The Outstretched Shadow

by Mercedes Lackey

  Lycaelon suppressed a faint spark of irritation. Really, the presumption of these Selkens was truly amazing. No matter how much liberty the Council granted them, they always demanded more. Still, a show of mercy and fair-dealing was one of the City’s greatest strengths, and each time the Selkens overstepped the bounds of civility and good taste, they only harmed themselves and strengthened Lycaelon’s own position.

  “Very well. Have him approach.” And watching barbarians caper should do a little something to relieve the tedium, at least.

  Auronwy descended the steps behind the judicial bench and approached the waiting captains. He spoke briefly with one of them, who came forward and retrieved a peculiar instrument from the pile of trade goods that waited beneath the watchful eyes of the motionless guard golems.

  The cittern appeared to Lycaelon’s eyes like some sort of giant, misshapen lute—flat on both sides, its sound box pulled into a sort of peculiar sand-glass shape. The neck was grotesquely elongated, and it seemed to have only half the proper number of strings. No fretwork covered the hole in the soundbox, either; if you stood close enough, you could probably see all the way down into the body of the instrument. How crude it looked, and how unfinished! Lycaelon steeled himself; surely this instrument’s sound would be as unpolished as its appearance.

  The captain slung the cittern’s strap over his shoulder, plinked a few strings hesitantly, and began to play.

  Lycaelon resisted, though with difficulty, the impulse to cover his ears, and felt the wave of disgust from his fellow Mages through the Judgment Spell. It was like nothing any of them had ever heard—not like the lute, nor the harp, nor the viol, nor any other stringed instrument known in the City. It was loud. It jangled. It was infernally cheerful. Very raucous, barbaric, and not in the least bit calming. If the drinking songs caterwauled in taverns could have been turned into an instrument upon which they might be played, this was it.

  As the captain himself seemed about to break into song (which only confirmed the Arch-Mage’s impression of the instrument), Lycaelon raised his hand.

  “That will be quite sufficient,” he said firmly. He shook his head very slightly, not needing to look to the rest of the Council to feel their agreement and relief. This decision, at least, would be an easy one, with no dissension and no need for a discussion. “The Council regrets, we cannot permit you to sell this … ‘cittern’ here.”

  “But why?” The captain looked honestly surprised—and hurt, as if he’d offered them a rare treat and been spurned. Lycaelon sighed inwardly. The Light blast all overemotional thin-skinned barbarians back to the First Cause and beyond! If there were some way for the City to do without the trade ships, he, personally, would weave such a spell as would seal Armethalieh’s harbors off from the outside world for a thousand years …

  “Please understand,” Lycaelon said, projecting a warmth and regret he did not feel into his words. Beneath them, he let an undercurrent of magick flow outward toward the captain: If it were my choice alone, I would welcome this innovation. But we are both of us at the mercy of forces greater than ourselves, and cannot always act as we choose. You and I, we must both make hard choices for the good of those we serve. “I am certain that this ‘cittern’ is a lovely instrument, cherished in your homeland. But we of the City have never heard anything like it. It would require new compositions to be written for it, new musicians to be trained in its use. Our City simply isn’t ready to accept so great an innovation, we regret.”

  He saw the captain step back, glancing toward the rest of the Council, confusion, acceptance—and regret—plain on his features. He would return to his ship, convinced that the High Council—and especially Lycaelon—acted out of hard necessity, but were themselves good men.

  As it should be. As it must be—for the good of the City.

  “Perhaps next time you might have a new lute to demonstrate instead.”

  The captain still looked as if he might be about to protest, but one of his fellows caught his eye, shook his head slightly. The first fellow clamped his jaw shut with a visible effort, bowed, and withdrew, taking his abominable instrument with him.

  Lycaelon let him go without comment. “What is the next item on the agenda?” he asked briskly.

  “A new illustrated edition of Pastoral Poems of Golden Days by a Gentleman of Leisure, printed and illustrated in Bariona,” Auronwy announced smoothly, setting the book before Lycaelon with a practiced gesture.

