Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  The count hazarded a nod and I almost thought he would not be able to raise his head again. He did, but needed to rest. We waited and doubtless all benefited from the sweet scent of the healing unguents with which our various wounds had been slathered.

  “I wish I had the strength to hand this package to you. We will tell many it is a gift from Deraelkun, from our history, for it has been here in the museum. It has been kept with an ancient suit of armor, one from before the Cataclysm. That armor was left here by an Imperial bastard who humiliated a Crown Prince in a military exercise, much as you did the kwajiin yesterday.”

  Pasuram slid the package from beneath his father’s hands and brought it to me. I let it rest on my thighs. I could still feel the warmth of the count’s hands, but far too little of it to believe the man would live much longer.

  I looked Jarys in the eye. “What was said?”

  “We were told that someday a man would come to Deraelkun. He would be young, but very old—the old formulation for designating someone a Mystic. He would be a wise man who could be daringly foolish.”

  I laughed at that latter bit of description.

  The count did not. “And we were told he would laugh when he heard himself described thus.”

  A chill puckered my flesh. “What else?”

  “We were told he would not be of Derael blood and that anyone who claimed this package as being meant for him would not be the man for whom it truly was meant.” The count lifted a trembling finger. “Open it.”

  I untied the braided purple cord that secured the package. Even before I began to remove the leather sheet, I knew what the package contained. Of course, being jaecaiserr, feeling the presence of swords even within thick leather presented little challenge.

  And fine blades these were. From hilt to point they were five feet long. The wooden scabbards were scarlet washed in black, with gold decorations and covered in a clear lacquer. The pattern on them matched the interwoven cords wrapping the hilts—the hilts and scabbards were boldly tiger-striped. Beneath the cords on each hilt, a stalking tiger charm of bronze had been bound, linking the warrior using them to Chado, and marking him a Morythian.

  The disk-shaped handguards revealed more about the swords even before I drew one. The Zodiac rimmed each disk, but Chado did not occupy the spot of honor atop the blade. That had been given to a dragon, the Imperial dragon. The blades dated from well before the Cataclysm. The handguards and the weaving on the hilt also indicated the swords belonged to a member of the Imperial bodyguard.

  I stood slowly and bared a blade with my left hand. The silvered steel came free easily, not just the way a fine weapon would be expected to do, but as something meant for my hand alone. Perfectly balanced, the sword felt like an extension of my arm. With that blade in my left hand and its mate filling my right, I would not know defeat.

  Save through treachery.

  Thoughts and memories exploded in my head. I remembered the day before, but a day in a different time when I faced a man, tall and dark, wearing a crowned-bear crest. We fought on that same island before Tsatol Deraelkun for hours, trading blows, never drawing blood—but refraining because we had no desire to hurt each other. Even so, we came so close and closer, daring each other to trim a lock here, bare a patch on an arm or leg there. It was a dangerous game we played, but one we had to play.

  And then, another time, darkness and the slice of a blade into my chest. It should have felt cold, that steel, but instead it felt molten. It shattered ribs and opened a lung. I could hear my breath hissing from my chest as I fell. I tried to look back over my shoulder to see who had struck me down, but I could not. The only clue to his identity was a softly whispered “I’m sorry,” and the hushed rustle of his feet as he made his escape.

  I sat down hard in the chair and looked at the blade. I saw my reflection in it, distorted and twisted, but no less recognizable. I had seen it so often before, in that sword, that I could not help but know who it was.

  “Count Derael, tell me, to whom did the swords belong?”

  “The chief of the last Emperor’s bodyguard. He rode past here with Empress Cyrsa and died in Ixyll.”

  I nodded. “Virisken Soshir.”

  “The very same.”

  I looked at the dying man. “You know you have returned to me the swords I bore to Ixyll.”

  His pale eyes narrowed. “If this is true, there is a message for you.”

  “What?”

  “Your duty to the crown has not been fulfilled.”

  A jolt ran through me and the last bit of fog cleared from my mind. I knew two things—two things as certain as the sun’s rising in the morning and setting at night. “Prince Nelesquin has returned. He covets what he always coveted. She always feared he would come back to claim the Empire.” I raised the bare blade. “I am Virisken Soshir. He’ll ascend to the throne over my dead body.”

  “A poor choice of words, Master Soshir.” The Gloon stared at me with all seven eyes. “Now you know who you are. Now you are free to die.”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  4th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Tsatol Pelyn, Deseirion

  It seemed to Keles Anturasi that he could have had a blanket for every survivor in the fortress draped over him and he’d still not stop shivering. He sat on the parapet of the north wall, looking down into the courtyard. The people, still in armor, still in the prime of their lives, moved about, lining up the dead, straightening their limbs, saluting comrades in arms who had fallen.

  And it all made no sense to him.

  Though he did not know what he had done, he knew he had done it. He hoped that as the sun made it over the horizon the fortress would fade. He hoped it had been an illusion. It just couldn’t exist, but he could see the dancing reflections of sunlight from the moat, still hear the pennants snapping in the breeze and could hear the crisp, strong footsteps of people who, hours before, could have barely managed an exhausted shuffle.

