The City of Ice

by K. M. McKinley

  “Are you not celebrating?” she asked.

  “I will, but I wish to perform some observations of Andrade’s Cloak from an unmoving platform,” said the magister. “The aurora has not been documented from so close to the pole and never here in the land of the midnight day. If I learn nothing from it, well then, I have the privilege of looking on its beauty.”

  His eyes lingered a little too long on her face. Ilona looked in the direction the telescope was pointing. “I find it eerie, goodmagister.”

  “All the finest things in life are frightening,” said Ardovani. “A little. ‘Love without fear is not love.’ That is what we say in Cullosanti. It goes for all things.”

  “Being a magister especially, I should imagine.”

  “Indubitably,” he said, sighting down his telescope. He adjusted the spread of the tripod’s legs, pushed wooden pins into holes to hold them in place, and stood back. “That should do it,” he said, and gave his full attention to Ilona. “Now I only have to wait.”

  “I suppose that is the default position for a magister, courting danger.”

  He laughed. “A romantic view.”

  “Tell me, what is the difference between a magister and a mage? I always thought them to be much the same. But I see that you and Goodmage Iapetus are different.”

  “Well, perhaps you were poorly informed.”

  She bridled only a little. Ilona had been patronised by many men during her young life and was therefore particularly sensitive to being talked down to, but she took no offence from Ardovani. His laugh was so bright and joyous and he seemed to take delight in their conversation. “On the contrary, Goodmagister Ardovani. I believe myself well informed. I read widely. I thought the difference exaggerated by the parties involved to accentuate their superiority over one another.”

  “There is a large amount of bad blood between the two branches of our calling, more’s the pity,” he agreed.

  “So then it is as commonly held, that you are some sort of magical engineer, and Goodmage Vols is, for want of a better word, a wizard.”

  “Never call him that!” said Ardovani. “He won’t thank you.”

  “Tell me the difference then, or I shall be forced to call you both wizards.”

  He flashed her a white smile and leaned back on the rail. “Neither of us are. There is but one wizard, and he is jealous of his title. I will describe the difference for you. It is true that many of we magisters specialise in the utilisation of magic in engineering. But then so do many without the mage taint. Your cousin, he is a sort of magical engineer, but he does not carry the blood himself, although I understand others in your family do. We magisters and mages are both true mageborn. Magic is all an act of will, you see. Broadly speaking, the difference between a mage and a magister is in the way that we use our gift that makes us either one or the other. Magisters employ rituals of proven efficacy, procedures if you prefer, in order to create a certain effect. These are generally lesser than the great magics you read about in the histories, but the use of prescribed formulae bestows greater ease and reliability on the practise of magic. The fabric of the world becomes used to these changes, enacted as they are by many minds, and the more a formula is used, the easier it becomes. This is why in stories and the like, witches and other users of magic employ fetishes or familiars; it is a focus, you see, and mages too make use of such techniques. It is true that now many of my brethren specialise in engineering, but it is possible to be a purely immaterial magister, whose works are not so very different to those of a mage—on the surface. But whereas we magisters rely on rational experimentation to create a given effect of incremental power, a mage attempts to alter reality by force of will alone. We all influence the world, collectively, through our thoughts and our dreams. We are all mages to some degree.”

  “Then is what the mages do lesser? Is that why there are so few of them?”

  “On the contrary. What a mage does is by appearance much cruder, but far more effective, and far harder. Not only must he convince himself that the world should be a certain way, but through the medium of his power alone he must also convince the world that it is in error. The world is alive, unresponsive, unconscious, but it has a spirit. The Ishamalani worship it, and its creator.”

  “Yet you must also use this spirit.”

  “We do. And our road is easier, if less dramatic. Magecraft has become harder as the population grows. Other people make a mage’s work difficult. In populous areas they must assert their own version of the truth over that held by the many members of the human race; not only convince the spirit of the world that he is right, that the world is wrong, but also that the unthinking opinions of the many other people around him are also incorrect. It is why, I imagine, Goodmage Vols and the other mages dwell so distantly from concentrations of the population. In truth, their gifts are greater than that of the magisters, or the Dead God’s quarter, or any of the others who are blessed with the knack of magic. Among my school, there are a goodly number who might once have been apprenticed to mages, but not all magisters have the requisite ability to be so, and fewer still the correct set of mind. The gift of a mage is mighty, but to wield it they must either be insane enough to believe the world is different to how they perceive it, or supremely confident that they can change it to match their own caprice. Preferably both.”

  “Vols is neither, is he?” said Ilona. “The others, they say things about him.”

  “Bannord?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not very flattering.”

  Ardovani placed a hand on Ilona’s shoulder and guided her to the starboard side of the ship’s stern. He searched for something a moment, then pointed. “Do you see that?”

  A column of whirling snow travelled along the ground, looping out from the ship and back again.

