Fitzroy fingered his dimpled chin. Potter wondered fleetingly if the new face itched, or if it was simply a mannerism. "You provide an interesting perspective," the diplomat said. "Exactly who do you envision presiding over the new regime?"
"Your mistress and myself," Potter said. "lt|s only fitting. By the Emperor's ancient decree, she rules all souls who died of lunacy, while those slain by their fellows come to me. And for the last two centuries, our domains have grown enormously. The Quick are going mad in droves—their whole civilization is deranged—and modern strife slays millions.
"In contrast, consider the provinces of the. other Deathlords. The Skeletal Lord rules pestilence. Once a major instrument of death, but today science is poised, to eradicate it. One could argue that even now, were It not for the folly and wrath of nations—your lady's sphere of influence and mine—disease and starvation would reap far fewer victims than they do- By the same token, the forces which the Laughing Lady and I embody often produce the mysterious fatalities, lethal happenstance, and suicidal despair from which the Beggar, Emerald, and Quiet Lords derive their vassals. By what justification, then, do the other Dfeathlords claim parity with us?"
"You neglected to mention death by senescence," Fitzroy said. "Surely the Ashen Lady too might reasonably claim that with the decline of disease, her office has waxed increasingly important."
"That's true," Potter replied. "And I would have no qualms about sharing supreme authority with her. Provided, of course, that she's willing to support my strategies. Should she oppose me, I would have no choice but to humble her with the rest of my foes."
"And might I inquire your plans for the Lady of Fate?"
"She's not truly a Deathlord," Potter said, "and thus far, she's given me no reason to believe she covets the throne. Does your mistress think otherwise?"
Fitzroy hesitated, evidently deliberating whether to give up this particular piece of intelligence. "No," he said.
"Good. Then I predict the Isle of Eurydice will hold itself aloof from the struggle, just as it always has, and if so, I'll have no quarrel with its inhabitants."
Fitzroy nodded. "Well, then, the matter comes down to a proposal of alliance between you, my queen, and possibly the Ashen Lady if she'll throw in with you. Which obliges me to pose another delicate question. Your argument as to why you and my mistress deserve a higher estate than the other Deathlords seems sound enough, but pragmatically speaking, what guarantee can you offer that your cabal will emerge victorious?"
"For one thing," said Potter, using the icy, reverberating voice he could draw at need from his enchanted visor, "I am the Master of War and Murder." The lamps dimmed, flooding the room with shadow. Blanching, Fitzroy took an involuntary step backward. "I'm not so foolish as to belittle the magic of my fellows, but by taking up arms, they've entered my arena, where none of them can match me. I can annihilate all six of them, your lady included, if necessary. But despite the injuries she's done me in recent weeks, it pleases me to offer her a chance to redeem herself."
Fitzroy swallowed. "I assure you, Dread Lord, the Laughing Lady has never attempted—"
"Enough!" Potter snapped. Three of the glass display cases shattered. "You can't lie to one of the Seven, nor need you worry that you'll harm your mistress's interests by telling the truth. I'm willing to forgive her the harassment, provided we reach an understanding now."
The emissary quivered. Potter sensed that the fellow wished he could look away, but wouldn't permit himself to do so. "Forgive me, Dread Lord," Fitzroy said, his voice slightly unsteady, "I intended no disrespect. Nor do I doubt the efficacy of your Arcanos, However, as; you yourself observed, the other members of the Council command potent sorceries as well. Despite your martial prowess, if the conflict were to come down to you and my lady against the other five, it does seem at least conceivable that your enemies would overwhelm you."
"Does it?" Potter replied, permitting the aura of fear he'd evoked to dissolve. "Then consider this. Your lady has little hope of weathering the coming storm without any allies at all, and I daresay she's already learned that, despite any and all assurances to the contrary, she can't trust anyone else. As proof, consider the railroad incident. A train bearing a rich harvest of souls to the Seat of Succor was derailed and looted crossing the Tempest. Ordinarily one would attribute such a calamity to Spectres, bandits, or rebels, but you Penitents found evidence that the Emerald Legion was responsible."
