Khlavatre resumed his seat, apparently convinced that it was sufficient merely to pose questions without attempting to provide answers or offering any other opinion on the matter.
As the Mhajhkaeirii Senate’s code of order apparently did not provide for a moderator, Mar had determined that the body resorted to some hardly comprehendible set of esoteric rules of precedence and courtesy to determine the next speaker. He watched the stirrings and murmuring begin as Khlavatre yielded, senators asserting prerogative, conveying it, contesting it, or relinquishing it according to relative quantities apparent to each. Projecting the trend, he guessed that another of the philosophers, one in a different faction, would win out. This one, heavy and balding and seated in the back of the gallery, had an intent look upon his face as he waited expectantly for the privilege to be relayed to him.
When Lady Rhavaelei abruptly stood, in effect seizing the floor, she disrupted the process, leaving many of the senators, stuck half-comically in the midst of rituals of bowing and waving, flustered and complaining. Immediately, numerous sotto-voce rebukes and resentful glowers launched in her direction.
Wearing a form-hugging sleeveless sanguine gown with a lightning blue sash and cloak, the minister confronted the protestors unwaveringly with her golden eyes. Her long hair, secured with pearl chains and gold pins, flowed down one shoulder in a raven waterfall. With her commanding posture and regal height, she presented a strikingly bold image in the otherwise reserved and bland Senate.
“I call the question!” she declared firmly above the hubbub.
“Unexpected,” Mhiskva commented curiously. “The Senate is fond of its debate. This will cost her future support.”
Minister Bhelx glanced up from a conference with another senator, one of the scholars, and frowned in annoyance. His stance was thoroughly disapproving as he unfolded sedately from his chair. “Your motion is somewhat premature, I believe, Senator.”
An irregular chorus of assent drifted from the members of several factions.
Mar saw Lord Ghorn stiffen, but the Prince-Commander made no other response.
The Minister of Trade did not return to her seat. “I demand a voice vote!”
Bhelx’s look was venomous and his body rigid with anger as he resumed his seat with glacial slowness. She had apparently flouted some unwritten senatorial convention.
Smiling now, Lady Rhavaelei called out again, her mellow contralto echoing through the chamber. “Anew, I call the question! What says the Senate?”
More or less in concert, ayes and nays were shouted. The response was jumbled, but Mar thought the affirmative prevailed, if only slightly.
Minister Bhelx shot to his feet. “The vote being indecisive, debate shall continue!
Again, the Trade Minister refused to yield. “Yet twice, I call the question! What says the Senate?”
“An old Senatorial Privilege,” Mhiskva explained. “Seldom invoked.”
Arguments began to break out among the senators as opposing votes fought to be heard. This time, however, the affirmative had a clear advantage.
The President of the Senate had gone red-faced. His declaration was almost shrill. “Yet twice, the vote being indecisive, debate shall continue!”
This time though, Mar could see that Bhelx had lost support with this blatantly erroneous pronouncement and it was clear that the mood of the Senate was swinging against him.
Lady Rhavaelei’s smile did not waver, though she had to shout above a growing tumult. “And yet thrice, I call the question! What says the Senate?”
Finally, the ayes resounded and there was no doubt that the motion had passed.
Bhelx, tightlipped with rage, for several long moments made no move to declare the result. Boos and catcalls started to rise, mainly from among the philosophers and scholars. Intermingled in the uproar were shouts of “Retire the President!”
“Lord Bhelx will loose his office,” Mhiskva confided, “if he allows this to continue. Lady Rhavaelei is known to covet the Presidency and has clearly won her gambit. A three-quarters majority can unseat him and he needs the votes of some of the philosophers to withstand a challenge.”
“And this would be a bad thing?” Mar asked dubiously.
“The Prince-Commander considers Lord Bhelx to be predictable,” Mhiskva answered without a trace of cynicism. “This is a preferred quality in this august body.”
“Ah.”
