Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Pyrust stared for a heartbeat at the creature, then dropped to a knee and bowed deeply. “Greetings, Grija, Lord of Death. You honor me.”

  “I do no such thing, Pyrust. I give you an opportunity. You are bound to my realm—all mortals are—and the only question is how many of your fellows you have sent to me. Your dead shall be your slaves in my realm.”

  Delasonsa, who had remained standing, snorted. “The Prince is too wise to be seduced by your lies. Thousands may slave under him, but he will slave beneath the one who slays him. What is the benefit of a few or many?”

  Grija laughed lightly, jaws agape. “I shall enjoy continuing this discussion in my realm, Mother of Shadows. You shall not.” A fiery hand flicked in her direction and Pyrust’s assassin collapsed.

  “You do right to value her, Pyrust, for she defends you as a hawk would defend her own young. Yet she thinks she could defend you from me, which is foolishness. She would prolong a discussion that is best brief.”

  The Prince nodded. “When you spoke to me before, you said I would drive many through the gates of your realm.”

  “That was true then, and will be more so now. I have seen great things from you but the circumstances have shifted. Two who were meant for my realm have eluded me. They have died, yet they live in defiance of all that which is ordered in the heavens. This is an omen that heralds the arrival of a tenth god.”

  Pyrust, who had never given too much thought to the gods, found that prospect surprising. “Can there be a tenth god?”

  “You might as well ask if there can be ten more or ten fewer. There have been countless gods. The Viruk had their gods, and the Soth the same. Even men have different gods. We warp mortals, and they change us. It is all the stuff of endless and tedious discussions among priests—and I restrict it to the Sixth Hell.”

  The flaming god leaned forward. “It is also immaterial to you, Pyrust. All that matters is this: two people meant for my realm have eluded me. They have accomplished this because the tenth god is invading heaven. And, as go the heavens, so goes the earth—for the tenth god’s terrestrial forces are invading Erumvirine.”

  The Desei Prince slowly stood. “And this is why no news flows north.”

  “And why the Son of the Dragon Throne throws his troops south. His intent may be good, but his means and timing are not.” A flaming tongue licked flickering fangs. “The initial invasion sent many to my realm, and perhaps was meant to distract me from those who are missing. Now a second wave has come, and Virine defenses cannot hold it.”

  Pyrust’s jade eyes narrowed. “Where are they attacking? Show me.”

  “Show you?”

  “Yes, damn you. You’re a god. You conjured a body; conjure me a map.”

  Grija lunged up, then reached an oversized hand back into the hearth. He scooped up fire as if it were sand and let it pour over the floor, where it puddled inches away from Delasonsa’s limp form. The flames became incandescent fluid, then dark lines ran through them marking the rivers and borders. Flames danced up for mountains, then, on Erumvirine’s eastern edge, the flames died completely.

  Pyrust’s stomach began to knot. A quarter of the nation is gone. The invaders are driving straight for Kelewan. A momentary flash of jealousy ran through him. His dreams of marching triumphantly into Kelewan died, for he knew the city he might take now would never match the city he had lusted after for so long.

  “How long since they invaded?”

  “A month.”

  “And they’ve come that far? I am impressed.”

  “You should be afraid.”

  “Fear avails me nothing. Respect for my enemy is vital.”

  The death god squatted and peered down at him. “Do not be disdainful of me, Pyrust.”

  He met Grija’s gaze without fear. “If I am to be your scythe, do not complain that I am sharp.”

  The god sat back and chuckled. “You are not the only scythe.”

  Pyrust nodded. “I shall consider well what you have told me.”

  “And act on it?”

  “You will know one way or the other.”

  Grija stared at him for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Make your decision wisely, Pyrust. If there is a tenth god, there will be a Tenth Hell, and I shall reserve it especially for you.”

  Before the Prince could reply, the fiery avatar imploded and flowed back into the hearth. Aside from Delasonsa’s body and the little flames licking at his chair, no sign existed of the god’s visit. Pyrust waited, thinking he might awaken, but he did not.