Fitzroy lifted an eyebrow. "May I inquire how you know this, Dread Lord?"
"You may not," Potter said. "There have been other such calamities as well. A fortress taken by stealth and the garrison put to the sword; the sole surviving witness implicated the Paupers. One of your mistress's most valued advisors, perhaps the finest Monitor on the island, vanished from the Agora bare minutes after exchanging words with soldiers of the Gaunt Legion. I could go on, but I think I've made my point."
"Quite," Fitzroy said. "Once again, you present a strong case for alliance. Still, I must reiterate, before binding her fate inextricably to yours, the Laughing Lady will wish to be convinced that the two of you have some reasonable hope of prevailing."
Potter simply sat motionless, as Demetrius had advised him to do at this juncture in the parley.
After a while, Fitzroy said, "Dread Lord?"
"I'm deliberating," Potter replied grimly. "You ask much of me, Anacreon. Why should I expose my hidden strengths to you? For all I know, your mistress has no genuine interest in my friendship, and if that's the case, I'd be supplying her with information she could use against me."
Fitzroy spread his hands in an eloquent gesture that somehow seemed more natural for a man with a smaller frame. "I appreciate your dilemma, Dread Lord. In your place, if I may presume to imagine such a thing, I'd feel exactly the same way. Nevertheless, my mistress's perspective is as I've presented it. If you want her to stand with you, you must demonstrate that such a course is in her best interest."
Potter paused again. Finally he said, "Very well. I'll give you one morsel to carry back to her, in the hope of whetting her appetite for more. You are of course aware that, much as he taught us Deathlords, Charon reserved his most potent magicks for himself. At one point it seemed that his secrets had perished with him. Happily, that impression has turned out to be unduly pessimistic."
The Penitent's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you have the Emperor's missing mask?"
"No," Potter said, "but I have something equally useful. Unfortunately, I can't exploit its full potential by myself. As I said, no one Deathlord can perform the miracles Charon did. Two, however, are a different matter."
"Would you care to be any more specific about this new source of power?" Fitzroy asked.
"No," Potter said, "I would not. Not until I hear your mistress's reaction to what I've said so far. Go confer with her, then return here at this time tomorrow."
"I'll show you out, milord Anacreon," said Demetrius. The two courtiers bowed at the foot of the dais and again before exiting the chamber.
Potter laid his pole arm across his knees, slumped back on his throne, and shifted his shoulders restlessly. His plate armor seemed to weigh him down and chafe him. He watched the door impatiently, willing Demetrius to reappear through it.
And eventually he did. Potter pulled off his visor. "What did you think?" the Deathlord asked.
"That it went well," the Greek replied, removing his own stone mask.
"I don't know," said Potter, massaging his face. His gauntlet felt unpleasantly cold and hard against his skin, and with a grimace, he yanked it off as well. "In Fitzroy's place, would you believe we know about all the raids simply through superior intelligence? Wouldn't you suspect we know because our agents executed them themselves, and manufactured evidence to make it appear that the: other Legions were responsible?"
"Not necessarily," said Demetrius. "Don't forget, the;Other Deathlords have been plotting against one another for decades. It's entirely plausible that; a number of them
would choose to escalate the conflict in this manner. Indeed, some of them are doing so, even if it is in response to our terrorism against them. Besides, Chiarmonte's talents as a spymaster are all but legendary."
"Then why can't we take him fully:into our confidence?" Potter grumbled.
"You know why," the Pardoner answered. "We decided it would be safest to dole out information to all your lieutenants solely on a need-to-know basis. Moreover, you yourself insisted that the Venetian, for all his acumen, wouldn't grasp the justification for all our raids and acts of sabotage. He wouldn't recognize '.bat an armed struggle for the throne is now inevitable, an4 your best hope ®f survival is to make certain the conflict unfolds according to a scenario we: devise,"
"I know," Potter sighed. "God damn it, I never wanted this! A war among the shepherds of the dead is an abomination! Why couldn't the rest 0I the Council be satisfied with what Charon bequeathed them? Why couldn't they leave, me alone?"
