Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “And he was like you in one other regard. He had no children.”

  Turcol nodded, puzzled.

  “My grandfather didn’t kill him, he gelded him. Then he sent him to live in a monastery on the coast of the Dark Sea. So, I’ll give you what you say you desire.”

  Turcol’s shoulders sagged with resignation, then he launched himself at the Prince. He reached his feet in a heartbeat and drew his dagger in the next. As he raised it, two arrows narrowly missed him. Fury burning in his grey eyes, he rushed forward.

  And might have reached Cyron, save for the Lady of Jet and Jade, who stuck a foot out and tripped him. Turcol went down heavily, the arrow’s shaft breaking. Eiran delivered a sharp kick to the man’s head, and he remained down.

  Cyron bowed deeply to the concubine, then to the Helosundian Prince. “You are both yet more dear to me for saving my life.”

  They returned the bows, but said nothing.

  Cyron turned to the nearest swordsman and gave him the slightest shake of his head. In commanding his master assassin to supplant those Turcol had hired, he also asked that Eiran and the Lady of Jet and Jade be left free to act. He’d informed neither of them of what would happen, and in the unlikely event either proved a coconspirator, they would have died as Turcol had.

  The Prince pulled back the left sleeve of his robe. “We will tell everyone what Turcol intended to say. Bandits found us out here and sought to rob us, not realizing who we were. Turcol and his men fought them valiantly, driving them off, but not before the count and his men died of their wounds.

  “Eiran, because the count so graciously made you his cocommander, you will lead the Helosundian Dragons north and watch over them. Tell them we think the bandits were truly Desei assassins who intended to kill Turcol, so much does Pyrust fear him and his men on the border. That will put steel in their spines.”

  Eiran bowed his head. “As you will it, Highness.”

  The Lady of Jet and Jade regarded him openly. “Orders for me, Highness?”

  “Yes. Please avert your eyes.” Cyron waited until she had turned away, then nodded to his Lord of Shadows and lifted his bared arm. The assassin drew a dagger and held it high.

  Cyron sighed and nodded. “It has to be believable, our story, and so it shall be.”

  The blade fell.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  14th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

  10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Quunkun, Kelewan (The Illustrated City)

  Erumvirine

  Though our number was pared severely in that first encounter with what we came to call the kwajiin—their blue skin having made that name inescapable—we reached Kelewan without much further incident. Probes did still arrive, and we fought them back, but the invasion moved at a steadier pace. And as we traveled west, more refugees joined us and the breadth of the invasion became clear.

  Ranai had seen it begin at Derros—or, rather, had seen one of the beginnings. Towns and villages along the Green River had been hit, as well as locations as far north as the Central Mountains. All the reports talked of total slaughter, which was what Dunos had seen. The general lack of refugees on the roads confirmed that few had escaped the invaders.

  Many of those fleeing suggested the invasion was divine retribution for the secret things Prince Jekusmirwyn was doing in his palace. But Moraven had traveled extensively through Erumvirine, and the most annoying thing Jekusmirwyn had done was continue the Virine tradition of long names for rulers. Because Erumvirine had been the Imperial capital province, the local rulers picked names of specific import when they ascended to the throne. Jekusmirwyn actually translated as “the last Prince,” which was taken as an omen of immortality, or his role as the Prince who would reestablish the Empire.

  The invaders, it appeared, had a different take on it.

  The idea of divine retribution was the product of feeble minds rendered even less stable by fatigue and fear. Were the gods desirous of punishing him, they’d show up in Quunkun, deal with him alone, and depart. That was the orderly way of doing things, and the Lords of Heaven were ever about doing things in an orderly way.

  As we drew closer to the capital, the roads clogged, and small encampments of refugees set themselves up in open spaces. Some of them had lost the will to live and so lay down to die. Others had taken heart in seeing columns of soldiers heading east to deal with the threat. We’d seen them, too, which is why we were heading west. While few of the refugees chose to follow me, a number of xidantzu did. By the time we reached Kelewan, I had a cadre of a dozen warriors, half of whom were Mystics or well on their way to becoming such.

  I remembered Kelewan, both as Moraven Tolo and from further past, though those memories still lay shrouded. It had once been known as the “Illustrated City” because of the local customs determining what colors would be used on various buildings and how they would be otherwise decorated. Quunkun, the Bear’s Tower, lay at the city’s hub. White marble faced it, and colorful pennants hung from towers. Around it, split into twelve divisions that subdivided into yet smaller cantons and wards, each part of the city adopted different colors to identify it. Gold marked the trading divisions, with buildings having secondary and accent colors that identified very specifically what they did. River traders, for example, would paint with gold and green—the latter for the river.

  Even the slums were brightly painted. White, of course, was to match the Palace, but in reality the slum dwellers could only afford whitewash. In other places, as divisions were divided and subdivided, buildings could end up with a mélange of colors that made the eyes bleed on a sunny day.

  I could only hope the kwajiin were not color-blind.

