Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  He frowned. “And what am I to make of you telling me all this? If you’re even halfway truthful, I have to assume the Mother of Shadows has me watched at all times. She will know we have spoken, and probably know what was said.”

  “She might, but at the moment she is distracted.” The woman smiled and glanced back at the library door. “And the people tasked with watching you right now are not going to report anything about our meeting. After all, I have leave to consult you.”

  “You do?”

  “From the Prince himself.”

  Keles leaned back on the balcony’s railing. “Now I am tired of this game. I don’t know who you are, and I really don’t care. Leave me be.”

  “I can’t, Keles Anturasi.” She studied his face for a moment, then looked down. “Then again, if you are not intelligent enough to figure out who I am, perhaps I waste my time even talking to you.”

  He studied her. She clearly wasn’t full-blooded Desei. She’d not referred to them as “my people.” She was in the Prince’s household, had Helosundian coloring and . . . How could I have missed it? Her voice. She spoke with a Naleni accent—which he’d not noticed because it was so familiar to him. That, combined with her intelligence and arrogance, led to one inescapable conclusion.

  “You’re the Prince’s wife.”

  “I am Jasai of Helosunde.”

  “In Newtown, the rumor is going around that the Prince will have a son before the year is out.”

  “No, Keles Anturasi, I will have a son.” Jasai stared up into his face. “It is up to you to decide if he will be born here, or you will help me see to it he is born in freedom.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  35th 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

  Moriande, Nalenyr

  Junel Aerynnor slipped into the opium den’s dark, dank depths all but unnoticed. His clothes, which he had taken to wearing while hunting, had long since been stained with things noxious and unknowable. The splotch over his right elbow, in fact, contained a virulent poison. Driving that elbow into a mouth with enough force would guarantee that whomever he hit would be dead within a minute.

  Though the Dreaming Serpent was located in the older portion of the docks—one where Naleni nobility was seldom found—he felt no trepidation about passing through the nearby precincts. Footpads and cutthroats abounded and the sense of danger gave him a thrill. Granted it was one that was fleeting, but he sought it on those nights when he was not yet hunting. His game came to be one of avoiding trouble, and if he failed there, he played at killing the troublemakers as quickly as possible.

  This night, however, he had not come to hunt or flirt with danger. A message had come to him, summoning him to a meeting. It alluded to certain facts that told him someone had been studying him. Clearly they’d sensed that he was hiding something and had concluded it was an addiction to opium. Hardly a surprise, given that he’d lost two lovers to most horrible slaughter, and had been wounded himself, but not the sort of thing that had an appeal for the families whose daughters he might want to woo.

  At least they have not penetrated to the truth. While the lords of the interior knew he was willing to promote revolution to overthrow Prince Cyron, they stupidly assumed he was motivated by greed. If he succeeded in aiding them, they would clearly reward him with lucrative trading concessions. Of course, this was because their own thinking was colored by greed, and they failed to look beyond it.

  He really didn’t know how they would react if they knew he was an agent for Deseirion. Some of them would not care, as long as he could help them overthrow Cyron. That a civil war would split their nation and leave it easy prey for Prince Pyrust seemed beyond their consideration.

  Junel slowly picked his way through the low-ceilinged basement. Pallets had been stacked three high with barely two and a half feet of clearance between them. An addict would slide onto a filthy pad while an attendant brought them a pipe and a small pea of brown opium. Most would lie there for hours, until their money ran out and the thickly muscled guards ejected them.

  Following the instructions he’d been sent, Junel passed to the back and into a curtained passageway. Here the ceiling rose a bit, though the passage narrowed. The ability to wield a weapon in such tight confines would be severely limited, giving the guards a great advantage over anyone who might cause trouble. Junel had no doubt that somewhere further along, in one of the side rooms, a trapdoor opened into the sewers and those who expired from their addiction or some other violence were unceremoniously disposed of.

  The fourth door on the left stood slightly ajar. He opened it and entered, closing it behind him. The small room had been richly appointed, with a thick, colorful carpet from Ceriskoron in the center, countless tapestries shrouding the walls, and exquisite bronze lanterns burning on pedestals in three of the corners. A table and single chair sat in the center of the carpet, so Junel seated himself and turned to look at the four-paneled screen in the room’s fourth corner—the one without a visible lantern.

  The image on the screen struck him as chillingly prescient. Painted on golden silk, it showed the Naleni Dragon and Desei Hawk descending on a pack of Helosundian Dogs. That would mean the screen dated from before the Komyr Dynasty, when the previous Prince had allied with the Desei to put down a Helosundian threat. Not only was the screen impressive for the power of the image and its antiquity, but for its survival beyond the Desei conquest of Helosunde.

  And the person behind was clearly one who was intent on surviving a long time as well.

  Though a lantern burned behind the screen, no silhouette presented itself. Not only would it hide his patron’s identity, but the padded screen and all the tapestries would help mute and disguise his voice. He is not someone who can chance discovery, and may only be an agent of some more powerful master. Junel knew immediately that it was no one associated with the westron lords, since they neither understood subtlety nor the need for it.