  The way they dealt with each other baffled him. They gathered in groups—family groups, he assumed, based on the crests on the armor—but it was no longer a grandparent gathering children or elderly maiden aunts comforting each other. These people had become warriors. Some had regressed to a life they knew, others had become things they had long ago abandoned dreaming they could be. And children . . . the children had grown into the sort of soldiers who inhabited heroic stories of the Imperial period.

  Some people had escaped transformation, but it had touched even Rislet Peyt. The diminutive minister had swelled into a warrior with a double-handed great sword. He’d chopped one of the four-armed things in half with it. He’d gotten an arm broken in the process, but he sat there with his arm in a sling, joking with the men who had previously been his bodyguards.

  Keles clutched the black blanket around his shoulders more tightly, but his broken hands had swollen to the point where they were all but useless. This had all been his doing, but he couldn’t undo it, nor could he do it again. All he could remember was that he knew he had to do something, and he rebelled against the situation that doomed so many people.

  Somehow I must have touched magic.

  But even that explanation defied logic. He was a cartographer. It was true that he had been working more as an engineer in making the changes in Felarati, but everything he had done had been something he’d learned as a by-product of his main pursuit: cartography. They were all things he could not have helped but learn, and many of them he’d learned without even realizing it.

  That could have explained, maybe, what happened with the fortress itself, but not what happened with the people. As much as he tried to figure things out, he couldn’t. Even a convoluted scheme by which their desires to avoid death had combined with his desire to save them—letting all of them touch magic and thereby be changed—fell short. Tha
t might have worked for the adults, but not the children.

  What made what happened to the people even worse was that while the children had become adults, they had no memories or experiences of the years that should have passed. To make things even more confusing, most of the survivors were drunk with victory and, save those who volunteered to stand sentry, were wandering off in pairs to enjoy carnal experiences they’d never known, or had long since forgotten.

  A shadow fell over him and he looked up at Rekarafi. “Do you know what happened?”

  “I did not know the first time.”

  “First time?”

  The Viruk pointed to the west. “In Ixyll, we escaped a chaos storm by entering a cavern. It proved to be a mausoleum.”

  “I remember.”

  “You were certain that there was a chamber beyond an arch. Borosan and I said we had moved. You did not believe that and drew a map to show us what waited on the other side of the arch.” The Viruk crouched and scraped the rough map on the stone. “When you did that, Moraven and Ciras reacted. I felt it, too. We moved again. The first time the storm moved us. You moved us back.”

  Keles felt the blood drain from his face. “By drawing the map, I moved us?”

  Rekarafi nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have drawn my way out of Felarati if I had known that.”

  The Viruk laughed. “No, you could not have. You did not know then what you did. You do not know now what you did last night. You have touched magic, Keles, very powerful magic, but you do not know how to control it.”

  “Can I learn? Can you teach me?”

  Rekarafi closed his eyes and raised his head, letting the breeze blow through his black mane. “There was a time, Keles Anturasi, when magic was so plentiful in the world that doing what you have done would have been simple. The Viruk mastered this magic, but in our mastering there was a flaw. It destroyed our Empire. What little I know would not serve you well. You’ve discovered this power on your own. You will have to learn how to control it yourself as well.”

  “What if I get it wrong?”

  The Viruk shrugged. “It will kill you.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “It is an urge to caution.”

  “Caution, yes.” Keles nodded. “That’s the other thing about everyone. They look at me and they are wary. Respectful but cautious. Who is more afraid of what happened here last night, them or me?”

  Rekarafi growled out a low laugh. “The Eyeless Ones are the most afraid.”

  “You have a point there.”

  The Viruk rested a hand on his shoulder. “And you won our contest. You shifted more stones than I. It has been many years since a human so humbled a Viruk.”

  “It’ll probably be a few more before that happens again, Rekarafi.”

  “Pity.” The Viruk smiled. “Being humbled is an interesting experience if one lives through it.”

  The Viruk withdrew as Tyressa came up the stone steps toward Keles. She carried a bowl and a pitcher. Bandages had been looped over her shoulder. She knelt beside him and set her burdens on the stone.

  “Your hands must be cared for.”

  “They’ll be fine.”

  “You forget my duty to Prince Cyron. You are my responsibility.”

  “Are you sure you want to take responsibility for me?”

  Tyressa’s expression sharpened. “I don’t have that choice. Your hands.”

  Keles frowned, then let the blanket slip. He presented his hands to her, all bloody, torn, swollen, and purple. He stiffened as she took them in her hands, but refused to cry out. She brought them down into the bowl, then poured water into it, which sent another throb of pain through his hands.

  Tyressa wetted a cloth, then took his right hand out of the water. She began to gently scrub at it, holding his right wrist. He pulled back at the first touch of the cloth, but she tightened her grip. “Don’t struggle; it will only make it worse.”

  “Sorry. It hurts.”

  “It should. You’ve hurt your hands badly.”