"I don't know," Demetrius said somberly. "I suspect their Shadows are to blame."
"Do you think the Laughing Lady will want to combine forces with me?"
"Probably, though with the intention of betraying you when the time is right."
"Did it seem to you that Fitzroy believed I've stumbled onto one of Charon's secrets ?"
"I think he withheld judgment," the saturnine Oracle said. "You must remember, my lord. The beauty of our scheme is that it offers your fellow Deathlords more than one reason to do what we desire. Some will appear at the appointed rendezvous because they believe you truly have unearthed a piece of Charon's wizardry, and aspire to share or steal it. Others will be less credulous, but still interested in discussing an entente with you face to face. And others will come with their deadliest warriors in tow, seizing pn what they imagine to be an unparalleled opportunity to assassinate you. Their motives don't matter in the slightest, just as long as they show up."
"I don't know that they all will," Potter said. "They aren't like me, fumbling novices in their roles. Centuries of near-godhood have made them wise and inhuman in ways I can't begin to understand. They'll smell a rat."
"Arrogant as they are, confident of their ability to deal with any situation* some, of them will come,8' said Demetrius placidly. "I guarantee it. And after you make an example of those, the rest may well have the good sense to bend their knees to you. If not, we'll simply devise a stratagem to eliminate them as well."
"Which ones will come?" Potter asked. "Prophesy for me, Demetrius."
For an instant, the Greek smiled wearily, like a father whose child had demanded the same bedtime story for the thousandth time. Potter had a sense that the hint of disrespect ought to enrage him, but instead it madehim feel mortified and weak.
"I scried for you only this afternoon," Demetrius said. "How rapidly do jou think the tree of destiny puts forth new branches?"
"I think the future changes every time I talk to one of these mealy-mouthed emissaries," Potter said. "Every time one of my rivals communicates with another, or two of their partisans start a brawl down in the city. And our only defense is to discern what's coming! I'm sure our foes would have annihilated me already if it hadn't been for you."
Demetrius sighed. "All right. One more divination, but that will have to suffice until tomorrow, unless you feel you can dispense with my less esoteric services while I recover my strength." He reached into his brown leather satchel.
Potter leaned forward, eager to see what would happen next, and felt a bit let down when Demetrius brought out a pack of cards. Cartomancy was a legitimate means of divination, but the Deathlord would have preferred a more exotic technique, something the Greek had unearthed in the ancient tomes of the Oracle's guild. Those, after all, were the methods which had hitherto yielded the most critical information.
Demetrius smiled as if he sensed his master's disappointment. "It looks like an ordinary deck, doesn't it?" he said, sounding almost like a stage magician. "But watch." He pivoted, flinging out his arm and scattering the cards.
Instead of tumbling to the floor, they hung in the air, and then, slowly at first, began to rotate on their central axes, like revolving doors. At the same time, pasteboard and printer's ink turned to glass, flashing as it caught the lamplight.
For a moment, this dazzling display was all that Potter could see. Then he discerned that each spinning, gleaming rectangle held tiny images, as if it were an enchanted speculum or window. One showed the Isle of Sorrows with thunderheads massed behind it, another, the Emerald Lord's crimson dice tumbling across green felt, and a third, a grotesquely decorated black steamboat with a carved skull-face mounted between its smokestacks, moored beneath a starry Shadowlands sky.
Potter tried to glean some central theme or portent from it all, but the task was hopeless. There were too many separate visions to take in, now whirling so fast that it was all but impossible to make them out.
Demetrius studied the display with his bare, olive-skinned arms outstretched. Presumably, as the seer who'd conjured the effect, he was drinking in its import as no one else, not even a Deathlord, could. Suddenly, he grunted.
Concerned, Potter looked where the Greek appeared to be looking. He glimpsed a wink of coppery red and honey yellow inside one of the whirling glasses, and then, so abruptly it made him blink, the rectangles were all cards again, drifting to the floor like a rain of pigeon feathers.
"What did you see?" the Deathlord asked.
"Victory," said Demetrius quickly. "Our snare will catch the Skeletal Lord, the Laughing Lady, the Quiet Lord, and perhaps others as well."
