Magi'i of Cyador (4 page)

Abram'elth stops and turns to the two students. "Up ahead you see the black shield. When you look through the black shield, you will see the Magi'i tower-the one that powers chaos cells used in the school and in the Palace of Eternal Light." The Lector pauses, then adds. "Study the tower, not only with your eyes, but with your senses, and see the variants of chaos that exist. Do not even think about transferring chaos. If you do, both the tower and I will consume you with unfocused chaos."

"Yes, ser." Lorn's and Tyrsal's responses are nearly simultaneous. "Tyrsal'elth, you may go first."

"Yes, ser." The redhead takes his place before the darkened square that is neither glass nor metal nor any substance yet made in centuries within Cyador, a single pane so dark it appears black. He stands there for a very long time before he steps away.

Abram'elth's eyes and senses shift from Tyrsal to Lorn. "Lorn'elth." The Lector's voice rumbles in the granite-walled corridor.

Lorn walks to the window shield, where, through the dark aperture, he studies the shimmering tower enclosed within the insulated granite walls of the chaos-power station. He recalls a similar such vision, clearly unauthorized, from many years before, long before he had first seen a tower as a student magus.

Knowing that, he concentrates, but his eyes reveal to him little beyond the glaring silhouette of the tower. His chaos senses focus on the reddish-white chaos surrounding the bluish-white barrier that blocks the core from touching even the air that surrounds it. He feels, though he could not explain why, that the tower, this particular one, teeters on the edge of... nothingness... as if poised to fall into the world, or out of it. Yet the reddish chaos and the bluish chaos do not touch, although each pulses in response to the other.

After a time, Lorn steps away, his face expressionless. After he does, the Lector studies Lorn, then Tyrsal, before he speaks. "What did you sense?"

"The pulse of chaos," Lorn says mildly. "It is constant, yet ever-changing."

"It is constant within chaotic bounds," the Lector affirms. "It produces the same amount of chaos energy at all times." He turns to Tyrsal. "The chaos that surrounds the core," offers Tyrsal. "There is a barrier there," confirms Lorn.

Abram'elth nods slowly. "Precisely, and that barrier must remain for the tower to continue operating."

"What happens if it doesn't, ser?" inquires Tyrsal. "Then the tower will cease to be." The Lector frowns. "Your lessons should have taught you that."

"Yes, ser." Tyrsal looks down.

Lorn realizes he must speak or forfeit the opportunity. Offering a guileless smile, he says slowly, "But there is chaos-or something like it-on the other side of the barrier. Wouldn't that escape or something?"

The Lector's frown deepens as his eyes flick to the dark-haired student magus. "How do you know that?"

"You told us that there were several kinds of chaos, and asked us to try to use our chaos senses to determine them," Lorn replies easily. "The chaos behind the barrier feels different, as you said it would."

"I did say that," muses the Lector, almost to himself, then he straightens. "No one knows for certain what will happen if the barrier fails, and no tower has yet failed since the first years of the founding of Cyad nearly two hundred years ago. And one of the tasks of the Magi'i, as you will discover, is to ensure that no tower does fail."

Tyrsal and Lorn do not exchange glances, but they might well have, for Lorn knows that the Lector misleads with his last statement-not exactly a lie, but a statement verging on it, and Lorn knows Tyrsal understands that as well. Lorn also knows that Abram'elth does not know that Lorn and Tyrsal can sense such, for most students cannot sense such shading of the truth.

"Remember, the towers are the heart of Cyad and Cyador."

"Yes, ser."

The Lector believes his last statement, and that belief troubles Lorn more than the statement that had preceded it.

The two follow the Lector back along the corridor to the door where, again, Abram'elth raises his hand and focuses chaos before sliding the door open.

Once the three have traveled the white granite corridors and are back in the discussion room, where Ciesrt and Rustyl are waiting, the Lector surveys the four students.

"Tomorrow, you will begin your advanced chaos-transfer training in the firewagon hall. Consider what you have seen. You may speak of it only to other Magi'i or to students as advanced as you, and to no others. We will know if you speak otherwise. You may depart for the day."

VI

The Emperor Toziel'elth'alt'mer looks through the tinted glass windows of the Palace. His eyes focus on the harbor of Cyad, and the piers that house the White Fleet-although there are but two of the white-hulled fireships tied there presently. To the east of the fireships are tied a handful of coasting schooners, a brig that flies the jack of Brysta, and two other deep-sea vessels without jacks or ensigns flying.

North of the piers and closer to the Palace, the sunstone-paved streets glisten. The shops to the west sport green and white awnings, and under those immaculate canvases are the cafes and bakeries for which Cyad is known. Those who walk the streets are well-clad, whether in the shimmercloth affected by the Magi'i, the higher merchanters, or lancer officers-and their households-or in the hard-combed and tightly-woven cotton of the common people.

"Yet the least of the common folk is clad like a noble among the barbarians, and lives in greater comfort and cleanliness," murmurs the Emperor. "And that is as it should be." He turns and walks past the Great Hall, past the three-story-high gilded doors that can open so silently and swiftly that an observer who blinked might well miss their operation. Behind him follow two figures uniformed in silver-trimmed green, each with hand firelances-used but by the Palace Guard and those Mirror Lancers who guard the outside of the Palace of Light.

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.

VII

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 pitch-coated 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 green-lettered placards 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."

"With our own coins-not clan coins-and there's no one to back us if it's not good."

"That's why I'm here, remember?" Lorn says.

"You can slip back into that mighty house if this doesn't work."

"It's worked before. Why would today be any different?"

"Because it's Hamorian cotton. Or that's what Aljak has let it be known. You can't trust him, not even so much as Jiulko."

"He was the one who had the oils-Jiulko?" Lorn touches Ryalth's arm, gently, offering reassurance.

"I don't know why you talked me into this," Ryalth murmurs.

"So that you can start your own merchanter house. Merchanter women can refuse to consort, or consort by choice if they have a business worth more than five hundred golds. Remember?"