Hidden Empire (49 page)
Now the Mage-Imperator sat up, attentive. His eyes glinted in the dazzling light, like drawn weapons. “Yes, I know of such
humans. I find their ability intriguing.”
Jora’h gestured toward the old woman. “This is Otema, formerly the ambassador of Theroc to the Terran Hanseatic League. Now
she has come to Mijistra at my invitation. And this”—he smiled at the young woman—“is her lovely assistant, Nira.”
She flushed; Jora’h was being too blatant in his flirtation, but she supposed the Prime Designate needed to have no compunctions
at all.
“Months ago, Reynald, the son of their leader, visited us here. He and I worked out an agreement whereby he could send these
two representatives. Green priests are curious about Ildiran history and legends. I have granted them permission to study
our
Saga of Seven Suns.”
Still awestruck, Nira held her tongue while Otema stepped closer to the Mage-Imperator’s chrysalis chair. Respectfully averting
her eyes, the old woman extended her ornately potted treeling so the great leader could see the beautiful, featherlike fronds
and the scaly golden bark. “We are pleased to present you with an offshoot of the worldforest, Mage-Imperator. Through these
trees we are able to communicate over vast distances. Our thoughts join together with all such trees growing across the Spiral
Arm.”
The corpulent Mage-Imperator did not bother to lift a hand and made no move to take the potted treeling. He seemed uninterested
in the trees. “I formally accept your gifts of the worldtrees. However, as you are experts and it seems you two will abide
with us in Mijistra for some time, it is best that you keep possession of them. Tend the treelings as you would on your own
world.”
Otema bowed, as did Nira. The ambassador straightened and met the gaze of the great Ildiran leader. “We have heard much about
your
Saga of Seven Suns
, and we look forward to beginning our work. I understand that reading the entire epic requires a lifetime of study.”
“An Ildiran lifetime,” the Mage-Imperator said with a hint of smug amusement. “Humans have a briefer existence on the great
stage of the galaxy.”
“Nevertheless,” Jora’h said, as if debating with his father, “in spite of their shorter lives, humans seem to accomplish much
more than even our greatest heroes. Perhaps they have a greater sense of… urgency?”
“An interesting observation,” the Mage-Imperator said, almost growling. Abruptly, he clapped his hands with a loud sound that
rang across the chamber. “Enough. See that they are acquainted with Rememberer Vao’sh. He will answer all their questions
regarding the
Saga.”
The Mage-Imperator turned his heavy-lidded gaze toward Nira, and he seemed to be analyzing her body, dissecting her. She felt
a cold shiver at his intense yet bloodless scrutiny. What did he want from her?
“My son seems to have taken quite an interest in you. Both of you,” he quickly amended. “Jora’h will see to your every need.”
T
he Mage-Imperator spent many of his waking hours in the skysphere reception hall listening to petitioners and speaking with
his people. He held audiences at his whim, letting all pilgrims come to him. He preferred to be among his people, where he
could sense their general problems through the
thism’s
vivid connection.
In other moods, though, the Mage-Imperator could not tolerate the adoration and hubbub. He withdrew to quiet chambers where
he could contemplate in privacy the necessary requirements of state. He made no excuses for his behavior. He was the Mage-Imperator.
At such times, Prime Designate Jora’h was often summoned into his father’s presence so they could discuss the politics of
the Empire. Jora’h was pleased to speak with him as son to father, eager to learn from the great man. Someday, he would do
the same with his own noble-born son, Thor’h.
Jora’h arrived in the contemplation chamber after finishing a fine meal, energized and ready for deep conversation. The Prime
Designate wore impeccable new clothing made from the fabrics of Theroc, gossamer cocoon weaves draped in loose folds around
his chest, caught up with gem pins and golden buttons.
