Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Cyron’s growing horror encompassed more than just the events in Erumvirine. If the bureaucracy failed there, it could fail elsewhere. Previously, the bureaucracies had been largely immune to harm, since everyone needed them to maintain order. But once they lost that power and began to panic, entire nations would fail with them.

  “What would you have me do, my Prince?”

  “Give me time to think.” Cyron forced himself to stand, then glanced down. “What word have you of the Virine military reaction?”

  “Most of the Virine troops are in the western and central districts, Highness, guarding the borders with Moryth and Ceriskoron. They are moving troops east, but slowly. Prince Jekusmirwyn has always prided himself on being deliberate. He has not called up his populace to defend the nation.”

  “Ministers have raised the alarm and he is not receptive to their message?”

  “As you are, my lord, he is suspicious of them.” Vniel shrugged. “There was the Miromil misunderstanding.”

  “Ah, yes.” Cyron nodded distractedly. “The negotiations to marry his daughter to the Crown Prince of Miromil were unnecessarily contentious, with each set of ministers misquoting their master to slow things down.”

  “Errors in transcription . . .”

  “Spare me, lest more errors cause needless delay here.” The Prince frowned heavily. “When did you first have word of this?”

  “A week ago, but then it was nothing but horror tales.” Vniel opened arms swathed in gold silk. “By the time I began to see fire where there had just been smoke, so many reports were coming in that I could not group them into any cogent story.”

  “And you were worried that members of the bureaucracy were in jeopardy, especially those staffing our legations in Erumvirine?”

  The minister’s eyes tightened. “Fault me for that, Highness, as you wish, but without them we are blind.”

  Cyron held a hand up. “Spare me your ire and I shall do the same, Minister. Something is attacking Erumvirine in the east—something you do not understand. The chances of success are incalculable and immaterial. Refugees will flee north, west, and south. Those who come north will take refuge in the mountains. If Kelewan falls, they’ll come north on the Imperial Road or head south. They’ll cause a panic, and that will not do. There are those in the Five Princes who will become ambitious.”

  As he spoke, Cyron envisioned the world as a giant game board. His grandfather had used toy soldiers to wage imaginary wars, and the education he obtained from that allowed him to depose the previous Naleni prince and establish the Komyr Dynasty. Would that I had followed your example more closely, Grandfather.

  What happened in the Five Princes really was immaterial. Each of those nations balanced the other. Had they ever been united, they might have posed a threat to the four larger nations. Efforts such as the dynastic marriage Jekusmirwyn had arranged had long helped play one nation off against the other. But even if the five of them united to attack Erumvirine while it was weak, they would still have to face whatever was attacking Erumvirine. And even if they succeeded there, chances were their alliance would fracture before they ever moved north through the mountains and set one foot on Naleni soil.

  Cyron could not rely on Erumvirine to defend itself. And even if it did beat back the invaders, the refugees would cause serious problems in the south. Cyron would have to send troops to maintain order and be ready to defend his nation if the invaders moved north.

  Unfortunately, the troops he would move south would have to be pulled from his border with Helosunde. He’d be forced to move some of his Helosundian mercenaries south as well, which would leave his northern border vulnerable. While he doubted Prince Pyrust would strike south and attack him, the Desei ruler might take the opportunity to solidify his grasp on Helosunde. Since Cyron’s troops acted as much as a brake on Helosundian adventurism as they did on Desei ambition, to pull troops south was to invite chaos on his northern border.

  In his mind, he could see soldiers moving from one point to another, with troops of other nations drifting in to fill the vacuum. The amount of time it would take to move the troops, and to raise others to put in their place, would become critical. If he could keep Pyrust unaware of what he was doing for long enough, he would be able to get troops from the interior in position to defend the nation.

  Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t see the maneuvers working. Desei troops advanced too quickly, and Helosundian units evaporated. Besides, Pyrust had married Jasai, Prince Eiran’s sister. If he used her influence to convince the Helosundian ruling council to agree to a truce, the Desei could pour into Nalenyr while Cyron fought to keep his southern border inviolate.

  The Prince exhaled heavily. “Does this terrify you as much as it does me?”

  “I am worried, Highness, but I am sure I do not see things as you do.”

  Cyron clasped his hands at his waist. “I have no choice but to send troops south and they must be drawn from the northern garrisons, as those are our best. I can and will call up troops from the inland lords and send them north. Unfortunately, I have little control over what your counterparts in Helosunde will do. If past conduct is any indication, they will make the least intelligent move possible, which will invite Deseirion to descend.

  “I cannot let them know the threat we are under from the south, because they would use that pressure as a bargaining chip. You can see that, yes?”

  “Plainly, my lord.”

  “Good. I am then given two other choices. One is to confide in Pyrust. He might be convinced to send troops to aid Erumvirine, but that is unlikely. He does not have the shipping needed to convey them there quickly. Like me, he will look to his southern border, which means a push to my northern border and, if it is seen as weak, a further push to the Gold River, which is the next logical line of defense.”

  The minister nodded. “And your other option is to tell him nothing?”

  “Exactly. I tell him nothing and hope he learns nothing until it is too late for him to profit by the news.”

