Magi'i of Cyador

VI

THE EMPEROR TOZIEL’ELTH’ALT’MER looks through the tinted glass windows of the Palace. His eyes focus on the harbor of Cyad, and the piers that house the White Fleet-although there are but two of the white-hulled fireships tiedthere presently. To the east of the fireships are tied a handful of coasting schooners, a brig that flies the jack of Brysta, and two other deep-sea vessels without jacks or ensigns flying.

North of the piers and closer to the Palace, the sunstonepaved streets glisten. The shops to the west sport green and white awnings, and under those immaculate canvases are the cafes and bakeries for which Cyad is known. Those who walk the streets are well-clad, whether in the shimmercloth affected by the Magi’i, the higher merchanters, or lancer officers-and their households-or in the hard-combed and tightly-woven cotton of the common people.

“Yet the least of the common folk is clad like a noble among the barbarians, and lives in greater comfort and cleanliness,” murmurs the Emperor. “And that is as it should be.” He turns and walks past the Great Hall, past the three-storyhigh gilded doors that can open so silently and swiftly that an observer who blinked might well miss their operation. Behind him follow two figures uniformed in silver-trimmed green, each with hand firelances-used but by the Palace Guard and those Mirror Lancers who guard the outside of the Palace of Light.

The Emperor Toziel-for he thinks of himself without the multiple identifiers attached to his name-steps through a silently-opening and cupridium-clad door that brings him to his own entrance to the small receiving hall. After a moment, composing himself, he steps through the archway and seats himself on the sculpted malachite and silver chair on the dais. He looks out over a marble-floored room merely large enough for two or three of the Cyadoran firewagons that speed endlessly along the Great North Highway.

Those waiting cross the shimmering and spotless white tiles, bow below the dais, and offer their felicitations.

“Your Mightiness …”

“Mightiness …”

Toziel gestures toward his Majer-Commander of Lancers, standing on the left of those who await his scrutiny. “If you would, Rynst’alt …”

“There were nearly ten score barbarians in the raid on Pemedra, and nearly that many in the raid on Inividra. We have not seen such raids, not on the base outposts, in many years. The Mirror Lancers killed about half those in the first raid, perhaps a third of those in the second. The barbarians vanished, as expected, into the Grass Hills. They appear as endless as the blades of grass in those hills.” The gray-haired officer in cream and green bows slightly as he finishes speaking, as if apologizing. “We have sent additional charged firelances to the north, and replacement lancers as well.”

“Thank you, Rynst’alt.” The tired-faced and silver-robed figure shifts his weight in the sculpted malachite and silver chair and turns his head toward the golden-eyed magus with the crossed cupridium lightning bolts on the breast of his tunic.

“The replenishment tower continues to provide chaos flow for the lances and the firewagons, sire. We were required to charge nearly double the number of wagons this fall as compared to the numbers in any recent year in the past generation.”

Toziel nods. “High Lector Chyenfel’elth, can we move any of the towers that prison the Accursed Forest?”

“No, sire.” Chyenfel’elth bows. “Attempting to move them would be far too great a risk.”

“What about replenishing chaos for the lances from those towers? They could be moved down to Fyrad on the Great Canal.”

“That we can do for now. For how many years we do not know. You should be aware, sire, that two of the ward towers have already failed. It will take all the chaos of those remaining to build the permanent barrier you have approved, sire.”

“You do not know yet even if you can accomplish this,” Toziel points out.

“We must try, sire. The towers will not remain forever.”

“And, if I rescind my approval?”

“You do as you see fit, sire. The Magi’i obey.”

“How long will it take to build the barrier?”

“It is not precisely a barrier,” Chyenfel says cautiously.

“It will bar the Accursed Forest, will it not?”

“Yes, sire. We cannot say how long the process will take. We estimate a full two seasons, if aught goes well.”

“And that will provide protection for the realm of chaos for generations to come? And keep the Forest from reclaiming Cyador?”

“As we discussed …” Chyenfel says smoothly.

“On a lesser scale, I know.”

“Yes, sire.”

“I will consider this, and I will talk to the Hand.” Toziel turns to the next figure, clad in shimmering blue. “How stand the warehouses, Bluoyal’mer?”

Bluoyal bows stiffly. “All have been inspected and their contents enumerated … this autumn season is a little different from any other autumn season …”

“Have you been able to purchase the additional cuprite?”

“Yes, sire, although in the quantities required, the … acquisition necessitated spending nearly a thousand golds beyond what we had estimated. You may recall, sire, that we had discussed that possibility.”

“We had.” The tired eyes of the Emperor watch each of those who act as though they serve him and Cyador.