Chartomancy

Chapter Thirty-seven

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?”

Junel looked down at the ground. His ministry patron had given him one view of the events in Helosunde that downplayed the reality. Based on inquiries for information from the rest of the Desei network in Moriande, Junel was able to figure out what must truly be happening. While Vroan would be alarmed by the news from the ministry, he wouldn’t be alarmed enough for Junel’s purpose. Vroan had to move quickly and boldly to effect the ends that would most benefit Deseirion.

“The news has not circulated far at all, but a week and a half ago Prince Pyrust crushed a Helosundian army. He’s cut off all communication to the south and has advanced on Vallitsi. He is laying siege to it, and will take it by the end of the month. He then intends to move south and, in the month of the Hawk, he will attack Nalenyr.”

Count Vroan stared at him for a moment, then set his cup of wine down. “How reliable is this information?”

“I would stake my life on it. You know my relations with the Desei court are less than cordial. Had I not come here, I would have been tying up my business in Moriande and heading south to Erumvirine.”

Vroan pursed his lips and nodded ever so slightly. “And Prince Cyron is not a war leader.”

“No, my lord, he is not. I would expect he will call up more troops, westron troops, and ask you to lead them against the Desei. The mountain passes can be held, but the fighting will be bloody. It’s your people who will preserve his realm. The Komyr have relied on you to deal with Pyrust in the past, and they shall do so now.”

“No. No, that cannot be allowed to happen. If Komyr blood is so weak it cannot hold its realm, it must give up the Dragon Throne.”

“I would agree, my lord. The question is, how does one craft the most favorable approach?”

Vroan watched him carefully. “I’m not certain I follow.”

“It is simple, my lord. An assassin is the best solution to the problem of Prince Cyron. He has no heir. With his death you can step forward and accept the mantle of the Prince to save your nation.” Junel raised a finger. “However, if the plot were to be discovered, you would be tainted and likely face a revolt in the east.”

“There is wisdom in what you say, but this still leaves Cyron on the throne.”

Junel nodded. “True, but Nerot Scior is the sort of schemer who likely could be convinced to press for an assassin. Regardless, he is the sort who could be positioned to accept the blame. Once the Prince is gone, you expose him, kill him, and step into that vacuum yourself. Until then, given your ties to Helosunde and your concern for Nalenyr, you can raise a force and be prepared to intervene in the coming war. Even if Cyron does not die, he comes to rely on you and you supplant him later with the blessing of a grateful nation.

“And then, my lord, if you have occasion to push north into Helosunde, you are simply doing so for your daughter. If you retake Helosunde, I can assure you, Deseirion will fall soon after.”

Vroan folded his arms over his chest. “How much of this do you think is truly possible?”

“Uniting three realms? I believe it will be done in my lifetime.” Junel shrugged. “Killing Cyron and getting Nerot to take blame for it will be simple. With proper coaching he could even stand up and proclaim his complicity, believing he has rid the nation of a tyrant.”

“True. He could be made to see how that would work to his advantage.” The westron lord smiled. “And you, Count Aerynnor, what would be to your benefit if events were to unfold as you describe them?”

“My lord, I am a modest man and not one given to ambition. I have learned to be thankful that I am alive. I should very much like to see the Desei Hawk with its wings broken, but that is the extent of my desire.”

“But you believe I would be grateful for your aid.”

“Your lordship has already showed me the hospitality of his house, the bounty of his cellars. My reward would be to be of continued help to you. You will rise to heights I can only dream of.”

Vroan snorted, then recovered his cup and drank. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I don’t believe you are modest or that you lack ambition. I think you do want more than you say, and I know you’ll end up with it.”

“My lord is kind to say so.”

“I do, and I would be willing to guarantee it, provided we agree on one thing.”

“And that is, my lord?”

“That your advance is not at my expense.”

Junel lifted his cup. “Done and done, my lord.”

“Good.” Vroan refilled his cup and drank. “Now, let us plan how Nerot will murder Prince Cyron and pave the way for our ascent.”