Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

“The duchess’ fourth son, Nerot, has been underestimated.” Junel leaned back in his chair. “While in Gnourn I played him at chess. He plays the fop to amuse his mother and distract the court, but I am not so easily distracted.”

“But is he not frail?”

“A broken leg never healed properly, true, but it has not affected his mind.” Junel shrugged. “I am not saying he would be the sort of prince who could face down Pyrust, but he would not ruin Nalenyr.”

Silence came from behind the screen, then the whispering began anew. “It pleases us to have this news. Perhaps if one of Vroan’s daughters was married to Nerot, the prospect of a grandchild on the throne would strengthen the alliance.”

“I was under the impression that both of his daughters were married. Isn’t one Count Turcol’s wife?”

“True on both counts, but life is uncertain. If one were widowed, an opportunity might present itself.”

And in the civil war, the three Scior heirs between Nerot and the throne might meet with accidents.

Junel frowned. “The question for you is this. Do you mean to have me believe you did not know about Nerot, or do you merely wish to ascertain that I do?”

“Immaterial, for now we both know the possibilities he provides. And your mind is racing ahead, so we shall anticipate you. With our knowledge of the people of the interior, we could aid or end their plans. We have reached out to you because you have already gained their trust, and are already facilitating their activities. You have made yourself into the lever that will allow them to shift the Komyr Dynasty from power. This makes you critical to our plans.”

Junel nodded. “I’m pleased you believe I will be of use to you. Shall I surmise you wish to learn what my cooperation will cost?”

“Is it gold? Or were you thinking that one of the widowed daughters of Vroan would come happily to your bed, positioning you as her consort when she ascended to the throne?”

That latter idea sent a jolt through Junel because he had never considered it. He had been trained in the way of the shadow, to be a spy and assassin, with loyalty to the House of Jaeshi and Prince Pyrust that superseded loyalty to blood. Indeed, his whole family had been accused of treason and slaughtered. He’d betrayed them to his masters and their murders provided him with the perfect reason for fleeing south.

Never in his life had Junel had any ambition other than to become as good at vrilri as possible-perhaps even becoming a Mystic, as was the Mother of Shadows. He’d never even entertained the idea of supplanting her-though such an honor was one he would have willingly accepted. But here, now, he found himself wondering what it would be like to become more than the Prince’s agent-to become his equal. It could happen, and he could influence events to guarantee it.

“Gold is always welcome but, as you have noted, there are scant few candidates who could sustain a dynasty. I am not a puppet, but by no means am I a puppet master. I understand power well enough to flow with it, and to know that moving against it is ruin.”

A richer note entered the whisper. “This we hoped might be your reply. Rest assured, gold beyond dreams of avarice shall be yours. What more remains in your future shall depend on your conduct. If predictions of your intelligence prove true, a new dynasty may rise from the graves of the Aerynnor family. With the proper alliances in place, you might even find yourself on the Hawk Throne, on your way to becoming Emperor.”

“A dizzying height.”

“But one attainable, nonetheless.”

And you have gone a step too far. To tempt him with being a Naleni prince-consort was within the bounds of reason. Imagining that he could inspire a nation stepped well beyond it. It seemed more likely that once he had ascended, anti-Desei sentiment among the Naleni would be mustered to unseat him. His birth would forever be his weakness.

So when I reach the throne, I’ll simply have to cede it all to Prince Pyrust. Junel kept his face impassive, then nodded-certain his hidden patron had been watching through the screen.

“What would you have of me, my lord?”

“We would have you continue your negotiations with the westrons. Unify them. Court Nerot and, if possible, acquaint yourself with Turcol’s widow. That will be enough to start.”

“Do you want reports?”

“If necessary, another meeting like this shall be arranged. We have other sources of information that should be sufficient.” The hidden man paused for a moment. “We urge you to be very careful. Betrayal would be unfortunate and the consequences regrettable.”

So if I am found out and captured, I shall not live long enough to reveal anything. Junel smiled. “I shall bear that in mind.” He almost added “Minister” to the comment, but being too wise would not be good. Intrigues such as this could not be undertaken without the complicity of the bureaucracy. And for a minister to dabble so directly meant the bureaucrats found Cyron a risk. Their support could make even the most haphazard plan succeed.

“I bid you a farewell, Junel Aerynnor. If things go well, I shall not greet you again until I have the honor of addressing you as ‘my Prince.’ ”

“Then peace to you until then.”

The lantern behind the screen went dark, and the tapestries on that wall shifted. But Junel did not get up, for even if he located the switch that operated the secret door, his patron would be long gone. Who he was did not matter, after all. What mattered was that Junel’s plan now had backing of a strong Naleni element. Success merely awaited implementation.

He stood, stretching, and felt the urge to hunt slowly come over him. No, not yet. Delay it. The gratification shall be so much more.

Besides, I have much to think on now, and much more to plan. To plan, as a prince would plan.

1st 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

Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

The growing sense of dread within her surprised Nirati Anturasi, for she generally loved surprises. A lover’s surprise-making manifest the desire of another to please her-had always seemed a testament of love. This alien apprehension urged her to remain by her stream, but she defied it.

Bearing Takwee in her arms, she had begun the trek to the western reaches of Kunjiqui. She knew that the place to which she was headed was many miles distant-further, certainly, than from Moriande to Kelewan-yet her walk would take no more than minutes. Such was the nature of the paradise her grandfather had created that she never needed to be far from the heart of it and never had to tire herself while journeying away.

Not that she ever went far, or for long. Days melted one into another, to the point where their passage meant nothing. Night lasted as long as she wanted, and likewise day. If her desires shifted quickly enough, they could change with an eyeblink. She’d made time pass that way once, but she didn’t think it had been for long. Then again-as she had laughed at the time-how would she have known?

Such miracles were not uncommon in her grandfather’s world. He had raised mountains and sunk land to create an inland sea. He split the land with a wave of his hand and joined it again with a simple caress. He made places where years passed in heartbeats, and others where an hour would take nine years to be spent. All this he did with purpose, consulting with Nelesquin, who, in turn, sought counsel from his scrying stones.

And all for me.

As she walked west, it occurred to her that she had not seen Qiro Anturasi for a while. Instantly she regretted this, then composed her face in a smile. He loved it when she smiled. He had ever been tender in his care of her, and she owed him every possible kindness.