A group of the philosophers had taken up a chant, “Declare the vote! Declare the vote!”
Without warning, Lord Hhrahld screamed in rage, vaulted the heads of the child prince and his guards, and landed between the galleries, his great sword swinging above his head. His fierce shout rang through the chamber. “There will be no peace with the murderers of my sons!”
Mar jumped to his feet, not sure of what would take place, but wanting to be ready to run if need be. Mhiskva glanced over at his movement and stood also.
Even the pirates were caught off guard, but they quickly recovered, bolting down the dais to surround their chief. A pirate snatched Prince Davfydd up and hid him behind bodies. Roaring, Hhrahld charged toward the gold doors. Several of his men sprinted ahead and threw their weight against the portals, opening them just seconds before the Lord-Protector barreled through.
At this point, Lord Ghorn stood. Drawing his sword with an exaggerated slowness, so that the motion caught the eyes of many of the senators, he rapped the rail before him three times with the pommel.
“The Lord-Protector,” he announced into the shocked silence, “declares formal debate and all pending motions on the terms of the Phaelle’n Brotherhood suspended for the day.”
“The Senate is adjourned!” the Clerk shouted before any of the senators could react. Lord Bhelx looked relieved but Lady Rhavaelei only broadened her smile. As discussions, some heated, sprang up, the senators began to disperse throughout the chamber. Few, if any, departed, and the debate of the terms appeared to be continuing, if by less formal though perhaps more efficient, means.
Lord Ghorn turned. He did not look happy. “My lords, return to your posts.”
With bows, the commanders of the East, West, and North, their expressions varied but muted, gathered their aides and marched away. Only two of the legates remained with the Prince-Commander and these moved quickly to stand at his back.
“This did not go as you planned,” Mar stated.
Lord Ghorn looked pained, glanced about to see that he could not be overheard, and then regarded Mar candidly.
“By longstanding custom, we have three days to respond to the terms. On the slim chance that the Monks might give us those three days unmolested -- flaunting the custom would be a grave breach of honor, but then honor means nothing to the Monks -- I would rather our rejection wait till the last possible moment. This will give us time to shore our defenses, if nothing else. Bhelx can normally be counted on to drag any matter out endlessly, but Rhavaelei seems to have another agenda. Luckily, Hhrahld’s episode intervened.”
“Couldn’t you just abolish the Senate and treat with the Brotherhood directly?” Mar knew that during the Empire, rulers had raised and put down councils and bodies of law with merciless frequency. The Representative Urban Council of Bhlavehn was reputed to have lasted but two hours under Empress Lehavixe, who had created the council to reward a paramour and had abolished it when one of the man’s enemies convinced her that he had been less than faithful. The spurned suitor had also, as Mar recalled, “been gutted like a fish and been fed to hogs.”
“The Senate controls the treasury, which I could seize, but that would create problems with the merchants. It will be difficult enough to manage the defense without having to contend with poor cooperation – if not outright rebellion -- from the citizenry. I believe that I can arrange for the necessary votes and afterwards have the full support of the Senate.” The prince waved his hand dismissively, as if to say that the matter was a mere annoyance. “My lord Magician, I believe that it is vital that you start o
n your new ship of the air immediately.”
“I agree.” Mar yearned to be aloft again, despite his numerous mishaps. Flight was his only real magic and he felt almost defenseless on the ground.
Lord Ghorn nodded. “Berhl and his men are awaiting you in the antechamber.”
Mar turned to leave, expecting Mhiskva to follow, but the prince called the big man back.
“Captain, I have another task for you.”
“Should I not accompany the lord magician and return?” Mhiskva queried pointedly.
“Your marines will keep him safe until you are done.”
Mhiskva saluted.
Mar nodded at the two men and exited the box into the central aisle. He was eager to get the new raft underway. Something bigger this time and perhaps some method to control it indirectly? If he could devise a system that would allow non-magical persons to control skyships, then it might be possible to save a great many more of the people trapped in the Citadel. This idea had occurred to him late in the previous day and had been hovering at the back of his mind since.
