His most Imperial Majesty stood at least six feet tall, probably closer to seven, with broad shoulders and strong-looking hands inside pale blue gloves. Just the dye alone for the gloves likely cost more than Ewoud wanted to think about, although he ought to find out what it was, because he suspected it would be in very high demand quite soon. The emperor wore his white-blond hair in a braid as big around as a stone-cutter’s wrist. Fur almost as white as the emperor's hair trimmed a dark blue, thigh-length coat. His sword hung from a darker blue belt with matching scabbards for knife and sword, all trimmed in sliver and gold with pale yellow stones. White breeches tucked into dark blue boots, also topped with fur. The pale yellow and snow-shadow blue gems on his crown flashed as he turned his head, looking at the gathered crowd of patricians, priests, and other people. His clean-shaven, broad and strong face had high cheekbones and oddly dark eyebrows.
The Great Northern Emperor raised one hand and blue fire appeared, dancing above his finger-tips. The crowd sighed, or so it sounded to Ewoud, and all the mages bowed low, foreheads almost touching knees. Ewoud bowed as well, but not as low. He felt power moving, but not the way a magic spell moved. Instead, the emperor radiated something that made Ewoud want to obey. "Greetings to the city." The man called, his voice filling the space behind the gate.
The chief priest of Maarsrodi, speaker for the clergy, and senior mayor Dalmant Enkerman replied, "Honor and greetings, most noble majesty, and welcome to the proud city of Rhonari." Ewoud had heard Tycho grumbling about the clerks hunting for the proper protocols and not attending to other city business. The snow swirled, the flakes now as large as Ewoud's hand.
"It is good to see our cities still prospering after so long." Again, the emperor's voice took up all the room in the street. Was it because of the heavy snow? Or magic?
"We your people are honored by your presence and bid you welcome to the hospitality of the city for the duration of your residence with us." Mayor Enkerman sounded dazed.
"Thank you. After we have shown proper honor to the gods of the city, we look forward to partaking of that hospitality, as do our people."
Maarsrodi's Son raised his hand, the ring of office prominent. "The way has changed a little since the emperor last visited the city, most Imperial Majesty. Allow me to serve as your guide."
The emperor inclined his head. "Thank you. Please lead us to the temples." The priest inclined his head in return and turned, walking up the road. The wagon glided into motion, moving silently and more smoothly than the ruts should have allowed. Magic? Or a very expensive wagon with excellent suspension? Ewoud had heard of such a thing but had never seen one in person. Behind the wagon came more men and some women in carts drawn by something like the ovsta but leaner, with rounded instead of flat noses and longer ears. Then more men in blue and white, or grey and light brown, some wearing saka on collars or as broaches on round, fur hats. So much fur strode past that Ewoud had serious doubts about the remaining population of veshla, mynkha, god-touched bank-rat, and other animals of the woods and streams. Large cats paced along beside a few men, but only a half-dozen or so. They swished amazingly thick tails, and walked on huge, round feet like snowshoes.
Beside Ewoud, Marlo Godkurt whispered, "I know what all the children will be demanding next year." Ewoud almost smiled, because that's exactly what his youngest sister would want—a fuzzy doll shaped like one of those cats. And the women would want dresses and gloves in that shade of blue, and more saka, and the quiet wagons and carts, and all sorts of things.
The procession continued. Ewoud's father had said that a thousand northerners would be coming with the emperor, and Ewoud wondered if all of them were processing through the Salt Gate. It was possible. They would all want to go to the temples, wouldn't they? The inn-keepers and others would do well this season, or so everyone hoped. At last the final men and women, servants of some kind Ewoud assumed, walked through the gate and down the street. Only when they turned the corner did the crowd sigh, and everyone began talking at once, or stamping their feet and hurrying away as they realized how cold their feet had become.
"I don't know what I expected, but that wasn't it," Caster Paaula's voice cut the snow-filled air. "He's a mage, and?"
Ewoud heard his father's voice replying. "And he traveled overland, in winter, with a thousand people. Their wagons and sledges and other vehicles are still outside the walls. No ordinary man can do that."