  “That,” said Ardovani, “is Vols Iapetus. He has transmuted himself into a living embodiment of this place and roams freely through it. Have you not seen? His powers have grown away from the swarming Isles. Imagine his burden. His ancestor was the greatest mage of all time, the Goddriver himself. No matter his ability, Vols would find it impossible to live up to that. People look to the past, and they look to him, and they compare, judging him harshly for who he is not. They do not favour him for who he is. They have no confidence in his power, and sadly nor does Vols. Do not underestimate him, Ilona. His gift might be erratic, but it is my opinion that Vols Iapetus is the most dangerous man in Ruthnia. Should he find his confidence he will be the finest mage of this century.”

  A crackling popped in the heavens. Green waves of light uncurled across the horizon like dancers coming on to a stage.

  “Andrade’s Cloak!” Ardovani exclaimed. “Glorious, and visible before full dark.” He hurried to uncap his telescope. “Come now. Why don’t you help me with this? You can aid me making the notations. You know mathematics?”

  “Yes,” said Ilona. “I was taught many useful skills I was never intended to actually use.”

  “You can use them now. Bannord has been teaching you the arts of combat, I am sure there are things that you might learn from me—the movement of the stars, the patterns of the Earth, the sympathies between magic and matter. There is the mage taint in your family. Perhaps helping me might awaken yours, if it is present?”

  “I will help, but please do not tease me, goodmagister.”

  “I never tease on important matters,” said Ardovani gravely. “I would be glad of the company.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  A Shock in Perus

  AMBASSADRESS CHIWIL OF Pris faced Lucinia Veritus of Mogawn over afternoon tea in the Karsan Ambassador’s Room in the Palace of Nations. Between them were coffee, heavy with perfumed flavourings, lemon biscuits, and a world of entirely different expectations.

  Chiwil’s coyness at speaking her mind was annoying Lucinia, so she spoke it for her.

  “You are going to offer me a place in your Queendom,” she said.

  The ambassadress showed a brief
half-smile. She was like no woman Lucinia had ever seen before. In skin tone and size there was nothing remarkable about her, she was short and somewhat stocky, her hair long on the scalp and left side of the head, shaved down to a half inch around the back and right side. Her exposed ear was studded with five earrings of rank. She wore britches and stockings and a close fitting jacket. This style of men’s clothing had spread from Maceriya over the last forty years, but the ambassadress’s were not men’s clothes cut to fit the female form, nor were they feminised according to the mores of the western kingdoms, but something else that presented a look familiar and yet utterly different.

  And that, thought the countess, was the Queendom through and through. Alien underneath.

  The ambassadress moved with the easy confidence of someone born to power. Lucinia had seen it often in men, never in women. She had known women who fought their way to influence or found themselves imbued with power by a quirk of fate, but they exercised it guilefully, or with overstated force—a failing she knew well for it was her own—or they were crushed. Ignored, married off, driven mad. Chiwil’s acceptance of her privilege as a right was something new.

  A pair of male servants stood guard. Fine specimens, well-muscled, tightly clothed, kohl-eyed, and silent. Lucinia tried not to gawk at them. It was rare to see a male of Pris outside of the country. The ambassadress paid them no more attention than if they had been extraneous dining chairs.

  “Why else would I be here?” said the ambassadress. Pristians only ever had the one name. She knew little more of them than that. Her knowledge of Pristian customs was limited to the lurid rumours told on the streets of every city outside its borders. “You are the foremost mind in the field of astronomy alive today in all of the Hundred. We will gladly offer you whatever funds you deem necessary to relocate, and the post of Mistress Celeste at the university of Prishna.”

  “Heavenly Mistress?” said the countess with an arched eyebrow.

  A stone possessed more humour than Chiwil’s face. “Tradition is fundamental to our national identity. Our ways can appear quaint to outsiders. It is a teaching position. Prishna is—”

  “The foremost institution for geographical, astronomical, and philosophical instruction in your country. I know, it is well known. I have read papers from there.”

  “By whom?”

  “Shelfosh. Marchina. Someone else, I think. I do not recall.”

  “You do not sound as if you were impressed.”

  “Forgive me, but my own researches have far overtaken anything I have read from anywhere.”

  Chiwil sniffed the coffee, wrinkled her nose and clapped her hands. One of the males came forward dutifully. “Take away this decadent Maceriyan swill. Fetch us wheaten ale. Chilled, I cannot stand it warm.”

  “Goodmistress,” said the man.

  Chiwil watched his buttocks moving in his tight trousers as he left. “Such a pretty thing, don’t you think?”

  “Delightful,” said the countess. Though she enjoyed the man’s backside, for once in her life she was taken aback at another woman’s behaviour. There was nothing light or charming about Chiwil’s comment. Lucinia decided there and then that Chiwil was a brute. “I prefer my men with a little more spirit.”

  “We have spirited men. We would be grateful for someone to occupy them,” said Chiwil.

  Ah, though Lucinia, was that a joke? She drank her coffee. She found it palatable.

  “If you were to accept the role, you could have your pick,” Chiwil went on. “You would be of high status, higher than countess in Karsa. We treat our educators very well. Any man could be yours. If it would sway you, we can outfit you with a stable of fine consorts, all you would have to do is say.”

  “I hear your men cannot refuse a woman’s advances.”

