where the nickname had originated, but some of the men had started calling him the name and it had stuck. He sensed no malice in it and so let it stay. "Only the traders know where we are now."
Miro couldn’t believe people wouldn’t want to map these uncharted lands, or at least to purchase a map made by famous explorers like Toro Marossa. Surely, perhaps in the libraries of the Academy, they must have maps of these lands?
He resolved himself to ask one of the Buchalanti where they were. It was going to be difficult though; the Buchalanti sailors deferred to the Sailmaster, even to the point of fear. Miro tried striking up a conversation with one of the sailors but the man just looked at him blankly.
Then, without any action on Miro’s part, an opportunity came. It was early dawn, a time when most of the other members of the Alturan delegation were still asleep and Miro could walk freely around the deck without fear of getting in the way or overstepping his bounds.
Miro was at the ship’s port rail, gazing out at the strange landscape to the north. They had been following the yellow coast of this land for week upon week. The terrain was barren and devoid of all life. Not a single tree or even a plant could be seen. Heat waves rolled off the ground.
A man came up to stand next to him.
"The land of the desert tribes," said the man in a deep, heavily accented voice.
Miro turned slightly so as not to break the spell. It was the Sailmaster. He knew he had to say something.
"Such a fearsome land," he said.
The Sailmaster smiled. "They do not think so."
"You’ve met them?"
"Few people have, but yes, I have. A harsh people living a harsh existence. They fight each other, valuing only strength above all else. Survival is the word in these parts. But they love their land, much as I’m sure you love yours."
Miro had never thought about it before, but now that he was here, further from his homeland than he had ever been in his life, he knew he missed the rivers and lush forests of Altura terribly. He missed Ella, and the way Brandon always grumbled when Ella gave him his cherl but smiled with love to her departing back.
"Where is your land?" Miro said.
"My land is here," the Sailmaster gestured to the ocean. "Of course we spend some time in cities, but never too long."
"Aren’t cities like Schalberg and Castlemere trader cities?"
The Sailmaster looked surprised. "No, they are not. We spend time there, and many of the inhabitants are descended from Buchalanti stock, but they are not of Raj Buchalantas. They administer themselves, and earn their income from trade. They are traders, but we are the Traders — if you get my distinction? A Buchalanti’s place is here, on the sea."
Miro wasn’t sure if he’d insulted the Sailmaster. "I’m sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about, young man. I might add that you handle yourself well on the sails. If you are looking to join us, the only requisite is a love for the sea."
With a broad smile, the Sailmaster had left Miro gaping on the deck.
It was a good memory, one of many that he would take away from this trip. Miro hoped he would be sailing with the Buchalanti again on the return journey. In the time since he’d spoken to the Sailmaster he’d saved up many more questions.
The swaying of the mast brought Miro back to the present. Looking behind the ship, he saw a piece of wood in the ships wake. Over time he noticed more and more flotsam start to appear. Then he noticed a strange form in the cloudless sky.
He knew what he was supposed to do, but bade his time, waiting until he was certain.
"Land ho!" Miro bellowed with all his might. A great whoop came up from the deck, and Miro grinned down at the men below.
The men excitedly gathered themselves at the rail, waiting until the land came into sight. They were looking forward to a hot meal, a warm bed, and plenty of time away from the sonorous changing of the Sailmaster as he activated the runes. Their luck had proven true, and they were about to visit a strange land far from home.
Over the course of the journey Miro had heard a lot about the land of Tingara, homeland of the Emperor, and its capital Seranthia — some of it fanciful, some of it outright bizarre.
It was said to be the biggest city in the world, bigger than a hundred Sarostars laid side by side. One of the men said it was so big that new professions had been created just to administer the city. Miro wasn’t sure if the man was telling the truth. Who would feed and clothe or give good gilden to a man who did a job like that? Perhaps it was something like the lords and marshals of Altura — men who were responsible for trade and deciding on military matters.