  TWO more books—both passed—then a music box that was found acceptable both in form and content, then two more books, one of which was found to have entirely unsuitable illustrations. Why the publisher had chosen to dress the characters in the costumes of the Lothien Archipelago when the book was intended for the City baffled Lycaelon; he must have known they would never allow depictions of barbarian dress within their walls! It was most peculiar.

  The Council was preparing to consider an item that its importer assured them was a new timepiece of heretofore impossible accuracy, when a Senior Undermage from the Printers Council appeared in the doorway.

  Without being told, Auronwy hurried over to him, and was back in a moment with his message, which he whispered into Lycaelon’s ear.

  “Lord Arch-Mage. A few days ago Citizen Perulan brought his latest book to the Council to receive his license to publish—”

  Though everywhere else in the City the degrees of class and birth were closely noted and observed in forms of observance and address, here within the Council chamber there were only two classes: Mages and citizens. And Perulan, no matter to what class he had been born, now belonged unequivocally to the latter.

  Perulan was a fabulist whose popular pastoral fantasies of a magickal idealized life in the farming communities west of the City had gained him fame and following over the last several years. His latest book had been eagerly awaited.

  “Challenged on first reading by Banarus, wasn’t it? Unpublishable. Nothing like his usual work. Pity,” Lycaelon said softly, leaning back in his chair. The acoustics of the Council chamber were such that nothing said behind the judicial bench would carry to those standing in the center of the floor, though the rest of the Council would be able to hear him if he wished them to.

  “He demands a hearing before the High Council, Lord Arch-Mage,” Auronwy said, equally softly. “He is … not in agreement with Undermage Banarus’s decision.”

  While it was every citizen’s right to take any grievance, no matter how minor, to the High Council itself, it was a right rarely invoked. But artists had no sense of proportion or reality. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it was a waste of the Council’s time and annoyed them to boot. But artists had no sense of proportion or reality; they saw things only in terms of their own “vision,” regardless of what was good for the City.

  “Is he here?” Lycaelon asked, hoping that the answer was “no.” This was likely to become a very unpleasant scene, one he was certainly not going to begin in front of the foreigners.

  “Outside, my lord. With his manuscript,” Auronwy confirmed.

  Lycaelon felt his jaw tense. Why was it that these artists always had to have an audience, even for their tantrums? “He can wait until our proper business is completed. See that he remains.”

  Auronwy bowed and withdrew.

  Lycaelon returned his attention to the approvals.

  IT was nearly Evensong Bells by the time the Council chamber was cleared of the day’s legitimate business. Banarus and Perulan entered, Perulan clutching a leather-wrapped bundle.

  Perulan was tall and slender, his pale hair going to grey. He had been born into a Mage family, a younger son, and while it had been something of a scandal for him to turn his back upon the High Art and follow his passion to become a teller of tales, it was only a small scandal, and his success had done nothing to bring real disgrace upon his family. Perulan lived suitably and modestly in the Artists Quarter of Armethalieh upon a small allowance his family made him and the revenues from his writings, an
d had made no trouble … until now.

  If the man had followed proper procedure, he was now holding the only copy of his manuscript, having destroyed all notes and drafts once he had made the fair copy. They would see.

  “Who comes before the Council?” Lycaelon asked.

  “Perulan, son of Nadar, of House Arbathil,” Banarus answered formally.

  “What justice does Perulan Arbathil seek?” Lycaelon responded, equally formally.

  “Lord Arch-Mage,” Banarus said, bowing. “Citizen Perulan seeks a license to publish for his latest work. The Printers Council has reviewed it and found it … unacceptable. Citizen Perulan challenges this decision, as is his right.”

  “Let the manuscript be brought before the High Council for fair, final, just, and merciful irrevocable judgment, as is the right of every citizen of Armethalieh,” Lycaelon said.

  Banarus took the manuscript from Perulan’s arms and brought it to the end of the bench. Auronwy accepted the hefty bundle and brought it to Lycaelon, setting it on the polished marble before him.

  Faintly curious now, Lycaelon untied the leather covering and exposed the first page. The title was written large, in Perulan’s flowing clear scribe-hand: Golden Chains: A Tale of the City.

