Behind Kell followed his two apprentices, Elizar and Razeel. They, along with Galen, were part of the group of fifteen chrysalis-stage apprentices to be initiated into mage-hood at the convocation. Elizar and Razeel were brother and sister, both dark haired and fair skinned. Kell had received them as babies in exchange for services, as many apprentices were obtained. They wore rather more ostentatious clothing than Elric would have approved for apprentices, rich with velvets, gold chains, and lace. Yet they lived on a different world and were more involved in galactic events. Not everyone chose to live as he did.
Kell embraced Elric. “A joy to see you. An auspicious time for us both, is it not, finally gaining our freedom from this unruly rabble?” He indicated Elizar and Razeel with a masterful flourish of his hand. His voice was strong, vibrant. “But where is Galen? You don’t have him counting the atoms on the head of a pin, do you?”
“Something not dissimilar,” Elric said.
“The air here. What a wonderful smell.” He turned to Elizar. “You smell that? That’s fresh air.”
“Don’t you want to tell him about the boxes?” Elizar’s tone carried a hint of challenge.
Kell showed no reaction to it. “Oh, yes,” he said, turning back to Elric. “I brought some refreshments to contribute to the festivities. They’re in my ship when you want them.”
“Thank you,” Elric said, knowing well what the boxes contained. “We’re laying a banquet inside, if you would like to relax.”
“I have some wonderful stories for you,” Kell said.
“And I for you,” Elric responded.
Kell embraced him again. “We will talk soon.” He strode toward the tents, Elizar and Razeel following. His steps were slower than they once would have been.
Elric dreaded the day Kell would pass to the other side, not only for his own loss, but for fear of what would happen to the techno-mages. Kell was the one who held them together, who kept their squabbles and political differences from overwhelming them. They did not fracture because they all wanted to be a part of the order that included Kell. None of the other members of the Circle had that attractive power, including Elric. Losing Kell would pose a serious threat to their solidarity when it occurred; Elric feared they might break permanently into differing factions, and the authority of the Circle and the Code would be lost. Similar breaks had occurred in the past, though the rifts had always healed.
Elric hoped that he worried needlessly. Kell might yet live and serve many years, and in that time, perhaps Elizar would grow to fill Kell’s place.
Behind them came the other members of the Circle. At almost two hundred, Ing-Radi was the oldest. She was elderly even for a Kaitay, yet she showed little sign of aging. Ing-Radi extended her four orange hands, palms up, laid them one on top of the other, and bowed her head. Then she bent to gather Elric in her four-armed embrace. A sense of comfort radiated from her orange skin, even through her robe. She was their best healer, and Elric often felt she was the most skilled of them. She healed even where there seemed to be no wound.
“Welcome,” Elric said.
“Relax. Here.” She touched the back of his neck. Muscles relaxed that he hadn’t known were tense. Her slit pupils regarded him. “You are busy. We will speak later.”
“I would enjoy that.”
The slash of her mouth smiled down at him. “I’m glad to see your home at last. It is much like you.” She gave another slight bow and moved on.
Herazade was next, with her apprentice Federico. She was the most liberal of the Circle, and it was reflected in her dress. She wore an elegant sari, and had let her thick black hair grow long. As they exchanged greetings, a golden dragon swooped out of the sky, racing over their heads. Elric admired the well-defined scales on the belly, the nicely curved toenails. Alwyn had made some improvements.
When he looked down, Blaylock stood before him. “It seems your friend has arrived,” Blaylock said.
“It seems he has.” Alwyn never failed to irritate Blaylock, on many levels. Chief among them was Alwyn’s notorious love for wine, women, and song.
Blaylock was the one mage who could make Elric feel like a hedonist. Second in influence only to Kell, Blaylock believed an ascetic lifestyle was the only one appropriate for techno-mages. Blaylock’s body was scoured completely of hair, including eyebrows, which gave his pale face and high forehead a dramatic starkness against the black skullcap he wore. The skullcap was made of felt and fit tightly, tracing out the line that hair would have made. Blaylock felt that keeping the body scoured was a sign of respect for the Code, but that displaying the head was a sign of arrogance. His gaunt figure in a plain black robe somehow always seemed vaguely accusatory.
