Cartomancy Page 6

  “Well, of course . . .”

  “No, my friend, there is no ‘of course’ about it, and I’ll tell you why. As much as you hate Prince Cyron, you hate us Desei more. Not your fault, mind you, for the Komyr Dynasty has long used the threat of Desei invasion to keep everyone in line.”

  “But Deseirion did invade Helosunde.”

  “There is no disputing this, but you are a fool if you do not think things run deeper than that.” Junel smiled slowly. “Think back to what you thought I would be before you met me. You had decided I would be weedy and thin, an idiot at best, ignorant of history and custom. You viewed me as a stable hand with a title, and you thought I would be an easy dupe to further your aims. Admit it.”

  Melcirvon sat back as his face reddened. “I may have had my misconceptions, my lord . . .”

  “You didn’t have misconceptions, you had prejudices, and you allowed them to blind you. I will admit to having had similar prejudices, but I have overcome them in service to a cause greater than you or I. You must do the same, Xin, or your prejudices will destroy you.”

  He lowered his voice and leaned forward, forcing the Gnournist to do the same. “In my youth, I believed all Naleni to be lazy, fat, indolent, and stupid. You live in a lush land. The green hills and valleys of Gnourn are unknown in my nation, where life is hard. I have learned, however, that you Naleni have an inner steel. You have wisdom and courage. You can determine right from wrong and are willing to fight injustice.”

  Melcirvon’s expression went from confusion and anger to one of pleasure and pride. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Junel nodded. You are stupid and lazy. Flattery is the first trap for a moron, and you’ve fallen full into it. A bit more spider silk spun, and you shall be mine.

  “You know, Xin, I am pleased that your mistress sent you. It had to have pained her greatly to risk you, but she also knew you could be trusted. She is a very smart woman, and her trust in you is well placed. It promises great things for you, and I hope you will permit me to recommend you to my masters. In the unfortunate event that anything might happen to your mistress, we need a brave man who could step into the breach and accomplish our mutual goals. Would you allow me that honor?”

  Again Melcirvon blinked, then nodded slyly. “You honor me, friend.”

  “You are much too kind.” Junel again averted his eyes for a moment, then looked up. “How is it that I may be of service?”

  That question baffled the visitor. “I was sent to see how you were and to see to your well-being.”

  “And you brought funds with you to accomplish this end?”

  “Yes. I was going to arrange a way to get money to you covertly, but if the Prince is paying . . .”

  “He is, my friend—and we should make him pay double.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Junel slowly swung his legs over the edge of the daybed and sat up. He could feel the stitches tug in his back, but other than a mild desire to scratch at it, the wound was easy to ignore. “Your mistress gave you money, but I do not need it thanks to the Prince’s generosity. You might return that money to Gnourn, or you might do something more profitable with it. There are ventures in this city—commercial ventures—where such money could be doubled or tripled in a month. If you could do that, you would have more money to use against the Prince.”

  Melcirvon nodded slowly. “I’m certain my mistress would approve such a plan.”

  “She would, if you were able to inform her of it.”

  “But . . .”

  “Follow me, my friend, for this is your future.” Junel coughed lightly, then gestured to a pitcher and cup on a side table. “Water, please.”

  The Gnournist quickly fetched him a cup and waited anxiously as Junel drank it. He refilled the cup, then sat again, clutching the pitcher in his lap. “Explain, please.”

  “Your mistress already counts that money as gone, so she will not miss it. And it is not as if you are stealing it, since you will be using it in her cause. Most important, it will become a hidden asset. If the worst were to overtake this enterprise, you would have a ready sum of cash available for your escape, or for the continued financing of the rebellion. Taking this precaution speaks well of your foresight and initiative.”

  “There is no denying what you say.” Melcirvon glanced down into the pitcher as if the water might offer some oracle to aid his decision. “This investment would be safe?”

  “You would be using the people I use for my investments.”

  Melcirvon looked up, a smile growing on his face. “If you trust them, then I shall as well.”