  Not an auspicious title—why should an author of pastoral fantasies now choose to write about the City? And the Arch-Mage did not in the least care for the sound of “Golden Chains” either. Unless, perhaps, it was a romantic tale, of the sort that foolish women devoured, and the chains were those of love? Lycaelon frowned, and marshaled a small cantrip, one foolishly relied upon far too often by Student-Apprentices: Knowing That Which Is Written. While Knowing would not allow one to master the intricacies of a thick technical volume of Magecraft, no matter how many times it was cast, it was certainly sufficient to put a Master Mage in possession of the contents of a simple work of fiction, no matter how long.

  In moments, the contents of the book rushed into Lycaelon’s mind. And he was appalled.

  It was a saga of love indeed, among other things, and unhappily unlike any other Perulan had ever written. People died unhappily and for no reason at all, true loves proved false, Priests of the Light were corrupt, servants betrayed and were betrayed by their masters for personal gain, masters repaid the loyalty of lifelong servants with indifference, discarding them to poverty when they were no longer useful …

  In short, it was “reality,” and not fantasy, unvarnished, unmasked, and horribly uncomfortable. It was not the escape that the readers of Perulan’s previous tales would expect, and in a lesser author, disgust would lead a disappointed reader to fling the book across the room. But Perulan was skilled, highly skilled, brilliant even. No, the reader would persist, drawn into the story against his will, and when he was finished—

  Discontent. Unhappiness. Restlessness and a sense of injustice that would seek an outlet.

  This cannot possibly be published! Lycaelon thought in stormy shock, and felt the assent of the Mages around him as his knowledge of the manuscript spilled into the Judgment Spell. This was nothing less than an attack upon the City itself!

  “Is this your only copy? You cannot re-create this book? Answer truly,” Lycaelon said.

  Out of Perulan’s line of sight, Banarus’s fingers went up to touch the Talisman around his neck as the Undermage cast a Truthspell upon the writer, cued by Lycaelon’s demand for the truth. Perulan’s next words would be the whole and complete truth, whether he wished to tell it or not.

  “Lord Arch-Mage, this is truly my only copy of the book. I burned all my notes and drafts. I spent years writing it—it comes from my heart—I can never re-create it. It is my finest work—a work of truth—the truth that no one wishes to see.”

  The truth-aura around him burned blue and steady to Lycaelon’s Magesight. Perulan was telling the truth. In all things. The foolish man really believed it was a masterpiece, the crowning achievement of his career.

  Idiot. He was Mageborn; he should have known better. Of all things, the Mages could not tolerate discontent. Just as there could be no new and strange goods in the markets to startle people and make them think that other places might be better, there could be no new thoughts in books, no new ways of painting a picture, no innovations in music, because all of those things would wake up the imagination. There must be nothing within the walls of the Golden City that might make her citizens think, wonder—and start to look outside the walls.

  For only within these walls could there be safety. Without lay chaos, madness, and anarchy, the years of Blood and Darkness awaiting the spark that would kindle their rebirth. To open Armethalieh to change was to court her destruction.

  “It cannot be published,” Lycaelon said flatly. He held out his hand over the manuscript and spoke a simple spell: Magefire. There was a bright flash, and the manuscript and its leather wrapping were gone, burned away to a few wisps of ash.

  Perulan cried out, once. It was a heartrending sound, not loud, but so full of pain that it gave even Lycaelon pause for a moment. Half protest and disbelief, half wail of despair, like a mother who sees her child murdered before her eyes. Perulan’s face went grey, and he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

  “How could you?” he whispered in a shaking voice. “It was my life! All my skill—all I knew …”

  “It was not suitable,” Lycaelon told him sternly. “Why, when it is unsafe to go outside the City walls, should you write some poisonous fable to make the people of Armethalieh doubt that their rulers know what is best for them? Why should you seek to make them believe that their betters rule only for the sake of gain, and not to make them safe and happy? Why, above all things, should you write something that was calculated to stir rebellion in their hearts and discontent in their souls? They might begin to believe that other places are better than here; they might begin to believe that they would make better rulers than those who are wiser than they. And, in their profound ignorance, they might seek to put themselves in our places, and that would be—not to be thought of. Go, and write something more pleasing next time—or don’t write at all.”