Small groups of senators, mostly merchants, though scholars and philosophers were mixed in amongst them, had collected on the lush carpet. He paused for a moment, scanning his route and then continued on, making his way along the aisle and around the knots of people toward the great doors. Looks followed him. And whispers.
“-- That’s him? Why he’s just a lad –-“
“—still say that magic is an evil business. Sorcerers sell their first-born to Knorthrha the Night God. They have obscene rituals in that cult, you know –-“
“-- it is all only a trick. There is no such thing as magic --”
“My lord Mar, a word?”
Mar stopped. Lady Rhavaelei had swooped in from his right to intercept him on a long empty stretch of the aisle. The nearest senators were a dozen armlengths away.
The tall woman was even more impressive up close, slightly younger than he had thought and extremely self-possessed. It was clear that she had power and intelligence and would not hesitate to use both to her fullest advantage.
Mar’s quick eyes cataloged the gems that adorned her person. Her earrings alone would have brought better than a dozen thalars in the Khalarii back markets, but he doubted that any thief would ever easily lift them from her, either by distraction from her person or housebreaking. He had seen the type before, though few; she would constantly be precisely aware of the actions of those around her and would be scrupulous in leaving no window unlocked or box unsecured. She had used his name in a familiar fashion, though today was the first time that he had laid eyes upon her, and he had always been suspicious of those who unilaterally presumed or asserted friendship. She smiled at him sincerely and almost seemed to preen under his examination.
Mar waited, neither smiling nor frowning. This one could not be trusted, he thought. Mhiskva had characterized the woman as of a good family and steadfast, generally supportive of funding for the legions and naval squadrons, but Mar was suspicious of her.
“Actually,” Lady Rhavaelei continued, her smile softening, transforming from an officious greeting into something that almost seemed an invitation, “I would like a private word with you. Perhaps you could join me for a meal?”
Mar was careful not to react. He was learning, slowly, of the ways of women. “I’ll be busy all afternoon. Sorry.”
The Minister of Trade was clearly too old to make a pout attractive, but she attempted one anyway. “Oh. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ve business to attend.”
“In the Old Keep? Such a dreary place.”
Mar did not reply and hoped his expression did not betray him.
Lady Rhavaelei laughed softly and abandoned her pretense, resuming her forbidding senatorial persona. “Very well, then, my lord. I shall detain you no longer.”
Mar stepped around the woman and moved on.
Berhl and a quad of marines, including Ulor, were waiting in formation in the anteroom. All the marines snapped to as Mar approached and Berhl tossed off a smart salute for the group.
Mar rolled his eyes. “I take it you’ve already been told of my new position.”
The Mhajhkaeirii grinned. “Aye, sir.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’ll not be an officer of Mhajhkaei for long. You’re to help me with the new raft?”
Berhl’s grin widened. “Aye, sir! If you’ll come with us to the Old Keep. I have some ideas.”
TWENTY
Mhiskva, waiting with his back to the wall in a spot that allowed him easy view of both the courtroom doors and the Main Hall, saw Lord Ghorn emerge from the courtroom followed by his bodyguards – Legate Rhel, Lord Zhelorthoz’s youngest son and Legate Qhiyemahr, middle son of a blacksmith. The loyalty of both was beyond question. The prince quickly scanned the anteroom, his eyes sorting through the scattered idlers -- house armsmen, bondservants, and scribes -- and then made directly for his subordinate, swinging his crutches briskly.
The captain moved to meet the prince, then stopped short when Lord Ghorn shot him a commanding look. When he neared the captain, the Prince-Commander waved the under officers away so that they were left standing alone in the center of the chamber.
Mhiskva tried to read his commander’s mood, but the prince had his face under tight control.
“Our men hold the Old Keep?” the prince demanded in a low voice.