  The Desei Prince frowned. When Grija had first spoken to him months ago, it seemed that his dreams of becoming Emperor would come true. Certainly, any campaign would have resulted in many deaths. Succeed or fail, his effort would swell the population of the death god’s realm.

  This manifestation, however, betokened something entirely different. If the god of Death was powerful enough to intervene in the affairs of men, he could have simply slain the tenth god’s troops. But the fact that people had escaped death meant his power was waning. War was being waged on the earth as it was in heaven, and Grija clearly needed a terrestrial ally. Or allies. After all, I am not the only scythe.

  Divine politics aside, the information he’d been given was useful. He’d known Cyron was moving troops, and now he knew why. The troops on Nalenyr’s northern border were unreliable, and perhaps even rebellious. Punching through Helosunde and into Nalenyr would hardly be bloodless, but it now seemed possible.

  It is also necessary.

  Grija had said it, but Pyrust knew it even before the death god had provided the details. Cyron might well be a genius in organizing his nation and accumulating wealth, but he was not the military leader any of the other Komyr princes had been. If he were, he would not be sending troops south to his border with Erumvirine; he would be sending them straight into Erumvirine. It would be far better to fight any wars on someone else’s territory—whether you intended to keep it or cede it back later.

  Pyrust had choices. He had Helosunde between his nation and Nalenyr. Even if the invaders chose to turn north and come up the coast, their supply lines would be stretched beyond all imagining by the time they reached Deseirion, and Pyrust could guarantee they’d find not a single morsel to eat in his realm. His troops, though not as numerous as other nations’, were well trained and would fight hard. He could hold the enemy in Helosunde and keep his realm safe.

  Or I can fight them further south. While part of him still dreamed of taking Moriande and Kelewan, a greater part of him now contemplated their defense. If we are divided, we shall fall.

  But no one would agree to be united beneath the Hawk banner. Even if Cyron realized this was the only chance for his realm to survive, he’d not agree. Surrendering command of his troops to his Desei counterpart would spell the end of his dynasty.

  “But I shall need his troops and his nation to defend us all.” Pyrust frowned. If the tenth god’s invasion had inspired fear in the death god, there was no way to see that as anything but a disaster for mankind.

  Pyrust sank to a knee beside the Mother of Shadows and shook her shoulder. She jerked, then rolled away. He felt certain she’d come up with a dagger in hand, but she kept it hidden beneath her cloak.

  “Highness, I have failed you.”

  “No, Delasonsa, you have not. We have much work to do.”

  “What, my Prince?”

  Pyrust stood. “You will send word to your agents in Nalenyr. They will encourage an open break between the inland lords and Moriande. I want the former armed and ready to join me. I will also need you to slay the leaders of Helosunde’s dissident factions though you will spare my wife’s brother. In her name, a message will be sent to the Council of Ministers offering an alliance and peace between Deseirion and Helosunde.”

  “They will not believe it.”

  “You will tell them I will grant Helosunde full autonomy when my heir is born.”

  She looked at him closely. “Are you well, High
ness?”

  “My next order will answer your concern, Mother of Shadows. I want every unit possible to head south. This includes the training cadres and the garrisons on the Turasynd borders. Any man or woman fifteen to thirty will report to a unit unless their occupation is vital to the war effort. Find me some cowards of whom I can make examples and crucify them at crossroads.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “Within a month, Mother of Shadows, we march south.” Pyrust pointed in that direction. “It’s not empire we seek, but if we repel the invaders, it is empire we shall have.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  10th 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

  Vnielkokun, Moriande

  Nalenyr

  Pelut Vniel waited until his servants had poured tea and withdrawn before he bowed his head to his visitor. “You honor my house with your visit, Count Turcol. I apologize for not having been able to see you earlier, but my household has been in an uproar as we prepare to celebrate the anniversary of the Prince’s ascension to the Dragon Throne. If you are here on that blessed day, please accept my invitation to be your host.”