  “You honor me by accepting my invitation.” The voice, which came in a whisper, betrayed little more than the speaker’s gender. “You have our sympathies over the tragedies you have suffered. How are you recovering?”

  “My flesh heals, but my heart is slower to mend.”

  “Yes, those things that wound the soul are slow to heal. But these are times that require drastic remedies.”

  Junel nodded. “Your wise advice shall be remembered.”

  “We hope it shall be acted upon. We hope you will be able to help us steer events in a way that precludes great suffering for all.”

  Junel’s eyes narrowed. “It would be my pleasure.” Either the speaker would want him to cease his relations with the inland lords or expand them. Having another player enter the contest could make his goal much easier, or it could complicate things.

  “You have the failing of youth, Count Aerynnor, for you name as a pleasure something that will be difficult and offer freely that which should be valued highly.” A mild note of disdain made it through the whisper. “Or you seek to beguile us with false innocence.”

  “It had best be the latter, or I should not be the person with whom you desire an alliance.”

  “Very true. We shall proceed from that assumption. There are lords of the western provinces who are not pleased with the Prince’s policies. They believe the Komyr Dynasty has outlived its usefulness. They would prefer to see it ended, with one of their number taking control. You are well aware of this.”

  Junel made no reply.

  “There are three among the westrons who most desire the Dragon Throne. The duchess of Gnourn would be the most capable but, sadly, the fruit of her loins show a penchant for idiocy and dissolution. While she might have the strength of character and quickness of mind to take the throne, her dynasty would die with her.

  “Count Linel Vroan of Ixun is likewise older. He has two grown
sons and two daughters, and his new wife, the Helosundian, has just given him another daughter. He might be seen as more sympathetic to Helosundian issues and thereby favored by the Keru—though their loyalty to Cyron is unshakable. He has standing in the nation and is known to many because he fought beside the Prince’s older brother and was a chief mourner at his funeral.”

  Junel smiled. “Known is not the same as beloved.”

  “True. Would that rumors of his first wife’s death were stripped of such ugly suspicion. In that case he might be a tolerable choice.”

  The man behind the screen cleared his throat, then continued. “Finally, we have Count Donlit Turcol of Jomir. Young and dynamic, even charismatic, he could win the people. Alas, he has no children by his wife, a scattering of bastards by his many mistresses, and does not appear to want to rein in his sexual proclivities.”

  “You see no other candidates in the west?”

  “It matters not what we see, but what you see, Count Aerynnor. Have we missed someone?”

  “The duchess’ fourth son, Nerot, has been underestimated.” Junel leaned back in his chair. “While in Gnourn I played him at chess. He plays the fop to amuse his mother and distract the court, but I am not so easily distracted.”

  “But is he not frail?”

  “A broken leg never healed properly, true, but it has not affected his mind.” Junel shrugged. “I am not saying he would be the sort of prince who could face down Pyrust, but he would not ruin Nalenyr.”

  Silence came from behind the screen, then the whispering began anew. “It pleases us to have this news. Perhaps if one of Vroan’s daughters was married to Nerot, the prospect of a grandchild on the throne would strengthen the alliance.”

  “I was under the impression that both of his daughters were married. Isn’t one Count Turcol’s wife?”

  “True on both counts, but life is uncertain. If one were widowed, an opportunity might present itself.”

  And in the civil war, the three Scior heirs between Nerot and the throne might meet with accidents.

  Junel frowned. “The question for you is this. Do you mean to have me believe you did not know about Nerot, or do you merely wish to ascertain that I do?”

  “Immaterial, for now we both know the possibilities he provides. And your mind is racing ahead, so we shall anticipate you. With our knowledge of the people of the interior, we could aid or end their plans. We have reached out to you because you have already gained their trust, and are already facilitating their activities. You have made yourself into the lever that will allow them to shift the Komyr Dynasty from power. This makes you critical to our plans.”

  Junel nodded. “I’m pleased you believe I will be of use to you. Shall I surmise you wish to learn what my cooperation will cost?”

  “Is it gold? Or were you thinking that one of the widowed daughters of Vroan would come happily to your bed, positioning you as her consort when she ascended to the throne?”

  That latter idea sent a jolt through Junel because he had never considered it. He had been trained in the way of the shadow, to be a spy and assassin, with loyalty to the House of Jaeshi and Prince Pyrust that superseded loyalty to blood. Indeed, his whole family had been accused of treason and slaughtered. He’d betrayed them to his masters and their murders provided him with the perfect reason for fleeing south.

  Never in his life had Junel had any ambition other than to become as good at vrilri as possible—perhaps even becoming a Mystic, as was the Mother of Shadows. He’d never even entertained the idea of supplanting her—though such an honor was one he would have willingly accepted. But here, now, he found himself wondering what it would be like to become more than the Prince’s agent—to become his equal. It could happen, and he could influence events to guarantee it.

