Key to Magic 02 Magician

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  “Which is?”

  “All members of the Senate that can be found – we know some to be missing -- the Prince, the Lord-Protector and his retinue, and the High Council for War, which includes you and I. Thus the requirement for your presence.”

  “Me?”

  “As High-Captain of Aerial Warships, you are a principal commander of the defense.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “I believe, my lord magician, that Lord Ghorn made the appointment within the hour.”

  The captain stepped off the last step into a grandly vaulted rotunda lined with life-size statues of regal figures. Mar had passed through this area of the Palace in something of a rush the night before without paying much attention. Three other matching ornate stairways descended into the rotunda, corresponding with the other towers of the Palace. Guards in sea-blue cloaks and silvered armor in the archaic imperial style favored in Khalar, complete with high-combed helmets, stood at rest in pairs at the foot of each stair. These gamecocks observed the duo descend with practiced disdain.

  Mhiskva glanced at Mar significantly, as if to say that untrusted ears were now turned in their direction.

  Reading the hint, Mar fell silent and made use of the opportunity to digest the information Mhiskva had already conveyed.

  The captain offered the barest of nods in approval and immediately started across the dark echoing pavement. At the center of the rotunda, a large eight-armed compass had been laid into the floor in pale blue stone. Northwest of the rose, through a fancifully sculpted archway of cream marble, an equally majestic hallway brought them to an intersection with a marginally narrower, though no less flamboyant, passage. At one end of this smaller hall stood a fluted arched doorway hung with massive double-manheight doors. These doors, festooned with stylistic carvings of leaping beasts and hung with Mhajhkaeirii banners, were closed. This was the main entrance of the Palace through which Mar had been brought the previous day. At the other end lay a large circular room whose major feature was a set of closed doors plated in gold leaf. The faces of these doors were embossed with the halves of a great sigil. He knew the seal from drawings in textbooks. It was a stylized depiction of the Silver Sea and was the symbol of the Principate. As he guessed the huge Mhajhkaeirii would, it was in this direction that the captain led Mar.

  Before the golden doors – which, Mar noted with interest, a half dozen of Mhiskva’s marines guarded, rather than members of the palace guard -- a small crowd waited, segregated sharply into distinct small groups. Mar could judge the identities of most by their dress. The merchants, who looked in the majority, were easy to spot, betrayed by the fine cloth and tailored cut of their clothing. As additional confirmation, armsmen in household colors and factors in expensive but plainer apparel were attached to these groups. Some of the scholars, like those in Khalar, affected robes whose differing styles appeared to indicate a particular discipline. Bondsmen bearing satchels and lap desks assisted many of these worthies and the presence of similar servants in other circles identified their contemporarily attired brethren as well. The smallest faction represented appeared to be ordinary tradesmen, in plain if not poor trousers and jackets, who were clumped together in a corner disputing with a subdued fervor. Mar presumed these to be philosophers.

  The vast majority were men, but a few women were present. There was one finely arrayed lady with a large retinue who Mar took to be of the merchant class, and several women amongst the philosophers, though he would have taken the latter to be washerwomen at first glance.

  The final group consisted of the military commanders, easily distinguished, of course, by their weapons and armor. Most of this group were younger, officers of legate rank or below, and were fully armed, forming an outwardly facing circle – aides acting as guards. The focus of this compact assemblage was the Prince-Commander, leaning lightly on a set of wooden crutches. Mhiskva made directly for Lord Ghorn, the senators and their entourages parting before him like waves before the prow of a ship. Intent, Mhiskva remained outwardly oblivious to the angry looks cast in his direction. The outer circle of aides opened to admit the captain and Mar and then closed ranks behind them.

  Lord Ghorn’s expression was severe. “I trust you rested well, my lord magician?”

  Mar shot the Mhajhkaeirii leader a quick look, but could detect no sign of jesting in the other’s unsmiling face. He wanted to ask how the prince had known that he would be in Telriy’s room, but simply said, “I did, yes.”

  The prince gestured to his left, pointing to each man in turn. “This is Lord Purhlea, Knight-Commander of the West.” Purhlea was a mousy man of middle years whose face bore a perpetual sneer. He had a black leather patch over his right eye. He bowed marginally, not taking his eye from Mar’s.