  “Good. You’ll take the money to Bluefin Street, number twenty-seven.”

  “A good omen, that.”

  “I thought so. There you will ask for Tyan, a small man with a crescent scar on his chin. Use my name, and tell him to invest the money as he would with mine. He obtains excess cargo from ships and moves it into markets where those who truly appreciate its value pay well. You will agree with him on a code sign that will let you or your agent withdraw the money. Tell no one what that is, not even me.”

  “A code sign, yes.”

  Junel smiled and almost warned the man not to use his mother’s name, for that would surely be the case. “Once you’ve done that, you should go to ground, lose yourself in Moriande for a couple days. There are houses where your gold is more important than your name. Come see me in three or four days. I will have messages for you to take back to your mistress. While you are relaxing, you will keep your eyes and ears open, of course, and get a sense of the capital. I hope you will learn things that my present infirmity prevents me from discovering.”

  “Yes, of course.” Melcirvon frowned. “How much longer do you expect to be stuck here?”

  “A day or two. The Prince’s own physician is seeing to my care. I hope, within two days, I will be pronounced fit enough to pay my respects to the Anturasi family and meet with the Prince.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “The former, no, but the latter . . . Perhaps just a bit.” Again Junel shrugged. “If the Prince suspected me, he would not have his doctor here, nor would he want to speak with me. And having me close will mean I can learn much that will aid us. It’s a risk I must take.”

  “Of course.” Melcirvon stood, found himself holding the pitcher, then set it down and bowed. “Our success will be assured.”

  “It will indeed, thanks to your brave efforts.” Junel smiled as the man slipped his sword back into his robe’s sash. “I look forward to seeing you in several days.”

  Junel sat again on the daybed and watched through the window as Melcirvon hurried off toward Bluefin Street. If the time were right, documents found at 27 Bluefin Street would show Tyan to be a Desei agent, or perhaps a Virine agent, and would link the westron lords with money spent to buy weapons and mercenaries. If the inland lords could not be convinced to stage a rebellion on their own, Junel would reveal their plot.

  The difference was negligible. In either case Cyron would be distracted and forced to act. His nation would be torn apart and his dynasty would become weakened. It would collapse of its own accord, or Prince Pyrust would descend and crush it.

  The seeds of Nalenyr’s destruction had been sown.

  Chapter Eight

  17th 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

  Muronek, Erumvirine

  Dunos shivered, hugging his good arm around his skinny chest. Goose pimples rose on his flesh, and he would have given anything to pull the barest scrap of blanket over his naked body, but even that comfort had been denied him. He had to sit on the rickety wooden stool and stare at the fat black candle guttering at its center. It gave off weak light and no discernible heat.

  Nor was he shivering just because of the cold. The crone’s gnarled left hand and the way her thick, uneven talons
scratched at the sheet of rice paper puckered his flesh. Her bony fist knotted around the brush in her right hand and, despite her tremors, she managed to paint words that were as beautiful as she was ugly. Dunos could only read a few of them—the ones with a half dozen strokes at most—but the words made no sense, scattered over the square sheet as they were.

  Part of Dunos wanted to run from the witch’s hut. After all, he was ten years old now, and barely a child. He’d made the long walk north to Moriande. He had met a Mystic swordsman and undergone a healing in the Naleni capital. He’d been touched by the magic of the last of the vanyesh, Kaerinus. If that master of xingna could not heal his arm, how could this woman do it? She was nothing compared to a sorcerer who had survived the Cataclysm.

  But he didn’t run. Just as with the people of Muronek, his fear of her tightened his chest and made his legs weak. She was hated by many, and yet they came to her in times of need. With a potion or tincture, she could bring down a fever or ease pain. As much as people feared her—forcing her to live on the outskirts of the town, in the dark woods—they needed her.

  More important to Dunos, his parents wanted him to remain. His father had been hopeful when they’d gone to Moriande, but Dunos’ left arm had remained withered even after the healing. With their greatest hope dashed, his parents had turned him over to the ministrations of Uttisa, the witch-woman who had haunted his mother’s dreams since her childhood in Muronek.