  “Gold is always welcome but, as you have noted, there are scant few candidates who could sustain a dynasty. I am not a puppet, but by no means am I a puppet master. I understand power well enough to flow with it, and to know that moving against it is ruin.”

  A richer note entered the whisper. “This we hoped might be your reply. Rest assured, gold beyond dreams of avarice shall be yours. What more remains in your future shall depend on your conduct. If predictions of your intelligence prove true, a new dynasty may rise from the graves of the Aerynnor family. With the proper alliances in place, you might even find yourself on the Hawk Throne, on your way to becoming Emperor.”

  “A dizzying height.”

  “But one attainable, nonetheless.”

  And you have gone a step too far. To tempt him with being a Naleni prince-consort was within the bounds of reason. Imagining that he could inspire a nation stepped well beyond it. It seemed more likely that once he had ascended, anti-Desei sentiment among the Naleni would be mustered to unseat him. His birth would forever be his weakness.

  So when I reach the throne, I’ll simply have to cede it all to Prince Pyrust. Junel kept his face impassive, then nodded—certain his hidden patron had been watching through the screen.

  “What would you have of me, my lord?”

  “We would have you continue your negotiations with the westrons. Unify them. Court Nerot and, if possible, acquaint yourself with Turcol’s widow. That will be enough to start.”

  “Do you want reports?”

  “If necessary, another meeting like this shall be arranged. We have other sources of information that should be sufficient.” The hidden man paused for a moment. “We urge you to be very careful. Betrayal would be unfortunate and the consequences regrettable.”

  So if I am found out and captured, I shall not live long enough to reveal anything. Junel smiled. “I shall bear that in mind.” He almost added “Minister” to the comment, but being too wise would not be good. Intrigues such as this could not be undertaken without the complicity of the bureaucracy. And for a minister to dabble so directly meant the bureaucrats found Cyron a risk. Their support could make even the most haphazard plan succeed.

  “I bid you a farewell, Junel Aerynnor. If things go well, I shall not greet you again until I have the honor of addressing you as ‘my Prince.’ ”

  “Then peace to you until then.”

  The lantern behind the screen went dark, and the tapestries on that wall shifted. But Junel did not get up, for even if he located the switch that operated the secret door, his patron would be long gone. Who he was did not matter, after all. What mattered was that Junel’s plan now had backing of a strong Naleni element. Success merely awaited implementation.

  He stood, stretching, and felt the urge to hunt slowly come over him. No, not yet. Delay it. The gratification shall be so much more.

  Besides, I have much to think on now, and much more to plan. To plan, as a prince would plan.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1st day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

  9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

  The growing sense of dread within her surprised Nirati Anturasi, for she generally loved surprises. A lover’s surprise—making manifest the desire of another to please her—had always seemed a testament of love. This alien apprehension urged her to remain by her stream, but she defied it.

  Bearing Takwee in her arms, she had begun the trek to the western reaches of Kunjiqui. She knew that the place to which she was headed was many miles distant—further, certainly, than from Moriande to Kelewan—yet her walk would take no more than minutes. Such was the nature of the paradise her grandfather had created that she never needed to be far from the heart of it and never had to tire herself while journeying away.

  Not that she ever went far, or for long. Days melted one into another, to the point where their passage meant nothing. Night lasted as long as she wanted, and likewise day. If her desires shifted quickly enough, they could change with an eyeblink. She’d made time pass that way once, but she didn’t think it had been f
or long. Then again—as she had laughed at the time—how would she have known?

  Such miracles were not uncommon in her grandfather’s world. He had raised mountains and sunk land to create an inland sea. He split the land with a wave of his hand and joined it again with a simple caress. He made places where years passed in heartbeats, and others where an hour would take nine years to be spent. All this he did with purpose, consulting with Nelesquin, who, in turn, sought counsel from his scrying stones.

  And all for me.

  As she walked west, it occurred to her that she had not seen Qiro Anturasi for a while. Instantly she regretted this, then composed her face in a smile. He loved it when she smiled. He had ever been tender in his care of her, and she owed him every possible kindness.

  So with Nelesquin’s surprise and a chance to see her grandfather again, she had no idea why she felt such dread. This is paradise. What could go wrong? Of course, anything could go wrong—everything. As her brother Keles once told her, “Just because you have flipped a coin a dozen times and it always comes up sun, the thirteenth time it could come up moon.”

  She heard his voice as if he were walking with her. Nirati turned and saw the washed-out, ghostly image of her twin matching her strides. “Keles, is that you?”

  He looked at himself, then at her curiously. “Is it, or is it how you desire to remember me?”

  His question caught her off guard. She let him move ahead of her and glanced at his back, but she saw no scars from Viruk claws. “It’s you, but not as you are. Where are you? Are you a dream, or are we communicating in the manner you do with Grandfather?”

  “I must be a dream. Communication with Grandfather has never been this clear, nor have I ever been able to reach you, Nirati.”

  She nodded, certain he was correct. Then Takwee grabbed for Keles’ nearly transparent arm. Can Takwee see my dreams? “Where shall I dream you are?”