  “Lord Zhelorthoz, Knight-Commander of the East.” Zhelorthoz was much older, with white bushy eyebrows and a silvered wiry beard. He was possessed of a considerable girth but had a height nearly matching Mhiskva’s. This man had been a fighter in his day, but that day was long set. The Knight-Commander of the East’s bow was hesitant, but respectful.

  “Lord L’Ghevh, Knight-Commander of the North.” L’Ghevh was the youngest of the three, tall and clear-eyed. His armor, though as practical as those of the others, was without blemish or damage. He awarded Mar a deep bow and a sincere smile.

  Three men also stood to Lord Ghorn’s right. Indicating each in turn with his eyes, the prince rattled off their names in quick succession. “Legion Commanders Tresh, Porhst, and Bhurentros. Adjutants for each quadrant.”

  Mar took note of each man’s face for future reference.

  “Gentlemen, I have nothing further,” Lord Ghorn continued to the last trio. “Return to your commands.”

  With sharp salutes, the legion commanders pivoted and marched away together, breaking into subdued conversation when they were beyond the edge of the crowd.

  Hardly had the three departed when a racket – armored men running – caused Mar to turn, reaching instinctively for his knife but finding only – once again -- an empty sheath.

  Several dozen men invaded the anteroom bearing weapons -- swords, axes, and unusually cruel-looking pole arms -- and expressions of ferocity varying from murderous to maniacal. Most of the invaders were big men, some nearly as big as Mhiskva and a couple taller, though not broader. They were a barbaric bunch, many wearing mismatched armor of numerous styles though most of it appeared well used. Some, against all reason, were bare to the waist and covered in outlandish tattoos in blue and sienna. Some sported shaven skulls, some a single long beaded braid, some wild unkempt thatches of unwashed hair. Scars, missing eyes, and truncated limbs were in abundance as well as an incongruous wealth in gold and silver rings, bracelets, and medallions.

  As this odd crew began advancing toward the crowd, the scholars, merchants, and philosophers, murmuring subdued complaints, migrated to the edges of the room, forming anxious clumps on the periphery. Mar threw a questioning look to Lord Ghorn, but the prince remained unperturbed. He and his subordinates stood their ground without hesitation. The invaders, glaring and grinning, surrounded the Mhajhkaeirii officers but made no move to attack.

  The largest and most outlandishly arrayed of the invaders pushed forward to confront Mhiskva, who had placed himself prominently in advance of Lord Ghorn’s party. Though none of the invaders was young, this one was demonstrably old, his hair gone all white. Feathers and beads were strewn through the unbrushed snowy mass of it. A chain vest tied all about with unlikely ribbons of bright cloth left the leather-browned skin of his arms, crosshatched with white scars, bare to the shoulder. He wore a greatsword sheathed at his waist, but several knives of different sorts were also shoved into his belt and his boot-tops.

  The man’s long hair hung down as he bent down slightly to peer into the marine captain’s eyes. An expression of recognition wandered across the scars and tattoos that layered the man’s face. “You be my sister’s son Lhaverthes, don’t you?”

 
; “No, my lord Hhrahld,” Mhiskva replied with calm simplicity. “Lhaverthes was my grandfather.”

  Hhrahld, his ancient eyes clouding, drew back. “Send for him, then, boy.”

  “Lhaverthes has been dead nearly five years, my lord.”

  One of Hhrahld’s gnarled hands fell to the hilt of his sword and a keening moan began to issue from his lips. Unaccountably, the man’s companions eased away from him, leaving him surrounded by a clear space of more than three armlengths. Some of the men guarding Lord Ghorn also took a step back, though Mhiskva remained where he was.

  Hhrahld’s head fell back as his moan became by degrees a bellow and then a lung-emptying scream of anger. The Lord-Protector snatched his sword from its sheath and began swinging it in great arcs all about. Miraculously, the slashing blade did not strike Mhiskva, who neither flinched nor dodged, though it came within fingerlengths. After a moment or more, the old man brought the weapon to a stop and let it dangle carelessly from one hand. Then, abruptly, Hhrahld’s face cleared. His eyes lighted on Mhiskva, as if seeing him for the first time.