  Vniel closed his eyes for a moment. “The latter choice is the only viable one.”

  “I agree, but its success hinges on maintaining the secret.” Cyron stared hard at his minister. “You cannot allow this news to leave Nalenyr. You cannot allow it to leave Moriande. There is to be no informing the network of bureaucrats. I know you have skills at hiding information, but now you must hide it from others of your kind.”

  Vniel’s lips quivered. “But, Highness, to do so undermines the stability of the world. If the bureaucracy fractures, all is lost.”

  The Prince sighed. “You’re a fool, Vniel. The bureaucracy is already fractured. You don’t know what is going on. Even with your agents in the south, you’re still blind. What will you do when your Virine brothers beg you for help—help you know will do nothing to save them? Will you send it, or will you keep it to arm and armor our people and save Nalenyr?”

  “I serve our nation, Highness.”

  “Don’t give me the answer you think I want to hear. Think. Know in your heart what you would do.”

  Vniel lowered his head. “I would save Nalenyr.”

  Cyron nodded, having heard the truth from the man for the first time. “Do you expect your brethren in Deseirion and Helosunde will react any differently? You may all work to preserve the power of the world, but when the world is being devoured, you will fight to save your piece of it. That’s not a vice, but a reality. You must pledge to me, on your life and those of your children and their children, that you will do whatever is needed to keep knowledge of the invasion a secret for as long as possible. If you do not, all will be lost.”

  Vniel nodded solemnly. “It shall be as you desire, Highness.”

  “Good. Go now, bring me all reports you have on the readiness of my people to deal with an invasion. And I want real numbers, not figures intended to make me happy. I’d rather shed tears now before I defend my nation, than shed them in its ruins.”

  Chapter Twelver />
  28th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

  9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Nemehyan, Caxyan

  Jorim Anturasi stood alone in the dark as the heavy gold door closed behind him. It shut out all light, leaving him blind in the subterranean chamber. Even when it had been opened, the weak light coming through had let him see little more than the end of the walkway a dozen feet into the room.

  He moved forward, cautiously, feeling for the edge with his toes. He could hear water splashing and echoing through the cavern, but the faint sound did not help him navigate. Instead, the dripping reminded him of how the chamber had been formed and, while the Amentzutl had clearly worked portions of it, they had left most of it untouched.

  His toes reached the edge of the walkway. One more step and I am on the path to becoming a magician. That very thought sent another chill through him, but in its wake ran a thrill. He had always been an adventurer and explorer, and now he would be the first man from the Nine to explore magic. It might have ruined men like Nelesquin and his other vanyesh, but the Viruk clearly used it, as did the maicana. Or in a more controlled manner, every Mystic.

  All the terror tales of the vanyesh crowded into his mind, but then he remembered Kaerinus. He had survived since the Cataclysm. He now resided in a prison in Moriande, and during the Harvest Festival conducted healings. If that is not a good use of his power, what would be? His sister Nirati had even been healed in the last Festival, and while he saw no obvious change in her, she had been happier afterward than he’d seen before.

  He rolled his shoulders to loosen them, then took a step forward into the darkness. His left foot hit something solid where nothing should have existed, and this surprised him. He took another step and, this time, his right foot encountered emptiness and he began to fall.

  Upward.

  Panic arced through him as he ascended faster and faster. He pulled himself up into a ball, utterly confused, then his body splashed into water, headfirst. Cold and bracing, it closed around him. He started to sink, but it still felt as if he was rising, which was impossible. Without light, he had no way to orient himself.

  Then, ahead of him, a golden spark blossomed and began to grow. He stretched out and started swimming toward it. As he grew closer he could see it was light pouring down from above. But it’s coming from a direction that should be below! Still puzzled, he struck for it and twisted himself through a narrow tunnel that ended in a heavy wooden grate.

  Jorim gathered himself beneath the grate and braced his arms and legs against the tunnel’s sides. He pushed up, ignoring the burning in his lungs, and slowly the grate began to rise. Kicking hard, he rose through it, feeling the edge scrape down along his back.

  The light from above vanished, but Jorim swam hard for where it had been. He broke through to air again far more quickly than he had expected, and his feet found solid purchase at the tunnel’s edges. He stood there for a while, head and shoulders above the water, catching his breath.

  He remained in the darkness until his breathing returned to normal. Then he looked around and, at first, could see nothing. Then, off to his left, a soft green glow began. He turned toward it and found the light growing to illuminate three individuals—two men and a woman. They all wore loincloths and golden masks. Though he could not see their faces, he recognized them as three of the eldest maicana by the serpent images on their masks.

  The woman, who stood flanked by her companions, raised both hands to shoulder height. “In your birth into this place, you have experienced all of the elements. It is through them you reach mai. The recovery of what you entrusted to us, Tetcomchoa, shall begin here.”

  Her companions likewise raised their hands, then all three brought them together, quickly, in the same motion one might use to strike flint against steel. And as if their hands were made of such, sparks flew. They danced in the air as if rising on a column of smoke, then congealed into one spark that arced over Jorim’s head.