After the arrival of the
Voracious Curiosity
, Jora’h had spoken to commerce minister Klio’s, requesting to have first look at the exotic off-world goods. The Prime Designate
had bought half of Rlinda Kett’s cargo for himself, primarily as gifts to divide among his many lovers and offspring. He had
not even argued with the merchant’s asking price, simply tapped into the Ildiran treasury and paid it.
Afterward, the other noble kithmen had fallen like ravenous animals upon the rest of the cargo and quickly bid the prices
far higher than the human merchant had ever hoped.
Now, as Jora’h bowed formally, the Mage-Imperator acknowledged his son’s presence. The Prime Designate counted the attenders
clustered around his father’s soft bulk. Fifteen! The attenders performed tasks that were more necessary to their own self-esteem
than to their leader’s true comfort.
Small, nimble-fingered members of the servant kith massaged the Mage-Imperator’s pale skin, rubbing lotions and ointments
into his joints, removing any hint of a callus or blemish. Other attenders fed him soft sweetmeats, pickled vegetables, spicy
berries, and crunchy salted fish. They fluttered about, straightening his robes, stroking his long braid.
Tolerant of these ministrations, the Mage-Imperator lay back in his chrysalis chair, his generous lips frowning. Jora’h knew
that his father didn’t require such worshipful attention, but allowed the attenders to fulfill their inbred need to pamper
him. Today, though, the Mage-Imperator grew impatient with the excessive attention. His father’s glorious braid twitched and
thrashed like the tail of an annoyed Isix cat.
“Leave us in peace,” the Mage-Imperator snapped, to the shock of the attenders. They groaned deep in their throats and backed
away in dejection, eyes averted. The leader growled, “And don’t let me hear more nonsense about any of you committing ritual
suicide. If you must tend someone, go into the city and find a weary, downtrodden worker and massage him. Do it with my blessing.”
Delighted again, the attenders jabbered to themselves and scurried out of the private chamber. Jora’h knew they would work
themselves to exhaustion trying to pamper unsuspecting laborers in the workyards.
When they were gone, the Mage-Imperator turned his sleepy-looking eyes to his son. “Jora’h, one day you will grow as impatient
with being coddled.”
“I can already see the disadvantages.” He smiled warmly at his father. “But that will not be for a great deal of time yet.”
Traditionally, a Mage-Imperator ruled for more than a century, and Jora’h’s father had many decades remaining to him, during
which the Prime Designate could continue his vigorous lifestyle. The Mage-Imperator’s own father, Yura’h, had been the Ildiran
leader during the first encounter with human generation ships, 183 Earth years earlier.
“Nevertheless,” the Mage-Imperator said in a dangerous voice, “I demand that you understand the politics of the galactic situation.
All of my sons serve as Designates on Ildiran colony worlds. I communicate with them through the
thism
, but I expect them to
understand
rather than simply follow my mental directives. You are my tools and my weapons for managing the Empire.”
Jora’h nodded, always curious to learn new things, though his varied interests went much farther afield than mere rigid politics.
His son Thor’h, dallying on the lush world of Hyrillka with the good-natured Designate there, had showed no interest in politics
either, thus far.
However, once Jora’h had endured the castration ceremony that would make him the new leader and keeper of the
thism
, all thoughts, all plans, even his father’s secret workings, would become clear to him. With the loss of his manhood, the
Prime Designate would understand
everything
in a sudden enlightenment. It was like a candle flame passed from generation to generation, a never-broken continuity from
the very first Mage-Imperator, that ensured the great Ildiran Empire would never weaken, never change.
“I understand that your son Zan’nh has excelled in the Solar Navy. Adar Kori’nh speaks highly of him.”
Jora’h nodded. Even though Zan’nh was not of pureblood noble kith, with his skills and ambition, he might have made a better
successor than self-centered Thor’h. “Yes, he has just been promoted to the rank of Qul. The Adar has announced more military
maneuvers and a spectacular display of our fine ships and their proficient pilots. Everyone is pleased that you have decreed
more festivals and celebrations.”