  Perulan only stared at him, eyes wide with shock, as if he had not heard—or did not understand—Lycaelon’s words. The Arch-Mage gestured impatiently, and Banarus half led, half carried the writer from the Council chamber. Perulan accompanied him like a man in a trance, moving as unsteadily as one who has received a mortal wound.

  What a fuss to make over a few scraps of paper and a silly story! Just as well Nadar excised the Magegift from his mind; the man was far too emotional to ever have been trusted with the disciplines of the High Art …

  Lycaelon dismissed the matter from his mind. Banarus would see to the man, and do all that was necessary to conclude the matter properly.

  “Well, that was unpleasant enough,” Lord-Mage Perizel said sourly when the door had shut behind the pair.

  Lord-Mage Meron, sitting beside him, nodded his head. “Won’t be the end of it. You mark my words, my lord Mages. Talespinners! Always scribbling something, and all of it nonsense.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement, and Volpiril leaned close to Lycaelon. “If you will permit, my lord Arch-Mage, perhaps someone should be placed in Perulan’s household? He might bear further watching—just to make sure he doesn’t do something foolish, of course.”

  There was no expression on his bland face, but Lycaelon, who was about to order the same thing, wondered why Volpiril felt it necessary to suggest such a move before Lycaelon could do so.

  “Of course,” Lycaelon said, keeping his own countenance as bland as Volpiril’s. “Are we all in agreement on that? I will leave you to see to it, Mage Volpiril.”

  And I will remember that you will bear further watching, as well, my lord Volpiril …

  He glanced down with sudden distaste at the mass of ashes and crisped leather on the table, and added, with just a touch of venom, “And someone clean up this mess!”

  AS the shadows lengthened and the cool spring air fil
led with the music of Evensong, Kellen realized, with resignation and great reluctance, that it was time to be returning home. It wouldn’t do for him to be anywhere but his rooms when his father arrived—Lycaelon had made it clear on several memorable occasions what he thought of a scion of House Tavadon wandering the streets of Armethalieh like one of the common folk.

  But with any luck, his father would still be busy at the Council House, and Undermage Anigrel would have found something else dull and boring to do as well—something that would keep him away from both Tavadon House and Lycaelon. No one needed to ever know that Kellen hadn’t gone straight home after his unfortunate early dismissal from his lessons. With further luck, Anigrel might even forget to tell Lycaelon about the whole incident, though that was probably too much to hope for.

  Kellen approached Tavadon House through the mazelike network of back and side alleyways that ran between the great houses of the Mage Quarter. It was easy to get lost here—there were no signs, and nothing to distinguish one seamless Magecrafted stone wall from another, but Kellen had no difficulty in finding his way. He knew the back alleys of the Mage Quarter as well as any refuse hauler or rag-and-bone dealer did; the narrow streets were much used by those vendors and tradesmen whose business was not quite appropriate for the front doors—or even the main service entrance—of the imposing houses of Armethalieh’s Mageborn aristocracy.

  The Mageborn preferred that the messier aspects of life be tended to invisibly, and the noble and wealthy aped their habits. Kellen doubted that any of them had ever seen a refuse hauler in their lives.

  But in his seventeen years of life Kellen had discovered, as many had before him, that there was no privacy to be had in a house full of servants, and if he did not want to alert everyone in House Tavadon to all of his comings and goings—most of which weren’t supposed to be taking place in the first place—the best thing to do was to find a more private way in and out of the house. Though he could not use it too often without drawing attention to it, the small side door at the bottom of the kitchen garden, where the garbage from the kitchen was left every morning in neat bins, filled his needs nicely: he could let himself in and out whenever he wanted without alerting the servants, and if anyone missed him and wanted to make a fuss, who was to say he hadn’t simply been somewhere in the formal garden—or the house—the whole time he’d been supposedly “missing”?