  What Dunos dared not tell his parents was that, as they had grown more desperate that he be made whole, he had become less worried about it. Moraven Tolo, the swordsman he had met, had been at the healing. Dunos’ distress that his arm had not been cured was obvious, but the swordsman had calmed him. “The magic promised only to heal us, not to give us what we wanted. It gave us what we needed.”

  That remark had confused Dunos, but he had thought hard about it on the long walk back to the mill his family operated. True, his left arm was fairly useless. If he had to haul water from the well, he could only carry one bucket at a time—but the simple fact was that he could make two trips, and the difference mattered very little.

  It had hurt that his infirmity meant he could never be a swordsman, as he had once dreamed, but it hurt even more that his father now thought he could not even be a miller. Moraven had said that perhaps he could become a swordsman, but to his father he seemed doomed to a life of beggary. They’d even taken in another boy as an apprentice, valuing his oxlike strength, even though it came with oxlike stupidity.

  And so Dunos sat there, cold and afraid, in a hut steeped in magic, hoping his father’s wishes would come true—and determined to show that even if he couldn’t be all his father wanted, he could be loyal and obedient.

  The crone laid her brush down and blew on the paper to speed its drying. She turned to look at him, her right eye squinted almost shut, the left preternaturally large. Wrinkles scarred her face like cracks in muddy earth. Her hair had become brittle and crinkled, its unruly white locks escaping the leather-and-wood clasp.

  A thick tongue wetted her lips, and when her mouth opened, the few teeth he could see were mottled with decay. “You have a busy mind, boy.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.”

  “Can you read what I have written?”

  “Some, Grandmother.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s good that you can’t.” She lifted the paper and extended it toward him. “Take it.”

  Dunos’ right hand came up, but the witch hissed. “Not that hand, stupid boy. Your left hand! You can use it a bit, can’t you?”

  Dunos slowly raised his left arm. He didn’t like looking at it, for it looked inhuman. His bones were twigs, and the flesh rough old leather. He concentrated, forcing his hand open and his elbow to bend. He pressed his lips firmly together, determined not to cry out no matter the pain. But it doesn’t hurt as much as it has, does it?

  He didn’t let the idea that maybe his arm was getting better distract him. His thumb and forefinger closed on the white sheet and she released it. The document’s weight alone started his arm dipping. A corner of the rice paper dove toward the flame, but he managed to pull it away, his eyes tightening with the exertion.

  The crone nodded slowly. “Very good. Now you are to crumple it. Make it a ball, with your left hand. Do it, boy. Now!”

  Her sharp bark jolted him. He began to comply, wondering how all that paper could fit into the palm of his hand. As he gathered it, however, he felt a tingle in his arm. The sensation echoed what he’d felt during the healing, and what he’d felt over a year before, when he’d found a glowing blue rock. He’d reached for it, stretching, and touched it. He’d remembered nothing after that until he awoke, a mile downstream from where he’d found the rock.

  His fingers slowly gathered in the rice paper. It felt dry to the touch—as dry as his skin. His fingers brushed the words and crumpled them. The paper crackled. Though the tightness never loosened, his fingers seemed to possess more power as he worked. Gradually the paper disappeared into his fist—that pathetic, withered fist—and he tightened it down as hard as he could.

  He said nothing. The only sound came from the rustling of the trees outside and the crone’s wheezing. He hung on, willing the paper to get smaller and smaller—smaller than the rock, smaller than anything. He wanted it to be so small it disappeared.

  “Open your hand, boy. Give it to me.”

  His fingers snapped open as if they were mechanical devices. The paper dropped into her waiting hands. She picked at it, slowly teasing it open. Dunos let his hand fall to the table and left it there, no longer hiding it by his side.

