Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

“We would make it a nightmare for him.”

“Indeed, you would.” Cyron’s smiled broadened. “Thank you for accepting this mission so prettily. ‘Nightmare.’ I shall remember you said that.”

Turcol stiffened. “But, my lord…”

“Fear not, Pyrust shall never hear of your brave boast. If he opposes you, I want him surprised at how facile you are.”

The westron lord shifted on his knees, but Cyron snapped open a silk fan, hiding his face. Though he could see through it, all his two visitors could behold was the snarling visage of a dragon. The audience had ended, and with it the discussion.

Eiran bowed. “My lord Turcol, I have the maps and provision lists you will desire. Please, come with me.”

“As the Dragon wills it.”

The two men bowed toward the throne, then withdrew, remaining crouched until they reached the door, and never turning their backs on him. Once they opened the doors and passed through, two tall, blonde Keru shut them again, and Cyron closed the fan once more. He tucked it down into the little hidey-hole on the chair’s right arm, then stood and slipped through a side passage.

He thought he might remain in a foul mood, but the faint hint of jasmine made him smile involuntarily. He hurried along the passage, loosening the ties of his formal purple robe. He mounted the circular stairs, and the scent grew stronger. He imagined he was within steps of catching his quarry, and even thought he could hear the whisper of slipper on stone step ahead of him. Then he reached the panel leading into his personal chambers, slid it open, and stepped into a room redolent of jasmine.

Across the blond wooden floor, she knelt at a low table, pouring him a cup of golden tea.

Scented with jasmine.

Cyron would have been happy to cast his robe into a violet puddle, scoop her up, and carry her to his bed, but doing so would desecrate the aura of peace she’d fostered. In his absence, she had even rearranged the furnishings. His antechamber had always been spare, so she would not have needed much help, and he knew her to be stronger than she appeared. Ultimately it was less what she moved than how and where she moved it.

He, by preference, had kept table and chair edges parallel to walls and the line of the floorboards. She twisted them. The sword stand had been moved from beside the bedchamber door back toward the corner where a chair half hid it. The low table at which she knelt preparing tea had moved closer to the room’s center, but not quite there. The furnishings, which before had been positioned with an eye for maximum utility, now had become islands in an ocean teased by a jasmine breeze.

And on the table, in a slender vase, was a single branch from a jasmine shrub with three blossoms remaining on it. The white petals from the other blossoms had been scattered haphazardly from window to table, as if the branch had floated in all by itself. And while the scattering appeared random, Cyron had no doubt the Lady of Jet and Jade had placed each petal deliberately. They were glyphs in a language he would never understand and yet, even like ballads sung in dialects he did not know, he found it beautiful.

Her silver eyes flicked in his direction, then she set the teapot down and bowed deeply. “Forgive me, Highness, I did not hear you arrive.”

“You are kind, for my tread on those stairs was as loud as a chariot’s wheels on cobblestones.” He approached the table and slid to his knees opposite her. As he did so, the jasmine branch lost a single petal, which fluttered to the tabletop. He did not know how she had managed that, but he knew she had. “I apologize for surprising you.”

“To their regret, there are many who find you surprising, no, my lord?”

Cyron smiled, then lifted the small ceramic cup. He let the tea’s steam caress his face and fill his nostrils. He drank and, for the time it took for the tea to warm his insides, he pushed the world away. A sense of peace washed over him and soothed his heart. He exhaled slowly, then drank again before setting his cup down.

“You were prescient in suggesting how Count Turcol would approach negotiations. He did rely on his honor, and Prince Eiran did all I asked of him. He flattered, then fell silent, so I was able to take over. I offered Turcol the dream gambit, and he replied with the nightmare comment. I thanked him for accepting the mission, then ended things. He was trapped.” Cyron studied her soft, seamless face. “Your reading of him was flawless.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade shook her head. “It was not my reading of him, for I have never spoken to him. I only know of him through others.”

“You have never watched him when he has been at the House of Jade Pleasure?”

She did not reply, but instead raised her own cup and drank. Her silver eyes flashed at him over the cup’s edge, and her fingertips caressed the gold dragon crest facing him. She lowered the cup slowly, then smiled. “The House of Jade Pleasure is discriminating in whom it allows within its precincts. Count Turcol has not been admitted.”

“No?” Cyron raised an eyebrow. “I imagine that has pinked his vanity.”

“Your Highness is most assuredly correct.” She fell silent, then poured more tea.

Cyron smiled. While the Lady of Jet and Jade presided over the House of Jade Pleasures, her apprentices were present in all strata of Naleni society. Some of her students became concubines as she was-and some had even left to form their own schools. Other of her students had come to her covertly, were trained, and returned to their lives feeling indebted to her. Cyron had no way of knowing how far her web of influence extended, but given that she had been in Moriande far longer than the Komyr had been on the throne, it could easily be vast. While he doubted it rivaled the bureaucratic tangles of the ministries, he had no doubt it might be more effective in gathering certain types of information.

“If I might ask…”

“Anything, lord.”

“Have you heard much from the Virine?”

Her eyes half closed. “Very little comes from the south these days. Warriors are heading east quietly so no alarm will spread, but the army is being mobilized. They seem to be moving so quickly that families and camp followers cannot keep up. Many have been warned to move west.”

He nodded slowly. “And of the east?”

She plucked the fallen petal from the table and brushed it against her cheek, then set it back down again. A single tear glistened there.

Worse than I could have imagined. He felt a sudden urge to tell her what little he knew of the invasion and his precautions against its spread. Given how she had suggested he deal with Count Turcol, she might well have guessed at some of what was going on. While everything had been kept very quiet, soldiers ordered to move south would have bid farewell to their loved ones, and doubtless that news had made its way back to her.

He looked at her and his fingertips tingled with the memory of how soft her flesh was beneath his touch. He nodded slowly, then smiled.

She returned the smile. “My lord?”

“I choose to trust you.”

“Is this wise, Highness?”

“Wise and necessary. You have eyes and ears where I do not, and you have a mind capable of understanding and communicating subtlety. I need you. Nalenyr needs you.”

“You do me great honor with this trust, Highness.”

“And I give to you a great burden.” In low tones, Cyron explained all he knew about the invasion. She, in her subtle way, provided him with more information. When he noted that the invaders had reached at least as far as Muronek, she gently corrected him. “I believe, your Highness, you meant to say ‘Talanite.’ ”

She took his recital of facts well and seemed no more alarmed than she would have been if he suggested it would rain that evening. When he finished, he looked at her and fell silent. He drained his cup and returned it to the table.