Magician (99 page)

T
he
Holy City was festive.

Banners flew from every tall building
People lined the streets, throwing flowers before the nobles who were
carried on their litters to the stadium. It was a day of high
celebration, and who could feel troubled on such a day?

One who did feel troubled arrived in
the pattern room of the stadium, the final reverberations of a chime
signaling the appearance of a Great One of Tsuranuanni Milamber
shrugged off his preoccupation for a moment as he left the pattern
room, near the central gallery of the Grand Imperial Stadium. The
crowd of Tsurani nobles, idling away the time before the games began,
parted to allow Milamber to pass through the archway leading to the
magicians’ seats. Glancing around the small sea of black robes,
he noticed Shimone and Hochopepa, who were keeping a place for him.

They signaled greetings as he left the
aisle between the magicians’ section and the Imperial Party’s
and joined them. Below, on the arena floor, some of the dwarf-like
folk from Tsubar—the so-called Lost Land across the Sea of
Blood—were fighting large insect creatures, like cho-ja but
without intelligence. Soft wooden swords and essentially harmless
bites from mandibles provided a conflict more comic than dangerous.
The commoners and lesser nobles already in their seats laughed in
appreciation. These contests kept them amused while the great and
near-great were waiting to enter the stadium. Tardiness in Tsuranuanm
became a virtue when one reached a certain social level.

Shimone said, “It is a shame you
took so long getting here, Milamber. There was a singularly fine
match a short while ago.”

“I was under the impression the
killing wasn’t to begin just yet.”

Hochopepa, munching nuts cooked in
sweet oils, said, “True, but our friend Shimone is something of
an aficionado of the games.”

Shimone said, “Earlier young
officers of noble family fought with training weapons to first blood,
to better display their skills and win honors for their clans—”

“Not to mention the fruits of
some rather heavy wagering,” interjected Hochopepa.

Ignoring the remark, Shimone continued.
“There was a spirited match between sons of the Oronalmar and
the Keda. I’ve not seen a better display in years.”

While Shimone described the match,
Milamber let his gaze wander. He could see the small standards of the
Keda, Minwanabi, Oaxatucan, Xacatecas, Anasati, and other great
families of the Empire. He noticed that the banner of the Shinzawai
was absent, and wondered at it Hochopepa said, “You seem much
preoccupied, Milamber.”

Milamber nodded agreement “Before
leaving for today’s festival, I received word that a motion to
reform land taxes and abolish debt slavery had been introduced in the
High Council yesterday. The message came from the Lord of the
Tuclamekla, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why he
sent it until, near the end, he thanked me for providing the concepts
of social reform the motion was intended to enact. I was appalled at
such an action.”

Shimone laughed “Had you been so
thick-witted a student, you’d still be wearing the white robe.”

Milamber looked back blankly, and
Hochopepa said, “You go about causing all sorts of rumblings
with your speeches before the Assembly, constantly harping on all
manner of social ills, and then sit dumbfounded because someone out
there listened?”

“What I said to our brother
magicians was not intended for discussion outside the Assembly
halls.”

“How unreasonable,” said
Hochopepa. “Someone in the Assembly spoke to a friend who
wasn’t a magician!”

“What I’d like to know,”
said Shimone, “is how this potful of reforms placed before the
High Council by the Hunzan Clan has your name appended to it?”

Milamber looked uncomfortable, to the
delight of his friends. “One of the young artists who worked on
the murals at my estate is a son of the Tuclamekla. We did discuss
differences between Tsurani and Kingdom cultures and social values,
but only as an outgrowth of our discussions of the differences in
styles of art.”

Hochopepa looked skyward, as if seeking
divine guidance. “When I heard the Party for Progress—which
is dominated by the Hunzan Clan, which is dominated by the Tuclamekla
Family—cited you as inspiration, I could scarcely believe my
hearing, but now I can see your hand is in every problem plaguing the
Empire.” He looked at his friend with a mock-serious
expression. “Tell me, is it true the Party for Progress is
going to change its name to the Party of Milamber?”

