This time he heard Rilan sigh before the uproar swept away the sound. She leaned close to his ear. “This is why you don’t get invited to share your new findings with the Council.”
The mayor finally managed to intimidate the others into silence. “Our best majus,” Origon raised an eyebrow at that, “was killed before he could even get in the capsule. We have heard reports it was one of the Sureriaj who killed him, perhaps simply an individual, but possibly with other interests behind him.” Origon watched the sea of hungry faces closely. He had never seen the Methiemum as xenophobic, but as the sole alien in the room, he felt as if he was being judged, and found wanting. “The Sureriaj may be jealous of our technical abilities. Others may be as well. No offense meant to you, Majus Cyrysi, but you have seen the guards I must post to keep us safe. Isn’t there any other magic you can do so we do not have to go through this effort again?”
“There is not,” Origon told them, now wary. “The location was irretrievably lost. I, or some other majus, would have to again be walking on Ksupara. However, surely now the species have seen such a capsule can be built, they will be willing to help build another? You have paved the way for them.” He didn’t mention the Drain. That was a matter for the maji.
He looked around. Even Rilan beside him was quiet, her mouth pursed.
The mayor laughed—a stage laugh, meant to carry to others, but a laugh nonetheless. “The Sureriaj will not help us, as they have already sent one to stop us. Yes, there could be others of the ten species who wish to help, but as you yourself say, majus, none of your community would wish to pilot such a ship again.”
“You may be correct,” Origon said, but his mind was spinning. There was something wrong here—off. The mayor was making too many connections, too quick to point a finger at the Sureriaj. The emaciated face of the assassin popped into Origon’s mind. The figure had been shooting at Teju. What had he thought at the time? The eyes. Could it even be possible? Was the mayor so corrupt? He barely kept his crest neutral. “And you must be excusing me now. New information has come up.”
He ignored Rilan’s grunt of surprise as he took hold of her arm and towed her from the chamber. The mayor’s voice boomed behind him to stop, but he paid no attention. The guards at the door stepped in front of him, but Origon let Rilan’s arm go long enough to grab at slippery notes defining the air currents in the room. The day was warm, and he took a little heat from all over the room with the House of Power, adjusting notes so that heat and air built a barrier between the guards and him. As he used his song to craft the change, he stumbled forward, spent, turning the movement into a headlong run from the room. He plowed into the wall across from the chamber, using it to change his direction as Rilan caught up to him.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, but he didn’t answer. He reversed his change to the Symphony, sighing as his song flowed back to him and his strength grew slightly. He might be able to make it to his room without collapsing.
“Ori—what?” Origon stumbled on, up a spiral staircase, leaning heavily on the carved wooden bannister. “Shiv’s kneecaps,” he heard her mutter behind him, but she followed. He knew how to spin a mystery to keep her attention. He needed her for this.
Origon was breathing like a lathered cartbeast when he reached his room. He wouldn’t even have been winded a few days ago. He was weak, and it was Nandara’s fault.
The two guards were still there, and he gestured to them as he came closer, gasping before he was able to speak.
“It is to be…an emergency. Come…with me quickly.” He opened the door, feeling the guards turn in behind him. Rilan must be in the rear. Perfect.
He reached his bed and turned, resisting the urge to fall into it. Indeed, the two guards were in front, Rilan in back. “Close the door,” he told her, and she reached for the handle. Origon felt for the Symphony of both his houses, gauging if his song was strong enough to make the changes. He tried for the notes of the music of Communication, failed. He would be no help here.
But he could hear the connections between the two guards with the House of Power. They knew each other, comrades in arms, but there wasn’t the close connection he associated with good friends or close family members. More evidence.
“Ori, what in the name of all the gods are you doing? You blew off the mayor of Kashidur, by Shiv’s holy nose! I know you like to make sure you’re in the middle of everyth—”
“Do you still trust me, Rilan?” he cut in.
“—ing.” She stared at him a moment. “Yes.”
