Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Chapter Thirty-two

  23rd 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

  Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

  Nirati was certain she’d never seen her grandfather so happy before, and this scared her. She’d seen him pleased in the past—by a new discovery or, more usually, someone else’s misfortune. Often enough, Qiro had even been the cause of that misfortune. She’d even seen him tenderly pleased, as when she had brought him a picture or a sweetcake—things she had done as a child.

  But no matter the cause of his pleasure, it had always been an adult pleasure—self-satisfied and controlled. Now, however, he exhibited a boyish glee that bordered on madness. In fact, she was fairly certain that he had become unhinged. This realization, which had been growing in her mind as Nelesquin had given Qiro more and more work, shook her to the core. Qiro had always been constant and strong. While he could be impulsive—especially when meting out punishment—decorum had established some boundaries beyond which he did not stray.

  She looked at him, sitting there on a muddy flat at low tide, mud caking him and streaking his hair and beard. He reached down with a filthy hand, scooped up mud, spat in it, mixed it up, and shaped it into strange little creatures. He added new mudmen to the crews on the little boats he’d shaped from reeds.

  He has utterly lost his mind.

  From where she stood, his little armada looked nothing like Nelesquin’s fleet. The Durrani had marched onto their ships in good order, whereas her grandfather’s troops sagged and slumped against each other. The Durrani had all been tall and strong, clean of limb and keen of eye, whereas these creatures had little definition at all.

  And when the tide comes in, they will be washed away forever.

  Qiro looked up from his place in the mud, then struggled to his feet. “Oh, Nirati, you’ve come. Good, excellent. If it wasn’t for you, I could not have done this. Tell me you approve.”

  She blinked back her surprise and felt Takwee cling to her back a bit more tightly. Grandfather asking for approval? “I think it’s wonderful, Grandfather. But I have to ask. What is it?”

  The old man laughed warmly—an alien sound from his throat. “This is your brother’s salvation, silly girl.” He nodded toward the west and the area from which Nelesquin’s Durrani kept launching more ships. “I would not bother Prince Nelesquin with such a trifling matter. I can handle it myself. Smaller task, smaller fleet, but nonetheless effective.”

  He waved her forward and began walking at the water’s edge, as if a general reviewing his troops. He pointed to several boats jammed with globs of mud that looked like little more than lumps to her. “These are my Neshta. They’re small, but quick, with claws and fangs. Hundreds of them, thousands perhaps—they are the first wave. They are like your Takwee there, but her darker, bellicose cousins, bred for war.”

  She nodded. “Ah, very good.”

  “And here, these larger ones—hence the larger boats—are my Provocs. They’re as big as Viruk, but have four arms, not just two. When they begin to fight, there will be no standing against them. Oh, the havoc they will wreak!”

  Nirati forced herself to smile. “And these here, Grandfather, the ones with golden sand sprinkled on their heads?”

  “Clever girl, I knew you would notice.” He clapped grimy hands, his fingernails black. “They are the Dernai. Half-handed, all of them, but with fierce claws, strong bodies, and a conqueror’s will. They know no fear.”

  “It is an impressive army, Grandfather.” Nirati pointed to one last boat, a boat that had a lone figure in it. Unlike the others, this one had been shaped of clay and worked with care. Obviously female, she’d been armored and provided with a seashell shield and a quill from a spinefish for a spear. “Who is that?”

  Qiro knelt beside that last figure. “This is Lystai. She is my general and will lead my army. But there I need your help again.”

  “What do you need, Grandfather?”

  He beckoned her to kneel beside him, then reached up and caressed her brown hair. “This will hurt for a heartbeat, but I must . . .” With a quick yank he plucked a single hair from her head, then daubed the root with mud and affixed it to Lystai’s head.

  “There, now she can find your brother and bring him to me.”

  Nirati frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You probably think I don’t remember, but I do. You said you dreamed of him, of Keles, and that he was in Deseirion. We can’t have him there, trapped in Pyrust’s court. My army will attack Felarati and free him.”