Shimone laughed while Milamber fixed
Hochopepa with a baleful look. “Katala thinks it amusing when I
get upset by this sort of thing, Hocho. And you might think it funny
as well, but I want it publicly known I did not intend for this to
happen. I simply offered some observations and opinions, and what the
Hunzan Clan and the Party for Progress does with them is not my
doing.”

Hochopepa said in chiding tones, “I
fear that if so famous a personage as yourself wishes not to have
such things occur, then such a personage should have his mouth sewn
shut.”

Shimone laughed, and Milamber felt his
own mirth rise. “Very well, Hocho,” answered Milamber. “I
will take the blame. Still, I don’t know if the Empire is yet
ready for the changes I think needed.”

Shimone said, “We have heard your
arguments before, Milamber, but today is not the time, nor is this
the place for social debate. Let us attend to the matters at hand
Remember, many of the Assembly are offended by your concerns over
matters they judge political. And while I tend to support your
notions as refreshing and progressive, keep in mind you are making
enemies.”

Trumpets and drums sounded, signaling
the approach of the Imperial Party and cutting off further
conversation. The Tsubar folk and the insectoids were chased from the
arena, handlers herding them away. When the field was cleared,
grounds keepers hurried out with rakes and drags to smooth the sand.
The sound of the trumpets could be heard again, and the first members
of the imperial procession, heralds in the imperial white, entered.
They carried long, curved trumpets, fashioned from the horns of some
large beast, which curled around their shoulders to end above their
heads. They were followed by drummers who beat a steady tattoo.

When they were in position in the front
of the imperial box, the Warlord’s honor guard entered. Each
wore armor and helm finished in needra hide bleached free of all
color. Around the breastplate and helm of each, precious gold trim
gleamed in the sun Milamber heard Hochopepa mutter at the waste of
this rare metal.

When they were stationed, a senior
herald shouted, “Almecho, Warlord!” and the crowd rose,
cheering. He was accompanied by his retinue including several in
black robes—the Warlord’s pet magicians, as the others of
the Assembly referred to them. Chief among these were the two
brothers, Elgahar and Ergoran.

Then the herald cried, “Ichindar!
Ninety-one times Emperor!” The crowd roared its approval as the
young Light of Heaven made his entrance. He was attended by priests
of each of the twenty orders. The crowd stood thundering. On and on
it went, and Milamber wondered if the love of the Tsurani people
would sustain the Light of Heaven should a confrontation between
Warlord and Emperor take place. In spite of the Tsurani reverence for
tradition, he did not think the Warlord a man to step down meekly
from his office—a thing unheard of in history— should the
Emperor so order.

As the noise died down, Shimone said,
“It seems, friend Milamber, that the contemplative life doesn’t
suit the Light of Heaven. Can’t say that I blame him, sitting
around all day with no one for company but a lot a priests and silly
girls chosen for their beauty instead of conversational ability. Must
become frightfully boring.”

Milamber laughed. “I doubt most
men would agree.”

Shimone shrugged. “I constantly
forget you were quite old when you were trained, and you have a wife
also.”

At mention of wives, Hochopepa looked
pained. He interrupted. “The Warlord is going to make an
announcement.”

Almecho rose and held his hands aloft
for silence. When the stadium fell quiet, his voice rang out. “The
gods smile upon Tsuranuanni! I bring news of a great victory over the
otherworld barbarians! We have crushed their greatest army, and our
warriors celebrate! Soon all the lands called the Kingdom will be
laid at the Light of Heaven’s feet.” He turned and bowed
deferentially to the Emperor.

Milamber felt a stab at the news.
Without being aware, he began to stand, only to have Hochopepa grip
his arm and hiss, “You are Tsurani!”

Milamber shook himself free of the
unexpected shock and composed himself “Thank you, Hocho. I
nearly forgot myself.”

“Hush!” said Hochopepa.

They returned their attention to the
Warlord. “. . . and as a sign of our devotion to the Light of
Heaven, we dedicate these games to his honor.” A cheer rang
through the arena, and the Warlord sat down.

Milamber spoke quietly to his friends.
“It seems the Emperor is less than ecstatic at the news.”
Hochopepa and Shimone turned to watch the Emperor, who was sitting
with a stoic expression upon his face.