  “That is the natural order,” said Chiwil. “Women bring life, therefore we are the arbiters of how it should be lived. Alas, we are the only nation to live as nature intended.”

  “That seems poor sport to me,” said Lucinia archly.

  “I see,” said the ambassadress. “If that is not attractive, perhaps you might find yourself a lifemate? A woman like you would be much pursued. There are many women who find your life story thrilling, why—”

  “You may find it hard to believe,” interrupted Lucinia, “if you believe only half of what is said about me, but I am not interested in bedding women.”

  “I understand same-sex coupling is frowned upon in Karsa,” said Chiwil sympathetically.

  Lucinia laughed. “And if you’d heard even a little of me, you will know I don’t give a dracon’s shit for convention.”

  “You cannot dismiss the option until you have tried,” said Chiwil. “You could find yourself a partner. You would make an excellent mother. Any donor would be proud to father your children.”

  “What kind of empiricist would I be if I had not tried the love of women?” said the countess. “Of course I have tried! It was pleasant, but failed to set my heart racing. I like men, ambassadress, and I like them to be free to think. I like men whom I can pursue, and who might refuse me. It makes bedding them all the sweeter when they do not. If you are here to lure me to your kingdom with the promise of domesticated males and limitless tribadism then you should try harder.”

  Chiwil frowned. “You would not say that you pursue these men who might rebuff you only to prove to yourself that you are not unattractive? You do not invite them in to your bedchambers so that one of them might, just might stay? You do not shock public opinion in order to test the boundaries of your acceptance?”

  Chiwil’s assessment of Lucinia’s drives was uncomfortably accurate. “You are better informed than I supposed,” said Lucinia icily. The servant returned, and handed Chiwil a fine glass tankard of cloudy beer. He bowed and offered one to Lucinia. She accepted. She had never tried wheaten beer before.

  “We lag behind in the celestial sciences, but we are quite adept at psychology,” said Chiwil.

  “Evidently,” said the countess. “Your beer is also good, better than your sense of tact.”

  “You are not known for tact either,” said Chiwil. “We have limited time, we are not here expressly for this one purpose, and so these side issues, however important, must be dealt with expeditiously. There is no reason to dodge the tide, we must plunge in. Were you to come to Pris, all these things that humiliate you in your own land would cease to be important. You would be free, and feted. In Pris the true order of the race is maintained. Women are mothers, they are moulders, we are leaders. Come and see how life should be.”

  “And you’d like the chance to turn me to your side of the bed, is that it?”

  The ambassadress puckered her lips disapprovingly. “You are as obsessed with sexual matters as you are talented. The offer is genuine.”

  The countess drained her beer. “Well thank you, Medame ambassadress, but it is not for me. As for the difficulties you are so sure I experience, if you are such a magister of other people’s minds, how can you be sure I do not define myself in opposition to them? I would be quite adrift if everyone were kind.”

  Lucinia and the ambassadress stood. “It had crossed my mind, countess. My report on you was thorough.”

  Chiwil put her palms flat on her hips and made a strange little bow.

  “The offer has been made, it will remain open.”

  “I have said no.”

  “It remains open,” repeated the ambassadress. She extended her hand. Lucinia took it. The ambassadress shook in a male Maceriyan style, fingers gripping fingers.

  “Good fortune with your lecture, goodlady. You will need it, most of these men would rather pull a dracon’s tail than take sound advice from a woman.”

  “Now that’s what makes it fun.” Lucinia curtseyed ironically, clicking her heels like a man.

  She exited the Palace and headed across the Place di Regime toward the Grand House of the Assembly, annoyed by Chiwil, but intrigued with her offer. Maybe it was time to move on from Moga
wn. She treated the place like a refuge, darting out to shake her backside at the world, then running home to hide. For all the resistance she had encountered, her trip round the Hundred earlier in the year had suggested the possibility of change. If not Pris, why not somewhere else? Perhaps the more relaxed northern kingdoms and their pleasant climates. Why not Perus, even?

  Perus agreed with her. People bowed to her and looked at her curiously more often than they wrinkled their faces in scorn. She was spared insult here and had been mildly surprised at the enthusiastic reception she had received from certain ladies, and surprised at the fad for clothes aping her own. She had no illusions. Fashions in Perus sprang from one ridiculous extreme to the next; he who was lauded one year could easily find themselves prosecuted in the courts the next for licentiousness.

  “Fickle, flighty, foolish,” she said to herself. Amazing that these people had once run half the world. The comment was not fair; the men and women on the square moved with a purpose only exhibited by those with weighty matters to attend to, though they were all dressed like clowns.

  She reached the Grand House. Being an exact likeness of the Palace, it gave the unnerving impression of arriving at the place one had set out from. Was that a mathematical possibility? she wondered. Then she groaned inwardly as she spotted that damned fool of an ambassador, Mandofar, hurrying down the stairs toward her at the head of a phalanx of footmen. “Goodlady, where have you been?”

  “At the Palace, declining an offer I had to refuse,” she said. “What are you fussing about? I am on time. They are not due to hear me for another hour.”

  “You were supposed to be in the Grand House twenty minutes ago! There are matters that need discussing. Your dress, your—”