  Most refugees sought entry through Whitegate, but I refused to go into the capital as a beggar. We recovered Urardsa and Dunos from their fellows and headed for Bloodgate. As would be expected, soldiers warded the entrance to their section of town. A variety of mercenaries and xidantzu loitered outside that gate, but I decided they were beneath my notice. The sort of people I needed would not have been intimidated by some princeling’s foot soldier.

  Those I dismissed likewise dismissed me, confirming my conclusions about their worthlessness.

  Before we made to enter the city, I’d commanded all of my companions to wash up and put on their best robes. Despite days on the road and hard fighting, they cleaned up well and looked presentable. From the glances they exchanged, their appearance was a surprise, and I might have even seen growing signs of attraction between a few of them.

  That suited me fine. It was good they should enjoy what little life they likely had left.

  I, on the other hand, did not clean up. My robe, which had once been white, now had a grey cast to it, save where blood stained it deeply. I’d done nothing to induce the pattern, but I did enjoy the striping effect. Given my crest was that of a tiger hunting, it seemed appropriate.

  And, like a tiger, I kept my whiskers, which had grown in very dark. Being charitable, I looked as if I’d been dragged all the way from Derros behind a dung cart. The only thing anomalous about me was my wearing two swords. Of course, that could have been taken as braggadocio, and I did not mind that either.

  Being underestimated in some situations is an asset.

  A guardsman bearing a spear moved to block my way. “You’ll wait here like the others.” He moved with a swagger and sneered as he spoke. Some of the loiterers laughed, but the smarter among them just watched.

  Deshiel intervened. “This is our master, Moraven Tolo.”

  The guardsman stared blankly at him. “It would not matter if he was Prince Cyron arrived with all the Naleni troops he could field. Until the Prince issues a call for xidantzu and others of their ilk, you wait here. Or, you go to Whitegate, surrender your weapons, and get fed.”

  Deshiel’s hand dropped to his sword’s hilt, but I restrained
him with my left hand.

  The guardsman laughed.

  My backhanded slap snapped his head around, then dumped him on his ample buttocks. The other guards at the gate came instantly alert. They lowered their spears and prepared to advance and drive us off. Luric Dosh stepped forward and began to whirl his spear slowly, which gave the guardsmen pause.

  With the same hand I’d used to slap him, I pointed the fallen man to the stone circle just outside Bloodgate. Circles such as this could be found throughout the Nine, most commonly outside the larger cities or towns. This one was large, as befitted a capital, easily thirty feet in diameter. Many duels had been fought in it, and the signs of the aftermath were easily seen.

  Mystics had left their mark, for when Mystics dueled, the circle contained the wild magic that their actions released. Outside that circle, the world was just beginning to awaken in spring. Inside the flowers were already in bloom. I especially liked the goldenrod for how it glittered, and I imagined the metal blossoms might ring prettily were I to slice through them. The Iron-bells, on the other hand, might dull a blade.

  The guardsman scuttled back from me. “I don’t care who you are, you don’t come in.”

  Again I pointed to the circle.

  “I know my duty.”

  Deshiel bowed toward him. “Indeed you do. Are you willing to die in its performance?”

  I gave him no chance to reply. I strode forward as if I were the Prince. The recumbent guard said nothing more and his fellows parted before me. My people followed and a couple of the loiterers made to follow us.

  I pointed to one and Ranai drew her sword. He continued to follow. She did the guardsman’s duty for him, and we walked deeper into the city with no one else in our wake.

  I could feel Moraven’s distaste for the city, but I liked it. The tall buildings reduced the sky to slender ribbons of blue. The crowds had not yet filtered into the red division and likely would stay out, as it would be the first point of attack. The warriors who lived here kept it clean, and even the yapping dogs slinking through the streets looked as if they’d recently been washed.

  What I found most fascinating in the Illustrated City were the small murals painted on the homes. Most had no wording, and were often painted in a stripe no more than a foot high. One warrior’s house, for example, showed him in Virine livery, cutting down a Viruk. By this alone he would be known. Little symbols showed his current rank and affiliation and, at this house, his mural was the fourth in a sequence, showing military service going back generations. While each was bright with new paint, the styling of the figures remained appropriate to their era, so each building became a living history of those who resided there.

  By contrast, Quunkun remained naked stone. Its smooth walls had no decoration, but it needed none. Everyone was expected to know the history and deeds of the Telanyn Dynasty—and the emperors who had reigned there before them. The Telanyn had assumed control of Erumvirine when Prince Nelesquin died in Ixyll. Though they had been overthrown twice since the Cataclysm, they found their way back to the throne after a generation or two. Once by acclaim, once by marriage and murder—both equally effective.

  The palace’s tall towers thrust like spears into the sky, but drew no blood. They remained as ineffective as Virine spears often were, and that boded ill for Kelewan. We strode across the wide circle of white marble and mounted the steps, only to be stopped by smartly dressed warriors whose spear blades flashed silver in the sunlight.

  A captain held up a hand to stop me. “You go no further without authority.”

  I reached into my robe and tossed a piece of filthy fabric at him. He recoiled and let it fall to the steps. There it unfurled itself in all its tattered, bloodstained glory. Though it had been pierced and clawed, no one could mistake the insignia of the Iron Bears.

  The captain knelt, touched the cloth, then picked it up. “Come with me.”

