Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “No, Ranai.” I wiped my blades on the dead man’s robe, then slid them home again. “We will make ourselves unknowable, then they can never win.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  7th 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

  Ixyll

  Try as he might, Ciras Dejote could not shake the feeling they were being watched. He saw no one in the Wastes; he found no footprints—even old ones—to indicate that anyone else was out there. But, regardless of an utter lack of evidence, he knew they were being watched—and Borosan didn’t help matters by agreeing with him.

  He would have been happy to ascribe it to paranoia, or the influence of the sword he now bore, but it was rooted in something far more substantial than that. After killing whatever Dragright had become, he’d trailed out after the giant. At first the man’s panicked footprints were easy to follow. He’d run past where the looters had hobbled their horses and conveniently stepped in manure. That petered out eventually, so Ciras returned to the camp and waited for daylight to continue the pursuit.

  In camp, they cleaned up the bodies and piled rocks over them to slow down whatever scavengers might lurk in Ixyll. They contented themselves with a cold meal that night, and both wrote out prayers on strips of cloth, which they left as streamers over the tomb entrance.

  When they awoke, the streamers were still in place, and the hole in the tomb’s slab had been repaired fully. Ciras had run his hand over it and not only could feel no seam around where the repair had been performed, but could not even find any stray scars from where the sledge had hit off target.

  To make matters worse, after they collected the looters’ horses and continued west, they found the giant’s body—or what was left of it. Something had stripped most of the meat off the bones and scattered them, but both men were able to reconstruct enough to determine this had been their quarry. More important, their work allowed them to make a rough guess at the cause of death.

  Something, it appeared, roughly a foot in diameter, had punched through his chest, pulverized his spine, and powdered the rock upon which he lay. Borosan guessed he’d have to have been impaled by a wharf piling heaved by a ballista. The utter absence of so much as a splinter cast doubts on that explanation, but Ciras couldn’t come up with anything better.

  But still, both events could have been dismissed as some sort of magical retribution for disturbing the grave. The problem with that explanation—aside from the fact that no one in the Nine knew how to lay such an enchantment since the Cataclysm—came from the fact that the sword had been left with Ciras. Even before they cleaned up the corpses, and even before he’d taken care of his own sword, he’d cleaned and oiled the blade. He’d slept that first night with it beside his own sword, and couldn’t imagine why it had been left to him.

  As they rode around a hill, his left hand fell to the ancient sword’s hilt. In studying the blade he’d learned a lot about it. Though he did not recognize the maker’s mark stamped into the blade, the general form indicated it was of Virine manufacture.

  The sigils worked along the blade defied deciphering, though both he and Borosan made attempts. They’d been written in the old Imperial script. While both men were literate, and had even been exposed to Imperial writing, in the time since the Cataclysm the Ministries of Harmony had revised and streamlined the six thousand, five hundred and sixty-one characters one needed to know to be considered educated. Clerks would be required to learn nine times that many—and ministers, it was said, could command even more.

  But the true difficulty with picking out the message was that it seemed to change. Ciras had noticed that effect, but had said nothing. Borosan, without telling him, had written down the inscriptions, then found they changed. They tried to pin it to time of day, weather, and direction they were heading, but if there was a pattern, they couldn’t discern it.

  Both of them reached the same conclusion about the sword: it had belonged to one of Prince Nelesquin’s vanyesh—although they each acknowledged knowing next to nothing about the vanyesh. Down through the years any truth about them had been lost. Aside from knowing they were sorcerers who traveled with an evil prince, neither man had any information.

  Ciras reined his horse to a halt beside Borosan’s mount. They’d crested a hill that overlooked a vast but sunken plain, which angled off to the northwest between two lines of mountains. “We’ll be two days on that plain if we just strike out across it, don’t you think?”

  Borosan nodded. “If we keep close to one set of mountains or the other, we should find water. All the green veins running into the plain indicate water, but I would just as soon avoid as many valleys as we can.”

  “Agreed. And I believe you’re right. The wild magic flows like water and seeps into the low points. Every valley we’ve seen is more alive with it than elsewhere.”

  Borosan nodded as if he’d only half heard. Ciras had become used to that. The inventor leaned back, pulled a journal from his saddlebags, and made a note. “Shall we camp here?”

  “Back down the hill, yes, by the spring.”

  They retraced their steps and made camp. Neither knew what Ixyll had been before the Cataclysm, and anticipating what it would be from day to day was impossible. The wild magic had scoured the world down to its stony bones in some places and yet, in others, grasses formed meadows and trees grew into groves. Granted, most often the trees were odd—like having gorgeous blossoms that became fist-sized fruit in a matter of hours, only to burst into flame shortly thereafter. The grasses seemed more normal. Though they were seldom a simple green, the horses ate them with no apparent ill effects.

  They made camp on a bluesward and collected deadwood—first making sure it was truly dead and truly wood. Borosan made a fire and Ciras stepped well away from it before he started his exercises.

  Borosan looked up after Ciras had stripped himself to the waist. “Finally decided you will use it?”