“I am knowing where the assassin is.” He carefully watched the guards as he spoke. They both reacted in surprise. The larger of the two only looked ready. The skinny one, the guard who must have starved himself to be that unhealthily thin, took a very slight step back, hand straying to his scimitar. Good.
Origon looked back to Rilan, straight in her eyes, then flicked his glance to the skinny guard. Back to her. “The assassin hid in the crowd because he was not to be Sureriaj. He was Methiemum.”
He saw Rilan’s eyes widen as she understood him, at the same moment the skinny guard drew his scimitar in a slice toward Origon’s throat. Rilan, head of the House of Healing, youngest member of the Council, was even faster. One hand flew out, olive green and white flinging from it like droplets of water. Origon stood firm. He couldn’t have dodged if he wanted to. Rilan’s hand touched the guard’s shoulder just as the scimitar connected with Origon’s robe. The expression on the skinny guard’s face changed from determined to pained as his arm gave out, dropping as if he had no control of it. The scimitar skimmed down Origon’s robe and clattered to the floor at his feet. The guard followed, crumpling. Origon brushed away the wrinkle of fabric at his shoulder where the sword had started to cut.
“We still make a good team,” he told Rilan. The other guard had her scimitar half out of its scabbard, but slowly eased it back in place with a metallic hiss, taking care to make sure both of her hands were in view. Origon nudged the limp body at his feet with one boot.
“This is one of the Mayoral Guard,” Rilan told him. She looked to the larger one. “You wouldn’t do anything without the mayor’s approval, would you?”
The guard looked torn for a moment, her eyes taking in the body on the floor, then back up, mouth firm. “No, Majus. All the Mayoral Guard are of the highest character.” She looked to the body again. “Almost all. He was a new hire.”
Origon felt once again for the Symphonies of both Communication and Power. Observing the notes took much less strength than changing them. He could hear the connection between the two guards fading, notes of Power dwindling to piano, then silent. A whisper of the guard’s last sentence still echoed very quietly in the music of Communication. The notes had the feeling of truth in them, the tones harmonious. Not a certainty by any means, but a good indication.
“Are you willing to be staying here and keeping your former associate from leaving?” he asked the guard. The woman nodded once, sharply.
“Good.” He turned to Rilan. “I believe we are to be due a meeting with Mayor Nandara.”
Rilan tugged her white dress straight. “I believe you are correct.”
They found the debating chamber emptying of officials and representatives. Origon pushed through the flow, wishing he could spare a little of his song to force a path of air through them.
Mayor Nandara was there, talking to members of his cabinet. When he saw them coming, Nandara dismissed his advisors, who quickly exited the room.
“I see you finally made some time for me, Majus,” the mayor said, disapproving. Origon felt his crest ruffling in annoyance.
“I have made time. Now I am finished with the assassin who killed Teju, I have plenty of time for you.” The cabinet members were out of earshot by now, leaving the vast hall.
Mayor Nandara’s heavy face drew down in a frown. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know,” Rilan said. “The Mayoral Guard answers o
nly to you.”
“It does, but what does that have to do with anything?” Nandara pulled a handkerchief out and mopped at his receding hairline, where he was beginning to sweat. His other hand went to the small of his back, as if it ached.
“Your Mayoral Guard, that one who was dressing as a Sureri to hide, was just trying to kill me a few moments ago.”
Nandara’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “How awful! I shall be sure to investigate this shocking—”
“Stop it, Nandara,” Rilan cut in. “We know it was you. I, a Council member, know it was you. What was the reason for sabotaging your own space program? Money? A rival?”
“Why, for Shiv’s sake, would I sabotage—” the mayor started.
“You are knowing I am of the House of Communication, Mayor,” Origon said. He spared a glance around. The room was empty but for them. “I can tell a lie when I see one.” Not completely true, but the mayor didn’t know that.
“I will be taking this to the Council,” Rilan added. “I witnessed firsthand your guard attack Majus Cyrysi.”