Blaylock believed that mages could find true unity with the tech implanted in their bodies only if they foreswore all physical pleasures, focusing on the inner life rather than the outer one. He fostered the idea that the mages should cloister themselves in an austere environment. While waiting for the rest of the mages to see the light, he and his many followers had learned how to cast spells that would deactivate different sensory centers in their own brains: taste, smell, touch, hearing, and even sight. Before eating, they would deactivate taste and smell. In the presence of beauty, they would deactivate sight. Blaylock told his followers that the tech was a blessing that tapped into the basic powers of the universe. The goal of all mages, according to Blaylock, should be to attain a complete, spiritual union with the tech, and so with the universe.
Elric respected his abilities, but felt that knowledge could never be attained by cutting oneself off from life. Self-denial was unnecessary. Discipline and the Code were enough.
“The blessing of Wierden upon you,” Blaylock said, bowing. The words were echoed by his apprentice, Gowen.
“Welcome, Blaylock. I trust the surroundings are not attractive enough to cause distress.”
“It’s less the place that will cause distress, I think, than the people,” Blaylock said.
“If only we could close our eyes and make them go away,” Elric said.
“I await your instruction on that matter.” Blaylock bowed and withdrew, his apprentice quickly following.
A stream of mages followed. Djadjamonkh floated through the air with crossed legs, the ends of his turban dancing above his head like snakes. Maskelyne changed faces and bodies every few seconds, conjuring full-body illusions that disguised her true appearance. A group of Blaylock’s followers came in an orderly, solemn procession. Circe, in a tall, pointed hat, presented Elric with a new variety of microelectronic probe that she would be offering to the mages, and invited him to her talk on the subject. She seemed intent on explaining the improvements she had made, though this was clearly not the time for extended conversation.
The Kinetic Grimlis appeared in a flash of lightning, wearing glowing purple tunics and long white feather capes. They were the only long-standing group within the techno-mages. Since Elric had last seen them, several of their members had quit in disputes, and new members had joined. One of them jumped into the air and performed a succession of somersaults, continuing over the top of the tents and out of sight. The others launched into a dizzying series of acrobatics. The Grimlis made the ships used by all the mages. They were motion crazy but brilliant. After the initiation, they would give the new initiates their ships and train them in their operation.
Elric greeted many others, some in elaborate outfits, some in simple robes, some with staffs or wands or talismans, some with heads bare, some with apprentices of varying ages. The night filled with color and activity, energy and fire.
At the height of activity, an outsider, a Human of compact build and dark hair, inserted himself between mages. “I’m sorry to bother you at such a busy time. Are you Elric?” At Elric’s nod, he gave a short bow, his hands folded in front of him. “I bring you greetings from His Exaltedness, the Rook of Tain. He has asked me to convey his great pleasure that your esteemed group has chosen his home for your gathering.”
>
“Yes, yes,” Elric said, watching as one of the spinning Grimlis barely missed an attendant carrying a basket piled high with pastries. He had little patience for the Rook.
“He has asked me to officially welcome you all, and to say that the hospitality of the Rook is extended to you. He sends you the fifty finest pects of Tain.” The man handed Elric a sealed letter and gestured toward a group of Soom with crates on their shoulders. They were wandering in amongst the mages, generally increasing the chaos.
To Elric’s annoyance, one dropped his crate and pects spilled out, squawking and running in circles. “Take those to the tents,” he yelled in their language. “Get out of the way here.”
“If there is anything that His Exaltedness can do to improve your gathering, I am directed to do it.” His voice was smooth, with uncommon control for a nonmage.