  “You, Lhaverthes, send for Travertin’s boy Ghorn!”

  The Prince-Commander, his manner neither confrontational nor placating, hobbled forward. “I am here, Lord Hhrahld. Where is Prince Davfydd?”

  Hhrahld swung his head to lock on the Prince-Commander. “He is here, make no doubt.”

  “I would see him,” Lord Ghorn insisted.

  The Lord-Protector leaned in threateningly. “Who are you to be demanding things of me, boy?”

  “I demand nothing. As Heir Presumptive, I wish to know that the child is well.”

  “The child lives and shall as long as any of mine draw breath!”

  Mar expected another bizarre paroxysm with this last outburst, but after a tense moment the Lord-Protector simply waved at a trio of men standing just to his rear. The two to the fore moved slightly to reveal a child of no more than four or five years held in the arms of a the last, a thickset fellow whose teeth had been filed to points. Light chain mail covered the child from neck to ankle, tied all over with ribbons in a like manner as Hhrahld’s.

  Lord Ghorn nodded. “With Prince Davfydd present, the Court is assembled.” The prince gestured to the marines at the golden doors, who jumped to swing the portals wide.

  Hhrahld and his band, closing to create a shoulder-to-shoulder shield around the child prince, swept through the doors first. Mar took his cue from Lord Ghorn and the other officers and tarried until the last of the senators had moved into the courtroom in the Prince’s wake.

  As they strode toward the doors, Mar inquired of Mhiskva, who paced him, “The Lord-Protector is –“

  “Mad? Yes, my lord magician, Lord Hhrahld is no longer fully in contact with real events.”

  “And he’s a –“

  “Pirate? This is also true, my lord. Lord Hhrahld and his band of corsairs are the most viscous and hated outlaws that the Silver Sea has ever seen.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The Mhajhkaeirii bondsman scuttled quickly along the empty street, stopping from time to time to search behind him for any sign that any followed.

  A man stepped abruptly from a shadowed doorway into his path. “I am here, Brother Bhurndry. I am Senor Brother Mulsis. May the Peace of Phaelle rest with you. Were you seen?”

  Bhurndry flinched at the sudden appearance, but quickly recovered. “No, my lord,” he responded breathlessly. “There aren’t enough sentries to watch the whole of the wall. My fellow postulants lowered me with a rope.”

  Bhurndry, struck by a sudden surge of piety at being so near the holy personage of a Senor Brother of Great Phaelle, clasped his hands before him and bowed his head. “I beg a blessing, my lord.”

  The monk waved his hand in a gesture that was, to him, meaningless. “I pray the Duty fills you.”

  “Thank you, master. I live for the day of the Restoration.”

  “Your Work will surely be rewarded, brother.”

  Bhurndry swelled with pride.

  “Now,” Mulsis prompted brusquely. “What news from your master?”

  “My master sends that all shall be done as agreed, my lord. Picked men will seize and open the eastern gate. The righteous fighters of the Brotherhood will be admitted at the appointed hour. The messengers are in readiness to take the forged orders of surrender to the other quadrants and our agents stand ready to take control of the ministries.”

  “What of the Prince and his Protector?”

  “At last report, the Prince remains within the palace and the Lord-Protector holds the loyalty of only his small crew of cutthroats. There are less than fifty of them and they should fall easily before the armed brethren.”

  “Excellent. The Archdeacon requires one further service of your master, Bhurndry.”

  “You have but to speak it, my lord.”

  “The apostate sorcerer must be slain.”

  Bhurndry looked anxious. “This will be difficult, my lord. The apostate has many guards and his magics are rumored to be of devastating power.”

  “The members of your cloister need not be directly involved. The Archdeacon has commanded members of the Salient Order to render the life of the apostate in service of the Restoration. It is only necessary that these brothers be admitted into the Citadel and then guided into close proximity to the sorcerer.”

  The Mhajhkaeirii nodded eagerly, his relief not quite hidden. “Aye, my lord. This can be done, I am sure. When does this deed need to be accomplished?”

  “Immediately.” Without turning, the monk rapped on the door behind him. The panel opened and three young men, all with intricate dark tattoos covering their shaven skulls, slipped quietly into the street.