The mayor slumped, his heavy shoulders sagging. He wiped his forehead again, then stared off toward the door of the debate chamber, probably wondering if he could escape. Origon was about to add to their accusations when he finally spoke.
“You maji hold us back from progress. If it wasn’t for you, we would already be traveling through space instead of through your portals.”
“Yet I was to be the one to—” Origon began, but Nandara cut him off with a swift motion of the handkerchief in one hand. The other came out from behind his back with a small pistol. Origon felt his crest rise in surprise. Rilan straightened.
“The maji are helpful in limited ways, but more often than not they are relics. Oh yes, stepping through a doorway of blackness to another place is easy, but you people also take away the challenges that force us to advance. Thirty cycles ago, I would never have thought to threaten one of you, let alone two. But with this,” he motioned with the gun, making sure his arc covered the two of them, “I have the advantage in any negotiations.”
“You can only take on one of us with that,” Rilan gestured to the weapon with her chin. “You’ll have to reload in between shots, and the maji will still have the advantage.” She seemed calm, but Origon knew that was a mask over the furious storm raging in her.
“Wrong again,” Nandara said, taking a small step forward, pressing them back. “Progress and new technology, remember? With this weapon I can fire up to five times without having to reload. Imagine how far through space we could travel, without you holding us back.” Origon’s mind raced to the assassination. There had been three shots in quick succession. More proof they were connected, as if he needed it.
“Now, let us proceed to this supposed assassin, and take care of the matter.” Nandara waggled the gun for them to walk ahead of him.
The short walk up the stairs to Origon’s room was nearly devoid of people. Now the meeting was over, the other members had scattered. A few servants ghosted through the corridors, but when one passed, Nandara stepped in, hiding the gun he used to push them onward. But not too close. The House of Healing functioned best by touch. Origon thought Rilan might still turn and grab the Mayor by his cravat, whatever the consequences.
The female guard was still there, watching over the skinny one, who was just regaining consciousness. The larger guard straightened to attention as she caught sight of the mayor.
Nandara shot her.
The gun was strangely silent, and Origon, shocked, absently noted the long cylinder attached to the muzzle. A dampener of some sort? Yes, the melody of the Symphony of Communication agreed with his assessment. The explosion’s sound waves were not nearly as high in amplitude as they should be.
He watched, helpless, as the guard crumpled and the mayor turned the gun back on them. The guard fell as her former fellow rose to his feet.
“Forgive me sir,” the assassin said to the mayor. “I was not able to take out the second majus, as you commanded.”
“And see what a mess you have left,” Nandara said. He gestured sharply to Rilan, who was creeping closer. Origon had hoped she would be able to affect the mayor on the way to the room, but no luck. He moved with her, close to the assassin.
“Kashidur province went practically bankrupt from funding the shuttle,” the mayor said. “We had to make sure it paid back our investors in time.”
“You would be getting many new minerals from space,” Origon told him.
Nandara waved a fat hand—not his gun hand. “Too late, too late. The banking guild wanted real money, and soon. They’ve gone to adjust their accounts already. We had to guarantee the success of the mission.”
“By shooting the majus in charge?” Rilan stepped forward, but stopped as the gun’s muzzle settled on her torso.
The mayor had a strange smile on his face. “Either success, or have the mission fail so utterly that it must be someone else’s fault. No one was supposed to live to tell tales. It would have gone smoothly if this idiot hadn’t messed up.” Nandara nodded toward the assassin, whose face was slowly falling, as if he just now realized on which side of the gun he stood. “I could have gotten the Sureriaj back for that business a few years ago. We still have outbreaks of the Shudders, and a low birth rate in four cities.”
“Shiv’s spleen,” Rilan swore, turning to Origon. “Ori, I told them you would be watching. That you were like Teju, but more experienced.” She eyed the mayor. “And how did you know about the Sureriaj? It was supposed to be a secret.”
