Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

“Of this I am aware, Grand Minister. I am also aware that he has sent most of his Keru south, so he is without his customary retinue of bodyguards. I imagine this will cause him to remain in Moriande.” Turcol attempted to layer pity onto his expression but, never having felt it before, the effort was transparently false. “I had thought that, since my troops would be in the vicinity four days hence, the Prince might come with us, enjoy our hospitality, and see just how well we will guard the border. It would be a blessing for my troops to see their Prince as well.”

Pelut smiled. Ambition, Count Turcol, is always impatient. “Your concern for the Prince’s welfare is noted and appreciated. Shall I communicate your invitation to His Highness?”

“I would be in your debt. What would you have me do to repay you?”

“I have no idea what service you can perform for me, Count Turcol, beyond that of faithfully securing our border.”

His reply clearly frustrated Turcol. Pelut had seen it for what it was: an invitation to suggest killing Cyron and supplanting him. The plot would be obvious to everyone, but Turcol arrogantly believed that his celebrated rise to the throne would blind everyone to the means by which he obtained it.

Turcol nodded. “I am certain you will think of something, Grand Minister, for your wisdom is celebrated throughout Nalenyr.”

“Again you honor me.” Pelut sipped tea once more, then glanced past his visitor. He’d caught the hint of a shadow against one of the rice-paper-panel walls. He knew Turcol would never spot it. If he did, Pelut already had a stratagem in place for dealing with the situation. His eldest daughter would be found hiding there, claiming she wanted just a glimpse of the famous noble. Pelut would let the man use her as he would, and Turcol would forget any other suspicions.

His vanity would never allow him to believe I had a clerk transcribing our discussion.

Such precautions would have been unnecessary, but Turcol’s repeated demands for a meeting had forced Pelut to take them. Even a blind and deaf man who had been clapped in an iron box and sunk to the bottom of the Gold River for fifty years would be aware of the westron’s desire to speak with him. Pelut had to assume Prince Cyron knew already, and while Pelut feared no spies in his own household, he assumed the streets outside his small tower would be choked with them by the time the interview had been concluded.

“I should tell you, my lord, that I think it unlikely the Prince will accept your invitation. In fact, I should think the chances of it would be negligible…”

“My pleasure and generosity were he to join me would know no bounds!”

Pelut continued speaking, making no response to the outburst. “… unless you were perhaps first to invite Prince Eiran and suggest to him you dearly wished Prince Cyron would join you. If you were to say that you would have asked the Prince directly, save that you felt certain he would look down on an offer from such a lowly noble as yourself, I am confident Prince Eiran would use his influence on your behalf. He and Cyron are quite close.”

Turcol glanced down, then nodded. “Of course. I should do it that way, yes.”

“I would be happy to arrange an audience with Prince Eiran for you.”

“If I may ask it of you, please.” Turcol tried to make his next question sound casual, but the enthusiasm in his voice betrayed him. “I do have one question-spawned by the desire for continued stability in Nalenyr.”

“Please.”

“If the unfortunate were to happen…”

“ ‘The unfortunate’?”

“If the Prince were to fall victim to an assassin, a Desei assassin, what would happen next?”

Pelut smiled and shook his head. “Do not concern yourself, my lord. There are no Desei assassins who could penetrate Wentokikun.”

Turcol frowned, dark and deep. “No. What if it were assassins, a group of them, and they fell upon the Prince while he was coming out to join my troops? What would happen? If he died, I mean.”

Though Pelut knew exactly what was being asked, he chose to misunderstand a bit more. “This is all highly unlikely, my lord. Prince Pyrust is quite wise, so any assassins would not be revealed as his agents. I mean, in such an unthinkable scenario as you describe, a band of assassins would need to be at least twenty-seven in number and likely would be disguised as bandits. In fact, we would find nothing to indicate they were not bandits. About the only chance they would have, I should think, would be to attack while you, the Princes, and a few other of your most trusted and brave warriors are relaxing at Memorial Hill, as is the Prince’s wont. Then and only then might they kill the Prince. As for the rest of you, if you were able to fight your way clear, well, recall how the people love your father-in-law for having brought Prince Aralias’ body back from Helosunde.”

Turcol nodded and sipped at his tea again.

Pelut bowed his head. “I hope this does not alarm you, my lord, for I know you would give your life to protect our Prince. You might be wounded even, but his loss would cause you greater pain than any physical wound.”

“Of course it alarms me, Grand Minister, and if I thought bandits could harm the Prince, I should never offer my invitation. That is not possible, however, so I shall use the route you suggest.”

“I am pleased to be of service.”

“My original question, however, dealt with the aftermath of such a grand tragedy. The Prince has no heirs, and his brother died without any as well. In the event of the Prince’s death, who would lead our nation?”

Pelut took a long drink of his tea before answering. “You present me with a question for which there is one of many answers-but one that should not be shared outside this room. I trust I have your confidence in this?”

Turcol nodded slowly in agreement. “I understand.”

Pelut canted his head to the right. “You must understand that the Prince’s lack of an heir by blood or declaration is a situation which I, as Naleni Grand Minister, must address. I look to Helosunde, with its Council of Ministers, and see how their deliberations have been a disaster. I will not have a government of ministers, for we are not of ruling blood. Few people are, and fewer still manifest their blood’s full promise.”

The count could not conceal a smile. The fact that his family had once been on the Dragon Throne clearly proved he had the bloodlines that could lay claim to it. And he is certain his bloodline’s promise has blossomed full in him.

“It has struck me, my lord, that to maintain stability and promote the future, we might be required to take extraordinary methods. It has been my thinking that a triumvirate made up of your father-in-law, Duchess Scior, and yourself would provide the proper mixture of wisdom, charisma, experience and, in your case, vitality to lead our nation into the future. The three of you would have to cooperate, of course, sharing power.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that.” Turcol’s curdled expression made his opinion clear. “Still, we would have to come down to one Prince if our nation was to maintain its legitimacy. While both of the others are wise and powerful, neither of their houses predates the Cataclysm. As with the Komyr, they have risen since the Time of Black Ice.”

“Their houses were not unknown before the creation of the Nine.”

“But they were not Imperial nobility.”

“Very true.” Pelut nodded solemnly. “The question for you, my lord, is how best the ministries would serve the ruling triumvirate?”

That comment gave Turcol pause, and his clenching fist did not escape Pelut’s notice. “I should think, Grand Minister, that the ministries would serve best to consolidate power in the hands of that one individual best qualified to lead the nation. The duchess, while wise-even if it is a fishwife’s cunning-and my father-in-law, are both too long in the tooth to provide the sort of continuity needed to carry Nalenyr into the future.”