“Aye, my lord, as you ordered,” Mhiskva reported in the same tone. “The surgeons and the seriously wounded have been moved to the Main Armory. Commander Lhervhes has taken command of the Defenders and is in the process of transferring to the Old Keep. City militia and volunteers have replaced your legion along the southern defensive works. As instructed, all were only told that the Defenders were transferred for rest and resupply, with the implication that they would be returned to the line within two days, long before the expiration of the truce. My marines and the remnants of Captain Fluverthes troop now control the inner and outer gatehouse and the posterns at the Old Keep as you ordered. The men who were stationed there, a troop of the reserve legion Fishgutters, have been reassigned to the Northern Quadrant.”
Lord Ghorn nodded in approval. “Did you speak with High-Captain Orhlum?”
“Aye, he said that you can depend on the troops of his short brigade, the 4th, 13th, and 20th, but that High-Captain Ghrest’s units are questionable.”
“Very well, say nothing to High-Captain Ghrest,” the Prince-Commander decided. “Send a message to Orhlum to shift his men to the Old Keep immediately.”
“Aye, my lord. He will want to know why.”
“Tell him not to ask.”
Mhiskva nodded. He knew instinctively that he should not press the matter.
Lord Ghorn thought a moment. “Gather up all these unassigned marines and legionnaires bivouacked about the Palace and send then on to the Old Keep as well.”
“Yes, my lord.
“And re-billet all the families, also.”
Mhiskva’s brow crinkled. “To the Old Keep, my lord?”
“Yes.”
“There are not enough sleeping arrangements in the Central Tower for all of them, my lord. We will have to put up tents in the inner and outer yards. That will not be good for the children.”
“They will not be there long. Pack them in. They can sleep in shifts, if necessary. As soon as the new skyship is built, the Lord Magician will begin moving them to my family’s estate in western Pamplyea.”
“That is nearly thirty leagues, my lord.” Mhiskva cautioned.
“Exactly.”
Mhiskva remained silent for a moment. As he had suspected, the new skyship was not to be a warship but a lifeboat. “I understand, my lord.”
“I hope you do. Now, I also need word carried to Lord Hhrahld. Discretely. Can you manage that?”
“Aye, my lord. I will bear it myself. What message?”
The prince paused for a long moment, as if weighing possible answers. “The Prince should be secure
d in the North Tower, the highest floor above the Residence. No one but Lord Hhrahld’s retinue should be allowed within the Residence. Make sure he understands. This is vital.”
“No other warning, my lord?”
“No, Mhiskva. I am simply trying to plan for any eventuality.”
Mhiskva saluted. “It will be done, my lord.”
“One last thing, Mhiskva.”
“My lord?”
“Keep the magician alive.”
TWENTY-ONE
“What’s all the commotion, Berhl?” Mar asked, watching the groups of women and children, many bearing overly large bundles, scurry across the inner court toward the massive Central Tower. Several legionnaires with the sagging shoulders and tired steps of the weary supervised the process.
The marine drank deeply from a dipper. He and Ulor, stripped of their tunics and armor and covered in sweat, were taking a breather from the two-man cross cut, relieved by Drev and Phehlahm.
Berhl shook his head. “Not sure, sir. Orders of the Prince-Commander, I’d guess.”
A young woman, several small children in tow, darted suddenly from the queue and rushed toward the other two marines at the saw. The men stopped working, the manheight long blade stuck halfway through an oak beam wedged into a cross-shaped work trellis. As the woman began to speak animatedly – with sharp gestures – to Drev, the man reached down to pick up a small boy who strained his arms upward.
“Ah, that’s Drev’s wife, Sir.” Ulor announced in his soft baritone. “Aye, and now I recognize some of the others. Those are all kin of men in our troop or Lord Ghorn’s Defenders, his own house legion.”
“The first passengers,” Mar identified absently.
“Sir?” Berhl shot the young magician and odd look.
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