  The westron lord returned the bow, but without grace or sincerity. “I believed, Minister, that I had communicated the urgency of my business with you to your subordinates. Perhaps they do not serve you well.”

  Pelut did not immediately reply. Instead, he sipped his tea. “In Miromil they train monkeys to climb to the highest reaches of the tea trees and to pick only the most delicate leaves. This variety is called Jade Cloud, and my servants have been given specific instruction in its preparation. I believe you will like it.”

  Turcol did not so much as glance at the tea on the little table beside which he knelt. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I have little time for it.”

  “There is always time for being hospitable, my lord.”

  Turcol might have caught a hint of warning in his voice, or had remembered he had come to ask a favor of Pelut. So, he did not reply and instead sipped the tea—far too quickly—then offered thanks.

  Pelut returned his cup to the table beside him. “You were fortunate to be in Moriande when the request for troops was issued. You will, no doubt, be joining them at the Helosunde border very soon.”

  “I will be joining them, yes.” Turcol’s eyes slitted. “I thought to seek your advice on a matter of protocol.”

  “And what would that be?”

  The inland lord squared his shoulders. “Given that our Prince will be celebrating his anniversary, I thought a parade of troops to honor him and the occasion would be appropriate.”

  Pelut hesitated but let no surprise show on his face. “The Prince eschews such displays, save during the Harvest Festival. His celebrations are usually private. Often he takes a group of courtiers into the countryside for hawking and other pursuits.”

  “Of this I am aware, Grand Minister. I am also aware that he has sent most of his Keru south, so he is without his customary retinue of bodyguards. I imagine this will cause him to remain in Moriande.” Turcol attempted to layer pity onto his expression but, never having felt it before, the effort was transparently false. “I had thought that, since my troops would be in the vicinity four days hence, the Prince might come with us, enjoy our hospitality, and see just how well we will guard the border. It would be a blessing for my troops to see their Prince as well.”

  Pelut smiled. Ambition, Count Turcol, is always impatient. “Your concern for the Prince’s welfare is noted and appreciated. Shall I communicate your invitation to His Highness?”

  “I would be in your debt. What would you have me do to repay you?”

  “I have no idea what service you can perform for me, Count Turcol, beyond that of faithfully securing our border.”

  His reply clearly frustrated Turcol. Pelut had seen it for what it was: an invitation to suggest killing Cyron and supplanting him. The plot would be obvious to everyone, but Turcol arrogantly believed that his celebrated rise to the throne would blind everyone to the means by which he obtained it.

  Turcol nodded. “I am certain you will think of something, Grand Minister, for your wisdom is celebrated throughout Nalenyr.”

  “Again you honor me.” Pelut sipped tea once more, then glanced past his visitor. He’d caught the hint of a shadow against one of the rice-paper-panel walls. He knew Turcol would never spot it. If he did, Pelut already had a stratagem in place for dealing with the situation. His eldest daughter would be found hiding there, claiming she wanted just a glimpse of the famous noble. Pelut would let the man use her as he would, and Turcol would forget any other suspicions.

  His vanity would never allow him to believe I had a clerk transcribing our discussion.

  Such precautions would have been unnecessary, but Turcol’s repeated demands for a meeting had forced Pelut to take them. Even a blind and deaf man who had been clapped in an iron box and sunk to the bottom of the Gold River for fifty years would be aware of the westron’s desire to speak with him. Pelut had to assume Prince Cyron knew already, and while Pelut feared no spies in his own household, he assumed the streets outside his small tower would be choked with them by the time the interview had been concluded.

  “I should tell you, my lord, that I think it unlikely the Prince will accept your invitation. In fact, I should think the chances of it would be negligible . . .”

  “My pleasure and generosity were he to join me would know no bounds!”