  “Oh, yes, Grandfather, very good.” Nirati kept the smile on her face and looked down at the army baking in the sunlight. Her grandfather had absolutely lost his mind. Prince Cyron’s grandfather had been said to learn how to fight battles based on games played with toy soldiers. Her grandfather, in retreating to his childhood, imagined he, too, could wage wars with toys.

  She reached over and took her grandfather’s hands in hers. “I know Keles will welcome his freedom and praise you for freeing him.”

  Qiro closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded. “You know, I have not forgotten the past. I know that I have been a horrible taskmaster for your brothers, my brother, your father. I knew the potential in all of them. I had to drive them and drive them hard or they would have squandered it.”

  He opened his eyes again and looked out at his army. “Toys. Now I squander my talent.”

  “Hush, Grandfather. You’ve done great things. You’ve . . .” She looked around the landscape. “You’ve shaped all this. It is a miracle.”

  “No, Nirati, it is not.” He smiled at her softly, freed a hand, and caressed a cheek. “Out of love, I shaped a place where I could defy the gods. In doing so I released forces that I cannot control.”

  “You make it sound as dire as if you’ve triggered another Cataclysm.”

  “Sweet child, in some ways it is.” He slowly got to his feet and helped her up. They walked up the beach to warm golden sand, then sat again and watched the tide slowly roll in and float his tiny ships away.

  “It’s not a Cataclysm, Nirati, but could trigger another.” He shook his head. “But the world needs purging of its evils, and there is more work to be done before the purge is complete.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  25th 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

  Ministry of Harmony, Moriande

  Nalenyr

  Pelut Vniel tugged back the sleeves of his blue robe and poured Viruk Tears tea for Koir Yoram, Helosunde’s Minister of Foreign Relations. He really didn’t want to be so hospitable, for the man had been difficult in the past. He promised to be so again, but Pelut had chosen to follow one of Urmyr’s dicta and grant mercy and grace to the doomed.

  Yoram already looked as if he’d ridden halfway through the Hells, and the fact that he had come immediately to the ministry without bathing or changing his soiled robe marked his sense of urgency. While Pelut was certain Koir meant to use his condition to emphasize the message he bore, he’d not taken the necessary steps to make Pelut feel obligated to him. Yes, his robe had been torn and he’d been mud-splashed; bits of leaves remained in his black hair; but nowhere did he bear a scratch of a thorn, nor did he have any broken bones.

  You endured no pain for your cause, so I shall cause you pain. Even before Koir spoke a single word, Pelut knew what he would be asked, and also knew he would deny the request. Their ranks within the bureaucracy demanded the meeting happen, and Koir likely suspected the outcome already. Still, the game had to be played, and if Koir could present an advantage for Pelut, the foregone outcome might change.

  Pelut smiled. “You’ve ridden far and fast. Have you come all the way from Vallit
si?”

  “No, I came from Moryne directly and I bear dire news. Four days ago, the Desei attacked and defeated one of our armies, scattering it. Now they advance on Vallitsi.” The man’s blue eyes were sunken in dark pits in his face. “There are reports of thousands of Desei pouring south. Solie is under siege. Pyrust is pushing for the complete conquest of Helosunde, and Nalenyr must stop him.”

  Pelut marshaled all his strength and kept his reaction from his face. When Koir had arrived in such a state, he expected that the Desei had pushed into Helosunde again. For them to have already secured Moryne, which had only ever been nominally in their control, meant the Desei had secure lines of supply into the heart of Helosunde and, therefore, could stage for movement south. That they were pressing on to Vallitsi indicated that Pyrust was further stabilizing his power in the region.

  And all this just at a time when our own best troops have gone south.

  “Drink your tea, please, and eat something.” Pelut waved a hand at the bowl of rice and fish on the low table before his guest. “I would not wish to be seen as inhospitable to a man bearing such grave news.”