  The swordsman nodded and slipped the ancient sword into the sash around his middle. “A swordsman is a union of sword and man. The blade I have carried with me has been in my family for generations. It is not enchanted—it’s not one of your gyanrigot—but it helps me focus. It is hard to explain.”

  Borosan warmed his hands over the fire. “I’ve heard it explained that it is easier to walk in boots that have been broken-in rather than those that are brand-new.”

  “But you scoff at this.”

  Borosan shook his head. “Not at all. You think a blade that is well-used helps you to focus. If I were to use gyanri to build a blade, my purpose would still be to aid the warrior. The difference would be that the focus and guidance would be stronger because the person using it would know little of fighting.”

  Ciras’ expression soured. “That would be terribly wrong.”

  “So I have come to learn through my association with you, Master Dejote.” Borosan smiled. “If I venture into designing weapons, I will work on armor, to keep people alive.”

  “But that’s no better than . . .”

  “Isn’t it? Your objection to my thanatons is that they could kill without reason. The same would hold true for gyanrigot swords and spears. They would make anyone capable of fighting and killing without training. I agree that helping people kill without discretion is wrong. The reverse of that, however, should not be true. I would be saving people from dying.”

  The swordsman folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t like Borosan’s turning his argument back on itself. There was something wrong with what he was saying, but on the surface it was hard to argue with. If I say it is wrong to stop people from dying, I am as foolish as those who would kill without discrimination. Death is death, and if one believes it should be limited, one cannot pick and choose cases and be consistent.

  “If you make someone invulnerable, Borosan, then he will be as dangerous with
a simple knife as he might be with a gyanrigot sword.”

  “But he will likely do little harm and the armor will work only until the thaumston is exhausted. Facing someone such as you, he would do no harm. Your attacks would wear the thaumston down and you would kill him eventually.”

  “What if someone else supplies him a gyanrigot sword?”

  That question contorted Borosan’s face. “I’d not thought of that.”

  Ciras nodded. “It should be considered.” Then he turned away from the inventor as the chubby man went digging for his journal. Ciras took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began his exercises.

  He drew the sword and dropped into the third Dragon form. Closing his eyes, he imagined a foe in fourth Wolf across from him. Ciras stamped a foot and the man came in, slashing low. The swordsman easily leaped above that strike and was ready to land in sixth Dragon. Instead, his right foot flicked out and caught his enemy in the face, snapping his head around.

  Ciras landed in a crouch and spun, aware of another foe coming in at his back. This enemy was a Turasynd of the Tiger clan. Strips of orange fur covered his arms and chest. The Turasynd’s heavy saber whistled down in a cut that would bisect him, but his own sword came up and around in a double-handed circular parry.

  Ciras would have slashed back across the Turasynd’s body, but for awareness of another attack at his back. He stabbed back over his right shoulder and could feel the blade punching through breastbone and heart. He looked up and saw his imaginary Turasynd foe looming over him, transfixed by both the blade and surprise. The enemy had raised his sword over his head with two hands and it still descended, but Ciras caught his wrists and pulled, flipping the man forward and into the other Tiger.

  Ciras came up and whirled, slashing blindly at waist height. A third Tiger folded over the blade’s edge. Ciras slid his blade free and continued the spin. He dropped his blade’s tip, then slashed up, catching the first Tiger beneath the chin as he threw off his dead comrade. Both of them fell back into a tangle of limbs, allowing Ciras to leap over them and turn to face other enemies.

  The supply of Turasynd seemed endless. Endless and eager. They rushed forward, two coming for each one fallen. Ciras retreated, then lunged, slashed, then parried and riposted. He beat blades down, then cut above them, or ducked a blow and stabbed deep through an enemy’s vitals. His blade licked out, opening armpits and groins, throats and bellies. He had no time to employ the fine cuts that would all but sever a head or cleave wrist from arm.

  Scenes blurred as foes came faster and faster. Some he saw as whole and normal, others appeared far larger than they ever could have been. Some even appeared in degrees of decay, as if they had clawed their way from a grave to have a second chance at the man who had killed them. Regardless of how they looked or moved, Ciras fought each back, ending their lives again and again.

  Then he spun to the right, coming about in the same cut he’d used to take Dragright’s leg off. His blade bit deep into his enemy’s left side. It carved through his robe and overshirt, the blade’s forte all but reaching his spine. It would have, too, had Ciras not stopped, had he not let go of the blade.

  But he did, and sank to his knees. The visions he’d been fighting melted. The sword thudded to the ground before him and sweat stung his eyes. He’d have been happy if the sweat burned them completely from his head, but he knew that even that would not steal the vision of what he’d seen.

  Borosan knelt at his side and pressed a waterskin into his hands. “What’s wrong, Ciras?”

  The swordsman didn’t answer. He raised the waterskin and directed the stream over his face and head. He shook his head, spraying water, but Borosan did not complain. Ciras drank a bit of water, spat it out, then drank again and swallowed. He waited a moment to see if he would keep it down, then opened his eyes but stared straight ahead, down the length of the blade.

  “How long was I exercising?”

  “Nine minutes, perhaps eighteen, no more than that.” The inventor shrugged. “I didn’t really pay attention until you started mumbling.”

