Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

“No, I am afraid that will not do.” I need to get out there to scout the landscape. “Truth be told, I do have an ulterior motive.”

“It would not matter, Master Anturasi, because the Prince’s orders were clear. You are not to leave the precincts of the city.”

“I know what his orders were, Grand Minister.” Keles flashed a smile. “You know that Lady Inyr Vnonol has been my companion. I hoped to take her with me on these trips, so I could spend time with her away from Felarati. You can understand that.”

The Grand Minister nodded. “I do, but again there is the matter of the Prince’s orders.”

“Yes, I have thought of that as well. I suggest, Grand Minister, that, in the Prince’s absence, you simply annex those sites and make them part of the city. You can even be credited with the foresight of seeing growth in that direction, too. When Felarati is the Imperial capital, you know it will continue to grow.”

The small man’s eyes narrowed. “Your plan has merit, Master Anturasi. I shall consider it.”

And approve it once you have bought up the best tracts of land in that area.

“As I shall consider the best design for your new building.” Keles looked around the cedar room. “I can see a room like this becoming your sanctuary in its most heavenly precincts.”

The Grand Minister raised his cup. “And, if you do travel west, you will agree not to escape?”

Keles gave the man a surprised look. “I have promised the Prince I should not leave Felarati. I will maintain my word until released of it by him.” Or by necessity.

Rislet Peyt bowed his head. “Then let us drink to the growth of Felarati and Deseirion. The world will look here to see where miracles were wrought.”

“So they shall, Grand Minister.” Keles likewise raised his cup. The first among them being the escape of Princess Jasai and the free birth of Deseirion’s next ruler.

33rd day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Vroankun, Ixun

Nalenyr

Though he detested the pious mouthings of sympathy to Jarana Vroan, the widow of Donlit Turcol, Junel Aerynnor was happy to be out of Moriande. As a result of Turcol’s death, he had been summoned again to the opium den and given an assignment. He traveled to Jomir for the funeral, and from there, he’d accompanied the widow’s party back toward Ixun. It had been far too soon for him to do anything but express his deep regrets to Jarana, but she seemed to welcome his offer of looking in on her again, at a happier time.

Junel could hardly imagine a happier time, for things were progressing perfectly. He didn’t know, nor did he care, who had betrayed Turcol’s plan to Cyron. He did allow that it might not have been betrayal at all, since Cyron’s Lord of Shadows was hardly stupid, whereas Turcol had all but wandered the streets of the capital throwing gold at anyone he could imagine was an assassin. Regardless of how Cyron had learned of the plan, it had ended badly for Turcol and worked out better for both his patrons.

One thing he had not accounted for was Jarana Vroan and her influence over her father. Jarana had actually loved her philandering husband and had desperately wanted to bear his child. Junel suspected her dead mother had groomed her as the link that might bind both counties together. Count Vroan seemed to dote on his daughter, and her distress became his.

More important, her desire to avenge her husband’s death likewise became his.

Junel had been accepted into the Vroan household because of his rank-at least, that was how it appeared initially. Someone spoke to someone else, and word filtered through to the count that Junel might be of especial use. The count summoned him to a private meeting in chambers that were paved with stone and sparsely decorated.

The count still wore a white mourning robe, but comported himself as anything but serene and contemplative. The tall, slender man poured Junel a generous goblet of wine and the Desei agent sipped politely, despite detesting the local vintage for its lack of subtlety.

Count Vroan slapped a hand against the tower’s stone wall. “I know most lords in Moriande have paneled their private chamber with wood, and enclosed it with delicate paper panels. They serve tea and quietly lie to each other. You’ve seen it as well, I’m sure.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You know, I’ve visited Felarati. I did so as part of a delegation negotiating a bit of peace. I liked Felarati.” Again the white-haired man slapped a hand against stone. “The Dark City, but one that is strong. I know you have your differences with the Prince, but I wanted you to know that I think the place of your upbringing breeds men, not the vermin that thrive in cities like Moriande.”

“I appreciate that, my lord.” Junel set his cup of wine down. “Your opinion is shared in a variety of places-even in Moriande. If I may have leave to speak frankly, my lord…”

“Please, tell me what goes on in the capital.”

“You don’t want to know the whole of it, my lord.” Junel clasped his hands behind his back, much as he’d bound the hands of his last victim. He’d taken her outside the opium den while she wandered in a stupor. The drugs dulled her sense of pain, but as he dissected her, realization of her death blossomed in her eyes. Had she not been gagged, her screams would have been delicious, but he had to be satisfied with the terror in her eyes. She died well-though not as well as Nirati Anturasi-and his need for death had been assuaged for another period.

“I’ve told you already, my lord, how much your loss pains me. There is no doubt that this tale of banditry is pretense to hide murder. Prince Cyron brought Prince Eiran and his courtesan out with him to watch Count Turcol die. He then dishonors your troops by putting Eiran in charge of them. Eiran, having seen the murder, is terrified of saying what truly went on, but one has to ask a simple question. If it were bandits who attacked, why were none displayed? Why are none awaiting trial?”

Vroan finished his wine at a gulp and poured himself more. “This I know, Count Aerynnor. Turcol was murdered most coldly.” He lowered his voice slightly. “I have no doubt he had planned things himself and got caught in his schemes. There are times he trusted charisma more than he did his intellect, which is a problem for one so vain. I was actually happy to send him off in command of our troops because it sent him east and, quite frankly, prevented me from having him killed.”

“Really, my lord?”

“I’d have done it. I’d have hated to do so since it makes Jarana so sad, but better she’s mourning him than mourning me.”

“I agree.” Junel nodded solemnly. “I believe, since Nerot Scior is also resident here, that you know I have been involved as an agent for investments his mother had made in Moriande.”

The count laughed. “I knew she had someone in Moriande. That idiot Melcirvon couldn’t find the ground if you threw him from this tower. She has consulted me about events in Moriande, feeling me out about my reaction to her plopping her ample bottom on the Dragon Throne. I remained noncommittal.”

“The idea has been advanced, my lord, by people in Moriande, that you, she, and the late Count Turcol might have formed a triumvirate. You, of course, have the advantage, being a Naleni hero and having a child with ties to Helosunde. I believe events in Helosunde will swing things more in your favor, and that the duchess can be convinced to support you in return for promises you will never have to keep.”

The westron lord’s head came up. “What events?”