  Koir, never one for the civilities, fixed him with a hard stare. “Which means you are not going to help.”

  “I think, Minister, you misspeak. Fill your mouth with food instead of inanity.” Pelut poured himself some tea and sipped it, ignoring his guest for a moment. He savored the rich, dark tea. It was from the island of Dreonath and said to be flavored with the tears of the Viruk.

  After his visitor had surrendered and sipped some tea, Pelut lowered his own cup and folded his hands in his lap. “Though you are well aware of it, Minister, you will recall that my Prince recommended against the ill-fated attack on Meleswin. Pyrust retaliated in the New Year’s Festival and retook his city.”

  “Our city.”

  “His city, and you know it.” Pelut shook his head. “You lost a city, you lost a general, you lost valiant troops, and you lost a princess.”

  “She was a duchess.”

  “And he made her a princess when he married her. He was wise enough to leave you a prince. Had he not, your Council of Ministers would have garnered more power by playing nobles off against nobles.”

  Koir’s head came up. “And you do not do this?”

  The Naleni minister’s expression hardened. “What do you mean to suggest, Minister?”

  “It would not be possible for Count Turcol to conceive of or execute a plan to assassinate Prince Cyron without your complicity.”

  Pelut slowly smiled. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Count Turcol died defending his Prince against bandits. The Prince himself was wounded, and the wound is not healing well.”

  The Helosundian laughed. “You play the game very well, but there are things you do not know. For example, in searching for assassins, Turcol first approached some of my people. He was clumsy in his attempts, and we deemed the effort doomed to failure, so we rejected it. He did not care. He simply found others to do what needed to be done—and he was not even smart enough to kill those of my people he’d approached. Curious about how things would turn out, and determined Prince Eiran would not die at the same time, my people saw everything.”

  Not possible. The Prince told me the Lord of Shadows had uncovered the plot. I confirmed Turcol had spoken with me but not about the depths of his treachery, just how to extend the invitation.

  “Fascinating information, Minister. I shall tell the Prince about it immediately.”

  Koir shook his head. “No, you will not. I, on the other hand, will convey that information to Count Vroan, and couple it with an accusation that you betrayed his son-in-law to the Prince. You will have to admit that it plays well, since it allowed you to do the Prince a favor—and to rid yourself of the most-difficult-to-control of the westron lords.”

  Pelut allowed himself a little chuckle. “Well played, but you miss the point, Minister. You, in fact, don’t know if I betrayed Count Turcol or not. I may well have, for reasons well beyond your ken or care. Of greater interest to you might be the fact that I have enough information to destroy the westron rebels whenever I desire.”

  Koir bowed his head for a moment, then smiled as he looked up. “But you have not, because you need them to unsettle Cyron. You wanted him to die because you knew Turcol would be unable to administer the nation without you. Cyron, prince that he is, could do your job and do it well. He’s exceeded you in his program of exploration, in fact. And were I to tell Prince Eiran of your complicity in the assassination attempt, he would tell Cyron, and you would be dead.”

  Fear trickled into Pelut’s stomach. He drank more tea, but it had turned sour. He could easily deny what Koir told Prince Eiran and claim that the Helosundians were trying to blackmail him into betraying Prince Cyron because Pyrust was pressing them. Doing that, however, would force Cyron to acknowledge Pyrust’s progress south. He might pull troops back from the Virine border, which would leave his nation open to invasion, or call up more troops from the interior to stop the Naleni. That option would increase westron anger, further ripping the nation apart, and would leave Nalenyr open to conquest from the north.

  The horror of Desei conquest shook Pelut, but only for a moment. He looked past it because of one of Koir’s other comments. He’d been correct: Cyron could administer the nation without Pelut. While that did make him an impediment, it also made one other thing perfectly clear: Cyron was no general. Pyrust was, and the threat from the south was an invasion. The Desei Prince could defeat it.