Hochopepa said, “He hides it
well, but I think you are right, Milamber Something in all this
disturbs him.”

Milamber said nothing, knowing well
enough the cause, this victory would blunt the Blue Wheel peace
initiative, and would gain the Warlord more power at the Emperor’s
expense.

Shimone tapped Milamber upon the
shoulder “The games begin.”

As the doors on the arena floor opened
to admit the combatants, Milamber studied the Emperor. He was young,
in his early twenties, and possessed a look of intelligence. His brow
was high, and his reddish-brown hair was allowed to grow to his
shoulders. He turned in Milamber’s direction, to speak with a
priest at his side, and Milamber could see his clear green eyes glint
in the sun. Their eyes made contact for a moment, and there was a
brief flicker of recognition, and Milamber thought: So you have been
told of my part in your plan. The Emperor continued his conversation,
without missing a beat, and no one else saw the exchange.

Hochopepa said, “This is a
clemency spectacle. They will all fight until only one stands. He
will be pardoned for his crimes.”

“What are their crimes?”
Milamber asked.

Shimone answered. “The usual
Petty theft, begging without temple authority, bearing false witness,
avoiding taxes, disobeying lawful orders, and the like.”

“What about capital crimes?”

“Murder, treason, blasphemy,
striking one’s master, all are unpardonable crimes.” His
voice rose to carry over the crowd noises. “They are put in
with war prisoners who will not serve as slaves. They are sentenced
to fight over and over until they are killed.”

A guard of soldiers left the floor,
abandoning the sand to the prisoners. Hochopepa said, “Common
criminals. There will be little sport.”

There seemed to be accuracy in the
remark, for the prisoners were a sad-looking lot. Naked but for
loincloths, they stood with weapons and shields that were foreign to
them. Many were old and sick, seemingly lost and confused, holding
their axes, swords, and spears loosely at their sides.

The trumpet sounded the start of
combat, and the old and sick ones were quickly killed. Several had
never even raised their weapons in defense, being too confused to try
to stay alive. Within minutes nearly half the prisoners lay dead or
dying on the sand. Shortly the action slackened, as combatants came
to face opponents of more equal skill and cunning. Slowly the numbers
diminished, and the free-flowing notous nature of the contest
changed. Occasionally when an opponent fell, a combatant was left
standing next to another fighting pair. Often this resulted in
three-way combat, which the mob approved with loud cheering, as the
awkward combat would result in an excess of bloodshed and pain.

At the end three fighters remained. Two
of them had not managed to resolve their conflict. Both were on the
verge of exhaustion. The third man approached cautiously, keeping
equal distance between himself and both men, looking for an
advantage.

He had it a few seconds later. Using
knife and sword, he jumped forward and dealt one of the combatants a
blow to the side of the head that felled him. Shimone said, “The
idiot! Couldn’t he see the other man is the stronger fighter?
He should have waited until one man was clearly at an advantage, then
struck at him, leaving the weaker opponent to fight.”

Milamber felt shaky. Shimone, his
former teacher, was his closest friend after Hochopepa. Yet for all
his education, all his wisdom, he was howling after the blood of
others as if he were the most ignorant commoner in the least
expensive seat. No matter how he tried, Milamber could not master the
Tsurani enthusiasm .for the death of others. He turned to Shimone and
said, “I’m sure he was a little too busy to trouble
himself over the finer points of tactics.” His sarcasm was lost
on Shimone, closely watching the combat.

Milamber noticed Hochopepa was ignoring
the contest. The wily magician was taking note of every conversation
in the stands: to him the games were only another opportunity to
study the subtle aspects of the Game of the Council. Milamber found
this blindness to the death and suffering below as disturbing as
Shimone’s enthusiasm.

The fight was quickly over, the man
with the knife winning. The crowd greeted the victory with
enthusiasm. Coins were thrown on the sand, so that the victor would
return to society with a small amount of capital.

While the arena was being cleared,
Shimone called over a herald and inquired about the balance of the
day’s activities. He turned to the others, obviously pleased at
the news. “There are only a few matched pairs, then two special
matches, a team of prisoners against a starving harulth, and a match
between some soldiers from Midkemia and captured Thuril warriors.
That should prove most interesting.”