L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

The Emperor Toziel-for he thinks of himself without the multiple identifiers attached to his name-steps through a silently-opening and cupridium-clad door that brings him to his own entrance to the small receiving hall. After a moment, composing himself, he steps through the archway and seats himself on the sculpted malachite and silver chair on the dais. He looks out over a marble-floored room merely large enough for two or three of the Cyadoran firewagons that speed endlessly along the Great North Highway.

Those waiting cross the shimmering and spotless white tiles, bow below the dais, and offer their felicitations.

“Your Mightiness …”

“Mightiness …”

Toziel gestures toward his Majer-Commander of Lancers, standing on the left of those who await his scrutiny. “If you would, Rynst’alt …”

“There were nearly ten score barbarians in the raid on Pemedra, and nearly that many in the raid on Inividra. We have not seen such raids, not on the base outposts, in many years. The Mirror Lancers killed about half those in the first raid, perhaps a third of those in the second. The barbarians vanished, as expected, into the Grass Hills. They appear as endless as the blades of grass in those hills.” The gray-haired officer in cream and green bows slightly as he finishes speaking, as if apologizing. “We have sent additional charged firelances to the north, and replacement lancers as well.”

“Thank you, Rynst’alt.” The tired-faced and silver-robed figure shifts his weight in the sculpted malachite and silver chair and turns his head toward the golden-eyed magus with the crossed cupridium lightning bolts on the breast of his tunic.

“The replenishment tower continues to provide chaos flow for the lances and the firewagons, sire. We were required to charge nearly double the number of wagons this fall as compared to the numbers in any recent year in the past generation.”

Toziel nods. “High Lector Chyenfel’elth, can we move any of the towers that prison the Accursed Forest?”

“No, sire.” Chyenfel’elth bows. “Attempting to move them would be far too great a risk.”

“What about replenishing chaos for the lances from those towers? They could be moved down to Fyrad on the Great Canal.”

“That we can do for now. For how many years we do not know. You should be aware, sire, that two of the ward towers have already failed. It will take all the chaos of those remaining to build the permanent barrier you have approved, sire.”

“You do not know yet even if you can accomplish this,” Toziel points out.

“We must try, sire. The towers will not remain forever.”

“And, if I rescind my approval?”

“You do as you see fit, sire. The Magi’i obey.”

“How long will it take to build the barrier?”

“It is not precisely a barrier,” Chyenfel says cautiously.

“It will bar the Accursed Forest, will it not?”

“Yes, sire. We cannot say how long the process will take. We estimate a full two seasons, if aught goes well.”

“And that will provide protection for the realm of chaos for generations to come? And keep the Forest from reclaiming Cyador?”

“As we discussed …” Chyenfel says smoothly.

“On a lesser scale, I know.”

“Yes, sire.”

“I will consider this, and I will talk to the Hand.” Toziel turns to the next figure, clad in shimmering blue. “How stand the warehouses, Bluoyal’mer?”

Bluoyal bows stiffly. “All have been inspected and their contents enumerated … this autumn season is a little different from any other autumn season …”

“Have you been able to purchase the additional cuprite?”

“Yes, sire, although in the quantities required, the … acquisition necessitated spending nearly a thousand golds beyond what we had estimated. You may recall, sire, that we had discussed that possibility.”

“We had.” The tired eyes of the Emperor watch each of those who act as though they serve him and Cyador.

A COOL MIST shrouds Cyad, a mist that holds the tang of salt air, the fragrance of the late-blooming aramyds, and the faintest odor of the bitterness that reminds Lorn of chaos, an acridness far stronger within the Quarter of the Magi’i, but omnipresent throughout the great white city. Occasional drops of rain slither through the silvery mist, and the white stones of the buildings and roads of Cyad are gray with moisture.

Lorn slips along the covered portico on the upper level of the dwelling and then down the outside steps to the garden,staying close to the inside wall. In his left hand is a loosely rolled bundle that appears to be a towel. Once in the garden, he takes the path by the wall toward the postern gate, for that is directly under his mother’s window, and unless she leans out the window, she could not see him pass below.

There is a bench outside the rear gate, where Elthya and the other servants often gather to talk, but no one will be there while dinner is being prepared. After he eases the gate closed, in the afternoon dimness, he quickly pulls off his green-trimmed student whites and dons the shimmering blue merchanter tunic and trousers, then switches his white boots for the dark blue boots, before adding a blue belt. He rerolls his own clothes and places them and his boots into the pitchcoated basket that he had left earlier and replaces the basket back under the feathered conifer beyond the gate.

He walks swiftly down the alley and across the Road of Perpetual Light, still taking the alley downhill past two other roads until he turns westward on the Road of Benevolent Commerce. The heavy heels of the merchanter boots barely whisper on the stone pavement. His stride is that of the other junior merchanters who scurry to the beckoning of others.

As he passes the Empty Quarter-a coffee house, almost a cafe, that caters to the most junior of merchanter apprentices-and outland sea-traders-he nods to the two apprentices sitting in the near-vacant establishment, giving them a perfunctory smile of acknowledgement.

“Who’s that …?”

“Some junior enumerator … friend of Alyet’s and Ryalth’s … saved Alyet from Halthor one night when he guzzled too much ….”

“ … can’t figure Halthor drowning …”

“ … anyone’ll drown … drinks and walks the piers …”

“ … looks young for an enumerator …”

“ … Ryalth says he’s good …”

“ … at what?”

Lorn represses a grin as he hurries westward along the Way of Benevolent Commerce until it intersects with the First Harbor Way. The corner is identified by the greenletteredplacards inscribed in the angular Anglorian script on the walls of the warehouse that stands on the southwest corner. Only in the trading district of Cyad do such placards exist. Elsewhere, one must know where he goes.

On the northwest corner, a woman in shimmering blue waits for Lorn under the awning by the Honest Stone-the unofficial merchanter coffee house for the warehouse district of Cyad.

Lorn waves and smiles as he nears.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming.” Ryalth snorts angrily. “After all you said.”

“I’m sorry.” Lorn offers an easy and fully apologetic smile. “I got here as quickly as I could.”

“We’d better go. Aljak said at the eighth bell.” Ryalth heads toward the harbor, walking on the right side of the white-paved First Harbor Way, as much by custom as to avoid the near-silent cart on the left drawn up the gentle incline by a white pony.

Lorn inclines his head to the bearded carter who walks beside the pony, leading him, then says quietly, “We have some time.”

Ryalth glances behind them, as though she fears they are being followed.

“Don’t worry,” Lorn assures her. “All we’re doing is buying cotton.”