  Cyron could not.

  If Cyron continues to rule, all is lost.

  Just for a heartbeat Pelut pitied Prince Cyron. Time and circumstance, the gods and fate had put on the Dragon Throne the leader most capable of completing the healing of the world. Cyron had sent grain north to Pyrust to buy the Desei leader off, but also because he didn’t want the Desei people to starve. Such compassion, while laudable in a time of peace, was weakness in a time of war.

  Pelut set his cup down. “What is it you desire, Minister?”

  Koir smiled graciously. “We want our mercenaries returned north so they may march against the Desei. We want all grain shipments to Deseirion to stop. We want a Naleni fleet to set sail for Felarati and burn it in punishment for what Pyrust has done.”

  Pelut bowed his head. “Ambitious and impossible. You know that. There will be no fleet. Grain shipments will slacken, though the Desei likely liberated a great deal of rice from Moryne. We will move troops north again.”

  “And attack immediately.”

  Pelut shook his head. “Pyrust is overextended. Cyron cannot allow him to have Moryne, and Moryne cannot be held without supplies. We will cut it off and strangle it. This is the best I can offer.”

  “It’s more than I expected.” Koir nodded slowly. “Your position is safe.”

  “Thank you.” Pelut poured him more tea. “I hope you like this.”

  “It is excellent, especially after such a hard ride.”

  “It does fortify one.” It shall also be the last tea you ever drink, so I am glad you are pleased.

  Though Koir tried to be gracious, he planned to betray Pelut—not because he had to, but because he could. Koir had never accepted that Helosunde had ceased being a true nation and that he would never be treated as an equal in court. He would destroy Pelut and hope that the next Naleni Grand Minister, by some miracle, would not see him in exactly the same light.

  Pelut read all that in the expression that passed over the man’s face, and knew he had to prevent Koir’s plan from succeeding. He could do it easily by having the man assassinated and the blame put on a known Desei agent. Pelut would then tell the Prince that the Desei had killed him to keep the news from the north silent. And Pelut would delay that news long enough that the only reaction Cyron possibly could have would be to call up more troops, then Pelut would deal with Count Vroan personally.

  And perhaps it is time to deal with Junel again. While it was too soon to introduce t
he Desei into the Vroan household, using him as a liaison would work to position the man for later use.

  In Helosunde, Pyrust would be victorious. Vroan would rebel, either seeking Desei support or rising to oppose the Desei. Either way it did not matter, since both would weaken the nation enough for it to be taken. Pelut himself would be able to negotiate a peace that would not ruin Nalenyr, and Pyrust would head south to stop the invasion.

  And Pelut, having shown a genius for coordination, would rise to be Grand Minister of all three nations. Four. Doubtless Pyrust will take Erumvirine, too.

  Imperial Grand Minister. Pelut liked that.

  He raised his cup to Koir Yoram. “To your health, Minister, and that of our nations.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  26th 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

  Kelewan, Erumvirine

  I heard Captain Lumel enter the armory behind me, but I did not turn to face him. Instead I tightened the cords binding my armor on. There were only two things he could say to me. One, and I would have to kill him; the other and he would be the man I thought he was.

  “So, you are abandoning us.”

  “A statement, not a question; good.” I smiled, but didn’t let him see it. I concentrated on knotting the orange cords with a tiger’s-head knot. Despite my crest’s being a tiger hunting, I’d not used that knot in a long time—since before I became Moraven Tolo apparently, because my fingers fumbled at it. Still, I managed, working black cord in for the stripes and eyes. The knots made nice targets for archers with cord-cutting heads on their arrows, but so far the kwajiin had not employed them.

  I turned, and he covered his surprise well. The armor I’d chosen had been last worn by a Morythian general who died at Bakken Rift, when the Bears had charged uphill and routed their enemies. The Tiger crest on the breastplate did not match mine, but the alternating black and orange cords, as well as the background stripes, suited me.