"Can you get one of your house cats to sit at your side, or walk on a lead?" Ewoud wasn't the only man or woman smiling at Teun Eisener's sally. The master blacksmith peered down at the preservation mage. "Well? I can't. They don't even come when I call their names."
Paaula stared up in turn. "You give them names?"
A third voice called, "Of course. Doesn't everyone have a 'Damn it, get away from that' and 'Bad cat'?" Raucous laughter filled the cold air, and Ewoud ducked his head, grinning at the jest.
Marlo Godkurt wondered, "What would you call a cat as large as those?"
"Probably sir or ma'am," a journeyman light mage riposted from behind them. Ewoud just shook his head and waited for the other masters to begin hurrying to the council building on the main square before joining his father.
"I shudder to think how much one cat that large eats. As much as your brother," Tycho murmured as they walked, staffs thumping the slippery road.
"Aye, sir. We'd need to buy a fishing boat at least."
After they'd walked as far as the south end of the market square, Tycho stopped. "Go home. His Imperial Majesty's ambassador said that today his majesty only wants to meet with the mayors and council members. Tomorrow will be the day for introductions of the leading families."
Ewoud inclined his body toward his father. "Yes, sir." Getting out of the cold and wet sounded delightful, and the ledgers needed to be finished. He skirted clots of chattering people, ducked a scowling peace-keeper intent on something just past Ewoud, and after a fraction of an eye-blink's hesitation, bought hot roasted parchment-hulls from a street stand. He pulled his glove off with his teeth, tucked it into his belt, then managed the nuts one handed, holding the cone of scrap paper in the other, along with his staff. It was awkward but doable. Ewoud took an indirect route back to the wares-house. By pure coincidence, he finished the nuts and had time to conceal the paper before arriving at the door. He did not see either his mother or Bastian, so he popped he paper into the fire in the office, then went to the living part of the house. The paper had been cross-written and scratched over so often that there wasn't any point in trying to use it for anything more.
Ewoud changed out of his finery and returned to the office, still without seeing his mother or siblings. The servants seemed busy so he returned to the accounts books. After working through another page, he stopped, staring at the wall beside the list of hides and leathers the family traded in. How much would a cat that large eat? How much would all those people eat? Had they brought their own food? And why wasn't he more excited or nervous? Was something wrong with him?
Maybe that was it. Ewoud found the scrap of white ribbon and set it in the seam of the ledger, marking the page, then closed the heavy brown covers. Maybe he lacked a sense of excitement the way his father lacked magic. That would explain things, and made more sense than most. He put out the lamps, banked the fire in the brazier and lifted the little lever that raised the inks farther from the fire. Too bad the mages couldn't put little heat-keeping spells on the bottles for ink like they did for some ovens and solid things. Wiebe had explained once that it had to do with the water in the ink. "A mug that kept hot things hot would also be nice," Ewoud muttered to himself, "along with a hot bath and a shave, dyes that never faded or rubbed off, hides that never soured, and trees that produced pastries and roasted fowl." Magic made life easier, but it didn't make everything perfect. And how would you keep roasted fowl hot between the tree and the table? What would the flowers look like—brown eggs?
"Ewoud, what are you giggling about?" His m
other inquired as he came into the living part of the wares-house.
"The song about the beggar's dream, honored mother, with the roasted meat that grew on trees. How would you keep it warm to get it to market, and what would the tree's flowers look like?"
She opened her mouth, closed it, looked thoughtful, and said, "Double-line baskets, like some of the bakers use to deliver fresh rolls and breads to the inns. Go select a pale wine and a beer for supper, please. The maids are busy." She presented Ewoud with a large pitcher and her keys.
