Aber stayed with me, and I found myself drawing strength and reassurance from his presence. We both needed to plan for the future… to find out what had happened to our father. Somehow, I thought I wouldn't feel so helpless if I had a goal to work toward.

We had talked about trying to contact my father and Taine via Trumps. After a hasty lunch of cold meat pies and ale, I broached the subject with Aber once more.

“I'm not contacting Dad,” he said. “I don't mind bringing out any Trumps you want, but more than that—no. I've learned better.”

“Fine,” I said. “I don't mind doing the work. Get me Trumps for Dad and Taine. I'll see what I can do.”

“Let's move into the library,” he said, glancing pointedly around the dining room. No servants were in evidence, but they could easily walk in on us at any moment. “It's more private there.”

“All right. I know where it is. I'll meet you there.”

He gave me a puzzled look, but didn't ask how I knew. Pushing back from the table, he hurried from the room.

I drained my ale, then strolled out to the front hall. Extra lamps had been lit, reducing the gloom somewhat, and I went into the library. With its thousands of ancient scrolls and old, leather-bound volumes along the walls, it seemed the perfect place to try my first magical experiments.

Aber returned perhaps fifteen minutes later. He had taken the time to wash up and change into fresh clothes. He carried not just the two Trumps I'd asked for, but a deck of perhaps thirty cards.

“Why so many?” I asked.

“In case you want to talk to anyone else.” He set them facedown on the table. “This is a family deck, no places just faces.”

I picked up the top card. About the size and shape of the tarot cards used by fortune-tellers in Ilerium, it felt cool to the touch, like ancient ivory. A rampant lion had been painted on the back in gold.

“I recognize your work,” I told him. “You painted this one.”

“Years ago. Turn it over.”

I did so, revealing the portrait of a dark-haired man of perhaps twenty-two, with a thin moustache and our father's piercing eyes. He had an almost mocking half-smile on his face. He dressed entirely in dark reds, from his shoes to his hose to his shirt with the puffed velvet sleeves, and he leaned casually on a long wooden staff. A thin white dueling scar showed on his left cheek.

“From the scar, this must be Taine,” I said.

“That's right.”

“He doesn't look much like this anymore.”

“It will still work, if he's reachable. Try him first.”

I chuckled. “Don't think you can fool me. You're avoiding Dad.”

“Damn right.”

Raising the card, I stared at Taine's picture. The few times I'd used Trumps previously, simply picking them up and concentrating on the picture had been enough to bring the person or scene to life before me. First would come a sense of contact and motion, then the figure would seem to become three-dimensional and lifelike, and we would be able to talk.

This time, however, I sensed nothing from the card. I might have been staring at a blank piece of paper, for all the good it did.

“Well?” Aber finally asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “He's not there.”

Aber nodded. “It happens. He's either dead, unconscious, or in a place where Trumps don't work.”

Of course, we had no way of telling which.

“The next card is Dad's,” he said, “if you still want to talk to him.”

“I do. What's the worst that can happen?”

“Plague, pestilence, death…” He shrugged. “Dad can be pretty creative.”

“So can I.”

“Yes, but you haven't promised to throttle me if I bother you with a Trump again.”

“Not yet, anyway.” I had to laugh at his sour expression. “But I am thinking about it, the way you keep popping into my bedroom unannounced.”

“Go on, then. Call him.”

I drew the next Trump from the stack and turned it over. It showed our father, all right, but dressed rather comically in a jester's outfit—complete with bells on his pointy-toed purple slippers. His image gazed up with an idiotic grin frozen on its face.

“If this is how you paint him, no wonder he's annoyed.”

Aber chuckled. “You know it's the subject that matters, not how he's dressed. I made this one when I was mad at him.”

“It shows.”

“Well, he deserved it as the time. He has never been fair with me.”

“You complain too much about it.”

He sighed. “You don't understand.”

I raised my eyebrows, but he didn't elaborate. Probably ashamed of whatever incident brought on this bout of petty annoyance. He certainly had a problem with our father… but wasn't that something all sons worked through? Perhaps in some ways I'd been the lucky one, growing up believing myself an orphan.

“Go on, call him.”

“In good time,” I said. “One bit of advice first. Don't let him see this Trump.”

“Oh, he's already seen it. He found it amusing.”

I just shook my head. Sometimes I thought I'd never understand my new-found family. If someone drew me that way, I'd have his head on a silver platter… not that it mattered now. We had more important work.

Taking a deep breath, I raised Dad's Trump and stared into the jester's intense blue eyes. Almost immediately I sensed a consciousness, and the image stirred slightly, but no direct contact followed. I stared harder, willing a connection between us. I knew he was out there.

Finally I heard a distant, almost petulant voice say: “Not now, my boy.”

“But—” I started. He had to know what had happened for his own safety.

“Not now!”

Contact broke off. My instructions were clear, but I had no intention of following them. This was more important. Holding up the Trump, I tried several times to reach him again, but could not. Something prevented me from reaching him.

Tossing the card onto the table, I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingers, thinking. What could be so important he couldn't spare two minutes?

“Well?” Aber demanded.

I glanced over at my brother. For once, he seemed genuinely concerned, so I told him what Dad had said.

“Not now,” I went on, warming to the subject, “has to be the most frustrating phrase ever invented. I hated it as a child, and I hate it more today. 'Not now!'”

He chuckled and gave me an I-told-you-so look.

“'Not now,'“ he repeated. “Is more helpful than you realize. At least we know he's alive.”

“True,” I said.

“Did you hear any screaming while you talked to him?”

“No. Why?”

“The dungeons under the palace are filled with prisoners. If he were locked up inside, I'm sure you'd hear screaming.”

I chuckled. “You don't have to sound so hopeful. No, he isn't being tortured, nor is anyone around him. It's like you said—he's in the middle of something and doesn't want to be disturbed, no matter how important it might be. Arrogant, conceited little—”

He held up a hand for silence, so I ended my tirade before it had really begun.

“What if,” he said, “he's being watched too closely to talk to us right now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. If someone is holding a knife to his throat, he won't be in any position to communicate.”

“True,” I said, conceding his point. “But does he have to be so rude, arrogant, and conceited about it?”

“You're getting a taste of what I went through. And he likes you!”

“I'll count myself lucky to have learned anything,” I said. “Dad's still alive. That's more than we knew before.”

“I suppose,” he said.

Actually, it created more questions than in answered. What had he been doing? Why couldn't he talk? And why hadn't he come back here after his audience with King Uthor?

Sighing, I picked up the deck of Trumps and flipped through them quickly, not letting my attention rest on any single card longer than necessary. Freda… Blaise… Davin… Pella… all my half-brothers and half-sisters were there, plus several other people I didn't recognize. For a second I toyed with the idea of contacting Freda to tell her what had happened and get her advice, but then I decided against it. She had orders not to talk to anyone via Trump to protect her location. I didn't want to endanger her. Considering how many relatives we had already lost, and how determined our enemies seemed to be, leaving her alone seemed like the safest plan for now. For all I knew, that serpent-creature might be spying on us again.