  The crone smoothed the paper against the table, nodding and mumbling as she did so. With a dirty fingernail she traced the wrinkle lines, pouncing first on triangles, then linking them to squares and diamonds. Her nails skittered faster over the document, sounding like dry leaves scuttling over paving stones.

  She looked at him again, both eyes wide and rimmed white. “What are you, boy? Why will you kill a god? Why have you come to destroy us all?” She punctuated her questions by pounding a fist on the table. The candle tottered for a moment, and wax spilled onto the paper.

  Then it flowed over the paper, up through the wrinkles. The black wax added strokes to some of the words and erased strokes from others. Dunos could read very little, but one mark—the month mark—stood out clearly.

  The mark of Grija, the wolf. The god of Death.

  “Answer me, boy!”

  “I don’t know what you mean!”

  She reached out, grabbing him by his hair, forcing his face toward the paper. “Look, the death god’s mark! The lines, all conflicts. Triangles within triangles, disasters all, squares showing no resolution! It is all death and destruction. Death, ruin, for everyone.”

  Her voice shrank into a harsh whisper as her hand tightened, and long nails sank into his scalp. “For everyone but you, Dunos. What are you?”

  “I don’t know!” Dunos’ left arm came up somehow and batted her away. He heard something snap and she screamed. The crone tottered back and almost fell off her stool, then stood and tried to lift her broken arm. She couldn’t.

  The paper began to move, drawing itself up in folds. It collapsed and opened, twisting and narrowing, then straightened out. In seconds, it formed itself into a folded paper wolf, its flesh decorated with all the words Uttisa had written.

  The crone fished in her robe for a circular talisman, which she raised to her left eye. “You’re his thing, Dunos. You belong to Grija. You’re death’s pet and he’s come to claim you.”

  “No, no I’m not.” Dunos grabbed the paper in his left hand and fed the wolf to the candle flame. “I won’t be his pet!”

  The flame caught and the wolf vanished in a bright flash of light. Yet instead of hearing the hungry snap of flame, the lonely howl of a wolf echoed as smoke drifted up into the dimness. And though his hand remained in the flame, he felt no pain, no warmth, and somehow wondered if the god of Death had no
t claimed him anyway.

  Suddenly, the hut’s door exploded inward. Shattered planking gouged the dirt floor. The door’s remains hung from one twisted hinge and, in the moment before the night’s breeze extinguished the candle, Dunos caught sight of hulking forms bursting into the hovel. Broad shoulders smashed the doorjambs, and harsh, clicking, guttural sounds filled the hut, as if the creatures were gargling sharp stones.

  Uttisa screamed, but her cry ended abruptly. Something warm and wet splashed over Dunos. He closed his eyes, then wiped blood from them. They’ve killed her!

  He didn’t want to open his eyes again because he didn’t want to see what the creatures were doing. The crack of bones and the wet sucking scrape of teeth stripping flesh communicated more than he could have seen. He decided that seeing would be better than imagining, so he opened his eyes and found he was half-right.

  He should have been in complete darkness, but his left arm glowed with a pale grey light that cast no shadows. Other parts of his body glowed as well—the parts that had been splashed with Uttisa’s blood. Most curious of all, the glow around his left arm showed him a limb both hale and hearty.

  The three squatting creatures gorged on the crone, ignoring him entirely. They were completely hairless and, though he could see that their flesh was scaled, the ghostly glowing imparted no hint of color. The triangular teeth that filled their maws made short work of the witch. They lifted their chins when they swallowed, but had no discernible necks, and their powerful shoulders hunched above the rounded domes of their heads. He saw no ears, and their large round eyes had the flat black quality of wet river stones.

  They squatted on short but powerful legs. Their long arms easily snapped the witch’s bones, and their long talons dug marrow from the hollows. They sucked the grey jelly from their fingers, gurgling with delight.

  Dunos had no idea what the creatures were, and didn’t want to remain to find out. He darted for the doorway before any of them had a chance to react, then he ran as fast as he could. His left arm almost felt as if it were moving normally. He glanced back once to check on pursuit. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t slow him a bit.