  The swordsman glanced at him. “What did I say?”

  “I don’t know, but I didn’t like it. Once you started speaking, strange things began to happen.” Borosan pointed to Ciras’ left.

  Ciras followed the line of his finger. The bluesward showed signs of where he’d been. His feet had depressed grasses but, more significantly, his footprints had filled with blood.

  “What happened, Ciras?”

  “I don’t know. I began my exercises as always, then they became something more. My foes became Turasynd. They came in an endless stream.” The swordsman looked around, baffled. “I think, perhaps, they all died here. The man who owned that blade met them here and killed them. Their ghosts recognized the sword and wanted revenge.”

  Borosan’s mismatched eyes widened. “I’ll start packing now.”

  Ciras smiled. “That would be wise.”

  He remained on his knees and looked at the blade a little longer. He would help Borosan pack, but for the moment was glad for the other man’s preoccupation. He knew the inventor would ask the logical question at some point, and wanted a chance to think about the answer before he ever gave it.

  Why did I stop?

  The image of the blade slicing through a robe came again. The robe had been white save where blood began to seep into it. The red line spread slowly upward, toward the crest embroidered in black on the overshirt’s back. A tiger hunting.

  A crest he had seen before.

  And recognition of the crest prompted recognition of the man he was attacking. The size, the shape, the length of his hair. Ciras even knew the man had a scar on his left side that matched the cut perfectly.

  He looked down at the blade. “Why would I see you plunging into my master’s back?”

  Neither the blade, glinting red and gold in the firelight, nor the sigils slithering through shadow, provided him an answer.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  7th 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

  Thyrenkun, Felarati

  Deseirion

  Prince Pyrust sat in the very chair Keles Anturasi had used as he listened to the Mother of Shadows report. The fire blazed at his left hand, snapping and popping. He stretched his legs out, forcibly ignoring the heat.

  “This report is difficult for me to hear, Delasonsa. From here, I can see the great work Anturasi has accomplished. Returning this much land to cultivation will not solve our food shortage, but it will help. He’s guaranteed Felarati can continue to grow beyond my lifetime. His value to me is considerable.”

  The crone bowed her head. “This I understand, Highness. But his conduct with your wife is unacceptable.”

  “To whom?”

  Her head came up. “To me—for one, and it should be to you. She carries your child.”

  Pyrust’s eyes half lidded. “Her child will be born as my heir. She knows this. We all do, and there is nothing she can do to make things otherwise. Even rumors of the child having been fathered by Anturasi will not matter. Besides, you tell me they have not slept together yet.”

  The old woman’s grey cloak closed and shrouded her form, making her seem smaller than before. “It is not for your wife’s lack of trying, Highness.”

  “Then the fault is hers.”

  “But she cannot be slain. Anturasi can. Our people found him in Ixyll, very ill. They did all they could for him, but he succumbed to some illness. We can return his body, or burn him and return his ashes. We could even send Prince Cyron the heads of the fools who did not get him here quickly enough.”

  “Those are plans that shall be held against the future.” Pyrust rose and turned his back to the fire. “My ambitions aside, my purpose is to make my nation stronger. Anturasi aids that. As for my wife . . . he is never leaving Deseirion. He may hav
e her all he wants as long as she gives me another child or three. I know this is a matter of honor for you, and I appreciate your devotion to my family. But recall that the children are my blood, and to them goes your allegiance.”

  Delasonsa’s head came up, her eyes hot. “Beware her frustration, Highness. You may see her as a broodmare, but she sees herself differently. She could do you harm.”

  “And this is why you will continue to watch her. You will also find someone else to seduce Anturasi.”

  “Done and done.” The old woman held his stare as a web holds a fly. “And if they seek to escape, do I kill them?”

  “Her, certainly. Anturasi is too valuable to let go so easily.”

  “As you desire, Highness.”

  “Thank you.” Pyrust clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, my Grand Minister reported to me on the state of international affairs, and I have noted a curious lack of information about Erumvirine. He suggested couriers have been delayed by bandits in Helosunde. I’ve heard no other reports about bandits. You would have told me of them, wouldn’t you?”

  “If they existed in more than your minister’s imagination, of course, Highness.” The Mother of Shadows shook her head slowly. “Something is happening in the south. Cyron is moving Helosundian mercenaries and Naleni Dragon Guards south to the Virine border. He’s raising troops from the inland counties to hold the north. This works well for us as our agent has been fomenting revolution among the same, and Cyron has just given them reason to draw closer to the capital while fully armed.”

  Pyrust arched an eyebrow at her. “ ‘Something is happening in the south’? That is hardly your usual precision in reporting, Delasonsa.”

  “True, Highness, but it is also the truth. My Virine assets are unusually quiet. There is enough limited communication that I know they still exist, but they have no credible information to offer.”

  The fire roared for a moment, then a log exploded into a shower of sparks and embers that scattered well past the Prince’s vacated chair. The two of them jumped back, then stepped further back as the sparks began to spin, sweeping the embers into their tight embrace. Fire whirled into a column, then congealed into a humanoid form with the head of a wolf. The fiery creature appropriated the chair, dragging it closer to the hearth as it sat.