Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

“No, Keles Anturasi, I will have a son.” Jasai stared up into his face. “It is up to you to decide if he will be born here, or you will help me see to it he is born in freedom.”

35th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

Junel Aerynnor slipped into the opium den’s dark, dank depths all but unnoticed. His clothes, which he had taken to wearing while hunting, had long since been stained with things noxious and unknowable. The splotch over his right elbow, in fact, contained a virulent poison. Driving that elbow into a mouth with enough force would guarantee that whomever he hit would be dead within a minute.

Though the Dreaming Serpent was located in the older portion of the docks-one where Naleni nobility was seldom found-he felt no trepidation about passing through the nearby precincts. Footpads and cutthroats abounded and the sense of danger gave him a thrill. Granted it was one that was fleeting, but he sought it on those nights when he was not yet hunting. His game came to be one of avoiding trouble, and if he failed there, he played at killing the troublemakers as quickly as possible.

This night, however, he had not come to hunt or flirt with danger. A message had come to him, summoning him to a meeting. It alluded to certain facts that told him someone had been studying him. Clearly they’d sensed that he was hiding something and had concluded it was an addiction to opium. Hardly a surprise, given that he’d lost two lovers to most horrible slaughter, and had been wounded himself, but not the sort of thing that had an appeal for the families whose daughters he might want to woo.

At least they have not penetrated to the truth. While the lords of the interior knew he was willing to promote revolution to overthrow Prince Cyron, they stupidly assumed he was motivated by greed. If he succeeded in aiding them, they would clearly reward him with lucrative trading concessions. Of course, this was because their own thinking was colored by greed, and they failed to look beyond it.

He really didn’t know how they would react if they knew he was an agent for Deseirion. Some of them would not care, as long as he could help them overthrow Cyron. That a civil war would split their nation and leave it easy prey for Prince Pyrust seemed beyond their consideration.

Junel slowly picked his way through the low-ceilinged basement. Pallets had been stacked three high with barely two and a half feet of clearance between them. An addict would slide onto a filthy pad while an attendant brought them a pipe and a small pea of brown opium. Most would lie there for hours, until their money ran out and the thickly muscled guards ejected them.

Following the instructions he’d been sent, Junel passed to the back and into a curtained passageway. Here the ceiling rose a bit, though the passage narrowed. The ability to wield a weapon in such tight confines would be severely limited, giving the guards a great advantage over anyone who might cause trouble. Junel had no doubt that somewhere further along, in one of the side rooms, a trapdoor opened into the sewers and those who expired from their addiction or some other violence were unceremoniously disposed of.

The fourth door on the left stood slightly ajar. He opened it and entered, closing it behind him. The small room had been richly appointed, with a thick, colorful carpet from Ceriskoron in the center, countless tapestries shrouding the walls, and exquisite bronze lanterns burning on pedestals in three of the corners. A table and single chair sat in the center of the carpet, so Junel seated himself and turned to look at the four-paneled screen in the room’s fourth corner-the one without a visible lantern.

The image on the screen struck him as chillingly prescient. Painted on golden silk, it showed the Naleni Dragon and Desei Hawk descending on a pack of Helosundian Dogs. That would mean the screen dated from before the Komyr Dynasty, when the previous Prince had allied with the Desei to put down a Helosundian threat. Not only was the screen impressive for the power of the image and its antiquity, but for its survival beyond the Desei conquest of Helosunde.

And the person behind was clearly one who was intent on surviving a long time as well.

Though a lantern burned behind the screen, no silhouette presented itself. Not only would it hide his patron’s identity, but the padded screen and all the tapestries would help mute and disguise his voice. He is not someone who can chance discovery, and may only be an agent of some more powerful master. Junel knew immediately that it was no one associated with the westron lords, since they neither understood subtlety nor the need for it.

“You honor me by accepting my invitation.” The voice, which came in a whisper, betrayed little more than the speaker’s gender. “You have our sympathies over the tragedies you have suffered. How are you recovering?”

“My flesh heals, but my heart is slower to mend.”

“Yes, those things that wound the soul are slow to heal. But these are times that require drastic remedies.”

Junel nodded. “Your wise advice shall be remembered.”

“We hope it shall be acted upon. We hope you will be able to help us steer events in a way that precludes great suffering for all.”

Junel’s eyes narrowed. “It would be my pleasure.” Either the speaker would want him to cease his relations with the inland lords or expand them. Having another player enter the contest could make his goal much easier, or it could complicate things.

“You have the failing of youth, Count Aerynnor, for you name as a pleasure something that will be difficult and offer freely that which should be valued highly.” A mild note of disdain made it through the whisper. “Or you seek to beguile us with false innocence.”

“It had best be the latter, or I should not be the person with whom you desire an alliance.”

“Very true. We shall proceed from that assumption. There are lords of the western provinces who are not pleased with the Prince’s policies. They believe the Komyr Dynasty has outlived its usefulness. They would prefer to see it ended, with one of their number taking control. You are well aware of this.”

Junel made no reply.

“There are three among the westrons who most desire the Dragon Throne. The duchess of Gnourn would be the most capable but, sadly, the fruit of her loins show a penchant for idiocy and dissolution. While she might have the strength of character and quickness of mind to take the throne, her dynasty would die with her.

“Count Linel Vroan of Ixun is likewise older. He has two grown sons and two daughters, and his new wife, the Helosundian, has just given him another daughter. He might be seen as more sympathetic to Helosundian issues and thereby favored by the Keru-though their loyalty to Cyron is unshakable. He has standing in the nation and is known to many because he fought beside the Prince’s older brother and was a chief mourner at his funeral.”

Junel smiled. “Known is not the same as beloved.”

“True. Would that rumors of his first wife’s death were stripped of such ugly suspicion. In that case he might be a tolerable choice.”

The man behind the screen cleared his throat, then continued. “Finally, we have Count Donlit Turcol of Jomir. Young and dynamic, even charismatic, he could win the people. Alas, he has no children by his wife, a scattering of bastards by his many mistresses, and does not appear to want to rein in his sexual proclivities.”

“You see no other candidates in the west?”

“It matters not what we see, but what you see, Count Aerynnor. Have we missed someone?”