"Yes, ma'am." He ducked out into the garden and hurried to the stone shed at the end. He unlocked the door, tapped the mage-light and found the beers. They had three, and he tried to remember which his mother served with pale wines. It didn't really matter. The wheat was the oldest, so he filled the large pewter pitcher with that, then looked at the wine casks. The tapped casks had colored thread around their spouts, showing that they were either unripe, or festival wines, or ready for use. Ewoud reached for one, stopped, and reached for a different one with a dark red thread on it. The wine flasks stayed on a shelf by the door, and he found the one with the narrow neck. He decanted the wine into the flask, sniffed it, and decided that was probably what his mother had in mind. He took the flask out and set it on the shelf outside the shed, picked up the pitcher, doused the mage light, and locked the door. He carried flask and pitcher with great care. Both were full to the rim.
"Thank you." He set the pitchers down where his mother indicated, then returned her keys. "Bastian will be eating with the mage-journeymen tonight. Wiebe invited him to attend an elevation."
"Yes, ma'am."
His father came in rather later than usual. Ewoud's mother must have suspected that he would be tardy, because supper consisted of stewed things and a fish-pie, as well as broth and a salad of the last fresh greens of the year. Tycho seemed more distracted than usual and did not notice the dollop of herbed soured cheese Gerta spooned onto his greens. Ewoud ate his portion and half-prayed that the end of dairy season would make this the last time the concoction appeared in the house. He was not cold natured, unlike his father, and did not need his humors so carefully balanced.
"I fear Master Paaula has truly become a legend," Tycho said at last as he, Gerta, and Ewoud sat by the fire.
"Oh?" Gerta had begun knitting, and the fire light turned the polished bone needles pink.
Tycho shook his head and played with his chain of mastery with one hand. "The entire city will know soon enough, so there is no harm in telling, I suppose." He sighed. "His most Imperial Majesty stood in the great council chamber, facing the truth bar." Ewoud closed his eyes a little and visualized the scene. "Caster Paaula stood just outside the chamber, and only Radmar knows if he thought he would not be heard, or if he did not care, or if he had perhaps drunk too much with dinner."
"Oh dear." Ewoud's mother stopped knitting.
"Everyone in the chamber heard him. 'But how do we know he's really the emperor? No one lives four hundred years, and mages cast illusions.' I have never seen so many men looking for places to hide," Tycho mused as Ewoud covered his face with both hands. "I wanted to duck into one of the records chests, but Pelzerman beat me to the space."
"Ah, honored father, what happened?"
Tycho shivered. "It began to snow. Inside the council room. Real snow, not an illusion. His most Imperial Majesty still had not spoken. He looked down at the cat, and the beast stood, then bounded to the door and dragged Paaula in by the leg. Without tearing his boots or trousers, I must add. Would that the water dogs were that soft mouthed. Count Eudeat Mangus, who will be the ambassador to the city, suggested that perhaps this was not an illusion. Even Paaula had to agree, since he'd been left sitting in a cold puddle. I've never, ever seen anything like that."
Ewoud started to speak, then stared. "Sir, you saw and felt the snow?"
"Oh yes. So it cannot have been a mage illusion. Whatever his most Imperial Majesty did to begin the snow in the chamber, the snow flakes themselves were quite real and had no magic to them. They felt as cold and wet as what fell outside the building." Tycho sounded meditative. "I do hope it does not happen again, although the look on Paaula's face was most entertaining." Ewoud and his mother both covered their mouths. They'd heard more than an ear-full about Paaula's grating, whining presence on the council.
"No. Snow on those floors and the documents?" Gerta shivered. "Is his Imperial Majesty really as tall as the statue of Maarsrodi in the main temple?"
Tycho and Ewoud both smiled. "No, he is a large man, over six feet with a blacksmith's shoulders, but not that tall. He looks like the other men from the far north, with pale hair and skin, and dark eyes. His cat is rather more unusual than his majesty."
Gerta blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "My lord husband, you said that the cat dragged Caster Paaula into the chamber?"
"How tall would you say the cat is, Ewoud?" Tycho gestured for him to stand.
Ewoud stood, and put his hand a little above the point of his hip. "This tall at the shoulder? He was seated when I saw him, honored mother, and it was difficult to tell. His ears came level with his majesty's belt when his majesty stood. Feet so large around," he made a ring with the fingers of both hands. "And it obeys orders. So his majesty must be a must unusual man indeed."