Elric’s gaze focused for a moment on the man. He wore a dark, well-tailored suit, and a dark stone hung on a chain around his neck. His manner was meant to be deferential, but something about it was disturbing. More than that, Elric knew well what went on in Tain, and the Rook had no Human adviser or ambassador. He opened the letter quickly and skimmed over the obsequious prose, which he well recognized. “And who are you to the Rook?”
“I am his special envoy.” The man bowed again and smiled. “Mr. Morden.”
Elric found the date at the bottom of the letter—just two days past—accessed his place of power and directed it to search the record of the probe in the Rook’s office for that day, looking for Morden’s figure. The record was quickly found and Elric saw Morden in a meeting with the Rook. Clearly the Rook was trying to expand his power by including a Human in his group of corrupt supporters.
And now the Rook was currying favor with the mages, no doubt in preparation to ask something of them. His last request, five years earlier, had been to lay a curse of impotence on an enemy. Elric had declined in memorable fashion. He hadn’t expected the Rook to regain his nerve for several more years.
A pect jumped into the air, and a Grimli spun right into him, feathers flying. One of the young apprentices burst out crying.
“Get your people to the tents, Mr. Morden,” Elric said wading in to clean up the mess.
After the pects had at last been secured and the Grimlis banished to the far side of the tents, Alwyn approached. He wore a multicolored robe with a long black cape over it. His silvery hair had begun to recede since Elric had last seen him, and the lines beneath his eyes had deepened.
“Nice work on the dragon’s claws,” Elric said.
“You think so? I was inspired by a female of my recent acquaintance. Beautiful creature, but oh, the talons.” Alwyn leaned close. “Anyone do anything foolish yet?”
“They’ve shown admirable restraint.”
“Give them another hour. Give them a few drinks—except Blaylock, of course. He’s someone I’d really like to see drunk. Let his hair down, so to speak.”
Elric smiled. “I think you may find this convocation lacking in controversy and excitement. I’m determined that no crises will erupt.”
“And for your next act, Almighty One?”
Alwyn’s apprentice, a Centauri named Carvin, ran up, breathless. Alwyn had given her the slip again. She gave a harried bow, her ponytail bouncing down over her face and back. The bags below Alwyn’s eyes wrinkled as he suppressed a smile. Elric knew he took great pride in Carvin, and great joy in teasing her. As a child, she had caught his attention with her quick mind while Alwyn visited Centauri Prime. He had taken her from her home planet, where as a female, she would have had no status or opportunity. Now she was in chrysalis stage, like Galen.
“Going to join me in some rabble-rousing this time?” Alwyn asked Elric.
“I don’t think you need any help.” Elric wondered again why he and Alwyn were friends. Alwyn had been a friend of Galen’s father and an eccentric uncle figure to Galen. Once Galen had come to live with Elric, Alwyn began to visit, he and Carvin adding a sense of family to their austere existence. Elric disagreed with Alwyn on most things, yet at the same time respected him. Alwyn had a great devotion to his adopted home of Regula 4, similar to Elric’s attachment to Soom. Alwyn also had an unerring ability to sense any hypocrisy within the techno-mages or the Circle, and he cared enough to call them on it, repeatedly and publicly.
Alwyn turned back toward the field of ships. “Ah, the trouble begins apace.” He rubbed his palms together.
A procession marched from between the ships toward Elric. They came in two columns of fifty each, Human males, muscular, oiled, and completely naked. Most of them carried poles topped by magical light. Four in the center carried an ornate sedan chair on their shoulders. In it rode Burell. She wore a dress of golden scales that Cleopatra would have envied. Her nonexistent hair was done up in a dark cascade incorporating golden fish and starbursts. Her eyes were accented by strong black lines of kohl, in the ancient Egyptian fashion. She waved to them as if to throngs of admirers.
Elric found the craftsmanship exceptional. The ability to create realistic illusions fell off rapidly with distance, as did many techno-mage powers. A full-body illusion overlaid on the mage’s skin could be so realistic that it could withstand even careful scrutiny. Yet the greater the distance from the mage, the cruder and more artificial-looking the illusions became. The slave men at the front of the line, a good fifty yards away from Burell, looked fairly convincing, with well-formed muscles and glistening skin. He saw just a hint of the sharp angular planes and shiny, artificial texture that characterized most work conjured at that distance.