The Mage-Imperator nodded. “You are also aware that our artisans have been crafting a new colossus, a magnificent obelisk
to be erected in Mijistra, with lesser copies to be raised on every one of our splinter colonies, in addition to the ones
they already have.”
“It is an honor well deserved, Father.”
The Mage-Imperator seemed annoyed at his son’s sycophantic response. “I have also asked that our best rememberers give more
frequent performances so that additional parts of the
Saga
can be spoken aloud. I wish to encourage more familiarity with our obscure heroes.”
“Is that where the historian survivor from Crenna went? Dio’sh? He hasn’t been seen—”
The Mage-Imperator waved a heavy hand. “Yes, I dispatched him and many more rememberers to other splinter colonies. It doesn’t
matter precisely where they have gone.”
Jora’h beamed. “Everything you say makes me proud to be your heir, Father. You will leave me an incomparable legacy, and you
strengthen it as each day goes by.”
The Mage-Imperator scowled, removing the placid expression he maintained at all public viewings. “And why do you think I have
taken such action, Jora’h? Consider the question!” His sharp tone surprised his son. “For what purpose would it be necessary
to make such extravagant efforts?”
“Why, for the glory of the Ildiran people, of course.”
“K’llar bekh!
You are too naive to be my Prime Designate!” The Mage-Imperator stirred restlessly in his chrysalis chair, and his braid
twitched. “I expect such complacent acceptance from the overall population, but you should be able to see into the shadows
and read details that only an expert would notice.” His voice carried harsh disappointment and deep annoyance.
Feeling scolded, Jora’h mumbled, “Then what is the reason, Father? Please enlighten me.”
The Mage-Imperator heaved himself up in the womblike chair. “Because our Ildiran Empire is indeed fading, just as the snide
humans suspect! We withdrew our splinter colony on Crenna because of the plague there, but we have abandoned other worlds
as well, giving up our territory. Have you not seen how the humans snap up every available planet, spreading like a fire?
And instead of being satisfied, they grow hungrier still with each new settlement.”
His braid thrashed about like an angry snake. Unconsciously, Jora’h took a hesitant step backward. The Mage-Imperator spoke
with deep-seated anger. “But not us. Ildirans retreat instead of expand. We withdraw instead of explore. Our power is waning
… and has been for centuries.”
Jora’h looked at his father in shock. “I have never heard such a suggestion.”
“You have never bothered to notice,” the Mage-Imperator snapped. “That is the reason we must increase our pageantry and historical
celebrations. An old human record calls it ‘bread and circuses’ to distract the populace. So long as the Ildiran people believe
in the grandeur all around them, we will be able to convince ourselves it is real.”
Reeling with the information, Jora’h tried to absorb the new perspective on reality. He didn’t doubt his father’s words—how
could anyone question the Mage-Imperator? The leader would never lie to him, and indeed he was wiser than any other member
of their race. With the
thism
, he saw through the eyes of all his subjects, which gave him a nearly omnipotent perspective.
“Do my … do my brothers, the other Designates, know this? Am I the only one who is so blind?”
Now the Mage-Imperator seemed to take pity on Jora’h. “All of my sons are different. The Dobro Designate is hardened and finds
no joy in his life, though he works harder to serve me than anyone else. The Hyrillka Designate is overwhelmed with his meager
duties at the edge of the Horizon Cluster and has a somewhat magnified perception of his importance and status in the Empire.
The Maratha Designate is hedonistic, finding joy in his pursuits, and does little to think about the Empire beyond his own
walls. But each son hears me through the
thism
. Each one feels my thoughts and my decisions, and they all obey. As it should be.
“However it is
you
, Jora’h, who must eventually bear all this responsibility. I do not compare and choose among my heirs. You are the firstborn,
the Prime Designate. You will eventually take my place and understand it all. But even before that time, I want you to comprehend
what lies in store for you, not just mouth pretty words like an idiot.
Think
about what I am saying.”
