war.
Saric loved his Ruling Lady and appreciated her brilliance in changing the only society he had ever known, but he regretted the disbanding of the Warlord’s office and the power of the High Council, for at least then events could be interpreted according to centuries of precedents set by the forms of the Great Game. Now, while the old ways were still followed by the houses of the Empire, the rules were forced into change.
Speculation was becoming too uncertain, Saric decided with a grimace of disgust. He left the deserted hall, heading for those quarters he had chosen when Mara had come to occupy the former Minwanabi estate. En route to his suite of rooms, he sent Mara’s runner to fetch a scribe to attend him. When the man arrived with his satchel of ink and pens, the Acoma First Adviser’s instructions were clipped and short: ‘Prepare notice for our factors and agents. If Arakasi makes his presence known anywhere in the Nations, inform him he is to return home at once.’ The scribe sat upon the floor without comment, but he looked troubled as he placed a wooden lapboard upon his knee. Quickly putting pen to parchment, he started to compose the first document.
‘Add this, and use the number seven cipher,’ Saric concluded, pacing the floor in an agitation that had no other outlet. ‘Our Lady is in deadly danger.’
The chime sounded, and a puff of disturbed air winnowed the silken hangings that walled the great gathering hall in the City of the Magicians. Shadows cast by the flickering flames of the oil lamps wavered as a magician appeared upon the pattern in the center of the floor. He stepped off briskly. Hard on his heels, two colleagues appeared in rapid succession. These were followed by others, until a crowd of black-robed figures congregated on the benches surrounding the walls. The huge, leather-hinged doors creaked wide to admit others that chose not to convey their bodies to the meeting by arcane means.
The Hall of the Assembly filled swiftly and quietly.
The delegates converged from all walks of the City of the Magicians, a complex of buildings and covered terraces, towers, and galleries that made a maze-like warren of an entire island. Located in the midst of a great lake in the foothills of the High Wall, the northern mountains of the Empire, the City of the Magicians was unapproachable by any means but magic. Black Robes in distant provinces teleported to the site, responding to the call to Assembly sent out that morning. Gathered together in sufficient number to form a quorum, the magicians constituted the most powerful body in Tsuranuanni, for they existed outside the law. No one, not even the Emperor, dared gainsay their command, which had carried absolute privilege for thousands of years of history.
Within minutes the benches were packed to capacity. Hodiku, a thin, hook-nosed man of middle years who by preference spent most of his time in study within the Holy City, walked to the First Speaker’s position, at the center of the patterned tile floor. His voice extended across the cavernous hall seemingly without effort. ‘We are called together today so that I may speak for the Good of the Empire.’ The routine greeting was met with silence, for all matters requiring convocation of the Assembly of Great Ones related to the state of the Empire. ‘Today, the Red Seal upon the inner sanctum of the Temple of Jastur was broken!’
The announcement caused a shocked stir, for only when formal warfare was announced between houses or clans, were the arched doors to the central chamber of the Temple of the War God thrown open to allow public entry. Hodiku raised his arms to encourage a return to order. ‘Mara of the Acoma, as Lady of her House and Warchief of Clan Hadama does pronounce war upon Lord Jiro of the Anasati!’
Astonished exclamations swept the chamber. While a cadre of the younger magicians stayed abreast of current events, they were not among the majority. These newly sworn had joined the Assembly during the upheavals caused by the force known as the Enemy that had endangered both their own world of Kelewan and that of Midkemia, beyond the rift. The massive threat to two civilizations had necessitated a move by the Magicians to aid the Emperor Ichindar to seize absolute rule of the Nations, that internal bickering not weaken the land in time of larger crisis. The newest of the mages might be enamored of using their powers to influence the sway of events. But to the elders of the Assembly, who were set in their individual ways and courses of scholarly study, intervention in Tsurani politics was looked on as bad form; a bothersome chore only performed at dire need.
To a still-smaller faction, headed up by Hochopepa and Shimone, once close acquaintances of the barbarian magician Milamber, the recent departures from traditional rule were of interest for deeper reasons. Exposure to Midkemian thought had prompted them to view the affairs of Tsuranuanni in a changed light, and since the Lady Mara was currently the linchpin of Ichindar’s support, these war tidings were of particular concern.
An old practitioner of Tsurani politics of all stripe, Hochopepa raised a chubby hand to his face and closed his dark eyes in forbearance. ‘As you predicted,’ he murmured to the reed-thin, ascetic Shimone. ‘Trouble, when the Nations can least afford the price.’
Taciturn as ever, Shimone made no reply, but watched with hawk-keen scrutiny as several of the more impulsive magicians surged to their feet, indicating their desire to speak. Hodiku singled out a young Black Robe named Sevean and pointed. The one selected stepped forward onto the central floor while the others sat.
Barely a year past his initiation to mastery of magic, Sevean was fast on his feet, quick-spoken, and inclined to be impulsive. He would leap to outspoken conclusions where other, more seasoned colleagues would wait to hear the thoughts of less experienced members before revealing their opinions. He raised a voice too loud by half for the sensitive acoustics of the hall. ‘It is widely believed that Jiro had his hand in the death of the Good Servant’s son.’
Which was no news at all; Shimone turned his mouth down in a faint curl of disgust, while Hochopepa muttered just loud enough for half the room to hear, ‘What, has he been listening in on Isashani’s sitting room again, taking in the social gossip?’
Shimone gave no answer to this; like many of the elder magicians, he considered using powers to look in on the affairs of individual nobles as the lowest level of crass behavior. Sevean was embarrassed by Hochopepa’s remark and by the harsh looks from several of the elder members. Left at a loss for words, he curtailed his speech, repeating, ‘It is widely believed.’
More magicians vied for the First Speaker’s attention. Hodiku made a choice among them, and as a slow-spoken, ponderously built initiate droned out his irrelevant viewpoint, more experienced magicians spoke quietly among themselves, ignoring all but the gist of his speech.
A mage two seats to the rear of Hochopepa and Shimone, whose name was Teloro, inclined his head toward the others. ‘What is the real issue, Hocho?’
The plump magician sighed and left off twiddling his thumbs. ‘The fate of the Empire, Teloro. The fate of the Empire.’
Teloro bridled at this vagueness. Then he revised his first impression: the stout magician’s bearing might betray no concern, but his tone rang with deep conviction.
Both Shimone and his stout companion seemed fixed on a discussion the other side of the hall, where several magicians held private counsel. As the current speaker sat, and a round-shouldered man from this whispering cadre stood up, Teloro heard Hochopepa mutter, ‘Now we’ll begin to see how this round of the game is to be played.’
Hodiku motioned to the man, who was slender with brown hair trimmed above his ears in the Tsurani fashion called a warrior’s cut. The style was an odd affectation for a Black Robe, but by any measures Motecha was a strange magician. He had been friends with the two brothers who had actively supported the old Warlord, but when Elgoran had died and Elgohar had left to serve upon the Midkemian world, Motecha had conspired to maintain an appearance of distance between himself and the two brothers.
The attention of Shimone and Hochopepa intensified as Motecha opened. ‘Is there no end to Lady Mara’s ambition? She has called a Clan War, over a personal insult she delivered, as Lady of the Acoma.’
Hochopepa nodded as if in confirmation of a hunch. ‘So, Motecha has made alliances with the Anasati. Odd. He’s not an original thinker. I wonder who put him up to this?’
Shimone