Alwyn looked over Elric’s shoulder. “I hope Blaylock is seeing this.” He turned back, his mouth falling open in fascination. “What is she thinking? Presenting herself with such grandeur. This is going to inflame her enemies even further.”
Elric said nothing. Burell was already a very divisive figure, supported by some and condemned by others for her scientific research into the tech.
In addition to the controversy, Burell carried mystery as well. Although she was only in middle age, she had been ill for almost four years now, so ill she had missed the last convocation. Mages suffered few illnesses, since their implants automatically generated microscopic organelles that served as agents of healing. While the mages didn’t know how the organelles worked, they knew that the microscopic healers worked much better on injuries than on long-term illness. Yet Burell’s incapacity had been sudden and severe. It was most strange.
Elric knew that Ing-Radi had offered to try to heal Burell’s illness, but Burell had declined. When he had heard she intended to attend this convocation, he had assumed she had recovered, at least partially. It was clear to him now that she was even worse. Although she had always been partial to the occasional naked slave man, this ostentatious display was far beyond anything she had done before. It had obviously been created to camouflage her condition. She was unable to walk.
The slave men at the front of the procession passed by Elric and Alwyn, curving off toward the side of the tents. When Burell arrived in front of Elric, the slaves stopped and lowered her sedan chair to the ground. She planted her palms flat on the arms of the chair in preparation to rise. Elric dropped to his knees to preempt her. “My queen.” He took her hand, kissed it. Burell had her pride, and perhaps something more.
Her eyes widened. “If I’d known this is what it took to get a reaction from you, I’d have done it twenty years ago,” she said.
“If I’d known you’d wanted a reaction from me, you would have gotten a reaction from me.” Elric resisted the urge to use his sensors to examine her condition. It was improper for one mage to secretly use his powers on another. Without that basic etiquette, the mages would never agree to meet.
Burell noted the crowd that had gathered around them and withdrew her hand, keeping her voice low. “Privacy would best serve what I have to tell you.” Her hands were now clenched in her lap. “I know you are busy, but it is a grave matter.”
Burell raised her voice. “You may not remember my apprentice, Isabelle.”
A young woman had appeared beside Burell. She had reddish blond hair, thin upslanted brows, and slender hands, which held a package. Isabelle was Burell’s daughter through a sexual liaison with a nonmage, which was the other common method of obtaining an apprentice. Since neither Burell nor Isabelle had attended the previous convocation, Isabelle had grown up since Elric had last seen her. He remembered Burell looking similar when she had been initiated, a few years after him. She had touched off a number of fights between male techno-mages in those days.
“Yes, I remember,” Elric said. “A pleasure to see you again.”
Isabelle bowed. “I am honored. I deeply admire your work.” She took a breath. Her voice control seemed competent, but she was obviously quite nervous. “I made you this. I wanted to thank you for hosting the convocation that will bring me to mage-hood.” She thrust the package at him. “Within it are woven the hyperspace currents you mapped out in your last talk.”
Elric accepted the package with a bow. “Thank you for your generous gift.”
Isabelle nodded with obvious relief. Burell signaled to the nonexistent slaves to lift her chair, and the procession continued. She sent most of them around the side of the tent, where they could vanish without destroying the illusion. With just the four that carried her, she proceeded into the tent. Other mages followed, drawn in by the controversy.
Elric was left with Carvin, Alwyn’s apprentice. She turned around suddenly, finding Alwyn gone. “Damn,” she said. Then, to him, “Sorry.” Elric had lost track of Alwyn himself as he spoke to Burell. Carvin’s eyes narrowed on the slave men retreating around the side of the tent. “Got him.” She ran after them.
Casting Shadows (The Passing of the Techno-Mages #1) Page 4