  He spun to see where it landed. A small flame began to burn in an earthenware lamp. It rested on a small island in the lake, created by concentric stone disks, stepped like the pyramids the Amentzutl raised. On the uppermost, on the opposite side from the flame from him, a slender young woman knelt, her hands on her knees, her head bowed, her long, dark hair hiding her breasts.

  Nauana. Jorim smiled, not having seen her during his ritual purifications. What he knew of Amentzutl beliefs came from her. She had served as his liaison with the maicana, and through her the orders needed to destroy the invading Mozoyan had been issued.

  He turned back toward the elders, but their light had already vanished. Given no other alternative, he slowly approached the island and mounted the steps. Water dripped from his beard and hair, down his lean body. He did not hesitate as the water exposed him, for the Amentzutl did not share his people’s taboos concerning nudity. Reaching the penultimate step, he slid to his knees on the top platform and faced Nauana.

  Her dark eyes flicked up. “Welcome, Tetcomchoa. The maicana have chosen me to teach you the ways of magic. If it pleases you, we shall begin.”

  Jorim nodded in accord with the formality of her words and manner.

  She looked down at the flame for a moment, then back up. A tremulous note entered her voice. “I would ask of you one favor, Lord Tetcomchoa. I am returning to you what you gave the maicana. Please do not humiliate me for showing you what you already know. Do not patronize me. Guide me and all I possess will be yours.”

  Jorim let the corners of his mouth twitch back in the hint of a smile. “I would never humiliate you, Nauana. I know nothing and am anxious to learn.”

  She remained silent for a moment, then pointed a finger at the flame. “You will learn the most important invocation first. You see the flame. Which of the elements does it possess?”

  Jorim concentrated. The Amentzutl had developed an interesting cosmology, which was all tied up with their six gods, half of whom had two aspects. The three singular elements or aspects of anything were solid, fluid, or vapor. Tetcomchoa, the serpent god, ruled the aspect of vapor, since smoke rose and twisted in most serpentine ways. Three other gods, with their dual aspects, covered the paired elements of light and shadow, heat and cold, and destruction and healing. In the Amentzutl world, anything could be described as a mixture of those elements.

  “I see it as having four elements: heat, light, destruction, and vapor.”

  She nodded. “It also heals, for in destruction new things are created. Recall that Omchoa, the jaguar, slew his twin Zoloa and consumed him, so he is two that are one. This flame has five elements, all in a balance that allows the flame to thrive. At the same time, the elements of shadow and cold have been unbalanced.”

  “I see the sense in that.”

  “Good, then we shall have you see the sense in something else.” Reaching back, she dipped a finger in water and then allowed a droplet to drip onto the lamp. It hit close to the flame, sizzled, and rose in a puff of steam. “Here you see water that is fluid become water that is vapor. You know that water can also be solid.”

  “Ice, yes.”

  “But you know it cannot be those three things at the same time, yet it is always water.”

  Jorim nodded. He’d not thought about anything in that manner before, but could instantly see that most everything could be found in those three states. He’d seen metal turned fluid in a furnace, and had no doubt that were it hot enough, it might rise as steam.

  Nauana half closed her eyes. “The very nature of a thing’s being—that which makes it what it is regardless of form—this is how these things exist in the mai. Mai is like the light from the sun, but there are many suns and they always shine. Mai is everywhere and defines everything. That which we see and touch and taste and experience are all maichom—you would call it magic-shadow. Only through mai may we see the thing as it is, and as we know
it through mai, we can use and manipulate it.”

  She reached a hand toward the flame, palm out. “Use a hand to feel the flame. Feel the heat. See how the light plays over your flesh. Watch the flame dance. Encompass all of it.”

  Jorim took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He raised his right hand and stretched it toward the flame. The light did play over it, wavering shadows as it twisted and flowed. He brought his hand close enough to feel the first hints of warmth, then closer. The heat intensified and where his hand eclipsed it, some of the light glowed red through his skin. He watched the flame, matching its undulations to the rise and fall of heat and the sway of shadows.

  Her directive to “encompass” the flame baffled him for a moment. What she wanted was for him to take physical aspects—things he could sense—and to carry them into the theoretical realm of the mai. He knew magic existed, but only in the way that he accepted the existence of things he’d never seen. While he had seen Mystics duel and otherwise had seen evidence of magic, he had still been insulated from its reality. She wanted him to push past that.

  He could identify the aspects of the flame and sought to keep all of them in his mind, according none of them ascendance, even as the light flared or the heat rose. By opening himself to all of them, embracing all of them, he would not be doing what most people did, which was to diminish things. Most people, while they knew all the elements that went into fire, tended to concentrate on one or the other. If you needed light, you lit a torch. If you were cold, you kindled a fire. If you wanted to clear brush or get rid of debris, you burned it, then spread the ashes on the fields as fertilizer. Fire was thought of not as what it was, but as a means to an end.

  Jorim refused to allow himself to be so lazy. He forced himself to experience the flame as an amalgam of his sensory experience. He listened for it, watched it, felt it. He brought his hand through the flame and back, feeling the way it caressed his flesh. He caught the acrid scent of hair singeing on his hand.