Origon frowned at her. He had no idea what they were talking about. But the mayor ignored Rilan. “The Sureri assassin was an extra benefit. The design of the shuttle would show how the maji hold us back—”
“You egg-sucking son of a turtle.” Origon glared at the mayor. Only his exhaustion kept him from changing the Symphony of Communication to squeeze this excuse for a person like a grape. That and he wasn’t sure he was faster than the gun. “The shuttle was meant to be taking away my song. You were to be keeping me from interfering.”
“And he was waiting for you, alone.” Rilan flicked a finger to the assassin, next to her. “Ori, he would have killed you, weak as you were. And if he missed Teju, if Teju flew the capsule and returned, the guard would have been waiting for him, instead.” She stabbed a glare at the mayor. “You have conspired to kill at least two maji. The Council will hear about this, Nandara.”
The mayor raised an eyebrow. He wouldn’t dare shoot a member of the Council of the Maji, would he? Better to distract.
“The only reason I was to be saved was the Drain,” Origon said. “It threw a mallet into your works, did it not? The crew was not supposed to be coming through with me.”
“A mess, as I said,” Nandara told them. “I don’t know where the damnable thing came from, but fortunately, you have found the assassin, who, in the resulting confusion, managed to shoot and kill two more maji before turning the gun on himself. Never fear, I can still set this all back on track and get rid of the interference of you maji.”
“That is not—” was all Origon got out before the next shot took the assassin in the chest.
He grabbed the opportunity presented. He had recovered enough energy to control a gust of air. As the gun swiveled toward Rilan, it went farther than the mayor expected, pushed aside.
The rest was up to his friend’s exceptional reflexes. Rilan saw the opening, as he knew she would, and lunged forward, knocking the mayor’s arm aside, the bullet discharging with a pop into the wall of the room. The mayor’s suddenly nerveless arm dropped the contraption and it clattered to the ground. A knuckle to his temple and Nandara dropped like a sack of grubs.
“I’m getting slow,” Rilan complained. “Ten years ago, I would have disarmed him with no problem.”
“Must be all the time sitting around with the Council,” Origon observed innocently. “Dulls the reflexes.” He bent to the assassin, w
ho was gasping feebly. The man was choking words out—Origon heard whispers of it in the Symphony of Communication, but couldn’t quite make it out.
“The holy…holy ves…vessel…made its…voyage.” The light went out of the man’s fevered eyes. Well, Origon was not one to judge others’ beliefs.
“Now what?” He was exhausted.
“What in Shiv’s holy earlobes was Nandara planning?” Rilan asked. “Keeping the maji out of the picture? Who does he think will open a portal to get to his new resources?”
“Taking the challenge out,” Origon mused. “Rilan, do you suppose it is to be possible the maji do too much for others? By the ancestor’s eggs. I was knowing the Methiemum were crafty, but this—”
“Why would they not want help from the Council and the maji?” Rilan countered. “The other species would jump ahead of us if we had to build a new shuttle every time we wanted to go into space.”
“Unless the mayor planned to woo other species to be joining him in removing maji from space travel.” Origon could almost, almost, see why. It was the same reason he traveled the homeworlds—the challenge of doing it himself. But surely not the right way to go about it.
“Whatever the reason, Nandara will not be so easy to take down, even with this evidence,” Rilan told him. “His solicitors will argue this case before the Assembly and the Council of the Maji.” Rilan growled. “Idiot. He could have done this cleanly. The Methiemum economy is already the biggest of the ten species. With the new minerals from space and the new trade agreements, it would have been unstoppable, and they would only have paid a few tariffs and fees to the maji to create a new series of portals. But now…” Rilan’s expression promised retribution. “Even my own people must be held responsible for assassinating one of the maji. No amount of profit is worth it.”
“This is not to be just the mayor’s plan, is it?” Origon asked.
Rilan shook her head. “Sometimes I’m not proud to be a Methiemum. Believe me, they meant to do this, exactly this. They wanted a new source of wealth, but thought they could take the maji out of the equation at the same time, and even coerce other species to do the same.” She shivered. “Maybe we are becoming outdated.”
Merchants and Maji: Two Tales of the Dissolutionverse (Dissolution Cycle) Page 14