  Keles tried to laugh, but a wave of exhaustion killed it prematurely. “Funny that I can change people the way I did and not heal my own hands.”

  “Why is it funny that you cannot do things for which you have no gift or training?” She washed his hand, removing dirt and crusted blood, which gave Keles a better look at how much damage he’d done than he’d wanted. “We all are what we are, Keles. Change is not easy.”

  “But I’ve changed, and I don’t even know how or why.”

  The Keru glanced back down into the courtyard. “You’re looking at why, Keles. You changed so they could live.”

  “So everyone could live. Them. You. Jasai. Rekarafi.”

  “I am corrected.” She lowered his right hand into the water and began to work on his left. “There are things for which I have no training, no gift.”

  “You seem pretty gifted to me, Tyressa.”

  She stopped and looked in his eyes. “What you said to me the other day . . .”

  Keles shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m all grown-up, but sometimes the dreams of youth remain.”

  “That’s not what you said.”

  “Ouch.” Keles winced. “Maybe that’s what I should have said. That’s what you heard.”

  “That’s not what I heard. What I heard was something for which I have no gift or training. I’ve been Keru for years, and dreamed of being one for longer. And you know I’ve dreamed of my people finding a way to escape the trap of being a captive nation. These are all things that are outside myself. They are things for which I am willing to fight and willing to die.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Then understand this: these things have precluded me considering other things. I set other things aside. Desires. Feelings.” She glanced down at his hand. “When you spoke to me, I couldn’t . . .”

  She sighed heavily and her shoulders slumped a bit. “When you have so long been a warrior, anything you are not prepared to deal with is seen as an attack. I parry. I riposte. I elude and disengage.”

  “You thought I was attacking you?”

  “Not attack, no, but I felt ambushed.”

  Keles nodded slowly. “I guess that makes sense. So what you said about Jasai having feelings for me, that’s not true?”

  Tyressa lowered his left hand into the water again. “It is true, Keles. She loves you and will do everything she can to hide it, because she believes I love you.”

  “Do you?”

  “It’s not something I have a gift or training for.”

  Keles pulled his hands from the water and gingerly crossed his arms against his chest. “You still see it as an attack, don’t you?”

  “There are nine hundred ninety-nine reasons you should love her, Keles. She would make you a good wife.”

  “She’s got a husband.” Keles laughed. “Right now, he has better hands than I do.”

  “Loving you is not part of my mission.”

  His eyes narrowed. “But will it stop you from doing that mission?”

  “It already has.”

  “What?”

  Tyressa’s chin came up. “If I had done what Prince Cyron ordered me to do, you’d already be dead.”

  Chapter Sixty

  4th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

  Anger gathered on Nelesquin’s forehead the way thunderclouds hovered on the northwestern horizon. Nirati knew he didn’t see her, for his face would brighten when he did. It always did, and that made her happy. She didn’t like seeing him angry; it frightened her.

  Nelesquin studied his scrying stones. The black and white stones had fallen into a pattern she did not recognize. The black ones had clumped together. A smaller bunch of white stones had also come together, but the sign
ificance of these things eluded her.

  “What troubles you, beloved?”

  The dark man’s head came up, and his smile blossomed almost too quickly. “Not so much troubled as confused, my dear. I fear there have been some setbacks, and I am frustrated that I had no real chance to prevent them.”

  “But you would have if you could?”

  “Of course.” He pointed to the gathered black stones. “We suffered a reversal in Erumvirine. I believe Gachin Dost exceeded his orders and suffered as a result. He may even be dead.”

  Nirati remembered the blue-skinned Durrani leader. “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “It is a pity, though it will give Nimchin an opportunity. Gachin was a good leader, but Nimchin is more adaptable. Supplied with the tokens of appreciation I have aboard ship to thank them, he will find a way to excel in my service.”

  Nelesquin gathered the stones up and slipped them into the leather pouch. He stood, then extended his right hand to her. She took it and they began to hike over the hill to the harbor where the Crown Bear waited. It sat in the harbor like a mother goose, surrounded by countless goslings all ready to sail northwest to Erumvirine.

  Nirati hesitated, her breath frozen in her lungs. So many ships. Each one brimmed with soldiers and machines of war; nothing could stand before his forces. She realized that it was petty of her that she had not been overly concerned with what he was doing when his focus was Erumvirine, but now that his forces would range north and attack Nalenyr, her stomach began to knot. She could see Moriande crushed.

  Mother is there in Anturasikun, and perhaps Keles and Jorim, too. And Uncle Ulan and my cousins. Just as there would be no defeating Nelesquin’s Durrani, there would be no stopping this invasion. Even if she were able to deflect him into the Five Princes first, he would reestablish the Empire and any who would stand in his way would be destroyed.

  It suddenly occurred to her that she would be included in that number.

  Nelesquin smiled grandly, posting fists on his hips. “Never has their been such a fleet. Not even the fleet that brought the first True Bloods, nor Taichun’s fleet, can rival mine. They knew success with less, and were lesser men. How can we not succeed?”