  Pelut continued speaking, making no response to the outburst. “. . . unless you were perhaps first to invite Prince Eiran and suggest to him you dearly wished Prince Cyron would join you. If you were to say that you would have asked the Prince directly, save that you felt certain he would look down on an offer from such a lowly noble as yourself, I am confident Prince Eiran would use his influence on your behalf. He and Cyron are quite close.”

  Turcol glanced down, then nodded. “Of course. I should do it that way, yes.”

  “I would be happy to arrange an audience with Prince Eiran for you.”

  “If I may ask it of you, please.” Turcol tried to make his next question sound casual, but the enthusiasm in his voice betrayed him. “I do have one question—spawned by the desire for continued stability in Nalenyr.”

  “Please.”

  “If the unfortunate were to happen . . .”

  “ ‘The unfortunate’?”

  “If the Prince were to fall victim to an assassin, a Desei assassin, what would happen next?”

  Pelut smiled and shook his head. “Do not concern yourself, my lord. There are no Desei assassins who could penetrate Wentokikun.”

  Turcol frowned, dark and deep. “No. What if it were assassins, a group of them, and they fell upon the Prince while he was coming out to join my troops? What would happen? If he died, I mean.”

  Though Pelut knew exactly what was being asked, he chose to misunderstand a bit more. “This is all highly unlikely, my lord. Prince Pyrust is quite wise, so any assassins would not be revealed as his agents. I mean, in such an unthinkable scenario as you describe, a band of assassins would need to be at least twenty-seven in number and likely would be disguised as bandits. In fact, we would find nothing to indicate they were not bandits. About the only chance they would have, I should think, would be to attack while you, the Princes, and a few other of your most trusted and brave warriors are relaxing at Memorial Hill, as is the Prince’s wont. Then and only then might they kill the Prince. As for the rest of you, if you were able to fight your way clear, well, recall how the people love your father-in-law for having brought Prince Aralias’ body back from Helosunde.”

  Turcol nodded and sipped at his tea again.

  Pelut bowed his head. “I hope this does not alarm you, my lord, for I know you would give your life to protect our Prince. You might be wounded even, but his loss would cause yo
u greater pain than any physical wound.”

  “Of course it alarms me, Grand Minister, and if I thought bandits could harm the Prince, I should never offer my invitation. That is not possible, however, so I shall use the route you suggest.”

  “I am pleased to be of service.”

  “My original question, however, dealt with the aftermath of such a grand tragedy. The Prince has no heirs, and his brother died without any as well. In the event of the Prince’s death, who would lead our nation?”

  Pelut took a long drink of his tea before answering. “You present me with a question for which there is one of many answers—but one that should not be shared outside this room. I trust I have your confidence in this?”

  Turcol nodded slowly in agreement. “I understand.”

  Pelut canted his head to the right. “You must understand that the Prince’s lack of an heir by blood or declaration is a situation which I, as Naleni Grand Minister, must address. I look to Helosunde, with its Council of Ministers, and see how their deliberations have been a disaster. I will not have a government of ministers, for we are not of ruling blood. Few people are, and fewer still manifest their blood’s full promise.”

  The count could not conceal a smile. The fact that his family had once been on the Dragon Throne clearly proved he had the bloodlines that could lay claim to it. And he is certain his bloodline’s promise has blossomed full in him.

  “It has struck me, my lord, that to maintain stability and promote the future, we might be required to take extraordinary methods. It has been my thinking that a triumvirate made up of your father-in-law, Duchess Scior, and yourself would provide the proper mixture of wisdom, charisma, experience and, in your case, vitality to lead our nation into the future. The three of you would have to cooperate, of course, sharing power.”

  “Yes, yes, I can see that.” Turcol’s curdled expression made his opinion clear. “Still, we would have to come down to one Prince if our nation was to maintain its legitimacy. While both of the others are wise and powerful, neither of their houses predates the Cataclysm. As with the Komyr, they have risen since the Time of Black Ice.”