"That he must be, my lord husband, Ewoud." Gerta resumed knitting. "Does he have a proper name that has been mentioned?"
Tycho blinked. Ewoud stared into the shadows beside the fire, dredging his memory. Everything he'd ever read or seen only said, "The Great Northern Emperor" and the years since his last visit, or since the end of the cold, or some major event like the Great Drowning of Maans'hill.
"Yes, he does. He is named Mimir Borghindson, but no one uses his personal name." Tycho sucked on his pipe, then released a long plume of smoke. "It might not even be his true name, but a use name, the way some priests give up their family names when they enter the gods' service."
Ewoud considered the idea. Well, women gave up their birth-family's names when they married and entered a new family line, so taking a different name when a man became emperor sounded reasonable. Did he inherit the position, or was it like some trading families where the most skilled and interested son inherited? It wasn't something Ewoud intended to worry about. He had more than sufficient. Which reminded him... "Honored father, mother, has that journeyman cooper been near the house recently?"
"The one who shows premature interest in making your sister's acquaintance?" Gerta's eyebrows drew down, as did her mouth. "Not that I am aware of. Why?"
"I thought I caught sight of him as I returned from the Salt Gate. He seemed to be coming up the road and peering into the gate, but then crossed the road and entered Jostman's gate." Ewoud thought back to the quick glimpse. "I wasn't certain if it was the same man, but he acted furtive, sneaking around, not like a man on true business."
Both his parents frowned, and Gerta tapped the bone knitting needles together. "He is not welcome. His master knows this. Perhaps, my lord husband, a word with Master Felderman is needed."
The head of the cooper's confraternity? Well, if the man's master was not keeping proper discipline, than someone had to. It reflected badly on the entire confraternity. Ewoud had heard about that sort of thing quite often even within the merchants' confraternity. Tycho rubbed under his nose. "I am not in favor of addressing Felderman, but in this case I fear you are correct. I have heard stories about that young man, and they do not feature his skills in his trade, unfortunately." Tycho's careful phrasing made Ewoud shiver a little. That meant they had to be very, very bad indeed. After what he'd seen in Kehlibar, Ewoud did not want to encounter another journeyman bending and breaking the laws.
After a period of quiet, Tycho stood. Ewoud and Gerta stood as well. "His most Imperial Majesty will be addressing the city and presenting his staff, including the ambassador, tomorrow in the main market. All are welcome to come, women and men, so that all know his people on sight." A little smile l
ifted the corner of Tycho's mouth, and Ewoud smiled a little in return. He doubted that anyone would have trouble recognizing the northerners, but then there was the story about that short-sighted goldsmith...
The next morning Ewoud, Bastian, Rikila, and their parents joined the throngs making their way to the great market square. The sun shone through grey clouds, peeping out for a moment before fading again, flirting with the land. The wind seemed to have settled and gone quiet, which suggested that it was changing. Ewoud stayed close to his younger sister, watching for the cooper's man. If he thought to take advantage of the crowd, he'd have a most unpleasant surprise in store. Rikila had been learning how to defend herself, but Ewoud stood a head taller and remained far stronger. The family found a space near the corner where the root-sellers set up their stalls and baskets, facing the council building. Ewoud admired again the solid brick building, decorated with colored plaster and with colored tiles in the shapes of the crests of Rhonari and the other free cities. Rhonari's insignia covered at least twice as much of the facade as did the others, of course. The wind-eyes above the top floor made the building seem lighter than it really was. So much more civilized than Kehlibar!
"How much rent are they charging, I wonder?" Tycho nodded toward some of the buildings surrounding the square. Their owners or renters had removed the winter covers from the windows and opened the shutters, allowing people to lean out for a better view. "And who is responsible if that individual falls out, hmm?"
Apparently someone else had the same question, because hands reached from inside and pulled the brightly-clad man back from his perilous perch. Ewoud glanced at Bastian, "Don't try that."
Imperial Magic Page 14