Potter said, "That's glorious. But...there at the end, you seemed, I don't know, startled."
"By just how extraordinarily positive the auspices are, I suppose," Demetrius said blandly.
For just an instant, Potter suspected there was something the Oracle had decided not to tell him. Grimacing at his own paranoia, and what it implied about the condition of his nerves, he quashed the feeling.
Alice Mason looked up at the night sky. There wasn't a cloud in sight, just stars and the Milky Way, shining like a scatter of pearl dust on black velvet. Yet the prickling on her face and hands suggested a storm was imminent.
Perhaps something hanging in the air, some effluent from a tile factory or a creosoting plant, was responsible. In any case, dedicated walker though she was, she was beginning to regret turning down Harriet Oswald's offer of a ride home from their step aerobics class.
Well, she could be in her house in another minute. Then a cool, damp cloth would wash away the crawling on her skin, and a glass of iced raspberry tea would quell the vague anxiety nibbling at her nerves. A slim, sixty-two-year-old woman in a blue and yellow sweat suit, her silver-rimmed bifocals perched on the bridge of a long French nose, she clambered over the rail fence, taking a shortcut through the park. The area supposedly closed at sunset, but she'd begun taking evening strolls within its confines thirty years before some bureaucrat made that particular rule, and though not usually a scofiflaw, she felt that seniority entitled her to an exemption.
Pines and oaks, their shapes blurred by the darkness, rose before her. Beyond the trees, she knew, was an assemblage of playground equipment, swings, seesaws, and the like. She wondered fleetingly just how many hours she'd spent supervising children romping on such devices, Cautioning them to be careful and drying their tears when they scraped their knees anyway, and then someone whimpered.
Startled, Alice froze, then grimaced at her own reaction. It was true that terrible things were happening throughout Louisiana and Mississippi. The newspapers described the atrocities every day. But a woman, particularly a widowed senior citizen with no pne to depend on but herself, mustn't, let such stories spook her, lest she find herself too timid to leave the house. Even in this modern world, which seemed so much colder and crueler than the era of her youth, the chance of a criminal harming a given individual was too remote to fret over, at least in a quiet neighborhood in a pleasant town like Slidell.
Squinting against the gloom, she moved forward. "Is someone there?" she called. "Do you need help?"
The whimper sounded once again. Alice listened intently, but couldn't home in on the source.
Frowning, she pushed between two. fragrant longleaf pines. The needles rustled against her sleeves. The playground opened out before her. She thought she saw the merry-gO-round begin to revolve, but when she pivoted toward it, it was motionless.
Turning this way and that, wishing the park were lighted, she peered into the. shadows. Finally she caught sight of a small form huddled beneath a sliding board.
Indistinct in the darkness, the shape might almost have been a basketball. Alice had to move within ten feet of it to be certain it was really a little girl sitting with her back against the ladder, her legs drawn up against her chest and her face hidden behind them.
Grasping the ladder, Alice lowered herself to one knee, "Hello, little one," she said in her most soothing voice, "what's wrong?"
The child made a snuffling sound, then sobbed, paying no attention to Alice whatsoever. For a moment the adult had the odd feeling that the little girl literally couldn't hear her.
"Young lady," she said, a bit louder and more insistently. The girl still didn't acknowledge her presence. Alice gently laid her hand on her shoulder.
For a second the girl still didn't react. Then her body jerked as if she'd received an electric shock. Her thin, tear-streaked face whipped around toward Alice. Her dark eyes enormous, the child started to shiver.
"Don't be afraid," said Alice. "Whatever's wrong, we'll make it better. My name is Mrs. Mason. What's yours?"
Still shuddering, the child just stared at her.
"Did your mommy and daddy tell you not to talk to strangers?" Alice asked. "That's usually very wise, but you can talk to me. I'm a teacher. Are you hurt?"
The girl's mouth twitched.
"That's right," Alice said, "talk to me. Are you lost?"
The child's pale lips worked, but Alice couldn't make out what she was saying. She turned her head, positioning her ear in front of the girl's mouth. Even then, the halting whisper was barely audible.
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