  I followed him through the doors and waited for my people to join me. I moved slowly enough for them to take in the palace’s heart, which had struck men dumb with awe since before the Empire fell. We entered beneath a massive dome a hundred feet high. Before us and to both sides, stairways started up, then split three ways, crisscrossing in a dizzying webwork of catwalks. A dozen thick pillars supported the dome, and into each one had been carved the image of a god, emperor, or prince. Only one lacked decoration, having only an empty alcove. A statue of Nelesquin had been there, but had been pulled down and smashed in the Cataclysm’s wake.

  The captain started up the western staircase and I followed him around to the north. When he continued on further, I cut up the northern stairs and ignored his calls to return. The others followed, becoming more alert than before, but they let him pass when I waved him forward.

  He reached my side by the time I was halfway down the corridor to the Prince’s audience chamber. “You can’t go in there. We need to talk to the generals about the Iron Bears.”

  I gave him a hard stare that drained the blood from his face. He kept pace with me nonetheless, and a certain resolution entered his step. The guards at the audience chamber door came to alert, but he waved them aside. When they hesitated, he snapped, “Leave here. Now.”

  They withdrew reluctantly.

  I made to step forward, but he restrained me with a hand. In an instant, he had Ranai’s sword at his throat and Dunos’ dagger poised somewhat lower. His eyes hardened as he looked at me. “If you are going to kill the Prince, kill me first, now.”

  I shook my head.

  He relaxed.

  I reached up and guided Ranai’s blade away from his throat. “What is your name, Captain?”

  “Ianin Lumel, first company, Jade Bears.”

  I took the Iron Bears’ standard from him. “Remember that alive and smart is preferable to dead and stupid.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  I nodded toward the doors and he opened them with Deshiel.

  I strode through them and mounted the red carpet edged with purple. I knew well how jealously princes regarded their traditions, but I needed to make an impression. For someone who was not a noble to step on the carpet without invitation could be a death sentence.

  The Prince, who had been lounging somewhat indolently across the arms of the Bear Throne, instantly swung his legs down. I think he would have stood, save that the heavy robes of state wrapped around his legs and would have spilled him to the floor. His ministers, who knelt to either side of the carpet, shot me venomous glances, but not a one rose in challenge. They were as the ministers ever had been: willing to serve whoever sat in the throne until it served them to unseat him.

  I stopped ten feet from the throne and bowed deeply. I held it a respectful amount of time, certainly appropriate for his and his dynasty’s years. I came back up but did not wait for him to bow, even if he were inclined to do so. I tossed the standard at him and he caught it awkwardly against his chest. He held it out and began to tremble.

  I looked at him through the largest hole. “Your Iron Bears are dead, to a man. Your city will be forfeit. If you want to save your nation, you will abandon Kelewan now and head north to the mountains in the county of Faeut. Send your people to Nalenyr.”

  He lowered the standard. “No, this isn’t possible.”

  “It is very possible. I watched the Iron Bears die myself. Do you want to know how it happened? The enemy arrayed themselves in a strong line on a rise above the Bears. Your generals sent the Bears uphill against them, which was pure foolishness, bred from the tale about Morythian Tigers eons ago. The Bears did not face Morythians. These kwajiin are smarter, and their troops are fearless.”

  I looked at the ministers, who stared back wide-eyed. “Even before the Bears engaged the enemy vhangxi, a black cloud of winged frogs swarmed over them. They are not powerful, but they have teeth and venom, and when several get to gnawing on a man, he stops.

  “And that’s when the vhangxi countercharged. They ripped into the Bears—literally ripped into them.
Men fell in pieces—many pieces, all of them small—then their killers fell to eating them. What’s left of your Bears are steaming piles of dung twenty miles east of here.”

  The Prince narrowed his eyes and tried to appear hardened, but the sweat on his bald pate betrayed him. “If this is true, how did you come to have this standard?”

  I rested a hand on the hilt of each sword. “I called to the kwajiin leader and challenged him to a duel. He drew a circle, and I killed him.” I pulled back the sleeve on my right arm and revealed a serpentine scar all livid and crossed with black thread. “He was not without skill.”

  “But if their general is dead, then their threat is ended.”

  I glanced at the minister who had spoken. “It is without generals that they got this far. The man I slew—they appear to be men, but are not—was not their greatest leader. They will come, they will take Kelewan, and they will kill everyone in the city.”

  The Prince shook his head. “No, no, that is not possible.”

  “Your denial does nothing to change the reality of what is coming.” I pointed back east. “The invaders have devoured the eastern half of your nation. Your troops are insufficiently trained to deal with the invaders. Pull back, give them time, and you might be able to stop them. If you do not, your nation is lost.”

  Jekusmirwyn stood and pointed a trembling finger at me. “You have killed one of their leaders. I appoint you my warlord. Arrange the defenses of the city as you see fit.”

  I laughed aloud, offending the ministers and the Prince alike.

  “Do not mock me!”

  I shook my head. “Silly man, if I could think of a way to save your city, would I come here and tell you to abandon it? It cannot be saved. Do what I tell you, and their victory will be the first step in their defeat.”