  NINETEEN

  One of the philosophers rose to speak. “When we speak of surrender, what, more precisely, are we articulating? In a broader sense, is the act of surrender truly possible to Man, if we accept Whodenlhaw’s Thirty-seventh Postulate, which, as we know, states that the human spirit is incapable of total submission?”

  Almost two hours earlier, Lord Ghorn had hobbled to the center of the throne room and declared, “As Heir Presumptive and Prince-Commander of the Defense, I convene the Court of the Princedom in the name of Prince Davfydd!” Then he had simply sat down.

  A scribe, a reedy-voiced woman of considerable girth (and the Clerk of the Senate, Mhiskva intimated,) had shouted, “The Senate Be Now in Session!”

  Mar had presumed that there would be a more involved ceremony, but there had not been. If the Court had any other formalities, they were dispensed with without comment. The Phaelle’n terms, read aloud by the Clerk, had been short and surprisingly lenient once Mar had mentally edited the diplomatic rhetoric. First, those trapped within the Citadel would be spared if all defenders laid down their arms. Second, a new government composed of citizens chosen by the Brotherhood would be installed under the supervision of the Bronze High Prince. Third, the young Mhajhkaeirii Prince and any of his adherents who would not submit to the new regime would be subject to lifelong exile from the city and its provinces. Lastly and quite pointedly, the Phaelle’n promised that all merchant holdings would be protected and all commercial enterprises guaranteed while the city was under their supervision. Not surprisingly however, the discussion had managed to continue at length without addressing any of those items directly.

  “Khlavatre,” Mhiskva identified softly. “He has some following in the city, though some of his discourses are enigmatically convoluted. He generally votes with Lady Rhavaelei, but on occasion has supported Minister Bhelx in the past.”

  Mar and the captain had adjacent seats in the rear of Lord Ghorn’s box. The captain, acting as Mar’s guide to the proceedings, had thus far put a name to each speaker, of which there had been many and from all signs would be many more. He had pointed out, with detailed critiques, particularly notable persons, including Bhelx, a pinched-faced merchant with a nasal voice, and Lady Rhavaelei, the handsome slim-figured woman of indeterminate
age whom Mar had noted earlier. The female senator, leading what Mhiskva had characterized as a progressive faction, was Trade Minister. Bhelx, in addition to being President of the Senate, was High Minister of the Treasury. According to Mhiskva’s quiet monologue, both were extremely wealthy and held considerable influence in the city.

  The other members of the High Council for War, Lords Purhlea, Zhelorthoz, and L’Ghevh sat together in the first row of seats beside Lord Ghorn. The legates occupied the remainder of the seats in the wood rail cordoned box. All of the adjacent boxes in this gallery were empty, the senators having taken possession by custom – also according to Mhiskva -- of the opposite side of the court. The senators’ various bodyguards, assistants, and attendants conspired in whispering clumps in the galleries closest to the golden doors.

  Laid out in a similar general fashion to the Lower City theatre where Mar had often watched twenty pence comedies on fourthday afternoons, the Court of the Princedom had galleries to either side of a wide, carpeted central aisle. Here, however, instead of a stage, the aisle led to a raised fan-shaped dais that had dwindling arcs of marble steps ascending to the centered high seat. Ranks of straight-backed chairs, upholstered in cerulean, and matching desks made of silvered wood occupied the senatorial side of the hall. There was no podium or oratory and the desks simply faced the center aisle. Above each gallery, tall clerestories with gold-tinted panes filled the great room with saffron shaded morning light.

  From all outward signs oblivious to the debate, Lord Hhrahld slouched on the high-backed lapis-lazuli throne, which he and his crew had rushed and laid claim to as if charging a fortified position. The Lord-Protector had quickly lost interest in the proceedings and now stared intently into nothingness up toward the ancient battle scenes frescoed into the ribbed barrel ceiling. Occasionally he would call out as if in a dream or even shout out a name, but all of those present, including his pirate crew, studiously took no notice. The young Prince, penned by his three nursemaid bodyguards, played with a white ball on the steps just below the Lord-Protector. Repeatedly tossing the ball against the armored back of one of his protectors, the child emitted a squealing laugh of delight each time the pirate’s breastplate rang with the bounce of the ball.